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defn0tonyourleft · 1 month ago

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Sweet On The Job

pairing | congressman!bucky x assistant!reader

word count | 9.9k words

summary | when newly-appointed congressman bucky barnes reluctantly hires the sweetest, most radiant assistant imaginable, he doubts your place in the cutthroat world of politics—until you prove you can run it and melt his guard all at once.

tags | slow burn, grumpy x sunshine, office romance, unspoken feelings, miscommunication, overhearing a conversation, mutual pining, angst with a happy ending, emotional hurt/comfort, bucky is bad at feelings but good at kissing, reader cries a lot, it’s fine, sensitive!reader

a/n | reader’s based on our amaya papayas personality, we love our sensitive gangsta. based on this request

taglist | if you wanna be added to my bucky barnes masterlist just add your username to my taglist

likes comments and reblogs are much appreciated ✨✨

ᴍᴀsᴛᴇʀʟɪsᴛ

divider by @cafekitsune

Bucky still couldn’t figure out how he ended up here.

Congress. Of all places. The marble halls, the high ceilings, the egos inflated enough to float over the Capitol dome. And then there was him—James Buchanan Barnes—who could barely make it through a two-minute speech without sounding like a half-defrosted android.

His suit itched. The tie choked. And don’t even get him started on the shoes.

He sat behind his too-polished desk in his too-expensive office, staring blankly at an inbox full of emails with subject lines that made his eyes twitch. Urgent: Appropriations Strategy. Reminder: Agriculture Committee Briefing. Lunch with Donor—Move to Friday?

Lunch with a donor. Christ.

He rubbed a hand over his face, resisting the urge to lay his forehead flat on the desk. This wasn't him. He was a soldier, not a politician. He gave speeches like he gave orders—short, dry, and with zero charisma.

Every time he opened his mouth in public, he could see reporters wince. His team had tried coaching him. “Smile more.” “Loosen up.” “Try not to look like you're about to gut someone with a bayonet.”

So far, the best he'd managed was a half-smirk that came off more like a nervous tick.

Bucky sighed. Deep, soul-weary sigh. He looked at the framed picture on the wall—him shaking hands with someone he was pretty sure hated him. That was politics, apparently. Pretending to enjoy small talk with people who could and would stab you in the back with a regulation-sized American flag pin.

His phone buzzed again.

Another email.

Subject: Staff Assistant Interviews – You Still Haven’t Picked Anyone

Bucky groaned. That damn assistant position. He’d pushed the interviews for three weeks now, mostly because he couldn’t think of anything worse than sitting through a dozen conversations with people who’d use phrases like “synergize the legislative workflow” without flinching.

He didn’t want someone who talked like a press release. He just wanted someone who would show up, get shit done, and not ask too many questions when he had to disappear for an afternoon to punch a wall in private.

But apparently, you couldn’t say that in a job posting.

He glanced at the stack of printed resumes on his desk. He’d skimmed a few. Too polished. Too eager. Too… not him. None of them had that quality he couldn’t quite define—something real. Something normal. Someone who wouldn’t blink if he came into the office looking like he’d fought a raccoon on the metro.

The door creaked open slightly. It was Sam. Again.

“Still haven’t picked anyone?” Sam leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed.

Bucky didn’t look up. “They all talk like LinkedIn threw up on a resume template.”

Sam chuckled. “Want me to just find you someone?”

“God, yes.”

And just like that, he handed off the decision. Delegated. Efficient. Which, ironically, made him feel even more like he didn’t belong here.

Bucky leaned back in his chair, exhaling like a man twice his age. He looked at the ceiling. It stared back.

Congress. Jesus.

────────────────────────

Some Days Later

Bucky didn’t look up when the door opened.

He figured it was Brenda. Maybe Sam again. Hopefully not another reporter asking for a quote he’d regret later. He was mid-email—something about committee assignments and a lunch reschedule—when he heard it.

“Hi! Oh my gosh, I’m so sorry I’m a tiny bit early—traffic was a dream, can you believe that?”

Not Brenda.

The voice was too bright, too chipper, and far too comfortable for someone stepping into a federal office for the first time.

Bucky looked up slowly, pen still in his hand, and there you were—framed in his doorway like a damn Hallmark commercial. Floral dress under a structured blazer, hair bouncing, smile like you’d just walked into brunch, not a congressional office. You carried a leather bag and a clipboard and somehow radiated the scent of confidence and cinnamon.

He blinked.

You didn’t flinch. Just walked right in like you’d been doing it your whole life.

“Congressman Barnes, right?” You extended your hand, polished nails and all. “I’m the assistant Sam recommended. So nice to meet you.”

He didn’t take your hand right away. He was still trying to process the human sunbeam in front of him. You looked like someone who hosted charity galas and had a Pinterest board for every holiday.

Eventually, he stood. Shook your hand. Warm grip. Firm. No hesitation.

“Right,” he said, voice low and flat. “Sam said you’d be coming by.”

You smiled even wider. “I brought a printed copy of my resume, just in case. I know Sam already sent it over, but you never know. Oh! And I made you a little overview—color-coded—of what your schedule might look like if we streamline some of the overlapping committee times. Brenda said Wednesdays are chaos.”

You placed the papers on his desk like you’d done this a hundred times.

Bucky glanced at the overview. It was in soft pastel shades, each block of time cleanly labeled, with footnotes. Actual footnotes.

He looked back up at you. Still smiling. Still sparkling, somehow.

“You always this organized?” he muttered.

Your laugh was soft but definite. “Only when I’m awake.”

Christ.

He rubbed the back of his neck. “I don’t really do… interviews.”

“Good,” you said, cheerful as hell. “I don’t really do bad interviews.”

He had no idea what to do with that.

“I work hard,” you went on, tone bright but grounded now. “I don’t miss deadlines. I know how to read people. I’ve handled CEOs, campaign donors, and one very angry florist. And I’m from New York, so I’m nice—but only as long as you need me to be.”

That part made him pause.

Your smile stayed sweet, but your eyes—sharp. That flicker of edge.

He exhaled. “You’re hired.”

────────────────────────

A Few Weeks Later

The thing was—Sam hadn’t exaggerated.

You were, somehow, even better than advertised.

You had shown up the next morning with a personalized planner, a labeled filing system, and two different cold brews—one for him, one “just in case he preferred oat milk.” Within three days, his inbox was tamed, his schedule was tight, and his meetings started and ended on time.

You smiled your way through logistical nightmares. You turned budget briefings into organized, annotated packets. You once managed to reschedule an entire committee meeting without pissing anyone off. That alone should’ve won you a medal.

And the worst part?

Everyone adored you.

Brenda now referred to you as her “angel girl.” The intern, Emily, had started mimicking your outfit choices. Even grumpy old Greg from Finance smiled when you passed him in the hall, and Bucky hadn’t seen Greg smile since the start of his term as Congressman.

Meanwhile, Bucky… didn’t know how to talk to you.

You were polite, always. Sweet. Occasionally too sweet—offering him snacks mid-meeting, asking if he needed a moment to breathe after intense calls. Once, you said “You’re doing amazing, by the way,” after a disastrous media interview.

He’d stared at you like you’d spoken another language.

He didn’t know what to do with that kind of warmth. He knew how to handle tension, confrontation, icy professionalism. He could navigate sharp words and sharp eyes. But compliments? Softness? Your sunny little “good morning!” every day before you sat down to absolutely decimate his workload?

It threw him off.

And you never tried to throw him off. That was what made it worse. You weren’t fake. You didn’t flirt or suck up. You were just… like this. Bouncy and competent. Bubblegum and brute force. Warmth wrapped in weaponized organization.

He wasn’t sure if it made him uncomfortable or impressed. Maybe both.

He heard you laugh in the hallway one afternoon. Loud. Joyful. Brenda was giggling too. Probably over that dumb plant someone brought in. You’d named it. Called it Marvin. Marvin the Money Tree. Bucky didn’t understand why that made everyone so happy.

He sipped his coffee. It was oat milk. He hadn’t asked for that.

You’d just noticed.

One month in, Bucky realized you might actually be magic.

You handled press requests like a PR veteran, fielded donors with the grace of a diplomat, and had somehow convinced the coffee cart guy downstairs to give the staff a “Capitol Crew” discount.

Bucky didn’t know how you did it—maybe you smiled at the guy too nicely, or maybe you just offered to reorganize his inventory out of the goodness of your glittery heart.

You never stopped smiling.

Even when the job sucked. Even when schedules collapsed, or the media spun things sideways, or the office printer jammed for the fourth time in a single day—you smiled. Not in a fake, corporate way. In a real way. Like the chaos never got to you.

It made him suspicious.

He watched you from behind his desk more often than he meant to. You always moved like you were dancing to some rhythm he couldn’t hear. Laughing with interns, giving Brenda a shoulder squeeze on a bad day, complimenting someone’s shoes before dropping a twenty-slide briefing deck into their inbox.

And every time you turned that blinding kindness on him, Bucky froze like you’d aimed a spotlight at a feral cat.

He didn’t know how to respond when you handed him color-coded notes for a hearing and said, “I highlighted your speaking points—if you want to wing it, I backed up the quotes with data so you sound casual but still super smart.”

Or when you brought him soup from that one hole-in-the-wall deli because he coughed once and you “just had a feeling.”

He grunted. He nodded. He said “Thanks,” but it always came out dry, stiff, like someone had to wring it out of him.

You didn’t seem to mind.

You never flinched. Never made it awkward. Just smiled and moved on to the next task like your kindness didn’t require a thank you. And that bugged him more than anything.

He was used to people playing politics—smiling with their teeth, angling for favor. But you? You brought him homemade banana bread on a Monday because “Mondays are brutal and I didn’t want you to suffer more than necessary.”

Who does that?

He watched you now, through the glass wall of his office. You were standing in the hallway, coaching the new comms kid on how to navigate a donor event, switching between “babe” and “sweetheart” like it was a dialect, your hands moving as fast as your mouth. You were wearing some lavender thing today. Smelled like citrus and resolve.

Bucky looked back at his laptop. He hadn’t typed in ten minutes.

He hated this.

Not you. Just this feeling.

────────────────────────

Three Months In

It started with a meeting.

A routine one—just a few junior reps and a legislative strategist who looked like he’d swallowed a thesaurus. You had prepped Bucky flawlessly. Briefing notes, talking points, key players—all in a soft yellow folder with a post-it that said, “You’ve got this :)”

He didn’t got this.

The strategist spent the whole meeting throwing jargon like darts. Bucky kept pace, mostly. You even leaned in halfway through to quietly remind him which bill number they were referencing. Still, when the room cleared, Bucky felt like he’d just walked out of a storm.

You stayed behind, re-organizing his desk without being asked. “You did really well,” you said softly. “I know this guy was wordy but you held your ground.”

Bucky nodded.

But something in his chest pulled tight.

You were too kind. Too gentle about it. It made him feel like a child being praised for tying his shoes.

He didn’t say anything then.

But it stuck.

You were good at your job—he knew that. But politics wasn’t just about competence. It was brutal. Ugly. People chewed you up and spat you out for smiling too much, for being too friendly, too soft. And you… you glowed like you didn’t know the world could be mean.

He couldn’t shake the worry. That someday soon, someone was going to say the wrong thing to you in the wrong room, and you’d come undone. Or worse—you wouldn’t. You’d just… leave. Quietly.

So a few days later, when Sam called, Bucky didn’t think twice before stepping into his office, closing the door, and letting the words out.

“She’s not cut out for this,” he said.

Right outside the door, you were balancing two coffees—his preferred dark roast and your own sugar-heavy concoction—and a muffin from the café down the street. You’d been about to knock.

You didn’t.

“She’s good at the job,” Bucky went on, his voice low but firm, “but I don’t know if this is the right setting for her. Politics isn’t about being nice, Sam. She’s too… bright. Too open. That’s not sustainable here.”

Your stomach dropped.

It was the way he said it. Like being who you were wasn’t just a mismatch—it was a liability.

Too bright. Too open. Too much.

You’d heard that before. Too sweet, too emotional, too loud, too bubbly, too soft. Always a smile, always a “thank you,” always a goddamn post-it note. And it was never enough. It never counted. People liked it until they didn’t.

You blinked hard, eyes burning suddenly. You hated how fast the tears welled—hated that he’d never even raised his voice, never said it cruelly. That somehow made it worse. He hadn’t meant to hurt you. He’d just meant it.

You stayed frozen, heart thudding.

Then Sam, through the phone, “You sure this is about her not fitting in… or you not knowing what to do with someone like her?”

You didn’t wait to hear the rest.

You set the coffee and muffin on the side table near his door, the yellow post-it stuck neatly to the lid. It said “You looked tired today. Hope this helps.”

But you didn’t knock.

And for the first time since you’d started, you walked away without smiling.

────────────────────────

It started subtly.

You didn’t stop smiling—but it didn’t reach your eyes anymore.

Bucky told himself he was imagining it at first. That maybe you were just tired, or busy, or maybe it was allergy season. But the longer he watched you—really watched you—the more certain he became that something had shifted.

You still did your job. That was never in question.

Emails answered. Calls returned. Schedules maintained like clockwork. You still handed him briefing packets with neat highlights, still walked him through the day’s chaos each morning.

But the post-its stopped.

No more “You’ve got this!” or “Don’t forget to drink water :)”

Your voice, once full of light and little jokes and endearing asides, had gone quieter. Measured. Professional. Nothing personal. You didn’t ask how his weekend was. Didn’t tease him for frowning at your color coding. You didn’t call him “bossman” anymore.

You just called him Congressman.

That one hit the hardest.

The rest of the office noticed too. Jimmy asked where your “sparkle” went. Brenda had quietly asked Bucky if you were okay. He’d just shrugged, said you were probably busy. But deep down, something pulled at him.

You hadn’t brought him coffee in nearly two weeks.

He hadn’t realized how much he noticed it until it was gone.

You still smiled at other people—still lit up when interns needed help, still made time to compliment someone’s new haircut. But with him, there was a wall now. Polite. Distant. Not cold, exactly. Just… not warm.

You didn’t linger. You didn’t laugh with him anymore. You didn’t look at him like you had before—like he was something worth rooting for.

And the worst part?

He didn’t know why.

He couldn’t remember doing anything—saying anything—that would’ve caused it. But then again, he hadn’t been paying enough attention, had he? You’d been right there, every damn day, and he’d barely looked up. Barely said more than necessary.

He didn’t realize he missed you until the version of you he knew was gone.

And now, sitting at his desk, watching you work across the office with that tight-lipped expression and that perfectly put-together posture, he felt something sharp twist in his chest.

He missed the sunshine.

And somehow, he was sure it was his fault.

────────────────────────

He should’ve canceled everything.

But he didn’t.

Bucky woke up feeling like he’d been run over by a truck, the kind that reversed and hit him twice. Fever high, head pounding, body aching like his joints had finally decided to unionize and strike.

But he had a subcommittee meeting at 10 a.m., and three calls with constituents scheduled after that, and some damn transportation proposal that needed his signature.

He could barely see straight.

He tried emailing Brenda, but it took him ten minutes to type two lines. Gave up. Called you instead.

You picked up on the second ring. “Good morning, Congressman—”

“Hey,” he rasped, voice wrecked. “I, uh… I need you to bring some files from the office. And… maybe a laptop. There’s stuff I gotta do.”

You paused. “Are you okay?”

He didn’t answer fast enough.

“Mr. Barnes?” This time your voice had real concern in it—soft but sharper, like it used to sound before he ruined everything.

“I’m fine,” he lied. “Just a cold. I just… I need the budget report and that meeting brief for the committee.”

There was a pause. Then, “Text me your address. I’m coming over.”

Before he could object, you hung up.

You showed up 40 minutes later.

He didn’t expect you to let yourself in, but you did, like you belonged there—like someone had to keep things running. You had the laptop, the folders, your phone already out and your expression focused.

You were still in your usual outfit—put-together and professional—but there was something else in your eyes when you saw him slumped on the couch, pale, sweaty, and looking every bit like a man who shouldn’t be left alone with political responsibility.

“Jesus, Mr. Barnes,” you said, setting everything down. “You look like death.”

“I told you, I’m—”

“You’re not fine,” you snapped, and for the first time in months, your voice had bite. “You’re burning up. Go. Bed. Now.”

He blinked. “You’re not my—”

“I said bed, Barnes. Don’t make me speak again.”

That shut him up.

You guided him to the bedroom with surprising gentleness, adjusted the blankets, took his temperature without flinching.

Muttered something about idiots and stubborn men as you set a glass of water on the nightstand. Then you left the door half open and walked straight into his living room like it was your war zone.

And then?

You took over.

Bucky stirred to the sound of your voice. It was steady. Calm. Businesslike. Something about the infrastructure bill and a scheduling conflict.

He blinked at the ceiling, groggy but conscious enough to realize the headache had dulled. The water glass on his nightstand was full again. The thermometer was gone. So were most of the folders.

But your voice remained.

“…no, we’re not pushing it another week. The Congressman already reviewed the amended language,” you said, sharp but not yet rude.

Bucky turned toward the open bedroom door. He could just barely see the edge of you standing in the living room, phone to your ear, one hand on your hip.

A pause.

And then—

“Okay, you know what? You don’t gotta raise your voice at me, sweetheart. That ain’t how this works.”

His eyebrows rose. That tone? That wasn’t the voice he’d grown used to over the last month.

Your next sentence came faster. Smoother. The vowels shortened. The sugar gone.

“You show up late, you miss deadlines, and now you got the audacity to talk down to me? Mm-mm. Uh-uh. Try again.”

The silence on the other end must’ve been long, because your voice dropped lower, firmer.

“You’re an extremely odd individual, and I do not wanna speak to you anymore. So here’s what you’re gonna do: fix your mistake, resubmit the form correctly, and stop wastin’ my damn time.”

There was a beat. Then you scoffed, low and dry. “Don’t get slick with me. I’m bein’ very polite right now.”

Another pause.

Then a final, clipped, “Goodbye.”

Click.

You exhaled hard. There was a rustle of papers. A muttered “weirdo” under your breath. And then the soft tap, tap, tap of you moving to the laptop again, your tone immediately shifting back into something more composed as you started your next call.

Bucky lay there, fully awake now, eyebrows furrowed.

That… wasn’t the version of you he knew.

And yet, it wasn’t jarring. It was seamless. Natural. Like your sweetness wasn’t a mask, but a choice—one you could take off the second someone disrespected you.

And he’d never heard anything so impressive in his life.

You’d gone from high-level strategy to full-on verbal takedown in under five seconds and didn’t even flinch. Didn’t apologize. Didn’t soften it.

Bucky stared at the ceiling, half in awe, half in… something else he couldn’t quite name.

Maybe fever wasn’t the only reason his chest felt tight.

────────────────────────

By the time the sun had dipped low and the apartment took on that soft, golden hue, the chaos of the day had fully subsided.

You were back to yourself—at least, the version Bucky knew. Sweet. Bubbly. Moving around his apartment like it wasn’t the least bit strange that you’d just taken over a congressman’s workload in a knit cardigan and a cloud-patterned scrunchie.

He stood in the doorway now, blanket wrapped around his shoulders like a reluctant ghost, watching you tidy up the living room while humming under your breath.

You turned before he could say anything, your face lighting up like it always did when you saw him—even now, even after the day you’d had.

“Hey, sunshine,” you said softly, like he was the one who needed reassuring. “You should be in bed.”

“I’m fine,” he muttered, throat still raw.

You gave him a look that was very not convinced but didn’t press it. Instead, you stepped forward with a little tablet and a closed folder in hand.

“I wrapped everything up,” you said, tone gentle, like you didn’t want to overwhelm him. “Sorted the subcommittee notes, handled the calls, pushed your morning meetings. Everything’s in here, just in case.”

You held it out to him with both hands, like it was fragile.

“It should all run smooth when you’re back in the office,” you added. “No big hassle, I promise.”

He took it slowly, fingers brushing yours.

Then your eyes flicked toward the kitchen. “Oh! And I made soup.”

Bucky blinked. “Soup?”

You nodded, looking proud. “Chicken. With orzo. Little bit of lemon. It’s an old recipe from my ma. Helps with stomach stuff, and it’s good for fevers.”

You paused, like maybe you were worried you’d overstepped. Your hands twitched slightly in front of you.

“I mean—you don’t have to eat it now,” you said quickly, “but I left it in the fridge. Labeled it with a little sticky so you know which one it is. Not that there’s a lot of stuff in your fridge, I just… y’know. Thought it might help.”

Your voice trailed off, but your smile stayed.

Soft. Open. So completely you.

And all Bucky could do was stand there, wrapped in his stupid blanket, and wonder how the hell you’d spent the whole day being terrifyingly competent, and still ended it with soup and a nervous little glance like you weren’t sure if he’d like it.

You hesitated at the edge of the living room, hands fidgeting with something behind your back.

Bucky noticed the shift immediately.

The glow you’d carried all day—while juggling Congress from his couch and checking his temperature without breaking stride—had dimmed. Not gone. Just… pulled inward, like you were trying to protect something small and fragile inside yourself.

You stepped forward, arms unfolding to reveal a neatly sealed envelope.

Your smile this time was softer. Smaller. Like a flickering candle. “Before I forget,” you said lightly, “I meant to give this to you earlier.”

You held it out.

He didn’t take it at first. Just stared. “What is it?”

Your lashes fluttered. You tilted your head slightly, voice still calm—almost apologetic. “It’s just my formal letter of resignation. Two weeks’ notice.”

The room went still.

Like even the hum of his ancient fridge paused to register the words.

Bucky took the envelope slowly, like it might explode in his hands. His stomach dropped, even lower than it had that morning when he first woke up sweating through his sheets.

“You’re leaving,” he said, flatly, like maybe saying it again would change the shape of it in the air. “Why?”

You hesitated, and for a second, he thought you weren’t going to say anything at all.

But then your gaze lifted—slow, reluctant—and something behind your eyes dimmed. Not anger. Not even disappointment. Just a sadness so quiet it made his chest ache.

“I heard you,” you said, voice small but even. “That day on the phone. When you were talking to Sam.”

The words sank into him with slow, merciless weight.

Shit.

He opened his mouth, panic rising. “You weren’t supposed to—”

“I know,” you cut in gently, holding up a hand. “It’s alright.”

That made it worse.

You smiled, the kind of smile that tried so hard to be kind it hurt to look at. “It’s okay,” you repeated. “I get that a lot, honestly. People sayin' I’m too soft. Too nice. Too… whatever.”

He shook his head. “That’s not—”

“I know you didn’t mean it to be cruel.” Your voice was airy, almost thoughtful. “It didn’t even sound mean. You were just being honest. And you’re right, in a way. I am sweet. I care a lot. I get excited over little things. I bring baked goods to meetings and I probably hug too much and I call people sweetheart even when they’re mean to me.”

Bucky’s throat was dry. “I didn’t—”

“But I’m not naïve,” you said, and this time there was steel under the softness. Not sharp—but unbending. “I’m not stupid. I know how this world works. I just… don’t want to become like it.”

Your eyes met his fully then, warm and steady. “I like who I am. I don’t want to lose that just to survive a place that tells me kindness is a weakness.”

