galactict3a

[galactict3a]

So convinced John, Simon and König have big babies.

Big, chunky, chubby cheeked, 90th percentile, rolls on their arms, stomach and legs, doe eyed cabbage patch kids, babies.

They are the closet thing you or him are going to get to angels on this earth. They the cutest babies known to man. You don’t know how you managed to push such a big baby out of you, but you got the more adorable (and hungry) little thing known to man.

John, the old man, is almost appalled when the three of you get home and three months in, none of planned baby clothes or diapers can fit any of their clothes cause they’re so small. John definitely has a baby with such chubby cheeks, they’re like big mochi balls and have the cutest boba tea eyes that match yours. John fucking loves it. Cutest thing alive. The man can not say no to the babe for anything. Whatever the baby gurgles or cries for, John gives you that pout to match it.

Simon, always encouraging play time. Even when your baby can’t roll over, Simons giving the best examples (after pushing the coffee table and the couch out of the way) in the living room. A loooong baby, everyone so sure they’ll be tall. Your grandma can barely even lift them when they hit 9 months, they’re a heavy little thing. Simon is one of the few who can hold the baby in just one hand. Always eager to hold the baby in his arms, asking to help him put the carrier on so you can take (another) break.

And König who has to explain when your signing the baby up for daycare that his baby big baby is just 1 years old and not 3, who just started walking and has all those cute little rolls on his arms and legs, And yes, forced the 6’5 man to face his anxiety head on, still shy as ever and quietly apologizing after your child goes up to strangers like he knows them and babbles their heads off. But he’s right there, watching shows like Ms.Rachel, Blues Clues, Kipper abd Little Einsteins and singing along softly to all the songs. Your baby sat in his lap and enjoying every moment of it.

a/n: so unserious and probably ridiculously inaccurate. I just thought it’d be cute if these men had big babies.

masterlist

[galactict3a]

Get Around

Summary : After going on a date with Bucky, Sarah realises they're better off as friends. So she does the next best thing: sets him up with you, the Wilsons’ childhood best friend. 

Pairing : Bucky Barnes x Wilsons’ best friend!reader (she/her) 

Warnings/tags : Fluff!!!! Canon-compliant-ish. cursing. Sex is mentioned and described but nothing too graphic. Honorary Wilson!reader lol. (Please let me know if I miss anything!!!)

Word count : 6.1k

Note : If you’d like to be on the taglist, message me! It gets lost in the comments sometimes. Enjoy!

Bucky had been hanging around Delacroix more often—helping out with repairs, tagging along with Sam, awkwardly charming every older woman at the community center. 

After a while, he asked Sarah out the old-fashioned way. They were mid-conversation on her porch after a neighborhood barbecue when he said, “Would you maybe wanna grab coffee sometime?”

Sarah blinked. “Like… a date?”

Bucky rubbed the back of his neck, shrugging. “Yeah. A date.”

She smiled, a little surprised he actually made a move. “Sure, Barnes. Why not?”

—

The coffee date was… fine.

Sarah looked good—she always did—but sitting across from her in a cosy little café, Bucky felt like he was going through the motions. She talked about her boys, the PTA, the plumber who still hadn’t fixed the upstairs sink. He listened politely, sipping his drink.

As the date went on, the silences got longer. Not the comfortable kind— the searching-for-what-to-say-next kind.

Sarah told a hilarious story about AJ trying to microwave a juice box. Bucky laughed but didn’t know how to relate. He talked about old jazz clubs in Brooklyn, and she smiled, but couldn’t picture it.

Now, he thought to himself, what on earth do we have in common? 

She liked things like school pickups and meal prep and making sure her boys had clean socks.

He was still figuring out how to use Google Maps.

By the time their drinks were finished, Sarah leaned back in her chair and tilted her head. “You know this isn’t gonna work, right?”

Bucky let out a relieved sigh. “God, thank you. I thought I was crazy.”

“You’re sweet,” she said with a grin. “But you’re… not for me.”

“You’re way too… normal,” he joked, happy to go back to friendly banter.

“Hey! Normal’s not so bad,” she playfully slapped his arm, grinning. “Especially with two kids and a mortgage. I like normal.”

Bucky shrugged. “I think I’m still trying to figure out what normal even is.”

There wasn’t any bitterness between them, just a mutual understanding. They walked out side by side, still friends, no pressure. Bucky held the door open for her, and they walked side-by-side on the sidewalk.

“You’ll find someone,” she said, patting his shoulder. “Just maybe not a single mom who spends half her life arguing with a ten-year-old about screen time.”

“Mm. Modern dating’s rough,” Bucky muttered, almost to himself, kicking a pebble. He gave her a half-hearted laugh. “I never had to do it before. In the forties, you danced with someone, got shipped three weeks later, and that was that.”

Sarah adjusted the strap of her bag. “Yeah, well, times have changed.”

“I don’t even know what my ‘type’ is,” Bucky sighed, plunging his hands into the pocket of his leather jacket.

“Come on. Everyone has a type,” She glanced at him. “What do you usually go for?”

He thought for a long moment, mouth half open, brows furrowed like he was trying to solve a math problem.

“I dunno… pretty? Smart? Likes reading and stuff?” He squinted. “You know. Someone who makes me feel like I’m not completely out of place all the time.”

Sarah blinked at him, then let out a laugh that was more affectionate than mocking. “You’re hopeless.”

“I said I don’t know!”

“So,” she started, gears already shifting in her head, “You want someone smart, probably a little intense, maybe a little weird— someone who could keep up with your nerdy ass and not try to fix you.”

Bucky looked at her sideways. “...Is that a bad thing?”

“Not at all. Just not me.” She shrugged, before smiling to herself. “Lucky for you, I think I know the woman for you,” she said with a little sing-song voice.

Bucky’s brow furrowed. “You’re setting me up with someone else?”

She grinned, wide and smug. “Damn right I am.”

“After I just tried to date you?”

“Please,” she said, already pulling out her phone. “This is the South. Everyone’s dated everyone once. It’s how we weed out the bad matches and find the good ones.”

—

The air was warm and fragrant with the smell of jasmine, the kind of Southern evening that made time stretch out and slow down. Cicadas hummed in the trees like a constant chorus, and the porch creaked beneath. You sat curled up on the steps, legs tucked beneath you, an old quilt draped across your lap even though the heat hardly called for it. Sarah lounged across from you, sipping sweet tea from a mason jar, her curls tied back, the porch light casting a halo around her.

“So,” she said, breaking the comfortable silence as she swirled the ice in her glass, “I went on a date with Bucky Barnes.”

You blinked. “Wait—the Bucky? Metal arm, might’ve killed a guy with a butter knife?” Sam has told you a lot about him, of course. But that wasn’t the same as knowing him. 

Sarah nodded.

You sat up straighter, curious now. “Okay, and? Spill.”

She tilted her head thoughtfully. “He’s... complicated. But nice. Weirdly funny. He loves old movies and books and he’s got this thing where he looks constantly exhausted by the existence of social media.”

“That’s… something.”

Sarah shrugged. “He’s trying. But it didn’t really click, you know? Not romantically, anyway. We kind of gave each other this look like, ‘Yeah, this isn’t it.’”

You took a slow sip of your tea, watching her closely. “So why are you telling me this?”

Sarah raised an eyebrow, unhurried. And if you knew her— and you did— she was scheming. “Because you… you might be exactly his type.”

Your brow shot up. “You’re trying to set me up with the Winter Soldier?”

“No,” Sarah rolled her eyes and leaned forward. “I’m trying to set you up with Bucky. Who happens to have a metal arm and a very unfortunate history of government-sanctioned murder. Besides, I think he’s your type, too.”

You made a show of pretending to consider it, lips pursed. “Pretty but did government-sanctioned murder is my type?”

She nodded without missing a beat. “A hundred percent. You like them brooding and bookish with just a dash of ‘might stab someone for you.’”

You laughed. “Okay, but what about Sam?” You leaned back to the wooden railing, running your fingers around the rim of your glass. “You really think he’s gonna be chill with Bucky taking two of the closest women in his life out?”

“He’ll freak,” Sarah finished, deadpan. “But if it doesn’t work out, he doesn’t have to know. If it does we’ll handle it. I’ll hit him with the ‘don’t get in the way of love’ speech. Maybe throw in some guilt about daddy watching from heaven.”

“That’s cold.”

“It’s effective.”

You chuckled, setting your glass down and leaning back, looking out at the yard. Crickets chirped somewhere near the bushes, and the stars were just starting to peek through the indigo sky. 

You bit your lip, shaking your head but not saying no. You were picturing him now— this man you’d only ever seen in brief glimpses, standing quiet at the edges of cookouts, nodding along to conversations, sometimes slipping into laughter like he forgot he was allowed to enjoy things.

“Does he read?” you asked finally, glancing sideways at her.

“All the time. Sam said he annotates in the margins.”

You tried not to smile, but it slipped out anyway. “That’s annoyingly charming.”

“Right?” Sarah grinned, delighted.

You took another sip, thinking. “I mean... I’m not saying yes,” you murmured.

Sarah just chuckled. “But you’re already thinking about what you’re gonna wear.”

You shot her a look. “Shut up.”

But to be fair, she was right. You were intrigued. 

Completely, undeniably intrigued.

—

Sarah picked the brunch spot—a sunny corner café with mismatched mugs and a chalkboard menu that changed every week. It had string lights even in daylight and smelled like syrup, coffee, and cinnamon.

Bucky walked in five minutes early, as he always did when he wasn’t entirely sure what to expect. He scanned the room— and then stopped short.

“Oh,” he said aloud, more to himself than anything.

Because there you were, sitting by the window in a breezy sundress and sneakers, sipping coffee from a mug the size of your face. You looked up, spotted him, and smiled like you were in on a secret he hadn’t been told yet.

He found himself smiling. “It’s you.”

You hadn't really talked before, not properly. He knew you were close with Sam and Sarah, always laughing or deep in conversation with someone else at the Wilson gatherings. He’d noticed you, though— thought you were beautiful, but always just too out of reach.

“That’s one way to greet a date.” Your brow lifted, amused. “I was hoping for a little more enthusiasm.”

“No—I mean—hi,” he managed to recover, walking over. “I just didn’t know it was you you.”

“Sarah didn’t tell you?”

“No,” he admitted, a little sheepish. “I thought I was showing up for a complete stranger. Not the Wilson’s pretty friend who always hangs out with the book club moms at barbecues.”

“Hey!” You defended yourself. “Mrs. Landry always has good gossip.”

Oh, this was going to be interesting.

—

You both sat a little awkward at first, but then he made a dry joke about how brunch menus had too many eggs, and you responded with a sass-laced quip about men being afraid of hollandaise. The banter just clicked.

Conversation flowed easy after that.

You teased him for calling the server “ma’am” like he was born in a different century (because he was), and he shot back that you flirt like it’s a contact sport— which you didn’t deny. He found out you liked old books and that you could, in fact, take him in an argument about which Indiana Jones movie was the best. 

To your surprise, Bucky was funny. Not just in a dry, sarcastic way, but he was genuinely quick-witted. He told a story about a disastrous attempt to use a self-checkout machine (“It yelled at me, loudly, in front of children”), and you nearly choked on your coffee.

When you talked about the petty drama at your job, he listened with real interest, laughing in the right places, asking the right questions. It wasn’t like dragging someone through small talk; it felt… mutual.

“So…” you started as you took the last bite of your croissant. “how’s this date measuring up to Sarah’s?”

“Well,” he raised an eyebrow. “I haven’t checked the time once.”

Your smile widened.

“She’s cool,” he added, “but… this is different. In a good way.”

“I’ll take that.”

–

By the time the check landed on the table, you both reached for it.

Bucky narrowed his eyes. “Don’t even think about it.”

You tilted your head, amused. “You don’t even know what I was going to say.” 

“You were going to insist on splitting. Don’t. Let me feel like a gentleman,” he said playfully, “Don’t steal my moment.”

“Oh, this is your moment?”

He leaned in slightly. “I’m trying to be charming, sweetheart. Let me have this.”

“Fine,” you rolled your eyes, pretending to be pissed, “But only because you said ‘sweetheart’ like a noir movie star.”

He winked. “I’ve got more where that came from.”

You rolled your eyes, but you were grinning now as he handed the check off, and thought, Sarah was right. 

–

He walked you to your car, hands in his pockets, close enough that your shoulders brushed every few steps. The sun was warm, the air smelled like honeysuckle and syrup, and you… didn’t want it to end.

“I had a good time,” you said, pausing at your door.

He stopped, looking at you like you’d caught him off guard. “Yeah… me too. More than I expected.”

You raised an eyebrow, pretending to be offended. “More than you expected?”

“I just didn’t think it’d be… this easy,” he admitted, scratching the back of his neck. 

“Careful,” you teased. “I might start thinking you like me.”

He looked at you, eyes on your mouth, on the way you leaned back against the car door like you had nowhere else to be. “I do.”

You smiled, knowing this wouldn’t be the last time you saw each other. “So… what now?”

“That depends,” he said. “Would you wanna do this again?”

You stepped in just a little, your face tilted up toward his, close enough to feel the heat off his skin. “Definitely.”

“We should go to the new bar down the corner soon,” he suggested.

“Great,” you said, eyes twinkling. “Text me, and I’ll be there.”

He leaned in like he might say something else, or might kiss you, might do something bold— but instead, he just smiled.

You slipped into your car, started it up, and rolled the window down.

“Hey, Bucky?” you called.

He stepped back, looking unfairly attractive in the sunlight. “Yeah?”

You met his eyes. “You’re even prettier up close.”

And you drove off, leaving him standing there— watching you go like you were the best thing that had happened to him all week.

—

Three days later, you went on your second date.

“Are we sure about this?” Bucky asked, pulling open the bar’s door for you. For better or for worse, tonight was trivia night. 

You stepped in, instantly hit with the scent of beer, wings, questionable cologne. “Nope,” you said cheerfully. “I’m mostly here for the nachos.”

“That’s fair.” He chuckled, following behind. “I’m just gonna pretend I know things about pop culture.”

You gave him a sidelong glance. “I don’t know if I trust your grasp on modern trivia.”

“I’ve been catching up,” he said, almost seriously if not for the slight curve on his lips. “Did you know there are nine Fast & Furious movies?”

“Ten, actually,” you said with mock pity. “Proud of you, though.”

He held a hand to his chest like you’d wounded him. “I let you insult my trivia knowledge and I still pulled your chair out for you.”

You beamed. “Chivalry’s not dead.”

“Just slightly bruised,” he said, sitting beside you as the host passed around answer sheets and sharpies.

–

You came in fifth out of nine teams.

“Honestly,” Bucky said as you both stepped into the night air, “I think we did well.”

“You thought Pluto was a planet.”

“It was,” he defended, “back in 1940!”

You laughed, waving him off. “Excuses.”

He walked a little closer, catching up. “Still,” he started again, “I had fun.”

You nudged him with your shoulder. “We make a good team. Incompetent, but y’know.”

“Speak for yourself,” he said lightly. 

“So…,” you drawled. “Should we do something again next week?”

He leaned in close, pretending to think. “Only if you promise to educate me on planetary bodies.”

“Deal.”

—

The week after, you decided to go to a roller rink together.

“This is either going to be really cute,” you said as you laced up your skates, “or humiliating.”

Bucky was already upright, perfectly balanced in his skates, the annoyingly coordinated war-time ballerina that he is. He looked down at you with that stupidly charming half-smile. “So far, I’m voting cute.”

You squinted at him. “You’re only saying that because you haven’t seen me fall yet.”

He offered you his hand. “Let’s see, then.”

You took it—gratefully—and let him help you up. Instantly, your legs turned into spaghetti and you clung to his arm with both hands.

“Oh fuck,” you cursed under your breath.. “Fuckfuckfuck.”

He laughed, gently snaking an arm down your waist. “When was the last time you did this?”

“Thirteen?” you guessed, “I had a much lower center of gravity. Also, zero fear of public scrutiny.”

“Well,” he said, guiding you slowly onto the rink like you were made of glass, “you can hold on to me.”

“I’m practically koala-ing your arm.”

“I don’t mind,” he murmured under his breath, glancing down at you with a look that was far too fond for someone who’d just watched you nearly faceplant.

You clutched his arm tighter, still trying to get your legs to cooperate. “God, this is embarrassing."

“It’s cute,” he insisted. “You’re like a baby deer on ice.”

“I will push you into a wall.”

“You’d fall too,” he warned, “So it’d be mutually assured destruction.”

Eventually, you got the hang of not immediately dying, though Bucky still skated close, one hand lightly on your back or guiding your wrist like he didn’t want to be too far away. Every time you stumbled, he caught you like he’d been training for this moment his whole life.

“You’re doing great,” he encouraged, breathless from laughing. “You haven’t even faceplanted yet.”

“That’s because I’ve been using you like a human walker.”

“And I’m honored,” he said solemnly. “Touch me all you want.”

You rolled your eyes but didn’t let go. His hand was steady, and every time you squeezed in fear, it made his heart stutter a little.

As the cheesy pop music echoed through the rink and colored lights flashed over your faces, you tugged him down slightly and pressed a quick kiss to his cheek.

He tilted his head like he hadn’t expected it. “What was that for?”

You gave him a casual shrug. “You didn’t let me fall.”

His grin looked a little dazed. “I’m never letting go now.”

You bumped his shoulder playfully. “You sound like you’re catching feelings.”

He looked down at you, cheeks still pink from your kiss. “And if I was? You gonna push me into a wall?”

You leaned into him, still holding on. “No,” you pretended to consider, “You’re growing on me.”

He gave your hand a gentle squeeze, then tugged you into another lap around the rink— this time, not as your balance support, but just because he wanted to keep you close.

—

The next time he took you out was two weeks later— Bucky needed to go on a mission, and thankfully, he came back in one piece.

You weren’t sure what possessed you to say yes to a swing dance night— probably Bucky’s hopeful smile and the promise of watching him do footwork that didn’t involve combat boots and a rifle. But now, standing in the bar with a live brass band warming up and people in suspenders and retro curls twirling across the floor, you were very aware of two things: One, you were wearing a swing dress that flared when you spun. Two, Bucky Barnes was staring at you like he forgot how to breathe.

“Wow,” he said as he stepped up to you. “You look…”

You raised a brow, playfully daring him to finish that sentence.

He blinked, still locked in on your dress. It was deep red with a fitted waist and a full skirt. Your hair was pinned just enough to look like effort without screaming it, and your lipstick was the exact shade of I-wanna-kiss-you red. “Like a dream.”

You laughed, smoothing your skirt like it might somehow make his gaze less intense. “You’re just saying that because the dress twirls.”

He offered you his arm, loving the way you fit beside him— like an old-Hollywood couple.

The dance floor was alive, buzzing with movement and people spinning and dipping under strings of lights. You clutched Bucky’s hand tightly as he led you out, equal parts excited and terrified.

“I have no idea what I’m doing,” you whispered.

He leaned in, mouth brushing your ear. “That’s okay. I do.”

And he did. Oh, he really did.

Bucky danced well, probably because he learned to when it meant something—when music was a lifeline, when joy had to be stolen in smoky clubs when the world was falling apart. He was confident, never showy, and always aware of you. 

You found yourself laughing, light and giddy, as he spun you out and back again. Your dress fanned like a flame, your heels sliding along the floor, and every time you landed in his arms, his stare lingered just a moment longer than necessary.

“Where’d you learn to dance like this?” you asked, catching your breath.

He gave a small, wistful smile. “Brooklyn. You had to ask someone or you didn’t dance at all.”

“And you always asked?”

He shrugged, but the glance he gave you was shy. “Sometimes.”

You couldn’t help yourself. “What a player.”

“Well, I never found the right partner,” he chuckled, but didn’t deny it. “Until now.”

Oh?

“Only took you ninety years,” you teased and squeezed his hand. When you leaned back slightly, the lights caught the silver of his dog tags beneath the open collar of his shirt. It was a reminder of everything he’d carried on his shoulders— everything he rarely said out loud. And you wanted, suddenly, for him to feel something new. 

So you kissed him.

Right there on the floor, standing on your toes to press your mouth to his. His lips parted with surprise at first, then his hand tightening at your waist, his other sliding up your back like he couldn’t stop himself.

You weren’t trying to steal something from him—you were offering something instead. He kissed you back because he understood that. 

When you finally pulled away, he didn’t say anything.

He just looked at you like he was falling in love— and trying, desperately, not to admit it.

—

A couple days later, you had your monthly catch up with Sarah. 

Your porch smelled like beer, chicken wings, and dandelions. The boys were pretending to swordfight in your backyard. 

Sarah stirred the ketchup pot with a wing. “So,” she said, already smiling like she knew, “how’s it going with our favorite ex-assassin?”

You tried to play it cool. You really did.

“It’s…” You took a sip from your glass to buy time. “Going.”

Sarah tilted her head. “That’s all I get?”

“Fine.” You let out a soft laugh, resting your elbow on the lap, chin in your hand. “It’s going… really well.”

“Mmhmm.” She took a sip like she was examining a case. “Are we talking awkward small talk and polite side hugs? Or—”

“He took me dancing,” you interrupted, like that alone said everything. 

Sarah sat up straighter, eyes wide. “Bucky Barnes took you dancing?”

“To a swing bar with a live band and couples in suspenders and victory rolls. He knew all the steps.”

Sarah pretended to look disappointed. “The best he could do for me was coffee.”

You laughed, nudging her shoulders. “And he looked at me like— fuck, Sarah, like I was made of stardust or somethin’.”

“Oof.” She leaned back, hand over her heart. “You’re in it.”

“I’m not—” You paused, considering it. “Okay. Maybe. A little.”

“A little?”

“I kissed him,” you confessed. “On the dance floor.”

Sarah was quiet for a beat, her eyes turning warm. “Sounds like he’s falling for you.” 

You toyed with the rim of the bowl. “I think it scares him.”

Sarah nodded slowly. “Good.”

You looked up at her, almost worried. “What if I fall first?”

“Then you fall,” she reassured, proud of her matchmaking skills. “He’ll catch you. Even if it takes him a minute.”

—

Across the world, Sam and Bucky were just finishing up a mission— low-level intel retrieval, some mild breaking and entering, nothing they hadn’t done a dozen times before. Still, Bucky was in a suspiciously good mood for someone who’d just spent three hours crawling through ventilation ducts and dodging motion sensors.

They were walking back to the jet when Sam finally said it.

“You’ve been smiley lately.”

Bucky scoffed, keeping his eyes forward. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“You’ve got this weird, smug little grin thing going on,” Sam insisted. “Thought maybe you got hit too hard in the head back there.”

Bucky rolled his eyes. “I’m not.”

Sam nudged him with an elbow. “So what’s her name?”

Bucky stiffened for a split second, just enough for Sam to catch it.

“See, I know you,” Sam said, leaning forward now, laughing. “You’re seeing someone, aren’t you?”

Bucky tried to play it off, shrugging like it was no big deal. “I’m... Yeah.”

Sam’s jaw dropped in mock offense. “And you weren’t gonna tell me?”

Bucky groaned, already regretting it. “Don’t make it weird.”

“I’m not making it weird! I’m just—who?”

“Drop it.”

Sam blinked. “You’re not gonna tell me?”

“Nope.”

“Is it someone I know?” Sam insisted.

“I’m not talking about it,” Bucky gritted.

“Is it—? Wait.” Sam’s eyes went round. “It better not be someone from my neighborhood .”

Bucky shot him a look. “It’s none of your business.”

“Oh my God it is someone from the neighbourhood!”

“Sam.”

“You’re dating one of the aunties??”

“No! Jesus.”

“Who then? Just give me a hint—”

“Fuck, it’s… early,” Bucky said, voice a little tight. “So just—drop it, okay?”

Truth was, he didn’t want to deal with the fallout. Yet. Because once Sam found out—once he did the math and realised Bucky had dated his sister, however briefly, and then ended up dating you, his childhood best friend, the one who used to sneak popsicles to Sarah after bedtime and once helped him bury a broken Game Boy like it was a funeral…?

Yeah. No thanks. Not until he had to.

Sam, to Bucky’s immense surprise, let it go.

Kind of.

“Well,” Sam said after a long moment, trying to play it cool but still delighted, “Just a foolproof-Sam-Wilson-dating-tip: bring her over to yours. Cook for her. Ladies love that.”

Bucky side-eyed him. “What, like, from scratch?”

“Yeah, man. Light a candle, put on some Coltrane, pretend you know how to make pasta that isn’t out of a box.”

Bucky rolled his eyes, but Sam could tell he was actually considering it. “I didn’t ask for your advice.”

“You never do, and yet, I keep improving your life,” Sam said in that annoying matter-of-factly way he always did. “You’re welcome.”

Bucky shook his head, fighting the urge to smile again as he started planning your dinner. 

—

So he invited you to your apartment when he got back. 

When he opened the door that night, you kissed him chastely on the corner of his mouth as a greeting. “Hey you.”

He tried to look casual, but blushed a little. You were in jeans and a tucked-in tank top, nothing dramatic, but seeing you again after three weeks of non-stop texting felt like a breath of fresh air.

You had since gotten comfortable in his place, exploring every nook and cranny, figuring what made this place so…. him.

It was tidy and lived-in, filled with small signs that he was figuring out what a home meant— books stacked on end tables, a couch with a cozy throw, a record player in the corner playing jazz like it belonged in another century.

You were now barefoot in his kitchen, sipping wine and leaning against the counter, watching him move around like he wasn’t nervously making sure he was making the pesto right. Bucky wore a plain black tee and trousers, sleeves pushed up, forearm metal plates rippling as he stirred something on the stove— pasta, homemade sauce, garlic bread in the oven. It smelled good.

“I can’t believe James Buchanan Barnes is cooking for me,” you teased, swirling the wine in your glass.

He glanced over his shoulder, smirking. “Don’t sound so shocked.”

“What?” you defended, “I’m flattered.”

“You should be. I’m just trying to impress you.”

You raised an eyebrow. “Trying pretty hard, huh?”

He squinted playfully at you. “Shut up.”

You were chuckled as he stepped closer, reaching past you for the olive oil—but his hand hovered on the counter instead, palm pressed near your hip. His eyes flickered to your mouth and lingered, there, like it was physically impossible to look away.

“You look good here,” he mentioned, hands creeping closer to you.

“Here?”

“In my space.” He clarified, nodding. “You fit.”

Your heart skipped a beat.

Before he could overthink it, he kissed you.

It started slow—his hand resting just below your ribs,—but it escalated quickly, the kind of kiss that made you forget the world was round. 

Your hands slipped up under the edge of his shirt, palms flattening against the warm skin of his stomach. He gasped against your mouth, just a little, but didn’t pull back. His hands found your waist and pulled you closer until there was no space between you.

Bucky kissed like he was starving. Like he’d been trying so hard to be careful and you’d finally told him he didn’t have to be.

You dragged your fingers up his sides, felt the way his body shivered slightly under your touch. He kissed you harder, tongue slipping against yours, his metal hand gripping your waist. Your back hit the edge of the counter and you arched into him, lips parting on a moan you didn’t mean to make—but it set a bomb off in him.

His mouth dropped to your neck, open-mouthed and hot, and your hands found the hem of his shirt again, tugging gently.

“Wait—” you said, breathless, your head falling back a little, “Bucky—” 

“What? Did I—?”

You laughed, one hand resting on his chest. “The stove.”

He blinked. “The—?”

You tilted your head toward the pot behind him, steam now visible, the faint bubbling sound definitely not part of the white noise.

“Oh, shit.”

He turned fast, fumbling with the knob, grabbing the towel and yanking the pot off the heat and turning off the oven while muttering curses under his breath. You leaned back against the counter, laughing.

He turned back around, hair slightly tousled, but not looking the least bit sorry. “We can heat it up later.”

You raised an eyebrow. “Oh?”

“Mhm.” He stepped in close again, gently crowding you against the cabinets, one hand braced beside your head. “Dinner can wait.”

You didn’t argue. You just hooked a finger into the collar of his shirt, pulled him in again. His hand hiked up your thigh as he sunk down, kneeling on the floor, pasta be damned. 

You tasted better than anything on the stove anyway.

—

After a good hour or so in bed, Bucky took you to shower. It was all steam and lazy kisses pressed to damp skin. You’d lingered under the spray longer than you needed to, neither of you in any rush to move, to pull away, to stop being tangled up in each other.

Now, you were perched on the edge of Bucky’s island kitchen counter, freshly showered, legs swinging gently, damp hair tucked behind your ears, wearing nothing but a pair of his briefs and his t-shirt, hanging off one shoulder in a way that made Bucky keep glancing over like he was already planning to peel it back off.

He stood shirtless across from you at the stove, boiling a new batch of pasta after he’d abandoned the old ones earlier. His hair was still a little wet, clinging to the back of his neck, and his gray sweatpants hung dangerously low on his hips. His metal arm glinted in the light as he stirred the sauce one-handed, the other casually wiping at a stray droplet of water on his chest.

You tilted your head. “You know what?” you started.

Bucky looked over, eyebrows raised. 

“I think I like sex better before dinner,” you finished your thoughts.

He let out the sweetest laugh, remembering how beautiful you looked underneath him on the couch earlier, right before he scooped you up, took you to bed, and placed you on his lap. “Do you, now?”

“Mmhmm,” you nodded, “Because the food’s not in there yet. It’s not, like… sloshing around.”

Bucky paused mid-stir, blinked at you, then chuckled. “Sloshing?”

You laughed too, unapologetic. “I’m just saying! Strategic timing is key.”

He turned back to the stove and shrugged. “My metabolism’s so quick it doesn’t really matter.”

You scoffed. “Of course it doesn’t.”

He turned to face you fully, spoon in hand, as he fed you a taste of the sauce. “But I’m glad we didn’t wait.”

You hummed in approval at the taste and hooked your fingers into the waistband of his sweatpants to tug him closer, gently. “Yeah?”

“Yeah,” he admitted, almost sheepishly. “You, in my shirt…” He reached up, tugging the loose collar gently back into place over your shoulder. “Kind of ruins me a little.”

Your smile turned fond. “Good.”

He kissed you again, sighing as he pictured you thirty minutes earlier, mewling and begging on top of him, falling apart at the same time as him. He remembered pulling you close afterward, whispering praises and sweet nothings in your ears as you mumbled his name, content and so fucking pretty—

Knock knock knock. 

The sound interrupted the kiss as you pulled away. The knocks were so confident, it sounded like the person on the other side knew Bucky was home.

You tilted your head, your fingers idly twisting the waistband of his sweats. “Who’s that?”

Bucky glanced toward the door, grabbing a towel to wipe his hands. “Probably one of my neighbors. You were loud earlier.”

You swatted him. “Shut up.”

He just winked and went to open the door.

But his smirk vanished the second he saw who was standing there.

“Hey, tin man,” Sam greeted casually, breezing in like he owned the place, holding up a paper bag from that diner down the street. “I got fries, I’m bored, and Joaquin’s still in Miami, so I figured we could—” He trailed off, freezing.

Because he’d looked past Bucky.

And saw you.

You, still perched on the counter in Bucky’s shirt, hair damp, face flushed. Very clearly post-shower, post-sex, post-everything.

Sam looks at Bucky. “Hold up.”

Your eyes grew as wide as dinner plates. Bucky winced.

Sam pointed between the two of you, voice rising. “You’re dating my childhood best friend?!”

You tried to recover, sliding off the counter like that would somehow make things better. “Okay, wait—”

“It’s not—” Bucky started, rubbing the back of his neck like he wanted to disappear into the wall. “It’s not what it looks like.”

Sam gestured wildly. “It looks like she’s wearing your shirt.”

You looked down. Yep. Sure was.

You cleared your throat. “Surprise?”

Bucky groaned. “Look, Sarah set us up.”

“SARAH???” Sam yelped. “What does Sarah have to do with this?!”

You raised a hand like a student in class. “Okay, okay—context,” you started, “Sarah went on a date with Bucky. But it didn’t work out.”

Sam turned so fast. “YOU DATED MY SISTER TOO?!”

Bucky dragged a hand down his face. “It didn’t work out, man!”

“I can’t—” Sam paced in a tight circle. “You dated my sister, and now you’re—what—hooking up with our childhood best friend? An honorary Wilson? Are you working through my entire support system? Gonna date my mom next?!”

You muttered under your breath, “Don’t think they have tinder in the afterlife.”

Bucky gave you a look. “Not the time.”

You winced. “Sorry.”

Sam squinted at you both, still flabbergasted, still holding his fries like they’d betrayed him. “And how long has this been going on?”

You and Bucky exchanged a guilty glance. You opened his mouth to answer, but he beat you to it.

“… when did we get back from that Madripoor mission?”

Sam stared. “That was, like, two months ago.”

Then, quietly, Bucky muttered, “I was gonna tell you.”

“When?” Sam crossed his arms. “At the wedding?”

Bucky sighed. “You gonna be mad forever?”

Sam shook his head, grumbling, “I’m not mad. I’m just—processing.” Then he pointed a finger at you, suspicious. “And you. You were just gonna act like this is normal?”

You bit your lip, smiled sheepishly. “In my defense, I was planning to tell you… eventually. So stop pointing hot food at me and quit being dramatic. Sarah and I can take care of ourselves, thank you very much.”

Sam looked at his fries.

“…These are for both of you now,” he muttered.

And Bucky, hopeful, asked, “So we’re good?”

Sam narrowed his eyes.

“I swear to God, Barnes, if you hurt her—”

“I won’t,” Bucky said, before you even could. And the way he said it made something in your chest flutter. 

Sam sighed again, shaking his head. “Fine. But next time, maybe tell me before I walk in on my best friend looking like she just climbed outta your bed.”

You shrugged, plucking a fry from the bag. “Honestly, we never made it to bed the first time.”

“NOPE,” Sam said, backing toward the door. “I’m leaving. And you!” He pointed at Bucky “Next week. You’re explaining everything.” Then he pointed at you. “You. Bring wine.”

You saluted. “Yes, sir.”

And as Sam walked out grumbling, Bucky just shook his head, slid an arm around your waist, and pressed a kiss to your temple.

“Well,” you said, leaning into him, “that could’ve gone worse.”

“Yeah,” Bucky laughed. “He didn’t even threaten to punch me.”

“Yet.”

“Fair.”

—end. 

Request Guidelines

Masterlist

General Bucky taglist:

@hotlinepanda @snflwr-vol6 @ruexj283 @2honeybees @read-just-cant

 @shanksstrawhat @mystictf @globetrotter28 @thebuckybarnesvault @average-vibe

@winchestert101 @mystictf @globetrotter28 @boy--wonder--187 @scariusaquarius

@reckless007 @hextech-bros @daydreamgoddess14 @96jnie @pono-pura-vida

@buckyslove1917 @notsostrangerthing @flow33didontsmoke @qvynrand @blackbirdwitch22

@torntaltos @seventeen-x @ren-ni @iilsenewman @slayerofthevampire

@hiphip-horray @jbbucketlist @melotyy @ethereal-witch24 @samfunko

@lilteef @hi172826 @pklol @average-vibe @shanksstrawhat

@shower-me-with-roses @athenabarnes @scarwidow @thriving-n-jiving @dilfsaresohot

@helloxgoodbi @undf-stuff @sapphirebarnes @hzdhrtss @softhornymess

@samfunko @wh1sp @anonymousreader4d7 @mathcat345 @escapefromrealitylol

@imjusthere1161 @sleepysongbirdsings @fuckybarnes @yn-stories-are-my-life @rIphunter

@cjand10 @nerdreader @am-3-thyst @wingstoyourdreams @lori19

@goldengubs @maryevm @helen-2003 @maryssong23 @fan4astic

@yesshewrites1 @thewiselionessss @sangsterizada @jaderabbitt @softpia 

@hopeofwinter @nevereclipse @tellybearryyyy @buckybarneswife125 @buckybarneswife125

@imaginecrushes @phoenixes-and-wizards @rowanthomasknapp @daystarpoet @thefandomplace

@biaswreckedbybuckybarnes @herejustforbuckybarnes @kitasownworld @shortandb1tchy @roxyym

@badl4nder @natalia42069 @silverdoragon

[galactict3a]

I WANT MORE OF BUTCHER SIMON SO BAD , you know when they started to become couples his business got growing up and he had to open other meat shops and restaurants and he became rich and asking her to marry him while she’s pregnant with his child ahhhhhh

Hi anon! I love writing butcher!simon too oml😭 It's not rlly turned out how you described it to be, but we have more parts to write and read! Enjoy!

butcher!simon who woke up after the night you two spent together (I shall say the night he spent in you). And fuuck, how pretty you looked for him! Hair all messy, naked, wrapped in the blanket in his bed. But smile faded from his lips when he thought "No, you weren't fully his yet."

butcher!simon who was afraid of you ghosting him after that night, but to his relief you showed up at his shop the next day, all dolled up and beautiful, kissing him in front of other customers, making him be over the moon and ready to cum in his fucking pants.

butcher!simon who started to receive messages from you that you're feeling sick and you puked a couple of times:( That's when the man realises: he bred you just right. You're pregnant with his baby.

butcher!simon who rushes to your place, wanting to feel your warmth as soon as possible and thank you for carrying his baby

butcher!simon who falls on his knees to pat your belly gently, to feel your now a very little baby bump with his palm

butcher!simon who goes shopping for your future baby immediately after finding out you're pregnant. Chooses clothes a size bigger , because he's oh so sure that his baby will be chubby like his daddy

butcher!simon that finally made sure that you're fully his.

[galactict3a]

Poly!141 x Fem!Reader - Stop The Wedding (Part 1)

Part 2 / Part 3 / Part 4 / Part 5 / Part 6 / Part 7 /Part 8 / Part 9

I hope you all enjoy this! 💛

Please be kind, reblogs are always welcome and greatly appreciated! Thank you for all the continued support 💛

Requests are open so if you have any ideas/requests, you're more than welcome to send them over (thank you to everyone who's requested a story so far, I'm working my way through them!)

I do not give permission for any of my works to be copied or translated onto this site or other platforms!

Warnings: Feelings of jealousy, regret and anger

COD Modern Warfare Masterlist / Join My Taglist

Johnny was running to the base; thoughts racing through his mind at the news he’d just heard. 

You were getting married. 

Married. 

The words were like poison in his mind. 

He was pretty sure he wasn’t meant to find out that news, given how her friend suddenly stopped mid sentence before quickly saying goodbye to him.  

He needed to tell the others; so that they could come up with a plan to stop this wedding from happening at all. 

“Guys,” Johnny panted as all but burst into his Captains office; not considering whether or not John was in a meeting. 

Thankfully he wasn’t. 

And the only people that were in the room; were the very people he’d hoped were here. 

John, Kyle and Simon. 

“Johnny?” Simon’s voice came first, taking two long strides to the door, wondering what the hell had gotten Johnny so worked up. 

“Are you okay?” Kyle followed Simon, stopping just short of the panting man by the door; putting his hand on his back in an attempt to soothe the emotions Johnny was feeling; that no one could really place.  

John remained in the chair behind his desk, watching Johnny with a worried look in his eyes. 

“She’s getting married,” Johnny continued, leaning against the doorframe attempting to catch his breath. 

A confused silence filled the room.

John, Simon and Kyle all glancing at one another before turning their attention back to Johnny. 

“Y/n,” the Scotsman clarified, “Y/ns getting married.”

Suddenly the sargents emotional entrance had a cause. 

“To who?” Kyle questioned, feeling like he’d just had the wind knocked out of him. 

“I don’t know his name, I just know it’s happening,” Johnny explained, wiping some of the sweat off of his forehead with the back of his hand; his eyes darting between the two men in front of him. 

Kyle looked how Johnny felt, shocked. 

Simon however remained neutral, at least in his facial expressions. His eyes told another story. There was a hurt flickering within his lieutenants eyes, something that people may have missed but Johnny, knowing him so well, didn’t. 