He opened his mouth again—anything, something—but you beat him to it, words tumbling now with gentle finality.

“I’m a big-hearted person, Mr. Barnes. I love hard. I care hard. I will go to war for the people I believe in, and I’ll still make them soup afterward. That’s who I am.”

You gave a small shrug, and your smile this time was a little sad, a little tired. “But I know not everyone wants that. Not everyone likes their coffee sweet.”

He looked at you, mouth parted, heart twisting tighter with every breath.

You tilted your head, a soft laugh escaping. “And that’s okay. Really. I don’t need everyone to like me. I just want to work somewhere I don’t feel like I have to apologize for existing.”

Bucky tried—he really tried—to find the words to take it back. To undo it. But they stuck in his throat like gravel.

All he managed was a strangled, “I didn’t mean it the way it sounded.”

You nodded gently, like you already knew that.

But the hurt was still there, just under the surface, quietly humming like a bruise.

────────────────────────

It’d been three days since you handed him that letter.

Three days since you smiled with that soft resignation and walked out of his apartment, leaving behind bowl of soup and a hollow ache in his chest.

And now you were in the office—laughing.

Bucky watched you through the slats of his office shutters like a goddamn surveillance drone. Brenda was telling some story that clearly wasn’t funny, but you were laughing like it was the best thing you’d heard all week. Head tilted back, hand on her shoulder, the kind of laugh that made the people around you lean in like flowers toward sunlight.

He hated how familiar that laugh felt now.

And how far away it sounded.

You’d gone back to being sweet, professional, helpful. You hadn’t missed a single beat in your work. But with him, you were still distant. Polite. You hadn’t brought him coffee. Hadn’t cracked a joke. Hadn’t touched his arm in passing the way you used to.

He was losing you.

And the worst part? It wasn’t dramatic. You weren’t bitter. You weren’t angry.

You were just… quietly leaving.

So now he sat at his desk, glaring at his screen, not reading a damn word. His mind was a storm of useless questions and even more useless ideas.

Could he offer a raise? A promotion? Make the job more creative? Incentivize something?

He rubbed his hand down his face. No, that sounded like bribery.

Maybe he could ask her to stay just until the end of the quarter. Emphasize her value. Play the logistics angle. Remind her how much smoother things have been with her here.

He leaned back in his chair. That sounded desperate.

What if—

‘Jesus,’ he thought. ‘This isn’t about keeping her.’

A beat.

Then he corrected himself instantly. ‘Keeping her as an assistant. I mean. Not— Not like—’

He groaned, scrubbing at his eyes like he could rub the feelings away.

She was just efficient. That’s all. Stable. Predictable in a way he relied on. She was good at her job and the office ran smoother with her in it and that’s why this mattered.

Not because she smelled like lemons and comfort. Not because she looked at everyone like they were worth loving. Not because he’d started measuring his mornings by whether she smiled at him.

No. No, no, no. Just work.

Strictly professional.

He glanced back out through the blinds.

You were organizing a folder stack with the intern, gently fixing the label tabs, still smiling.

Still leaving.

And Bucky felt like the office was already colder without you—even though you hadn’t gone yet.

────────────────────────

Bucky liked to think he was a decent boss.

Not fun, sure. Not particularly approachable. Maybe a little gruff. And socially awkward, definitely. But fair. Honest. He let people take their lunch breaks. He remembered birthdays when he could. He even once approved an impromptu office donut day.

So it surprised him—no, perturbed him—when he found out about your going away party… from Brenda.

Brenda, who was sixty-eight and had once said she considered EDM “an acronym for something immoral.” Brenda, who referred to clubbing as “light alcoholism with extra steps.” Brenda, who had received an invitation.

He had not.

He found out over coffee. His coffee. The one he’d fetched himself because you no longer brought it to him.

Brenda had mentioned it casually, in that unassuming way older women do when they know they’re about to light a match and walk away from a very dry haystack.

“They’re doing a little sendoff for her Friday night. At that club downtown—the neon one with the ridiculous name. Something with vowels missing.”

He’d blinked. “What sendoff?”

“The one for your assistant, dear.” Sip. “The one who’s leaving.”

The words sank in slowly. Your assistant. Leaving. Right. That was happening. Somehow he kept forgetting it was real. Or maybe refusing to process it.

Then came the kicker: “Jimmy’s organizing the whole thing. Should be fun.”

Bucky had stared. “Jimmy?”

Brenda nodded, as if it were perfectly normal that the chillest, most easygoing staffer in his entire office had turned into a party planner on your behalf. “He booked a VIP booth. Very thoughtful.”

VIP booth? Bucky didn’t even know Jimmy knew how to book things. The guy wore mismatched socks and said “vibe check” unironically.

“So… they didn’t think to tell me?”

Brenda hesitated, just for a second, which was all the answer Bucky needed.

Later, he cornered Jimmy in the hallway, trying to sound casual and not like a man deeply offended by club logistics.

Jimmy had shrugged, wide-eyed and harmless. “We just figured it wasn’t really your scene, you know?”

Bucky blinked. “It’s not Brenda’s scene either.”

Jimmy scratched the back of his neck. “Yeah, well, Brenda knows the DJ.”

Of course she did.

Bucky didn’t say anything else. Just walked back to his office, each step echoing a little louder in his chest than it should have.

They didn’t think he’d want to come. Or maybe they didn’t think he deserved to.

And maybe they were right. Maybe he wasn’t the kind of guy you threw parties for. Maybe people just did their jobs around him and left. No post-its. No coffee. No soup.

But still… the fact that you were going to be out on a dance floor, surrounded by people who adored you, celebrating your last day—without him—hit harder than it should’ve.

Because he’d hurt you. He knew that now. And they all knew it too.

And no one invited him to say goodbye.

────────────────────────

He wasn’t even supposed to be there.

He told himself that, at least, on the way over. This wasn’t some grand gesture. He wasn’t planning a speech, wasn’t going to make a scene. He’d accepted it—you were leaving. And maybe he didn’t deserve a chance to change that.

So he’d come to do the one thing he could do.

Say goodbye.

He clutched the small, carefully wrapped box in his jacket pocket, fingers curling around the corners. It wasn’t much. But it was personal. Thoughtful. Something that reminded him of you—sweet, strange, specific.

But he remembered.

The music hit him first. The bass vibrating through the walls as soon as he stepped into the club. It was too loud, too crowded, too young. Neon lights pulsed off the walls, everything warm and blurred. He stood near the entrance, eyes scanning—feeling wildly out of place in his plain clothes and clenched jaw—until he saw you.

And then his lungs just… stopped working.

There you were.

It took one second. One.

You were standing near the booth, laughing—God, always laughing—wearing a pale blue outfit that looked like moonlight wrapped in fabric. Halter top hugging your curves, skirt tied at your hip, legs long and bare under the shifting lights. Gold hoops in your ears, bangles on your wrist, that familiar dreamy look in your eyes as you leaned into Jimmy mid-laugh.

Bucky’s feet stopped moving.

You were stunning. Effortlessly so. But it wasn’t just that. It was the freedom—the way you stood like nothing in the world could touch you here. Like you weren’t his assistant or part of a machine or tethered to other people’s expectations. You were you—unfiltered, unbothered, alive.

And he’d never seen you like this before.

Not in your pastels and blazers. Not behind your desk with your clipboard and schedule.

This version of you—this—was what he was losing.

He swallowed hard.

She’s just your assistant, he told himself. Or had been. That’s all this was. You were good at your job. That’s all.

But even he didn’t believe it anymore.

You were mid-sip of your drink when you caught sight of him, standing near the edge of the club like he was trying to melt into the wall.

Your breath caught.

And then your whole face lit up like someone had flipped a switch inside you.

“Oh my gosh, you came!”

You pushed past two people without thinking, grinning, already reaching for his arm like you couldn’t help yourself. Your bangles clinked as you tugged him gently into the glow of the booth’s lights.

“I didn’t think you were coming,” you laughed, almost breathless. “You hate places like this.”

Bucky looked at you—really looked at you—and it took him a second too long to answer.

Your eyes were sparkling, cheeks flushed, hair tousled and falling perfectly over one shoulder. You looked like the kind of girl who had the whole room on a string and didn’t even realize she was holding it.

He murmured under his breath, just low enough that it got swallowed by the music, “Maybe ‘cause I wasn’t invited.”

You tilted your head. “What?”

“Nothing,” he said quickly, shaking it off with a stiff half-shrug. “Just thought I’d… say goodbye.”

Your expression softened. Just a bit.

“Oh,” you said, the word light and airy, but touched with something else. “That’s sweet.”

Bucky nodded once. Awkward. Hands shoved in his jacket pockets like he didn’t trust them to stay still.

He should’ve left it at that.

But instead, he held out the little box he’d been carrying all night—plain black wrapping, a thin ribbon tied unevenly, like he’d done it with too much concentration and not enough skill.

You blinked, surprised. “What’s this?”

“Just a gift,” he said, not meeting your eyes. “It’s stupid.”

You took it carefully, reverently, like it might break in your hands. “Oh, you shouldn't have…”

“It’s not a bribe,” he added quickly, before you could say anything more. “I know you’re leaving. I just… thought you should have something.”

You didn’t wait.

Right there in the middle of the club, music thumping, lights flashing, you carefully tugged the ribbon free and opened the box with that bright, childlike excitement you always had when someone gave you something—even if it was small. Even if it wasn’t wrapped perfectly.

And when you saw what was inside, your breath hitched.

A delicate gold necklace. Thin, simple chain. At the center, your birthstone—tiny, gleaming, perfectly cut. Nothing flashy. Nothing loud. Just right.

You stared down at it, brows pulling together, mouth parting slightly.

And then, to Bucky’s horror, your eyes started to well.

“Wait… this is my—this is my birthstone,” you said softly, voice already wobbling. “How did you even know?”

You looked up at him with wide, glistening eyes, and Bucky’s stomach dropped.

“I—I never told you my birthday.”

He shifted awkwardly, rubbing the back of his neck. “I remembered. You mentioned it once. In passing.”

That did it.

You blinked quickly, but the tears came anyway, slipping free with no real warning. “Oh God,” you whispered, pressing your fingers to your mouth, eyes going glassy. “That’s actually… really sweet. Why would you…?”

Your voice cracked. Right in the middle of a sentence. Just folded in on itself.

And Bucky panicked.

“Hey—” he murmured, stepping closer, voice low and careful, like you were a fragile object he might accidentally break with the wrong tone. “Hey, don’t cry. Don’t—don’t do that.”

You let out a small, broken laugh, brushing at your cheeks. “Sorry, I just—this is so thoughtful. And you remembered. And now I’m crying in a club like a weirdo—”

“You’re not a weirdo,” he said quickly, awkwardly, like he was saying it on instinct and didn’t even believe he was qualified to offer emotional reassurance.

Still, he reached out—tentatively—and touched your elbow. Just barely. Like he was scared of overstepping.

You were sniffling now, trying to dab at your eyes with the corner of a cocktail napkin that immediately disintegrated. “I’m just—God, I’m such a mess—”

“You’re not,” he muttered, more firmly this time. “It’s just… a lot. I get it.”

You nodded, wiping at your nose with the back of your hand in a way that made his heart twist in his chest.

“I didn’t mean to make you cry,” he added, a little helplessly. “I was just… trying to say goodbye.”

That last word came out rougher than he meant it to.

Bucky didn’t know what to do with the way your face crumpled again.

The tears came back—hot and fast—and though you were trying to smile through it, you clearly weren’t managing. You swiped at your cheeks with both hands now, uselessly, still holding the jewelry box in one.

He hesitated. Then stepped in a little closer, hand hovering awkwardly near your back.

“Hey,” he said gently, “come on. Let’s get some air.”

You nodded, a hiccuped little sound catching in your throat, and let him guide you with a light touch on your back. You were too busy trying not to sniff too loudly, muttering something about God, I probably look insane right now, as he led you carefully past the crowd and toward the door.

The outside air hit cool and sharp. The street was quiet in comparison—just the low hum of traffic and the faint pulse of music through the walls behind you.

You sniffled again, eyes still glassy as you blinked up at him, half apologetic. “Ugh, my makeup is definitely ruined,” you mumbled. “I knew I shouldn’t have worn this mascara. But it was waterproof! It was supposed to be—why do they even say that if it’s a lie?”

Bucky gave a short breath—almost a laugh, almost not. He looked at you, really looked.

Your cheeks were a little streaked, sure. Lip gloss a bit smudged. But your eyes were shining. And that necklace—the one he’d spent way too long choosing—sat against your skin like it had always belonged there.

“You look fine,” he said, voice quiet but certain. “You look like… you.”

You smiled weakly. “That bad, huh?”

He shook his head, shoving his hands into his jacket pockets. “No. That good.”

You looked down at your heels, a soft little laugh escaping from behind your hand.

Then, a little quieter: “You really didn’t have to come, you know.”

“I know,” he murmured. “But I wanted to.”

You sniffled once more and tilted your head back, resting it gently against the brick wall behind you. The chill of it made your skin rise in little goosebumps, but you didn’t mind. It helped ground you.

Bucky stood a step in front of you, hands in his pockets, close but not quite touching. He looked like he was trying to memorize the shape of you in this light—the heated cheeks, the still-damp lashes, the faint shimmer of highlighter on your collarbone.

You smiled at him, a little shy now, still damp-eyed but back to your usual, airy self. The kind of smile that could make someone forget everything they were angry about.

“You’re gonna miss me, huh?”

You meant it like a joke. Playful. Light.

But he didn’t laugh.

He looked at you like the weight of that sentence had knocked the wind out of him.

“Yeah,” he said softly. “Yeah, I am.”

That stopped you. Just for a second. Like you hadn’t expected honesty from him—not that much, not here.

The smile on your lips faltered.

He stepped a little closer. Just a half-step. Just enough to feel his presence around you. He wasn’t touching you, but he didn’t need to. You could feel it anyway. Could feel him—his stillness, his warmth, his quiet restraint.

And then he said it.

“Are you sure,” he asked, voice barely audible, “there’s nothing I can say to change your mind?”

Your breath caught in your throat.

The question hung in the air between you. Not loud. Not desperate. Just there.

You looked up at him, blinking too fast again. “Bucky…”

But you didn’t finish the sentence.

Because it was already happening again—your eyes glassing over, that familiar sting building behind your nose.

You sucked in a shaky breath, the cool air burning your lungs. You looked away from him, blinking rapidly, willing the tears not to spill—but it was already too late. Again.

“I’m sorry,” you whispered, voice cracking. “God, I’m sorry, I don't wanna cry again—this is so embarrassing.”

Bucky said nothing.

Just stood there in front of you, still as stone. But his eyes… they were softer than you’d ever seen them. And it hurt.

“I would stay,” you choked, voice trembling with the weight of the truth you’d kept tucked away for weeks. “I want to stay. Of course I want to stay.”

You were crying now, tears falling hot down your cheeks as your chest tightened. “But it wouldn’t work. It can’t. It’s unethical now. It’s inappropriate. Because I—”

Your throat clenched, but you pushed through.

“—because I have this stupid crush on you, okay?”

You didn’t dare look at him.

“I have this dumb, awful, unprofessional, completely humiliating crush on my boss. I think about you way too much, and it makes it hard to do my job. I bring you coffee I know you like and highlight your notes so you won’t panic during speeches and I try to make you smile because when you do it’s like—it’s like the world gets quiet for a second.”

Your hands fluttered uselessly as you spoke, as if your body could catch your words and stuff them back in your mouth.

“And I know it’s one-sided, okay? I’m not stupid. I know you don’t feel that way, but I—”

He kissed you.

Just like that. No warning.

A sudden, quiet press of lips that silenced your breath, your words, your panic.

His hands didn’t even touch you. Not yet. He just leaned in and kissed you—firm, sure, warm—like it was the only way he knew to make it all stop.

You froze, heart crashing into your ribs, eyes wide for just a moment.

And then you melted.

Mouth softening into his, breath catching in your throat. Tears still clinging to your lashes, your hand clutching the front of his jacket like it was the only solid thing left in the world.

He pulled back slowly—barely an inch—his forehead resting lightly against yours.

“You’re wrong,” he whispered, voice rough. “It’s not one-sided.”

Your lips parted to speak—to say something, anything, maybe to ask if this was real—but you didn’t get the chance.

Bucky kissed you again.

This time deeper, firmer, more certain. His hand found the side of your jaw, fingers brushing just behind your ear, grounding you in the moment like he couldn’t stand to be any farther away. Your back pressed gently against the wall behind you, breath caught somewhere between your lungs and your throat.

It wasn’t careful now.

It was warm and urgent and real, and it made your head spin, your knees wobble. You let out a tiny noise against his mouth, your fingers curling into the front of his jacket again, clinging like you couldn’t bear to stop.

When he pulled back—slowly, reluctantly—his breath mingled with yours, foreheads still close.

“You taste like strawberries,” he murmured, lips brushing against yours as he spoke.

Your heart stuttered. Your brain, still floating somewhere behind your eyes, couldn’t string thoughts together fast enough.

You blinked up at him, eyes hazy, lips still parted. Then, barely above a whisper, you murmured against his mouth,

“I think it’s ‘cause of my strawberry daiquiri.”

That made him smile.

Small, crooked, and stupidly tender.

And for the first time in what felt like weeks, you smiled too—real and a little dazed, like you couldn’t believe this was happening.

Bucky looked like he was about to say something else.

His mouth opened, barely.

And you didn’t let him.

You moved fast—tipping forward and throwing your arms around his neck before he could even breathe, your body colliding into his with enough force to make him stumble half a step back. His hands shot out instinctively, catching you by the waist, holding you steady.

Then you kissed him again.

Harder this time. Messier. Mouth opening against his, tongue slipping past his lips like it had been building in you for months.

He grunted softly into the kiss, grip tightening at your sides like he couldn’t quite believe this was happening—but wasn’t about to let go, either.

You pressed into him, fingers curling into the back of his neck, pulling him closer like it wasn’t close enough. His hand slid up your spine, the other anchoring at your hip, both of you half-pinned against the brick wall and completely lost in the feel of each other.

It wasn’t soft. It wasn’t sweet.

It was heat and tension and all the things you’d both been swallowing back for too long.

Your mouth moved against his like you’d been waiting for this exact angle, this exact pressure. He kissed you back with equal weight, tongue meeting yours, breath shallow, one of his hands fisting lightly in the fabric at your lower back like he needed something to hold onto.

You pulled back for half a second—just enough to breathe—then dragged him right back in, catching his lower lip between yours before deepening it again, another sweep of your tongue making him tighten his hold on you.

When you finally pulled back, just enough to catch your breath, your foreheads were still touching, your fingers still curled at the nape of his neck. His hands were warm against your waist, thumbs absently brushing your sides like he didn’t want to stop touching you.

Your lips hovered against his—still wet, swollen, parted.

“My heart is going tachycardic right now,” you mumbled, voice breathy and half-delirious.

Bucky blinked, a slow exhale brushing over your cheek as he gave a short, low laugh. It was half a huff, half a genuine what are you even saying, but there was nothing mocking in it.

He had no idea what that meant. Not really.

But still, without missing a beat, he murmured against your lips, “Yeah. Me too.”

Then he kissed you again.

Soft this time. Lingering. Then again, just below your mouth. And again, near the corner. Like he couldn’t decide which part of you he wanted to taste more.

Your breath hitched, arms tightening briefly around his neck as his mouth found yours again—more lazy now, indulgent, like you had all the time in the world to learn each other one kiss at a time.

You smiled into it. Couldn’t help it.

And he didn’t stop kissing you.

Didn’t want to.

────────────────────────

Six Months Later

Bucky still couldn’t figure out how he ended up here.

The Watchtower.

New York.

Leader—unofficially—of the most emotionally unstable group of enhanced individuals the government could dig up. He didn’t want the job. Didn’t ask for it. But somehow, it was always his name they called when something needed handling.

He leaned against the kitchen counter, arms crossed, eyes heavy from a sleepless night. Not that anyone here noticed. Ava phased through walls at 3 a.m., Walker trained like rage was cardio, and Yelena had made it her personal mission to ignore authority unless she gave it to herself.

He sighed, long and low, ready to go back to pretending he didn’t exist.

Then his phone buzzed in his pocket.

He pulled it out instinctively, screen lighting up.

Finally—cleared my schedule. I’m coming to New York this weekend. Hope you’re ready for excessive cuddling and making out and me refusing to let go of you for like 48 hours. ❤️

Bucky’s lips pulled into the faintest smile as he read your text, thumb tapping the screen just once in response.

Can’t wait.

And of course, that’s when Yelena walked in.

She stopped mid-stride, immediately squinting at him like she’d spotted a security breach.

“What the hell is that?”

Bucky didn’t look up. “What?”

“That thing on your face.” She tilted her head, arms crossed. “Are you… smiling?”

He pocketed the phone quickly. “It’s nothing.”

“No, no, no.” She was already circling him like a predator. “You look—God, what’s the word—pleasant. That’s not your baseline.”

He sighed, already regretting not hiding in the gym.

“Who texted you?”

“None of your business,” he muttered.

Yelena didn’t even pretend to buy it. She crossed her arms, watching him like he was a broken vending machine she intended to fix with violence.

“You smiled. I’ve never seen you smile. Not like that. It was very suspicious.”

Bucky took a slow sip of coffee. “Wasn’t smiling.”

“Your face moved, Bucky,” she said flatly. “It was unsettling.”

He turned away, walked over to the fridge like it held answers.

Yelena followed.

“Was it a dog video?” she asked. “No. You’re not soft enough for dogs. A meme? A mission update with someone dying? No—wait. It was a person. You smiled like someone flirted with you.”

He didn’t answer.

“Is it serious? Is it secret? Is it dangerous?“ Yelena asked, suddenly in front of him, leaning slightly into his space, “I will find out. I am very good at finding things. And people.”

Bucky just sighed, long and tired, and walked out of the kitchen without a word.

Yelena stared after him for half a beat before turning sharply and locking eyes on the next available target.

Walker.

He’d just wandered in, hoodie half-zipped, chewing on a protein bar like he hadn’t had a thought in days.

“You,” Yelena said, pointing at him. “You’ve known him longest. Does Bucky have a girlfriend?”

Walker blinked. “What?”

“A girlfriend,” she repeated, slower. “A woman. He dates her. Romantic?”

He squinted slightly. “Bucky? Uh… I mean… I dunno.”

“You don’t know?”

He shrugged, genuinely baffled. “I mean, maybe? He’s quiet. One time he left early and said he had ‘plans.’ That could mean anything though. Like… groceries. Or laundry.”

Yelena stared at him, unblinking. “You are completely useless.”

Walker nodded, still chewing. “That’s fair.”

────────────────────────

Bucky had just settled onto the couch, bowl of something vaguely edible in hand, eyes on the muted television where an old war documentary flickered across the screen. It wasn’t exactly entertainment—it was just quiet.

He barely got through three bites before he felt it.

The shift in the air.

Then the voices.

Yelena entered first, of course—arms crossed, wearing the face of someone who’d appointed herself lead investigator in a murder case that didn’t exist.

She was followed by Bob, Alexei, Ava, and Walker, who trailed in like a herd of very uncoordinated cats.

Bucky didn’t even look at them. “No.”

“We haven’t said anything yet,” Bob offered, smiling too nicely.

“Still no.”

Yelena dropped onto the armrest beside him, eyes sharp. “We’ve been talking.”

Bucky stared straight ahead. “Tragic.”

“And we’ve decided,” she continued, ignoring him completely, “that we don’t know anything about your personal life.”

“That’s because it’s personal,” he said dryly.

Alexei huffed, already pacing. “This is concerning. You are team leader. We need to know if you are emotionally stable.”

“I’m not. None of us are.”

Walker plopped into a chair. “He did smile the other day. That was weird.”

“That’s what started all this,” Yelena snapped. “He smiled. At a text. And now he won’t tell us who sent it.”

Bucky turned up the volume on the TV. Barely.

Ava appeared on the other side of the couch, silent as usual, but she arched a brow that said she was equally invested.

Bob, cheerful as ever, leaned forward with a grin. “We’re just saying… if there’s a special someone, you can tell us. We’re fun. We’re emotionally safe.”

“You’re emotionally nosy,” Bucky muttered.

“We are team,” Alexei boomed. “And you—our glorious yet emotionally constipated leader—should share with group!”

Yelena leaned in closer, narrowing her eyes. “Is it serious? Like, does she know you have zero social skills? Does she like that? Is she in therapy?”

Walker nodded. “Is she hot?”

Everyone looked at him.

“What?” he said. “It’s a valid question.”

Bucky's phone buzzed in his pocket.

He didn’t check it right away—not with five pairs of eyes watching him like he was the last episode of a series they weren’t supposed to binge but did anyway.

But then he did glance. Just one look at the screen.

And something shifted in his posture. Barely.

The corners of his mouth twitched. Not a smile, not quite—but something loosened in his shoulders. He stood up, sliding the phone back into his pocket.

“I’ve gotta go,” he said simply.

“Go where?” Yelena asked instantly, sliding off the couch and following with military-grade suspicion. “Where is Winter Soldier going all dressed up in… black?”

“I’m always dressed in black.“

But it didn’t matter.

They were already following him.

Bob was at his side with his usual skip in his step, Walker tagging along behind like a golden retriever who wasn’t sure what game they were playing. Alexei caught up quickly, talking to himself about trust and emotional openness. Ava materialized near the elevator, silent but present. And Yelena, of course, was right on Bucky’s heels.

“You’re deflecting,” she said as the elevator doors closed around them. “I can smell secrets. And this smells like a woman.”

Bucky didn’t respond. Not a word.

Just faced the elevator door, arms folded, jaw tight, clearly regretting every life choice that led him here.

“Where exactly are you going?” she pressed, arms crossed. “Is she here? Is she real?”

“You’ll see,” Bucky said flatly, not bothering to face them.

The elevator doors opened on the ground floor, and they all spilled into the main lobby of the Watchtower, a wide, sleek expanse of glass and metal and polished silence.

Then a sound cut through the air like a missile.

A high, joyful squeal.

“Bucky baby!”

Everything stopped.

The team froze.

Yelena’s face scrunched in real time. “Bucky baby?”

Before anyone could process that phrase, there was movement.

A blur of color streaked across the marble lobby. Heels clicking, earrings swinging, hair bouncing—you, in full tilt.

And without hesitation, you launched yourself straight at him.

Bucky barely had time to catch you, but he did—one arm wrapping around your waist, the other under your thighs as you jumped up and clung to him like gravity didn’t apply.

And then, right there in front of everyone, your lips were on his.

Not shy. Not sweet.

Mouth open, tongue in, both hands in his hair as you kissed him like you’d been holding your breath for hours and he was the only oxygen you wanted. You tilted his head, deepened it, bit his bottom lip and everything. It was messy and loud and had absolutely zero awareness of space or audience.

Bucky just held you there—like he’d been waiting for this all day. One hand squeezing your hip, the other steady under your thigh, mouth moving against yours like he couldn’t get enough.

Silence behind you.

Long.

Awkward.

Unblinking.

Walker looked physically stunned, eyes wide, lips parted like he couldn’t figure out what dimension he’d fallen into.

Bob had both hands over his eyes. “I feel like I’m watching something x-rated.”

Alexei, meanwhile, was grinning ear to ear. “Ah, love! Powerful! Raw! Very virile. I respect it.“

Ava stood slightly to the side, arms crossed, expression twisted into something between a wince and a grimace. “This is disgusting.”

Yelena just raised one eyebrow. “What the fuck?”

The kiss finally slowed—just a little. You pulled back to catch your breath, your forehead pressing against Bucky’s as you grinned, lips swollen, eyes dancing.

“Hi,” you whispered.

He huffed out a breath, still catching up. “Hi.”

Then, finally, he turned—still holding you, still slightly dazed—and glanced over at the very silent, very stunned lineup of teammates.

No one said anything.

You blinked, just now noticing the five-person audience.

“Oh,” you said cheerfully, breath still short. “Hi.”

Silence.

The kind that settles like static. Thick, charged, slightly horrified.

The team’s eyes slowly, almost comically, shifted from you to Bucky.

All at once.

Yelena stepped forward half a pace, pointing without subtlety. “This is your girlfriend?”

Bucky’s jaw flexed. He didn’t answer.

He didn’t need to.

You were still curled in his arms like you lived there, bright smile lighting up your entire face, makeup slightly smudged from the kissing, lipstick faded along Bucky’s mouth.

You held up your left hand like it was the most casual thing in the world.

Diamond. Simple, perfect, unmistakable.

“Fiancée, actually.”

Bucky Barnes Taglist:

@xamapolax @shereadzzz @princeescalus @onlyheretowastetime @Madlyinlovewithmattmurdockk @holycastoroli @s-sh-ne @Finnickodairslut @macbaetwo @xoxoloverb @ashpeace888 @bethjs-2005 @theewiselionessss @bythecloset @rougettq @novaslov @LuminousVenomVagrant @sgtjbbhasmyheart @avivarougestan @shoutingcardinal @shellsbae00 @sired4urmama @aoi-targaryen @winchestert101 @n3ptoonz @jeongiegram @fckmebarnes @excusememrbarnes @thealloveru2 @avgdestitute @ellierosed18 @buckmybarnes @lilac13 @fayeatheart @ozwriterchick @espressopatronum454 @slutforsr @c-grace56 @Tafuller @mencantaleer @Leathynn @solana-jpeg @snake-in-a-flower-crown @honeyhera29 @barnesonly @theoraekenslover @ogoc-19 @person-005 @beemovie123

those who couldn't be tagged are in bold :(

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defn0tonyourleft · 1 month ago

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Me when somebody says meatloaf

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defn0tonyourleft · 2 months ago

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More Than Just a Dream

Summary: As an actor, you knew more people would be noticing you after starring in an indie movie that gained some decent popularity. Although, the last thing you expected was to watch your no.1 YouTube crush yap about your performance in their latest video. Title is from Out of My League by Fitz and The Tantrums.

Pairing: Spencer Agnew x GN!Reader

Tags: Fluff, actor!reader, two idiots losing their composure, gender neutral pronouns for reader but more feminine qualities

Word count: 4.7k

Note: Based on this request for celeb!reader, this was my take on it! Happy belated birthday to our special guy! I hope my fellow Spencer-heads enjoy this one. <3

✩

You had been acting for a good majority of your life. Nothing major, local productions, community plays, your school’s drama troupe, extracurricular acting classes, you were even a theatre major in college. It was your passion. You loved diving into a character, exploring their story and becoming a part of a narrative separate to your own. You’d always been a huge fan of escaping into another world.

That’s how you ended up auditioning for and being cast in a small production company’s film as the main character. You were no big name, so when you got the call offering the part, you were ecstatic. It was called Shuttlecock, an offbeat black comedy about a virgin who somehow becomes the owner of a sex shop which they initially thought was a sports supply store. Long story. It was fun and bizarre but had vulnerability and heart. It was the first time you were mesmerised watching back something you had acted in. While you would not necessarily consider this a big break, it was definitely a huge step in your career.

The film did decently well, you tried not to let it get to your head as your best friends showered you with compliments, constantly telling you your “star was rising”. You started to semi-believe them when a few actors you had admired for years followed you back on Instagram. But one account in particular made you freeze in your tracks, sitting up in your bed when you saw the notification.

Smosh started following you.

“Oh my god”, you breathed out, “what?”

You had been a Smosh subscriber for ages. You recalled watching old sketch videos as a young theatre kid, they had definitely influenced you, in your comedic acting skills at least. And now, they followed you back. You resisted the urge to message them, they followed you minutes ago, you needed to play it cool.

✩

It was days later, when you were watching the latest Smosh Games video that you realised why they may have followed you.

“I have no idea”, Shayne put his arms up. Him and Spencer were doing another video where they guessed the movie by the frames.

“I… I think I know this”, Spencer scratched his chin, squinting at the monitor in front of them.

“Of course you do”, Shayne replied, slapping him on the back, “you got this, bud, I’m just here for moral support.”

Spencer was deep in thought, leaning forward. His fingers were resting on the keyboard as he tried to figure out what it was.

You recognised the first frame. It was from Shuttlecock. You felt excitement build inside you. It was a very vague one, a simple shot of one of the sex shop’s walls from the outside.

“I need to make sure”, Spencer said under his breath, skipping to the second frame.

The next one was of you. Well, it was your hand, pointing at something out of shot, fingernails covered in nail polish that was chipping off slightly.

“Yep”, he said with finality, typing the movie title in while Shayne whooped in excitement at him getting the correct answer.

You covered your mouth, scared you might scream with the giddiness that was rising in your chest. You didn’t want to alarm your neighbours in the adjacent apartment.

“What is this movie?” Shayne asked as they flicked through the other frames that would have popped up if they guessed wrong. There were a couple of different cast members and sets, the final one was of you looking at another character incredulously while holding a vibrator at arms length. This made the two of them laugh.

“This indie movie, Shuttlecock”, Spencer replied, “I saw it recently. It’s so good, dude, so funny, and I’m obsessed with the main actor.”

Your heart did a weird jump in your chest, you slapped your hand over it in alarm. Spencer, a.k.a your favourite person at Smosh, was talking about you.

“They played this sort of innocent, but not naive, and really hilarious character who ends up running this weird sex toy shop, it’s hard to explain”, he laughed as Shayne looked around, expression bewildered. “I’m not doing a good job talking about it, I promise it’s so good, we can watch it later.”

Shayne threw his head back in laughter before agreeing.

Spencer pointed at the camera, “if you like funny movies, watch Shuttlecock.”

Then they moved on with the video like it had never happened. You wanted to shriek. If you had more energy, you would have run laps around your room like a dog waiting for a walk. You couldn’t believe he had talked about you, specifically you, in a video. You fumbled with your phone as you opened Instagram, scrolling through all the new follower notifications, your eyes scanned for a specific name.

And there it was.

Spennser started following you.

You had missed the notification since he followed you at the same time a wave of new followers came in. You kicked your legs in excitement. Had he not realised you were already following him? Why hadn’t he messaged you? Should you message him? You reasoned that you weren’t being a creep, and it was normal to want to ask to collaborate with a creative person you were an admirer of. And this had nothing to do with the parasocial crush you had been harbouring for him from your side of the computer screen for the past few years. Nothing at all.

You took a couple breaths to calm yourself down. You could totally message him, hit him with a cute (and flirtatious) ‘heard you were a fan?’ with a wink emoji. You shook your head. No, that was cringey. Maybe a simple ‘hi, love Smosh Games’. No, you were still cringing. You ended up chickening out, thinking too hard about it made you just a little bit nauseous. Maybe you would try again when you were feeling braver.

✩

Bestie: ‘Seriously, DM him. NOW!’

You stared at the text message from your best friend, you felt like there was a hive of bees buzzing in your head, confused, frantic, excited, scared. It was early in the morning and you were getting ready to run off to a meeting when your phone started blowing up. They had sent you a TikTok edit of you using clips from Shuttlecock, which was crazy enough, you had never seen a fan edit of yourself ever. But the part that freaked you out was at the very start of the edit, it kicked off with the clip of Spencer talking about you in the recent Smosh Games video, smiling in that way you had engraved into your brain.

You: ‘I don’t know…’

You messaged back, apprehensive.

Bestie: ‘You’ve gotta be kidding me, you’re like super into this guy. And he just rambled on about how great you were in your movie. This is your chance, TAKE IT!!!’

You wanted to scream again. They were kind of right, but you had a million reasons to be nervous about it.

You: ‘What if he wants nothing to do with me?’

You texted with one hand while the other fiddled with your hair, a nervous habit.

Bestie: ‘You are actually a huge pain in my ass.’

They shot back, making you giggle.

Bestie: ‘Did you see his face? He’d probably click his heels with joy if you DMed him.’

You scoffed, rolling your eyes. They were just glazing you at this point. You couldn’t blame them, gassing you up was part of best friend duties.

The internal battle on whether or not to message Spencer raged on when it was interrupted by a new direct message appearing on your phone screen. You opened it so fast, you didn’t even care that they could see that you read it. As your eyes rapidly read over the message, you felt your heart beat even faster. This was almost as thrilling as when you were first casted in the movie. You read the message again and again and again to make sure you were interpreting it correctly.

Smosh wanted to feature you as a guest in a video.

You returned to your conversation with your friend.

You: ‘I’ll talk to you later, something insane is about to happen.’

You were totally going to be late to your meeting.

✩

After weeks of correspondence and the rapid approach of the event in your calendar named ‘FILMING AT SMOSH HOLY SHIT’, the day had finally come.

You had spoken with the team multiple times about what they wanted you to come and record. You tried your best to keep it professional and mature, you weren’t sure if they realised how big of a fan you were. Essentially, they were filming a Try Not to Laugh video on the Smosh Pit channel for Spencer’s birthday, and they were inviting guests to have a turn making him spit water. Emily Rose had the bright idea of inviting you when she watched him gush about you in the Games video he did with Shayne.

“It’s going to be a surprise”, she had explained to you over a video call. “Some guests he will be anticipating, but a few are going to be extra fun because he has no idea they’re coming. We’re going to save your turn for near the end of the video because he’s going to lose it.”

You chuckled at that, both nervous and excited.

“Are you sure he will?” You were a little unsure. Sure, he followed you on social media, you saw him like your posts, but he only talked about you one time in one video.

“Oh, yes. He will.” Emily Rose practically cackled, “trust me.”

You shrugged. She seemed confident that this was a good idea, and in what world would you ever turn down a chance to film a video with Smosh?

When you went through the whirlwind of arriving at Smosh HQ, meeting people, being whisked away to the area where they were hiding surprise guests, and preparing to appear on camera, you felt like you were walking through a fever dream. The excitement that buzzed in your body from your head to your fingertips was akin only to the feeling right before you stepped out on stage for a performance. In a way, this was the same, but the audience for this performance included Spencer Agnew, which made you sweat from anxiety.

You were a fan of the guy, you thought he was funny and charming and watching videos of him brightened your day. But you had never actually met him, and now you were going to go out there in front of a whole cast and crew and try to make him laugh hard enough to spit water, that was a bit daunting.

You shook out your limbs and tried to relax. This was going to be fun. Emily Rose said so. And so did Courtney and Angela when they saw you, offering you friendly smiles as they nudged each other in sheer enthusiasm. You didn’t expect that many people at Smosh to recognise you, let alone seem super glad you were there. As filming started and people took turns doing their bits, you watched on the monitors behind the partition. You covered your mouth laughing multiple times, not wanting to be too loud on an unfamiliar set. You were having a blast watching Spencer’s beloved castmates, crewmates, friends, and former coworkers attempt to break him, most succeeding.

“No way!” Spencer guffawed loudly after spitting his water. A couple of his former colleagues from ClevverTV surprised him, doing over the top impersonations of some of his most famous Smosh bits.

That was followed by Angela and Amanda doing a bit inspired by the three of them playing Resident Evil 8 together, then it was Chanse reprising his Bit City role as Cunty Spencer but with a Fred Darts twist this time. Everyone moved so naturally and put so much thought into their bits. Emily Rose had told you that you just needed to walk out there and the rest would take care of itself. Whatever that meant. So, you didn’t really have a proper bit ready. That terrified you.

For a split second, you forgot you were actually there, feeling like you were at home watching the latest TNTL video on your computer, and when you snapped out of it, it all felt so surreal again.

You were prompted by the team to get ready. It was your turn next.

You mentally prepared yourself as best you could, drying the bit of perspiration you had collected on your hands on your jeans and attempting to fix your hair. When given the cue, you walked out from behind the partition. As you turned to him, you locked eyes with Spencer and felt a bit embarrassed, offering a small wave.

As soon as Spencer recognised you, which took about one second, he immediately spat out half his water, followed by a gasp, which made him choke on the rest of his water and then he was thumping his own chest as he sputtered, coughing hard. The sudden display of a complete lack of composure made Courtney and Shayne, sitting on either side of him, spit their water as well with surprised amusement. The room erupted with yells and roaring laughter, many of them never having seen Spencer get so red in the face.

Turns out Emily Rose was right. No bits needed.

“You’re Y/N from Shuttlecock”, Spencer simply wheezed out, his eyes were a little watery from choking, but they were wide as he stared at you.

You nodded. “I am”, you replied, smiling at him. “I’m so glad you all spat because I had nothing prepared.” The crew and cast responded with another round of laughs. “Happy birthday”, you leaned in to quietly say.

“Holy shit”, Shayne was cackling, “how did they get you on here?”

“Instagram DM”, you simply replied, shrugging. You looked at the cameras, “it’s just that easy.”

“They’re not a huge blockbuster movie star just yet”, Spencer turned to the room, he held his hands out like he was defending you.

You raised your brows at him, “yet?”

“I have big plans for you”, was his fast response, earning another bunch of laughter from the room, you joining in.

“I’d love to hear them”, you couldn’t help grinning.

The video had to continue, so you scurried away, heart still pounding hard and fast in your chest. You tried to convince yourself it was because you were just nervous from being on camera. You were glad the viewers wouldn’t be able to feel the heat emanating off your body through their screens when they eventually watched this. Filming wrapped not long after your turn, and the mood was so high when they called ‘cut’, that everyone lingered to chat and mingle, the amount of people on set much higher than a usual shoot.

You were finishing up talking to Arasha when the man of the hour approached you. He was finally talking to you, and it wasn’t over Instagram messages, so you felt even less prepared for this moment than you could hope for. You knew you would probably speak with him one-on-one at some point since the moment you received that DM from Smosh, but now that he was standing in front of you, it felt dreamlike, like you weren’t in control of your own body.

He looked a little sheepish as he spoke, “hi”, his voice was loud enough to be heard in the loud room, but still soft.

“Hi”, you echoed back. You had been performing for most of your life, but somehow felt out of your depth just talking to a guy you loved watching on YouTube. “I love watching Smosh Games, by the way. I’m a big fan of your work”, you couldn’t help yourself from blurting out. You cringed at yourself internally, you couldn’t be nonchalant in this moment if you tried.

“I'm a big fan of your work”, he stuffed his hands into his pockets, cheeks slowly reddening, but refusing to break eye contact.

“I’ve only been in one movie, Spencer”, you laughed, feeling a little less anxious to speak to him. He seemed to light up when you said his name, but you were sure you were imagining it.

“Yeah, but I bet you'll be in many more and I'll be a fan of those movies when they happen”, he explained as you felt your neck and face heat up. “Like I said, I have big plans for you.”

You guffawed in a way you were sure was unattractive, but Spencer was smiling at you nonetheless.

“You want to quit Smosh and become my manager?” You joked, nudging him lightly on the arm.

“I’m thinking about it”, his voice was low, you were pretty sure you were the only person in the room that could hear him. There was a quiet lull between you for a second as you stared at each other, smiling like idiots, eye contact magnetic, unable to look away. His grin was bordering on goofy when a familiar brunette practically jumped on him from behind.

“Hey, Spence! Hi, Y/N!” Angela greeted the both of you as Spencer regained his balance and Courtney trailed after Angela, joining the circle.

“We’re all so glad you could make it, Y/N”, Courtney gently rested a hand on your shoulder, “we’re grateful you could take time out of your schedule to come meet a bunch of strangers.”

You shrugged, “I was more than happy to come over. I’ve been watching Smosh for ages, so you guys don’t really feel like complete strangers to me, honestly.”

“Are you for real?” Angela stared at you with wide eyes, “you’re a fan of Smosh?” She leaned into Spencer, mumbling near his ear, “you totally have a shot, bud.”

He practically shoved her away as she giggled, directing her attention back to you. “I’m sorry, but he has not shut up about you since he watched Shuttlecock. You can ask anyone in the office and they’ll agree. He’s obsessed, so I’m just excited for him that you seem to like our content too.”

“Angela”, Spencer’s brow was furrowed, but you could tell he wasn’t mad, just embarrassed. That also made you feel embarrassed in turn, wondering if it was obvious how hot your face was as you thanked them. Your hand gently adjusted your hair as Courtney piped up.

“Yes, obsessed with your movie”, they gave Angela a pointed look that made her shut her mouth and nod along sagely. “He is definitely a big fan. So, you guys must have a lot to talk about. We’ll leave you to it.”

They gave you one last winning smile before basically dragging Angela away.

“Uhh..” Spencer scratched the back of his head, looking back at you, “ignore Angela, she gets post-shoot zoomies and says wild shit.”

You breathed out a laugh, you had calmed down significantly, feeling less like you were about to have a heart attack and more like you were just a little nervous while talking to your YouTube crush.

“I’m really, really happy you liked Shuttlecock”, your voice was barely above a whisper, sincere. You moved slightly closer so he could hear you. Instinctively, your hand gently grazed his forearm, a silent plea for him to see you were being genuine. Your eyes were glued to his again, your heart skipped a beat when he offered you a gentle, almost shy, smile. You felt like the air was especially warm in this corner of the set.

“I can’t believe you’re here”, his voice was quiet again too. He raised his eyebrows, it was as if he was in a daze. You had never seen him like this in any videos. “Angela was kinda right, frankly.”

“About which part?” The rest of the room became a blur to you, the sounds around you were muffled and distant sounding. All you could focus on was the man in front of you, cheeks pink and expression unguarded. You felt like you couldn’t breathe, no amount of stage fright compared to this feeling, like you were perched on a precipice, threatening to tip over and plunge into something unknown.

“That-”, he looked down, hesitating. His arm twitched like he wanted to reach out to you, but he stopped himself. “That I haven’t stopped talking about you since I saw the movie. I am a little obsessed, I guess. Oh man, I sound like such a creep.”

“No”, you quickly stopped him, “you do not sound like a creep. I think I’m the creep here, honestly.”

“How?” His shoulders shook a bit with humour.

“Because”, you took another step closer, probably the last one you could before it was a complete breach of personal space. Plunging into the unknown. “I have been watching you on YouTube for ages. I had to stop myself from screaming out loud when I saw you follow me. You have always made me smile when I’m having a bad day before you even knew me.”