“How do you know?” John asked, his tone surprisingly calm as he lit one of his cigars. 

“Her friend told me,” Johnny replied, moving past Kyle and Simon to look at John, “We need to do something,” 

“What can we do?” John posed the question as though stopping you from getting married wasn’t a big deal. 

It was. 

“John-”

“She’s not our girl anymore, Johnny,” John stated firmly, not backing down from his viewpoint as Johnny uttered a string of Gaelic curse words under his breath. 

“That’s bullshit and you know it,” the Scotsman finally snapped; lashing out at Johns dismissiveness to the situation.

“Johnny-” Simon spoke, his tone low and warning as Johns continued his outburst. 

“If she knew the truth, she’d still be here with us,”

“But she doesn’t and she can’t,” John argued back, rising from his chair, fury burning in his blue eyes, “That’s the end of the matter, Sargent,” 

Before Johnny could say anything else he felt Simon’s large hand on his shoulder, slowly guiding him out of the room; leaving Kyle and John in the office. 

“John-”

“Kyle,” John sighed, “Just don’t,”

 His tone was no longer angry but simply defeated, as he sat back in his chair. 

He knew what Kyle was going to say.

It was the same thing that he’d been saying since you’d left. 

But much to his surprise the words that left Kyle’s mouth caught John completely off guard, “At least she’s happy, she deserves that...”

That was all he said before leaving John in his office alone.

At least she’s happy.

Those words made something twist inside John, unable to stop the little voice in his mind from continually saying “she should be happy with us,”

And you were. 

All of you were so happy together. 

Before everything changed. 

He wished he could’ve explained to you what had happened.

How they did what they did to protect you.  

But he couldn’t. 

He wouldn’t. 

He swore to himself that he never would; that he would let you live your life however you wanted to, without interfering. 

But the more he thought of you marrying someone, the more it made his heart ache, mournful of the future you could’ve had with them. 

And there was another feeling, one more primal than his aching heart. 

You were marrying someone else; which meant that they’d probably kissed you, touched you, fucked you….

Someone else had touched what was theirs…and that made the Captain of the 141 enraged. 

Johnny was right; his answer of “she’s not our girl anymore” was complete bullshit; no matter how hard he tried to force himself into believing it, he couldn’t. 

Not really. 

Not completely. 

Leaving the Captain at the impasse in his office…the logical thing to do was to let you live your life in peace; but the more irrational part of Johns brain wanted nothing more than to do exactly what Johnny had suggested and stop this wedding from happening. 

Tagging:

@xacatalepsyx @mermaniaa @fangirlsfandomsss @book-dragon03 @sunrise-willarive @amniotic115 @imdeadontheinside786 @asterionex @pinkyyoshi @yaradigital @euriiverse @eternallyvenus @littlejoyfulthings @s-void @rivwritesiguess @lilyalone @mrstelford @rabbittmoons @bookworm1767 @salemlovespies @amongthe141

[galactict3a]

match made [one-shot]

congressman!bucky x matchmaker!reader

summary: as a politician, bucky can no longer be caught swiping around on dating apps. sam decides to sign up his romantically stunted friend for a more sophisticated service instead.

warnings: 18+, mdni, smut, unprotected sex, oral (f receiving), you get backshots B), soft dom (?) bucky, slight sub reader, language, no use of y/n, alcohol consumption, bucky doesn't understand how dating works in the 21st century, you get jealoussss and end up pissing bucky off momentarily

word count: 12.7k

a/n: so this is obviously inspired by the movie materialists LOL but there aren't any spoilers for the movie in here... i just have been thinking about the movie nonstop since i saw it and i will actually be rewatching it with my mother soon

masterlist

You’re used to meeting in more inconspicuous locations for your clients. Those with higher profiles often don’t want to be seen in public at coffee shops or cafes, and you don’t mind it. You weren't surprised when your newest client requested for you to meet at a restaurant. You checked in with the hostess under the reservation of James B. and surprise was still nowhere to be found when you were led into a private room away from prying eyes.

It didn't matter where the first meeting with your client took place anyway. This was a consultation, and your company normally picks up the first bill. It’s to make your client feel less pressured about the fact they’re paying you to find them a life partner.

You check yourself over in the small compact mirror in your hand. There’s no lipstick in your teeth. The mascara you’re wearing hasn’t smudged and your eyeliner hasn’t shifted out of place. Your hair is tamed and will continue to be as long as you had a say in it. You know your posture is impeccable, and you’re dressed professionally, but still chic enough to turn heads.

You had your purse hanging on your seat, phone face down on the table and already set to record so you could take notes later on for your conversation to pick up anything else that you may have missed, and you waited. You were early, but it was your job to be early. 

The door to the private room opened sooner than you thought. You stood, turning to meet your client– pausing when you saw two men walk into the room. Two men that you recognized from news channels, articles you skimmed over, and from your own clients describing their ideal physical types.

You kept the shock off of your face as you held out a hand to introduce yourself.

“It’s nice to meet you,” you smiled. “I’m your matchmaker from Ador. I’ll be taking good care of you from this point forth.”

“Bucky,” he introduced himself, his voice stiff as he shook your hand. You take a quick glance at him, eyes scanning his figure as your mind runs numbers over his entire physique. He doesn’t even need to tell you, but you already know.

Six feet or taller. He had pretty, white teeth that you briefly saw when he spoke. His eyes were piercing, but they carried the weight of something that you couldn’t imagine holding yourself. His dark brown hair was carefully done, not a single hair out of place. He wore a suit that only seemed to accentuate the broadness of his shoulders and chest, and didn’t hide the muscular build of his body. Your eyes caught the dark metal hand that rested by his side.

You turned to the other man, who shook your hand with a lot more enthusiasm. He returned your smile, giving you a toothy grin.

“I’m Sam. Don’t mind him– He’s always like that. Just a grumpy old guy,” he said, patting Bucky’s back to push him further into the room and towards the table. “His age shouldn’t be an issue, right?”

“He’s a very attractive man, I’m sure there are a lot of women in New York that wouldn’t mind,” you replied smoothly, watching Sam let out a breath of relief. 

“That’s what I’ve been trying to tell him, but I’m glad the words came from the professionals’ mouth!” Sam exclaimed, clapping a hand over Bucky’s shoulder.

The three of you sat down together, a waiter coming over to bring over a bottle of wine, pouring glasses for the three of you as you all looked over the menu.

“Thank you for making time out of your schedule to come meet with this guy,” Sam continued, clearing his throat. “I actually signed him up for your service. Spoke to your boss and asked for the best of the best at your company, and she said that you were booked and busy, but– I really appreciate you being able to fit him into your clientele.”

You give Sam a well trained smile– one that you have perfected over the years of staring at yourself in the mirror. “Of course. I’m always happy to help someone meet their destined partner.”

Bucky lets out a scoff beside Sam, who elbows his side roughly. The man doesn’t even flinch at the contact. Your smile doesn’t falter at his obvious disapproval of your honeyed words.

“Between you and me,” Sam said, looking back at you, “The reason I got him on this program is because I’m really trying to get this guy on a date. And he’s a Congressman now, you know? He can’t really be swiping on Tinder anymore. It’s not a good look for someone trying to pass government bills.”

“I get it,” you nodded, agreeing with him. “I have a lot of clients that are in the same boat. Many of those who are in more sensitive occupations that can’t be seen in the more… open areas of society. I hold no judgement at all. After all, I’m simply here for him.”

Sam looked satisfied with your answer, and the waiter came back to take your orders. 

This consultation was unlike anything you had before– in your entire five years of matchmaking. Bucky didn’t say a single word, even when you tried to speak to him. He kept his eyes on you, which was slightly unnerving since he refused to speak. 

Sam had to keep swooping in to respond your questions, but you still barely got any answers. You had nothing to work with. No ideal type. Nothing that he was looking forward to in the future. 

You left the restaurant with another handshake to both men, and a promise to call Bucky to meet up with him again to discuss his potential options. 

You even listened to that damn recording over and over again, but you couldn’t even find a single thing that indicated what Congressman James Barnes would want in a woman or man. You looked through the files and consent forms that were submitted to you – that he signed– and found only the vaguest of answers.

Name: James Buchanan Barnes DOB: 1917, March 10 Occupation: Ex-Assassin, Current Congressman

What are your strengths and weaknesses? Left arm is strong. Right arm is slightly less strong.

Does your social media accounts accurately represent you? Please include your handles! Don’t have accounts.

How do you handle conflict? Fists and/or guns.

What does your ideal partner look like? Not part of The Big Three.

What characteristics do you hope to find in a partner? Human.

How do you spend your free time? Work.

What are your core beliefs? Loyalty. 

What are your expectations for a long term relationship? Peace.

Are you seeking marriage, a serious partnership, or something casual? ?

Do you have any deal breakers? Liars.

Why did your last relationship end? I was drafted into WWII and didn’t come home.

You want to slam your head into your desk. You usually received essay answers from your clients. You were beginning to understand why your boss handed you this client without regard for your current workload– she saw the responses he submitted. There was no one in this company that would be able to handle the shit that Bucky gave you to work with. You weren’t even sure that you would be able to work with this. 

You did your research on the congressman in between work of your other clients to try and get a hold of his personality because he wasn’t answering your calls. You wanted to pretend that he was a busy man working to pass bills in the government, but deep down you know that he’s trying to avoid you all together. 

He was a mysterious man– that was for sure. He had enough controversy to put a celebrity to shame, but with his looks and his financial state, you were certain that there were enough bachelor women in New York that would be more than willing to throw that behind them. There was also the benefit that he was a soldier. Lots of women enjoyed having a protector in the home, especially in the tough times of impending doom that was constantly looming over the city you lived in.

Bucky was almost the ideal man that everyone was looking for. Handsome. Smart. Strong. He had an edgy vibe to him that was alluring– almost like the bad boy type that girls would chase in high school. He also had the politician’s salary that would definitely make panties drop. He thankfully did not have the politician’s shady background, either. 

You’re still thinking about him when you’re sitting across from your next client, Mel, who’s telling you about her last date. 

“It was okay,” she said with a deep sigh. You know that look on her face. She’s detached. You’ve seen it painted on her features more than once before, and you don’t allow the dread to show up on your own face. 

“I hear a but coming on,” you said, fixing a smile on your face.

“It’s just difficult to date these days,” she admitted, slouching a bit in her seat as her hands clasped over her cup of coffee. “I had to cancel on him three times before we finally went on that date the other day. And it was nice, it really was, but I just… I don’t know. I feel bad.”

“Is it because of work?” you guessed, reaching over the table to place your hand over hers. “I know it’s hard working for the government. Really. I get it. It’s demanding, and you’re the personal assistant to someone that just wants you on your feet twenty-five hours of the day.”

She gives you a sad smile, and nods at your words. “He asked me to go on another date tomorrow night. And I want to, but– there’s this charity gala tomorrow that my boss is throwing. I have to go.”

“You can’t invite him as a plus one?” you offered as a solution.

“God, I wish,” she groaned. “Working for the government like I do– I could explain it to you, but it would be so much easier if I could just show you–”

Mel cut herself off, straightening in her seat as she locked eyes with you. She adjusted both her hands to hold yours in hers. 

“Mel?” you asked, still smiling at her.

“Are you free tomorrow night?” she asked, serious. “Can I ask you to be my plus one? Maybe you’ll be able to see the life I live– and it’ll help you figure out the kind of man that will be suitable for the life I live. Trust me, Daniel is great. Amazing guy. He’s just too… free spirited. Too spontaneous. I need structure and plans and I need you to see my life in order to really grasp it.”

You let out a sigh as you weighed the pros and cons. 

This sounded like a bad idea. Getting too involved with a client was never a good thing. In fact, it crossed a lot of boundaries and raised a lot of alarm bells in your head. You may have gone to your client’s weddings– the weddings of matches that you put together– but that was another form of networking. This was a charity gala for a government event. You would be completely out of your own element. 

However, you really didn’t have anything to do tomorrow. You had no appointments with your clients in the evening. You did have enough dresses in your closet that you could go through– and Mel was your favorite client. You had set her up on more than a few dates since she had enlisted your service, and she had turned down more than enough men for you to know that she was struggling. She wasn’t old by any means, but she was still a hopeless romantic that just needed some assistance, and you really wanted to help her out.

“Please?” Mel tried again, pulling you out of your own thoughts.

“Okay,” you relented, letting out a small sigh through your nose as you did.

She squealed, excited. “I will text you the details. I’ll let the staff know your name so you don’t have to worry about a single thing. Just show up pretty like you always do!” 

You gave her a smile, one more genuine than the ones that you normally show your clients.

You step up the stairs of the Metropolitan Museum of Art, thankful that there aren’t any photographers trying to stop you for a quick photo. Around you, you recognize several celebrities here for the charity event along with politicians of varying levels of influence. Your eyes fall on the banners, seeing the past heroes of the Avengers staring right back at you.

A small sense of nostalgia flows through you as you continue your way to the doors, only stopping momentarily to check in with the doormen. 

As you move towards the second floor to get a better view of the entire floor, a server comes by with a tray, offering you a flute of champagne that you gratefully take. You take a small sip as you move through the museum, eyes flitting over the different people in the gala. You rest your elbows against the railing, scanning over the entire crowd. Your eyes can’t help but run numbers over every single person that you see. 

You see the brand of their suits and dresses scream at you. The wear of their purses and shoes let you know exactly how disposable their income is. How tall they hold their head gives you insight on how insecure they are. You watch how each woman communicates with each man. Every gentle touch, flutter of eyelashes, subtle drop of eye contact from the eyes to the lips. 

You can easily tell who is single, who is taken, who is pretending to be single, and who wishes they were anything but single. 

“You made it!” a cheery voice calls your name from behind you. 

You straighten your spine as you turn around, a smile fitting over your lips. Then, you raise an eyebrow at Mel. She’s wearing a blazer and skirt, holding a tablet in hand with her hair pulled back in a low ponytail.

“You texted me that this was a formal event, Mel. What are you wearing?” you teased lightly, looking her up and down. “My plan was to find you a date tonight.”

“I’m working right now,” she chuckled, shaking her head. “I saw you from downstairs, so I slipped away to say hello real quick. You look great, by the way. Not that you don’t look amazing usually.”

You let out a small laugh, looking down at yourself briefly. Your dress was simple, a strapless black evening gown that clung effortlessly to you, with a cascading, sheer, flowing hem that moved with each step that you took. You paired it with a simple golden necklace matched with a timeless gold wristwatch. The purse that hung off your shoulder finished off the look, adding to the overall sophistication to the look. 

You didn’t deny her compliment, smile widening at her. “Would’ve loved to see you in something similar.”

“Maybe next time,” she smiled back, moving to loop your arm through hers. “We’ll be starting the dinner service soon, so let’s find your seat.”

You allowed her to lead you away, noticing the crowd was also moving towards the banquet hall now. Mel dropped you off at a round table towards the end of the room, though you didn’t necessarily mind. There was a placard with your name on the charge plate. You allowed your purse to hang from the seat as you took your phone out, allowing yourself to rest for a few moments.

Others were still filtering in, finding their seats at the seating chart at the front. You lost sight of Mel the second she left your side. It was becoming increasingly clear that she needed to be matched with someone as busy as her. You let out a sigh as you pulled up profiles on your phone, removing some men that you thought would work with her. 

You didn’t even look up as someone took a seat beside you. 

“I don’t answer your calls, so you come directly to where I work?”

You paused at the voice, looking up. Bucky is sitting beside you, champagne in hand as he flicks away a placard that is definitely not his own. He replaces it with his as you watch the random name get discarded somewhere on the floor behind him. 

You blink at him– it somehow didn’t even cross your mind that he would be here tonight. You curse yourself slightly. For a man that you thought about constantly, you completely missed the mark with this one. Why wouldn’t he be here? 

“I was invited,” you said, placing your phone faced down on the table. You cross one leg over the other, shifting your body to face his. “Though, I am hurt that you don’t answer my calls.”

A sigh escapes his lips as he shakes his head. You watch as his fingers play with the folded piece of paper with his name written with perfect calligraphy– hands that are slightly calloused from the years of war and battles that he’s fought.

“What business does a matchmaker have at a government charity event?” he finally asked, stormy eyes meeting yours. 

“You would be surprised to find there are many highly influential and single government workers that are looking for my company’s services,” you said, giving him a small shrug. “Call it networking.”

He watched you for a few moments, eyes scanning your figure. If he was anyone else, if you didn’t do prior research to know that he was a former assassin and spy, you would have thought he was checking you out. No– he wasn’t. He was searching for something. 

You didn’t give him any answers. 

When Bucky’s eyes finally settled on your face again, you gave him a polite smile. His eyebrows twitched as his eyes narrowed at you.

“Is something the matter, Congressman Barnes?” you asked, folding your hands in your lap. 

“I don’t need your services. Take me off the list,” he said, his voice gruff and low.

“Unfortunately, Mr. Wilson has paid in advance for us to serve you. The contract extends until you have found a match,” you reminded him. “You signed the consent form to allow us to give Mr. Wilson updates on how your dates go as well. We have to continue to at least try to reach out to you, even if you ignore my calls.”

“I will sue your office for harassment,” he threatened.

“You signed consent forms allowing for me to call, text, and email your direct lines of contact as per agreement,” you repeated, smiling at him as you tilted your head. “It would make things so much easier for both of us if we met regularly so I can get you on at least one date a week, Congressman.”

Bucky drags his metal hand down his face as he fights back groaning out loud. You can only keep your smile trained on your face as you watch him. 

“Can I perhaps order you a drink, Congressman? You strike me as a whiskey kind of guy,”  you hummed, raising a hand towards the waiter that was walking by.

“Make it neat,” he muttered beside you, completely defeated as you ordered drinks for the two of you.

Dinner service goes by without another hiccup. The two of you don’t discuss the nature of your relationship as others join your table. You don’t recognize the others at the table, but they recognize Bucky. That’s enough for you to pretend that you don’t know Bucky like that.

However, you do take the chance to spread your business card around the table with a pretty smile and a flutter of your lashes as you give your well rehearsed spiel.

“And you’re responsible for… how many marriages between your matches?” one of the women at your table asks, surprised.

“Goodness..” you sigh dramatically for effect, placing a hand over your chest. “I would say– about eight now? They are all lovely people that I have taken time to connect with. Amazing friends that I have grown to love, and I’m happy to have been able to bring them together for life.”

“Then you’re an expert,” Bucky suddenly said beside you as he picked up his whiskey glass. “What do you think makes a perfect partner?”

“Of course, that depends from person to person,” you respond, smiling at him before looking at the rest of the table. “I’m not here to build a person out of thin air for you. I am here to show you that love exists, and that you are worthy of it. Even if you don’t believe that there is someone out there for you, I believe it. There’s someone out there for everyone.”

The women were captivated by your sugared words, sliding over their own business cards to you, asking you to call them on the next business day. You grin as you take each card, sliding them into your purse. You ignore Bucky’s eyes on the side of your face as you continue to chat with everyone else. 

You tune out during the speeches that Mel’s boss has. You don’t necessarily care for it, though you do your best to look like you’re paying attention. You’ll read some reverbed version of this long winded monologue tomorrow morning, and Mel will definitely let you know how she feels about it later. 

When the talking is over and the music turns on, you find yourself being dragged by the other women at your table to be introduced to some other single women attending the gala. At the very least, you didn’t end up lying to Bucky. You ended up doing networking here after all. 

By the time you managed to get out of the hands of single men and women trying to enlist your services, your purse was stuffed to the brim with business cards that weren’t yours, and you would need to order some more cards of your own on Monday. 

You managed to slip out to a secluded hallway, away from the music and festivities. You kept walking, running a hand through your hair as you sighed. You found an open balcony, the cool New York air blowing through it and a bench calling your name.

You rested your aching feet, and decided to look through the cards you got– trying to organize who you would delegate to some of your coworkers and who you would take on as your own from the short conversations that you had. Your workload was already heavy as it was, and you still had a certain man that wasn’t making your life any easier for you. 

“Can I pay you to get me off your list?”

Speak of the devil.

“Maybe if you say please,” you respond, still shuffling the cards into two separate stacks.

The devil doesn’t respond to you. You let out a deep sigh.

You looked up, finding him leaning against the doorframe of the balcony door. His hands are tucked in his pocket, looking at you. You close your purse, resting your hands on the cement bench as you let your eyes scan him up and down.

“I have a great match for you. She works in the government as well. She’s a personal assistant, so she understands the kind of work that you do as a Congressman. Just as busy as you are. She has her ideal type as someone taller than 5’10’’. Doesn’t have a preference for age, but has told me that she wants someone with an old soul. She’s cute. Somewhat of a busy-body, but that means that she’s pretty low maintenance, and you don’t have to worry that much about dates,” you said. 

His eyes narrowed at you. “Are you setting me up on a date or selling me a product?”

“Depends on the angle that you look at it,” you shrugged. 

Bucky sighed, closing his eyes tight. “If I go on this one date, will you leave me alone?” 

“If it goes well on your end and hers, then yes,” you nodded. “However, the company does assist in setting up the first, second, and third date. From there, it is up to you and her to decide if you two will be an official couple. If you do, you both are obligated to report it to the company. I will then check up on you during the milestones of your relationship.”

“Milestones?” he asked, frowning at you.

“You know, your anniversaries. First month. Six months. One year. If you even need help proposing to her one day, then we can definitely help you with that as well– Mr. Wilson paid for the full Ador Matchmaking Package, so it’s included,” you informed him. 

Bucky stared at you like you had two heads and six pairs of eyes on each head. You continued to smile at him, and moved to stand in front of him. 

“I am not here to make your life difficult, Congressman. In fact, I think that finding you a partner can be a wonderful thing. I find that being able to share your life with someone– share your struggles with someone– can relieve a lot of the stress that you may have,” you said, locking eyes with him.

“Are you speaking from your own experience?” he asked, clenching his jaw tight. Your smile faltered for the first time. You quickly fixed it back into place. 

“I have seen and matched many successful couples,” you answered, ignoring the true intentions of his question. “Just trust me.”

Bucky let out a deep sigh, pinching the bridge of his nose as he looked to be contemplating his options here.

“I’m not ready for a date. I have my own issues that I just… I have issues,” he admitted to you, lowering his hand. “You left me a voicemail– saying you wanted to discuss more of my… desires with a partner. Let’s start with that.”

“Of course,” you said, trying to hide the giddiness in your chest. Finally. You were getting somewhere with him. “We’ll take this at your pace.”

On your first meeting with him, you had to explain the dating in this century. Bucky still continues to stare at you like you were insane, and you can only sigh as you try to break down the new lingo of the year for him.

"What do you mean by that?"

"By what?"

"Talking stage. Situationship. What is that?"

"Just because you go on dates with someone, doesn't mean that you are dating them, Congressman. Same thing with talking. You can be talking with them, but are you talking with them? It's all in the nuances. Situationships are a bit more... sensual."

Bucky still doesn't get it, and you're worried about sending him off on dates with women- some of your older clients even know about these phrases. You're afraid Bucky might think he's going steady with someone who isn't serious about him at all.

The second meeting included texting etiquette and dating terms. Bucky couldn't wrap his head around why people sent emoticons to each other- he hated phone calls already. He despised having to send those cute emojis to express his emotions over text.

"Ghosting?" he deadpanned at you. "Did you ask me if I have ever been ghosted before?"

"It's a general question, Congressman-"

"No- I don't know what that means," he cut you off. "Did someone fucking die?"

You stare at him like he's crazy, but you clearly slip your mask back into place and remind yourself that he was born in the late 1910s.

"It's when someone that you were previously talking to just randomly disappears. Remember we were talking about the talking stage during our last meeting? Say you thought your date went really well, and you're looking forward to your next date, and you try meeting up with her again, but she just- poof! Disappears. Gone without a trace."

"You can search her up in the database and find her easily."

You almost want to cry at how serious he looks and sounds at this moment.

"Not everyone is an ex-assassin, Congressman."

Your next meeting has you handing in your resignation on the spot. You never thought you would have to explain what a thirst trap is to someone over the age of thirteen, but here you were. It came up during the topic of dating apps, and how he despised every single moment that he was on them.

"I saw girls in tiger outfits," he told you.

"Like... full fur suits?" you asked.

"No, like bikinis."

"Oh. Like a costume?"

"Yeah. Why do they do that?" he asked, frowning at you.

"To look sexy," you shrugged at him. "Some people are attracted to that."

"People are attracted to tigers?"

"No, Congressman. They are attracted to the girl showing the wildly inappropriate amount of skin," you said, fighting back the laugh bubbling up in your throat. He looked utterly disgusted right now.

"Why would anyone put that shit on?"

"Some people enjoy it as a kink," you said, clearing your throat to hide your laughter. "Some see it as an acts of service kind of thing. You know, love languages."

Bucky looked like he was about to combust in his seat. "Love languages? Since when the hell did love have a language?"

"Words of affirmation, quality time, physical touch- just to name a few," you said, nodding at him.

"Isn't that the basics of romance? All of that, combined?" he asked, eyebrows furrowed at you. He almost sounded scandalized.

You gave Bucky a wide grin-- one that wasn't your practiced smile. "That's what I like to hear. Keep that in mind while I try to find you a match, okay?"

It's on your fourth meeting when you officially dub Bucky as your most stubborn client that you've ever had. You are losing patience, and you thought you had an astounding amount of it. You didn’t think that he could be worse than the questionnaire that he filled out.

Bucky spoke a lot, but he didn’t say anything in his words. He talked in circles that had your mind running. 

Over four meetings, you could barely managed to figure out that he wanted a partner that would be able to keep up with his busy schedule, and not get upset with him for being closed off. You could work with that– someone understanding. That was basic level, but that should have been something that he could have said within the first minute of speaking to you. Not over the eighteen hours that you have sat down with him and talked.

You know Bucky is also getting increasingly frustrated as your meetings go along, too. You’re questioning him in different ways that he’s not used to– he’s not used to being on the opposite end of an interrogation, especially not about his desires in a woman.

“I still don’t understand why we have to meet like this,” Bucky said, pinching the bridge of his nose.

“I told you– the questionnaire that you submitted to us was damn near empty, Congressman,” you stressed. “I have nothing to work with here. I can’t find you a partner if you put a question mark as an answer!’

“I think it’s pretty straight forward,” he grunted in his seat.

“You have to have a physical type that you’re attracted to, at least,” you finally said, exasperated as you dropped rubbed circles into your temples. 

Your notebook was filled with scribbles that you would try to make sense of later, but you knew there was nothing substantial from this latest meeting with your stubborn client. This is your fifth meeting with him and you still have nothing. 

“I… I don’t. Not really,” he answered, looking down at his desk.

 Bucky’s leg was bouncing up and down under his desk, an anxious habit you observed he did when he was over the meeting and you knew that it was time for you to wrap it up for the day.

“James,” you said, exasperated. “Everyone has a type. Someone that they see on the street that their eyes linger on just a little more than the next person. Nothing comes to mind? Not even just one feature?”

He stopped bouncing for a moment, then lifted his gaze to meet yours. Your breath caught in your throat at the unexpected contact, and you held it. You watched him just as intently as he watched you, waiting for him to speak as your heart began to uncharacteristically thump in your chest.

“Eyes,” he finally said, never breaking those stormy orbs away from you. “You can tell a lot about a person by looking them in the eyes. I like a person’s eyes.”

You swallowed thickly, swiping your tongue over your bottom lip as you cleared your throat. You tore your eyes away from him to look down at your notes, scribbling the word down, and circling it twice.

“Thank you. That’s progress. Not a lot for me to work off of, but I can find someone with pretty eyes for you,” you replied, giving him a smile of relief. 

“Add smiles to your notes. Pretty smiles are good, too.”

 You pause at his words, eyes narrowing at him for a moment. He smiled back at you before you went ahead and wrote down the word next to ‘eyes.’

“Do you really think there is someone out there that is willing to date an ex-assassin that committed several war crimes?” he asked, leaning back in his seat. “Not to mention, I’m old enough to be a lot of these people’s grandfather’s.”

“Great grandfather’s,” you corrected him.

“Wow,” he scoffed, but a smile fit over his face.

“I think you need to give yourself a little more credit. You deserve it,” you said, closing your notebook. You shoved it into your tote purse, and stood up to straighten your blazer. Bucky’s eyes followed your figure as you moved. “You may have done things that you’re not proud of, but haven’t we all? What matters now is that you’re doing your best to rectify the things that you didn’t even have control over.”

“It was still me that did it,” he said, sucking in a breath.

“And the man in front of me is a great match for a lot of women out there, if he just allows me to set him up with someone,” you replied. You watched as his eyes fell on your face again, and you smiled at him. “I promise, Congressman. There’s someone for everyone. Including you. Someone that accepts your past, and looks forward to the future that you envision– that you won’t even share with me even though it’s my job to try and find someone that fits that future.”

A chuckle falls from his lips as he shakes his head. He straightens in his seat, busying his hands with organizing the manila folders on his desk. 

“I still don’t think I’m ready to just get out there and meet people, sweetheart. That’s not… I haven’t dated in a long time.”

You stared at him for a few moments. He’s avoiding looking at you right now– there’s a sheepish tone in his voice. He’s trying to glide over the vulnerability of his confession by organizing pens that are already color coded, and a calendar that is properly filled. 

“Go on a date with me,” you said before you could stop yourself.

His metal hand closes over a pen, and stops. “What?”

“A trial date,” you clarified, squaring your shoulders off to hide the embarrassment creeping up your neck. “You haven’t been on a date in a long time, and I’m the one trying to get you on dates. Let’s see how you are on dates, and once it’s over then I can give you a few pointers. Tell you if there’s anything that you need to work on– or let you know that you’re simply overthinking this whole thing.”

“Is this part of the service Sam bought?”

“No,” you answered honestly. “But it’s my job to help you, and you’re not confident in yourself. I need to build your confidence so you can meet some of my clients. No woman likes an insecure man.”

Bucky’s searching your figure again– doing that same thing he did at the gala. Searching for something in you. Hesitation maybe? Regret, you guess. Maybe he thinks you’ll take back your words. You stare right back at him, unwavering. 

You’re breaking a lot of your own personal rules, and boundaries these days, but you don’t say that out loud. You’re doing a lot to help your clients– starting with Mel’s charity gala, and now offering to do a test run with Bucky. It seems that you just can’t help yourself. 

“When’s your next free night, Congressman?” you asked, taking your phone out from your purse to pull up your calendar. “I’ll clear my evening for you.”

You met him at an upscale restaurant of your choosing, telling him that you would plan the date as is normal by Ador standards when it comes to the matchmaking dates. All he needed to do was show up and look nice. You thought you would be early, just like last time. You’re pleasantly surprised to find him opening the door to your Uber, a bouquet of flowers in hand.

“Hi there,” you smiled at him.

“Hi,” Bucky replied, a bit stiff. You kept your laugh to yourself as he took a few steps back to allow you to get out of the car, and then he shut it behind you. “This is– uh– for you.”

He holds out the bouquet– one that you can tell is on the pricier end of the market. The scent is strong, the buds are young, and the colors are vivid. The bow wrapped tight around it is pristine and sharp as well. Your smile only seemed to grow a bit wider as you took it from his hands, brushing your fingertips against his as you did. 

“They’re beautiful. I love them, thank you,” you told him, truthful.

“Thank God,” he muttered, leading you towards the restaurant. “Sam said something about women in this era not enjoying flowers. I almost didn’t get you any.”

“Women still like flowers,” you said, eyebrows raising at him.

“That’s what I told him, and I’m glad that you agree. I’ll have to tell him that the professional sides with me,” Bucky chuckled, his shoulders relaxing slightly as he held the door open for you to enter first. 

You felt his hand rest on the small of your back as he joined behind you, and you made the mental note in your head– he really wasn’t all that closed off. In just a few moments, he proved to be extremely charming. What was his issue with dating?

The two of you were shown to a quieter table towards the back of the restaurant, with Bucky pulling out your seat. You’re getting more impressed by the second here. Maybe it’s the fact he was around during the prime time of men being chivalrous, but you were certain that this would have a lot of your clients sinking their claws into him and never letting him go. You just had to find him someone that he didn’t want to let go of.

The dinner was a set course that you both ate quietly save for small comments on how the fish was cooked perfectly. Otherwise, you didn’t say much until the table was cleared and more wine was poured into your glasses. You both thank the waiter before turning your attention back to each other.

“So, Congressman. Was the last date you really had back in the forties?” you asked, resting your chin in your palm as you stared at him.

He lets out a small laugh, shaking his head. “Bucky– Just… Bucky is fine for right now. And no. I went on a date a year or so ago.”

“Okay, Bucky,” you said, testing the name on your tongue. You watched as the corners of his lips curled slightly. “How did that date go?”

“Ran out on her,” he recalled, and you furrowed your eyebrows at him. He let out a deep sigh. “Not my best moment, but she said something that kind of… triggered me, I guess. Couldn’t really stay for much longer without having a panic attack.”

You keep your eyes on him for a few moments before you decide to reach for your wine glass and take a slow sip, digesting his words as the liquid runs down your throat. You let out a small hum. 

“Well, you can’t run from me,” you smiled at him, “I already know your past. There’s nothing that you need to hide from me that I’ll be scared of.”

“I’m sure you’ll show up at my office if I run away from you,” he chuckled with a shake of his head. 

“I will. You are notorious for not answering your phone,” you reminded him.

“I honestly hate that thing,” he said with a deep sigh. “I preferred when people sent each other letters. They were much more personal. You could see people’s handwriting, and how they felt with each stroke of their pen.”

You raised your eyebrows, surprised. You didn’t expect this. However, it made sense. Bucky did strike you as a guy that would prefer sentimental gifts over expensive, over the top trinkets.

“If I send you a letter or write you a sticky note, will you be more inclined to meet with me again?” you asked.

Bucky can’t help but laugh at your question. “Sure, sweetheart. I’ll meet with you again if you send me a heartfelt letter.”

“I’ll spray my perfume and add a kiss mark next to my signature, just for you,” you teased. “Send it straight to your door.”

He shakes his head at your antics, though his smile never falters. His fingers play with the stem of the wine glass, twirling the glass in his flesh hand for a few moments as a comfortable silence fills the air between you two. The live pianist in the restaurant fills in the gaps between your conversation, allowing the two of you a moment of peace as you watch over each other. 

Bucky looks handsome tonight. He’s ditched the usual tie that he wears with his suits, and a couple of the buttons are undone at the top of his shirt. You can see the shining necklace of what you assume is his dog tags hiding against his chest. His blazer is hung at his chair, the material matching the slacks he wears. His hair, which is normally gelled back, is slightly out of place from the day. A few strands are framing his face and you find that you like it better this way. It looks a little fluffy. His beard is well maintained as per usual, a little shorter than you remember seeing it last week. 

He’s scanning you the same way you’re scanning him. This time, you know that he’s not searching your body for answers like he had done previously. You feel oddly exposed under his gaze, but not uncomfortable. A shiver runs down your spine as his eyes continue to drag up and down your figure.

“I’m surprised your boyfriend is alright with you going on dates like this,” he finally said, your eyes meeting his. “Even if this is supposed to be something that is meant to help a client of yours.”

You raised an eyebrow at him, finger circling the rim of your wine glass. You wet your lips as you suck in a small breath, preparing for the questions to come after you respond to his statement.

“I don’t have a boyfriend,” you told him.

It’s Bucky’s turn to raise an eyebrow at you. He rested his arms on the table, leaning in closer to you. “You’re telling me that my matchmaker that’s supposed to find me a girlfriend isn’t taken? This sounds like a scam, sweetheart.”

You roll your eyes at his blatant sarcasm, sighing deeply. “I don’t have to be in a relationship to know how relationships work, Bucky.”

“Then, why? What’s the reason that the professional relationship maker doesn’t want to be in a relationship?” he asked.

You bit the inside of your cheek, the question weighing heavy on your mind. Out of your coworkers, you are the only one that is without a partner. They are all going strong with someone– on the path of getting engaged, or already married. You are the only one alone, and you’re the best employee in the company. You look down at the table for a moment before lifting your eyes to meet his. 

The truth is- you're afraid. You fear allowing someone into your heart, seeing the vulnerability of everything that you are. It's such a small reason that everyone holds close to their heart, a reason that you have coerced others out of their shells... but you still can't seem to get out of your own.

“I haven’t found the right match,” you answered. 

“Who’s the right match for you?”

You sighed, leaning back in your seat for a moment. “I have a deal breaker. I need to watch the guy climb a fence. If they look fucking stupid while doing it, then I’m out.”

“What?” Bucky whispered, staring at you in disbelief.

You smiled at him- a pretty smile that you knew he liked.

“I like athletic guys. Ones that can preferably pick me up like I don’t weigh anything. And that can carry all the groceries into the house in one trip, or all the bags when I go shopping. I make enough money to sustain myself, and I’ll continue working even after I get married to keep my own income separate from a joint account. A guy that will let me do whatever I want without questioning me or my decisions because he trusts me. I’m not really a homemaker, if you understand what I’m saying. So, it’s a little difficult. My preferences in the bedroom differ from what I enjoy in reality, so the men I seek don’t want to date all of me. They want someone submissive 24/7, and that’s not typically who I am.”

You’re more than certain you gave Bucky more than he asked you for, but you don’t really care. You’re trying to gain his trust so that he opens up to you, tells you more about what he wants in a partner, so that you can find someone for him.

“So,” you continued, picking up your wine glass again. “What are your preferences in the bedroom– or have you not done anything since the forties?”

Bucky’s lips parted, then shut. His mind looked to be short circuiting in real time, still processing your words. Then, he cleared his throat.

“Are all women as forward as you while on dates in this time period?” he finally asked.

“Not all,” you chuckled, taking a sip of the wine. You can’t help but tease him, “I just find myself comfortable enough to speak with you like this. What about you, Congressman? I feel like we’ve known each other long enough for you to talk to me about this kind of thing.”

Bucky downs the rest of the wine in his glass, surprising you with his actions. His eyes are dark when they lock onto yours, and his voice is low. The gravely tone makes goosebumps rise on your skin, and you instinctively straighten in your seat at the commanding presence he’s giving off. You don’t dare look away from him.

“I don’t prefer to talk about my preferences in the bedroom. I'd rather just show you.”

Bucky’s hand is cradling the back of your head, a soft barrier to keep your head safe as he pushes you back against the wall. Your lips are still connected to his, head angled upwards to deepen the kiss with him. Your purse is sliding down your arm, about to hit the floor with a soft thud when he parts from you to grab it, securing it over his own shoulder before returning back to your lips.

He really is a gentleman at heart.

Your moans are swallowed greedily into his throat as if the two of you didn’t just have a five course meal an hour ago, and his hands are moving to your thighs, bunching up your dress to your hips. Once he feels your skin against him, he groans against your lips, a tingle racing down your spine and going straight to your core. 

He tastes like wine, but faintly of cinnamon, too. With him so close to you, you’re overwhelmed and wrapped by the scent of smoke and wood, and you don’t hate it. There’s cologne somewhere in the mix here– something that you can’t detect since it’s so late in the night, but you can smell the smell of him on his neck.

“Bucky,” you whimpered, his fingertips digging into the flesh of your thighs.

“I got you,” he muttered in response, hands moving to the underside of your thighs to scoop you up. 

Bucky easily shifted to have your legs wrap around his hips, and tilted his head upwards to trail kisses down your jaw and neck. You let out a soft sigh, angling your neck to the side to let him have more space to play.

“This is what you wanted, right?” he grunted before nipping at the soft skin at your neck. You let out a soft moan, gripping at the lapels of his blazer.

“What?” you whispered back as his tongue moved to soothe the wound.

“You said you wanted a man that could pick you up like you weigh nothing. I’m right here, sweetheart.”