He covered his face, you could tell he was laughing, ears beet red. It felt so good to fluster him like this, it gave you a rush you had to chase.

“I have had this huge YouTuber crush on you”, you continued, watching his face leave his hands to snap up look at you, astonished. “So imagine my surprise when I watch a new video from my favourite channel and my crush is talking about me.”

When you made eye contact with him again, time was suspended. The air was sucked out of your lungs as you took him in. His face was flushed, glasses a tiny bit askew, a couple strands of hair diverging from the rest to dangle down by his eyebrow. You were sure you looked a mess, your face was so, so hot. You adjusted your hair again.

The spell was broken when another staff member called Spencer’s name by the door, yelling something about being behind schedule. As you both looked away from each other, you felt like you had come hurtling back down to earth from floating through space. You hadn’t even realised most of the people that were loitering behind had all left.

“I, uh”, Spencer pointed back towards the door with his thumb, tone reluctant. His expression was still stunned, “I have to go, I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be sorry”, you shook your head, pushing down your disappointment. You knew you couldn’t keep him to yourself all day. “Duty calls.”

He remained for a few beats longer, just looking at you. Then the voice sounded again, more frantic this time, prompting him to scamper off, shouting a goodbye to you over his shoulder.

“I’ll message you later, can I message you later?”

“Yeah!” You were almost shouting so he could hear you as he got further away. He wanted to talk with you more, that sent a thrill through your body. “Yeah, you can!”

The last you saw of him was his hand waving as he was ushered out the door. You smiled and waved back, already missing his presence. You spoke with a few more people before you left, Emily Rose walking you to your car.

As you drove home, you were riding the high of a good time at Smosh HQ. You tried to focus on that and not the fact that you told Spencer he was your crush and he did not respond to that confession. In fact, he practically ran away. Pulling into your parking spot at your apartment building, you dropped your head as your car stopped, horn sounding as your head hit the wheel with a ‘thump’.

Focus on the positive, Y/N, you thought to yourself, you got to film at Smosh, that’s fucking amazing. You would have never expected that a year ago, in fact, you-

Your own thoughts were interrupted by your phone dinging multiple times.

You picked it up to check who was sending you so many messages and your heart stuttered in your chest. There were notifications from Spencer.

Spencer: ‘I’m SO SORRY, I had to run, but I wanted to tell you…’

Spencer: ‘I have a huge crush on you too. I honestly can’t stop thinking about you.’

Spencer: ‘I mean I kept talking about you after seeing your movie, but after meeting you irl today…’

Spencer: ‘I feel like I’m going insane, I’m so sorry for spamming you.’

You stared at your phone, your entire body warm, a smile tugging at the corners of your mouth. Before you could reply, another ding from your phone.

Spencer: ‘I don’t normally act like a freak btw, I just don’t want to miss this chance.’

You laughed at his text, you felt like you were the freak here, sitting in your parked car grinning at your phone. You saw the little sign saying he was typing pop up and disappeared a few times before another couple messages came through.

Spencer: ‘You’re so out of my league, I was speechless when you told me about your crush on me earlier.’

Spencer: ‘Y/N. I would absolutely love a chance to take you out to dinner sometime. On a date. What do you say?’

You frantically typed a definite, ‘Y-E-S’, slamming your thumb down on the send button and throwing your phone like it was on fire. This time, you let yourself scream. A high-pitched, victorious one that sounded more like a screech. You saw a cat on a nearby fence jump in surprise and skitter away. You let your head drop down again and kicked your legs around the pedals out of giddiness. Your horn sounded through the car park a second time, covering the sound of your excited yell.

Silly, silly Spencer, you thought, if anything, he was the one who was out of your league.

✩

Tommy, Courtney, and Angela stood huddled together, holding their afternoon coffees and teas, whispering conspiratorially.

“He’s being so weird”, Angela muttered, the others hummed in agreement.

They were all watching Spencer, sitting at his desk and bouncing his knee at a speed nobody has ever bounced their knee before. He was texting someone, they had deduced, fingers flying across the keyboard. They were growing concerned, he was normally way more chill than this, seeing him seemingly write out an essay at record breaking speed was a new concept. His brows were drawn together, serious.

“Did something bad happen?” Concern laced Tommy’s voice, but they all continued to stare.

“No”, Courtney replied slowly, “I think this is his own personal, weird type of excitement.”

“Excitement?” Angela grabbed Courtney’s wrist with her free hand, “Oh my god, what if he’s texting Y/N?”

Courtney gasped at the idea while Tommy shook his head.

“No way, they were just here”, he reasoned, taking a sip of his drink, “he’s not brave enough to message them so soon, right?”

The other two silently stared at each other.

“I dunno”, Courtney’s tone was sing-songy, “they were getting pretty cozy before Y/N left, I actually wouldn’t be surprised if they messaged him.”

Their quiet discussion was interrupted by a ‘bang’ as Spencer abruptly kicked the side of his desk as he scrambled to stand up from his chair. He was staring down at his phone, reading something over and over again before throwing his hands in the air in silent celebration.

“Oh, oh, oh, something’s happening”, Tommy fluttered his hand around in a feverish way.

“Spence!” Courtney threw caution in the wind, calling out to him, “what happened?”

He turned to them in surprise, arms still in the air. A boyish smile broke out across his face, his excitement came off him in waves, everyone in the room feeling it.

“I’ve got a hot date, that’s what happened!” He exclaimed like he couldn’t keep it inside, like he had to tell them or he was going to explode.

“That’s my boy!” Angela cheered, the three of them clapping like he had just won a trophy. “Happy birthday, Spence!”

✩

Note: I hope you guys like this, I changed and rearranged it a bunch of times before I was happy with it lol. Let me know what you think! <3

♡ masterlist

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defn0tonyourleft · 2 months ago

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NEED to be his controversially young girlfriend now

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defn0tonyourleft · 2 months ago

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gentlemen!spencer please give me one chance 😫😵‍💫 PLEASE PLEASE PLEASE

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defn0tonyourleft · 2 months ago

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what’s worse than having a celebrity crush is also having the genuine belief that you could PULL said crush. like spencer agnew ?? that video game nerd with insane music/internet knowledge who’s celebrity crush list involved an australian wrestler ??? I AM RIGHT HERE - AN AUSTRALIAN LIFTER WHO IS ALSO A NERD AND HAS WEIRD MUSIC KNOWLEDGE.

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defn0tonyourleft · 2 months ago

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not saying we romanticize any of this behavior. not in the slightest. however i wanted to be noa half the movie. AGAIN I DONT CONDONE ANY OF THIS BUT GODDAMN IF I WERE TO GET KIDNAPPED I WANT IT THIS WAY-

i just watched fresh with sebastian stan (yes, the one where he murders women and is a cannibal) and like... why'd he have to be so hot???

like he called noa a "good girl" and a "bad girl," he was handsy, turning her head with his hand on her jaw. like... i would've folded. i'm not strong. especially when he was looking so baby boy throughout that movie.

this one last one had me squealing in my room, he had NO REASON TO BE SO ATTRACTIVE

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defn0tonyourleft · 2 months ago

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bucky seeing p0rn for the first time after the dating apps don’t work out👀

I'm deadddd, this was so vague so I just ran with it

The Education Of James Buchanan Barnes

pairing | post!tfatws!bucky x fem!reader

word count | 6.3k words

summary | when dating apps fail him and thirst traps become his downfall, bucky barnes finds himself spiraling down the internet’s most unholy rabbit hole—pornhub.

what starts as horrified research turns into full-blown obsession... especially when you, his sharp-tongued best friend, catch him red-handed and make very sure he lives out every filthy fantasy he’s been hiding.

tags | (18+) MDNI, smut, unprotected sex, rough sex, face sitting, breeding kink dirty talk, roleplay mentions, overstimulation, sexual humor, porn discovery, reader catches bucky watching porn, friends to very horny lovers, reader is a menace, teasing, flustered bucky, dom!bucky, subtle power play, consent is sexy, reader rides his face, doggy style, missionary? i hardly know her, mutual pining (solved by porn), no use of y/n, reader is a problem and bucky loves it, aftercare.

a/n | yeah, I definitely went overboard with this. I hope you freaks enjoy this

taglist | if you wanna be added to my bucky barnes masterlist just add your username to my taglist

likes comments and reblogs are much appreciated ✨✨

ᴍᴀsᴛᴇʀʟɪsᴛ

divider by @cafekitsune

You sipped your drink slowly, already biting the inside of your cheek to keep from laughing as Bucky glared into his beer like it had personally betrayed him.

“So,” Sam started, barely hiding his smirk. “How was the date with... what was her name again? Velvet? Vixen?”

“Vesper,” Bucky muttered, dragging a hand down his face. “And she asked if I’d be into choking her with my vibranium arm before we even finished our drinks.”

You snorted into your glass.

Sam leaned forward, grinning. “I mean... was she wrong?”

“Sam.” Bucky’s glare was instant, but mostly performative. “I just met her.”

You glanced at him over your glass, amused. “What app did you find this one on?”

He groaned. “The same one you said was ‘normal.’”

“No one said it was normal,” you said, raising a brow. “I said it was better than Tinder. That’s not a high bar.”

Bucky leaned back with a sigh, looking thoroughly done with the entire 21st century. “I miss when people met at soda shops and asked each other about their families instead of sending... pictures of their genitals.”

Sam barked a laugh. “Aw, poor Grandpa’s overwhelmed by the sex-positive future.”

“You know what’s not positive?” Bucky muttered. “The fact that I Googled ‘how to get back out of the dating app’ and it sent me to a subreddit with people just as confused as I am.”

You exchanged a look with Sam, both of you clearly enjoying this way too much.

“Have you... considered other ways to meet people?” you asked, trying not to grin. “Like not being a digital hermit?”

Bucky looked between the two of you, deadpan. “I’m this close to living in the jungle again.”

Sam raised his glass. “To Bucky Barnes, the only man who can bench-press a car but can’t survive Hinge.”

Bucky slammed his glass down—not hard, but with enough force to earn a side-eye from the bartender.

“I just don’t get it,” he muttered. “I’m trying to talk to these women like a normal person. I say, ‘Hi, how was your day?’ and one of them responds with—” he fumbled with his phone, squinting at the screen, “‘Send me a pic of the arm, baby, I wanna see what’s gonna rearrange my insides.’”

You choked.

Sam full-on cackled, grabbing his chest. “Wait—rearrange her insides? Yo, that’s poetry.”

“She sent a GIF after that,” Bucky went on, staring at the phone like it might explode. “A GIF. Of a hydraulic press crushing a watermelon. What does that mean?”

“I’m gonna die,” you wheezed, nearly spilling your drink. “She wants you to hydraulically press her coochie, Barnes. Come on.”

“I thought she was making a smoothie metaphor!” Bucky snapped. “And then another one asked if I was into CNC. I said I didn’t know what that meant, and she said ‘perfect.’”

Sam wiped a tear from his eye. “Oh my god—Bucky, you’re gonna end up in someone’s kink diary.”

“She sent me a TikTok about edging,” Bucky added, horror slowly overtaking his face. “I thought it was about gardening.”

You completely lost it, head in your arms on the table. “Please stop, I can’t breathe.”

Bucky scowled. “I’m serious! She said she wanted to edge me for hours, and I said that sounded peaceful, like a nice walk—and she sent back forty-seven emojis.”

Sam gasped between wheezes. “You’re getting sexted in hieroglyphics and you think it’s a hike, I’m begging you to never leave the house again.”

Bucky looked between you both, betrayal written across his face. “I survived Hydra. I survived seventy years of brainwashing. But I will not survive being called ‘daddy’ by a woman who lists her job as ‘freelance foot model and energy witch.’”

“Wait—did she have the crystals?” you asked, barely able to form the words.

He nodded grimly. “She said my aura was ‘screaming trauma kink.’”

Sam actually slid off the stool, wheezing on the floor.

He shut the door behind him with a dull thunk, then stood there for a moment in the silence. The kind that pressed in around the edges when no one else was around. Just him, the creak of the old radiator, and the words “rearrange my insides” still echoing in his head like a ghost.

Bucky sighed, tossed his jacket onto the back of a chair, and walked into the kitchen, opening the fridge as if disappointment wouldn’t be waiting there too. One beer left. Great.

He grabbed it, popped the cap off with his metal hand, and made his way over to his laptop.

It sat there on the table like a challenge.

He opened it. The familiar whir kicked on. A sigh slipped through his teeth.

“I fought in two wars,” he muttered to himself. “Survived Hydra. Took down a helicarrier. But this? This is the real enemy.”

He hesitated, fingers hovering over the keyboard.

Then he typed:

"What does CNC mean?"

Enter.

He leaned forward slowly, reading the top search result. Then the second.

His eyebrows pulled together. His mouth fell open just slightly.

"...Consensual non-consent?"

He clicked the link. Read further.

He leaned back in his chair like he’d just been shot.

“Why—why would anyone want that?” he muttered, scandalized. “That’s just... that’s just assault with permission.”

Still, he didn’t close the tab.

He opened a new one instead.

"Edging meaning (not gardening)"

More links. More acronyms. More trauma.

His face contorted in quiet horror as he scanned descriptions, diagrams, tips and techniques.

His beer sat forgotten on the table.

Eventually, he clicked a link that just said “beginner’s guide to porn kinks.” It was a blog. Fairly clinical. Until it wasn’t.

Then he clicked another.

And another.

Until eventually he wound up on a site with thumbnails—little videos with previews. Titles he didn’t fully understand.

He stared at one.

A girl, on her knees, mouth open, eyes wide.

Title: “Training My Pretty Submissive Brat”

He blinked. Then hovered. Clicked.

The video loaded.

He sat still, very still, as it started playing.

And then...

“What the hell—” he whispered.

The guy was talking. Dirty. Commanding.

The girl was moaning like someone had just whispered state secrets in her ear. She was calling him sir. Begging. Crying out when he—

Bucky slammed the spacebar to pause the video, hand clenched on the table.

He stood. Paced.

‘I shouldn’t be watching this,’ he thought, running his hand through his hair. ‘This is wrong. This is not—that’s not—’

He looked back at the screen.

Unpaused.

A few seconds passed.

He sat again.

Watched. Silent. Rigid.

His jaw clenched. His eyes darted across the screen like he was scanning enemy movement.

Then his hand—his metal hand—tapped the edge of the keyboard.

Paused again.

His chest rose and fell.

“I mean… he’s not hurting her,” he thought. “She’s asking for it. She likes it.”

Beat.

“And she’s loud.”

He sat back in his chair, arms crossed over his chest, glaring at the paused screen like it had insulted him personally.

Then he muttered, “Is that what people want now?”

He reopened the search bar.

"How to talk dirty in bed"

The search results hit him like a grenade.

By the third article, his ears were red. His fingers hovered over the trackpad like they didn’t know whether to scroll or just snap the whole laptop in half.

He clicked another video.

This one was slower. More intimate.

The woman straddled the guy’s lap, whispering in his ear. He growled something back, then pushed her down on the bed—

Bucky’s breath caught.

He didn’t even notice his hand moving under the table at first.

Didn’t notice the low groan that slipped from his throat when the man on screen said, “Good girl—just like that.”

He froze. Eyes wide. Mouth dry.

He swallowed hard.

“…I need another beer.”

But he didn’t move.

Didn’t stop watching.

Because something in him had been starved for this. For contact. For control. For someone wanting him, even in fantasy.

The next video autoplayed before he could stop it.

Another couple. This time, softer lighting. Moaning, whispered praise. Her back arched under his touch as he moved slow, deliberate, like every second was sacred.

Bucky swallowed hard.

He sat motionless for a full minute.

Then his hand drifted down.

Hesitant. Awkward.

He undid the button of his jeans, fingers brushing over the bulge in his briefs. The contact was enough to make his breath stutter.

“Jesus,” he whispered.

He shifted in his seat, pushed his jeans down just enough, and curled his hand around himself. Warm skin against cool air. His metal hand clenched uselessly on the table as the other moved slowly, uncertain.

The sounds from the video—soft, rhythmic, intimate—filled the room.

And Bucky gave in.

His eyes didn’t close. He watched—studied—the way the man touched her, held her, spoke to her like she was something precious and filthy all at once.

“Such a good girl,” the man murmured. “Taking all of me. Just like that.”

Bucky bit down on a groan, his hand moving faster now, hips twitching in his seat.

He imagined saying those words.

And then—

He imagined you.

Your voice, sharp and sarcastic, going breathy and soft when he touched you. Your legs around his waist. Your fingers in his hair. Your mouth whispering his name like it meant something.

And that thought—you, under him, with him—wrecked him.

He jerked harder, gritting his teeth, chest rising fast.

A low moan slipped out. Sharp. Uncontrolled.

His head fell back, eyes clenched shut as heat coiled in his gut. His body trembled.

One more stroke—

And he came.

Hard.

He let out a strangled noise, hips lifting off the couch, body seizing as white-hot pleasure shot through him. His hand slowed, milked every last pulse, until the aftershocks faded and all that was left was—

Silence. Reality. Shame.

His breath was harsh in his ears.

The screen was still playing.

The woman moaned, laughing, pulling the man closer.

Bucky stared. Then looked down.

At himself. At the mess.

At the way his hand was still wrapped around his cock, softening now, shame creeping in like a slow burn.

He let go like he’d been scalded.

The aftershocks hadn’t even faded before the guilt hit—cold and immediate.

Not from what he’d watched.

Not even from what he’d done.

But from who he’d seen in his mind while he did it.

You.

You, laughing beside him at the bar. You, rolling your eyes at his brooding. You, calling him “grandpa” and meaning it with affection.

You—beneath him, moaning, touching, giving yourself to him in the fantasy that had just ripped through his body.

His stomach twisted.

He yanked his pants back up, hands clumsy, face burning not with arousal now—but with shame.

“Fuck,” he muttered, pacing, one hand raking through his hair, the other clenching into a fist. “Fuck—what the hell’s wrong with me?”

You were his friend.

You were real.

And he’d just used the idea of you like… like some porn star on a screen.

His jaw tightened. He couldn’t look at the laptop. Couldn’t look at himself. He felt dirty—not because he’d touched himself, but because it felt like a betrayal. A violation of something pure.

He sat down heavily on the edge of the bed, elbows on his knees, head in his hands.

That hadn’t been just need.

That had been you.

And now he didn’t know how the hell he was supposed to look you in the eye again.

A Few Weeks Later

There was a knock at the door.

Three knocks, then a pause.

Then two more.

“Come on, Barnes,” your voice called through the door. “I brought sacrificial offerings.”

Bucky hesitated.

He sat in the dark, boots still on, bruised knuckles resting against his knees. His hoodie clung to him, sweat-damp and rumpled, his mind still halfway in the mission, halfway in the same loop it had been stuck in for weeks.

But it was you.

He got up slowly and opened the door.

You stood there with a paper bag in one hand, a six-pack in the other, grinning like you had zero intention of leaving whether he wanted you to or not.

“You gonna let me in or should I start monologuing like a Bond villain?”

He stepped aside without a word.

You strolled in like you owned the place, already heading to the kitchen with practiced ease.

“Brought dumplings, noodles, and enough alcohol to bleach the taste of both from your soul,” you said, setting things down. “You looked like someone clubbed you with your own metal arm last mission, so—figured I’d play nurse. A sexy, underqualified nurse with boundary issues.”

Bucky closed the door quietly behind you.

“You’re not a nurse,” he muttered.

“Not with that attitude.”

You popped the beers open, handed him one, then flopped onto his couch like you lived there. Legs kicked up, food containers opened without ceremony, your usual grin in place.

He stood a few feet away, beer untouched in his hand.

He hadn’t seen you in weeks—not really. He’d ducked every casual run-in, bailed on team movie nights, even ghosted your texts under the excuse of "needing space." He figured you noticed.

You just hadn’t said anything.

Until now.

You eyed him, casually, between bites. “You gonna sit down or do I need to pull you onto the couch like a Victorian housewife?”

He sat. Slowly. Farther away than usual.

You noticed. Of course you did. But you didn’t call him on it.

Not yet.

Instead, you nudged a container toward him and said, “Eat, soldier. You look like a sad, haunted lumberjack.”

And still—he didn’t say a word.

Because all he could think about, sitting beside you again after a month of silence, was the way your mouth had looked in that fantasy.

The way your voice had sounded moaning his name.

The way he’d used the memory of your real, friendly, teasing self to—

He swallowed thickly.

You kept eating, casual, sharp, familiar.

Exactly how he remembered. Exactly what made it so much worse.

You wiped your fingers on a napkin, leaned back, and gave him a look.

“Alright. You look like you’re two seconds from overthinking yourself into an early grave. Movie time. Something with violence or explosions—your love language.”

Before he could protest, you were already standing and heading toward his desk.

“Wait—” he said, starting to rise, but too slow.

You flipped open his laptop. “Let’s see what Grandpa Barnes has in his—”

“Ah—ahh—yes, please—!”

The moaning hit like a tactical nuke.

You froze.

So did he.

Both of you staring wide-eyed at the screen as the speakers screamed filth into the otherwise silent apartment.

Bucky moved fast.

Too fast.

He lunged over the couch, hand outstretched like he was taking enemy fire.

You dodged.

Smooth, practiced. Years of training paying off.

“No—” he barked, face already crimson, “Please—don’t—!”

“Oh my god—” you laughed, holding the laptop just out of reach. “Is this—is this Pornhub? Are you seriously—you are! You’ve been watching porn, you absolute degenerate.”

He groaned, dragging his hand down his face, mortified.

“Please give me the laptop,” he said, voice low, wounded, like you were holding a hostage.

But you were already clicking the spacebar, pausing the video mid-thrust.

“Oooh,” you said, squinting at the tab title. “‘Brat tamer destroys needy sub’? This is what you’re into?” You looked at him, eyebrows raised. “Bucky.”

“Stop,” he muttered, pacing now, hands on his hips. “I was—researching.”

“Researching what? The anatomy of a throatfuck?” you said, howling with laughter. “Brat tamer—are you even on Tumblr, old man?”

He looked like he wanted the floor to open and consume him.

“Do you know how much I regret every decision that led to this moment?”

You hugged the laptop to your chest dramatically. “I can’t believe you’ve been hiding this. The secrets. The shame. The kinks.”

“Give. It. Back.”

“Nope. Not until we find out if you’ve got a whole ‘rough dom Bucky’ fantasy folder stashed somewhere. You into praise? Degradation? Impact play? Knife play?”

He growled.

Actually growled.

And for half a second, it stopped being funny.

Because the way his eyes locked on you?

That wasn’t embarrassment anymore.

That was heat. Low. Dangerous.

You grinned, too drunk on the chaos to stop.

“Come on, Barnes,” you said, laptop still clutched like a prize. “Own it. You like a little bratty backtalk? You want someone to whimper please while you tell her she’s being a bad girl?”

He was still pacing, but slower now. Controlled. Coiled.

You didn’t notice.

You were too busy poking the bear.

“Is that what you’re into?” you teased, stepping back. “All that repressed soldier shit finally coming out in dirty little commands and throat grips?”

His eyes met yours. Still embarrassed, sure. But behind it? Something sharper. Something hungry.