You barely have time to process his words before you’re being pulled off the wall. He still has you in his arms, and your lips are caught in his again. Bucky moves through his apartment without having to see anything, going straight to his bedroom. He opens the door, holding you with only one arm as he carries you to bed. 

Sitting down, you’re straddling his lap. 

You grab his face in your hands, hungry for him. You can’t get enough. 

“You’re so handsome,” you whispered between kisses. 

“Not too insecure for you?” he chuckled softly.

“Don’t ruin the moment,” you huffed, biting his bottom lip softly. 

Bucky’s hands fall to your hips once more before moving to your back, finding the zipper of your dress. He unzips the piece without hesitation, and you briefly part from him to allow him to pull it off of your body. 

“God,” he groaned, taking a moment to look at you. His hands are on your waist, and your body shivered involuntarily at the cool touch of his metal hand. “You were hiding all of this from me, sweetheart?”

You weren’t wearing a bra. You couldn’t– not with the strappy dress that you were wearing. Of course, you had a jacket on earlier, and the material of your dress had one of those built in bras. You didn’t feel the need to explain it to him, not when Bucky was already taking a nipple in his mouth and kneading the other breast in his hand.

A moan fell from your lips as you arched your back into him– his free arm going to your back to support you and pull you even closer. You grabbed onto his shoulder, his hair, grounding your hips into his as he hummed into your chest.

You locked eyes with him, watched him as he swirled his tongue over the stiff peak of your nipple. Shit– this man was so hot. There was no way he was real. You couldn’t understand why this man was still single– age or lack of confidence aside. You didn’t get it. 

“Sit on my face,” he ordered you, your eyes widening slightly. 

You’re not certain you heard him right. 

“What–”

“Don’t make me repeat myself,” he clicked his tongue, already moving the two of you deeper into his bed. He’s still fully dressed, laid back on the pillows, and you’re still sitting on his lap. He has his metal hand under his head, staring at you as he waits.

“My underwear–” you tried to start, lifting your hips to remove the last garment between what he wanted you to do. 

Bucky’s hands move faster than you can swing your leg over his body. A resounding rip fills the air, and you see the fabric of your underwear get thrown off to the side of his bed. His hands settle over your hips, and you are once again being effortlessly lifted towards him– heart thundering in your chest.

You didn’t have any mental preparation before his tongue met your heat. His arms locked around your thighs, holding you in place so you couldn’t even attempt to hover over him. No, he had the full weight of you on him, and he was moaning into you. The vibrations alone had your thighs tensing around his head, hands reaching down for his hair for some stability.

His tongue flatted against your core, licking up all the wetness that had seeped through without him touching you earlier. Bucky moaned at the taste, absolutely floored at your excitement. He angled his head just slightly, nose nudging at the sensitive bundle of nerves that made your body flinch. 

He chuckled beneath you at your reaction, pressing harder against you, nuzzling his nose deeper into you– putting more pressure on your clit as he began to piston his tongue in and out of your aching pussy.

“Bucky!” you moaned his name, like it was the only thing you could say.

He groaned in response, eyes opening just briefly to lock on yours– those same piercing eyes were dark, blown out– and you realized he enjoyed eating you out just as much as you enjoyed having his tongue lap against you. 

Bucky liked this. He enjoyed  this– got off on this. You falling apart above him, unable to run from his ministrations as he brought you closer and closer to the edge where he could watch you without any restraint. He could see everything. He could see the way your chest rose and fell erratically, the way your skin flushed, the way you bit your lip, the way your eyes were dilated as you looked down at him.

“Bucky– I’m so close,” you whimpered, tugging on his hair.

And he lifted you up and away from his mouth.

You felt a sense of loss immediately, panic rushing through your body as he chuckled beneath you. You watched as he licked his lips from your juices, and he pushed you back down to straddle him once again.

“What– why?” you whispered, damn near close to tears. 

Bucky pushed himself up to sit, unbuttoning his shirt as he did. He let out a small hum as he took off the garment, wiping off the last bits of you off of his face and beard before tossing it to the side. Then, he grabbed your face with one hand, yanking you back into a deep kiss. 

You melted into him, pliant, trembling, needy. You tasted yourself on his tongue as he licked into your mouth. The gripping hand that held your face softened, moving to stroke your cheek affectionately moments afterwards. 

“You didn’t say please, sweetheart,” he whispered against your lips. 

Your eyes widened slightly– oh. You were going to kill him when you got out of this bedroom. He chuckled against your lips, knowing that you knew what he was referencing to. However, your irritation faded away as you heard the clink of his belt against his metal hand– noting that it was being taken off and discarded to the edge of the bed.

In one swift movement, you were on your back with Bucky in between your legs, lips on yours once more. 

You sighed into his mouth, closing your eyes as you felt his bare skin against yours. You could feel the scars of his shoulder under your left hand, the muscles of his right arm– his broad chest. You felt the ripples of his abs as your hands trailed down. 

Then you felt his length slide against your folds, coating itself in your slick. 

Bucky’s head rested in the crook of your neck, both of you letting out a soft moan as the tip of his cock briefly caught on your clit. You could feel the warm bead of precum drip onto your skin, your eyes falling shut at the sensation as a shiver of anticipation rushes through your body.

“Tell me what you want,” Bucky muttered, hands running up and down your sides. 

“You,” you responded instantly, a bit breathless. 

He chuckles, shaking his head before moving to press a kiss against your hairline. Bucky’s hands stop at your breasts, and you whine as he rolls both nipples in between his pointer fingers and thumbs.

“Gotta be a little more descriptive than that, doll, because I’m right here. Where do you want me?” he hummed, rutting his hips against yours again.

“Fu–ck,” you gasped, the word coming out broken from your throat. You collect yourself briefly, opening your eyes to look at him. “God, Bucky– you. I need your cock in me– please, I wanna cum all over your cock– I need it so bad, need you so bad–”

Your words die on your lips, cut off by the feeling of being stuffed absolutely full. Bucky’s forehead rested against yours, lips parted in a noiseless moan as he slid all the way to the hilt. Neither of you can say or move or breathe for a few moments– you’re both too overwhelmed. You can feel him so deeply inside of you, you’re sure he’s at your cervix.

“It’s like you were fucking made for me,” he finally groaned before pulling out, only leaving the tip of his cock in before thrusting all the way back in, starting a punishing pace. 

You can’t keep up with him, but you don’t even have to. Bucky’s doing all the work for you, his hips snapping into yours in perfect rhythm. When your back arches off the bed from the overwhelming pleasure of him, he scoops his arm underneath you to lock you in place as his other hand grabs both of your wrists to pin overhead to keep you from scrambling away from the intensity of the thrill.

Your first orgasm crept on you without any warning– but you were already wound up, and he knew it. You were a mess beneath him, moaning his name like it was the only thing you knew, hips rising to grind up to meet his, overstimulated by his lips all over your neck and chest.

He whispered pretty praises into your ear when you came around his cock, feeling his hips stutter slightly, and listening to him moan as you clenched around him tightly. Bucky didn’t stop there, though.

You didn’t have time to even come down from your high before he was flipping you over onto your stomach, him still inside of you. 

Your face was shoved into the pillow, his hand buried into your hair as the other hand grabbed at your hips to pull back into his own. He moaned behind you– and he was hitting you at a deeper, more delicious angle that made you see stars.

“Oh– Bucky– it’s too much,” you whined into the pillow, turning your head to breathe.

“You can take it,” he chuckled, letting out a soft moan after. “Your pussy is swallowing me up, can’t you feel it? She’s so greedy for me.”

You can only moan in response, your eyes rolling to the back of your skull. You fisted the pillows beside your head for some stability, some purchase– something– and Bucky thought you looked so pretty like this. Back arched, lips parted, trying to hold on for dear life while your walls clamped onto him desperately as moans kept escaping your lips.

He wouldn’t be able to last much longer, and you could feel it with the way his thrusts grew more erratically. 

Bucky’s hand left your hair, moving to hold onto your hips in a way you were sure you would have bruises in the morning that you would admire in the mirror. You could feel pressure building once more– another orgasm as he fucked harder into you– and a moaned out your name as you felt fuller than you thought you could. Your walls spasmed around him a second time, and you heard him let out a soft laugh above you as you struggled to breathe.

His hands moved to either side of your head, lowering himself to press kisses up your spine. You could feel his cock still throbbing inside of you, both of your releases beginning to dribble out of your abused hole and drip onto the sheets beneath you by the time his kisses made its way to your shoulder blades.

“Came a second time, sweetheart?” he murmured against your skin.

“Why the fuck are you still single?” you whispered, voice hoarse.

He smiled against your skin. “Waiting for the right match.”

You need to draw the line somewhere. There needs to be a boundary, even though you’ve already crossed every single one there is. You’re certain if someone finds out, you’re fired and blacklisted from the industry without any sort of defense from your side.

You ran the hell out of Bucky’s apartment the morning after. You rejected his offer for breakfast, and his offer for a ride back to your apartment. You wouldn't allow him to do that for you, not when you were in the middle of a crisis in your own head. 

You were trying to find him a girlfriend, but you weren’t sure if you could be his girlfriend, not when you weren’t even certain of love yourself.

You skillfully filled up your calendar for two weeks, apologizing to Bucky and letting him know you had emergency clients that needed your help, and you had a destination wedding to get to. It wasn’t a total lie, but it was also something to help you get your mind off of everything– to help you clear your head. 

It was contradictory– being a matchmaker and preaching for love, but refusing to fall in love yourself. You know that, but you didn’t want to think about it. Being in love meant being vulnerable with someone. It meant showing somebody the softest parts of you. It meant giving Bucky more than what he saw of you that night you spent together, and it terrified you. 

You don’t know if you were ready to give up the façade of control you had over your life, and it was so easy for him to strip it all away from you.

However, you knew you had to face him and your own feelings. You also know yourself better than anyone else.

“Let me get this straight– you want me to go on this date with your other client. After we went on a date, and we slept together?” Bucky asked you, eyebrows raised.

“Technically, you are my client, too. It’s my job to put two clients together,” you responded, nodding.

Bucky is staring at you, and you’re trying to avoid making eye contact with the bouquet of roses that he got you. Your heart is breaking, and you’re trying not to let it show. You’re really trying to be professional here, and you already broke so many rules. You went to a charity gala that wasn’t work related. You went on a date with a client. You slept with said client. 

“So us sleeping together– is that something that you just do with all you clients?” he asked, a scoff escaping his lips.

Your eye twitches just slightly. “I don’t even offer the trial date to any of my clients, Congressman,” you said, your lips in a thin line.

“Then why me?” he demanded. “Because I certainly had a good time. Both on the date and after– or was that just me?”

You bite your lip as you take in a deep breath. You had a great time. An amazing time. In fact– you enjoy a lot of your time with Bucky, as much as you hate to admit it. When you’re not interrogating him, he’s fun to talk to. The date banter was cute. The aftercare was top tier– he drew you a bath and sat in the soapy water with you and washed your hair. 

“You are my client,” you dismissed, ignoring his question. “Mr. Wilson has paid for my services, and we went on the trial date for me to evaluate how you are on the field. You aren’t bad on dates. You’re great. I think you’re ready to meet people– like that girl I told you about at the gala.”

“We slept together,” he said again. 

“And it was nice,” you nodded.

“That’s it? Just… nice? It didn’t mean anything else to you?” he asked. He was doing it again. Searching you for an answer. You hoped that your body didn’t give it away– hoped that he didn’t explore you well enough to know all your tells.

You fixed your smile on your face. “Is there something that you’d like to say, Congressman?”

Bucky’s lips part, as he watches you, eyebrows furrowed. He’s mad, and you know it. Guilt and dread builds up in your stomach, and you, for once, feel small. You watch as he sucks in a breath, and leans back in his seat.

“Fine. Set up the date. Just send me the details,” he said, looking away from you. “I have a meeting to get to, if you’d excuse me.”

He’s lying, and you know it. The windows of time he blocks out for you are usually at least three hours long. You’ve only been here for about thirty minutes. You don’t comment.

You can only manage a tight smile before you turn away from him. You don’t take the flowers with you, as much as you want to. Those flowers did nothing to deserve your cold shoulder. You close the door on your way out, taking your phone out of your purse as you dial a number. It picks up on the third ring.

“Hey Mel. Found you a date,” you said, trying to hide the jealousy in your voice.

You give her the details of Bucky, and you hate the way she sounds so excited because you know she is– she’s a good girl, and a great match. You wouldn’t be surprised if they got along well, if you were being honest.

You can only go back to the office, set up the date, then email both of them the details after going through their schedule to find the best time for the both of them. You receive a confirmation email back from both parties within minutes, and the dread in your stomach only grows larger.

You try to busy yourself when the date night comes along, staying in your apartment with a cheap beer and shitty romance movies that make you wonder if love exists or if you’re just too stupid to really think properly.

Mel must be having a great time right now, you think. The time of her life, even. You feel ugly with jealousy at this current moment in time, and you’re trying to shove it all away with greasy take out because you like Mel. She’s sweet. Bucky is the best match you could have found for her. Out of all the men in your books– he is the best out of the best.

And you’re so green with envy that you want to scream.

You wonder what flowers he bought her. You wonder if he pulled her chair for her to sit when they got to dinner. Maybe he even draped his fucking blazer over her shoulder if she got cold and didn’t wear a jacket– fuck! You should’ve pretended to forget your jacket so you could’ve pulled that move on him on your date.

You wonder if he decided to take her home. 

You clench your jaw as you pick up your phone, finding no notifications. There are no calls from either of them– no updates on their date. Could be a bad sign, but also could be a good sign. You groan into your hands.

You don’t get any restful sleep that night, and you’re scheduled to meet Mel at a coffee shop the next morning for a debrief on her date.

She looks great, which only seems to piss you off some more. You do your best to hide it. 

“Bucky was very handsome, like you said. I think he was taller than six foot though,” Mel started off with.

You smiled at her, “Sounds like the date went well?”

“He was a gentleman,” she grinned at you. “Very sweet the entire night. Almost too sweet, I think.”

You paused at that, tilting your head slightly. “Is that… a bad thing?”

“Um… Not necessarily?” she chuckled slightly. “I don’t know. It just seemed like his mind was somewhere else most of the time. He would answer when I talked– most of his questions to me were generic, but it felt like he was just kinda talking through me, not to me.”

“First dates are generally awkward for some,” you said, mentally kicking Bucky in the shin while kissing his face at the same time. “Did you want to see him again?”

“Actually… at the end of the date, he told me there was someone that he was already interested in,” she said, giving you a small smile as she reached into her purse. “And that he discussed handwritten, sentimental letters with her. He said that you walked away from him last time, but he was certain that I would see you again, so he asked me to give this to you.”

Your eyes widened as Mel slid over the envelope over the table, your lips parting as you saw your name sprawled over the paper in his handwriting. Panic flashed over your face as you looked up at her, and her smile only grew wider.

“Like I said– he was very sweet to me, but he looked like he wanted to be anywhere else than with me last night,” Mel said. “And he apologized profusely to me for wasting my time, and told me that I didn’t have to do this if I didn’t have to– but I like you, and I think this is really cute. You don’t see guys write love letters to girls these days. However, I expect a wedding invitation if that happens.”

She leaves you in the coffee shop with the letter that takes you too long to open. When you finally do, you find several pages folded up. Behind the handwritten letter, you find the Ador Matchmaker questionnaire as well. Your eyes widened– he filled it out. Completely. To the brim, with full answers. 

You don’t know how long you spend in the café, rereading both the letter and his answers before you’re booking a ride towards his office

You stand in the hall, his handwritten letter tucked safely in your purse as you try to will your heart to calm down in your chest. The receptionist let you know that he was definitely in the building somewhere. You don't know if he’s in the middle of a meeting or an appointment, but you’re willing to wait. 

Eventually, you hear footsteps against the marble floor, and you hear the chatter of different voices echoing against the walls. Then, it slows, and the voices come to a stop. You look up, finding Bucky in the center of a crowd of other men in suits. They’re all looking at him, waiting– and he dismissed them with a nod and a mutter of a couple words. They disperse immediately.

He fixed his suit with his hands, walking past you and to his door, unlocking the office. He doesn’t say a word, but holds it open for you to step in first. Your heart squeezes at the gesture, and you move. 

Your eyes fall on the wilting roses first. He put them in a vase, in the corner of his office where he can see them from his desk. 

“Is there something I can help you with?” he asked. The door shuts as he walks in behind you, and he goes towards his chair. Bucky cleared his throat, taking a seat. 

“Yes,” you said, sitting at the chair opposite from his desk. “I’m here to follow up on your date with Mel.”

You watch as his eyebrow twitches in annoyance. “I see. This couldn’t have been a phone call? An email?”

“You are very infamous for avoiding my phone calls, Congressman. Should I send you a letter for my clients to deliver to you, too?” you asked.

Bucky stared at you for a few moments, before sighing. He relaxed in his seat, closing his eyes. 

“Is this the part where you tell me that this is unprofessional? That you can’t be in a relationship with me?” he asked, his voice quiet. “Is that why you pulled away from me so quickly after the date?”

“Because it was unprofessional,” you argued back. “It shouldn’t have happened the way it did– part of me feels like I took advantage of you.”

“You didn’t,” he immediately said, eyes snapping open to meet yours. Your breath caught in your throat. “You did not take advantage of me. I wanted you– I want you just as bad as you wanted me.”

“Your letter said that I make you feel human,” you said, letting out a shaky breath. “You mean it?”

“I rewrote that thing five times before I got the proper wording down, sweetheart,” he confessed, sighing. He dragged his hand over his face, shaking his head. “The first four drafts didn’t convey what I wanted it to.”

“And you really think that I can make you happy?” you whispered.

“You said it yourself. You find it easy to talk to me,” he said, a laugh escaping his lips. “I agree with you. You are the easiest person for me to talk to. I think I could tell you everything, and that scares me.”

You can hear your heartbeat in your ears. “It scares you– but you still want me?”

“I have lived through war upon war,” he said. “I think I know better than anyone than to let fear overtake what I want in life.”

You’re scared, and you know he can see it from the way he’s looking at you. You tried to ignore that look in bed– the way he looked at you like you were precious and gentle beneath him as you came undone. The way his eyes weren’t just full of lust, but affection, too.

“I’ll jump a fence for you,” he added, making you laugh. 

You stood up out of your chair, feeling the weight of his eyes on you as you rounded the side of his desk. You placed a hand on the back of his chair, turning it to the side so you could have full access to him.

“I am so scared of love,” you admitted to him, moving to straddle his lap. 

“I figured,” he said, resting his hands on your hips. There’s a smile on his face that you can’t help but return. “We can take this slow. At your own pace.”

“I promise I’m good at my job though,” you murmured, sliding your hands up his chest and linking your fingers behind his neck. Your lips meet his in a sweet kiss, a sigh escaping him as you finally connect.

“Mm… I beg to differ. Can I fire you now, sweetheart?” he whispered, lips barely ghosting over yours, “I don’t need your help planning a second date.”

masterlist

taglist: @duacruel @natsomens @decthaxhrcv @shortandb1tchy @iyskgd @ifuckwithyouanyday @miss-chuchu @bighappypiels @snnoopyy @messrkarmaismygf13 @thebuckybarnesvault @aekzla

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[galactict3a]

runaway [one-shot]

bucky barnes x reader

summary: bucky comes face to face with his last living relative from his family tree, and it's an eight year old little girl running away from her adopted mom.

warnings: 18+, mdni, smut, fingering, the kid is a fucking brat for like two seconds but she's cute i promise, language, alcohol, alternating pov's, thunderbolts timeline (semi movie spoilers), bucky doesn't know how to be a parental figure, you are a tired parental figure, mentions of relationship abuse (DV) not between character x reader if you or someone you know is in danger/in need of assistance please call this hotline: 800-799-7233 or text BEGIN to 88788

word count: 19.5k (????????)

a/n: this was meant to be posted on father's day but then i completely dropped the ball and then didn't finish it in time but... happy late father's day to bucky who didn't even mean to be a father in this fic LOL

masterlist

Bucky is staring at the little girl in front of him, who is missing one of her front teeth. Her hair was in two braids, though the braids were loose and falling apart with red bows at the end. She is defiant, arms crossed at her chest. On the seat beside hers is a Hello Kitty backpack– one that he only recognizes as Hello Kitty because the girl in front of him just finished a twenty minute lecture on the animated character along with all of her friends and how Hello Kitty is only three apples tall– whatever the hell that means.

“Listen, kid, where are your parents?” Bucky asked, swiping a hand over his mouth. 

“I’m staring at him,” she responded. Once again, the same fucking answer that she has been telling him since she arrived an hour ago. 

Bucky glanced over at the clock on the oven. It’s nearing four in the morning now, and he can only think that the little girl is lucky that he was home tonight, and passed over his mission to Walker who was begging to get out of Watchtower.

Bucky still isn’t sure how this girl was able to find his apartment.

“I think I would remember if I did the thing to have a child, kid. How old are you?” 

“What thing?” she asked, frowning at him.

No. Bucky is not having this conversation right now.

“How old are you?” he repeated.

“I’m eight.”

“Okay,” he nodded slowly. Eight years ago, he definitely did not have sex with anyone. He was still in Wakanda with Shuri, getting the brainwashing pulled out of his head. 

Normally he wouldn’t be hesitating like this, but staring at this little girl was giving him doubts. Bucky couldn’t help but feel some kind of uncanny resemblance to her. She looked familiar to him. Her deep brown hair, the stormy blue eyes. The chubby little cheeks that haven’t completely lost all her baby fat– she looked like his little sister.

“I’m not your dad, you know that right?” Bucky finally asked with a sigh. 

“Yes,” she nodded. 

“Alright. Then where are your–”

“You’re my great granduncle,” she cut him off, turning to her backpack. Bucky froze as she unzipped her Hello Kitty bag, pulling out both her tablet that was also cased in another Sanrio character that he wasn’t sure of the name, and a binder that he recognized.

A family tree that he helped organize.

The little girl opened up the binder, going onto her knees, flipping right to the first page and pointed at the small portrait of him. The last picture of himself– a picture that he had taken right before he went off to war. 

“That’s you, isn’t it? James Buchanan Barnes,” she said stubbornly. 

Bucky couldn’t speak. The little girl flipped forward a few pages, the portraits becoming clearer and made of color now until it landed on her page. Then, she pointed at her own picture. A chubby little infant that had just gotten out of the womb. Under her portrait read the name Rebecca Winnifred Lee. 

“My mom named me after my great grandma,” she said, as if she saw his eyes land on the words. 

“And our ma, apparently,” Bucky muttered. 

He kept staring at the book– eyes following the tree. He noticed that there wasn’t a spot where Rebecca’s father should be. Her mom’s name was Tabitha. 

“Where’s your mom, Rebecca?” Bucky finally asked, looking at the little girl. Rebecca shrugged a little then turned the binder towards herself, looking at the little portrait of her mom. 

“Dunno,” she said, her voice small and weak. “Have no clue. I don’t have a family anymore.”

Bucky’s eyebrows furrowed at this. “Are you an orphan?”

“I’m hungry, grandpa,” she said, closing the book. She stared at him with wide eyes, and a pout. “Do you have any chicken nuggets?”

“First off– don’t call me that. Second off– you can’t just ignore the question.”

“I’m hungry. I can’t think when I’m hungry,” she defended herself, frowning at him.

Bucky could only stare in disbelief. This little girl had the same fire as Becky did. He let out a deep breath before getting up to go to the kitchen. He didn’t have fucking chicken nuggets, but he could cook her an omelet or something. 

“Just stay put,” he muttered.

Even after Rebecca ate, she did not answer any questions. Maybe it was due to the fact that she was only eight years old, but she was exhausted. He still had no idea how she got to his apartment in New York all by herself, or where the fuck she came from. She gave him no answers. She was a better spy than his own teammates. In fact, it was easier interrogating enemies than it was interrogating an eight year old.

After she fell asleep on his couch, he tried going through her backpack. He turned on her tablet, which was locked, so he couldn’t find much information there. The only thing he did see was a picture of Tabitha and Rebecca from when Rebecca was a baby– Tabitha holding her close to her chest. Other contents in the backpack included a crumbled up bus pass, an alarming amount of money for a child, a couple of squished granola bars, and wrappers. 

While she slept, Bucky ran his own research. 

He needed to make sure this child wasn’t some sort of spy that was sent as a decoy for a mission to keep his guard down for whatever reason. He wouldn’t hurt her, of course, but it wouldn’t be the first time a child was sent to him to disarm him. 

Rebecca Winnifred Lee was definitely not an orphan, but she did not have any existing biological parents in the picture. In fact, Tabitha was dead. She had died when Rebecca was a baby– barely even two years old. The dad wasn’t even on the birth certificate, so Bucky could only assume that he was a deadbeat father.

Tabitha passed away from a car accident. It was sudden, and it was fatal on impact. There was no will that was left. There were no last words. Only a body bag and a call that went to her friend’s phone as her only emergency contact, and her friend immediately adopted Rebecca without hesitation. 

It wasn’t difficult to grab all of this information from the database, especially with the level of clearance that Bucky had.

From looking up Rebecca’s information– she came all the way from Newport. A five hour bus ride if there were no delays. It would take about three hours by car if you were lucky. 

Bucky dragged his vibranium hand down his face, feeling an ache beginning to form behind his eyes. He really shouldn’t be feeling this annoyed, not when Rebecca’s guardian must have torn apart the entire city looking for the little girl. He couldn’t imagine how she would feel knowing that Rebecca was actually two states away. 

Bucky tried calling Rebecca’s guardian, only for the call to go immediately straight to voicemail. He tried again, only for the same thing to happen. He let out a sigh before deciding to leave a message.

You were going to kill Rebecca. Truly. You really were. 

Well, you were going to strangle her in your arms with hugs and kisses after you found her. Then you were going to kill her for making you worry like this.

She had been giving you hell for the past six months of your life, and you really were doing your best to raise her with all your strength. You understood her, you really did. Rebecca knew that you weren’t her mother, but that you were doing everything that you could to help fill that void that was left behind. 

She used to call you Momma when she was younger. You corrected her each time, telling her that you were Auntie. She was confused, but relented and changed up her way of speaking to you. 

When she was old enough, she told you that she wanted to call you Momma even though she knew that her biological mother had passed away. From that point onwards, you allowed her to do so.

You don’t know what switched in Rebecca. You don’t know why she stopped running up to you with a big grin and a hug during pick ups after school. You aren’t sure why she stopped looking at you with happiness and love, and it hurt. You think it has something to do with the kids at school teasing her. You’re certain it has to.

During the last parent teacher conference, you sat down with her teacher and she made an offhand comment about how it must be so difficult raising a child that wasn’t yours.

Rebecca was yours. 

And when Tabitha met her untimely, unfair death, it wasn’t any question for you to take Rebecca in as your own. Because she was. You were there for every late night and early morning colicky cry. You helped change blown out diapers. You warmed up bottles, rocked her to sleep, sang her lullabies. 

And when you were alone, you did it all by yourself. You didn’t complain once because it was no longer Tabitha who needed your help. Rebecca needed you now, and you would do anything for her. 

She was your daughter as much as she was Tabitha’s.

Even if Tabitha was here, she would be your child. 

And Rebecca hated you for replacing Tabitha.

She told it to you, to your face not too long ago. She said that she wished that you were the one that died, and not her real mom. You knew that she didn’t mean it, of course. That it was words from a child that didn’t know how to express her grief– that didn’t understand that words hurt. You still loved her all the same, even though you were upset with her. 

Now, you got a call from the school in the middle of your work day. She never got on the bus that morning, never made it to school. You spent all day driving around the city, looking for her while the police were doing the same. You called your neighbors, her friend’s parents, the school again– anyone and everyone that you could possibly think of.

You went back home to search to find that some of her things were taken. Her shoes were gone. Her backpack was missing, along with her tablet, and wallet that she normally only keeps in her little crossbody purse that she wears when you two go out together. 

To your utter disappointment, her tablet was off. You can’t use the Find My feature to track her, and you check every single chance. You’re constantly looking just in case it turns on. 

There’s a million things running through your mind at this moment. Did she run away? Did she really hate you that much? 

Then, a deeper, unsettling feeling– she was taken while you were at work. Someone slipped in while she was eating breakfast and took her in your own home. The place where she was supposed to be safe– the child that you promised your best friend that you would protect.

You were terrified.

You didn’t even care if she ran away at this point. You wanted her home. You wanted to hold her in your arms and cry. 

The police had already sent you home, said they had sent a call to all surrounding stations in the area for a search, but there wasn’t much that you could do at this time. You sat alone in your dark living room, phone on the coffee table with the location of her tablet still showing up as Location Not Found. Your eyes were tired, growing bleary–

Becky Baby last seen in Manhattan. Just now.

You grabbed your car keys, purse, and rushed out the door. 

The roads were clear, which made the ride faster– but you were certain that it also had something to do with the fact that you were going twenty five miles over the speed limit. You were thankful there weren’t any cops that were out and about this early in the morning. 

You stopped momentarily for gas, and to text your boss that you wouldn’t be able to make it into the office tomorrow for the same family emergency that made you leave work early today– and found a text with an address. A Manhattan address with an apartment unit number. 

Then, you found a voicemail waiting for you.

“Hi,” the man said before clearing his throat. “I’m not too certain how to say this, but I have Rebecca in my apartment– Uh. She’s safe. Fed. Sleeping right now. I’ll text you my address to come pick her up. Thanks. Oh- My name is Bucky, by the way.”

What the fuck.

You got back in your car and drove another ten miles over the speed limit. 

You pushed past the man who let you in, your eyes zeroing in on the little girl. She wore the same clothes that she wore yesterday morning when you saw her get ready– the same clothes that she was supposed to wear onto the bus and to school. 

And she was indeed sleeping peacefully, some drool sliding down her face, hair sticking to her cheek. Your heart was thumping in your chest, tears brimming in your eyes as the weight of everything came crashing down onto you. 

You dropped onto your knees in front of the couch- burying your face in your hands. You hit the couch slightly, rustling her awake.

“Mm.. Momma..?” she murmured sleepily. Just for a moment, your heart felt full. You felt like you were looking at that small toddler who would run up to you with legos and a mission. 

“Becky– you little brat!” you sobbed through tears. “What were you thinking?!” 

You watched as sleep quickly disappeared from her face as she scrambled to sit up, eyes wide on her little face. Her eyes darted from you and the man– Bucky, you guess from the voicemail– and she looked betrayed.

“You called her?!” she shrieked.

“You can’t just run away from your mom, kid,” he sighed deeply from behind you.

“I told you!” she whined at him. “She’s not my mom!”

Your heart broke all over again, but you forced it back into place. You wiped your tears away angrily, and let out a breath. You grabbed her by her tiny shoulders, forcing her to look you in the eyes. 

“Rebecca, I don’t care who you think I am. I am your legal guardian. Until you are eighteen years old, I have legal responsibility over you. That means you can’t just run past state lines whenever you want and go into strangers' houses!”

“He’s not a stranger! He’s my great granduncle!” she complained to you, pointing at him.

“What?” you gaped at her, eyebrows furrowing. “Becks, your great granduncle would be like, a 110 years old.”

“Yes,” he said from behind you. “I am.”

You finally turned around to take a good look at the man that you had blown past earlier. He had a box of tissues in his hands, presumably for you. His hair was dark brown, long, pretty, and curly. Just like Becky’s. His eyes were a stormy grey blue that you could get lost in, one that you were certain was an unnatural color. He was a muscular man, tall, handsome. Tanned skin. There was a well kept beard on his face. Another defining feature was the metal fucking arm that peeked out of his t-shirt.

“I’m Bucky,” he said, breaking the silence again.

You blinked, releasing a breath that you weren’t aware that you were holding. You stood, clearing your throat, and introduced yourself to him. 

“Are you— You’re all over the news,” you said slowly. “Right? Or am I losing my mind here?”

“Um. No. I am, unfortunately.”

“That’s how I found him!” Rebecca chimed in proudly from the couch. You turned to look at her again. “I was going through Mommy’s old things and found the family book tree and saw his name there– and then I saw the news about him in New York, and I thought he looked really familiar so I searched it up. He’s the same person!”

If you weren’t so pissed about the circumstances you were in, you would have praised her for being so smart, and having such great skills for being so young. However, you are still in New York when you live in Rhode Island. Your head is still pounding, and Rebecca still doesn’t seem to understand the weight of her actions.

You pinch the bridge of your nose as you lower yourself to be eye level with her again.

“Do you understand how dangerous this was, Becky?” you ask, your voice lowered. You’re not condescending her. You’re not yelling at her. 

Rebecca pauses, and she curls in on herself. No matter how much she dislikes you these past few months, she still has the muscle memory of a little girl being scolded by her parent. She looks down at her hands, fidgeting. 

“What if something happened to you?” you asked, eyebrows furrowing. “You are extremely lucky that you got to Bucky safely. There are thousands of bad people in the world that would love to take little girls off the street and do horrible things to them, do you understand?”

“But it didn’t happen,” she argued weakly. 

“Just because it didn’t happen, doesn’t mean that it can’t,” you replied, shaking your head. “How did you get here? Bus?”

Rebecca nods after a few moments. You sighed deeply, running a hand through your hair as you tried to calm yourself down.

“How did you get the ticket for the bus?” you asked next.

“Used your card… and your computer. Booked it online when you were sleeping,” she admitted softly. “Printed out the ticket at home, then walked to the station after you left for work yesterday.”

You close your eyes tight to reign in the anger that you feel festering in your chest. You want to scream. You didn’t check your bank statement– it didn’t cross your mind when she ran off to look. Rebecca had never done such a thing before. You didn’t think she was capable of doing something like that. 

“Why, Becky? Do you hate me that much?” you asked finally. “Do I make you that unhappy?”

“I don’t like you,” she said stubbornly. “You’re nobody to me.”

“Do you know how hurtful that is?” you whispered to her.

“I don’t care!” she screamed at you. “You’re not my mom! Stop trying to be!”

Rebecca pushed past you, rushing deeper into the apartment. A door slams shut, and you’re left stunned. You’re helpless for a few moments before a tissue box is placed in front of you.

“She went into the bathroom,” Bucky murmured. “Can I get you anything? Water? Beer?”

You let out a dry laugh. “A daughter that doesn’t hate me.”

“Sorry. I don’t know anything about kids,” he chuckled in response.

You let out a deep sigh, shifting to sit down on the couch. Bucky moved, too. He sat beside you, the two of you silent. You let the last few moments wash over you as you replayed your conversation with Rebecca in your mind. Then, you took a deep breath.

“I’m really sorry about this,” you finally said, looking at him. Bucky turned to face you. You clarified, “About bringing our family drama into your apartment. I’m sure you’re tired… and busy.”

“It’s no worries, really,” he promised, giving you a small smile. “It was a surprise, truly. Finding out that I have living relatives.”

“Well– I’m pretty sure she’s the only one. Even though she doesn’t have your last name,” you said with a small laugh. “She kinda looks like you.”

“She looks like my little sister,” Bucky corrected. “And has my sister’s name.”

“Tabitha named her after her grandma– your sister,” you recalled. Bucky nodded. “So it was on purpose then. Maybe the two of you were meant to meet at some point.”

“I’m sure she’s a sweet girl,” Bucky said, locking eyes with you. “You’ve done a really good job raising her.”

“Don’t say that to me right now. I just stopped crying,” you scoffed, though your voice broke as the words escaped your lips.

“I’m shit at comforting people, but I mean it,” he said, sliding the tissue box closer to you. “She’s smart– I’ll give her that. I’m not around a lot of eight year olds, but I sure as hell don’t think that I could’ve gone across state lines at eight years old with the amount of confidence that she has. One of my coworkers– he’s a dad. Well, two of them are. They say that children’s confidence and pride starts at home. So you must be doing something right.”

“She gets it from her mom,” you muttered, pulling a few tissues from the box to bring to your eyes.

“As far as I’m concerned, that’s you,” he said, his voice soft. 

It was quiet for another few moments between the two of you. You weren’t sure what to say, not with tears streaming down your face. Bucky doesn’t judge you though. He waits patiently as you wipe your tears away and blow your nose, trying to calm yourself down.

It was nice to hear those words.

The sun was already starting to fully show itself, and you could hear the streets of New York begin to wake. You were certain that this man also had places to be. You couldn’t be in his hair the entire day.

“I’m really sorry for imposing again,” you whispered, finally getting a hold of yourself once more. “Would you– Can you try coaxing her out of the bathroom? I’m sure if she hears me, she won’t come out.”

“Really– no worries. I got it.”

You watch Bucky get up from the couch and make his way down the hall. You hear him knock on the door. While he takes care of that, you decide to pick up Rebecca’s things. 

You put the binder back in her backpack, along with her tablet. You find her snacks and printed bus pass as well on the table, and put that away as well. You take out the wrappers and trash from inside her bag and find the trash can under Bucky’s kitchen sink to toss the mess away.

You sat at the kitchen table, nodding off slightly. You’re really not sure how much time has passed before Rebecca is coaxed out of the bathroom. However, you jump to your feet when you hear the bathroom door open.

A few moments later, you see her walking out the hall. Her eyes are red just like her nose. She’s sniffling, one hand gripping her shirt like she’s just been scolded. The other hand is holding onto Bucky’s flesh hand. 

You let out a breath of relief as you pick up her backpack and your purse, slinging both bags over your shoulder.

“Come on, Becks. Let’s go home now.”

Panic flashes across her face, and she turns to rush to the bathroom again. Thankfully, Bucky is still holding her hand, and he keeps a firm grip on her.

“Nope,” he sighed, pulling her back. “You gotta go, Rebecca.”

“You can’t make me!” she cried, tugging on her arm. “I don’t want to leave!”

“I don’t have the facilities to raise a kid, kid,” Bucky sighed deeply before leaning down, picking her up in his arms. He gives you a nod. “Lead the way.”

You move towards the door while she squirms in his arms, whining all the same. 

You make it down the apartment building towards the street where you parked. You unlock your car and place Rebecca’s backpack beside her booster seat. Then, you turn to Bucky, who’s ready to transfer Rebecca into your arms. The second that he does, she’s screaming her head off.

“KIDNAPPER! THIS WOMAN IS KIDNAPPING ME!”

You both freeze in your spots as people on the street begin to stop and stare. Some are taking their phones out, taking pictures of you– some are calling who you assume is 911.

Rebecca manages to wiggle her way out of your arms and slams herself back into Bucky’s body.

“Daddy, don’t let her take me away!” she cried, wrapping her arms around his torso. 

Bucky is staring at her, shock and confusion all over his face. Then, he’s looking at you. He lets out a slow, deep breath before reaching behind you, shutting the door of the car. Then, Bucky reaches for your hand as he bends down to pick up Rebecca at the same time. Wordlessly, he pulls both of you back into the apartment building before more bypassers can take more photos of you or before the cops can come.

For whatever reason or purpose, Bucky gives the two of you his apartment to stay at for the foreseeable future. You want to say it’s out of the kindness of his heart, but you know it’s because your daughter cannot be trusted, and you will most likely be arrested the next time you attempt to bring her outside to your car again. 

Thankfully, Rebecca chose the last day of third grade to run away on, so she’s in the middle of summer right now. You don’t have to worry about her missing any academics. However, you have to put in an emergency request for PTO with your company for about a month since you’re not sure how long her tantrum is going to last you. 

You’re more than certain that you’ll have to run to the nearest Best Buy and purchase a new laptop within the next few days to remotely troubleshoot anything that your boss from hell's needs you to. She had two other assistants that you personally trained, but it seemed like every single time you were away from the office, the entire building would come crashing down.

One last text was sent out to your neighbor, who often took care of Rebecca when you had to work long nights preparing for presentations. She had a spare key to your house. You asked her to go around the entire house and unplug every electronic and appliance that she could find, and let her know that you found Rebecca.