“Y’know,” you added, tone light, teasing, “I always pegged you as more of a soft dom. Gentle hands. Lots of praise. But this? This is dark. Kinda filthy. Kinda hot.”

That did it. He moved.

Fast.

Faster than he should’ve.

One second, you were smirking with the laptop; the next, it was out of your hands, clattering to the couch. You were against the wall, chest rising, his body a breath away from yours.

His hand planted next to your head.

His voice low. Controlled.

“Enough.”

You stared at him. The air was suddenly thick. Your heart thudded once, hard.

“You think this is a joke?” he asked, eyes burning into you.

Your mouth parted, but no sound came out.

“You think I don’t know you’ve been toying with me since the moment you walked in?”

That teasing smile faltered—just a little.

“You keep pushing,” he murmured, leaning in, breath brushing your jaw. “You laugh, you flirt, you play. But you don’t realize... I’ve thought about you. In ways I shouldn’t.”

You swallowed.

Hard.

“I know what I watched,” he went on, voice rough, low, dangerous. “I know who I imagined.”

Your breath caught.

His eyes dropped to your lips.

Then back up.

And when he spoke again, it wasn’t a threat.

It was a promise.

“You want to see what I’m into?”

You blinked up at him—cornered, caged—but not afraid.

Not even close. Your smile crept back, slower this time. Calculated.

“Oh,” you murmured, tone shifting. “You imagined me?”

Bucky’s jaw tightened.

His silence said everything.

You pushed your palms slowly against his chest, feeling the way his body tensed under your touch. Solid. Barely held together.

You leaned in, lips brushing just beneath his ear.

“So tell me,” you whispered, voice low and coaxing. “If you’ve already pictured it, Barnes... what did I look like?”

He exhaled harshly through his nose.

You didn’t stop.

“What was I doing?” you went on, dragging your fingers down the curve of his chest. “Was I on my knees? Bent over? Did I ride you while you begged for it?”

A choked sound left him—more breath than voice.

You smiled against his neck. “Or do you want to tell me what you were doing to me?”

His hands twitched at his sides.

You could feel it—the war inside him. Guilt, hunger, restraint. And under all of it, the ache.

“Go on, James,” you whispered, using his real name like a secret. “Tell me. What do you like?”

His head dropped forward, forehead nearly touching yours.

A beat passed.

Then another.

And then—

“I want you on top,” he breathed, voice ragged. “I want you to sit on my face and ride it until your legs give out.”

Your eyes fluttered closed for half a second.

That was not the answer you expected first.

His voice deepened, like now that he’d started, he couldn’t stop.

“I want you on your knees, begging. I want to fuck you from behind so deep you forget your own name. I want to feel you come around me and not stop. I want to stay inside you.”

His breath hitched. His hands were fisting at his sides.

“And when I’m done, when you can’t even move anymore—I want to come in you and keep coming until you’re full of me. Until it’s dripping out of you.”

Your thighs clenched instinctively.

Your nails curled tighter into his chest.

And your voice, still low, still teasing—but now breathy, just slightly—said:

“Damn, Barnes. That’s a whole lot of filth for someone who didn’t even know what edging was last month.”

Your last teasing whisper hadn’t even left your lips before Bucky moved.

One second you were pinned between him and the wall, and the next, his hands were on your hips, gripping tight. Then the ground disappeared beneath your feet.

You gasped as he lifted you—easily, effortlessly—hauling you against his chest like you weighed nothing.

“Jesus, Barnes—” you started, but his mouth was already on yours.

It wasn’t a kiss. It was a claim.

Hot, rough, needy—his lips crashed into yours with the force of every filthy thought, every sleepless night, every moment he’d spent imagining your mouth, your body, your sound. His teeth scraped your bottom lip. His tongue pushed past yours. There was no hesitation. Just heat.

You moaned into it, hands threading into his hair, pulling him closer even as he carried you down the hall.

Your back hit the wall once, then the doorframe, and then—

The bed.

He dropped you onto it like a man starved for touch. The mattress creaked beneath you, sheets rumpled and cool against your skin as you propped yourself up on your elbows, breathless and grinning.

Bucky stood at the edge of the bed, looking at you like you were his undoing.

You tilted your head, voice low and mocking.

“Is this the part where you get all commanding, Sergeant? Or are you gonna make me do the work?”

His jaw clenched. He stepped forward. Then dropped his weight onto the bed, climbing over you, hands already at your thighs, dragging you down the sheets toward him.

“I told you not to push,” he growled.

You smiled, voice syrup-sweet.

“And I told you I liked pushing.”

His hands slipped under your shirt, yanking it over your head in one smooth motion. Your bra was next, tossed aside without ceremony. He ducked down immediately, mouth hot against your collarbone, then lower—kissing, biting, devouring.

You gasped, head falling back as his mouth found your breast, tongue circling your nipple before he sucked it between his lips, hard.

And still—you teased.

“Careful, Barnes. Gonna make a mess before you even get inside me.”

He looked up at you.

Eyes wild, hungry, dark.

And then he dragged your jeans down—fast, rough, like he didn’t have the patience for anything else—and crawled up between your legs, pressing his body to yours until there was nothing between you anymore.

“Then shut up,” he growled, grinding against you, his cock thick and hard through his jeans.

“Make me,” you whispered, pulling him down by the collar.

And he did.

His mouth was everywhere—jaw, neck, breasts, stomach—kissing, biting, groaning like he couldn’t get enough, like he didn’t know where to start because he wanted all of you.

Then he pulled back, breathing hard, eyes raking over your body like a man finally allowed to look.

“Get up,” he rasped, voice dark and thick with want.

You blinked up at him, dazed and grinning. “What?”

He sat back on his heels, hands gripping your thighs.

“I said get up,” he repeated. “I want you on my face.”

Your breath caught.

Dead serious.

You didn’t question it. Didn’t tease.

Instead, your lips curved into a slow smile as you shifted, sitting up, climbing over him with fluid, easy confidence.

“As you wish, Sergeant.”

That name hit him like a punch to the chest.

His hands guided you—firm, reverent, needy—until your knees were braced on either side of his head, your body hovering just above his lips.

He looked up at you like a man who’d prayed for this moment.

And then?

He pulled you down.

No hesitation.

Just mouth.

Hot, wet, desperate—he groaned the second he tasted you, tongue already lapping through your folds, lips sealing around your clit like he was starving.

Your head tipped back with a sharp gasp, fingers flying into his hair as your hips bucked against his mouth.

“Fuck—Bucky—”

He growled in response, hands gripping your ass, holding you down, keeping you there.

You rocked against him instinctively, gasping as his tongue flicked and circled, licked and sucked. He was moaning into you, mumbling things you couldn’t even make out—except for one word that hit clear, over and over:

“Mine.”

You looked down at him, eyes wild, mouth open.

His eyes met yours.

Dark. Glazed. Possessed.

You could see the man he used to be—the soldier, the weapon—but right now?

Right now he was just yours.

And you were his.

You couldn’t stop moving.

Couldn’t stop grinding against his mouth, against his tongue, the pleasure slamming through you in waves, harder and sharper with every flick, every suck.

Bucky moaned beneath you, the sound filthy, shameless, needy—like your taste was saving him from something dark and deep and buried.

His hands held you tighter, guiding your hips as you rocked against his mouth, your thighs trembling around his head.

“Fuck—fuck—” you gasped, one hand gripping the headboard, the other buried in his thick, messy hair. “Don’t stop—don’t you dare stop—”

He didn’t.

If anything, he doubled down—lips sealing tighter, tongue working you harder, sloppier, his groans vibrating against your clit like a live wire.

He wanted this.

He wanted to suffocate on you, drown in you.

And you gave it to him.

Because when you looked down, saw those glassy, desperate blue eyes staring up at you, pleading for more, there was no holding back.

The coil snapped.

Your whole body locked as the orgasm ripped through you, sharp and searing, your hips jerking uncontrollably against his mouth.

“Bucky—” you cried, voice cracking, thighs clamping around his head as you came—hard.

He didn’t let go.

He held you there, arms wrapped around your thighs, mouth still working you through it, licking and sucking every shudder, every twitch, like it was a gift.

You collapsed forward, one hand braced on the headboard behind his head, the other still clutching his hair, your body wrecked, shaking, soaked.

And when you finally opened your eyes—chest heaving, heart pounding—you looked down at him.

His lips were wet, chin glistening, eyes blown wide with hunger.

He looked like he could live there. Like he’d happily die there.

And all he said, voice hoarse and full of worship:

“You taste like heaven.”

You were still trembling when he sat up behind you, hands stroking your thighs, your hips, slow and reverent like he needed to remember the feel of you.

“You good?” he rasped, voice wrecked from moaning into you.

You nodded, barely catching your breath, lips curving into a slow smile.

“Still waiting for that doggystyle fantasy to come true, Sergeant.”

That was all it took.

He growled low in his throat, grabbing your hips, flipping you effortlessly onto your stomach. Before you could even laugh, his hands slid under your body and lifted your hips high, chest pressed down into the mattress.

You moaned, the stretch in your spine perfect, delicious.

He leaned over you, his breath hot at your ear.

“This how you want it?”

You arched your back, ass pushing against him. “This is how you want it.”

He growled again—low, deep, possessive.

“Exactly how I want it.”

Then you felt him—his cock, thick and hot, dragging through your soaked folds, the head catching on your entrance.

He didn’t push in yet.

Just rubbed, slow, deliberate, teasing.

You whimpered, tried to push back.

He gripped your hips tighter.

“Not yet,” he murmured. “You’re gonna feel all of it.”

Then—he pushed in.

Slow at first, but deep, the stretch burning in the best way as he filled you, inch by thick, pulsing inch.

“Fuck—” you moaned, hands clutching the sheets as he bottomed out.

He held still once he was fully inside.

Like he was savoring it.

Like this—being buried in you, your body wrapped tight around his—was what he’d been starving for.

Then he moved.

Pulled out halfway.

And slammed back in.

You cried out, the sound muffled by the sheets as he started thrusting, each snap of his hips harder, deeper, rougher than the last.

His hands gripped your waist like you were his anchor.

His rhythm brutal, relentless.

He fucked you like he meant it—like he’d dreamed of this for weeks, like every fantasy had led to this.

You were gasping, moaning, clawing at the bed.

“Look at you,” he panted behind you. “So fucking tight—taking me so good.”

You couldn’t speak.

Could barely breathe.

And when his hand snaked around to rub your clit, you screamed his name.

He didn’t let up.

Just pounded into you harder, faster, until the sound of skin meeting skin filled the room, filthy and loud and perfect.

He was so deep in you.

Deeper than anyone had ever been—physically, yes, but also fully. Like this was where he belonged. Like this was where you belonged.

His hips rolled, the angle perfect, his cock dragging against that sweet spot inside you with every rough, claiming thrust.

And his voice—low, wrecked, filthy—poured right into your ear.

“You like that, sweetheart?” he growled. “You like being on your knees for me?”

You whimpered, nodding, voice breathless.

“Yes, Bucky—fuck—so much.”

He leaned over you, chest flush to your back, still moving inside you—slow now, torturously deep, like he wanted to feel every pulse of you clenching around him.

“Yeah, you do,” he whispered, lips brushing your ear. “My good girl. So fuckin’ wet for me. You were dripping on my face—you know that?”

You moaned, your body shaking, ass pushing back into him.

“I saw you,” he said, his rhythm stuttering just to drag the next thrust out longer. “When I told you to sit on my face? You didn’t even hesitate. You just gave it to me.”

You gasped as his hand slid down your back, curving over your ass, squeezing.

“And now you’re letting me fuck you like this,” he went on. “Taking every inch like a good little cocksleeve. You want me to fill you up, don’t you?”

You shuddered, squeezing around him so tight he groaned.

“Yes,” you panted, shameless. “Fuck, Bucky—fill me up—please—I want it.”

He slammed into you harder, rhythm picking up again, fast and unforgiving.

“That’s it,” he growled. “That’s what I like. You begging. You dripping. You mine.”

You cried out, bracing yourself against the mattress as he drove into you faster now, hand slipping beneath to rub your clit again.

“Say it,” he hissed. “Tell me who you belong to.”

“You,” you choked. “You, Bucky—I’m yours.”

He groaned deep in his throat, thrusts faltering for a beat like the words knocked something loose in him.

Then he grabbed your hair, gently but firm, pulling you up just enough to kiss your neck—bite it—then whisper:

“When I come, I’m gonna stay inside you. Gonna keep you full for hours. Walk around dripping with me.”

You whined, thighs shaking, the pressure building again—faster, sharper.

“Bucky—please—”

His voice was a growl, low and thick with promise.

“Come for me.”

And you did.

Hard.

Your whole body clenched around him, your scream muffled by the sheets as the orgasm ripped through you, sharp and messy, your walls fluttering around his cock.

Your moan was still echoing when he grabbed your waist, pulling you back—up, off the bed, into his lap.

You barely had time to gasp before you were straddling him, his chest pressed flush to your back, his mouth at your neck, and his cock still inside you.

“Not done,” he growled, arms locking around your waist. “Not until I come in you.”

Then he thrust up into you—hard, deep, devastating.

You cried out, your body already overstimulated, every thrust hitting that perfect spot inside you all over again. His hands were everywhere—gripping your hips, spreading your thighs wider, keeping you open for him as he pounded up from beneath you with bruising rhythm.

“Fuck—Bucky—” you whimpered, hands flying back to clutch at his hair, his shoulder, anything.

He was relentless.

Grunting with each thrust, hips snapping up into you, his breath ragged against your ear.

“Feel that?” he rasped. “How deep I am? How you’re still so fuckin’ tight?”

You nodded, moaning, body jerking with every thrust.

“You’re gonna take it,” he hissed. “Every drop. I’m not pullin’ out—you hear me? I’m comin’ inside you.”

“Yes,” you gasped, barely able to speak. “Please—Bucky—fill me up—”

He groaned, deeper than before, thrusts losing rhythm, his grip bruising on your hips as his body started to shake.

“Fuckfuckfuck—gonna come—”

One last thrust—brutal, final—and he buried himself in you, arms tightening, head thrown back as he came hard, deep inside you.

You felt it.

Hot.

Thick.

Flooding you as he groaned your name, holding you tight in his lap, still pulsing inside you.

And he didn’t let go.

Didn’t move.

Just stayed there—buried—chest rising against your back, his breath warm at your neck, whispering,

“You’re mine.”

You collapsed forward onto the bed, body still twitching with aftershocks, breath ragged and uneven. Bucky followed, slow and heavy, staying close, still inside you for a moment longer like he couldn’t stand to let you go just yet.

Eventually, he pulled out with a soft groan.

You whimpered at the loss, hips squirming on instinct.

He stayed behind you for a second, hovering—eyes locked on the way his release slowly dripped out of you, sliding between your thighs and onto the sheets.

You could feel him watching.

You tilted your head back with a lazy grin. “If you’re gonna stare like that, at least have the decency to offer a towel.”

He huffed a rough laugh—half-exhausted, half-stunned. “Sorry. Just... didn’t wanna forget what that looks like.”

You stretched like a cat, all smug satisfaction and afterglow. “Yeah, well. Take a picture next time, Barnes.”

He leaned down, kissed your shoulder—soft, slow, grateful—then flopped beside you, dragging the sheet up over your tangled bodies.

His arm wrapped around your waist, warm and heavy.

Neither of you spoke for a minute.

Just the sound of your breathing slowing. Your bodies cooling.

Then he murmured, voice quiet against your skin, “You’re in my head now.”

You smiled, eyes drifting shut.

“Good,” you whispered. “Took you long enough.”

You lay there, tangled together in the warm quiet, your body still thrumming, skin slick and flushed. Bucky’s arm was wrapped around your waist, his breath slow against the back of your neck, lips occasionally brushing your shoulder like he wasn’t even conscious of doing it.

You grinned.

Couldn’t help it.

“So…” you said, voice casual. “How long you been jerking off to me, Barnes?”

He froze.

You felt the heat bloom off him before he even said a word.

“Don’t.”

Your grin widened. “What? It’s a fair question. Based on how fast you devoured me, I’m guessing… at least a month?”

He groaned into your shoulder. “You’re the worst.”

“I’m right,” you countered. “Don’t think I didn’t catch the way you almost cried when I said ‘as you wish, Sergeant.’ You’ve been unwell.”

He muttered something unintelligible and buried his face in your neck.

You rolled to face him, propped on one elbow, smirking as you traced a line down his chest.

“So, tell me,” you purred. “Now that you’ve got a taste... what do you want to do to me next time?”

His throat bobbed.

You waited.

“I dunno,” he mumbled.

“Oh, you know.” Your nails lightly scratched his ribs. “Come on, be brave. Tell me.”

He grumbled. “You’re gonna use it against me.”

“Correct,” you said sweetly. “Now spill.”

He exhaled slowly, then muttered:

“...Sixty-nine.”

You grinned. “Classic. What else?”

He covered his eyes with one hand. “Breeding.”

Your eyebrows lifted, delight flashing in your eyes. “Oh? Really leaned into the ‘stuff me full, Sarge’ angle, huh?”

“Shut up.”

“I won’t, actually,” you laughed, leaning closer, lips brushing his ear. “Anything else you wanna act out, Barnes? Any other dirty little fantasies you been keeping locked up?”

He hesitated.

Longer this time.

Then—reluctantly, quietly:

“...Roleplay.”

You blinked.

Then broke into a slow, wicked grin. “Okay, now this I need to hear.”

“Nope,” he said immediately, trying to roll away. “That’s enough honesty for one night—”

You climbed on top of him, straddling his hips, pinning him down with a devilish smile. “Tell me if I need to show up next time in a pencil skirt and glasses, or if I should wear that SHIELD catsuit and call you ‘Sir.’”

His eyes snapped open.

And you knew.

You gasped. “Oh my god. You have a thing for the whole ‘secret agent mission gone sideways’ scenario, don’t you?”

He groaned, dragging a hand over his face. “Please stop.”

“You want me to cuff you to a chair and interrogate you,” you went on gleefully. “Or, wait—no—you want to interrogate me.”

“I’m begging.”

You leaned in, lips brushing his ear. “You want me in red lipstick and a wiretap, don’t you?”

“I’m never telling you anything again.”

You leaned down, lips brushing his.

“I’m gonna make all your little roleplay dreams come true,” you whispered.

“Kill me now,” he muttered.

“Nope. Gotta save your energy. You’re not done with me yet.”

You grinned, smug and sated, curling down against his chest, eyes closing as his arm wrapped around you again.

And beneath your cheek, you felt him smile.

#yes sir

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defn0tonyourleft · 2 months ago

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as someone who’s learning French (i legit move to France in less than a month😭) this made me happy when i understood the translations 🙏🙏

bucky barnes dating the most lavish, perfect, and stylish french girl but when she gets upset he can’t understand a fucking thing she is saying.

poor guy is running his hands through his hair, he might as well just rip it out at this point. because you’re standing across the kitchen island, a wooden spoon in your hand, a frilly dainty apron on, and dinner is about to overspill from the boiling pot. you point the wooden spoon at him, then the wall, and then the fridge- his cyborg mind can’t keep up with your frantic movements. let alone the french curses you’re yelling.

his face drops into his hands and groans. you guys aren’t really fighting. but he muttered something, stressed from today’s activities, and it ticked you off.

“pourquoi tu ne m'écoutes pas?!” (in my poor google translation, it says why won’t you listen to me?!)

now, bucky was brainwashed (fuck hydra) and trained to fluently speak multiple languages, but his mind just absolutely blanks when you stare at him like a wild woman on a rampage. bucky picks out a few words that he was able to catch like why and me. maybe you said something about the weather? or maybe it’s about how he accidentally shrunk your favorite jeans in the washer? did he eat all of your ice cream again?

finally bucky looks up, haunched over the kitchen island and those steel blue eyes nearly pop out of his head. “i don’t know what you are saying doll.”

bucky has good intentions, he’s not upset with you. he’s just trying to understand. but, the exhaustion in his tone sounds irritated.

your eyes go wide and your mouth slightly parts open. it’s thick silence for a second, then a minute and two. bucky thinks your about to cry.

“doll-“

“es-tu fou!” (are you crazy!)

you start going off again and waving that damn wood spoon around. bucky leans back in his seat, arms folded over his big chest, and simply watches. the bulge hiding beneath his tight jeans twitches.

bucky may be fucking tired, but his girlfriend was hot. even when he didn’t have a clue what she was saying.

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defn0tonyourleft · 2 months ago

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ima be honest it took me a hot second to figure out what was going on bc I was js staring at how good the anatomy is holy shit this is amazing

Happy dessert day🥳

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defn0tonyourleft · 2 months ago

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hehe this def (it was) wasn’t my suggestion and accidentally made myself a anon but tysm!! i love two-bit just cheating the entire time-

hello!! how's it goin! im a rather new follower, and i absolutely love your work! :) (my outsiders musical era goes crazy, also EMMA PITTMAN LIKED MY STORY ON INSTA WHAT) anyways, i js saw that you said for anons to be more specfic, so i have a few ideas if you want to choose which one you vibe with the most so you don't just gotta write something that youre js like "meh" with anyways- johnny cade scene, where hes sittin outside his parents house and reader walks up with dally like... "johnny you good?" and then reader comforts johnny (privately if you wanna add a lil smooch in there ;)) if you wanna do a headcanon for everyone maybe a greaser family game night: and everyones favorite game, their play styles etc (like i know two-bit would be steal money in monopoly) and my last idea (ideas are hard-) maybe a best friend!reader and (insert a greaser) stickin up for (inserted greaser) after a soc tries to talk bad about them :> also sorry if you've done all of these already ;> have a great day!

an: thank you for all the ideas anon <3 I'm going to do the game night one because that's so stinkin cute and I love writing platonic stuff 🥹 I'm going to do hc

W: this isn't really x reader– it's more just general hc

Like anon said, Two-Bit absolutely steals money in monopoly

If someone doesn't notice that he landed on their property, his lips are sealed and rent is not getting paid

Dallas is somehow in jail for the majority of the game

Steve has a get out of jail free card and tries to sell it to Dallas for real money

Lots swears and threats and name-calling

Soda is the most chill

Ponyboy and Darry are the only one getting the question cards right (I forgot what those are called)

They have never actually finished a game, it takes too long

By the end of playing, at least Two-Bit and Dallas are drunk

When playing Life, Dallas, Steve, and Two-Bit choose not to go to college

Dallas somehow gets multiple wifes

He also avoids the kids, but gets some cats and dogs

Sodapop needs two cars because he's somehow accumulated 8 kids

There are fights at the beginning over the cars because these children want specific colors

"I wanted to be blue!" "I'm already blue." "Give me red." "No, I had it first"

Darry almost always wins

Steve tries to sell his children

Ponyboy wanted to play Clue

No one else did, except for Darry

Two-Bit is peaking at everyone's cards

Dallas is messing with the murder weapons

So is Steve, he's stabbing Soda with the knife

Ponyboy is taking this may more seriously than everyone else

Johnny and Two-Bit will interrogate people

"Dallas, did you do it?" "Yes."

Pony: "thats not how this game works 😢😠"

Soda once guessed, "no weapon, they used their hands"

Again, they fight over the colors/characters in the beginning

"I don't want to be Mrs. Peacock!" "I want Professer Plum, he has a cool mustache." "Stop taking Miss Scarlett from me!"

Dallas doesnt note anything down because he swears he doesn't need to and can remember (he doesn't remember)

Johnny is always so close to figuring it out, but still loses

Steve: "Soda, I'll show you my cards if you show me yours." Pony: "Stoppp."

Ponyboys favorite game is Clue (but he prefers to play with just Johnny and Soda, or his other friends) and Scrabble (cause he always wins

Steve's favorite game is candy land- except for when he's about to win then gets sent way back, then it's he hates it

Soda's favorite is a tie between Candy Land and Life

Darry's favorite is Monopoly

Two-Bits favorite is clue, but only because he doesn't take it seriously and likes to mess around

When playing scrabble, everyone (expect Darry) is poking fun at Pony for playing big words. They think he's a nerd

Lots of swears and inappropriate terms are played– Darry tries to stop it, but eventually gives up

"You can't play titty, Dallas." "I can and I did. Give me my 12 points."

No one really likes scrabble except for Ponyboy and there's lots of groans when he picks it

Whenever he's losing a game, Steve reminds everyone who he's always beating them at cards and in arm wrestles

Speaking of– there's lots of mid-game arm wrestles

An: sorry this isn't really x reader, I still think its cute

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defn0tonyourleft · 2 months ago

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Sebastian Stan filmography

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defn0tonyourleft · 3 months ago

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RAHHHH I DONT HAVE TIME TO READ THIS BUT IM SO FUCKING HYPED TO READ IT

Once More To See You

pairing | 40s!bucky x 40s!reader & post-catws!bucky x fem!reader

word count | 12.8k words

summary | in the 40s, the two of you were meant to be forever—wild, in love, and untouched by anything but each other. but time tore you two apart, and when fate brought you back together decades later, love still lived between you and bucky... just no longer in the same lifetime

tags | (18+) MDNI, smut, p in v sex, time skip, angst, heavy angst/no comfort (we die like men), canon divergence (post-tfatws), unresolved feelings, mention of war and ptsd, bittersweet / painful romantic resolution, reader cries (a lot), bucky crying (internally), mitski energy, BABY TONY, leo fitz cameo

a/n | chat, we all crying in the club with this one. based on this request

likes comments and reblogs are much appreciated ✨✨

ᴍᴀsᴛᴇʀʟɪsᴛ

Brooklyn, July 1942

The summer air in Brooklyn was thick and golden, the kind that made your skin feel kissed and alive.

You were barefoot on the edge of the rooftop, the sun setting behind you like fire rolling across the skyline, and Bucky Barnes was watching you like you were the most dangerous thing he'd ever seen—and he’d already gotten into three bar fights this month.

“You're gonna fall,” he warned, arms crossed, but with a smile pulling at his lips.

You turned your head, a grin already blooming. “Then catch me.”

“Don’t joke,” he said, stepping closer. “You know I would.”

You turned fully, facing him, the wind pulling your dress tight around your legs. “That’s the problem, Bucky. You always would.“

He paused, eyes on you now—less amused, more... full. You felt it in your chest.

You walked toward him slowly, deliberately, barefoot and brave. “What would you do if I jumped off something one day and you weren’t fast enough?”

He caught your wrist when you reached him. “Then I’d follow you down.“

You stared at him. The laughter on your tongue dissolved.

That was always the thing with Bucky. He said stuff like that, and he meant it. Fully. Without fear. Like loving you was easy.

“You make it too easy to love you,” you whispered, eyes soft now.

“And you make it hard to survive,” he shot back, teasing, thumb brushing the inside of your wrist. “Running around barefoot on rooftops like a little menace.”

“I just don’t want to waste time being careful,” you murmured, resting your forehead to his. “We’ve got now, don’t we?”

He kissed you like a promise.

Slow. Long. With one hand cradling the back of your neck, the other anchoring your hip. You sank into it, into him. Into the kind of kiss that made the city disappear.

When he pulled back, he said it—finally said it.

“I’m in love with you.”

You blinked.

You smiled.

And then, without missing a beat: “Took you long enough.”

────────────────────────

Later That Night – Bucky’s Apartment

The fan turned slowly overhead, humming quietly as the heat clung to the air, thick and lazy. You were stretched across Bucky’s bed, legs tangled in the sheets, one hand trailing down the slope of his chest while the other held a cigarette loosely between your fingers.

Bucky watched you like he always did: completely, unapologetically.

"You’re staring,” you murmured.

“You’re naked in my bed,” he said. “I’d be stupid not to.”

You grinned, putting the cigarette out in the tray on the nightstand before crawling over to straddle his hips. “Stupid, huh?”

He ran his hands up your thighs, gripping them like he was grounding himself. “The second I saw you in that bar a year ago, I knew I was in trouble.”

You leaned down, nose brushing his. “Good. Trouble keeps you young.”

Your lips met—soft at first, sweet—but it didn’t stay that way.

Bucky's hands slid up your back, palms warm and sure, dragging you against him as your hips began to roll. His cock hardened beneath you, thick and hot where it pressed between your thighs. You moaned into his mouth, hips grinding down in slow, teasing circles that made his grip on your ass tighten.

“You're gonna kill me,” he groaned, voice ragged.

“Not yet,” you whispered, reaching between you to line him up.

You sank down onto him with a gasp, your walls stretching around him, the burn sweet and perfect. Bucky’s hands flew to your hips, holding you steady as you took all of him, inch by inch, until he was buried to the hilt.

“Jesus Christ,” he choked.

You didn’t move at first. Just leaned forward, forehead to his, feeling the way he throbbed inside you, the way his breath stuttered against your lips.

Then you rolled your hips—slow and deep—and his whole body tensed.

“You're so fuckin' tight,” he panted, bucking up into you instinctively. “Like you were made for me.“

You bit your lip, rocked again. “Maybe I was.”

And that was all it took.

He gripped your hips and fucked up into you, his rhythm desperate, rough, but never careless. You met him thrust for thrust, nails dragging down his chest, breath hot against his throat.

The bed creaked beneath you, headboard knocking the wall, bodies slick and needy. You were panting now, fingers tangled in his hair, moaning shamelessly as your orgasm built like fire curling in your belly.

“Come on, baby,” Bucky groaned, voice gone. “Come for me. Show me I’m the only one who gets to have you like this.”

Your body clenched—tight, hot, overwhelming—and then you were coming, crying out his name, hips jerking as he held you down and fucked you through it.

“Fuck—fuck, I’m gonna—” Bucky’s rhythm faltered, hips stuttering as he spilled inside the rubber, hands gripping you like he never wanted to let go.

You collapsed onto him, both of you sticky and breathless, hearts thudding in unison.

“I love you,” he whispered again, softer this time, like he knew what was coming.

You closed your eyes, resting your cheek against his shoulder.

“Then don’t ever leave me.”

He didn’t answer.

He just held you tighter.

────────────────────────

Brooklyn, September 1943

Three weeks before Bucky ships out

The letter sat on the kitchen table, opened, unfolded, and lined up too neatly for it to be an accident. You froze in the doorway, fingers still smudged with newspaper ink from the classifieds you hadn’t really been reading.

Bucky stood on the other side of the table, arms crossed, jaw tight.

“You weren’t gonna tell me?” he asked, voice low but razor-sharp.

You exhaled slowly. “I was. I was waiting for the right—”

“There’s no right time to tell me you’ve signed up to follow me into a war zone.”

“I didn’t sign up for you,” you said, stepping forward, calm but firm. “I signed up for the people who need help. And for the ones who don’t get to come home.”

He laughed—bitter and low. “Right. And that just happens to be the same front line I’m getting sent to?”

You didn’t answer right away.

Because yes. Yes, it did happen to be the same region. Same Allied deployment. You’d pulled every string possible, leaned on every nurse you trained beside, begged to be assigned where you knew he was going.

“I’m not gonna sit at home and wonder every day if you’re still alive,” you said. “I won’t do it.”

“You’re not supposed to be there,” he snapped. “Do you know what it’s like out there? You think the enemy’s gonna care you’ve got a Red Cross on your arm? You think they won’t shoot through a nurse like anyone else?”

“I know the risks.”

“No, you don’t,” he said, slamming a hand on the table hard enough to rattle the cup beside your letter. “You’ve never seen a man bleed out on the ground with half his leg gone. You’ve never had shrapnel spray through a tent while you’re catching your breath.”

His voice cracked.

You stepped closer.

“This isn’t about you thinking I’m naïve,” you said quietly. “It’s about you being scared.”

He looked at you then—really looked.

And God, he was scared. Eyes red, jaw clenched like it hurt to speak.

“I am scared,” he said, voice softer now. “I’m terrified.”

You reached for him, fingers brushing his forearm. “Then let me be where I can help. Let me do what I can. Don’t ask me to stay behind and feel helpless.”

He swallowed, shaking his head.

You stepped closer. “You’d do the same for me.”

“That’s not the point.*”

“It is,” you said. “It is, James. Because I don’t want to lose you and wonder if I could’ve saved someone else just like you.”

He let out a shaky breath and pulled you into his arms like he couldn’t hold himself up anymore.

You stood there, pressed to his chest, both of you silent.

You weren’t changing your mind.

And neither was he.

His forehead pressed to yours, breath shaky, fingers curling into the fabric of your dress like he needed to hold something.

“I can’t lose you,” he whispered.

You kissed him. Slow. Steady. Real.

“You won't.”

2 Years Later

Occupied France, 1944

A dusty bar just past midnight

The bar was a converted farmhouse—dusty, dimly lit, and barely holding itself together. Bottles clinked, laughter spilled like smoke, and music hummed from a battered radio in the corner.

Somewhere in the background, Dugan was arm-wrestling two locals at once, while Morita laughed so hard he nearly fell off his stool. There were glasses clinking, boots scuffing the floor, and one of the Commandos yelling about needing more whiskey like they hadn’t just cleared out half the stock already.

And Bucky was holding you like he couldn’t believe it.

You were tucked into his lap in a shadowed booth near the back, your arms draped around his neck, one hand gently threading through his hair. His arms wrapped tightly around your waist, fingers pressed to the curve of your spine like he was scared you'd slip away if he loosened his grip.

Outside, the war still existed. But not here.

Not in this small, golden sliver of now.

You leaned in close, your lips brushing against the shell of his ear. “You know they’re watching.”

He smiled, eyes half-lidded and heavy with whiskey and relief. “Let ‘em. If I can’t kiss my girl after dropping a Hydra base, what the hell are we even fighting for?”

You laughed, low and quiet. It rumbled in his chest.

“I missed your laugh,” he said, voice rough. “It’s been weeks since we’ve had more than ten minutes where we weren’t being shot at or yelled at.”

You tightened your arms around him. “You keep surviving and I’ll keep laughing.”

He went still for a moment, just holding you, his nose brushing the side of your neck.

You leaned into his touch, fingertips tracing along the nape of his neck. “What are you thinking about?”

He paused.

Then he smiled—small, quiet, soft.

“I see it now.”

You pulled back just enough to meet his eyes. “What?”

Your brows furrowed slightly.

“The future,” he murmured. “Us. After all this. I didn’t used to let myself picture it. Thought it was bad luck or something. But tonight? I see it clear as day.”

You swallowed, throat suddenly tight.

You opened your mouth to answer, but he cut you off—his voice gentler now, steadier. Certain.

“When this is over, I’m gonna marry you.”

Your breath caught.

Not because it surprised you. Not because it was sudden.

But because he meant it.

His hand slid up your spine, warm and steady.

“I’m serious,” he whispered. “We’ll get a better place in Brooklyn. You’ll still complain about the noise. I’ll pretend I like fixing things. You’ll still be wild. And I'll still follow you anywhere.”

“Bucky…” you breathed.

He leaned in, kissed you like it was a vow.

“When it’s done,” he said again. “You and me.”

You buried your face in his shoulder, smiling as you fought the sting in your eyes.

There, in the middle of a war. Blood on his knuckles. Dust on your shoes. You both knew the odds were shit. But still—he saw it. You.

You pressed your forehead to his.

“I’ll hold you to it, Barnes.”

“You better,” he whispered.

Then he kissed you again—slow and deep and full of everything he’d never said, everything he was too afraid to hope for.

You didn’t say anything either.

Because you saw it too.

And it was beautiful.

And it would never happen.

────────────────────────

Austria – Hydra Territory, March 1945

The flaps of the medical tent opened with a violent rustle as Bucky stormed in, his arms wrapped tightly around your limp body.

“I need a medic!” he shouted, voice hoarse, desperate. “Somebody—she needs help, now!”

Your head lolled against his shoulder, blood trailing from a gash at your temple. Your uniform was scorched along one side, and your skin—hot to the touch, glowing faintly blue—made his breath choke in his throat.

Steve was right behind him, bloodied and breathless from the mission, his face pale beneath the dirt and sweat. “Bucky—there—over there.”

Bucky stumbled toward the nearest cot, easing you down with shaking hands. “She’s not—she’s not waking up—why isn’t she waking up?!”

“Move,” a voice snapped. One of the medics pushed past him, and behind them, Howard Stark rushed in, eyes scanning the tent before landing on your still body.

“What happened?” the doctor asked quickly, already peeling back your uniform sleeves to check your vitals. “Where was she hit?”

“She—shit, she—she was trying to get to the evac point and that Hydra weapon—the blue thing, it exploded—she was right there, it hit her—dead on.” Bucky’s words were a mess, stumbling out one over the other as he paced, eyes wide and wild. “There was this light—this blast—and she just—she dropped.”

Howard’s head snapped toward him, face going white. “The Tesseract?”

Steve’s jaw tightened. “What?”

“That wasn’t just energy,” Howard said, approaching the cot fast. “That was Tesseract radiation. If she was that close to a direct hit—she should be—”

“Don’t say it,” Bucky growled, eyes blazing. “She’s not dead. She’s not.”

He dropped to his knees beside the cot, grabbing your hand, pressing it to his lips. “C’mon, doll. You’re tough. You always get up. You’re gonna get up now.”

The medic pulled out a flashlight, gently prying one of your eyes open. “Pupils responsive but sluggish. She’s breathing, but it’s shallow. Pulse is unstable.”

Howard moved in beside them, watching your vitals with a furrowed brow. “This doesn’t make sense. There’s no visible trauma except the cut. If she took a full dose of that energy—”

“Why isn’t she waking up?” Bucky’s voice cracked, and suddenly he was whispering. “She’s always so loud, y’know? Never sits still. Never—she wouldn’t just go quiet like this. She wouldn’t.”

Steve placed a hand on his shoulder, grounding him. “Buck. We’re gonna figure this out.”

Bucky shook his head, holding your hand tighter. “She promised me a future, Steve. She promised.”

And you weren’t waking up.

Not yet.

────────────────────────

Two Days Later

You hadn’t moved.

Not once.

Not even a twitch.

Bucky sat beside your cot, slouched in a metal folding chair, his fingers still wrapped around your hand like it was the only thing keeping him upright. His uniform was wrinkled. His face unshaved. Eyes red and ringed with exhaustion, like sleep hadn’t dared touch him in forty-eight hours.

Outside, the camp buzzed with movement—boots, trucks, whispered plans. Another Hydra facility marked. Another opportunity to get ahead.

But inside the tent, it was silent. Except for the monitor’s slow, steady beep. The only sign you were still in there somewhere.

He watched your face like it might change. Like your eyelids might flutter. Like you’d sigh and mutter something sarcastic just to mess with him.

But nothing. Stillness.

Until the tent flap rustled, and Steve stepped inside.

Bucky didn’t look at him.

Steve waited a beat, then approached quietly. “Zola’s train. We’ve got confirmation. If we intercept it, we can get him—and maybe trace it back to the Tesseract.”

Bucky’s grip on your hand tightened.

“Buck…”

“I can’t leave her,” Bucky muttered, voice low, ragged. “She could wake up. She’s gonna be scared, disoriented. I have to be here.”

Steve crouched beside him, elbows resting on his knees.

“She’s strong,” he said gently. “She’ll hold on. She always does.”

Bucky shook his head slowly, like if he moved too fast, everything would fall apart. “She followed me here, Steve. Through hell. And now she’s like this ‘cause she was near me. I can’t—I won’t walk away from her.”

Steve was quiet for a moment.

Then he said, soft and steady, “One last mission.”

Bucky didn’t speak.

“We get Zola. We find out what Hydra’s planning. What they hit her with. Maybe it'll help Howard figure out how to wake her.“

Bucky’s jaw flexed.

Steve placed a hand on his shoulder. “You’ll come back to her. You always do.”

The silence stretched. Bucky looked at your face, memorizing it all over again.

Then—reluctantly, slowly—he stood.

He leaned down, brushed his lips over your knuckles. “Don’t you dare wake up without me.”

And then he walked out.

Into the mission that would steal him away.

────────────────────────

London Outskirts — Allied Medical Facility, April 1945

There was a buzzing under your skin.

Not like electricity. Not pain, exactly. Just… noise. Dull and heavy, like someone had wrapped you in cotton and dropped you underwater.

You blinked, slow and uneven, as the world filtered back in pieces.

White ceiling. IV drip. The scent of antiseptic and wilted flowers.

You didn’t know where you were. Or when. Or how long it had been since anything had felt real.

Your throat was dry. A soft, broken sound rasped from your lips, not quite a word, not quite a cry.

Movement.

A figure stirred beside you, and your head turned weakly toward it. There she was—Peggy Carter—neat, composed, hair swept into a familiar roll, lips pressed in a tight, unreadable line.

You tried to speak.

Nothing came out.

Your tongue felt thick. Your thoughts slow. Your chest ached—not sharp, but deep, like it had been cracked open and stitched back wrong.

Your lips parted. It took effort to find your voice.

“…Peg?”

She looked up instantly, eyes wide with something too deep to name. Relief. Sorrow. Something between the two.

“Hey,” she said softly, reaching for your hand. Her grip was warm. Gentle. “You’re awake.”

You blinked again. Your eyelids felt like stone.

“Where’s… Bucky?”

Peggy hesitated. And you knew.

Not because of what she said.

Because of how long it took her to say it.

You blinked again, trying to force the fog out of your head. “Where is he?” you repeated, a little clearer. A little louder.

Peggy’s eyes were steady. Too steady.

“There was a mission,” she said gently. “A train in the Alps. HYDRA. Bucky was… he fell.”

You stared at her, the words not quite landing.

“He fell,” you repeated.

She nodded once, eyes glistening. “Off the side. Into the ravine. We searched for him. We tried—”

“No.” It was out before you meant to say it.

Peggy looked down.

You opened your mouth to keep talking, but your chest locked up. Something thick and painful wedged under your ribs. You tried again.

The buzzing returned. It roared now. Every breath hurt.

“No…” you said again, barely above a whisper.

Peggy reached for your hand.

You flinched.

“No—no, no,” you repeated, squeezing your eyes shut like it would erase her words. “You’re wrong. He—he said—we had plans. He promised—he—”

Peggy squeezed your hand, her voice like broken glass. “I’m so sorry.”

Your chest heaved. Tears slid down your cheeks in silence—slow, unstoppable.

You didn’t sob. Not yet. You just cried. Soft and disbelieving.

The kind of crying that felt like your bones were cracking open from the inside out. Like your body couldn’t process the grief fast enough.

He was gone.

Your entire world, gone.

You turned your face away from Peggy, trembling as the tears kept falling.

You didn’t scream. Didn’t speak.

You just wept quietly into the pillow, mourning a future that died a thousand miles away—on a mountainside, in the snow—where no one could bring it back.

Five Years Later – Brooklyn, 1950

You didn’t notice it at first.

You never noticed anything, really.

The world had kept moving without you, chugging forward like a train on a track you’d never boarded. You went through the motions—woke up, went to work, cooked meals you rarely ate. Laughed sometimes, though you never meant it. Time passed. The war ended. Cities rebuilt.

But inside?

You were still there. Still in that bed. Still in that room.

Still clinging to a lifeless hand that never gripped back.

Grief had folded itself into your bones like marrow. You carried it like your own shadow—quiet, constant, invisible to anyone who didn’t know where to look.

You’d heard the comments, of course.

At first, they’d sounded like kindness.

“You’ve held up so well.”

“Still got that youthful glow, huh?”

“God, I wish my skin looked like that.”

But you never paid them any mind. Compliments slid off you like water off wax paper. You never saw what they saw. When you looked in the mirror, all you ever saw were dead eyes. Eyes that stopped shining the day Bucky didn’t come back to you.

Until one day… you looked.

Really looked.

You were standing in front of the mirror, brushing your wet hair absently, staring at yourself like usual—not *at* yourself, just through—when something pulled you up short.

Your hand stilled.

You blinked.

And this time, you really saw it.

Your cheeks—still full. No hollows. No lines from laughter or frowning, even though you'd done plenty of the latter and none of the former.

Your skin—glassy. Smooth. Not youthful, not radiant. Just… untouched.

No crow’s feet. No crease between your brows where you’d furrowed them every morning for five years straight.

Your fingers tightened around the brush.

You leaned closer.

No greys in your hair. Not one. You combed through the strands slowly with your fingers, heart beginning to thrum like distant thunder.

Your hands—steady, soft. No sag to the skin. No dark spots. No thinning at the knuckles.

You didn’t look thirty. You didn’t even look twenty-five. You looked exactly the same. And in 1950, that wasn’t beautiful.

It was unnatural.

It hit you in the gut like ice.

You stepped back from the mirror, shaking your head like that might fix it. Like your reflection might catch up to the pain you’d earned.

But it didn’t.

Because you hadn’t aged a day.

And something was very, very wrong.

That's how you ended up in front of Howard Stark again.

Hair wind-tossed, coat clutched tight around your body, eyes hollow as you stood in the lobby of a new office in Washington D.C.—clean lines, too many acronyms, glass walls that looked out onto a world you didn’t recognize anymore.

“I think there’s something wrong with me,” you said.

Howard blinked when he saw you. He hadn’t changed much—bags deeper under his eyes, tie looser than it used to be, but his mind still whirring like a machine. He didn’t ask questions. Just brought you inside.

That’s how you found out about S.H.I.E.L.D.

Some quiet initiative he and Peggy had started—first as a resistance concept, now evolving into something more. Protection. Prevention. Oversight.

And now? Medical diagnostics. They ran tests. Endless ones. Blood. DNA mapping. Tissue scans. Vital readings.

They cross-referenced data from other soldiers exposed to Hydra weapons, to radiation, to anything remotely alien. They even examined your service uniform—residues from the blast, particles trapped in the fabric’s weave.

And the answer came slowly. Then all at once.

“You’re not aging,” Howard said, voice flat with disbelief, eyes scanning the readouts. “Not at all.”

Peggy sat in the corner of the room, hands clasped, eyes dim.

Your heart thudded in your chest.

Howard looked at the scans again. “Your cellular regeneration rate is exponentially higher than the baseline. Mitochondrial aging markers are… nonexistent. The tissue sample we took yesterday? It’s already reversed degradation overnight.”