Texts and emails were flooding your phone, adding to the headache that was already thundering behind your forehead. You put your phone on do not disturb, and put it face down on the coffee table before burying your face in your hands.

You allowed yourself one brief moment of silence before lifting your head. Rebecca was asleep on the couch again. After her tantrum outside, she tired herself out once more. 

You didn’t understand it.

She wasn’t like this before. She was a good, well-mannered little girl. She followed the rules, never caused you any trouble. Rebecca was more than eager to do everything right. She hated to be the issue for anyone. You never had any problems raising her. You consider yourself lucky these past eight years.

This was the first time since Tabitha passed away that you felt overwhelmed with her. You could feel tears beginning to well up in your eyes again. You couldn’t abandon her, as much as she claimed to hate you. You needed to take her back with you, and you needed to somehow get her to understand that doing all of this wasn’t right.

The door in the hallway opened, and you quickly wiped away your tears as you sat up straight. Bucky came into view a few moments later, shoving his arms through a leather jacket before fastening his gloves over his hands. You paused at the sight– gloves in the middle of summer? You didn’t ask as he pulled out a key and something else from his jean pocket. 

“Spare key,” Bucky said, handing it to you along with a black card– a business credit card.

“What is this for?”

“Groceries. I don’t know what Rebecca eats. She asked me for chicken nuggets last night, but I don’t eat any of that. Go shopping. I don’t think either of you have clothes, so buy clothes, too.”

“What– Bucky, I can afford groceries and clothes,” you said, shoving the card back in his hands. “You’re already letting the two of us stay in your New York penthouse for free. You won’t let me help pay the rent here while we stay.”

Bucky pushed the card back into your hands, “Then help me cook dinner while you’re here. I’m living off take out and shitty convenience store food, and I’m sick of it. Is that a fair trade?”

“You don’t even know if my cooking is good,” you said wearily.

“Rebecca’s been alive for eight years, so that counts for something,” he said with a small shrug. “I’ll be back later tonight.” 

“Is there anything you want then? Anything you prefer? Any allergies?” you asked, looking back up at his face. He was already looking at you. Your breath caught slightly in your throat.

“I can eat anything,” he told you, giving you a small smile. “You have my phone number– if you need anything, just call me. I’ll come back right away.”

“I’m sure the two of us will be fine for a day, Bucky,” you said, returning his smile. “Have a good day at… work?”

Bucky laughed at your words– the fact that you weren’t certain at what to call his job. He nodded. “Thank you. I’ll see you two later tonight.”

“Don’t be late. I’ll have dinner waiting,” you told him, your smile widening just a bit more at the sound of his laughter.

Bucky left you with Rebecca in his apartment. Vaguely, you wonder if he’s being a little too trusting of allowing a random adult woman in his home along with a child, but then again– he had your phone number within moments of meeting said child. The scary realization that he had the rest of your information at the tip of his fingertips made a shiver run down your spine. You were happy that Rebecca’s last living relative was an ex-Congressman-unretired-superhero.

Rebecca refused to go shopping with you, so you went by yourself. She cried that you would try to take her back home if she stepped outside the apartment with you. You relented. You didn’t need another meltdown.

You went for clothes first, and you didn’t use Bucky’s card for that. Part of you felt mildly offended that he even offered. You were certain that he knew your job, and he could definitely look into the amount of money you made if he really wanted to. Another part of you told yourself to just let it go. He was trying to be nice even though he really didn’t have to be.

You bought enough clothes for you and Rebecca to last for two weeks. You remembered seeing a washer and dryer in Bucky’s apartment– so you would be able to wash clothes when you needed to. 

However, Rebecca was a fucking brat and she liked variety in her outfits. That was your fault. You always made sure her closet was stocked and full of different things because you never had that as a child. Yet, here you were– enabling her once again. 

You grocery shopped for the two of you– enough for the week and then some. If you needed to get more, then you would come back out. You were hoping that you would be able to settle whatever you needed to with her child brain within the week, and move on with your life. A nagging feeling made you realize that it was highly unlikely.

You used Bucky’s card for the groceries. You were more than certain that he would have said something if he didn’t see the charge on his card and saw the amount of things you bought today. You got all of Rebecca’s regular staples of foods and snacks, along with some more healthy things. You weren’t sure what a superhero ate, but you would be damned if you fed some overly processed foods to someone that was meant to be saving the world.

Then again, he did mention that he was living off of shitty food. 

It takes you four trips to bring up several bags of clothes and groceries up to Bucky’s apartment from the parking garage. You’re thankful that Bucky lives in a very nice place in Manhattan– you've heard horror stories of New Yorkers living in places with only stairs with no central air conditioning in the hallways.

Rebecca is playing away at her tablet when you finally bring everything inside. 

“Alright,” you said, catching her attention. “I know you hate me, but you’re going to help me organize everything. Get up.”

To your surprise, she does. She puts her tablet down and trudges over to you, opening the first bag of groceries as you open the fridge. You’re shocked to find the thing damn near empty, save for a Brita filter, a case of beer, and a plum. A singular plum.

Bucky was a single man, you realized. 

“Hey,” Rebecca said from beside you.

“I told you not to address me like that,” you replied, turning towards the bag of frozen items. You got her ice cream sandwiches, and you were more than certain they would melt soon if you didn’t shove them in the freezer.

“I don’t hate you,” she murmured, her voice quiet. 

Your hands paused, and you let out a deep breath. You turned around to look at her. She was sheepish, looking down at the floor. She had a box of pasta in her tiny hands. 

“But you don’t want to go home with me?” you guessed. Rebecca nodded. “That’s fine for now, Becks. But let’s put everything away, and then we can figure out what we wanna make for dinner for your… grandpa?”

“He told me not to call him that,” Rebecca said, brightening up immediately.

“What are you gonna call him then?” you asked, chuckling at her. She really did have mood swings.

“He said to just call him Bucky for now,” she replied, smiling as she pulled out lettuce from the bag. “Can you make pizza tonight?”

After putting the groceries away, you pulled out all the toiletries you bought as well and set them up in the bathroom. Toothbrushes for both you and Rebecca, as well as some mouthwash and toothpaste. You got other shower essentials as well, putting them on the rack– and you let out a breath of relief to find that Bucky wasn’t a 3-in-1 kinda single man living in New York.

You cursed to yourself when you realized you had none of your regular makeup or essentials of your own. You forgot to buy deodorant, too.

After putting your new clothes in the washer, you set Rebecca up in the living room with a movie and pulled your phone out. You were going to online shop for absolutely everything else that you could possibly need.

A laptop, makeup to look presentable because you were certain that you would be called for an online meeting at some point, deodorant, perfume, and chargers for your phone and Rebecca’s tablet. Thankfully, everything would be coming in to Bucky’s address by the morning. 

With some free time, you even searched up Bucky. You wanted to know about what he did in the government. You recognized his face from brief headlines, but you never really knew what kinds of bills he passed or supported. Maybe you could use heinous actions to your advantage and get Rebecca to go home with you.

His status as an ex-Congressman and a member of the New Avengers were all over the news.  You read how he served in the second world war, and the valiant efforts that he made with Captain America. You briefly recalled that lesson in your history class. You skimmed through that section, pausing at the controversies of the Winter Soldier.

You could only read so much before you got angry.

There wasn’t much online about the details that he performed when he was under the jurisdiction of that crazy group that controlled him, but from what you could gather– Bucky wasn’t Bucky. The fact people were still using that to discredit all the good he was doing in the world was pissing you off.

You sighed deeply, looking over at Rebecca, feeling guilt build up in your stomach. Here you were, thinking that you would find dirt on a Congressman as a reason to tell Rebecca that her only living relative was a bad man. 

He was literally the opposite of a bad man. A misunderstood man, maybe– but not a bad one.

By the time you finished laundry, it was already six. You weren’t sure what time Bucky was coming home, but you would start making dinner now. You sent Rebecca off to go take a shower since she hadn’t showered all day and she was starting to stink from her long bus adventure while you went into the freshly stocked kitchen.

Rebecca asked for pizza, so you would make pizza. Bucky said he didn’t have any allergies, so you would just make it as you usually did. You usually only made one pizza for you and your kid to share, but you decided to double the batch. Bucky could probably eat an entire pizza by himself and still be hungry for more, you think. 

As you mixed the dough and spread it out on the counter, your mind wandered. You didn’t pay too much attention to the man that owned this place, but Bucky was tall. If you had to estimate, he was over six feet tall. Moreover, he was a muscular man. He looks to be a very well built– strong, sturdy man.  You struggle these days to pick up Rebecca in your arms, but he picked her up like she was nothing. She probably weighed nothing to him. She looked tiny in his arms.

He could probably pick you up like nothing, if he really wanted to. He looked more than capable of it. Plus, he had a decent amount of money to just be giving you a black card and telling you to spend it on clothes and groceries. Handsome, too. Spoke to you kindly and gently. 

“Fuck,” you curse, eyes widening at the mess in front of you. You poured too much sauce on the dough. You immediately shift to rectify the situation at hand, and you’re lucky that you didn’t ruin the pizza. 

You need to stop thinking.

He’s Rebecca’s great granduncle. A 110 years old. 

“Doesn’t look a 110 though,” you mutter to yourself as you shove the pizzas into the oven.

“You’re going home again tonight?” Yelena asked, raising an eyebrow at him.

“I pay for my place. Am I supposed to keep it vacant? There’s no point in having an apartment if I never spend time there,” Bucky grunted, removing his tactical vest from his body. 

“Aren’t you the guy that’s all about efficiency? What’s so efficient about having an apartment when you already have a room at the tower?” she demanded, hands on her hips.

Bucky let out a deep sigh. He knew that she was right, and that she was just throwing words that he said right back in his face. However, once they started this New Avengers bullshit, he couldn’t bring it in himself to get rid of the apartment that he got when he was just a Congressman. 

When missions got too hard, or the team were a bunch of pricks, there was somewhere that he could retreat to that didn’t include them. It was his own personal sanctuary of peace and quiet. None of them knew where his apartment was located, and he made sure to keep it that way. He didn’t need anyone or anything to encroach on his personal space. 

Right now, he wasn’t searching for peace or quiet. You asked him to be home on time for dinner. He didn’t know what time dinner started for you and Rebecca– he forgot to fucking ask, and it was nearing eight. Even if the food was cold, he would eat it. Either way, he promised that he would be home for dinner. He knew you bought groceries, too. He saw the charge on his card go through. 

“We don’t have anything scheduled for tomorrow,” Bucky finally said. “I am going to sleep in a room where Ava can’t ghost through whenever she feels like.”

“Woah– so our leader is just running off to let us deal with that?!” Walker complained, removing his helmet.

“If you hate it so much, then you get your own place, too,” Bucky sighed.

“With what money, Congressman?” Yelena rolled her eyes at him.

“Fontaine pays each of us a decent salary for these bullshit missions and to attend those stupid galas, if you forget. Stop wasting your stipends on stupid gadgets, and maybe put it towards a down payment,” Bucky deadpanned. 

“Yeah, yeah,” she murmured. 

They all filtered out of the locker rooms. They had all unloaded their gear and weapons, and were off to go do whatever they wanted to now that they were free from the mission.

Bucky made a quick pit stop towards his room to shower and change out of the under layer of his mission clothes– into something more harmless. Something that wouldn’t freak out Rebecca when she saw him. He took extra time in looking at himself in the mirror to make sure that there weren’t any visible cuts and scrapes on his face and arms that you would be able to notice. He scrubbed extra hard between the grooves of his metal arm to ensure there was no blood between the gears that either you or Rebecca would be able to smell when he crossed the threshold of his apartment.

He didn’t realize that he was doing all of that until he was done.

“Barnes. Wanna eat before you leave? Bob made food,” Yelena called out to him as he left his room.

“Not hungry,” he grunted, heading for the elevator with his keys in hand.

He ignored the looks from his teammates as he went straight for the elevator, hitting the button to go down to the garage. Bucky moved faster than he did when he was on the mission. He got on his bike, and raced down the street to get home. 

He could smell the food from the hallway before he even opened the door. 

Usually, when he opened his apartment up– it was dark. The lights were turned off, and it was cold. There wasn’t anything or anyone to greet him. Today was different.

The kitchen lights were on, along with the living room floor lamp. The TV was on to some cartoon that he had never seen before, playing softly in the background. He could hear the faint sound of the washer and dryer being used as well. Then, he heard the sounds of little feet scurrying across the floor followed by voices.

It sounded like he had just entered a home.

He was quiet as he moved down the hallway entrance.

“Careful, Becky. Don’t want you to get burned,” you warned her, and the little girl took two steps back as cautioned. She was wearing pajamas now, her hair no longer in the braids that he remembered seeing when he left this morning. They were fluffy and curly. 

“The smaller pizza is ours?” she asked you as you shifted to put the pizza on the cooling rack.

“Mmhm. The bigger one is for Bucky. If he can’t finish it, he can take it to work tomorrow for lunch,” you told her. “I think I saw some tupperware in a cabinet somewhere… If not, then I can just wrap it in foil for him.”

“Do superheroes eat lunch?” she asked, making a face at you.

“Everyone eats lunch, silly,” you scoffed, shaking your head as you close the oven. “Even my boss.”

“I thought you said she’s a villain,” she giggled as you ruffled her hair with your free hand.

“Well. She kinda is,” you shrugged, turning towards the sink to put the baking sheet in cool water. “But I have to feed the villain, so it’s a nice change to feed a superhero instead. Grab some plates from the dishwasher. They’re clean– set up the table, please.”

Rebecca moved right away, doing as you asked her to. She pulled out three plates carefully from the dishwasher, bringing them to the table as you grabbed the cooling rack with the pizzas to bring over as well. 

“Do you think Bucky likes pizza?” Rebecca asked you, climbing onto one of the seats as she waited for you to serve her some food.

“He was born and raised in New York. I think it’s criminal if he doesn’t,” you replied.

Bucky let out a soft laugh at your answer before shaking his head. He straightens his back and rounds his shoulders before entering the room.

“I’m back,” he called out, dropping his keys on the island counter. Both you and Rebecca perk up at his announcement, turning to look at him.

“Welcome home,” you greeted, a warm smile on your face. 

Bucky has gone through several wars in his life. He has been through countless life threatening missions and never batted an eye. He has been through hell and back. Had his mind wiped and thrown through a blender. He fought his best friend with his own two fists, fought by his best friend’s side at what seemed to be the end of the world, and was then snapped out of existence for five years and he didn’t even know it. Yet, two words and a smile is all that takes for his heart to race.

The man cleared his throat, and forced a smile on his face, giving you a nod.

“Are you hungry? Mo– Auntie made dinner!” Rebecca said, tripping over her words. Your face faltered slightly, but Rebecca didn’t catch it. Bucky did. 

“Starved. Smells great,” Bucky replied, coming closer. He took a seat at the table across from you, looking at the pizzas. 

Definitely handmade– but he was certain that he had never seen food look better in his entire life. When he took the first bite, he was sure that he had never had real food in his entire life until this point, too.

“Is it okay?” you asked him, looking a bit worried.

“It’s amazing,” he told you. “Honestly. You’re great.”

“It’s my favorite,” Rebecca piped up from her seat. She had already polished off two small slices herself, and had some tomato sauce on the edges of her mouth. Bucky watched as you reached over with a napkin to wordlessly wipe her face before she kept talking. “She works a lot these days, but she’s the best cook ever. I told her that she should’ve been a chef!”

You let out a small laugh at her words, shaking your head. “My mom taught me how to cook when I was younger,” you tell Bucky. “Just home recipes. I learned some more stuff on my own when I got older.”

“Can you teach me how to cook, too?” Rebecca asked you, excited.

“Sure. If you come home with me,” you replied, taking a bite of your own slice. Bucky watched as Rebecca paused, then sunk in her seat, grumbling to herself– she was clearly torn. 

Dinner was completed without any other incident. Both you and Rebecca finished your pizza together, and Bucky finished his pizza by himself. He definitely could have saved some for tomorrow, but he couldn’t help himself. It was nice to come home to a meal, and share it with other people. 

It wasn’t to say that his teammates and himself didn’t have meals together, either. It was the fact that neither you or Rebecca were part of that life. The two of you were normal. You were untouched by danger, and your biggest issue was trying to get your kid back home to Newport. 

Once Rebecca excused herself from the table, you began to pick up all the plates when Bucky stopped you.

“I got it,” he said, pulling the plates from your hands.

“What? You paid for the ingredients, Bucky. You’re making me feel bad here. I don’t think this is a fair living situation,” you frowned at him. Bucky won’t admit it out loud, but he thinks you look adorable like this.

He thought you were cute this morning, too. Truthfully, he thought you were a very beautiful woman when he first saw you. You came in, pushed him to the side with strength that he didn’t know a regular civilian woman could have, and stormed into his apartment with a pantsuit and a thin trench coat and heels. You looked like you had just gotten off a business meeting. 

Right now, you were no longer wearing the heels so you were missing the height he saw earlier before he left for his mission today, but you were still wearing the blouse from earlier. It was untucked now, a couple buttons undone at the top for comfort, and the sleeves were cuffed at your elbows. Your hair was tied back, possibly to keep out of your way while you were cooking.

“You cook, I clean up the mess,” he told you, gently pushing your hands away. “Besides, weren’t you grocery shopping before all of this? Running errands? You’ve been doing laundry, too. You’ve been busy all day, so go relax or something. Take a shower.”

“I’m a grown woman raising a child on my own,” you remind him. “This is my normal.”

“And right now, I’m here. So don’t worry about it. She’s watching… What the hell is that?” Bucky asked, eyes on the TV. 

“You’ve never watched Avatar before?” you asked, eyebrows raising at him. You didn’t even look back at the TV. You didn’t even need to look at it to know what Rebecca was watching. “It’s a classic.”

“You watch cartoons?”

“That cartoon aired when I was a kid, okay?”

“The cartoon that aired when I was a kid was Mickey Mouse’s Steamboat Willie,” Bucky shot back at you. “And it was played in the theatre, not in 4K HD.”

“Do all old men have this much sass in their bodies?” you ask, disbelief all over your face. “How do you find the energy to be like this?”

Bucky can’t help but crack a smile. “When you get as old as I am, you find it difficult to hold your tongue. Now go do whatever. I’ll clean up here.”

When you get out of the shower, you’re feeling refreshed. You’re more than ready to knock the hell out and sleep for four days, but you know that isn’t a possibility. If you think back on it, you haven’t slept in over thirty six hours– the thought makes you want to cry.

You hang your towel up beside Rebecca’s before exiting the bathroom. You find that the TV is off already, and you hear the hum of the dishwasher going off. The kitchen lights are off, and only the floor lamp is on now. You’re searching for the little girl, eyes scanning the living room.

“I put her to bed in my room,” Bucky said, catching your attention. He’s sitting at the table– also changed into more comfortable clothes. Sweatpants and a tank top. He also has some documents laid out on the table, along with his laptop. “You and her can take the bed while you’re here.”

“What?” You’re more than certain that you sound like a broken recording at this point. 

“I’ll take the couch,” he said, nodding towards it.

You’re still in shock before you cross the floorspace, pulling out the chair to sit beside him. He watches you for a few moments, allowing you to let your mind catch up before you speak.

“I don’t understand why you’re going this far for us. We are strangers to you. You should have kicked both me and Rebecca to the curb the second I came for her,” you said, meeting his eyes. “Is it because you’re related to her?”

“I can’t deny that it’s part of the reason,” he said, letting out a breath as he ran a hand down his face. “She just… she looks like my sister. My little sister. And I don’t know how much you know about the history of me, but I lost everyone and everything I cared about in an instant. It might make zero sense to you, but it’s nice. Coming home and there’s people waiting.”

“Is that the other part of the reason? You’re lonely?” you asked, eyebrows furrowing at him. 

Bucky let out a small laugh before nodding. “Yes. I’m lonely. And as long as Rebecca wants to throw her tantrum and say that she wants to stay here, then that’s fine with me as long as you’re fine with it. I’ll let you do a background check on me, if it makes you feel more comfortable.”

“You’ll let me do a background check on a superhero?” Your mind wandered back on the articles that you read on him. He would let you see the dirt on him that the tabloids didn’t even have?

“You’re her mom,” he said, his voice suddenly serious. “I know you would do anything for her. My status in this world does not compare to what she is to you.” 

You stare at him for a few moments before sighing, placing your elbows on the table, burying your face in your hands. “I need a drink,” you muttered.

“Beer?” he offered, standing. You nod wordlessly as he goes to the fridge. 

He cracks open the can before setting it down in front of you, and you lean back in your seat, murmuring a soft thank you before you take your first drink. Your eyes wander over the various files over the table and frown.

“Should you really have classified information scattered about where two civilians can see it?” you joke softly.

Bucky shrugs, and takes a drink himself. “Are you going to spill secret information anywhere?”

“No, but I think you should be worried about the little girl that tracked you down to your apartment and still won’t tell either of us how she did it,” you pointed out.

“She’s asleep, so I think I’m safe for now,” he chuckled. You smile at that, shaking your head as you take another drink. Bucky watches you for a few moments before he speaks again, “Has it always just been you and her?”

“Since her mom passed? Yeah. Just the two of us. Our neighbor– Mrs. Mendoza– helps out on nights when I work late. Otherwise it’s just me and her,” you nodded, taking a deep breath as you say it out loud. 

“Isn’t that hard?” he asked.

“I’m sure it’s not more difficult than keeping the world safe every other week,” you smiled at him. 

“You’re keeping her world safe. That has to count for something, too,” he dismissed. 

“Well… It’s easier now that she’s older. Though this phase she’s in definitely sucks,” you admitted before smiling at the flashback of memories of her as a small baby in your arms. “But I’ve had my moments of crying in the bathroom when she was a toddler because I was overwhelmed and alone.” 

“No one special to keep you company though?” he asked. 

You paused mid-drink, eyes flickering over to him. You raised your eyebrows, watching him for a moment. His face was calm as he took a sip of his own can, waiting for your response. Usually, you would have skimmed right over the question, but there was a certain tilt in his voice that made you stop and weigh his words over in your mind.

“Are you hitting on me right now?” you asked before you could stop yourself. 

“Depends. Do you think I am?”

“There’s a strong suggestion that you are.”

“I’m asking if Rebecca has a strong father figure in her life.”

You roll your eyes, trying to hide your smile behind the can. “You think she would have ran off to find you if she had a strong father figure?”

“You tell me,” Bucky said with a shrug, nonchalant. He can’t seem to hide the smile on his face either.

You shake your head, placing the can on the table. You move over the papers so that the condensation doesn’t ruin his files as you take in a breath.

“I don’t have time to date,” you revealed to him. “Becky is my top priority. And most guys don’t want to date someone that has a young kid. They see it as baggage. She comes before anything in my life. I closed the chapter of romance when I adopted her. I don’t remember the last time I went on a date, if I’m being honest.”

“You’re still young,” he said. “At some point, Rebecca will be old enough. She won’t be a kid forever.”

“You’re right,” you nodded, looking down at the can. Your smile turns slightly sad, somewhat melancholic before you meet his eyes again. “But she’s still a kid right now. And as much as I would like to have somebody special in my life like that… I don’t have the ability to be selfish when she relies on me. It’s not just my heart that the other person will break if they decide to walk away from me, you know?”

“I get it. Kinda.”

You raise an eyebrow at him. “Kinda?”

“With my job,” he explained. “It’s selfish. Sometimes, I’m away for weeks at a time, and I would be radio silent for the entire time. It would be hard on them, not knowing if I was okay. So, in a way.. I get it.”

“Is that why this apartment reeks of bachelor in New York?” you asked, tilting your head at him.

“Is it really that bad?” he chuckled.

“Bucky. Your fridge was empty. Your bathroom is barely stocked. You don't even have decorations in here,” you pointed out at him, watching him hold his hands up in defense.

“You still have my card. Go ahead and decorate the place to your liking.”

“Pardon?”

“You work as a personal assistant, right? Let me use your skills. Make my place look more homey. That way, when you’re gone, it still feels warm,” he said, giving you a small smile.

His words made your chest squeeze. When you’re gone. 

You’ve barely known the man for over twenty four hours, but it still made you feel sad in a way that you can’t explain. Maybe it was the fact he already admitted to you that he was lonely– that he enjoyed coming home to people in his house. That he liked seeing Rebecca’s face because it reminded him of the sister that he was ripped apart from when he was taken as a prisoner of war all those years ago. Maybe it was because in this moment, he didn’t look like a superhero or a congressman like in those pictures of the articles you read. He looked like a man. Just a tired man, who wanted to rest. 

“You really don’t mind it if we stay for a bit?” you asked, worry lacing your voice. “What if I turn out to be a serial killer or something?”

Bucky barked out a laugh that made your stomach flip. “Then guard my house while I’m gone, sweetheart. Consider it your work for me allowing you to stay here for free.”

Over the two weeks, your routine with Bucky continued.

You and Rebecca would wake up early to make Bucky lunch before he went off for work. You woke up at five the first day, unsure of what time he would leave– thankful it was the time he woke up himself to get in the shower. The two of you rushed to make him something. Each day was something different, and it would also be your lunch for the day as well. 

The first day, he was surprised when Rebecca handed him the bag at the door.

“Bring home the container so we can run it through the dishwasher tonight. And come home for dinner. I’ll make salmon, if you like that?” you asked him with a smile. 

Bucky’s eyes flitted over to you and Rebecca, who was about to fall over from sleepiness, still holding out the tupperware of food to him. 

“Love it,” he responded, snapping out of whatever haze he seemed to be in, taking the bag from your kid. He let out a shaky breath, and ruffled her hair. “Thank you for this. Bye–”

“It’s not bye!” Rebecca cut him off, angry. “It’s see you later! Bye is too final. Mo– Auntie said so. You have to say see you later.”

You stifled a laugh at Bucky’s face. His mouth was agape, eyes wide as he was scolded by an eight year old with tangled hair and morning breath. She was also dead serious with her words, hands on her hips. 

“See you later, Becks,” he corrected himself. She smiled, satisfied.

“See you later, Bucky!” she grinned at him.

“Have a good day at work,” you told him when his eyes went over to you, still smiling. “I’ll start decorating your place today.”

He let out a small laugh, shaking his head. “Yes– thank you. I’ll see you later tonight.”

Over the week, you ordered decoration and different furniture for Bucky’s apartment (using his card), and Rebecca helped you build everything throughout the day as packages began to arrive. In between all of it, you worked remotely as your boss had you troubleshoot items that your incompetent coworkers couldn’t seem to figure out on their own. You were damn near about to lose your mind. After all, you were on emergency PTO. You shouldn’t have to be dealing with any of this right now.

Though, it was still less work than if you were in the office on a regular day. 

All in the meantime, you were still doing your best to reconnect with Rebecca. She seemed to be warming up with you little by little again. The small child that you knew was still in there. You could see that everything she was doing was definitely a front– that there was something here that you were so close to cracking what was in her tiny little mind. 

Bucky would come home every night around eight. You would have dinner ready for him around that time as well. Sometimes, he would come home with a new bruise on his face or a cut on his lip. You told Rebecca that if she saw it, not to mention it. That he was a hero fighting bad guys, and home was a place for him to rest. She understood, and was a good girl. She allowed him the peace within these walls. Bucky seemed to appreciate it.

You would watch Bucky interact with Rebecca, too. He began to wipe her mouth when sauce or crumbs would find its way on the edges of her mouth, and she would let her. If she wanted more food, he would move before you would to give her some. When her glass of juice ran low, he would stand from the table to fill it up– but not before adding some water to it like he saw you did once before. 

After dinner, Bucky would do the dishes while you went to shower, and he would put her to bed. When you got out of the shower, he would be doing paperwork at the kitchen table that he couldn’t do at his office or whatever building that he worked at, and you two would drink a can of beer or two together while you talked. 

He would tell you about his day, and you would tell him about the copious amounts of money that you just spent on his card. He would laugh, and shake his head, but he would never get mad at you. Of course, the numbers were always exaggerated. You just wanted to see him laugh. 

Bucky’s smile was pretty. His laughter was genuine, and you enjoyed watching the way that his whole body rumbled when he laughed. The sound was low, and reverberated throughout your body when the noise hit you. You enjoyed listening to it.

“Is this your first time in New York?” Bucky asked you one night. 

This time was different. You weren’t at the table. There wasn’t any paperwork. You two were sitting on opposite ends of the couch, the TV turned on to some random movie that neither of you were watching. He had his right arm draped over the back of the couch, legs spread a bit wide as he relaxed comfortably against the back of the couch. Your back was pressed against the armrest of the other end, your feet barely brushing his thigh, your left arm on the back of the couch with your fist propping up your head as you looked at him.

“Is it obvious?” you asked, making a face.

“You sound like you’re from California.”

“Ugh,” you groaned. “I hear that all the time. Valley accent? I thought I got rid of it by now. I’ve been living on the East Coast since before Becky was born.”

“Why’d you move all the way out here?” he chuckled, taking a drink.

“It’s kinda a shit story. I haven’t even told Becky. You sure you wanna hear it?” you asked, cringing a little. 

“I’ve been through hell. I’m sure I can handle it,” he promised. 

You were silent for a few moments, trying to figure out where to start this story. After all– you’ve never said it out loud before. You figured the very first person you would ever tell it to was Rebecca. You sucked in a breath.

“Becky’s dad was a drunk… who used to beat Tabitha,” you finally start. You watched as Bucky sits up a bit straighter. He turns the TV off, and shifts to face you completely. His attention is on you, fully. “I knew, and I told her to leave him– but she would tell me she loved him, and it was hard for her to leave him. I… still don’t get it, but I’ve never been in one of those situations. Anyway– she’s my friend, so I stayed beside her regardless. 

“Then, she got pregnant, and she had a wake up call. She realized that… she didn’t want any baby of hers to be beaten the same way that she was being beaten so we finally went to the police. Unfortunately, his dad is a cop. So, they didn’t do anything… and her asshole boyfriend threatened to kill both her and her unborn baby.

“We were both twenty one years old, in our last year of college. She had no job, I was working at a mall in LA, and we had absolutely zero assets, but I suggested to her that we run to the other side of the country and start over. So we did. I transferred to a university over here to finish school. She dropped out to work full time while she still could and saved every single penny. I worked when I didn’t have school to help save money, then got a job as soon as I graduated to help out Tabitha with Rebecca. I would work during the day, and she would take care of Rebecca, then she would work night shifts. Then, Tabitha… passed away in a car accident on her way home one early morning.”

Bucky didn’t say anything when you finished. You looked down at your lap, feeling a bit nervous as you chewed the inside of your cheek. 

“That answered a bit more than what you asked, but uh– I was born and raised in California,” you added with a nervous laugh, clearing your throat. “Went to UCLA and everything.”

“Is that bastard still alive?” Bucky asked you, gritting his teeth.

“Rebecca’s dad? I have no clue,” you said, shaking your head. “I don’t have social media anymore. Tabitha and I went completely off grid when we ran so that we couldn’t be found. No Facebook or anything like that. He shouldn’t even be able to find Rebecca– she has Tabitha’s maiden name, not his last name.”

Bucky clenched his jaw, letting out a deep breath through his nostrils before nodding once. He closed his eyes tight, then pinched the bridge of his nose.

“Jesus. That’s really– I’m sorry,” he whispered your name. “That’s horrible.”

“It’s okay,” you whispered back. “Becky’s a blessing, even though there were so many things that went wrong before I managed to have her in my life.”

He stared at you for a few moments, eyes roaming your face. You didn’t cry over this story anymore. You had cried over it by yourself many years ago. You came to terms with it a long, long time ago. You were certain the next and last time you would cry is when you would tell Rebecca– and you would only cry if she ended up crying, too.

“It must have been lonely,” he murmured. “I’m sorry.”

Your lips parted as you struggled to find the words to respond to him. You wanted to deny it. Wanted to tell him that it wasn’t lonely because Rebecca was there by your side, but you knew that wasn’t the truth. You were still lonely– there was a void that Rebecca couldn’t fill, just like there was a hole that she was trying to fill by running away from you. Instead, you nodded, and gave him a sad smile. 

“Yeah,” you said softly. “I’m pretty damn lonely.”

“Cheers to that?” he offered, holding his can out to you. You chuckled, hitting the edge of your can against his. 

“Cheers.”

You both took a long drink. 

“Admittedly, I am not as lonely with the two of you around though,” he said, looking around his apartment. “My house looks… lived in.”

“That’s another word for messy, Bucky,” you scoff, rolling your eyes. 

You note the coffee table with drawings made by Rebecca. She drew Bucky and his metal arm. She drew another portrait of him flexing. There were some drawings of flowers. That wasn’t even all of the drawings– Rebecca taped a good amount of her art to the wall. You apologized to Bucky when he came home and saw them, but he told you to leave them there. He liked seeing them haphazardly taped up, even though they weren’t leveled properly. 

You also take in the stray lego blocks that are on the floor near the hall. Bucky brought them home on the fifth night, saying that he went to the store and bought them since he didn’t want her to be completely bored in his house. She did play with them, but didn’t even finish it before she got side tracked by her tablet. 

He also bought her some board games that you played with her while Bucky was gone at work– that you also didn’t manage to clean up while he was away. The games were unfinished, and Rebecca refused to let you tidy up the area until she won. 

“I like it though,” he said, giving you a smile that was contagious. 

“So you’ll miss her when she’s gone?” you asked, raising your eyebrows at him.

“I’m saying that I might need to take a trip to Newport every once in a while. Or maybe convince you to come visit me here so I can see my great grandniece.” 

“Because you’ll miss her,” you repeated, chuckling to yourself.

“No,” he said, shaking his head. “I’ll miss both of you. Not just her. It’s not just Rebecca that I look forward to seeing every night when I come home.”

You stare at him for a few moments before bringing the can of beer to your lips, taking a drink to busy yourself with something. You’re hoping the liquid will be able to cool down the burning in your cheeks, but it’s unlikely that it’s doing anything for you.

“We can come back for holidays,” you said after a few moments, unable to meet his eyes. “And you’re welcome to visit us whenever. I… also enjoy greeting you when you come home, too. And talking to you every night. It’s nice.”

Bucky let out a breath of what sounded like relief. Your eyes shifted over to him once more, finding that he was smiling again. “I’m glad we’re in agreement, sweetheart.”

If you weren’t blushing before, you know that you are now.

It’s on the third week when you finish your shower earlier than usual to find that Bucky isn’t at the kitchen table like he normally is. Instead, you find that he’s in the bedroom with Rebecca. The door is slightly open, and you can see him sitting on the edge of the bed beside her, stroking her hair as she lays there, tucked in and ready to sleep. 

“You’re fighting bedtime a lot longer tonight, Becks,” he whispered to her, stroking her hair slowly.

“I’m not tired,” she grumbles, but you can hear the sleepiness lacing her words. Bucky must be able to as well, from the way he chuckles.

“Sure, kiddo. What did you do today?”

“Nothing interesting.. Momma took me to Central Park today. We walked around. Never been there before,” she told him.

“And that’s not interesting?” he asked softly. 

Rebecca shrugged slightly. “It’s hot outside. We got ice cream. I saw you in the newspaper. What did you do today?”

“Just boring stuff,” he said with a sigh, still lulling her to sleep with gentle strokes to her head. 

“Can you tell me about your superhero friends again?” she asked with a yawn.

“Which one?”

“Your favorite one.”

“I think your mom is my favorite superhero, Rebecca,” Bucky whispered to her.

“My Momma isn’t a superhero,” she frowned at him.

“Hm… I think she is,” he shrugged. “To me, at least. She wakes up early every day to make lunch for me and you. I’m sure if I stayed, I would be able to eat the breakfast that she makes, too, but I just don’t have time for that. I know you eat it. She doesn’t have to do it. Then, she makes dinner every night as well. She takes care of you, does all the chores without complaining. Don’t you notice that my apartment looks really nice all of a sudden? Your mom decorated it all by herself.”

“Don’t all moms do that?” Rebecca asked.

Bucky smiled sadly at her. “Some of my friends have really bad moms, kiddo. Some of my friends don’t have moms at all. They would have loved to have a mom like you do. So it really breaks my heart to see you treat her the way you do when all she does is love you.”

Rebecca was quiet for a few moments before she turned on her side. “I don’t hate her,” she muttered into the pillow. “I really love her.”

“I know you do. She knows that, too,” Bucky promised her, patting her back rhythmically. 

“Is she really a superhero?” she asked, peeking out of the pillow to look at him.

“Sure she is. She can be a superhero to me and you,” he told her, and she gave him a small nod. “However, a superhero needs somebody to protect– which is you. So you need to go to bed.”

“Okay,” she sighed dramatically, closing her eyes. “Good night, Bucky.”

“Good night, Rebecca,” he chuckled, rubbing her back gently. 

You step away from the door slowly, making your way to the kitchen. The dishwasher is already going, the table has already been wiped down. You decide to beat Bucky by a step and take out the beers from the fridge and put them on the table and wait for him there. 

He doesn’t keep you sitting there for too long, as you hear the door to the bedroom shut a few moments later. 

“You showered fast today,” Bucky said, opening your can before picking up his own.

“Happens every once in a while,” you shrugged as you watched him grab his backpack to pull out his files and laptop to start working. You watch in silence for a few moments, drinking as you do before a question comes to mind. “Are your teammates so loud that you can’t do your reports in the tower?”

“I can,” he said. “You get used to it. I just come home every night now, so I spend less time in the tower. Have to make up for it by doing the reports here.”

“Wait– you didn’t come home every night before?” you asked.

“No,” he shook his head. “There was no reason for me to come here all the time. No one to come home to.”

“So you lived and worked in the same place that you call your base?” 

“Pretty much. I just used this place as a space to… unwind, I guess. When things got too hectic,” he said, shrugging a bit. “This is the first time that I’ve consistently come home since I started the Avengers job.”

“Oh,” you said, and you feel a little dumb. You feel a little sad, too. You stare at him, but he’s looking at his computer. He’s typing away at things that you don’t understand. “But your team… You get along with them?”

His hands stop over his keyboard. There is a small, teasing smile on his face.

“Are you worried about me?”

“Yes,” you answer immediately, locking eyes with him. It makes the smile falter on his lips. “You said you were lonely. Your lives are in their hands right? Do you not trust them?”

Bucky pauses, running his metal hand through his hair– you learned last week that the metal was called vibranium. He contemplates your words for a few moments before nodding.

“I trust them,” he said, his voice steady. “I trust them to do the job, and to do it right. Do I trust them emotionally? That is a different level that I am not sure I will be able to reach with them. The team is still fairly new, and I’m still learning different parts of them that they’re hiding from me, too. I’m their leader. I can’t just… be vulnerable straight off the bat, you know?”

“Do you have any friends?” you asked, eyebrows furrowed. 

“I did,” he said, looking back at his keyboard. “He’s kinda suing me right now for the rights to the name of the Avengers, so there’s a bit of a rift between us.”

“The new Captain America– Sam Wilson?” You recalled the name from an article you read when you searched up Bucky on the first day you were here.

“Yeah. That guy. We’re not really on speaking terms right now,” Bucky sighed deeply. “After the previous Captain America passed on the mantle… Sam’s pretty much the only friend I have left.”

“You have me,” you offered. 

His eyes went back to you, a small smile finding its way to his face.

“And you,” he added, nodding. “Thank you. You have me, too.”

“You’ll have to put your world saving on pause during Christmas,” you said, smiling back. “Rebecca will be heartbroken if you don’t come over to celebrate with us.”

Bucky let out a laugh. “I’ll mark it on the calendar.”

You’re about to make another joke, something else to make him laugh so you can hear the sound that makes your heart soar through the roof when you hear your phone start buzzing on the couch. It’s already past eleven– you shouldn’t have anyone calling you. You and Bucky share a look before you go towards it, picking it up.

To your utter horror, the familiar caller ID of your boss is staring at you. Part of you wants to let it go to voicemail, but you know that her next plan of action is to just start spam texting you through the entire night until you answer her.

“Everything okay?” Bucky asked, seeing the look on your face.

“Yeah. Just my boss,” you sigh. “Sorry. I have to take this.”

Bucky nods at you, and looks back down at his computer as you sit down on the couch and tap on the green button on your screen before bringing the phone to your ear.

“It's so good to hear from you, Sil!” you greet with a fake cheery voice. You can hear Bucky choke on his beer behind you. You turn around, glaring at him as he coughs, trying to stifle his laughter. “How can I help you toni-”

“I need your ass back in Newport as soon as possible,” your boss, Silva, demands.

“Um, Sil, I’m still on emergency leave,” you remind her, trying to keep your tone light.

“You think I don’t know that?!” she hissed at you. “Hannah fucked up the presentation for the Morgan Corporation, and Denise somehow messed up both the catering and the hotel venue for the presentation. I need you to get back here and fix this mess otherwise you won’t have a job to get back to!”

“The Morgan presentation? The one that’s happening in two days?” you repeated, pinching the bridge of your nose. “You mean the one that I completed last week and sent back to you– the one that I finished for Hannah remotely?”

“You worry about the details too much,” Silva dismissed. “I need you here now. I’m not giving you an option.”

The line hung up, and you stared at your phone. Thousands of thoughts are racing through your mind as your cortisol levels are increasing. Then, you stood up.

“I have to go back to Newport,” you said, turning around to look at Bucky. “Can I ask you to look after Rebecca for like, two days? I’ll be back, I promise, right after the presentation is over. She’s self sufficient. She knows how to use a microwave and the toaster, I just need you to come back home after work to make sure she’s not dead or choking on anything–”

“Hey, hey. Slow down,” Bucky cut you off, voice soft and soothing. You didn’t even realize you were rambling. Bucky stood quickly, crossing over to you to place his hands on your shoulders. “What’s going on?”

“I’m going to lose my job and my only source of income that supports me and Rebecca if I don’t go home to do this fucked up presentation,” you whispered, heart pounding in your ears as you look at him. “My coworkers are incompetent and my boss fucking sucks. I’m so sorry Bucky, I know your job is so much more demanding than mine is and I would try dragging her with me, but I’m scared she’s gonna make a scene again–”

Bucky cuts you off once more by saying your name so gently your breath catches in your throat. 

“Don’t worry. I can watch an eight year old for a day or two,” he promised. “And I can take a break, too. Are you going to leave right now?”

“I should,” you said, letting out a breath. “Less traffic. And I’ll have to get in the office right away so I can fix whatever dumpster fire is waiting for me.”

“Okay,” he nodded, his hands sliding down your arms. “Go get ready. I’ll make you some food to bring with you on the road so you have something to snack on while you drive.”

“Okay,” you echoed back at him.

The second Bucky lets go of you, you’re immediately rushing to change your clothes and put shoes on.

“Where’s Momma?” Rebecca asked, rubbing the sleep out of her eyes as she walked out into the living room.

“She had to go back home. Her boss called her into the office for an emergency presentation,” Bucky answered, flipping the pancakes on the pan. “It���s just gonna be me and you for the next couple of days, if that’s okay with you, kiddo.”

“Oh,” she murmured before clambering onto one of the kitchen island’s bar chairs. “I was just asking… since she always wakes me up to help make you lunch. You’re not working today?”

“Took the day off to hang out with you,” Bucky shook his head, then plated the pancake, right next to the eggs and bacon that he had already cooked earlier. He turned off the stove, then put the plate in front of the little girl. 

“Thank you,” she said softly. “Good morning.”

“Morning,” he nodded at her, picking up his coffee mug. 

The day is fairly quiet, all things considered. Too quiet, actually. Rebecca normally isn’t like this. Bucky knows that he can’t really speak since he’s gone most of the day, but even during the brief moments of time when he sees her before he goes to work and when he eats dinner with her– she’s much more animated.

She picks at her food during lunch, even though it’s chicken nuggets. He doesn’t think that she’s playing with her food, but Bucky watches as she skins the poor nuggets of its crust before she decides to slowly eat them. Bucky even gives her an ice cream sandwich that she looks solemnly at as she eats. 

Rebecca doesn’t even pay attention to the cartoon that he puts on for her. Avatar. He even watches it with her. He hates to admit it, but it is pretty damn entertaining. He’ll have to tell you when you get home that you were right. He asked Rebecca what element she would like to have as a superpower and she just shrugged at him as she picked at her nails.

Bucky tried playing a board game with her. She didn’t argue with him, but she wasn’t paying attention to him or the game. She wasn’t into it or anything at all. There wasn’t any fire in her eyes. 

Rebecca was sad, and he didn’t understand why.

When dinner rolled around, Bucky couldn’t take it anymore. She was poking at her chow mein that he ordered because she mentioned that she wanted noodles ,and he was a shit cook that couldn’t compare to you. He didn’t want to feed Rebecca inedible food.

“Becks,” he said, putting down his chopsticks. “What’s going on?”

His eyes widened when her eyes began to well up with tears. He immediately reached for the napkins on the table– square napkins that were in a napkin holder that you bought for him. In fact, there were even tablemats and coasters on the table that weren’t there before you came into his life.

“I miss my Momma,” she wailed.

Bucky got out of his seat, pulling Rebecca’s chair out of the table so he could properly look at her. He kneeled beside her, wiping her tears as she cried. He held the napkin to her nose as she blew into it, hiccuping and sobbing. 

An idea popped into his head.

“Isn’t this what you wanted?” Bucky asked. “For your Momma to be gone?”

“No– NO!” she cried loudly, shaking her head. Then, she looked conflicted. “I… I mean… I thought I did…”

“Rebecca. What did you really want?” Bucky asked, taking her little hands in his. 

“My teacher… and my classmates told me that family meant blood. And that my Momma can’t be my family because she’s– she’s not blood. So.. So I came to look for you… And I really… really like you… but I love my Momma more,” Rebecca managed to stammer out between sobs and sniffles, her little body violently shaking between each hiccup.

Bucky let out a small laugh, rubbing her back as he grabbed another napkin off the table to help wipe her tears again.

“I really like you, too, Becks,” he promised. “And I know your mom loves you so much. I’m really glad that you found me. Thank you.”

“Really?” she whispered, looking at him. “I… I wasn’t annoying?”

“'Course not,” he chuckled. “I really enjoyed having you around. I’ll miss you when you’re gone. Both you and your mom. But right now– you wanna go home, don’t you?”

She didn’t hesitate to nod, “Yeah… I wanna go home, Bucky. Can you take me?”

Bucky smiled at her, even though something in his chest broke a little bit. He wiped away the last bit of her tears as he let out a breath.

“Alright, kiddo. Let’s finish dinner. I’ll take you back home.”

Rebecca’s mood instantly skyrocketed from there, as Bucky’s mood plummeted. He did his best to hide it. He put Rebecca to bed, and sat in the living room with his face buried between his hands, shrouded by darkness. 

He tried to go to sleep, but his body wouldn’t let him. Then again, he knew that sleep would only make the inevitable come by faster– that he would be alone so much quicker. Either way, the sun came up, and Rebecca got up early on her own. 

Rebecca showered, got dressed, and packed the Hello Kitty backpack that she came with.

Bucky couldn’t help but smile when he saw her with it. 

He got her situated in his car, then input the address to your house that he pulled from the background check that he did on you almost a full month ago. He found a radio station that played some kid friendly songs that Rebecca seemed to know, the little girl singing along happily to each word. She even teased him for not knowing any of the words. When she got tired and fell asleep, Bucky ended up in his own head.

The three hour drive soon passed by him quickly, and he was pulling into your driveway. Your house was cute. It was one story, with a front and backyard. White picket fence with a mailbox. Your car was parked in the driveway, and you were coming out of the front door. Your eyes fell on Bucky’s car, then on Rebecca, who was already unbuckling herself and throwing herself at you as quickly as she could.

“Momma!” she cried, running to you.

You caught her as she jumped on you, stumbling backwards slightly. Bucky got out of the car, seeing your bewildered look.

“Hi, baby,” you said, holding her head to your chest. “What– what are you doing here?”

“I’m sorry for being mean to you,” she whined, tears in her eyes. “I want to stay here. With you– I really do love you. I’m sorry!”

You blinked at her, still confused, but hugged her tight to your body. You looked over at Bucky, who gave you a smile and a nod.

“She missed you,” Bucky said. “She asked me to take her home.” 

You let out a breath, still trying to process everything. You stood up, ruffling Rebecca’s hair as you unlocked the front door to let the kid inside. She ran inside as you turned to Bucky, who grabbed her little backpack to deliver to you.

“Thank you,” you said, still a little breathless. 

“Of course,” he chuckled. “How’d your presentation go?”

“I’m actually on my way to it. I’ll have to drop her off at my neighbors– anyway. Um… Come visit for Christmas?”

Bucky stared at you for a little bit longer, taking in your appearance. You were in work attire right now. It was different from how he was used to seeing you in his apartment– he decided he enjoyed the oversized t-shirts and the cotton shorts much more than the pantsuits, but you were still pretty like this, too.

“I’ll text you,” he nodded, giving you a smile.

“Yeah. Text me,” you smiled back. “Stay safe, Bucky.”

“Yeah… Bye,” he said.

You didn’t correct his parting words as he turned around towards his car.

Bucky didn’t let himself linger on your street. He refused to. He didn’t have a place here, as much as his heart wanted him to stay here. You were only in his life for twenty-three days. That’s all it was. He told himself that he was silly for growing attached to you, to Rebecca.

He kept telling himself that as he cleaned up the board game pieces in his apartment, and as he carefully sorted the lego blocks in a way that Rebecca would be able to still be able to build the puzzle she was making according to the directions. 

Bucky continued to tell himself that he would get over the darkness of his apartment as he moved all of your toiletries to the cabinet under his sink where he couldn’t see it. He lied to himself that you didn’t make a lasting impression on his brain as he rolled over on his bed to where you slept– to where he could still smell your perfume on his pillow.

“What the fuck is wrong with you these days?” Yelena demanded as they got off the loading dock. “You look like some kind of abused puppy.”

Bucky rolled his eyes as he began to remove his gear. “The fuck are you talking about?” he grunted.

“You don’t go home early anymore. Sometimes you don’t go home period. Did your secret girlfriend break up with you?” John guessed.

Bucky frowned. “I didn’t and don’t have a girlfriend. Who came up with that?” 

“We just made up theories,” Ava said.

“And your theory was that I had a girlfriend?” Bucky sighed.

“You left the tower early, came to work everyday in a good mood, and you brought a home packed lunch everyday,” Yelena deadpanned. “So yeah. Girlfriend.”

“We thought you were getting laid!” Alexei boomed with laughter.

Bucky’s scowl deepened, and he rubbed his fingers over his eyes. He was getting a headache. Bucky was trying and failing at attempting to drown out the boisterous talk around him as his teammates attempt to come up with conspiracies on why he’s been going home earlier this past month.

“Do you think he’s been broken up with?” John asked Ava.

“Within a month? No way,” Ava scoffed. “I mean, he’s Barnes, but he’s still a handsome man.”

“Bob, what do you think?” John asked, turning to him.

“Um… Maybe they got into a fight?” the man added in nervously. “Maybe Bucky’s tryna let her cool off?”

“A fight for this long though? He hasn’t gone home early in like, a week!” John exclaimed.

“Not manly,” Alexei clicked his tongue disapprovingly. “A man should own up to his mistakes and face his woman accordingly!”

Bucky wanted to go home. 

Home to what though? 

There were no board games to play with Rebecca if dinner wasn’t done in time. He wouldn’t be able to listen to Rebecca’s nonstop tirade on what Hello Kitty character of the week is her favorite since her little eight year old mind can’t decide on a single one to keep. 

Bucky would have to stare at the lopsidedly taped drawings on the wall that Rebecca taped up– drawings of the three of them that she proudly showed him when he came home. Art that was all over his walls, the main decoration of his place. 

He wouldn’t be able to put Rebecca to bed tonight.

You wouldn’t greet him when he came through the door either. You wouldn’t smile at him with the same warmth you always do. You wouldn’t be there to sit with him after dinner and chat with him until the late hours of the night and keep him company to talk about nothing and everything at the same time. You weren’t there to giggle with him as you drank maybe a little too much, your thigh brushing against his as you sat next to him on the couch as you both pretended to watch something on the TV together.

You wouldn’t be there in the early hours of the morning, hair slightly messy as you make him lunch– lunch that the team teases him about because they once saw the sticky note that had an encouraging message written on it in your handwriting that you include with every single lunch you pack for him. At some point, you started drawing a single heart with each note, too.

There was no point in going home to an empty apartment after he knows how good it can be to return home to a warm one.

“Barnes.”

“What?” he snapped, looking at Yelena.

“Go on a vacation.”

“What?” he repeated, eyebrows furrowing at her.

“I’m not gonna ask you for any details,” she started, “Whatever is going on isn’t messing with the job right now, but it sure as hell might do it soon– so figure out your life before you start fucking up on missions. I’ll make sure Val doesn’t ask about you.”

Bucky knew Yelena– this was a nice way of her telling him to fix whatever went wrong. He let out a breath. Without another word, he turned away.

The doorbell ringing throughout your house makes you look up from your laptop. You check the time– it’s only seven. Rebecca’s at a sleepover at her friend’s house tonight, and you’re not expecting any guests. 

You make your way to the front of the house, checking the camera. Your heartbeat quickens as the screen lights up with a familiar face. You rip the door open immediately. 

“Bucky?” you asked, eyes wide. “What are you doing here?”

“Hey,” he greeted you, albeit a little awkwardly. “Nice to see you, too.”

“I mean– yeah. Nice to see you. Come in.”

You step aside to let him in, watching him take in the surroundings of your house briefly. Then, he clears his throat, eyes settling on you again. Suddenly, you feel bare even though you’ve worn similar clothes in front of him before.

“Where’s Rebecca?” he asked, shifting on his feet.

“She’s at a friend’s house tonight. Sleepover,” you answered. “Sorry to disappoint. She would’ve been happy to see you.”

“No, no. It’s okay. I–uh… I came to see you, actually,” he confessed.

Your lips parted, eyes searching all over his face again. He’s not lying. He’s staring right at you, and you’re getting lost in his eyes. You quickly pull yourself away to turn towards the kitchen.

“Want something to drink? Water? Beer?” you asked, opening the fridge and pulling out two bottles of beer prematurely. “I haven’t cooked anything yet, but are you hungry for anything?”

“Just you,” he answered.

You paused for a moment, wondering if you heard him correctly. Then, you straighten. The silence is heavy as you feel his eyes on your back. It’s burning you, but not in a bad way. It’s not desire, not lust. You can’t describe the feeling that he’s emanating right now.

You take in a deep breath before you turn around, placing the bottles on the table.

“Can you open these with your metal hand or do I need to get the bottle opener?” you asked, looking at him again.

“I got it,” he murmured, reaching for them. Both of the bottles were opened with ease, and he handed you the first one, your fingertips brushing against each other as the drink passed between you two. 

You watch as he brings the rim to his lips at the same time you do, both of you taking a long, slow drink together. It goes down your throat in a burn that you’ve never felt before. 

“What did you mean by that?” you finally asked, wetting your lips nervously. “What do you mean.. me?”

“Exactly what I said,” he replied, eyes never leaving your face. “You. I want you.”

You closed your eyes, letting out a breath. “Bucky, I told you that I don’t do–”

“And I will be here for you and Rebecca. That is not a problem for me,” he cut you off immediately, putting the bottle down on the table to place his hands on your shoulders. “You don’t understand. The last week and a half have been absolute hell for me. You showed me what a home is, and it’s gone. I miss it. I miss you, and I miss Rebecca. I know that you are a package deal. I know where you are, Rebecca is.”

“Do you miss me, or do you miss the home that I gave you?” you asked wearily.

“Sweetheart, you are home,” he whispered, stressing the words. Your chest squeezed at his confession. “I thought I was going crazy. I thought– I tried to envision somebody else. I couldn’t. It had to be you. I don’t think it can be anyone else. I need it to be you greeting me. Am I– was I the only one who thought there was something between us?”

You want to run away. You want to lie to him and tell him that he made it all up in his head. But you’ve been thinking about him, too.

You made too much food the past week and a half. You’ve accidentally made his serving without thinking about it. You’ve been waking up earlier than you need to because you still think about making him lunch, and you go to work wondering if he ate a substantial dinner. 

Other than food– you wonder if he’s lonely. He told you that he was. He told you that you and Rebecca made him less lonely. And he made you less lonely the days that you spent with him, too. 

“It’s not just my heart that you would break,” you whispered, repeating the same words that you said to him before.

“I would never,” he promised.

“You said that it would be selfish of you to be in a relationship with someone because of your job,” you told him.

“This past month showed me that I could manage,” he said, shaking his head. “I came home to you every night, didn’t I?”

He had a point.

You bit your lip, still hesitating. You were scared. Terrified. Bucky could see it in your eyes. His hands slid from your shoulders down your arms and to your hands, squeezing them comfortingly. 

“We don’t have to tell Rebecca right away, if that makes you feel better. We can feel it out. See if this works. And if it doesn’t– then she’ll never know. I know that’s your main worry,” he said, brushing his hands over your knuckles. “But please believe me when I say I would never do anything to hurt either of you.”

You know that wouldn’t be fair to Rebecca. Hell, that wouldn’t be fair to Bucky.

The two of them have bonded so well over the short time that they’ve known each other that it’s almost scary. Bucky mentioned that he didn’t have the facilities to raise a kid, but he did pretty damn well with running after her.

She hung off his vibranium arm more times than you could count. You watched as he did push-ups and she sat on his back giggling. There were times where she helped him load the dishwasher. They watched cartoons together, and she would explain the plot of the episode, and he would sit there and genuinely listen to every single word that came from her mouth.

“I don’t want to hide anything from her,” you said, sighing softly, squeezing his hands back. “Besides, I was planning on quitting my job. Do you want to hire me as your actual personal assistant? Do you think me and Becks could just move into your apartment for real this time?”

Bucky’s eyes widened. “Really?”

“I fucking hate my boss, Bucky,” you said, smiling at him. “I was your pseudo-assistant and all you had me do was buy pillows and spend your money on groceries. It was a pretty good gig. I mean, of course, if you need my resume, it’s pretty good. I can print it out for you.”

“I mean– us. You’re giving us a chance?” he asked, still in shock.

You smile wider at him. “Should I add my feelings for you on the resume?”

Bucky stared at you for a few moments before his hands cradled your face, his lips pressing against yours before you even realized it. You let out a small laugh against him, feeling him smile against you as your arms wrapped around him.

Soon, you were pressed between the counter and the solid muscle that was Bucky. His hands were on your waist, holding you close to him as you held onto his jacket, pulling him into you as you angled your head to make him kiss you deeper. 

It was almost effortless, the way your tongue met his. You’re not even sure who’s mouth opened first, but you didn’t really care. The first moan that came out was his, though. You were hungry to hear more. You rose on your toes, pressing harder into him as a hand splayed against your back. You briefly let go of his jacket to start shoving it down his arms. He let you.

“Shit,” he grunted as you broke the kiss trail kiss down his neck, a second hand moving to cradle the back of your head against him. “Sweetheart, where’s your bedroom?”

“Down the hall, last door to the left,” you whispered into his skin right before he hooked his hands under your thighs, wrapping your legs around his hips. 

Just like you thought, he picked you up like you were nothing. 

He carried you over to your room as you continued to pepper kisses against his neck, nipping and biting at his skin as he hummed in enjoyment. Once he got to your bed, he laid you down in the middle of it, kneeled between your legs.

“One of my pillows still smells like you,” he muttered, hands finding your waist again. “Your entire room smells like you.”

“Is that bad?” you whispered back.

“No. Drove me crazy. I missed you so much,” he sighed, his hands dipping under your shirt. “Is this okay?”

“I haven’t done anything like this in a really long time, Bucky,” you confessed, meeting his eyes. “Might be a little awkward.”

He smiled a bit, bending down over you to press a kiss to your forehead, your nose, then a sweet kiss to your lips. Bucky pulled away to look you in the eyes.

“It’s okay,” he promised. “It’s been a long time for me, too.”

Your stomach flipped with anticipation as he pulled your shirt off your body, eyes beginning to trail all over your bare torso. He cursed under his breath, and you felt goosebumps raise where his hands ghosted over your skin. He wasn’t touching you fully, not yet.

Then, Bucky descended, catching you in an open mouthed kiss as his hands finally closed over your breasts, kneading them. You let out a soft moan against his lips as his fingertips rolled a stiff nipple with one hand while his tongue licked into your mouth.

“It’s already hard,” he muttered, pulling away from your lips. 

“Because you’re touching me!” you complained, your chest rising and falling unevenly. Bucky chuckles above you, kissing your jaw. 

“You’re cute when you’re needy,” he said. “Are you wet, too?”

You can’t answer him– he’s already searching for the answer himself. His flesh hand is dipped under your shorts and underwear, parting your folds and humming in delight at his discovery. You, on the other hand, are at his disposal.

“Bucky,” you whispered, hands grabbing onto his shoulders.

“I got you,” he murmured, biting at your neck gently before soothing the wound with his tongue. 

You’re deliciously overwhelmed within moments. He still has his face in your neck, his metal hand teasing your breast and nipple, and the other hand between your legs, fingers just barely poking at your entrance where you want him most. He’s messing with you, you realize. He can feel your pulse from where his lips are. 

“Please, Bucky,” you moaned– only to feel his fingers press into you a moment later.

“All you had to do was ask, sweetheart,” he chuckled into your ear. 

“You’re such an asshole,” you gasp, fingernails digging into his shoulders as he finds a lazy pace to fuck you with his fingers. 

“And you look so pretty like this,” he said, eyes scanning over your figure beneath him. You could only imagine what you looked like right now. Flustered, with his hand in your shorts, one breast being grabbed by his metal hand. You must look like a work of art to him.

Another moan escapes your throat as his finger crooks just slightly, eyes falling shut. 

“Oh my God– more–” your words come out broken as he fulfills your request without another word, a second finger joining in to press in and out of you faster. Your hips buck up slightly to meet his hand, a shiver rushing through your body as you feel pressure building up in your stomach. 

“There you go,” he whispered, and you take a moment to look at him. His eyes are blown out– dark. You almost can’t see the stormy grey blue eyes with how he’s looking at you right now. Your eyes trail down his body, and you can see him straining against his jeans. “Feels good?”

“Fuck– yes. Feels really good,” you forced out, a moan following your words.

He smiles in delight at your response, fingers curling ever so slightly and hitting that slightly spongy spot inside you that makes you see stars behind your eyes. Your back arches and he takes note– and his fingers quickens. 

You can’t moan. No noises escape you as your walls clamp down on his fingers, eyes closing tight as you cum all over his fingers. Bucky lets out a moan above you, getting off at you getting off. His fingers never stop, continuing to massage you through your high.

Your body trembles slightly as he finally pulls out, and you watch him lick his fingers clean. You have never seen a hotter, more sensual sight in your entire life. 

“Bucky,” you whispered, breathing a bit heavier. “Take your pants off already.”

“Are you sure?” he asked, swallowing thickly. “If we start–”

“Oh my God, fuck me already,” you cut him off, reaching for his belt. 

A laugh escapes his lips as he moves to help your shaking hands, tossing the belt to the side of your bed. He removes his shirt next. As he throws his pants and underwear off, you do the same, and he’s above you within the next few moments. 

You don’t give him a chance to breathe before your arms are wrapped around his neck, pulling his body down against yours. You like the feel of his bare body against yours. It’s warm in a way that you’ve never felt before. Comfortable and hard– safe. 

His lips are on yours in an instant as he situates himself between your legs once more. You feel the tip of him press against you, spreading your folds just slightly. He’s hesitating. 

You grind your hips against him as you continue to kiss him, humming softly. You want him. You want this. 

Bucky lets out a small sigh against you, and finally slides home. 

Both of you let out a moan into each other’s mouths. 

“Fuck, sweetheart,” Bucky groaned, breaking the kiss. His forehead is pressed against yours. “You’re just swallowing me up– you’re so tight. Thought I stretched you out.”

“Told you– I haven’t done this in a long time,” you whispered back, a broken moan falling from your lips as he pushed in more of his length. 

The stretch doesn’t hurt. In fact, you’re loving every moment of it. You feel every inch of him, every groove and every vein of his cock entering you. It’s addicting. He’s addicting. When his hips are finally flush against yours, you feel impossibly full. You don’t think you’ll ever get used to this feeling. 

“Nice and slow,” he grunted, and you nod deliriously in agreement as he takes the first thrust.

It’s heaven. 

You’re falling apart, and Bucky is putting you back together just as fast with each slow roll of his hips against yours. He’s whispering praises to you as you hold onto him, but you can’t focus on his words right now. All you can focus on is the steady movement of his hips hitting yours, the sound of your own heartbeat, the feel of his heartbeat against your chest, and the way he looks at you with so much affection in your eyes that it makes you melt into the sheets beneath you.

“God, you’re so pretty,” you slur out the words, a bit breathless.

Bucky lets out a small laugh, smiling down at you in a way that makes your heart stutter. He does look so pretty. There’s a light sheen of sweat that’s covering his body right now. His muscles are rippling with each thrust into your body, and his arms are flexed as he holds onto your waist to keep you in place. 

“You don’t even know what you look like right now. It’s taking everything in me not to go wild,” he whispered back. “Wanna savour the moment.”

He pulls out until just the tip of his cock is left inside of you before thrusting back deep into you in one fluid motion, your eyes fluttering shut as your lips part in a noiseless moan. 

“God– you liked that?” he grunted, and you nodded, opening your eyes to look at him. “I could tell– you clenched around me so hard I almost came right then and there.”

“Again,” you whimpered, grabbing onto his wrists for stability. “Do it again.”

“I don’t think I can last very long if I keep doing that, sweetheart,” he admitted.

“Neither can I– please?” you begged. 

“Fuck,” he cursed, biting his lip as he tried collecting himself. “Where? Baby, where?”

“In me, on me– I don’t care,” you babbled, shaking your head. “Please, please, just hurry–”

He cut you off with another deep roll of his hips, capturing your lips once again. You couldn’t even kiss him back with the way he was fucking into you. It was slow, deep– but he was hitting everywhere that you could’ve ever needed. You were tightening around him, and you knew he was feeling it, the way his hips stuttered slightly, and hands tightened at your waist.

Bucky’s head dropped to your neck, your arms wrapping around his shoulders once more as his thrusts got sloppier, his hands moving to grab your thighs and fold them against your body. You gasped beneath him, clenching around him.

“Bucky– shit–”

“Yes, yes, I know. I got you,” he moaned into your neck,  one hand moving between you to rub tight circles into your clit– and you were done for.

You were a mess beneath him, eyes rolling to the back of your head as his fingers and hips never stopped. You felt his body shiver above you a few moments later as he groaned in your ear, and you felt an irreplaceable warmth fill your body as his hips came to a slow, cock twitching inside of you.

Bucky collapsed above you, though he kept most of his weight off of you as he tried catching his breath. Both of you were entirely spent. Eventually, he rolled over on his side, and pulled you into his chest with a satisfied sigh. He pressed a kiss to your forehead.

Then, you felt him tilt your head up to meet his lips once more. You feel his hands rest against your back, pulling you closer to him. You find that you don’t want to be anywhere else.

“I promise I’ll make you and Rebecca happy,” he murmured, lips barely pulled away from yours. “I’ll find a new apartment so Becky can have her own room.”

“You wanna cuddle with me at night, Bucky?” you ask, smiling against his lips. “Don’t wanna sleep on the couch anymore?”

“Hell no,” he snorted. “Why would I?”

You let out a laugh, pressing another quick kiss to his lips as you settle your head onto his arm. He watches you, brushing a lock of your hair behind your ear. There really is no mistaking the amount of affection that he has for you in his eyes.

“She’ll probably call you dad in a few months,” you whispered, watching his face to see how he’ll take it.

“She can call me whatever the hell she wants as long as it’s not grandpa,” he grunts, rolling his eyes. Despite the sass, there’s a smile on his face that he doesn’t bother to hide.

masterlist

taglist: @duacruel @natsomens @decthaxhrcv @shortandb1tchy @iyskgd @ifuckwithyouanyday @miss-chuchu @bighappypiels @snnoopyy @messrkarmaismygf13 @thebuckybarnesvault @aekzla let me know if you would like to be added/removed to a general bucky taglist :)

[galactict3a]

cw: friends with benefits, angst, smut, mild possessiveness

It was supposed to be simple. That’s the part that pisses you off the most when you think about it. Because you weren’t trying to fall in love. You didn’t want a relationship, not after the last one. You were still a little bit fucked up from it, if you’re being honest. Still not sleeping great. Still carrying all that heavy stuff around that no one really talks about after a breakup. And then he showed up.

Simon.

You didn’t even like him that much at first. He was quiet, and kind of a dick honestly. Always had this hard look on his face like he didn’t care about anything. But then again, maybe that’s why you kept looking. He didn’t flirt with you like the other guys did. He didn’t compliment you or joke around. He just stared sometimes. Stared like he knew things about you that you hadn’t even said out loud yet.

And somehow, that made you feel safe. In a really stupid kind of way.

He didn’t ask you questions. You could sit next to him and say nothing, and he wouldn’t try to fix you. He’d just… be there. And that made it easier. Being around him felt like pressing pause on everything in your head.

You both agreed it would just be sex. That’s all. You said it first. Told him straight up you weren’t in the place for anything real, and he just shrugged like it didn’t make a difference either way. He wasn’t looking for more, either. No expectations, no feelings, no “what are we” conversations.

And in the beginning, that actually worked. You’d hook up after long days, or when you were lonely, or when you just needed to feel something. He’d come over late, sometimes not say more than a few words, and still end up with his mouth between your legs like he belonged there. He was rough, kind of mean about it, but it made your head go quiet, and that’s all you wanted. You didn’t need soft. You just needed to forget.

And Simon was really good at helping you forget.

It was simple, for a while at least. No cuddling, no texting unless one of you wanted something, no sleeping over unless it was late, and neither of you felt like getting up. You never kissed him unless it was during sex, he never called you baby, and you never touched his face.

But then, little things started to change. He’d linger longer after, or light your cigarette for you without saying anything. You started to recognize the sound of his boots on your stairs. And sometimes, he’d show up without texting first, but you wouldn’t mind.

You told yourself it was fine. You still weren’t asking for anything. You weren’t falling.... You weren’t hoping.

Until one day you were. And it was too late.

Because Simon? He never changed the deal. He still kept his walls up, still kept everything at arm’s length, and still fucked you like you were just a warm body and not someone who looked at him like he hung the moon.

And the worst part? You let him.

You didn’t talk much during sex. It was just a thing you both did, like it was part of the routine. Sometimes it was at his place, sometimes yours. Sometimes after a night out when you were drunk and touchy and didn’t want to sleep alone. You’d cling to his arm, pull him into a dark corner, whisper something like “Come back with me,” and he always would. He’d follow you home without hesitation.

He never smiled during it, never said sweet things, nor asked what you liked. It was like flipping a switch, one second he was just standing there, and the next his hand was in your hair and he was pushing you down on the bed without saying a word. No soft kisses. Just heavy hands and rough thrusts and that low sound he’d make when you moaned his name, like he hated how much he liked it.

He was rough in a way that made your whole body ache after. Hands on your throat, teeth on your skin. Sometimes he’d grab your face, push it into the pillow so hard it felt like he wanted to fuck you straight through it. His voice was always low, wrecked, barely there, like he was losing his mind but trying not to show it. And when he came, he’d bury himself so deep and still not stop moving, chasing something that never felt like enough.

It wasn’t love. It wasn’t sweet. But god, it felt good.

Too good.

You weren’t supposed to want someone like that. You weren’t supposed to need it like that. But every time he fucked you like you were the only thing left keeping him grounded, it made your chest hurt in a way you didn’t want to admit.

And you liked it, you liked it even when it made you feel worse after.

You didn’t fall for him all at once. It happened slowly and stupidly. In the kind of way where you didn’t even notice it at first, because you were too busy pretending it was still casual.

It was little stuff. Like how he always stood behind you in a crowd, not touching you or anything, just close enough that you could feel him, like a wall at your back. Or how he’d rest his hand on your lower back when you crossed the street, not saying a word, not even looking at you. Just doing it like it was natural. Like he cared without meaning to.

Sometimes, he stayed the night. Not every time, or often enough for it to mean something, but still it happened. He never cuddled, never reached for you after. He would just lay there, breathing heavily like he was thinking too loud. He didn’t sleep much, and you didn’t either. You’d stare at the ceiling, both of you pretending the silence didn’t feel like it was screaming.

You wanted to believe that meant something. That even if he couldn’t say it, he felt something. That he kept coming back because he needed you, not just your body. You started reaching for him more, after, during, even before. Just little touches. A kiss on the cheek, a hand on his chest, or a soft press of your lips when he was still inside you.

But the more you gave, the more he pulled back. Like he could feel you slipping, and it scared him. Like he already knew where this was headed and was trying to stop it before it got worse.

He started fucking you harder when you tried to kiss him slow. Rougher, meaner, almost. Like he was trying to shove the feelings out of both of you. Like he thought if he could just fuck the softness out of it, it would go back to the way it was.

And he’d leave faster. No lingering, talking, or sitting on the edge of the bed while you pulled on your shirt. He’d zip up his hoodie, say something stupid like “I’ll see you around,” and disappear like it didn’t mean anything.

But it meant something to you. And you think, deep down, it meant something to him, too.

He just didn’t know what to do with it. So he did what he always did... he ran.

That night felt different before anything even started. You don’t know how to explain it exactly. It was quiet, but not the good kind. Not the comfortable kind. Just this weird silence sitting between you like something waiting to be said. You didn’t say it, of course. You never did. He was already pulling your shirt off, already undoing his belt, already pushing you back like it was routine.

And it was. That was the thing. It had become routine.

But you couldn’t keep doing it like this anymore. You were tired. Tired of feeling used even when he wasn’t trying to use you. Tired of pretending it didn’t matter that he never looked at you when he came. Tired of giving everything and getting nothing back.

So you tried something different.

You didn’t moan for him the way he liked. Didn’t arch your back or scratch at his shoulders or whisper how good he felt. You just… touched his face. Softly. Like it was something you’d been wanting to do for a long time but were scared he’d push you away.

Your fingers brushed his cheek. Your thumb barely touched the scar near his jaw, and you just said, “Slow down.”

That was it. Just two words. And he snapped.

His hand went around your throat so fast it made your breath catch. His other hand grabbed your wrists, shoved them into the pillow, and held them there like you’d done something wrong. And then he started fucking you harder, rougher. Like he was trying to erase what you’d just done.

You didn’t say anything, couldn’t. His hips were slamming into you like he was mad, but not at you. Like he was mad at himself. Or maybe the world. Or maybe just the way your voice sounded when you asked for more than he could give.

“Don’t,” he growled into your neck, and his voice didn’t even sound like him. It sounded like someone scared.

You didn’t cry. Not right then.

You just lay there and took it. Let him fuck you like he always did, let him pretend it didn’t mean anything, even though it did. You felt it, how desperate it was, how shaky his breath was when he finally finished, how his hands didn’t let go even when it was over.

But you knew. You finally knew.

He couldn’t love you. Not the way you wanted. Not the way you needed.

And something deep in your chest cracked open. Just enough to let the cold in.

You didn’t say a word after. Just rolled over when he got up. Pulled the blanket up to your chest and stared at the wall, blinking too fast, trying not to let the tears win.

And he left like nothing happened.

But everything had.

The next time you saw him, you already knew it would be the last. It felt different the second you let him in, like there was something in the air that neither of you wanted to acknowledge. You didn’t smile, he didn’t kiss you. You just walked back into your room in silence, still wearing the oversized shirt you’d borrowed from him weeks ago, the one you never meant to keep, the one that smelled like him no matter how many times you washed it, and you stood there with your arms crossed like you were trying to hold yourself together, like saying what you were about to say would physically hurt.

And it did.

“I can’t do this anymore,” you said, and your voice came out smaller than you wanted it to. You didn’t look at him because you knew if you did, if you saw the way he blinked at you, or the way his jaw clenched, or the way he didn’t even flinch like he saw this coming, it would break you in half. So you stared at the floor, or the wall, or anywhere but him, and you just said it. Because if you didn’t say it now, you never would.

He didn’t say anything right away. Didn’t ask why. He just sat down slowly on the edge of your bed, his elbows on his knees, his head bowed, and the rise and fall of his chest was shaky, like he couldn’t catch his breath, like your words had knocked the wind out of him but he was too proud to show it.

“I knew this would happen,” he said finally, and his voice wasn’t cold, it wasn’t empty—it was just tired. Like he was mad at himself. “Eventually.”

You nodded, even though he wasn’t looking at you, and you could feel your throat starting to close up, feel the sting building behind your eyes, and your whole body felt heavy. “I wanted to pretend it wouldn’t,” you whispered, your hands twisting in the hem of his shirt, your voice cracking even though you were trying to stay calm, “but I can’t. I love you. And you don’t—or you won’t. And I can’t keep asking for something you’re scared to give.”

That made him look up.

His face was blank at first; he was trying to process it, trying to understand how it had gotten to this point, even though you both knew exactly how. And then he stood, slowly, like he was afraid too sudden a move would scare you off, and he walked toward you with that careful look he only got when he didn’t know what the fuck he was doing but was still trying anyway.

And then he kissed you.

Soft, at first, because he wasn’t sure if you’d let him. Maybe he thought you’d push him away. But you didn’t. You kissed him back even though you knew it wouldn’t change anything. You let him press you into the wall, let his hands slide up under the shirt that technically wasn’t his anymore, let his mouth find your neck, your collarbone, your lips again, and none of it felt like the usual heat, it just felt sad and desperate.

You let him fuck you because you knew this was the last time. You let him take you to bed and pull your underwear down and slide inside like he was trying to memorize the shape of you.

His hands were rough like always, his teeth scraped your skin, his thrusts were deep, a little too fast, a little too rough—but there was a shakiness in the way he held you, like maybe he already hated himself for letting it get to this point. He didn’t know how to say any of the things you needed to hear, so he fucked you instead.

And then, just when you thought that was all it was going to be—just another night, just another goodbye—he slowed down.

He stayed buried inside you, forehead pressed to yours, breathing hard, and he didn’t move. Just held you there, skin to skin, and everything about him felt different all of a sudden... softer... scared.

“I don’t want to lose you,” he whispered, so quiet it almost didn’t sound like him.

Your chest tightened, and your voice broke when you tried to answer. “Then why didn’t you—”

“Because if I let myself love you, I’d lose you anyway,” he said, and his voice was raw now. “You’d wake up one day and realise I’m not enough. That I can’t be what you need. That you deserve better than someone like me. Someone who’s barely hanging on. Someone who doesn’t know how to hold you without wondering if he’s gonna fuck it all up.”

You touched his face slowly. Like you were afraid he’d flinch away. But he didn’t. He let you, for the first time, he really let you.

“I don’t want someone else,” you whispered, and your thumb brushed his cheek, and your eyes were wet even though you were trying not to fall apart. “I wanted you. I still do.”

And when he started to move again, it wasn’t rough. It wasn’t rushed. It was slow and deep. Like he was trying to give you everything he’d held back for so long. His hands ran over your body like he was learning it all over again. His lips pressed to your shoulder, your jaw, your mouth. He looked at you the whole time, like he didn’t want to forget your face.

“I love you,” he said, and his voice shook, and his thrusts stayed steady, “I love you, I love you....fuck, I love you.”