You stared at him like he was speaking a language you didn’t want to learn.

“What does that mean?” you whispered.

He hesitated. “It means your body is repairing itself faster than it can age. And at this rate… it likely won’t ever stop.”

Your breath hitched.

Peggy stood. “We think it was the Tesseract,” she said gently. “The radiation wasn’t like anything we’ve encountered. It was… beyond us. Beyond Earth. It changed you.”

“I don’t want this,” you said, voice small, breaking. “Howard—fix it.”

He looked at you.

And for the first time in your life, you saw fear in his eyes.

“We’re trying.”

You laughed—short, bitter. “Try harder. I don’t want to be some—some relic. Some myth people study as I live forever. I don’t even want to live right now.”

Peggy reached for you. You pulled away.

And then the days blurred. Months passed in white walls and test tubes. Howard kept trying. Peggy kept reassuring. You kept waking up to the same face in the mirror, the same unwrinkled skin, the same 24-year-old trapped in a body that wouldn’t let go.

And before you knew it… it was 1960.

You were supposed to be forty. But the woman in the mirror? Still looked like the girl who had just lost everything.

New York, 1970

Stark Residence – Late Autumn

“He’s beautiful,” you said softly.

The baby blinked up at you, barely able to focus, cheeks round and pink, one tiny fist curled in your sweater. His eyelids fluttered, mouth opening in a sleepy pout.

“Can’t believe you named a baby Anthony, Howard,” you added dryly, glancing up at Howard. “What is he—fifty already?”

Maria laughed from her seat on the couch. “Thank you. That’s exactly what I said.”

Howard rolled his eyes. “It’s a strong name. Classic.”

“It’s a grandfather’s name,” you teased, rocking gently as the baby blinked again. “He’s gonna come out of the bassinet asking about tax reform.”

Maria smiled, rubbing her side gently. “How was Italy?”

You exhaled through a faint smile. “Beautiful. Quiet. Just the break I needed.”

Maria nodded knowingly. You didn’t have to say more. Everyone needed to escape sometimes. You, more than most.

“Though,” you added, “I did have some issues at the airport. Apparently, people get suspicious when your passport says you were born in 1920.”

Howard gave you a look from across the room, but you ignored him.

“And you?” you asked Maria, gently bouncing the baby as he started to fidget. “How are you doing? Six months in and you’re still glowing.”

Maria smiled, eyes warm. “Recovering. Slowly. He’s worth it, though.”

You nodded and glanced down at little Anthony. He yawned, the movement so pure and small it made your chest ache.

Then Howard spoke.

“You missed your last screening.”

The air shifted. The bounce of the baby in your arms slowed.

“It’s just one test,” you said without looking up. “None of them work anyway.”

Howard straightened from his chair. “That’s not the point. Science is evolving every day—we’re closer now than we were six months ago. You can’t just keep skipping—”

“You’ve been saying that to me for the last twenty-five years, Howard.”

Silence.

The baby cooed, soft and unaware of the sharpness that had entered the room.

Maria cleared her throat gently, trying to soften it again. “He’s right, you know. One day something will work.”

You rocked Anthony again, gaze drifting down to his little hand curling in your shirt.

Maria’s voice was softer now. “You ever think about doing this for yourself? Finding someone? Starting a family?”

You stared at the baby. Long enough that the quiet turned into something heavy.

Then you whispered, “So I can outlive them, too?”

No one spoke. Maria reached for her tea. Howard looked away.

Anthony blinked up at you, peaceful and unaware of the fact that your heart had just folded in half again—quietly, invisibly, like it had learned to over the decades.

Washington, D.C. – 2011

S.H.I.E.L.D. Headquarters, The Triskelion

Level 4 Medical Wing

The medical wing smelled like antiseptic and recycled air—sterile, humming, too bright. You’d memorized every corner of it. Every buzzing fluorescent tube. Every faint scratch on the polished floor from wheeled machines that came and went like clockwork.

You sat on the exam table, sleeve rolled up, arm extended. Your gaze was blank, unfocused, fixed on a point past the wall while the needle pierced your vein.

The young man adjusting the monitor beside you was rambling. Scottish. Awkward. Unapologetically enthusiastic.

“…so basically, your cellular repair rate’s increased by point-zero-four percent in the last decade, which—honestly? Shouldn’t even be possible. We’ve all sort of—well—not to be weird—but we’ve sort of been passing your case files around the medical research division like they’re…” He cleared his throat. “Like they’re legend.”

You blinked slowly.

He winced at himself. “Right. Sorry. That was probably weird to say out loud.”

You said nothing.

He smiled awkwardly and gently removed the IV. “Honestly, I can’t believe they’ve got me doing your panel this cycle. It’s usually Doctor Winslow, or sometimes Simmons when she’s not in the field—uh, that’s my colleague, she’s brilliant—but I drew the assignment this time and I—well, you’ve been with S.H.I.E.L.D. longer than the agency has even existed, which is wild, right?”

You tilted your head slightly, like you were watching a small animal knock its head against a glass door.

He fumbled with a tablet, clearly trying to keep the energy going. “Anyway, it’s fascinating. You’re…you’re basically a walking contradiction. Functionally immortal, ageless, regenerative to a degree we can’t replicate even with alien tech—God, I hope that wasn’t offensive, calling you that—immortal, I mean.”

You raised one brow.

He paled slightly. “Sorry. I talk a lot when I’m nervous.”

You didn’t smile. But you also didn’t tell him to shut up, so he took it as a kind of social win.

When he finally finished up with the last scan, he gave you a sheepish glance.

“Um… would it be weird to ask for a photo?”

You slowly turned your head, looking at him fully for the first time.

The silence that followed was so sharp, it could’ve been used to sterilize the room.

His face blanched. “Right. Yes. Terrible idea. That was—that was inappropriate. Of course. Never mind. I’m just gonna go ahead and, uh—upload these. You’re done for today! Thanks!”

You slid off the table wordlessly, tugging your sleeve back down.

And as you walked out, you heard him whisper to himself, “Cool. No, totally cool. Great job, Fitz. Legendary immortal war nurse just stared into your soul.”

The door hissed shut behind you, and you exhaled—long, steady, trying to shake off the sterile weight of fluorescent lights and Fitz’s over-enthusiastic commentary still clinging to your thoughts like static.

You turned down the hall—

And there he was.

Leaning against the wall just outside the medical wing like he had all the time in the world. Hands in his pockets. Shoulders relaxed. That signature half-smile that never reached his eyes until you made it.

Agent Cole Turner.

“You missed your window,” you said, not even slowing your pace. “I escaped the lab untouched.”

He pushed off the wall, falling into step beside you effortlessly.

“They always let you go. I just come here for the view.”

You raised a brow. “You’re shameless.”

“And yet you don’t seem to mind,” he said, glancing sideways at you, voice low, rich, smooth enough to run a finger through. “If I didn’t know better, I’d say you time your exit to run into me.”

“I could have you reassigned.”

“I’d come back.”

You cast him a glance—flat, unimpressed, too good at hiding the flutter under your ribs.

But he saw it.

He always saw it.

Turner let the silence hang a second too long. Then, like he couldn’t help himself:

“You look different today.”

You stiffened slightly. “Do I?”

“It’s your eyes,” he said, quieter now. “They’re a little softer. Sadder.”

You didn’t answer. He stopped walking. You took two more steps before you realized and turned slowly back to him.

“Something happen?”

“It’s just been a day,” you said.

He studied you for a long beat, something sharper edging into his expression. “You’re not like the rest of them.”

“You say that like it’s a good thing.”

“I say it like it’s true.” He took a step closer. “You keep everyone at arm’s length like it’s a strategy. But you still come back. Still take the tests. Still give just enough. Why?”

You blinked slowly. “Maybe I’m a creature of habit.”

“You’re not a creature of anything. You’re a woman who’s been running from something so long, she doesn’t know what it feels like to stay.”

That hit a little too close. You looked away.

Turner’s voice dropped again, lower, more deliberate. “I could take you out. Just coffee. Just air.”

You stared at him.

“You don’t even know what today is,” you said softly.

He tilted his head. “Then tell me.”

You didn’t. Because it was your birthday. You were now ninety-one.

And you still looked like you were twenty-four, standing in front of a man you might’ve let yourself love in a different life.

You gave a short breath of a smile instead. “You’re really bad at backing off.”

He smiled, slow and dangerous. “That’s what they keep telling me.”

You turned away before he could see you almost smile again.

He fell into step beside you once more, casually.

“Tell me one thing, and I’ll go.”

You paused. “What?”

“Do you look at me like that on purpose?”

You didn’t look at him this time. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

But you did. And so did he.

He let out a soft breath, low and amused. “Then I’ll see you around.”

You didn’t watch him walk away. But you wanted to. More than you’d admit.

But you continued, stepping out into the cool D.C. air, the late afternoon light washing over the concrete courtyard in golden warmth.

And for the first time that day—a real smile touched your lips.

Because there he was.

Leaning against a sleek black Audi like it was a runway, sunglasses perched on his nose, suit pressed like he hadn’t ever known a wrinkle in his life.

Tony Stark.

He pushed off the car when he saw you, arms opening like he was about to go full dramatic hug.

You crossed your arms. “What are you doing here?”

He removed his sunglasses with a flourish. “What, you think I’d miss my godmother’s birthday? The woman who once grounded me for hot-wiring my own father’s car?”

“You were eleven,” you said.

“I was innovating,” he countered, pointing a finger. “Visionary. Ahead of my time.”

“You were stealing a ride to go get candy.”

Tony grinned. “And you were the only one who had the guts to chase me down in heels and throw me into a bush.”

You shrugged. “And I’d do it again.”

“I know. That’s why I love you.” He opened the passenger side door. “Get in, old lady. I’m taking you out.”

You raised a brow. “Where?”

“That crappy restaurant in Brooklyn you always go on about,” he said, circling around to his side. “You know the one. Peeling wallpaper. Weird lasagna. Waiter with a God complex.”

“Vincent’s,” you said, narrowing your eyes. “You hate that place.”

He started the car. “I do. But you don’t. And I’m feeling particularly generous today.”

You slid in beside him, smirking. “Did Pepper put you up to this?”

He turned to you with mock offense. “Wow. You think I can’t do a nice thing out of my own volition?”

“You called me an ‘ancient vampire’ last year when I wouldn’t let you have champagne before noon.”

“And I was right,” he said. “But you’re my ancient vampire. Which means I’m buying you overpriced garlic bread and pretending I don’t gag at marinara.”

You laughed, for real this time, the sound warm and effortless.

He glanced at you sideways, smirk softening. “You deserve something good today.”

You looked out the window for a second. “Thanks, Tony.”

He didn’t respond right away. Just pulled onto the road and turned the radio down.

Then, casually: “You know, if I had a time machine, I’d go back and punch anyone who ever made you feel alone on your birthday.”

You looked at him again—really looked.

And your chest ached in the best way.

“Careful,” you said. “If you get any more sentimental, I might think you’re going soft.”

He smirked. “I’m Tony Stark. I can be whatever I want.”

You smiled again. “Then today? Be my annoying godson who buys me garlic bread.”

“Done.”

────────────────────────

The cabin of Tony’s jet was warm and plush, stocked with things you’d never dream of asking for but he always insisted on having. The faint hum of altitude mixed with his voice as he made some dramatic comment about how you were a “terrible birthday date” for refusing to pick a champagne.

You rolled your eyes, lounging with a drink in hand, just starting to let yourself relax.

And then your phone rang.

You frowned.

Tony looked up too. “You actually have your ringer on? What are you, eighty?”

“Actually I'm ninety-one,” you murmured, glancing at the screen.

Unknown.

You picked up.

“…Hello?”

“Don’t speak,” came Fury’s voice, sharp and direct. “Just listen. We’ve got a situation. You need to come to our Manhattan facility. Immediately.”

You straightened in your seat. “What? Why? What’s going on?”

“We recovered something. Someone.”

You were already on edge. “Fury—”

“It’s Rogers,” he said flatly. “Captain America. We found his body in the Arctic. He’s… he’s awake.”

Silence.

It ripped through you like a bullet.

“What?”

“We thawed him two days ago. He’s stable. Fully conscious. Still adjusting.”

Your breath left your lungs like a punch. “You what? And you’re just telling me now? I should’ve been told the moment you found him—how long have you known?!”

There was a beat of static. Then the line went dead. You pulled the phone back, stared at the screen: Call ended.

“Motherf—” You cut yourself off, nearly launching the device across the cabin.

Tony raised both brows, slowly closing his tablet. “Well. That sounded like a vibe killer.”

You were already standing, heart pounding, hands shaking. “I—I need to raincheck. I’m sorry.”

He blinked. “Raincheck? On your birthday dinner?”

You looked at him, pained. “I wouldn’t ask if it wasn’t serious.”

He studied you for a second, expression unreadable.

Then: “Fine. But if this turns out to be you ghosting me to avoid carbs, I will send you gluten-laced muffins in retaliation.”

You leaned in and kissed his cheek, grateful and soft.

“Next time,” you promised.

He nodded, but as you rushed toward the cabin door, he called after you.

“Tell the Captain he owes me a drink. I’ve got questions about the hair.”

You didn’t answer.

You were already gone.

────────────────────────

S.H.I.E.L.D. Manhattan Facility – Sub-Level 3

The elevator opened with a cold metallic hiss, and there he was—Nick Fury, standing at the threshold with his arms folded, eye already tracking your every movement like he expected a detonation.

You didn’t greet him.

You didn’t slow down.

You stormed past him with the force of a tidal wave.

“You should’ve told me immediately,” you snapped, heels echoing down the corridor as he turned to follow you.

He didn’t flinch. “You weren’t cleared.”

You stopped.

Pivoted sharply.

Face to face with the Director of S.H.I.E.L.D., your expression carved from stone.

“Bullshit.”

Fury’s jaw flexed. “Might I remind you that you are not an agent of S.H.I.E.L.D. Nevertheless having the clearance—”

“He is Captain goddamn America,” you bit out, voice low and lethal. “And you thought it wasn’t logical to contact the only living person he knows? The one who knew him before the shield, before the serum, before the goddamn war?”

He opened his mouth to speak, but you stepped closer, finger pointed square at his chest.

“Don’t play smart with me, boy.”

That stopped him. For a second, the Director of the world’s most covert agency looked like he’d been slapped.

“I was born before your parents even met,” you said coldly. “I was holding soldiers hand while they bled out on a field you’ve only ever read about. I sat in a room and cried over Steve Rogers before your daddy learned how to spell his own name.”

Your voice shook—not with weakness, but with fury barely leashed. “I watched everyone I ever loved disappear. And now he’s back, and you didn’t tell me.”

Fury’s gaze dropped, just for a moment.

“You think S.H.I.E.L.D. built me?” you hissed. “I’ve outlived organizations. I’ve outlived time. You don’t keep something like this from me.”

There was a beat of silence. The hallway was cold and empty, save for your words hanging heavy in the air.

Finally, Fury spoke, quieter.

“…He’s just through here.”

You stared at the door.

Your hand trembled, just slightly. The door slid open with a soft hiss.

The room beyond was quiet, dimly lit. Stark white walls. No windows. Just the low hum of surveillance tech and a single man sitting at the edge of a hospital-style cot.

Steve Rogers.

His elbows rested on his knees, broad shoulders hunched, head in his hands like the weight of the century he missed was finally bearing down.

You stepped inside, the door sliding shut behind you with a final click.

He didn’t hear it. Not at first. But then—his head lifted. His eyes—tired, shell-shocked, too blue—locked on yours.

And for a moment… everything stilled.

He stared at you like you were a ghost. Like you might disappear if he blinked too hard.

“…No,” he whispered, breath catching in his chest. “No… that can’t be…”

You didn’t move yet. Just looked at him, eyes burning. “It’s me, Steve.”

He was on his feet in seconds—crossing the room in three long, desperate strides, his hand reaching before he could stop himself, like he needed to touch you to believe you were real.

You let him.

He stopped inches away, eyes wide, searching every line of your face.

You whispered, “I’m real.”

He didn’t speak.

He just pulled you into his arms—tight, fierce, trembling—and you let out a breath you hadn’t known you were holding for seventy years.

His voice cracked at your ear.

“…How?”

You closed your eyes, gripping the back of his shirt. “It’s a long story. One you won’t believe.”

He held you like the world had finally stopped spinning.

And maybe, for one perfect second, it had.

────────────────────────

New York City – Stark Tower, 2012

The streets of Manhattan were still choked with debris, flickering emergency lights, and the aftermath of an invasion no one expected. But you didn’t stop moving—not through the airport, not through the eerily quiet flight, not through the ash and twisted metal littering the city.

Because you saw it.

The footage.

Steve.

Tony.

A hole in the sky. And now—you were here.

You stepped through the busted entryway of Stark Tower, heart in your throat, shoes crunching glass. Security didn’t stop you. They knew who you were.

You pushed through the ruined lobby, into the elevator—thankfully still functioning—and rode it in dead silence, hands clenched.

The doors opened onto chaos.

And you saw them.

Tony, pacing near a half-functional console, bruised and blood-streaked but upright. Romanoff sitting on the edge of a workbench, stitches on her temple. Barton standing guard at the window. And—

“Steve—”

He turned at the sound of your voice.

You crossed the room before you could stop yourself, arms flying around him, holding tight.

“Are you okay?” you demanded, breathless, checking him over with your hands, ignoring the shield slung across his back. “What the hell happened—I saw you on the news, I thought—”

“I’m okay,” he murmured, voice tired but warm. “I’m here.”

“Well, great,” Tony cut in dryly, limping slightly toward you. “Glad to see Cap gets all the hugs. Never mind me, the guy who literally flew a nuke into space and crash-landed back to Earth like a comet.”

You turned, expression flat. Then without hesitation, you wrapped your arms around him too, tight, one hand on the back of his head.

He blinked. “Okay. Wow. That worked better than expected.”

You pulled back. “Never do that again.”

“No promises,” he said, voice softer now. “But… since you’re here—” he gestured vaguely to the rubble, “—and we’re alive, I might’ve found something. A possible fix.”

You frowned. “Fix for what?”

Before he could answer, a voice echoed behind you like rolling thunder.

“Milady.”

You turned—and stared.

There, standing tall among the wreckage, was a man out of myth.

Blonde hair, broad shoulders, armor gleaming despite the mess. A cape. And a hammer—impossibly heavy-looking, dangling from his fingers like it was nothing.

Your eyes widened.

He stepped forward with regal ease. “I am Thor of Asgard, son of Odin, and wielder of Mjölnir.”

You blinked. “Hi.”

He bowed his head slightly. “The Captain of America and the Man of Iron have spoken of you.”

Steve looked faintly exasperated; Tony was smirking.

“They told me of your… predicament,” Thor continued, “and of the relic that caused it. The Tesseract and it's power is not unknown to me. It is one of the Infinity Stones—powerful beyond your world’s understanding.”

You glanced between them, mind catching up. “You know what it is?”

Thor nodded. “And I believe I can help.”

You stared at him.

For a moment, all you could see was possibility.

You turned slowly toward Steve, toward Tony.

Steve gave a small, hopeful nod. “I think he can really help you.”

And for the first time in a very, very long time…you felt it.

Hope.

─────────────��──────────

Brooklyn – Abandoned Warehouse, October 2014

The space was cold. Cracked walls. Rotting beams. Bare concrete that echoed every breath like it was trying to remind him he was still alive.

He sat in the corner of the second floor, back to the wall, knees drawn up, metal fingers clenched around the edge of a weather-worn blanket someone had left behind. He hadn't turned the lights on. He couldn't. He didn’t want to see what kind of ghost looked back at him.

A memory flickered.

A pair of blue eyes—his? Someone else's?

Gone.

He pressed his fists to his forehead, hard. Like pressure might force the truth out.

He knew the facts.

Names from placards and plaques. Faces on digital screens in museum halls. Steve Rogers: Hero. Captain. Friend.

And a photograph—grainy, faded.

Her.

You.

A woman in a dark dress. Laughing. Elbow hooked in Bucky Barnes’s. Smiling like you didn’t know war was waiting.

But he didn’t remember your name.

Not really.

Only—flashes.

A smoky bar. Laughter like wind chimes. A voice sharp with wit, low with want. The way you’d leaned in, chin tipped up, mouth just barely grazing his.

Then—touch. A warm thigh under his palm. Your fingers threaded through his hair. Skin on skin in a dark apartment that smelled like old books and lavender. His hand gripping your hip, your breath catching in his ear, your laugh—

“You make it too easy to love you.”

That one he remembered.

He choked on a breath. Pressed the heel of his hand to his mouth.

It wasn’t enough. It was never enough.

His mind was full of holes, Hydra-shaped voids that swallowed everything whole. But you were like a splinter stuck beneath his ribs—sharp, aching, impossible to dig out.

And it hurt. It hurt.

Not just the not-knowing. The not-having. But the knowing enough to miss it. To miss you.

He doubled over, forehead to his knees, metal fingers curling into the floor, dragging small scars into the concrete.

He hadn’t cried. Not in forever. But now his chest was cracking open, silent and violent and shaking.

Because the woman in the flashes—

the one who touched him like he wasn’t a weapon—

the one who kissed him like tomorrow was a joke—

She was real.

The air had gone still.

No traffic. No wind. Just the buzz of old wiring somewhere in the walls and the sound of his own breathing—too fast, too shallow, like even that was a struggle.

He opened his notebook again—small, weather-stained, bent at the corners. A pen rested inside it, lid chewed to hell. His hand trembled as he flipped past scribbled museum facts, fragmented Russian, coordinates scratched in blind frustration.

Then—on the last page. A single line.

"Beautiful eyes, sharp mouth. Loud and free."

He stared at it. He didn’t remember writing it. But he knew it was about you.

You, who lived in the gaps between dreams and triggers. You, who surfaced in the quiet moments before the nightmares started. You, who touched him like he wasn’t broken, even though maybe he always had been.

The worst part? He couldn’t remember your name. Not your voice. Not your laugh in full.

Just impressions—like the warmth a flame leaves after it’s gone out.

A breathless laugh behind a rooftop kiss. A low murmur against his throat—“Don’t ever leave me.” A flash of skin in moonlight, your leg draped over his hip. And something deeper. Something dear.

The way you’d looked at him once—like he was worth everything. That memory stabbed.

Because no one looked at him like that anymore. Not even himself.

His metal hand clenched around the pen until it creaked, until it cracked, until the ink bled into his palm and he barely noticed.

He stood, pacing, fast and desperate. He needed something. A lead. A name. A reason.

He tore through the backpack he kept hidden under the floorboards—scavenged burner phones, papers, an old StarkPad he barely knew how to use.

He cracked it open with shaking hands.

Typed:

Brooklyn, 1940s. Woman. Bucky Barnes.

Nothing. Too vague.

Bucky Barnes. War nurse. Brooklyn, 1940s. WW2.

Still nothing useful.

He slammed the pad down hard enough to fracture the case.

“Please…” he whispered to no one. “Please…”

He didn’t know who he was begging.

Not Steve. Not God. Just you.

Because he could live without memories. But not without you.