You cried into his kiss. Your hands wrapped around his neck and your body trembled as he whispered all the stupid, sweet things he never let himself say before. You’re mine. I’ll do better. I need you. Please don’t leave.

And then, somewhere in the middle of it, somewhere between your broken sobs and his desperate kisses, he grabbed you tight, pulled you against him, and whispered it like a promise, like a threat, like a man who was finally ready to fight for something.

“Fuck that,” he growled, his voice suddenly shaking with something angry and scared and real. “You’re not leaving me. You’re mine. I don’t care how bad I am at this. I’m not letting you go.”

You were still crying. He was still shaking. And everything was still so goddamn complicated.

But he stayed, and that was a start.

---------------------------------------------

idk what this is honestly ...

@daydreamerwoah @kylies-love-letter @ghostslollipop @kittygonap @alfiestreacle @identity2212 @farylfordaryl @rafaelacallinybbay @akkahelenaa @lovelovelovelovelove987654321 @wraith-bravo6 @tessakate @xocandyy @nightfwn @robinfeldt98 @xiisblogs @mad-die45 @readingthingy @actualpoppy @amongthe141 @whore4romance @thatghostlykid @syofrelief @avgdestitute @sheepdogchick3 @echo9821 @imalapdog @foxintheferns @trulovekay @preeyas-world @ruleroftides @rose37373

[galactict3a]

when the sun hits (it matters where you are)

pairing: bucky barnes x emergency room nurse!reader summary: it’s your name, written in the soft fog of his breath. and his name, traced endlessly across your skin. you've always been meant to cross paths this way. (soulmate au!) word count: 11.4k words content warnings: 18+ mdni, fem reader, praising, piv, overstimulation, shower sex, creampie, face riding, dirty talk, ungodly levels of yearning, mentions of violence and clinical situations, death, explores heavy themes

You’ve gotten very good at waking up without hope over the years.

Your alarm goes off at 4:48 a.m. because you refuse to wake up on the hour like everyone else. It’s a small rebellion—pointless, probably, but in a life built from shifts and protocol, those twelve minutes feel like something you own. 

The soulmark itches before you even lift the blankets. You don’t touch it. Haven’t in years. It rests on your left side, just under the ribs, where your arm folds when you cradle a patient or scrub blood from your skin. The name’s still there. James Buchanan Barnes. Etched like a brand. 

You learned to stop reading it a long time ago.

You were thirteen the first time you felt it — not the weight of it, not really, but the press of inevitability. The skin just under your ribs itched for three days straight, and no matter how you scratched, how you pressed cold washcloths to it or distracted yourself with school or swimming or the terrifying newness of puberty, it pulsed with the promise of something you couldn’t name.

"Maybe you're allergic to something," your mom said, more distracted than concerned, passing you a bottle of calamine lotion while balancing a phone call.

Then, the name came in the middle of the night.

You’d woken up disoriented, not from a nightmare exactly, but from the sense that something had shifted. That your body was no longer just your own. 

You pulled up your pajama shirt with trembling hands, stomach flipped inside out with something like fear. Or awe. And there it was, written in a careful, antique script like it had always been there — James Buchanan Barnes.

You said it out loud. Just once. Just to see if it sounded real. 

The next morning, you pretended to look up World War II details for an eighth-grade project. Typed his name into Google with fingers that wouldn't stop shaking.

This—this definitely wasn't what you were expecting. You were expecting someone… someone at least closer in age, someone who was maybe going through the same strenuous expectations of middle school, someone… someone who was alive.

It was underwhelming at first. Just a name. A war vet. Deceased. You didn't think you'd find him so easily. You spiraled past Wikipedia into forums your school firewall probably would’ve blocked if they knew what they were doing.  You dug deeper. Wikipedia spiraled into conspiracy forums. Articles turned into footnotes, turned into theories, turned into pictures. Redacted documents. Old photographs.

That was when your chest started to ache.

He wasn’t a boy.

He wasn’t even a man in the way people are alive. 

He was history, frozen in sepia. James Buchanan Barnes, colloquially know as Bucky, a soldier, missing in action. You found an old black-and-white photo with him half smiling in uniform, arm slung casually around the Captain America's shoulders, and your throat closed like you’d been punched from the inside. Because he looked real. Not just an idea, not just a ghost.

And you loved him. You didn’t mean to. But there it was.

That summer, you begged your parents to take you to D.C. "For the exhibits," you said. "The history. Please."

You cried in the car. Your mom reached back and handed you a bottle of water. “Carsick?” she asked.

"Yeah," you lied, watching trees blur past as the pit in your stomach grew deeper.

At the Smithsonian, your eyes scanned every exhibit like you were searching for a face in a crowd. You found him in a war display—just a photo, again. Yellowed and framed. A plaque. Sergeant Barnes. You stood there too long. An older woman beside you glanced over, then away, probably confused as to why this pre-teen was staring at the display with such fervent intensity.

You didn’t touch your mark. 

Not there. Not in public. But you felt it, a phantom pulse echoing under your ribs. Like it knew. Like it missed him too.

That was the first time you understood what it meant to lose something before you ever had it. To mourn a future that could never come.

That summer, you grieved a stranger.

The rest of those months passed in a fog. Friends talked about boy bands and sleepaway camps and the boy from seventh grade who cried during dodgeball. You started reading old war journals and relics and Stark experiments just to feel closer to a time you’d missed. By the start of the school year, you'd already gone through your U.S. History syllabus and back.

At night, you lay awake imagining what it would’ve been like to meet him before the fall. What you’d say. If he’d be kind. If he’d recognize you.

If he’d regret it.

By sixteen, you had your mind made up. Not because you wanted to save people—though you did—but because it felt like the only thing that made sense. Something tethered. Something present. You’d learned how to triage your own feelings, how to hold grief without crumbling under it. ER nursing made too much sense. You wanted the immediacy. The clarity of purpose. The adrenaline to chase out the what-ifs.

You told your guidance counselor it was about the job stability.

You didn’t say that you needed a life that moved fast enough to keep you from looking back.

You got good at it. Fast. Precise. Reliable. The type of person they called first when a kid came in coding, when someone’s chest had to be cracked open at bedside. You learned how to operate under pressure. How to compartmentalize. You learned to move toward chaos, not away from it.

And eventually, you stopped looking at the name. Not because it faded—it never did—but because it became too familiar. Like a scar. Like an old story you didn’t tell anymore, because no one would believe it.

Because you hardly believed it yourself.

.

You peel yourself out of bed, step into the shower. The water doesn’t stay hot for long, but you don’t need it to. You just need enough heat to convince your muscles to move, your brain to stop stalling. The morning ritual is muscle memory now: shampoo, rinse, conditioner (leave-in), scrub your face, try not to look at yourself too closely. By the time you’re dressed and out the door, you’ve spoken zero words and swallowed two ibuprofen with the stale dregs of yesterday’s coffee.

The drive to the hospital is quiet, but not peaceful. 

The city’s in that strange twilight lull between night and morning, where the drunks have staggered home and the nine-to-fivers haven’t yet left their beds. It feels like a ghost town with too many ghosts. Some days, you swear the silence carries weight. Residual grief, maybe. 

You park in the far corner of the lot because the closer spaces are already claimed by the truly unwell—nurses who never go home, residents who sleep in call rooms, attendings who live to round. You used to be like them. You’ve grown out of the martyrdom. Or maybe you’ve just run out of energy to perform it.

The hospital doesn’t smell like death, not exactly. It smells like ammonia and latex and that synthetic lemon cleaner that’s supposed to mask the rest. You wave to the front desk nurse, badge in, and clock your shift the way you have every day for the last six years. 

Your soulmark is never mentioned. Not because people don’t see it, though you keep it hidden well, but because no one talks about soulmarks anymore. It’s passé. Soulmate matching used to be romantic. Now it’s considered a statistical liability. There are support groups for people like you, sure, but they mostly spiral into grief therapy and long-winded self-help monologues. You tried one once. A woman wept about her soulmate dying in Sokovia. Another talked about her mark changing. Yours never did.

Soulmate politics are complicated now. Too many anomalies. Too many cases like yours.

There’s a thread on Reddit dedicated to soulmarks tied to dangerous people. Super soldiers. Villains. Politically gray mercenaries. Your name—his name—comes up sometimes. You don’t engage. You lurk. Scroll through the comments. Watch strangers try to figure out what they’d do if it were them.

The consensus always boils down to one thing: If your soulmate is a killer, you have a moral obligation to reject the bond.

You don’t know if you agree. You don’t know if you disagree either.

Most days, you just ignore it.

Your shift starts like any other. A stabbing. A toddler with a fever. An elderly man who doesn’t remember how he got here. The trauma bay gets two back-to-back ambulance drop-offs, both from the same freeway accident. The paramedics hand off a broken woman in pieces. You get her on oxygen. You get her to CT. You get her prepped for surgery. You don’t think about her name, or her face, or what might’ve been the last thing she said.

You think about the steps. You think about the chart.

This is what makes you good at your job.

You care. You just don’t let it show anymore.

Lunchtime—if you can dignify that title with a limp vending machine sandwich and fifteen minutes of couch—is spent in the staff lounge, watching reruns of The Great British Bake Off with the volume off. The man on screen is assembling an architectural sponge cake. You feel emotionally invested. Mostly because you think it might collapse.

One of your colleagues—Zoya, you think, though you’ve never quite decided if you like her or not—slides onto the couch beside you with the weary grace of someone who’s been on her feet for nine hours. She’s got a protein bar in one hand and her phone in the other.

“I read the polls,” she says, chewing like the bar personally insulted her. “People are actually fired up this time around.”

You hum in response. Noncommittal. You don’t take the bait.

“They say Barnes is running for Congress,” she adds casually, eyes flicking sideways toward you. “That surprises me. Who woulda thought?”

You don’t blink. Don’t flinch. Just peel a piece of lettuce off your sandwich like it’s offended you. “Guess being an Avenger's not the high-paying career it used to be.”

Zoya snorts. “Seriously. You think he’s for real?”

You lift one shoulder. “I think I’ve seen stranger things on C-SPAN.”

She lets out a low whistle. “Still wild, though. Imagine finding out your soulmate is, like… that guy.”

You glance at her. Smile. Tight. Unreadable. “Yeah,” you say. “Imagine.”

She doesn’t press. You both go back to watching a woman on screen cry over underbaked choux pastry.

It’s easy now. Easier than it used to be. Pretending he doesn’t matter. Pretending you don’t know his voice by heart. Don’t remember the way your mark burned that day in the laundromat. Don’t still check the news for his name the way other people check the weather. It’s a skill.

And like all your best skills, it was learned the hard way.

.

When you get home that night, your legs ache, and your stomach hurts from too much caffeine and not enough food. You drop your bag on the couch, toe off your shoes, and stand in the middle of your kitchen for ten full seconds trying to remember what it means to rest.

Your phone buzzes on the counter. A missed call. Your ex. You don’t call back.

Instead, you go to the sink, wash your hands out of habit, and glance down at the faint outline of the mark under your scrub top.

You trace it, just once. Not enough to mean anything.

Just enough to remember that it’s still there.

.

You were twenty-four when you first saw his face in motion. In reality.

It was a Tuesday. You remember because it was your one day off that month, and you’d spent most of it in a laundromat trying to get the smell of bile and bleach out of your scrubs. You were curled up on the plastic bench by the window, still damp from rain, watching a battered flatscreen overhead.

BREAKING NEWS: GLOBAL MANHUNT UNDERWAY FOR FORMER SOVIET ASSASSIN.

You didn’t flinch when the words came up. At first, they didn’t mean anything. But then the photo appeared, grainy and indistinct—a security cam freeze-frame. Dark jacket, metal arm, face caught mid-motion.

There he was. James Buchanan Barnes.

You felt it like a punch. Air gone. Sound sucked from the room. Your hands tightened around a bottle of Tide.

They said he bombed the Vienna International Centre. Killed a king. Injured dozens. Your brain refused the narrative, but not because you knew better. You didn’t. It was just … incongruent. Cognitive dissonance. You couldn’t square the name on your skin with the cold, feral man on the screen. But that didn’t stop you from watching.

You didn’t leave the laundromat. You sat there long after your clothes finished drying. Hours, maybe. Absorbing every second of the footage. Reading every chyron.

You watched the raw surveillance clips when they hit the web—him running, being chased, fighting like something born in a lab. Like something not quite real.

And then, all at once, the world tilted.

He was real.

Not a myth. Not a name in a book or a mark burned into your side to haunt you. Real. He was breathing the same air, walking the same crumbling sidewalks, looking over his shoulder beneath the same indifferent sky. There was this thrumming under your skin—louder than your heartbeat, sharper than breath—that said he's alive. Not long-dead. Not lost to time. But here. On this earth. Behind your eyes. And somehow, you had to keep living like that wasn’t the most destabilizing fact you’d ever known.

You memorized the cadence of how people said his name.

At some point, you realized you were shaking.

That week, your mother called, like she always did. You didn’t tell her. She asked how work was. You said fine. She asked if you’d seen the news. You said you hadn’t.

You started keeping your left side covered, even in the shower.

In the weeks that followed, he became a name everyone knew. The Winter Soldier. The media dug up every blurry photo from seventy years of history, every CIA leak, every whisper in a dossier. You catalogued them without meaning to. It wasn’t obsession. Not exactly. It was survival.

Then came the reveal: it wasn’t him. Not exactly. Not only him.

Mind control, they said. Brainwashed. Hydra.

You read the words like they were gospel. Like they explained something they didn’t. Like they offered you absolution by proxy. You hated that you wanted to believe it so badly. You hated how much of yourself you saw in the hollow of his eyes when he was caught on camera again—restrained, confused, a man unraveling.

You hated that you understood it.

.

Then came the Blip.

The morning the sky broke, you were in trauma bay three with a man who’d been impaled on a metal pipe. You blinked, and he was gone. Just … gone. The pipe, slick with his blood, clanged against the floor, still warm. Your brain froze. Your hands kept moving.

Your friend Ashley vanished mid-joke during lunch break. Half your ER staff was gone by the end of the day. You worked thirteen more hours without blinking. You only remembered bits—someone screaming in the stairwell. Someone trying to break into the pharmacy. A girl with burns and no parents left to consent to treatment. You remember the air smelling like copper and panic. The vending machines ran out by day two.

When you finally got home, your building was quiet. Too quiet. The streets were deserted, eerie and raw like the aftermath of a dream you couldn't fully wake up from. Someone had looted the gas station across the street. You stepped over broken glass to get inside.

You turned on the TV. Sat down on the floor. Let the flickering images wash over you in silence. Aerial shots of cars abandoned mid-commute. Apartment buildings full of empty beds. Hospitals choked with the chaos of subtraction.

Then his name came up. Just for a moment. In a reel of the missing.

James Buchanan Barnes. Missing. Presumed dust. It seems like the world would never get tired of those three words recurring in your life like a sick joke, like a sucker punch.

You knew it before they even confirmed it. Knew it in your bones. The soulmark burned for days after. A phantom itch. A psychic scream. You whispered to the room, “No. No, no, no—”

You didn’t go to work the day they called it. That he was gone. That it wasn’t speculation anymore.

You called out sick, which you never did. Stayed under the covers with your curtains drawn and your phone turned facedown. You didn’t cry. Not in the way that would’ve felt cathartic. There was no release. Just weight. A steady pressure under your sternum, like your lungs were packed too tight with silence.

Grief like that doesn’t come all at once. It drips. Slow. Insidious. A lifetime’s worth of maybes collecting in your throat.

You tried to tell yourself he wasn’t yours.

That you didn’t know him.

That the mark didn’t mean anything.

That you didn’t feel the loss like your own skin folding in on itself.

But you stopped wearing crop tops after that. Stopped sleeping on your left side. Stopped reading the news altogether, because every time they mentioned his name—even in passing—it felt like someone reaching inside your chest to twist the knife, just to see if you’d bleed.

Your friends thought you were just burned out. Work was hard. Everyone was struggling.

“Have you tried meditating?” someone asked once.

“Have you tried shutting the fuck up?” you almost said. Instead you smiled. Said you were fine. You let them believe it.

You threw yourself into the ER. Picked up extra shifts. Took on the worst cases. Became the one they called for the ugly ones—the resuscitations that didn’t work, the organ donors, the impossible parents waiting for bad news. It gave your hands something to do. Gave your grief a mask.

You were so good at pretending you didn’t care that even you started to believe it.

But sometimes, on the drive home—when the city was too quiet and the sky too empty—you caught yourself glancing at the passenger seat like someone should be there. Like you’d forgotten to pick him up.

You imagined what he’d be like. Not the soldier. Not the assassin. Not the man they called the Winter Soldier like he was myth, not bone.

Just… a person.

Would he have been quiet in the mornings? Would he have let you take the last piece of toast? Would he have liked dogs? Would he have hated how sterile hospitals feel? Would he have looked at you like your name was written on him, too? 

The mark never faded. You used to check. Stupidly. Desperately. You read somewhere once that when a soulmate dies, the mark vanishes. But yours didn’t. Not even a little. It stayed sharp. Clear. Unforgiving.

You don’t know if that made it better or worse.

All you knew was this: it didn’t matter if the world called him a ghost. He was real to you.

And he was gone.

And you had to go to work tomorrow, like none of it ever mattered.

.

Time passed. You got used to the silence.

Then, five years later, he came back.

Just like that.

No fanfare. No press release. Just a name in a sea of billions. Alive again. Somewhere in the world.

You didn’t sleep for three days after that either.

.

He resurfaced differently this time. Tactically invisible. Not a headline anymore. Then, out of nowhere—a year or two later—he announced his candidacy for Congress.

You nearly laughed. Not because it was funny. But because it felt so surreal, so absurdly mundane, that your brain short-circuited. It had been three back-to-back 12-hour night shifts. Your scrubs still smelled faintly of antiseptic and vending machine coffee. Your eyes burned. Your feet hurt. And there he was—your mark, your ghost—printed five feet tall next to a mattress ad. 

You stared. Read the copy three times. Just to be sure it wasn’t a hallucination.

You told yourself not to look him up. Then you got home and did it anyway.

His campaign site was minimal. No donation pop-ups, no splashy endorsements. Just a simple landing page, a schedule of town halls, and a single embedded video labeled Why I’m Running.

You clicked play.

It started with silence. Then the low rasp of his voice, steadier now, filled your apartment.

“I’m not here to pretend I’ve always done the right thing,” he said. “I’m not here to sell redemption. Just accountability. I’ve seen what happens when systems break, when good people fall through the cracks. And I believe we can build better.”

There were no slogans. No party jargon. Just him, seated on a worn bench near a city garden, hair shorter than you remembered, jaw shadowed with a few days’ growth. Still armored, but softer. Realer. He didn’t mention soulmarks. Or the war. Or the weight of being a name that history couldn’t agree on.

But he didn’t need to.

You watched the video twice. Then again the next night.

And you didn’t vote for him.

You didn’t vote against him either.

You just… waited. Watched. Tracked the polls like you were taking a patient’s vitals. Checked for signs of movement. Hoped it wouldn’t all combust before the finish line.

When he won by 6.4%, you sat in your dark apartment, phone lit in your palm, and felt something in your chest go still. Not relief. Not pride. Just… a strange, anchored kind of knowing.

He was out there. Alive. Choosing something. Choosing this.

And somehow, that meant something to you, too.

.

You still don’t talk about it. But every so often, you read the transcripts from his interviews. You pretend it’s because he talks about legislation affecting healthcare infrastructure. It isn’t.

You’ve never reached out. Never driven past one of his town halls. Never liked a single post.

But you know which office he holds. You know the hours of his community clinic situated right by the VA. You know what color his suit was the day he was sworn in.

The name on your ribs has not changed. It probably never will.

And maybe he’s never thought of you at all.

It starts with a nosebleed.

You’re just off shift. Third one this week. Your badge is clipped to your hip, your hands smell like latex and soap, and your brain is somewhere between REM and resignation. You’re half-waiting for the crosswalk light to change when you see a man slump against the side of the public library and slide down like his bones have given up.

At first, you think: drunk. Happens more than you’d like to admit, and it's Brooklyn you're talking about. But then you see the way his hand curls against his thigh—controlled, but shaky—and the tight set of his jaw. His suit is immaculate. Not a homeless guy. Not a junkie. And that look on his face? That’s not intoxication.

That’s pain.

You cross the street. Instinct before thought.

“Hey,” you call, crouching near him. “You okay?”

He looks up. There’s a beat—half-second, maybe less—where neither of you speaks. His eyes are blue. Really blue. And he’s not just handsome, he’s specific. Recognizable in a way that drops into your stomach like a lead weight.

You know who he is. You've spent half your life committing him to memory, watching him coming and going like a revolving door.

Selfishly, instinctively, you can't help but glance down at his left hand—covered by a glove. He notices, shifting slightly, uncomfortably.

Finally, he blinks. “I’m—yeah. Fine.”

“That’s a lie,” you say, because you’re too tired to be polite. “You’re about to pass out. I’m guessing low blood sugar. Maybe dehydration.”

He breathes through his nose like it’s an old habit, like he’s used to being clocked and is choosing not to bristle. “I was just at a council meeting. Forgot to eat.”

“Drink anything?”

“Two coffees and a Red Bull.”

You stare at him. “Jesus Christ.”

His mouth twitches. Just barely. “I didn’t say it was a good idea.”

You glance around. It’s midday. Plenty of foot traffic, but no one’s stopped to help him. Of course not. Most people pretend not to see, even if he's a U.S. representative who's helped save the world a handful of times. New Yorkers have learned to mind their own business these past couple of years.

“Alright, Mr. Barnes,” you say, because you don’t want to say James or Bucky, not the name etched on your skin. “Can you stand up?”

He lifts an eyebrow. “You know who I am?”

You consider lying. “Yeah.”

His expression doesn’t change, but something in him goes still. A readjustment. Like he’s running probabilities behind the curtain of his eyes.

“And you still came over,” he says.

“Don’t take it personally. It's my civic duty; I’d help a mediocre politician too if they were about to eat pavement.”

A snort. Then, with the faintest tilt of his head: “Lucky me.”

You help him to his feet. He leans on the wall. Doesn’t quite use you for balance, though you think he might want to. You guide him into the nearest air-conditioned bodega and deposit him on a bench near the pharmacy counter. Buy two bottles of Gatorade and a protein bar. You don’t ask for reimbursement.

He drinks like it hurts to swallow. Like he’s out of practice with kindness.

“Thanks,” he says. Eventually.

You nod, sitting on the far end of the bench. “You should probably have a handler.”

“I do,” he says dryly. “She left five minutes before I remembered I hadn’t eaten.”

You glance at him sidelong. “So what, she’s in the wind?”

“Texted her,” he replies. “Told her I was fine.”

“You always lie to the people trying to keep you alive?”

Something flickers at that—too fast to name. “Sometimes.”

A silence settles. Not uncomfortable, exactly. But charged.

You glance down at your hands, then back at him. “Do you get nosebleeds a lot?”

“Not usually.”

“Good. If it starts again, you’re going to the hospital.”

His smile this time is faint, but real. He takes a glance at your scrubs, gears turning in his head. “You work there?”

“Yeah.”

“Doctor?”

“Nurse.”

He gives a little hum. “Makes sense.”

You frown. “Why?”

“Because you didn’t flinch.”

The statement lands oddly. “New Yorkers don’t usually flinch at guys hunched against the wall mid-day.”

“Not that,” he says. “Me.”

You meet his gaze. Don’t look away. “Well. Maybe they should.”

He stares at you for a long moment. You get the sense he’s parsing something. Not calculating. Listening. Not just to what you said, but how you said it.

“You didn’t tell me your name,” he says.

You open your mouth. Then close it.

And for the first time in your life, you think: If I tell him, he’ll know.

You’re not sure what scares you more. Him knowing. Or him not.

He notices the hesitation. His eyes drop—unintentionally, you think—toward your ribs. Just a flicker.

You say, quietly, “Don’t do that.”

He nods once. Doesn’t ask again.

Another moment passes. You hand him the rest of the protein bar.

He doesn’t say thank you again. He just eats it.

Eventually, he stands. A little steadier now. You watch him check his phone. You think he might offer to walk you somewhere, but he doesn’t.

Instead, he looks at you like he’s memorizing something. Then:

“You know,” he says, “there was a time I thought she’d be dead.”

Your heart skips.

You try to sound normal. “Who?”

He doesn’t smile. Not this time. Just studies your face.

“My soulmate.”

You freeze.

“Figured she’d died during the Blip,” he continues. “Or worse. Thought I felt it. But I came back and the mark was still there. So. Who knows.”

You inhale slowly. “What would you have done if it was gone?”

“Moved on,” he says.

You nod. Try to play it off. “That easy, huh?”

“No.” His voice drops a register. “But I would’ve had to.”

Silence again. He exhales. Checks the time. Nods once.

“Well,” he says. “Thanks for saving me from an embarrassing death outside a library.”

You stand too. “Wasn’t gonna let a congressman die on my watch, Mr. Barnes."

He gives a lopsided smile, and suddenly, you see a flicker of that man you saw in the Smithsonian all those years ago. “Call me Bucky. I'm just a guy, today.”

Then, softer: “See you around.”

You don’t say anything. Just watch him go.

When you finally look down at your ribs, you expect the name to be glowing or bleeding or something dramatic.

It isn’t.

It’s just there. Quiet. Permanent.

.

You don’t see Bucky again for months. He's gone from James Buchanan Barnes to Bucky, and it feels like foreign territory.

Not in person.

You follow his trajectory the way you follow the weather—warily, with one eye on the exit. A year into being entrenched in politics, and he gets pulled into a team, a superhero one, nonetheless. The new Avengers become a household name, or something close to it. You don’t pay for the streams, but you hear the headlines. They’re sent in to handle things that the rest of the government won’t touch. Places too messy. People too expendable.

Their first mission didn't have a name. Just a black void on every screen.

For New York, it was basically another Tuesday.

It starts mid-shift.

You’re in the middle of helping intubate someone when the power flickers—just once, like the building’s held its breath. Everyone stops. Monitors beep a half-second late. The trauma bay lights blink. Then come back. Then cut out again.

You keep your hands steady. Overhead, a resident says, “Is it just us?”

Someone else says, “No, it’s the whole block.”

And then your phone buzzes.

Not a call. A national alert.

EMERGENCY ALERT: ANOMALOUS EVENT IN PROGRESS. SEEK SHELTER.

You finish the procedure anyway. You don’t panic. You don’t run. You switch to battery-powered floodlights and keep your mask on. That’s the thing about being on the inside when the world starts to fall apart. You don’t get to pause.

Outside, the sky changes. It turns the color of old bruises. A gash opens above the skyline—wide, black, impossibly still. Something like a mouth. Something worse.

They call it the Void later. You never see it in person. Not really. You just feel the air change, the pressure drop. You feel the way every patient suddenly stops bleeding. The way everyone holds their breath.

And then, hours later, the lights flicker back on.

The void collapses into itself like it was never there.

And just like that, you keep working.

Afterward, the news trickles in. Bucky was there. Of course he was. He and the others were part of whatever last-ditch plan got the void to close. Whatever sacrifices were made, they’re classified. What isn’t: the look on his face when they put him on the podium afterward.

You watch it from the break room, over a vending machine lunch.

The new Avengers are announced. Not the old guard. A stitched-together lineup of whoever’s left, whoever didn’t run, whoever’s willing to keep showing up.

Bucky stands at the edge of the stage.

He looks like a man being honored at his own funeral.

You watch the broadcast until it ends.

You don’t say a word.

.

Two weeks later, you run into him again. And it’s so dumb, so ordinary, you don’t even realize what’s happening until you’ve already said yes.

You’re coming out of the pharmacy with three days’ worth of migraine pills and a jug of Pedialyte, and he’s just… there. Baseball cap, dark coat, looking like he hasn’t shaved in a week. The glove's off, his metal hand shining under the sterile lights. He spots you before you spot him.

“Hey,” he says, not quite surprised. “Funny seeing you here.”

You squint. “You okay?”

“I was gonna ask you the same thing.”

You glance down at the bag in your hand. “Pharmacy run.”

He nods. “I’m heading to get coffee. Want one?”

You open your mouth. Pause. And then, God help you, you say, “Yeah. Sure.”

You don’t talk about the void.

You talk about everything but.

The café is half-empty. He orders a black coffee and a lemon poppy seed muffin like someone trying to prove they’re still human. You ask for a chai. He insists on paying.

You sit across from each other, not touching. Not leaning. But there’s something in the air between you—charged, familiar. Like a room you’ve walked into before in a dream.

“Still at the hospital?” he asks.

“Yeah. We don’t really get to retire. Or take vacations.”

“That’s a shame.”

You shrug. “It’s a calling. Or a curse. Not sure.”

“I know the feeling.”

You sip your chai. He breaks the muffin in half and doesn’t eat it.

There’s a pause. Then—

“You never told me your name,” he says again. Not quite a question.

You watch him. Something in your chest thuds like recognition.

You set your cup down.

“I didn’t think you wanted it.”

He blinks. “Why wouldn’t I?”

You glance at the window, at the people outside walking past like none of this matters. Like the world didn’t almost end. Like the two of you aren’t teetering on some invisible edge.

“I don’t know,” you say finally. “Because you didn’t press.”

He doesn’t speak for a second. Just watches you, something gentle and old in his eyes.

Then he smiles. Soft. A little tired.

“Because I wanted you to give it when you were ready.”

The silence between you shifts. Not heavier. Just realer.

You say your name.

It fills the air between you like a quiet truth.

He breathes it in like it means something.

“Can I see you again?” he asks.

Your throat tightens. But your voice stays steady.

“Yeah,” you say. “I think you can.”

You don’t say anything as you leave the café. Just nod goodbye and let the door close between you. But later, when you replay the afternoon in your mind, it lingers. The quiet between words. The fact that he didn’t ask to see the mark. That he didn’t flinch.

The fact that when you said your name, it felt like exhaling. You don’t expect to see him again so soon. Not really.

But you do.

Twice that week, by accident.

First, it's after an especially gruelling night shift. The sun's barely even peeking through the trees yet, and you're covered in miscellaneous bodily fluids and there's bags under your eyes that weigh you down. Outside the bodega near your building, where you planned on getting bread and bananas and off-brand electrolyte packets. He’s coming out with a six-pack of seltzer and one of those microwave dinners that scream I-don’t-trust-a-stove as you're coming in. You nod at each other, and, looking down at your scrubs and your state, he asks if you just got done. 

You nod. "Every Tuesday at 7 AM."

He asks how your shift went. You lie and say easy. He doesn’t call you on it.

The second time, you’re on a park bench halfway through a sandwich you don’t want, getting some much-needed air during your lunch break when a shadow falls across your lap. 

It’s him, in jeans and a threadbare henley, hair mussed like he slept wrong. It's oddly domestic. You resist the urge to tuck a stray strand behind his ear. “Didn’t take you for a turkey club kind of girl,” he says, like this is the kind of thing you’ve always talked about. You offer him half without thinking. He takes it.

It’s not every day. Not even often. But you start to spot him in places you never used to. On the corner outside the pharmacy. At the edge of the farmer’s market. Once in the hallway of the clinic where you pick up your medical license renewal. He doesn’t make it obvious. He doesn’t insert himself. But he’s there.

And slowly, without meaning to, you start looking for him.

There’s a night when the ER is chaos and the weather is worse and your body is vibrating with exhaustion. Your car's given out on you. You miss your bus. You consider calling an Uber, then don’t. You’re standing under the overhang by the staff entrance, shivering in your scrubs, scrolling your phone for nothing in particular, when headlights sweep across your shoes and stop.

A car idles. Familiar. Black. Out of place like a shadow with wheels.

You squint into the window, and of course, it’s him. “Stalking me?”

He straightens, just a little. “You said your shift ended at seven.”

“I did,” you say slowly, walking toward him. “Didn’t mean it was an invitation.”

His mouth twitches. “Consider it a standing offer.”

You glance at the car, then back at him. “You gonna tell me how you got a vehicle this inconspicuous, or is that classified?”

He opens the passenger door. “Perks of being an Avenger.”

You eye him. “Is this kidnapping?”

“If it is, it’s the most considerate kidnapping ever. I brought snacks.”

You get in.

It becomes a habit after that.

That’s the first ride.

It becomes a habit. Not a routine, exactly. That would suggest he comes at the same time, says the same thing, follows a pattern. He doesn’t. He’s unpredictable in the way thunderstorms are—sudden, insistent, quietly necessary. He’s just… there. Enough times that your coworkers start raising eyebrows. Enough times that you stop pretending it’s odd.

You don’t talk about the soulmark. Not directly.

But you talk about other things.

The price of gas. The merits of different hospital coffee. He tells you, offhandedly, that he used to hate mornings until he had to start facing them at 5 a.m. with a loaded weapon. You tell him you’ve delivered twins in a supply closet. Neither of you laughs, but the air warms between you.

One evening, he brings you tea instead of coffee. He says it’s because you looked like you hadn’t slept. You want to ask how he knew. You don’t.

You get used to the way his presence takes up space. Quietly. Without pushing. You start saving podcasts to share. You start to notice the way his metal hand rests against the gearshift like he’s forgotten it’s not flesh.

He learns your tells. Which sigh means you’re burned out and which means you’re hungry. He doesn’t always talk, but he listens better than most people speak.

And slowly—terrifyingly—you start to want him to be there.

.

Bucky never texts.

Not once.

He calls.

Always.

Even for the smallest things. A grocery question. A movie suggestion. A let-me-know-when-you’re-done. Sometimes you don’t pick up, and he doesn’t leave a voicemail. Just calls again an hour later like it’s the most natural thing in the world.

One day, you ask him why.

He’s driving, one hand on the wheel, the other—metal—resting on the gearshift like it belongs there.

“I don’t like waiting for a response,” he says, after a beat. “Feels like talking to a wall.”

You nod. “Makes sense.”

He glances at you, then adds, “Also, I can't type for shit. And autocorrect thinks I’m a lunatic. My PR manager thinks I'm a walking liability waiting to happen." You don't know what makes you snort first; the thought of him keyboard smashing his phone or the fact that he has a goddamn PR manager.

Then, the first time you see the arm up close, he’s asleep on your couch.

You’re supposed to be watching a movie. You don't even know who initiated, who invited who over. But something old and black-and-white is flickering on the screen, one of his picks. But somewhere around the twenty-minute mark, he dozed off. His hoodie’s bunched up at the elbow, metal catching the lamplight.

You don’t stare. Not really. But you don’t look away either.

It’s not the glossy, hyper-chrome finish you remember from the surveillance footage. Not the Soviet brutality of jagged red stars and burnished steel. This one’s different. Sleeker. Sleek but brutal. Matte black and dark silver, subtle gold veins etched faintly between the segmented plates—Wakandan tech, you realize. Lightweight. Adaptive. The sort of engineering that moves with a person, not against them.

It looks like something alive. Something that remembers things.

You wonder if he remembers it’s there. If it registers temperature. Pressure. Pain. If the nerves ghost in that space the same way yours do when your fingers go numb from fatigue. If it ever aches when it rains.

You don’t ask.

Not yet.

He stirs, eventually. Looks at you through half-lidded eyes. 

“Did I miss the plot twist?”

“You missed a wedding, a car crash, and three dramatic monologues.”

“Damn,” he mutters, stretching.  His hoodie pulls a little higher. You glimpse the sharp, seamless lines of the elbow joint. Compact. Clean. Not like a machine—like an exoskeleton. Like armor. You look away. “We can rewind.”

You shrug, smirking into your mug. “I don’t know. I’m kind of emotionally invested now. I might want you to suffer through the confusion with me.”

He huffs a quiet laugh, still half-asleep, eyes flicking toward the screen.

You don’t rewind.

You just sit there, the credits rolling, and listen to him breathe as he falls back to sleep. You start to wonder what it would be like to fall asleep with his hand on your side. With the mark between you, not unspoken, but accepted. Real. You start to feel it again—that pull. The one you used to ignore. The one you used to press down like a bruise that wouldn’t fade.

This is what soulmates are about, you think. What they’re meant to be.

Not the fireworks. Not the rush. Not the storybook symmetry or the neat little bow at the end. Not the lightning strike of recognition. It’s quieter than that. Slower. Messier. Built of hours and questions and the space someone leaves you to be tired, to be flawed, to be real.

You think maybe it’s this — the way he handed you your coffee earlier exactly the way you take it without ever having asked. The way he watches the road when you don’t want to talk and turns the music up just a little, like a soft wall between you and the world. The way he never reaches for your hand, but always lets his linger close enough that you could.

It’s the consistency. The patience. The terrifying kindness of being seen when you’re not trying to be. When your armor’s off, not because you dropped it, but because he never asked you to put it on in the first place.

There’s something in your chest that loosens when he’s near. Some old tension that stops buzzing like an alarm.

And maybe that’s what the mark is. Not fate, not prophecy, but permission. A tether, yes—but one you can pull at your own pace. One you can choose.

And every day you don’t walk away, you’re choosing him.

Even if neither of you has said it yet. Even if neither of you knows how.

“You ever get tired of people looking at you sideways?” you ask him once, on a late-night walk back from a diner you guys have started to frequent together. You’ve both got milkshakes in hand because Bucky insists they’re a cornerstone of civilization, and you’re learning not to argue when he gets weirdly nostalgic.

He takes a sip. Shrugs. “Used to.”

“And now?”

“Now I don’t care.” A pause. “It helps that you don’t.”

You look over. He’s not smiling, but he’s softer. Always is, around you. Less edge. Less shield.

“I used to,” you admit. “When I was younger. I thought it’d fade. The mark.”

He nods, like he’s heard that before. Like he understands more than you meant to say.

“It didn’t,” you add.

He glances at you, then at your side. Not lingering. Just a flicker.

“Good,” he says, so quietly you almost miss it.

You stop walking. “Why?”

He doesn’t look at you. Just finishes his drink. Crumples the cup in one hand.

“Because I’m still here,” he says, like it should be obvious.

And it is.

Somehow, it is.

He cooks, occasionally. Not well. But with effort. One night, he burns a grilled cheese so thoroughly the fire alarm goes off. You have to wave a towel at the smoke detector while he swears under his breath and throws the pan in the sink.

You’re still laughing when he sets two very sad sandwiches on the table and mutters, “Fine. Next time, we order.”

“There’s gonna be a next time?”

He gives you a look. “Unless I’m banned from your kitchen.”

You pick up half a sandwich. “You’re on probation.”

He watches you take a bite. Raises an eyebrow.

You chew. Swallow. “Tastes like regret and cheese.”

That gets a huff of laughter. He doesn’t laugh easily—not fully—but you’re learning the sounds he makes when he’s amused. The little exhales. The under-his-breath muttering. The half-smile he hides behind his hand.

You’re learning all of it.

And you’re starting to think he’s learning you too.

One night, he’s quiet.

Not in the usual way — not in the half-aware, hands-in-pockets, I’ve-seen-too-much kind of way you've learned he wears like a well-worn, favorite coat. This silence is heavier. Not a thing he’s hiding from you, but a thing he’s holding. Something sharp and delicate and dangerous, like broken glass wrapped in cloth. You don’t know what it is yet, but you feel it.

You’re curled up at opposite ends of the couch, legs almost touching, the ghost of his knee brushing yours whenever either of you shifts. The movie’s still playing, long-forgotten. It’s just noise now. A screen flickering in the background while your heart waits.

He inhales like it hurts. And then—

“Can I tell you something?”

His voice is quiet. Too quiet. And he’s not looking at you Blue eyes staring straight ahead at the TV, the little space between his brows wrinkled into something indecipherable.

You blink, slowly. “Yeah,” you say, just as softly. “Of course.”

That gets a breath out of him. Not a laugh. Not quite a sigh. Just something let loose. You watch him stare ahead, fixed on a point in the middle distance like it’s safer than you. Like your face is too much to hold right now.

“I used to hate it,” he says. “The mark.”

You don’t move.

You don’t breathe.

“I thought—” He rubs the heel of his hand over his sternum, just once, like something aches there. “I thought it was some kind of punishment. Like the universe picked me just to prove it could.”

Your heart twists.

He still won’t meet your eyes. But he’s speaking now, and it feels like something old and knotted finally starting to unravel.

“I didn’t know what it meant, not really. Not at first. Just this pain. A weight. And then the name came, and it didn’t mean anything. Just letters. A future that didn’t make sense.”

His hand tightens, flexes, then drops into his lap again. You watch the way his fingers curl, restless and bare.

“And then it did mean something. And it got worse.”

He swallows. Hard.

“Because I looked you up.” His voice dips, almost like he’s ashamed of it. “When I got the chance. I knew. Who you were. Where you were. For years. I didn’t—I didn’t do anything about it. But I knew.”

Something tightens in your chest. A coil. A knot. He looked for you. All those years, he searched and he reached and he wanted all the same. You want to reach for him, but you wait. You feel like if you breathe wrong, he might vanish.

“I kept thinking—if I left it alone, if I stayed away, maybe the universe would rethink it. Give you someone better. Someone cleaner. Someone safe.”

Finally, his gaze flickers to you. Brief. Bracing. The kind of look you imagine he’s given a thousand times in battle — checking to see if the person beside him is still alive.

“And I thought I could carry that,” he says. “I thought if I ignored it long enough, maybe it’d fade. That maybe you’d forget, or never know. And I could just—live around it.”

His laugh is bitter. Not sharp, exactly, but cracked around the edges.

“But it didn’t fade. You didn’t fade.”

You feel like you’ve stopped breathing entirely.

He leans forward, elbows on his knees, fingers knotted together. The mark under your ribs aches in quiet sympathy.

“You know what’s worse than feeling like you don’t deserve someone?” he asks, eyes fixed somewhere near your ankles. “Feeling like you do, for just one second. Like you could, if only you were different. If only everything hadn’t already happened.”

He sits back again. Slower this time. Exhausted.

Your chest is tight, full of static. Your eyes sting.

“I used to see your name and think, how cruel. That someone like you had to carry the weight of someone like me.” Bucky finally looks at you again, and there’s nothing distant about it. It’s searing. Devastating. “But then you showed up. That day at the library. And I—”

His voice falters.

He swallows again, blinking hard. “I’ve spent so long being looked at like I’m a weapon. Like I’m a ghost. But you looked at me like—” He stops, breath caught in his throat. “Like I was real. Like you’d known me. Like I wasn’t a mistake.”

You blink fast, because the alternative is crying.

“And I didn’t know what to do with that. I still don’t know what to do with that,” He exhales, a quiet tremor in his chest. “I don’t know if I’ll ever be the person who deserves this. Or you. Or the mark. But I want to be.”

He turns toward you fully now, and for the first time, he doesn’t look away.

“I want to try,” he says, softly. “If you’ll let me.”

You reach for his hand. Slowly. Carefully. Like it’s something sacred, and your fingers meet his.

You don’t say anything right away. There’s no need. His hand tightens around yours like an answer. Like a prayer. And under your ribs, where the mark lives, you feel it — not a tug, not a weight, but a warmth. Like the sun, breaking through after years of winter.

He doesn’t let go of your hand.

His fingers are rough in some places, calloused in others, warm where it counts. He holds you like he’s learning how. Like maybe the trick is not to grip too tight, but not to let go either. That sweet, aching middle ground. Like maybe you’re something breakable—but not fragile.

You’re not sure how long you sit like that. Just the two of you, suspended in this strange, soft liminal space between the past and whatever comes next.

The TV hums in the background. The couch dips where your knees almost touch. You swear you can hear his pulse—yours too—skipping every third beat, then rushing to make up for it.

He’s still watching you like he’s waiting for you to vanish.

You speak first. Barely a whisper. “I think I started loving you before I even knew what it meant.”

His eyes close, slow. As if the words are a balm. Or a blade. You’re not sure which.

“I used to feel you before I understood how,” you continue, voice steady now, stronger with each word. “Not in the mark. Not in the skin. But in the air. In the quiet. I’d be washing blood off my hands at three in the morning and think—I’m not alone. Not really.”

His throat moves with the effort of swallowing. He doesn’t speak. Not yet. You’re not done.

“I hated you for it too, for a while,” you admit. “For making me hope. For giving me something to lose before I ever had it.”

You shift, close the last few inches between you. He doesn’t flinch. Just watches, gaze dark and wide and impossibly open.

“I didn’t want this to be real. Because if it was, it meant I could break. That I had something to break for.”

He breathes out your name. Just once.

You touch his face. Thumb trailing the edge of his cheekbone, slow and deliberate. He leans into it like he’s forgotten what it means to be held. “I see you,” you whisper. “I see you. Not the headlines. Not the soldier. Not the mark. Just… you.”

And something inside him unravels. Not all at once. Not like a dam breaking. But like a thread pulled gently, deliberately, until what’s been bound up for too long begins to loosen.

“I love you,” he says, and it’s not polished. Not pretty. It’s real. Broken around the edges. Bare and breathless. “I love you, and it’s terrifying.”

You nod. Because you know.

He exhales. Then moves.

He kisses you like he means it. Like it’s the first and last time he’ll ever be allowed. His lips press to yours, slow at first, exploratory. Like he’s trying to memorize the shape of it. The feel. You breathe him in. Let your hand slip to the back of his neck, anchor him there.

He doesn’t rush.

His hands, warm and steady, skim your waist like he’s relearning what it means to touch without taking. To be given something instead of stealing it. He pulls you closer—not to possess, but to be sure you’re still there.

When he parts from you, it’s just for breath.

You lean your forehead against his. “We’ve already survived so much,” you whisper. “What’s one more impossible thing?”

His laugh is soft, unguarded. It shakes a little at the end.

You tilt your face, kiss him again—deeper this time. His response is immediate. Hands tightening, lips parting. You taste the urgency in him, the tremble beneath restraint. Your mouth moves against his like a promise. Like maybe this—you—was what the mark was always meant to lead to.

Not fate. Choice.

His metal hand brushes your hip, steady and impossibly gentle. He maps the curve of your ribs like he��s memorizing the lines of his own name. You press your palm to his chest, feel the echo of your name there too. Not carved in flesh, but in feeling. In ache. In the quiet places only the two of you have ever touched.

“Come here,” he murmurs, voice wrecked and low.

You’re already there.

Bucky kisses your neck. Your shoulder. The space just under your jaw. He doesn’t rush the way his hands roam—careful, reverent, like he’s turning pages of something sacred. You think your heart's going to burst or stop at any given moment, because there's no way he's real. 

When he pushes your shirt and your bra up over your head, your hands quickly move up to knot through his hair, anchoring them there until he's groaning and mumbling against your skin. He leans down, open mouthed kisses along the way until he finds what he's looking for, taking a pert nipple into his mouth and playing with the other with his metal hand. "Bucky, I—"

He doubles down, holding you closer against his core so he can feel you bucking against him, grinding uselessly against the rough fabric of his jeans so he can feel you pulse, head flooding your core. "Fuck, don't stop. Please don't stop, Bucky, I'm—" You sigh breathlessly when you look down and he's got your nipple between his teeth, gently tugging as he looks up at you with too innocent blue eyes. Like he's not pulling you apart.

"I won't stop, sweet girl," Bucky shakes his head, laughing softly like he can't believe it. "Don't even think I could, if I tried."

The rest of your clothes end up as a pile on the floor, and then it was just Bucky slowly undressing in front of you between your knees. It's enough to make you lose your breath, but his next words sends another sharp heat to pool between your legs.  "I'm gonna make you feel so good. You're so good to me, you—fuck, I'm gonna take my time with you. You gonna keep being good for me?"

"Yes, yes," You whispered, arms coming to wrap around him as he carries you to your bed, nails scratching lightly on the toned muscles of his back. "I'll be so good, I wanna feel good—just be with me."

He comes back to you, bare and ready and when you glance down, you can't help the gasp that escapes you. He's big. Bigger than you've ever had, thick and heavy and weeping at the tip. Gorgeous. Fuck, he's gorgeous. At the quiet sound, he pulls back a little bit, just enough to ask, with concern that's mixed with a little bit of amusement. "You okay, baby?"

Baby. Baby. The word rings in your ears, pushing another quiet, needy sound through your lips that Bucky's all too eager to swallow. But then suddenly, he stops and you have to resist the urge to whine. He presses a kiss against your skin, eyes searching yours. "Baby," Fuck, there's that word again. "I'm—I didn't bring anything with me. I don't wanna—"

You part your thighs without being told and the want in your voice is so clear, so evident. "Bucky, I'm clean. I'm on the pill, and I want you so bad, I need it. I need you inside me, want you to mark me, fill me until I'm overflowing with you."

He curses, looking at the way you're spread out underneath him. His hand reaches out to cup you where you're glistening and swollen and impossibly soft. "I can't say no to that, can I?"

"No," Your legs hook around him as he situates himself between your legs, your heart rate rising as he's so, so goddamn close, you can feel his body heat. "No, you can't."

When he finally sinks himself inside of you, you feel like you're being consumed. It's like your birthday and Christmas and the fucking Fourth of July, all in one, making you moan and swoon in a way that you know will have your neighbors sending a strongly worded complaint in the morning.

He's hard and fast and brutal, rocking against you while he sings praises into your hair, and you're wondering how you've ever been able to live without this. How you can't possibly live without this ever again, but then his hand, warm and on a mission, snakes its way beneath your stomach and pulls and pinches at your clit, and it sends you on another high.

Bucky groans. "Just what you needed, huh, baby?"

You nod, moaning out his name in reply.

One particularly hard thrust, after pulling almost all the way out and then rearranging you in a way that should be impossible, and you're falling apart on him as he fucks you through it. He loves you, he loves you, and he means every single word.

When he cums, it hits you like a train, still reeling from the aftershocks of your last orgasm when he groans and roars, putting his face to your throat and babbles—baby, sweet thing, the love of my life.

Afterwards, you just wanna lay in the mess with him, tangle yourself up with his legs and arms and get stuck there, but you're–the mess between your legs is sticky and quickly drying and the though of Bucky, soaking wet and dripping with water under the spray of your—

"Shower," you murmur. And Bucky nods against you, leaning down so he can wrap his arms around you and carry you down the hall to the bathroom.

It doesn't end there.

You ride his face under the shower. He's so good, on his knees like this was penance. For not being there for years, for not coming home to you sooner. His name rattles around your mouth and his tongue makes delicate, soft little shapes on your clit and nibbles against your thighs when you squeeze him just the right amount to make him a bit dizzy. A cool hand on your back, heat rushing in between your legs. His beard sending pinpricks up your spine as you curl your hips closer to his mouth.

Then—all at once, you on his tongue with a stuttered gasp, head spinning as he laves you with all sorts of praise. His other hand snakes up, circling and rubbing your clit like a man on a mission. "Oh god, oh god."

"Let me have all of it, sweetheart, baby, god. Let me taste you."

You do, of course, fucking of course, you let him. "My baby, taking everything ya want from me. I'll always give it to you. Christ."

When Bucky moves over your body, standing up to his full height, you're all too eager to taste him on your tongue. He's smiling lazily against your lips, like he's won a fight. It's sweet, it's a little sticky, it's—god, it's so fucking attractive, the way his lips and his stubble shine under the bathroom lights with your juices. "Say my name, Bucky, say it—"

He says your name, over and over and over and it's perfect. The water continues to spray above you, soaking both of you, but especially him as it dribbles down to the base of his cock. When he sinks into you, thick and heavy and ready until your shoulder blades knock against the cool tile, you both hold your breath until he's all the way inside, flush against your skin. 

There's his hands on your hips, a momentary pause, before his hips start snapping against yours. His dark hair, sopping wet and falling into his face, barely concealing the way he grits through his teeth. "Fuck."

You love him so much. You don't think you've ever felt a love so all-encompassing, a love that sets you on fire. You'd give him absolutely anything, everything he wants. Your words fail you, but it's the only thing you can think of as he continues to pound into you, up against that sweet, sweet spot that sends your vision spinning. In the haze of your mind, you can hear yourself moaning, begging—

Then you're falling apart again, cumming with a silent scream.

"There you go," Bucky groans and suddenly, you can feel it too, the way he fills you up, throbbing and pulsing inside of you. Until he was empty and you were full. "There you go. So good, baby. Been so good."

All at once, it all comes back to you.

The bathroom is fogged with steam, the mirror a blurred memory of your shapes, blurred edges, the safe hush of water hitting tile. He doesn’t speak when you finally wrench yourself apart from him, just to move behind him, doesn’t tense when your hands press against his shoulder blades to guide him just slightly aside—enough to step in beside him, under the spray. He shifts automatically, lets you in. Like it’s instinct now.

The water is hot, almost too hot, but he doesn’t flinch. He crowds you a little, warm chest to your back, arms curving around your middle like you’re something to protect. Or anchor to. Or both.

You feel the kiss of cold tile against your front, his breath low against your shoulder. It should be overwhelming. Should make you squirm. But instead, it feels inevitable. Like exhaling. Like gravity doing what it always does.

You lean back into him, and he lets you turn. No push. No pressure. Just a subtle retreat that gives you space. When your eyes find his in the low light, he’s already watching you, his gaze open in the way it only is now, after. After everything. After the storm and the silence and the choosing.

“Pass me the soap,” you murmur.

He obliges. Hands you something dark and nondescript, expensive-smelling and deliberately plain, like everything else he owns now. The scent hits as you squeeze a dollop into your palm—cedar, maybe. Bergamot. Clean, and quietly masculine. Like him.

He runs a hand through his hair, rinses under the stream, half turning away from you, blinking water from his lashes.

“Uh-uh,” you chide gently. “Get back here.”

His brow lifts, bemused, but he obeys. Always does, when it’s you. You rub your hands together to lather the soap, then step forward—closer than necessary. Not because you want to tease. Because you want to see.

You start at his sides, palms gliding slowly over his ribs, where old scars have long since faded into muscle. He sucks in a breath, low and sharp. Not from heat. From the contact.

Your fingers move across his stomach, up over the dip in his chest, across the swell of his shoulders. He stands perfectly still—except for the breath hitching in his throat, the twitch of his jaw. You press your body to his, full skin-to-skin, and feel his chest rise beneath your breasts, slow and tight.

He watches you like he’s never been touched like this before. Like the softness is the part that breaks him. Not the hunger. Not the fire. But the care.

You rise up on your toes, sliding your hands over the back of his neck, around the nape. One hand slips down between his fingers, rubbing suds over the back of his hand. His metal arm stays still at his side, but his flesh hand… it flexes beneath yours. Tightens around your fingers like something unbearable is unraveling in his chest.

That’s when you look up. That’s when you see it.

He looks wrecked. Not from what happened in bed. Not from anything physical. But from this—this ridiculous, tender act of washing him like he matters. Like you’re not asking anything in return. No demands. No debt.

Just love.

And he knows. You can see it—see the realization in his face as clear as sunlight on glass. He knows now, as fully as you do, what this is. What you’ve been. What you are.

You want to look away. Want to laugh it off, run, bite something smart and quick and false between your teeth just to fill the silence. You don’t.

He takes your wrist gently in his flesh one—fingers cradling the inside like it’s something delicate. Then, with his other, his metal thumb presses to your skin, slow and deliberate.

He traces a letter. Then another.

It’s not rushed. Not uncertain. The motion is familiar. Repeated. You've traced over his name countless of times, and the rough pad of his pointer finger goes through a path you've known for half your life.

Your throat tightens.

“You,” he says quietly, voice rough from emotion and steam and everything in between.

He takes your hand gently and takes it to his ribs, where your name's resided for the better part of his life. “And me.”

You stare down at the mark he’s making, not because it’s visible, but because it’s real. You can feel it there, etched into the space between heartbeats.

“You and me,” he murmurs again. “Always was gonna be.”

Then, still holding your wrist, he lifts your hand to his lips and kisses your knuckles. Softly. As if you were made of prayer.

There’s nothing else to say. No big revelation. No sudden orchestral swell.

Just this. Just the sound of the water, the warmth of his chest against yours, the slow unraveling of every wall you ever built around the part of yourself that's wanted to believe in love since you were thirteen, staring at your skin in awe.

Later, there will be groceries. Buses. Shifts at the hospital. He'll have to go back to being an Avenger. Other lives moving in parallel lanes around yours.

But right now, it’s this.

It’s weightlessness.

It’s your name, written in the soft fog of his breath. And his name, traced endlessly across your skin.

[galactict3a]

Simon Riley dating someone that grew up with a similar childhood like him.

He loves that you haven’t lost your childlike wonder and remained soft. You don’t let your bad experiences taint the way you treat others either.

You introduce him to the whole inner child notion and he listens to you as you talk about the toys you’ve recently bought. All the little trinkets you wanted as a child, but never got. He doesn’t make fun of you, knows that it makes you happy to acknowledge your younger self.

If he sees something you’ve mentioned, he’s definitely buying it for you. He even likes that you’ve got him stuff he wanted when he was a kid too.

Reading comic books together, he takes them to the base with him when he’s away. Smiles when he finds your little notes in between the pages. Silly thoughts of the plot line and how it was your favourite character. He loves that you’ve given him the space and safety to be vulnerable together, to touch on the past and create some good.

John Price dating someone disciplined like himself. Self assured and ready to go for what they want. You’ve known what you’ve wanted since you were young and done exactly that. Nothing can stop you once you have a goal.

He teases you for your military folding and the way you tuck your clothes in the drawer. Asks if you’ve ever enlisted knowing that you really haven’t. Loves that you can talk you’re self out of anything, saved him a parking fine a few times.

He loves that you approached him first and asked him out. Likes that you’re upfront about your feelings and assessing the relationship, making sure you’re both on the same page. There’s no room for silent treatment or lashing out, not when you two are honest. Too honest that you end up mirroring each others bad habits and come face to face with the things that need working on.

Because that’s what you do, you work on the hard stuff and come out on the other side of it a better person. You make him a better person without even meaning to. He’s the first one in your corner, backing you up when you’re stressed with work and need to vent, his similar train of thought easing your worries and helping you figure out a solution.

Johnny Mactavish dating someone that grew up just as wild as him. Both from a big family, elbows clashing with siblings at the dinner table. Never a quiet room in your childhood home that you aren’t afraid to take up space.

The type of kid that had scraped knees from climbing trees and mud splattering your shins. One that didn’t come home till the street lights came on.

Athletic too, he likes to look through the boxes of medals and trophies you worked hard for. Asks you about the skills you’ve learnt etc, if you’ve taken a fighting sport he’s definitely rolling around the floor with you.

He loves that you match his competitive nature, always seeing who can get home first from a morning run. Or betting on which team are going to win the match.

Rock climbing, hiking….any extreme sport really. You’re both up for it. He loves that you push him to do more, encourage him to keep going even if it’s difficult. Not everything comes easy, but you know that time and effort always pays off. That and it doesn’t hurt to have a little fun and take a risk.

Kyle Garrick dating someone who’s strongly led by their morals. Someone who was taught to stand up for those in need. You’ve always sought justice and did the right thing even when it was hard. There’s not much you’re backing down from and it keeps Kyle level headed.

You hold him accountable for things, let him know that what he’s done doesn’t sit right with you and you are the first to admit when you are wrong. The first to apologise, there’s no shame in it for you.

But above all he loves how caring you are, how you can comfort anyone no matter their age. How vulnerability is a strength and not a weakness.

How you build him back after a mission, let him process all the emotions and then ask for you. When he’s ready, so are you.

He lightens your mood, knowing that you’re deeply moved by what’s happening in the world currently. Gives you a breather, offers you a space to shut out everything beyond your home with him.

[Masterlist]

[galactict3a]

𝐏𝐫𝐞𝐭𝐞𝐧𝐝𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐭𝐨 𝐛𝐞 𝐚𝐬𝐥𝐞𝐞𝐩 𝐬𝐨 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐂𝐨𝐝 𝐦𝐞𝐧 𝐰𝐢𝐥𝐥 𝐜𝐚𝐫𝐫𝐲 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐭𝐨 𝐛𝐞𝐝 𝐰𝐨𝐮𝐥𝐝 𝐢𝐧𝐜𝐥𝐮𝐝𝐞

⤷ gender neutral, ambiguous race, and any size reader. Requests are open, thank you for reading!

ᴹᵃˢᵗᵉʳˡᶤˢᵗ | ᴹᵃˢᵗᵉʳˡᶤˢᵗ ᴵᴵ

𝑪𝒂𝒑𝒕𝒂𝒊𝒏 𝑱𝒐𝒉𝒏 𝑷𝒓𝒊𝒄𝒆 ✧˖°.

・The fire danced from the fireplace, lighting up the room with soft warmth and light

・You were both reading a book, when the idea came to your mind. So, you closed your eyes and let your book fall to the floor.

・Slowly you leant on John, letting out an 'mmmm' before fulling committing. You closed your eyes, nuzzled into him and ... waited.

John smiled.

"Sweetheart-" he murmured, stroking your hair. Leaning down to press a kiss to your head.

・You didn't say anything, just let your body relax against his.

"I think it's time for bed," John grumbled, slipping the book mark you made him into his book and slowly stroked your head.

・You didn't move.

・He called out your name, gave you a little nudge and then decided, "I'll just carry you then-"

・You tried not to move a muscle, and when he picked you up, you panicked slightly. How rigid was a body supposed to be while asleep??

・John knew you were faking but played along anyway. You usually snored a little while asleep.

・Yet he still played along and held you bridal style; even walking up the stairs.

"You are very lucky," he whispered against your forehead while he lay you down, "incredibly lucky, how much I love you."

𝑺𝒊𝒎𝒐𝒏 𝑹𝒊𝒍𝒆𝒚 ✧˖°.

・You had already done this twice this week and it was only Wednesday

・Half of you was worried he was catching on

・The other half of you ... knew he'd call you out if you were faking

・It was well into the night when the next commercial came on (yes you have streaming services but you were watching on Prime so...still ads)

・You were ontop of Simon, head against his chest, breathing in his smell when he started to shift

"Love, you awake?"

・He moves his large hand from your back to your cheek, gently rubbing his thumb against your warm skin.

"You want to be carried again then?"

・You cannot help your reaction

・Eyes shooting open, warmth floods your cheeks, your neck, and you smile, sheepishly.

"When did you figure it out?" You ask, shifting to look him in the eyes

"You talk in your sleep."

"Ah..."

"Mmm, still want me to carry you to bed?"

"...yes please."

𝑲𝒚𝒍𝒆 𝑮𝒂𝒓𝒓𝒊𝒄𝒌 ✧˖°.

・You had fallen 'asleep' in his lap right when the movie was about to finish

・Literally, ten minutes before the credits were about to roll, you had laid your head in his lap and let yourself settle.

"Babe, you awake?"

・Kyle was met with nothing but silence.

・With a raised eyebrow, he gave you a little nudge but ... nothing.

・He saw that you were breathing, yet breathing lightly... but he played along

"God, you must have been so sleepy. Poor baby, no ice cream. Just straight to bed-"

"No!" You sat up instantly, not even groggy, "I didn't know we had ice cream-"

"Oh! You little faker!" Kyle said between laughs.

"Wait. Do we even have ice cream..." You said with a frown.

"Nope!"

𝑱𝒐𝒉𝒏𝒏𝒚 𝑴𝒂𝒄𝑻𝒂𝒗𝒊𝒔𝒉 ✧˖°.

"Bonnie! Ready for another movie?"Johnny exclaimed, giving your leg a squeeze.

・You had watched three already; it was your weekly movie marathon - one you never missed.

・But the time was late, or early; depending on who you asked. And you just couldn't say no to him.

・So you laid your head on his shoulder and closed your eyes.

・It took about five minutes for Johnny to realise you weren't watching.

"Ah, sleep got the best of ye," he yawned, and you had to do your best not to smile.

・Turning off the tv, Johnny held you against his chest and walked you to bed.

・He was completely focused on getting you to bed, that he didn't notice the small smile that had crawled its' way onto your face

𝑲𝒐𝒏𝒊𝒈 ✧˖°.

・Large hands stroke along your back, slowly moving from the top of your spine to the bottom

・It tasks everything in you not to make a noise

・Already feeling sleepy, and knowing he would carry you even if you asked, there was something a little funny in pretending

・You felt Konig lean down and kiss your head twice. Then again.

・Contentment vibrated through your bones; you felt safe, felt happy, felt ... in love

"Oh schatz, must have been a big day for you," he cooed.

・The very essence of his voice was dipped in adoration

・Looking at the clock, Konig decided to put you to bed.

"Come schatzi, let me take you to bed, ja?"

・His strong arms enveloped you, and when your face was turned upward, he kissed your brow and hummed.

𝑪𝒂𝒑𝒕𝒂𝒊𝒏 𝑱𝒐𝒉𝒏 𝑴𝒂𝒄𝑻𝒂𝒗𝒊𝒔𝒉 (𝒐𝒈) ✧˖°.

・You heard him coming from the shed.

・John had been working on something for a few weeks and he spent most of his nights there.

・You didn't mind, but you had felt a tad touch starved lately.

・The idea popped into your head. It made you giggle to think of him carrying you while you fake-slept.

・So, you dashed to the couch and put your head at one end, while throwing a blanket on your legs.

・Shutting the door behind him, he walked into the living room and called out your name.

・His gruff, Scottish voice still sent shivers down your spine.

・Goosebumps erupted on your skin as he called out again, as his voice got lower...deeper.

・It wasn't long before he found you. He wrapped a hand around your ankle and squeezed lightly.

"bonnie's asleep then," he said and slid his hands underneath yours to hoist you up.

[galactict3a]

Hair Pulling (Bucky Barnes)

Description: Bucky liked it when she pulled his hair during a fight.

Warning: Hair Pulling, Hand Job

Word Count: 1,051

Request: HELLOOO i luv your recent fics!! Could i request a fic with bucky and hairpulling? congressman/post credit scene bucky!!

Ever since the first time they fought and she pulled on his hair, he knew that he discovered a new kink. She was trying to kill him and didn’t even mean it to come off like that but it did and now he sat across from her in the new avengers tower thinking about it over and over again.

She definitely thought that Bucky was hot, I mean who wouldn’t? He was very quiet around her and if he did talk to her, he stuttered. It never made sense to her, they all tried to kill each other and yet everything was fine but maybe he took it to heart.

He didn’t but why else would he act like that? “How’d the mission go?” She asked, looking at him. He didn’t even make eye contact as he answered, “Good.” She nodded and took a sip of her wine. The others scattered about after dinner, leaving these two at the dinner table. “You know why Val never assigns us on missions together?” She asked him.

He did know why, he begged her not to without explanation but he wasn’t gonna say that. “Not sure.” He took a sip of his drink and she sighed. It’s been months and he has yet to come out of this shell that he has around her. “I’m sorry about trying to kill you.” She said and for the first time he looked at her.

“What?” He asked, not understanding why that was being brought up. “I take it that’s why you don’t talk to me.” Oh how he wished it was that simple. “I don’t avoid you.” He lied, they both knew it. She let out a sarcastic laugh, “Sure.” She got up with her plate and wine glass, walking past him. He felt ashamed that he couldn’t just admit it to her and that he acted that way. He had to say something to her, it was eating at him.

She washed her dish, unlike everyone else and placed that and her fork back where they go. As she washed her wine glass, Bucky nearly scared her, “It’s something you did while trying to kill me.” He says and she nearly jumps out of her skin. She turned to him, wide eyes at first until questioning him.

He opened his mouth at least 4 times before getting it out, “You pulled my hair.” She wanted to laugh but bit her lip. “I pulled your hair so you’re avoiding me?” Now it just sounded ridiculous and he sighed. He ran his hand through his hair and he could still feel the yanks she gave him. “I’m sorry I touched your precious locks.” She joked, not taking this seriously.

“It’s not about that.” He said and she was more confused than ever. “Then what?” His face went red and he felt embarrassed, he hadn’t even said it yet. She stared at him, waiting for the reason, wondering what the hell it could be. “I like it.” He admitted and her jaw dropped. He liked her pulling his hair while trying to kill him? She was in shock and didn’t know what to say. She just stared at him, for what seemed like hours until he started to walk away.

She quickly set the wine glass down and walked over to him, grabbing his hair and pulling it. Bucky was surprised by this and gasped, it sounded pathetic but hot. “Where do you think you’re going?” She asked him, still having his hair in her hand. “You like this don’t you?” She teased, not giving him time to respond. He nodded, not being able to form words without making noises that weren’t deemed appropriate for the kitchen.

“Yeah, I know you do.” She coos and her other hand moves to his front, feeling his built body through the tight black shirt he wore. His breathing picked up as she felt him up and down, memorizing the way he felt. She tugged a bit on his hair and he let out a little moan, “Awww that’s cute.” She teased as her hand moved to his shorts that he was wearing. She could feel his hard dick through them, begging for attention.

“This hard just from me pulling your hair?” She teased and he couldn’t speak, couldn’t think with her hands on him like this. He bit his lip as he felt her hand ghost over his bulge before she stuck her hand in his shorts. Her hand was soft and felt good on him, it nearly made him moan but he kept it down. He gripped the counter hard as her hand touched his bare cock, lightly running her nails over it.

“It feels so nice.” She whispered and wrapped her hand around him. He sucked in a breath and threw his head back even more, “Fuck.” He whispered. She started to move her hand along his dick, feeling how girthy and thick he was. He was big and maybe that was the serum or maybe he just had a big dick, either way she loved it. She picked up the pace causing him to groan, her hand in his hair gripped more firmly, she was right against his back.

She was shorter than him so she really couldn’t see what was going on but the noises he let out was good enough. He was putty in her hands, loving the way her hands felt. She felt him twitch against her palm and she laughed, “You’re already close?” She teased and he bit a “fuck you” out.

He’s never been more turned on in his life and he didn’t care that he was already close. “Cum for me Bucky.” She said and he didn’t need to be told twice. She gave his hair a final yank and he came with a whine. His eyes nearly rolled as he came all in his shorts.

She milked him with her hand, getting every last drop out. She pulled her hand out of his shorts and let go of his hair while he caught his breath. She smirked and licked his cum off her hand. “Damn.” She breathed out and went back to washing the wine glass, leaving him to go deal with his problem. Things would definitely change between them now.

[galactict3a]

swipe right 𐙚 b.b

pairing: grumpy!tfatws!bucky barnes x fem!reader

warnings: just fluff 💌

summary: sam thinks bucky needs to get back out there. he suggests tinder—and really, who better to ask for advice than you? things change when he asks what you're looking for.

word count: 2.9k

author's note: hi loves, i really enjoyed writing this fic and i hope you'll enjoy it! based on this request | requests are open!

The sky was turning the colour of old peaches—that soft, late-summer blend of pink and orange that washed everything in warmth but didn’t hide how tired the day had become. 

It was the kind of light that settled low on your skin, not burning, just clinging. The kind that said the hard part was over but didn’t promise peace.

The boat creaked as it shifted against the dock, rocked by the lazy rhythm of the tide below. Everything moved slow—the air, the water, even time itself. 

Somewhere deeper in the trees, cicadas droned with that steady, hypnotic buzz that made talking feel like too much effort. But Sam had never been one to leave quiet alone when it started to feel too comfortable.

He wiped the sweat from his brow with a rag that looked like it had already been through three summers too many. Tossed it over his shoulder, then glanced over at Bucky.

The man hadn’t moved in at least ten minutes. Sitting near the stern on a crate that creaked under his weight, arms resting on his knees, jaw tight. Staring at the water like it had something to answer for, the kind of stillness that wasn’t peaceful, just full of something waiting.

“You’ve got that look again,” Sam said, twisting off the cap of a beer with a soft hiss.

Bucky didn’t move. “What look?”

“Like something’s been bothering you for a while and you’re pretending it hasn’t.”

“I’m sitting.”

“You’re brooding.”

A pause. Bucky exhaled through his nose, low and flat. “You want me to smile or something?”

“God, no.” Sam took a sip, then nodded at him. “That’d be worse.”

It wasn’t mean. It was easy. Familiar. They’d gotten used to this—talking without saying much, sitting in silence like it was some kind of truce.

The water lapped gently against the side of the hull. A breeze rolled off the bayou, lifting the heat just enough to breathe again. The air smelled like salt and engine oil and the damp underside of the dock. 

Everything slowed.

For a while, that was enough.

Then Sam spoke again, voice casual like he wasn’t aiming for anything. “You ever think about dating?”

Bucky glanced at him, not sharply—just slow and skeptical, like he was checking if he’d heard right. “Seriously?”

“Yeah,” Sam said. “I mean—do you?”

Bucky shrugged, more a shift of weight than anything. “Not lately.”

“Maybe you should.”

“You suggesting I go flirt with someone at the grocery store?”

“No,” Sam said, half-smirking. “I’m suggesting you try talking to someone who doesn’t know what kind of ammo you carry.”

Bucky turned his head fully this time, giving Sam a look so dry it could’ve sanded wood. “You’ve got a real romantic pitch.”

“I’m serious,” Sam said, setting the bottle down beside him. “You don’t even talk to people unless they’re on the team or from your past. That’s not living, man. That’s just waiting.”

Bucky didn’t say anything. He looked back at the water, but his jaw tightened, a little pulse at the side of it, quick then gone. Whatever was under that silence, it was old. And heavy. And still too close to the surface.

Sam didn’t press, not right away. Just let the quiet breathe a little before nudging again. “There’s apps for this kind of thing, you know.”

“I know.”

“You ever try one?”

Bucky shook his head once. “That stuff’s not for me.”

“Why not?”

“I wouldn’t know what to say,” Bucky said. “And I don’t really want to explain... all of this.”

The pause after that wasn’t awkward. It was honest.

Sam nodded once. “Yeah. I get that.”

He picked at the label on his beer for a second, thoughtful, before adding, “Still doesn’t mean you don’t get to try.”

Bucky didn’t move. Didn’t blink. “I’m not built for that kind of thing.”

Sam leaned back, arms resting on his knees. “You don’t have to be built for it. You just have to show up.”

That was the thing with Bucky—he never said no right away. 

He just let silence stretch out until it either hardened into a wall or softened into maybe. 

This one softened.

Another beat passed. Then, low, almost under his breath—“I’ll ask her.”

Sam looked over, surprised but not shocked. “Who?”

Bucky didn’t turn. “You know who.”

Sam studied him for a second, eyes narrowing slightly, a small smile pulling at his mouth before he spoke. “She’d be honest with you.”

“That’s the point,” Bucky said.

He stood without another word, like the decision had been waiting in him for a while and now it just had a direction. Boots thudded quietly against the dock as he walked toward the edge of the light.

Sam watched him go as he took another sip from his bottle. 

He shook his head to himself, almost a laugh.

“About damn time.”

The sun’s lower now, bleeding into the bayou in streaks of amber and rose. It stretches long shadows across the dock, paints the water in color that looks like it shouldn’t belong to this world, too soft, too still. 

You’re sitting near the edge, back leaned against a weather-worn piling, drink balanced loosely in your hand. Your bare feet nudge the warm planks absently. 

It’s the first stillness you’ve had all day, and you’re not ready to let it go yet.

You hear him before you see him, the solid rhythm of boots on wood, measured and familiar. Not rushed. Not hesitant. Just Bucky, moving like he always does, deliberate, quiet and steady.

He sits beside you without a word. 

Just drops down next to you, arms resting on his knees, gaze fixed straight out at the water like it might eventually give him an answer if he stares long enough.

You wait. You’ve known him long enough to know he only speaks when he means to.

Finally, he says, low,

“Sam thinks I should try dating apps.”

You glance over, one brow lifting. “Seriously?”

His mouth twitches. “I said the same thing” He huffs. “Apparently he thinks I’m too emotionally repressed to function without external help.”

You snort, tipping your head back to take in the sky, already turning violet at the edges. “Sounds like Sam.”

“He showed me one,” Bucky says. “Said I needed to ‘get back out there.’ Like I was ever out there to begin with.”

You hum, dragging your finger down the side of your bottle to catch a trail of condensation. “Did he show you Tinder?”

“I think so. There were… bios. And pictures. A lot of pictures.”

You take a slow sip. The drink’s warm now, but it doesn’t really matter.

“Then yeah. That’s Tinder.”

There’s a pause, one of those long, Southern summer silences that stretches without needing to be filled. The heat sits heavy on your skin. Everything is golden and slow.

Then—

“What’s it like?” he asks.

Not skeptical. Just curious, in that quiet way he sometimes gets. Like he’s asking about a world he doesn’t belong to.

You turn your head toward him slightly. “You actually want to know?”

He nods once, eyes still out on the water. 

He doesn’t push. Just waits.

You lean back again, voice dry. “They’re like vending machines. If vending machines were full of unhinged men who think a selfie in a lifted truck is an acceptable substitute for a personality.”

Bucky lets out the barest huff—not quite a laugh, but close enough.

You keep going. “I’ve had guys open with ‘hey beautiful’ and follow it up with a dick pic. No hello, not even a name. Just bam, in your face."

That gets him. His head jerks a little like he wasn’t expecting it, eyes wide, blinking, then immediately looks away again. “Jesus.”

“Right?” you say, half-laughing despite yourself. “One guy put his venmo in his bio. Said I could ‘tip the talent.’”

Bucky shakes his head, a soft grimace pulling at his mouth. “That’s real?”

“Very.”

Another pause. He doesn’t speak, and you let the quiet fill in the spaces between sentences. It’s not awkward, just mutual disbelief settling across both of you like the heat.

You glance over. 

“That’s the nice end of the spectrum. The ones who act normal? Worse.”

He raises an eyebrow, says nothing.

“There was one guy who said I ‘seemed cool’ and then launched into a rant about how feminism ruined dating. Claimed women used to appreciate a ‘real man’ who ordered for them at dinner.”

Bucky mutters under his breath, “That’s one way to die on a hill.”

You grin. “Exactly. I unmatched. But not before he sent me a voice note calling me ungrateful.”

That draws a small breath out of him, you’re not sure if it’s a laugh or just disbelief. Maybe both.

“So this is what people are doing now.”

“Apparently.” You nudge the bottle against your knee. “It’s bleak out there, Buck.

He looks down at his hands, his vibranium fingers flexing once—a small, absent motion like he’s thinking about something he can’t quite say.

“Sam made it sound like people meet that way all the time.”

“They do,” you admit. “But most of them walk away with trust issues and a weird story about someone who brought their mom to the first date.”

His head turns slowly. “You’re not serious.”

“Swear on it.” You pause. “You ever think about trying it?”

His expression tightens—not visibly, not in an obvious way. Just in the way his shoulders shift, his mouth presses slightly flatter.

“No.”

“Not even a little curious?”

“I don’t like the idea of strangers knowing anything about me,” he says, voice low. “And I don’t really have a profile worth putting out there.”

“That’s what Sam’s for,” you mumbled. “He’d probably write something dramatic. ‘Ex-assassin looking for redemption and someone to eat pancakes with.’”

That gets a breath out of him, small and sharp, like he wasn’t expecting it to hit as close to funny as it did. 

You glance at him and catch it, the faint pull at the corner of his mouth.

Not a smile, not really. Just something close.

You watch him a moment longer. “You’re not sold.”

Bucky shakes his head slightly. “I don’t think I was meant for that kind of thing,” he says simply. “Not after everything.”

There’s no self-pity in it. Just fact.

You study him for a beat. The way he still holds himself like he’s bracing, even when he’s sitting still.

“Maybe you weren’t,” you say softly. “Doesn’t mean you don’t deserve it.”

That makes him look over. Really look. His eyes catch yours, not sharp, not guarded. Just… tired. A little older, like the fight’s still in him, but so is the weight of carrying it.