The cracked StarkPad balanced on his knee, the screen flickering from overuse. His fingers hovered over the keyboard, then moved faster—typing, deleting, retyping again over and over.

And then—

There it was.

A headline.

“The Mysterious Case of The Girl Stuck in Time: Survivor of World War II. Known for her service as a front-line nurse alongside Captain America and the Howling Commandos. Has not aged since 1945.“

His breath caught.

He clicked the article with trembling fingers, the screen loading slow like it knew it held something sacred.

There you were.

A black-and-white photo from the war, standing in uniform beside Steve and him, smiling wide. The same eyes.

Then a more recent image—different setting. S.H.I.E.L.D. file photo, maybe. Hair pulled back, skin impossibly smooth. Too smooth. Like glass. Like time had decided it didn’t apply to you.

You looked the same.

But also—not.

The curve of your lips was tight, your eyes dull. Your beauty was preserved, but your light had dulled. In the photo, you looked like someone still breathing only because the alternative was worse.

His fingers brushed the screen like it might bring you closer.

He didn't understand.

What the hell did they do to you?

He dug deeper. Articles. Theories. Old interviews. They all called you a miracle. A myth. A phenomenon.

They didn’t know what he did.

That you were real.

Warm. Loud. Wild.

The girl who kissed him like the world was ending.

The woman who swore she’d never let the war steal you both.

Now the war had ended.

And you were still fighting.

He kept scrolling. More photos. All of them wrong.

That wasn’t how you’d looked when you whispered “You’re mine” against his mouth.

But you were alive.

His heart pounded. For the first time since the collapse of the helicarriers—for the first time since your name came back to him—he felt something close to clarity.

He had to find you.

No matter how long it took. No matter who you’d become. Because somewhere in there—

you were still his.

────────────────────────

San Francisco – November, 2014

Outer Richmond District, 4:37 p.m.

The sky hung low, swollen with clouds, heavy with the kind of gray that made the entire street look washed in cold ash. Rain fell in a soft, steady rhythm—thousands of tiny drops kissing pavement, pooling along curbs, hissing off car roofs.

Bucky stood across the street, half-sheltered beneath the overhang of a florist’s shop. A faded baseball cap pulled low over his brow, collar turned up high. The leather of his gloves creaked as his fingers flexed in slow, anxious rhythm.

He’d been here for hours.

Watched people pass. Listened to the city breathe in traffic hums and bicycle bells.

Waiting.

Waiting to see you.

He knew your life now—what pieces the world had.

The woman they called “The Girl Stuck in Time.”

He’d read everything. Every grainy tabloid photo, every polished New York Times spread from the 60s. He found the interview you gave in ’71—your voice quiet, controlled, your smile tight as you said you were just “trying to do something good with the time I’ve been given.”

Philanthropy. Global aid. A foundation in your name. Book deals you barely promoted. Speeches you didn’t like giving. Smiling for photos you didn’t believe in.

A life that looked full. Beautiful.

But behind your eyes? Still the same sadness from the museum photos.

Still you.

And now you lived here. In San Francisco. Far from Brooklyn. Far from the ghosts.

He didn’t blame you.

He didn’t know what he expected. He didn’t even know what he wanted.

Just a glimpse.

Just you.

You stepped out of the café first—coat belted tight, hair swept back from your face, a slight flush to your cheeks from the warmth you’d just left behind. Your umbrella tilted slightly as you adjusted your bag on your shoulder, brow furrowed at something on your phone.

And then you looked up.

It wasn’t even at him—just up, vaguely, across the street.

But it didn’t matter.

Because your face.

Bucky’s lungs forgot how to work.

You looked exactly like the pictures.

Exactly like the memories—at least, the fractured ones that still burned inside him.

But it was more than that.

It was you.

Alive. Breathing. Whole.

The girl from his dreams. The girl who haunted the spaces between gunfire and screaming. The girl whose name he whispered in sleep like a prayer, whose laugh he remembered better than his own.

You weren’t just real. You were here. And for one moment, just one impossible second—

You smiled.

Soft. Small.

Like the rain didn’t matter. Like maybe you had seen him. And in that moment, Bucky thought—maybe.

Maybe this was it. Maybe the universe had given him a mercy. Maybe you had been waiting for him too. Maybe this was the end of the darkness. Maybe he could finally come home.

His feet moved before he knew it. One step into the street. Then another.

Then—

Another figure stepped into view. A man. Umbrella in one hand, bouquet in the other.

Bucky stopped. Mid-step.

The man reached you. And you lit up. Brighter than you had been in those pictures he saw. Brighter than any memory he had left of you.

You laughed, pressed your hand to your mouth, and said something Bucky couldn’t hear, but he didn’t need to. The look on your face said everything.

This wasn’t polite. Wasn’t passing. This was love.

The way you touched his arm. The way he brushed a thumb across your jaw, held your umbrella steady as you tilted your head to receive it.

The flowers. Hydrangeas, your favorite. The familiar rhythm of your bodies as you walked together. The comfort of your closeness.

It was intimate. It was effortless. It was everything Bucky had lost—and you had found.

His chest cracked. Not in a dramatic way. Not loud.

Just quietly. Completely.

He stumbled back onto the curb like he’d been punched, mouth open, breath stolen. His hands curled into fists—both of them—like he could grip the pain and hold it somewhere that wasn’t his ribs.

You were smiling like you were safe.

You were holding someone else like he was home.

The ache bloomed slow.

Hot. Cold. Heavy.

He backed into the shadow of the building, eyes still locked on you.

He had imagined this moment so many times.

But in all of them, you were alone. Waiting. Needing him.

Not…

Not like this.

Not happy. Not healed. Not loved by someone else.

He didn’t feel the rain pick up again. Didn’t feel the damp against his jacket, the wind at his back. All he felt was the slow collapse of something deep in his chest.

A collapse that didn’t come with a crash.

Just… silence.

Stillness.

Because he was too late.

The woman in his dreams—the girl from rooftops, from crumpled sheets, from smoky bars and whispered promises—she had survived.

She had moved on.

And he had no right to pull her back.

Because that smile—

That was enough. That was all he came for.

Once more to see you.

────────────────────────

San Francisco, January 2015

You didn’t know what to say.

You didn’t know how to breathe.

Steve had said the words so quietly, like saying them too loud might break something sacred.

“He’s alive.”

And your whole world folded in on itself. Again.

You stared at him. Blinked once. Twice. Waiting for it to make sense.

It didn’t.

Not right away.

Your hands were still in your lap. Fingers laced together, knuckles bone-white. You hadn’t moved since he said it—like if you stayed perfectly still, the gravity wouldn’t shift.

But it already had.

“He went into hiding after D.C.,” Steve had said, voice tight. “Tried to disappear again. But eventually… he came to me.”

You hadn’t looked at him. Couldn’t. The room felt too full. Too loud.

“And the only thing I could think to do…” He’d run a hand through his hair. “He needs something to hold on to. Someone. He barely remembers me. Only fragments. Just what Hydra left behind, and what he read in a museum.”

A sharp breath caught in your throat. Of course. That’s what he’d been reduced to. A legend on a plaque. A soldier behind glass.

And now—he was breathing. Somewhere in the same country. And he didn’t even remember Steve.

But he remembered you.

That’s why Steve was here. Because you were the only thread Bucky still clung to in the tangled web of his mind.

“I didn’t know if I should come,” Steve said finally, quieter now. “But… if there’s anything that can help him—it’s you.”

Your mouth opened. Then closed again. Nothing came out.

Because you had loved him. Loved him with every second you were sure you’d never get back.

And now? Now he was here.

And it felt like your heart had just started again. But you didn’t know if it was beating for him.

You didn’t know what to feel—except everything, all at once.

────────────────────────

New York City – Stark Tower, February, 2015

The jet landed in silence. No welcoming fanfare. No agents or escorts. Just the hum of engines winding down and the weight of Steve Rogers standing beside you like the ghost of your former life made flesh.

He hadn’t said much during the flight. He didn’t need to. The silence between you spoke loud enough.

And now, as you stepped into the elevator, every floor closer felt like pressure against your lungs. The kind that makes it hard to breathe.

You hadn’t seen Bucky Barnes in seventy years. And he wasn’t the same man.

Steve had told you as much. That the boy who used to kiss your neck in the back of his tenement hallway now had metal where his arm used to be. That he rarely spoke unless spoken to. That he was healing—but painfully slow.

You nodded. Told Steve you understood. But you didn’t. Not until the elevator doors opened. Not until you saw him.

He was in the corner of the room—half-shadowed, quiet, like he was trying to make himself smaller than a man his size could be.

And God, he was bigger.

The serum had carved him into something unrecognizable and so achingly familiar. Broad shoulders, thick arms, his back rising and falling in slow, cautious breaths.

But it was the hair that struck you.

Longer now, brushing his jaw. Unkempt but soft. And tucked behind it—those eyes.

Still that same steel-blue.

Still yours.

For a second, you didn’t move.

Your eyes traced the metal arm—exposed, gleaming in the light. Every line of it sculpted, silent, awful. That was new. That wasn’t the man you remembered. That arm had done things your Bucky never would have.

But when he turned—

When he really looked at you—

Time stopped.

Your breath caught in your throat like a sob you hadn’t meant to let out. And still… you walked forward. One slow step at a time. Trying to keep your spine straight. Your voice level.

“Do you… do you know who I am?” you asked.

You hated how your voice trembled.

He didn’t speak at first. Just stared. Like his body knew before his mind did. Like his heart was dragging up something his brain couldn’t catch yet.

Then—finally—he spoke. Your name. Whispered. Barely there.

But yours.

It hit you like a knife to the sternum.

His lips parted like he wanted to say more—but the words came slow, fractured, unsteady.

“I… I met you in a bar,” he murmured, voice raw from disuse. “June ’41. Summer night. You were with… friends. Your hair was down. Laughing.”

“And you…” he huffed, something like a memory making his mouth twitch. “You told me not to buy you a drink because you didn’t like whiskey. Said I could impress you by dancing instead.”

Your eyes burned.

“You danced with me. That night. All night.”

A slow nod.

“And the next,” he mumbled. “And every night I could steal before they shipped us out.”

You looked at him then—really looked—and felt everything crash forward. All the time, all the silence, all the grief.

Because it was him. Changed. But him.

That need—the one you thought had died with the war—it flooded you all over again. Your skin remembered his touch. Your mouth remembered the shape of his name in a moan. Your heart remembered everything.

It was still there. Alive and loud and aching. But so was something else.

Because you loved someone else now. A different man. A good man. One who had held you when the world forgot you. One who kissed your cheek when your nightmares made you shake. One who was real.

And now your whole world was breaking open.

All over again.

A Year Later

The Avengers Compound – Sublevel Quarters

Morning, June 2016

The world was quiet. Too quiet for a day like this.

Bucky sat in the half-dark of his room, blinds pulled but not shut. Sunlight bled through in thin, uneven strips, painting his floor in quiet gold. The air was warm—June warmth—but he hadn’t changed out of last night’s clothes. Just a black shirt. Worn jeans. Bare feet.

The metal arm caught the sunlight. And he hated how quiet the room was. How quiet he was.

The voices were gone now. The static. The screaming commands. The weight of Hydra’s grip wasn’t around his throat anymore—but something else had replaced it.

Emptiness.

Like he’d fought his way out of hell and found nothing waiting for him on the other side.

His reflection in windows didn’t scare him now.

But it didn’t look like him, either. He didn’t know what he looked like anymore.

There was a knock. Soft. Then the door opened slowly.

Steve stepped in, already in a charcoal suit, tie neat. He looked uncomfortable—like the fabric didn’t sit right on his soldier’s frame. But his expression was soft. Tired. Familiar.

“We’re headin’ out,” Steve said, voice low. “Last call if you wanna come.”

Bucky didn’t look at him.

Just kept twisting the chain of his dog tags—cool, rhythmic, constant.

He already knew what today was.

Your wedding day.

And somehow, it felt like his funeral.

Today, you’d be someone else’s wife.

You’d wear white.

You’d say I do.

And Bucky would watch the sunset knowing he wasn’t the man you wanted forever with anymore.

“I’m not coming,” Bucky murmured, finally.

Steve didn’t answer right away. He stepped in, let the door close behind him.

“You could,” he said. “Nobody would mind.”

“I would.”

Silence.

Steve sighed. “You’re not… excluded, Buck.”

Bucky let out a breath that could’ve been a laugh. Could’ve been a choke.

“I know.”

His fingers stopped moving.

“I just don’t think I can watch it happen,” he whispered.

Steve looked at him for a long time. “You love her.”

Bucky didn’t answer. He didn’t need to.

“I’m glad she’s happy,” Bucky said eventually. “I mean it.”

Steve nodded, quiet.

“But that doesn’t mean it doesn’t hurt.”

The room fell still again.

Steve walked over, rested a hand briefly on Bucky’s shouler, “It’s okay, Buck.”

He hated how gentle his voice was. Hated that he needed it.

“You did good, letting her go.”

Bucky didn’t look at him just clenched his fist over the tags.

He didn't say anything else. He couldn't.

And then Steve turned to leave. Gave him one last look over his shoulder.

“I’ll tell her you said congratulations.”

The door clicked shut behind him. And Bucky just sat there. Still. Breathing like it hurt. The silence swelled again. And then—

Something snapped.

He stood. Abruptly. Too fast. The chair scraped.

His breath caught. He stared at the door. His chest was tight. His heart too loud.

He didn’t know what he was going to say. Or do.

But he had to see you.

Just once.

One more time.

Before he let you go completely.

────────────────────────

The Plaza, Private Bridal Suite – New York, Late Morning, June 2016

The room was silent.

Soft light filtered in through lace-curtained windows, dust floating like quiet confetti in the air. The kind of stillness meant to calm. The kind of stillness you’d prayed for.

You stood in front of the mirror, veil draped over the back of a nearby chair. The dress fit perfectly. Your hair was set, every pin tucked just so. Everything was exactly how you had planned it.

And still…

Your fingers trembled as they traced the edge of your neckline.

Your eyes studied your reflection like it was a stranger.

This was supposed to be the beginning. The start of your real life.

You’d earned this. You’d survived. In 2012, the doctors confirmed it—after Thor's help, your cells had finally stabilized. The tesseract’s grip had faded. You were free.

You were aging. Like everyone else. Like you were supposed to. And you’d cried.

Out of relief. Out of fear. Out of the overwhelming weight of time returning to your body.

But you hadn’t gone back to your old self.

You hadn’t gone back to her.

The wild girl who danced barefoot. Who loved a soldier with reckless joy. Who pressed her cheek to a metal dog tag in the dark and whispered “come back to me.”

You buried her.

Built something new. Something safe.

You found someone who loved the woman you became—quiet, poised, a little haunted but finally real.

And today, you were marrying him.

Your hand hovered over your heart. But there was this… ache.

It didn’t make sense. Everything was perfect.

The dress. The weather. The man waiting at the altar. But something deep inside your chest was pulling.

You pressed your hand flat to your ribcage, as if that would stop it. It wouldn’t.

Because it wasn’t fear. It wasn’t doubt. It was something else.

Something… missing.

And you didn’t know why.

You didn’t hear the door open. You didn't hear it close. You didn’t hear the footsteps behind you.

You were too lost in the mirror. In the image of yourself. The one everyone else would call beautiful. Radiant. The woman who made it. Who endured.

But all you saw was someone still trying to believe this was real. Still trying to make that ache go away.

Then—

A voice. Low. Familiar. Reverent.

“You look beautiful.”

You flinched. Spun. Your breath caught. Because he was there.

Bucky.

Standing just inside the door, tux fitted like it was cut from memory, his long hair combed back, bowtie slightly uneven—because of course it was.

He looked… God.

He looked unreal.

You hadn’t seen him in months. Not since you’d started wedding planning. Not since the night you said goodbye with your eyes but not your mouth.

But here he was. Right in front of you.

You stared at him. And he stared right back. Neither of you moved. Neither of you spoke.

The air felt too thin.

And somehow, it wasn’t the dress that made you feel exposed—it was his eyes.

Because he looked at you like he still remembered the curve of your smile before it broke. Like he still saw the woman from 1942. And every version you became after.

“Bucky,” you whispered.

It was all you could manage.

His lips parted like your name was the only thing holding him together. He took a breath.

And the world, for just a second—stopped turning.

Your throat was tight. It ached just to breathe.

“What are you doing here?” you asked, voice barely above a whisper.

Your fingers brushed against the fabric of your gown, like that would steady you. Like anything could.

Bucky’s eyes dropped briefly to your hand. And lingered.

On the ring. Silver. Simple. Clean.

His mouth twitched—not in a smile. In something like memory.

“For him,” he murmured. “Not you.”

You blinked. “What?”

He nodded at your hand. “It’s silver. You always liked gold.”

You looked down. And for a second, the breath you’d been holding collapsed in your lungs. Because he was right. You did like gold. You always had.

“Bucky…” your voice broke around the name, fragile.

He stepped closer. Not much. Just enough to be near.

“I’m sorry,” he said softly. “I just—I needed to see you. Just once.”

You couldn’t speak. Could barely stand.

His voice was velvet and gravel, threaded with every unspoken word you’d buried over the years.

“I didn’t come to stop you,” he said. “I just… I didn’t want the last time I saw you to be the memory of you walking away.”

You closed your eyes. Because it hurt.

Everything about this—his presence, his voice, his knowing you even now—it made your chest feel like it was folding in on itself.

“You shouldn’t be here,” you whispered.

“I know.”

“But you are.”

“I am.”

Silence. Thick. Unforgiving. And still—you didn’t move. You swallowed, but it didn’t help.

Your voice came out thinner than you meant it to, laced with something between ache and awe.

“You’re alive…”

You shook your head, barely. “But I still feel like I’m mourning you.”

The words hit the room like a confession no one had earned but had to be said anyway.

And maybe you were mourning him.

Not just the man in front of you, breathing and solid, with his tux and his sorrowful eyes. But the man you were supposed to have.

The one who never got to put a ring on your finger. The one who never came back from that train.

A tear slipped free before you could stop it. Bucky moved before you even registered it—just one step. But it was instinct. Memory. Love.

His fingers brushed your cheek, feather-light, catching the tear like it offended him. His metal hand didn’t flinch. He held you like he might break something sacred.

You leaned into the touch before you could stop yourself. Sighed softly, shakily.

He studied you like you were the most precious thing on earth.

“Don’t cry,” he murmured, voice low, rough-edged. “It’ll ruin your face.”

You let out something between a laugh and a sob. “It’s already ruined.”

“No,” he said, softly, firmly. “You’re still the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen.”

Your breath stilled. His thumb traced the damp track left behind. His brow was drawn, eyes dim but focused like the moment might disappear if he blinked. And in his silence was everything neither of you could say.

I loved you. I still do. But it’s not mine to hold anymore.

You didn’t mean to reach for him. But you did.

Arms around his waist. Face against his chest. The scent of him—clean, warm, familiar in a way that shattered you.

And he held you. Not like someone about to say goodbye. But like someone who already had. His arms wrapped around you like they were the only safe place you had left. One flesh, one steel. Both trembling.

You could feel his heartbeat—steady, slow, heavy.

He lowered his head, nose brushing your hair, your temple, your jaw. And he breathed you in. Like he wanted to memorize you one last time. Like this was the end of a dream he had held onto for too long.

You held him just as tightly.

Because what else could you do? What else could you give him, when your name was about to become someone else’s?

“I never stopped loving you,” he whispered.

And the silence that followed was louder than any scream. You didn’t say it back. Not because it wasn’t true. But because it was.

A knock shattered the stillness. Soft. Gentle. Final. You both froze.

Your hands lingered on his back for just one more second. Then slowly—too slowly—you pulled away.

You crossed the room. Heart in your throat. You opened the door.

Tony stood there in a sleek tux, his mouth already forming some sarcastic line until his eyes locked on you. And for once—he said nothing.

He just looked at you. Then softly, “You ready?”

You didn’t answer right away. You turned.

Bucky stood in the shadowed half of the room, just behind the edge of the door. Out of sight. Out of reach.

But your eyes found his. One last time.

He didn’t move. Didn’t smile. But he nodded. Just once.

You nodded back. And then turned.

You took the bouquet Tony handed you. Slipped your fingers into the loop of your veil.

And when he offered his arm, you rested your hand on it gently.

You didn’t look back. You didn’t need to. Because some part of you would always be in that room.

Wrapped in arms that could no longer hold you.

────────────────────────

The music swelled—soft, elegant, perfect.

You held onto Tony’s arm, bouquet trembling slightly in your hands. Your veil floated gently behind you, trailing over polished marble floors beneath glittering chandeliers.

The room was everything you’d never imagined as a little girl. Beautiful. Grand. Full of carefully curated perfection.

Your eyes lifted—

And there he was.

Cole.

Waiting at the altar. Back straight. Eyes soft. A man who had held your hand through everything, who had made you laugh when you thought you’d forgotten how.

But as your steps echoed down the aisle—

Your mind drifted. Just for a second.

And the year wasn’t 2016 anymore.

It was 1946.

And you weren’t in Upper Manhattan.

You were in a modest little church in Brooklyn—St. Mary’s of Carmine, two blocks from the tenement you’d grown up in. The kind of church with creaky pews and peeling paint, where sunlight spilled through old stained glass like warm memory.

And waiting at the end of that aisle…

Was Bucky.

Fresh-faced. Hair neat, eyes wide and red-rimmed like he’d already cried and might do it again. He looked at you like the whole damn war had been worth it just to see you in white.

Next to him—Steve. Grinning, proud, a little choked up but trying to play it cool.

You weren’t wearing silk or designer lace. Just a simple, sleeveless dress. No name label. Just love stitched into every seam.

And you were walking toward forever.

The fantasy faded as the room came back into focus—music, flowers, the soft murmur of guests.

Cole was still there. Still smiling. Still waiting.

And you loved him. You really did.

But as you neared him—hand still resting on Tony’s arm—you couldn’t stop the ache that curled low in your chest.

Because somewhere in time, in a church that never stood long enough… You’d already walked this aisle once before.

Your steps slowed. Tony gently squeezed your hand, then released your arm, stepping back as you took your place at the altar.

The air was still.

Cole turned to face you fully. His eyes were soft, steady, full of the kind of love that didn’t need grand declarations.

And maybe that was why this could be real. Why this was.

Your fingers trembled slightly around your bouquet. You glanced up once, just once, to the soft light pouring through the high windows.

The music faded. The pastor cleared his throat gently.

“Dearly beloved…”

You looked forward again. At Cole. At the future you had chosen.

Even as another version of you, in another year, in another universe, still stood in a Brooklyn church, whispering I do to a boy with a medal on his chest and stars in his eyes.

And maybe that version of you would always live, tucked away in a corner of your heart.

But this one? This you—

This you was ready.

The ceremony had begun.

And you didn’t look back.

A/N | Yes chat, we all crying rn, I don't know how many times I made myself cry writing this. Lowkey think this should be left like this, but if ever I write a part 2, it would be like post-blip, Tony's dead, Steve's dead, and cole died somehow, and you're suffering from postpartum and grief, and Bucky's there always to be there for you.

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