“You really think there’s people out there who’d sign up for all this?”

He doesn’t need to explain what this means. The metal arm, the red in his ledger, the quiet rage, that name.

You tilt your head. “You’re asking the wrong people.”

He’s quiet for a second. Then,

“Who should I ask?”

You smile, small, steady. Like it’s already obvious.

“Ask someone who already knows you.”

He doesn’t move right away.

Then he shifts, not away, just forward, elbows on his knees, hands hanging loose. His eyes stay fixed on the water, but his whole body reads different now.

Less guarded. Less armoured.

The air is thick with the smell of wood warmed by the sun, brine, and something else you can’t name. The heat hasn’t broken. There’s no wind, no relief—just the weight of what’s been left unsaid between the two of you.

Then, without looking at you, voice low,

“What about you?”

You glance over. “What about me?”

“What are you looking for?”

He says it like it doesn’t mean anything. Like it’s just conversation. But you hear the shift in his voice—the hesitation, the careful way he keeps his tone level. 

You catch the way his fingers tap once against the dock before going still again. He wants to know. Not because he expects anything. 

Because part of him is terrified to hope.

You breathe in. Let the silence stretch, but not too long. Then,

“I don’t know,” you say. “Someone who doesn’t need to be anyone else. Who’s not trying to sell a version of himself just to get picked.”

You’re not really looking at him when you say it. You’re looking past the water, past the trees. Somewhere further off. But you feel him — how still he’s gotten. How present.

You pause, let the words settle in your chest.

“Someone who’s real. Who doesn’t run when things get hard.”

There’s something brittle in your voice when you say that. Not cracked, just lived-in.

“Someone who carries things, but still shows up anyway.”

You glance at him now. And you mean it when you say,

“I think that narrows it down pretty fast.”

It’s soft and uncomplicated, but it hangs there like a match waiting to strike.

And maybe that’s the moment it lands.

Maybe not all at once—but enough.

Because now he’s turning his head, slow and unsure, like he’s still giving himself time to pretend it’s not what it sounds like.

“You talking about me?”

The question isn’t sarcastic. It isn’t cocky. It’s quiet. Raw. Like he’s afraid you’ll say no, but needs you to say yes.

You hold his gaze. “Yeah. I am.”

It’s simple. Not a performance. Not something meant to fix him. Just truth.

His eyes drop, lashes casting half-shadows. Then he looks back out over the water—not avoiding you, just... trying to breathe with it.

There’s a long stretch of quiet after that. You let it happen.

Because this is the part where people rush it. Where they try to fill the air. But not with him. Not now.

Eventually, voice low:

“I’m not... easy.”

“I know.”

He shifts again. Barely.

“I don’t have much to offer.”

You shake your head. “That’s not true.”

“Maybe not to you.”

You go still at that.

His tone isn’t bitter. It’s not sad, either. It’s just matter-of-fact. Like it’s something he’s repeated to himself long enough to accept as reality.

“I’ve hurt people,” he says, not looking at you. “I’ve messed up a lot of things I can’t fix. I don’t sleep much. I get angry. I disappear when it gets too loud. Some days I don’t feel like a person. Some days I don’t want to.”

Your chest pulls, tight and quiet. But you don’t interrupt him.

“And I know I’m not easy to be around,” he adds, almost like an afterthought. “But I don’t want to lie about that. I can’t.”

You’re already shaking your head before he finishes.

“You don’t need to.”

He finally looks at you—and this time, he doesn’t look away.

His eyes are still that same unrelenting shade of blue, something between steel and storm, edged in shadow from the way the light hits.

Cerulean, maybe, if you wanted to get poetic—but the kind of blue that feels lived-in, exhausted, quiet. Tired in a way that most people never notice, and steady in a way that somehow always holds.

You’ve seen them angry. You’ve seen them distant. You’ve seen them blank, shut down so completely they didn’t feel like eyes at all.

But now?

Now they stay. Now they’re looking at you like maybe, for the first time in a long time, he’s letting someone actually stay.

“I’d still pick you,” you say, voice even. “I know what I’m saying. I know who I’m saying it to.”

And something in him breaks open—not shattered, not messy. Just exposed. In a way he hasn’t let himself be in a long, long time.

He doesn’t say anything.

But the way he looks at you—like he’s seeing something he didn’t think he was allowed to want—it’s enough.

You can see it, how hard he’s trying to stay still. Like if he moves, even slightly, it’ll break whatever fragile thread just opened between you.

The water laps soft against the dock. Somewhere nearby, a screen door slams. A dog barks. The world doesn’t know that something quiet and impossible is unfolding in the silence between two people who didn’t think this would happen.

Finally, carefully,

“If I asked…”

He trails off.

It’s not hesitation. It’s vulnerability, stripped down to bone. Not even a full question, just the offer of one.

You let him say it the way he needs to. And you don’t make him say it twice.

You answer without hesitation. Without softness-for-show. 

“Yes. I would.”

That lands, you see it in the way his shoulders shift. Just a little. Like he’s trying to let the weight down slowly, afraid it might hit too hard if he drops it all at once.

So you keep going. Gentle. Honest.

“I’d date you in a heartbeat, Bucky.”

You pause, “you’re not your past. You’re not the burden it left on you. You’re the man who lived through it and kept going. That matters more.”

He looks down for a second, like the words are too much to hold eye contact through. Then back up, slower this time.

“You sure?” he asks, voice rough.

“Yeah,” you say. “I’ve been sure for a while.”

The breeze moves past, soft through the trees. Neither of you speak for a long minute.

But something’s changed. Something settled. You feel it in the quiet, the kind that doesn’t need fixing.

When he looks at you again, it’s not with hesitation or doubt. 

There’s no shift in his posture, just a quiet steadiness, like he’s finally stopped running from it, like he’s letting himself want this, want you, without pulling it apart or looking for all the reasons he shouldn’t.

[galactict3a]

where it truly lies 𐙚 b.b

pairing: ex!bucky barnes x fem!reader, steve rogers x cheating!fem!reader

warnings: nsfw, 18+, minors dni, infidelity, degradation, rough sex, unprotected sex, toxic relationship dynamics, overstimulation, creampie, possessiveness, guilt/shame (please read the warnings)

summary: you swore you were done with him, but every time steve touches you see bucky instead. one text drags you back to the motel, back to the lies, and steve will never know.

word count: 2.8k

author's note: hi, so this fic was highly inspired by moth to a flame by the weeknd who i absolutely love. kinda had it in my head for a few days now, and i'm glad i finally got it out! i hope you enjoy it! thank you for reading love!

also, look at him. raw, no questions asked.

cause he seems like he's good for you. and he makes you feel like you should

You used to believe love could be enough.

That the right man, the right timing, the right kind of affection—could cleanse you of all the pieces you gave away to the wrong one. You believed, foolishly, that once someone made you feel safe, you’d never crave danger again.

And Steve made you believe that again.

He brought peace into your life like it was something easy. Like it was something you actually deserved. He never demanded more than you could give. Never made you feel like you were too much or not enough. He listens, remembers, stays.

The kind of man who folds your laundry and leaves little notes in your coat pocket. Who warms your side of the bed before you crawl in, who touches you like you’re something sacred.

The kind of man who kisses your forehead in the morning and remembers exactly how you take your coffee. Who holds your hand in public just to remind you—I’m here, I see you and I will always choose you.

Who never raises his voice, never ever makes you feel small, never makes you question your worth.

He’s everything love should be.

Which makes the ache in your chest feel even more like a betrayal.

Because here you are—in Steve's bed, in his arms—with his soft, loving words tangled in your hair, and all you can think about is Bucky.

Your ex, your addiction, your god damn curse.

The sex was never quiet with Bucky. Never tender like how it was with Steve. It was teeth against skin, fists in the sheets, breathless begging, filthy promises whispered in the dark. It was rough, ravenous and desperate. He touched you like he was trying to own you, ruin you, keep you so high on him you would forget how to breathe without it.

You left him because you had to. Because love isn’t supposed to feel like drowning.

But it doesn’t matter how far you run—there are nights you still wake up with your thighs clenched tight, gasping his name like a sin.

Nights where Steve’s soft, steady love feels more like a lie you’re trying too hard to believe in.

Tonight is one of those nights.

Steve’s hand strokes your hair as he kisses the inside of your wrist. “I love you,” he whispers, voice thick with emotion, eyes soft in the dark.

And god, he means it. He means every word.

“I love you too,” you whisper back. And part of you means it, you really do.

Steve rolls over you slowly, gently, treating your body like something precious. His hands skim your skin with reverence, his lips brushing yours with care. His cock nudges at your entrance and slides in slowly, stretching you with aching tenderness.

He moves like a man who worships. Like a man who wants to be your forever.

And you cling to him like a coward, letting him fill you, letting the warmth of him sink in deep. His breath is soft against your cheek. His fingers lace with yours.

It should be enough.

But it starts anyway—the shift, the betrayal.

You close your eyes… and suddenly it’s not Steve above you.

It’s Bucky.

It’s the past coming back in full colour and full heat, all-consuming. Bucky dragging you by the hips to the edge of his bed, slamming into you from behind while your scream cracked the silence. His metal hand at your throat, pinning you down like a ragdoll while he fucked the fight out of you. His filthy voice in your ear: "you missed this, didn’t you? You missed me."

You remember his tongue between your legs, relentless. The way he’d make you come until you sobbed. The way he laughed when your body begged for mercy and gave it to you anyway.

“One more, sweetheart. Come on, I know you’ve got it in you.”

You remember how he left you trembling. Ruined and grateful.

And fuck—your body responds before your mind can stop it. You clench around Steve without meaning to, a whimper breaking past your lips.

He mistakes it for pleasure. “You okay, baby?”

You force your eyes open, force your smile. “Yeah. Yeah, I’m—good. So good.”

But your mind is still back there.

Back in that dingy apartment with the blinds half-closed, the sheets damp with sweat and sin, Bucky buried so deep inside you that you swore you’d never be clean again. The way he’d whisper “cum for me, doll,” and you would. Over and over.

Because nothing else ever made you feel that alive.

And Steve—he’ll never know.

He’ll never know what Bucky did to you. What you let him do.

What you liked.

Steve makes love to you like you’re breakable. Like he’d die before hurting you.

And you let him. You love him for it.

But inside, your body is screaming for something rougher. Darker. The kind of touch that leaves bruises behind. The kind of voice that tells you when to open your mouth, when to spread your legs, when to shut up and take it.

Steve moans softly, hips stuttering as he finishes inside you, holding you close like you’re his home.

“You’re everything to me,” he whispers.

And you smile through the guilt, through the ache, through the hollow echo that Bucky left behind.

Because Steve has your body tonight.

But your mind, your heart...

They still lie somewhere else.

Somewhere darker, colder. Somewhere Bucky never really let go.

it's just one call away. and you'll leave him, you're loyal to me

It starts with a vibration.

You’re curled up on the couch, still wearing Steve’s sweatshirt—oversized, soft, worn in all the right places. It smells like him, that clean, warm scent of cedar and soap, tinged faintly with the aftershave he only wears on Sundays. It wraps around you like a comfort you didn’t realise you were clinging to. Outside, the morning sun pours through the windows, gilding everything with a false sense of calm.

Your coffee’s has went lukewarm. A quiet song hums through the speakers. For a moment, it all feels deceptively peaceful.

And then your phone buzzes. Just once.

A short, sharp vibration against the wood of the coffee table.

You glance over without thinking, eyes still soft with sleep, mind slow with the kind of haze that only exists on lazy mornings.

And then you see it.

Bucky Barnes Can we talk? Just us.

Your breath catches in your throat.

You sit up too quickly, heart kicking into your ribs. Your pulse spikes before your brain can even catch up. It’s just a name. A message. But it feels like the floor’s tilted beneath you.

Bucky.

You haven’t seen that name in weeks. You made sure of it, you deleted your message history. You told yourself it was over. Swore it was over. And yet—

There he is.

And just like that, the quiet peace you were holding onto splinters into something jagged.

Your thumb hovers over the screen. Every rational part of you screams don’t. Ignore it. Block him. Tell Steve. Do the right thing.

But your hands are already shaking. Your stomach’s already tight with something ugly and electric. That coiling tension you thought you’d buried deep. The one that only ever came alive around him.

Before you can even think to reply—or delete the message entirely—your phone buzzes again.

Bucky Barnes I still know what you need, doll. Don’t pretend he gives it to you.

Your mouth goes dry.

And suddenly, everything inside you turns traitor.

You hate how fast your thighs press together. You hate the heat pooling low in your belly. You hate how your body remembers every word, every bruise, every orgasm he wrung out of you until you were crying his name into the mattress.

You hate that he’s right.

Because as good as Steve is—safe, kind, gentle—he doesn’t undo you. Not like Bucky. Not even close.

Behind you, footsteps pad softly into the room.

You fumble your phone screen off just as Steve slips his arms around you from behind, leaning in to kiss your temple. His lips are warm, familiar and comforting.

“I’m gonna head out for my run,” he murmurs. “You good here for a while?”

You nod, trying to smile as you clutch the mug a little too tightly. “Yeah. Of course. Be safe.”

He squeezes your hip, gives you one last kiss, and heads for the door. It closes behind him with a quiet click.

And then—

Silence.

Except for the pounding in your chest.

You stare at the blank screen of your phone like it’s cursed. Like it’s holding a live wire to your skin. Your hands tremble as you set your mug down, untouched now. Cold.

You don’t think. You don’t plan.

Ten minutes later, you’re shrugging into a coat, keys in hand, heart hammering so loud you swear someone might hear it.

And you leave.

Out the back stairwell. Quiet. Cowardly.

Still wearing Steve’s sweatshirt.

But walking straight into Bucky’s orbit as if leaving was only ever an illusion.

i'll pull you in, i'll pull you back to what you need initially

You meet Bucky at a run-down motel just outside the city—one of those places with a flickering vacancy sign and curtains that never open. He’s leaning against the wall outside Room 11, a black jacket clinging to his large frame, boots scuffed, hands buried in the pockets of his jacket like he’s got nowhere better to be.

But the moment his eyes lift to meet yours—steel-blue, sharp, familiar, you know you’ve already made the worst kind of mistake.

“You look good,” he murmurs, voice low and razor-edged.

You don’t return the compliment. “This is a mistake.”

He doesn’t flinch. “Probably. Still came, though.”

You shoulder past him, into the room. The air smells like smoke and old sweat, the curtains drawn tight against the daylight. You spin around, pulse thrumming in your neck. “This isn’t fair. You don’t get to text me out of nowhere—”

Bucky steps inside and kicks the door shut behind him. “Don’t talk to me about fair.” His gaze drops to your hands—trembling. “You’re shaking.”

“I have a boyfriend.”

“No. You have a security blanket.”

Your jaw tenses. “Steve loves me.”

“Yeah? But does he fuck you like you need to be fucked?” His eyes drop to your lips. “Or do you close your eyes and wish it was me—pinning you down, fucking you raw, choking you while you cum screaming my name?”

Your hand flies before you think. The slap cracks across his cheek, the sound echoing through the silence.

He barely reacts. Just licks the inside of his cheek, then smirks. “There she is.”

You backpedal, heart slamming. “I shouldn’t have come. I need to go—”

But he’s on you in two strides. You’re slammed against the wall, his mouth crushing yours with a violence you forgot you craved. His kiss is all tongue and teeth and anger, tasting like cigarettes and buried need.

You moan into it, helpless, bitter, clawing at his jacket like you’re starved.

He spins you fast, yanks your leggings down to your knees, and kicks your feet apart with his boot. It’s rough. Disrespectful. Fucking filthy. Your palms slap the wall, breath punching out of you.

His fingers slide between your thighs. “Already soaked,” he mutters. “Fucking pathetic. You walked in dripping for me, didn’t you?”

“Bucky—please—”

“Don’t beg yet.” His metal hand fists in your hair and jerks your head back, cheek pressed to the plaster. “Say it. Say you missed my cock.”

You gasp, heat roaring low in your belly. “I—fuck—I missed it.”

“That’s not good enough.” His voice goes guttural. “Say you missed me ruining you.”

You barely get the words out before he’s pushing inside—hard, unrelenting, no prep, no pause.

You scream, hand slamming the wall.

He fills you so deep, so fast, it knocks the air out of your lungs. His hips snap into yours, pace brutal from the start. The slap of skin on skin drowns out your guilt.

“You miss this?” he pants, breath hot at your ear. “Miss getting used like a little fucking toy?”

“Yes,” you sob. “God—yes, Bucky—”

He slams into you harder, both hands gripping your hips now, fucking you like he wants to break you. “Steve doesn’t fuck you like this. He can’t. He doesn’t know how to make this sweet cunt beg.”

His hand snakes around your throat again, squeezing just enough to make your head swim.

“You gonna cum already? Gonna fall apart just from getting pounded like a filthy little slut?”

You try to answer, but your body betrays you—clenching around him, hips jerking. It crashes over you like a wave, white-hot and devastating. You cry out, face crumpling against the wall as you cum hard, thighs shaking.

But Bucky doesn’t stop.

He keeps fucking you through it, drawing another broken moan from your raw throat.

“I’m not done with you,” he growls. “Not until I fill you up. Gonna send you home dripping my cum like the little slut you are.”

You whimper, overstimulated and wrecked.

And he groans low when he cums, hips pressed flush to yours, cock twitching deep inside. You feel it—hot, thick, spilling into you as he bites down on your shoulder.

When he finally pulls out, you slump against the wall, legs shaking, your thighs slick with everything he gave you.

You’re still catching your breath when your phone buzzes from the nightstand.

Steve Hey sweetheart, just got back, where did you go?

You stare at the message, numb.

Guilt claws up your spine, tangling with the aftershocks still rolling through your body. You pull your leggings up with trembling hands, fingers fumbling with the waistband.

Behind you, Bucky lights a cigarette by the window. He exhales slow, watching you through the smoke like he already knows.

You’ll come back.

Because you always do.

Because no matter how good Steve is— Bucky fucks you like he owns you. And some part of you still wants to be his.

does he know where your heart lies? where it truly lies

Steve’s breathing is steady next to you, soft in the dark. His hand brushes your arm, gentle and warm—the way he always is. But your mind is somewhere else.

The way Bucky’s hands grip your hips. The way his mouth claims yours, rough and urgent. The way he makes you come, harder than Steve ever has, with a fire that leaves you raw and desperate for more.

Your phone buzzes silently on the nightstand. You see Bucky’s name. A single message:

I'm nearby. Come.

You swallow hard, heart pounding—not with excitement, but with guilt.

You look at Steve, peaceful and trusting, and for a moment it nearly breaks you. But your body betrays you. Again.

Careful not to wake him, you slip out of bed, dress quickly, and grab your coat. The night air hits your skin cold, but you don’t care. Every step away from your apartment feels like stepping further from yourself.

You find Bucky waiting in the shadows, his eyes dark, hungry. Without a word, he pulls you into his arms, and the ache inside you shifts into something sharper.

The second he touches you, everything else disappears.

His hands are hard, rough—pulling your hair, gripping your waist, pushing you against the brick wall. His mouth is on your neck, biting, sucking, marking. You tremble because you’re his—only his.

He tears at your clothes like he’s been starving for you.

His touch is fierce, relentless. He fucks you like he owns every part of you, deep, fast, bruising, but somehow still so damn good you can’t catch your breath. He calls your name like a curse, whispers filthy promises between gritted teeth, telling you exactly how much you’re his, how much you need him.

You scream into the night, nails digging into his back as he drives into you harder, faster—until you shatter, collapsing against him, trembling.

When it’s over, Bucky pulls you close, but there’s no softness—only possession lingering in his touch. You can still feel the heat of him inside you, the harshness of his grip on your hair.

You pull away, slipping out of his apartment as quietly as you can, the cold night air biting your skin again. Every step back feels heavier, like you were dragging your own shame behind you.

Back inside your apartment, you don’t have the strength to face Steve. You crawl into bed beside him, careful not to wake him, but the weight of your guilt is crushing.

You stare at the ceiling, heart pounding, breath uneven. The darkness isn’t peaceful—it’s suffocating.

Because you’re here, lying next to Steve’s steady warmth, but your mind—and your body—still belong to Bucky.

And that truth claws at you like a knife.

[galactict3a]

Homecoming

Pairing: Commander!Steve Rogers x Reader

Summary: Steve's back home after a mission.

Word Count: 2.3k

Warnings: Explicit sexual content (18+), oral (f receiving), face-sitting, mild dirty talk, repressed feelings (slight angst), established relationship.

A/N: I haven't written fic in a long time and it probably reads like it. I haven't seen anything MCU since Dr. Strange 2/Spidey until Thunderbolts yesterday so not caught up on the lore. This popped up in my brain after a nap on Wednesday. Let me know what you think!

♡♡♡♡

It’s quiet when he comes in.

Sometime between your drifting off and the quiet snick of the bedroom door shutting, you’re aware of the time. The numbers on your bedside read 3:07AM.

A late arrival, then.

A firm, broad chest pressed up against your back, heavy arm slung low over your waist. The smell of cinnamon and vanilla and the slow sigh of relief once he’s pulled you back into him just a little.

“Hi,” Steve says.

You hum, one hand patting his own over your belly. “Hi.”

Slow, measured breaths tickle your skin, the quiet of the room only disrupted by a soft kiss to your shoulder, the nape of your neck. It’s a little while before either of you speak again.

You know Steve needs it, the comedown after a big mission.

It always starts off predictable enough— get to the Avengers compound, debrief, chew someone out if they were being stupid and reckless on the job or gently bring them back down if there were any losses, shower, return his suit and weapons, a brief psych evaluation and physical check for injuries, then get on the road back to the city.

Once he’s walking through your front door, though, it’s not until you get a good look at him that you can know how things went. Still, it’s always Steve.

“You’re back,” you murmur, voice barely there.

Steve’s arm around your waist tightens, warmth of his skin seeping into your own over the fabric of your sleep shirt. It’s one of his, an old, worn thing he bought in Jersey back when he’d first woken up. There’s a couple of loose threads coming from the left sleeve and an old stain at the hem that you swear is blood — Steve refuses to confirm or deny it — but it’s and it’s yours and you wear it to bed more times than not. 

“I am,” Steve’s mouth brushes your skin where the shirt’s slipped a little, goosebumps following their trace. His beard’s gotten a little longer, a testament to how much time he’s been away from the comforts of home and his electric trimmer. “Debrief ended about an hour ago, but I stayed for a bit to plan my agenda for tomorrow.”

Huffing a quiet laugh, you turn in his embrace. “You have an assistant for that, Commander.”

Steve chuckles, a soft, sleepy sound settling warm in your heart. He turns on his back, bringing you up into his chest, willing you closer, sighing into your hair.

His breathing’s slowed enough that you briefly wonder if he’s fallen asleep, though after almost a year of sharing a bed means you’ve caught to his tells that he has yet to drift off— the tension in his arms, the quiet, intermittent sniffles he gets before he knocks out, the fact that he’s barely really said a word about the mission at all.

“Good trip?” you murmur.

You feel him shrug, sheets rustling beneath him and that just—

Pushing off his chest, you sit up to turn on the bedside lamp. Soft, warm light fills the room, dim enough to not make your eyes hurt.

Something else does, though.

“Steve…”

A cut over his eyebrow and a bruise already turning yellow on his left temple. Red-rimmed eyes and a swollen lip. Somewhere beneath the collar of his shirt, a thin, red line extends up the side of his neck, already healing. You watch him wince when you lie a hand on his stomach, feeling the taut muscles there contract.

Your words fail, throat closing up. One of his hands wraps around your wrist, big and warm and comforting, even though you should be the one comforting him right now.

“Looks worse than it is,” Steve shrugs again. This time, you catch the way his lips thin out just a little, the slight twitch in his eye at the movement. “Y’know I’ll be fine in the morning.”

“Doesn’t mean I’m used to it.”

At that, Steve’s fingers squeeze your wrist. He knows it’s hard for you, keeping up with what he does for a living. Technically, he could’ve retired years ago, but there’s something to be said about his insatiable need to do something to feel useful.

You know he’s talked about it with his therapist, and even Bucky and Natasha had tried to talk some sense into him about taking things easy, slowing down, moving into a less-exposed role once he’d handed the shield to Sam. But Steve Rogers is nothing if not stubborn, so he’d been made Commander and only deploys to missions that really need him. But he still deploys.

Steve’s thumb brushes over your skin, eyes on yours in the dim light, a quiet apology for now. You can’t help but let it go, leaning in to finally kiss him.

It’s a soft, sweet thing, the kiss. Mouths slotted perfectly over each other, Steve’s tongue only slightly running over your bottom lip until you open up for him, let yourself slide back down on the bed with him.

“I missed you,” you murmur, lips brushing his own. “A lot.”

“Missed you too, honey,” Steve sighs into the kiss. “A lot.”

He guides you to sit on his lap, the cradle of his hips warm and strong beneath your thighs. You can feel him through the thin fabric of your underwear and his sweatpants, can’t help but settle fully onto him as you stretch over his torso.

Steve tastes like mint and iron, undoubtedly from the injury to his lip, but you’ll have him like this and any other way you can get him as long as he gets to come back home. He sighs into the kiss, reaching a hand to cup your neck and angle your head the way he wants, the other slowly making its way down your back to rest above your ass. He swallows your resulting sound, making one of his own when you break the kiss.

You pull back, eyeing him suspiciously. “Steve.”

His hand doesn’t move, fingertips slipping under the waistband of your underwear. They rest there while he looks at you, a question in his eyes. The bruise on his temple will be gone in the morning, same as the cut on his brow, but you can’t help but wonder how he got them, who he had to fight this time around.

He can tell you’re distracted, hand on your nape squeezing briefly as if to bring you back to him.

“Honey,” he says and you sigh.

Steve lets you sit up again, hands slipping from your body to rest on your thigh as you sit cross-legged next to him. His half-lidded gaze meets yours, thumb brushing slowly over the sensitive skin of your inner thigh. He watches you for a minute, assessing, waiting for you to answer.

In the end, it’s only right to try to be the sensible one in this situation. “You’re still in pain, Steve.”

He shakes his head, squeezing your thigh softly. “Not that much. Just— I need to think about something else right now. Can’t sleep yet.”

This has happened before, a few times.

It didn’t when you’d first started dating. Being one of Steve’s only relationships since he came out of the ice meant he’d had time to work through some stuff on his own before he tried to be with someone else, so when he’d had difficult missions at the beginning of your courtship, he’d always been upfront about needing some time before he could talk to you about them.

Lately, though, something’s been happening. Every other mission seems to be more taxing than the last.

You’re sure you’re wholly unclassified to know any of the information Steve eventually divulges, even if unspecific, but it’s specific enough to worry you. He never tells you exactly what happens, but the mornings and days after he’s managed to work through whatever he needs by working you, he makes it clear that whatever they’re fighting isn’t just the universe’s bad guy of the month.

You’re not totally complaining, but you are concerned that your boyfriend needs to blow off steam in such a way before he even considers facing his feelings.

Steve’s hands on your skin bring you back to reality once more. He’s still there, in your bed, gaze questioning, wondering where you went.

You’re sure he has an idea, but it’s not something he’s willing to address tonight.

“Please, honey,” he says. “C’n sit on my face, I won’t have to put in much effort that way.”

Steve adds the last bit as if it’s nothing, but the thought of it alone sends a flash of heat down your spine.

“You always put in effort,” you concede a little, laying a hand on his stomach where his shirt’s ridden up, thumb brushing beneath his navel.

Steve smiles at that, slowly reaching for your hand and helping you rest back on his lap. He holds your hand on his stomach, the other resting on your hip once more.

“‘S that a yes? Gonna let me taste you, baby?” He asks and your resolve is slipping by the second.

You try one last time, though. Need to make it clear where you’ve gone the past few times in as many minutes. “Promise to talk to me in the morning?”

“Promise.” Steve’s answer is emphatic, the hand laced with yours squeezing sure and strong. “Just need to focus on something else right now.”

And so you nod, leaning back a little when Steve sits up to capture your lips once again. He winces as he does so, but smooths a hand down your side while he shushes you, tries to ease your worries.

His hands reach beneath your shirt, cupping your breasts, pressing you into him, roaming over your ass and your thighs as he takes your breath away. Breaking the kiss after a while, he takes a good look at you, lips a little red and swollen beneath his beard.

“Gorgeous,” Steve murmurs, lying back down. He looks so broad like this, laid out only for you. “Love seeing you in my clothes.”

Heat blooms low in your belly at the praise, flashes even hotter when you feel the faint line of Steve’s cock pressing into you.

“Yeah?” you ask, brow raised and a teasing grin upon your lips. “Gonna be you for Halloween this year, wear your stealth suit.”

Given Steve’s resulting blush, he didn’t expect that as an answer. He goes silent for a minute, gaze heavy on you, thumbs slipping beneath your waistband once more, stroking over your hip bones.

Laughing, you let yourself fall forward onto his chest, careful not to rest too heavily on him. “Oh my god.”

“It’s not my fault you look good in everything,” Steve says, sheepish. He helps you sit back up on his lap, big hands back on your thighs. “Maybe the techs can make a version just for you. We could use it.”

“For what purposes, sir?” You snort, shaking your head when Steve gives you a slow onceover. “You’re incorrigible.”

He shrugs, smirking and pretty, brief embarrassment gone. “I’m a paragon of duty and righteousness, I’ll have you know.”

You shake your head at him again, unable to help the smile that comes on.

“Up, baby.”

He helps you get your underwear off, first through one leg then the other, then helps you scoot up his torso and towards his face. Fingers laced with yours next to your legs, he helps you settle above him, the prickly brush of his beard on your inner thighs as he brushes kisses there making you shiver.

“Already, honey?” Steve murmurs into your skin, heavy-lidded gaze locked on yours. “Barely even touched you yet.”

You feel yourself flush, only made worse by Steve softly blowing on your cunt before he gives you one long, teasing lick. Then a second, and a third. He pulls you fully down on his tongue, holding tight onto your hips so you have nowhere to go.

“Steve,” you gasp, tugging on his hair.

Steve growls low in his chest at the feeling, beginning to lap at you in short strokes, sucking at your folds, making it so wet and messy you’re sure it’s dripping down his chin.

“Want you to come on my tongue,” Steve murmurs.

He places a loud kiss to your folds, gaze locking on yours just to make sure you heard him, only going back to task once he gets a shaky nod from you.

Grinding on his tongue, sounds wet and loud in the otherwise quiet room. Steve’s hands settle on your ass, helping you move on him as he fully flattens his tongue. He switches up his rhythm, slow broad licks all over your cunt making you shiver.

“You’re so good at this, fuck.”

You feel rather than hear him chuckle at that, teeth nipping at your inner thigh. He dives right back in, eyelashes fluttering closed, mouth closing softly around your clit. You shiver, tugging on his hair again as your thighs close around his head.

“Fuck, Steve,” you moan, the coil low in your belly dissolving into warm static spreading through your limbs.

It’s a minute before you fully come to, shaking a little through Steve cleaning you up with his tongue and soft kisses to your thighs. He lies you back onto the bed, gathering you up in his arms again all while murmuring soft and sweet. Pressing chaste kisses to your lips, he answers your quiet noises with his own, nosing at you as your eyes open once more.

“Back with me?” he says, face brightening at your soft sound. “There she is.”

You hum, burying your face in his neck. “My ears are ringing.”

Steve lets out an actual belly laugh at that, his entire body shaking with it, your own heart glowing from it. “That good, huh?”

“Shut up,” you groan, weakly pushing at his chest. Placing a soft kiss on his jaw at his half-hearted ow, you let yourself fully sink into him, sighing softly when you feel him do the same. Finally ready to sleep now, then. “I’m really glad you’re home.”

Steve brushes a kiss along your forehead. “Me too, honey,” he says, words coming slow and sleepy now. “Me too.”

[galactict3a]

Her Turn Now - 1

Character: CEO!Bucky Barnes x Female!Reader

Summary: Twin sisters. Opposite worlds. The eldest is a tough, no-nonsense soldier. The youngest is a quiet, hardworking corporate girl. They rarely meet—until the younger sister collapses from stress, hiding months of workplace bullying.

Furious and protective, the soldier twin trades places with her. Heels off, boots on. Now, the office has no idea what's coming.

She doesn’t play nice. She doesn’t play fair. And while she's serving justice in a pencil skirt, the ruthless CEO starts to take notice…

Main Masterlist || If you enjoy my work, please consider buying me a coffee on Ko-fi 🙏🏻

Chapter 1 , Chapter 2 , Chapter 3 , Chapter 4 , Chapter 5 , -

The wind changes.

Hot and dry, it kicks sand over the bodies cooling in the sun. Your rifle hangs loose in your grip now, barrel lowered, fingers flexing to shake off the stiffness. The shot was perfect. You always make it perfect. But perfection doesn’t quiet the unease crawling up your spine.

You stand, brushing the dirt from your pants as Ortiz approaches, helmet tucked under his arm and grinning like a fool.

“You ever miss?” he teases, wiping sweat from his brow.

“Only when I want to,” you reply, dry as the desert air.

He laughs and offers a knuckle bump. “Clean job, Captain. You’ll get the brass off our backs for at least two weeks.”

Behind him, Casey whoops and twirls her rifle like a baton. “Permission to call this op a goddamn masterpiece?”

“You’d call it that even if we lost a leg,” Dom snorts, limping slightly with his pack slung uneven on his back. “You get weird after adrenaline.”

“Shut up, Dom,” Casey says, tossing him a canteen. “We pulled it off. No casualties. No surprises. That deserves at least one drink.”

“Ten,” Ortiz corrects. “We’re going home, remember? Full leave. We’ll be stateside by midnight.”

Cheers go up again. Someone claps you on the back, but your mind’s already drifting.

Home.

It’s a word that never feels quite real to you. You’ve lived longer in war zones than anywhere with walls and blankets that weren’t standard issue. But your sister’s there. She is your constant. Her soft voice over the phone. Her awkward texts. The way she tries not to make you feel guilty for never showing up.

You’re thinking of her when you board the transport. When the team settles in with helmets off and boots kicked up, comparing bruises like trophies.

Ortiz nudges your shoulder as the engines roar. “You look like hell.”

“Thanks.”

“No, seriously,” he says. “When’s the last time you actually rested during leave?”

You raise a brow. “What are you, my mother?”

“Nope. Just the guy who has to carry your grumpy ass through every op.”

There’s laughter, the kind that only comes after a mission survived. The kind that releases tension built over days of silence and killing. It’s always loud after the quiet. Always messy after the clean shot.

As the transport lifts, Dom leans forward. “So what’s the first thing everyone’s doing when we land?”

“Pizza,” Casey answers immediately.

“Beer,” Ortiz adds.

“Shower,” someone mumbles from the back.

You smirk faintly. “Sleep.”

“No boyfriend waiting, Captain?” Casey teases.

You just stare at her. That shuts her up.

The hum of the engine fills the space between conversations. Outside, the sky turns golden with sunset. The kind of view that makes people homesick.

Your phone vibrates.

You frown, glancing at the screen. Unknown number.

You step away from the others, pressing it to your ear.

“Hello?”

“Is this Miss McCain? The emergency contact for Levi McCain?” The voice on the other end stumbles. Young. Nervous. “I’m calling from Central Hospital. Your sister was just admitted.”

Your stomach tightens.

“What happened?”

“She—she overdosed. We think it was intentional. She’s stable… for now. But… we don’t know how long she was alone.”

Everything stops.

The engine hum. The voices. The light.

You stare ahead, unblinking, as the nurse keeps talking—but you’re no longer listening.

Ortiz appears beside you, reading your face like a battlefield map. “Captain?”

You shove the phone into your vest and push past him.

“I need a vehicle. I need to get to her.”

“Wait, what happened?”

“She’s in the hospital.” Your voice is low. Firm. “She almost—” You bite it back. “I need to move.”

“You’re supposed to report to the Colonel,” Dom says, confused.

“Screw the Colonel.”

You’re already walking.

Ortiz curses and signals the rest. “Gear up. We’re going with her.”

And without question, they follow.

Because no one’s ever seen you panic. Not once. Not in fire, not in blood. But now your steps are too fast, your hands are shaking, and your silence is loud enough to make them all afraid.

You’ve never asked for help.

But this time, they don’t wait for you to ask.

🏥🏥🏥🏥

“Levi McCain? Is she here?” you demand, breath sharp and uneven, as you rush to the front desk of the ER.

The nurse behind the counter startles, eyes darting from you to the uniformed soldiers flooding in behind. “Uh… yes. She’s in—uh—room six. But please—”

You don’t wait. Your boots hit the linoleum with a jarring rhythm, your team trailing behind in shocked silence.

You reach the room and freeze in the doorway.

There she is.

Your twin.

Levi.

Lying on the hospital bed like a broken version of herself. Her skin, once vibrant and flushed with the soft glow of moisturizers and tinted creams, looks gray under the fluorescent lights. Her cheeks are hollowed, clavicles sharper. She used to wear soft pastels, delicate accessories. Now, even the hospital gown dwarfs her frame.

She looks like a stranger wearing your sister’s face.

A nurse adjusts her IV line, and that’s when Levi stirs. Her eyes flutter open, disoriented at first—then she sees you.

She blinks, frowns faintly, and turns her face away.

“Who told her to come here?” she mutters, voice rough.

“That’s the first thing you say?” you breathe out, the ache rising in your throat. You cross the room in two strides and kneel beside her bed. “That’s what you say to someone worried to death?”

You pull her into a hug, your arms wrapping around her fragile frame.

It feels like hugging a memory.

God, when did she get this thin?

You hadn’t seen her in eight months. The last video call, she had looked tired, but you figured it was just work. Stress. The corporate world was brutal. But Levi always looked put together. She was the polished one. The softer one. The one who smiled at strangers and didn’t scare boys off just by standing too straight.

Now, her spine juts through the back of the gown. You can feel every rib.

You pull back, your hands trembling as you study her face—sunken, pale, eyes rimmed with dark circles. She refuses to look at you. Shame? Guilt? You can’t tell.

“Levi,” you say gently, tilting her chin so you can meet her eyes. “Look at me.”

Her lashes flutter, and she finally meets your gaze. There's something broken behind them.

“What happened?” your voice is low, steady. “Did someone hurt you? A stalker? An ex?”

You hate how your mind is racing with threats. Levi was always the one guys fawned over. Back in school, your locker was left untouched. Hers? Overflowing with chocolates, roses, handwritten notes. The golden twin. The soft one. The one they thought they could handle.

She shakes her head.

“No,” she murmurs and pushes your arms away, slowly lying back against the pillows. Her movement is tired, almost defiant.

You stare at her. Frustration rising like bile.

“Levi.” You step back but your voice sharpens. “You’re in a hospital bed. Don’t act like you’re fine.”

She doesn’t answer.

“I’ll call Mom and Dad.”

“No!” she snaps, grabbing your wrist with weak fingers. Her eyes widen.

You freeze.

“Why?” you ask, heart pounding. “Why are you being so secretive?”

“If Dad finds out…” she swallows hard, tears welling but not falling, “he’ll kill everyone.”

Your breath catches.

“Everyone?” you repeat. The word hits heavy. “So it’s not just one person who did this to you? What kind of hell did you get dragged into, Levi?”

She gives a bitter, humorless scoff. “Problem? You think this is just one problem? I’m drowning in it. All of it. You have no idea how deep it goes.”

You crouch beside her again, your voice softening. “Then tell me. Stop talking in riddles. I can help you.”

She looks at you. Silent. Torn.

“I’m not asking anymore.” Your jaw clenches. “If you don’t tell me, I will tell Dad.”

She flinches, lips parting like she’s been struck.

“No—don’t. Please.”

You hold your ground.

“Then talk to me.”

Levi’s fingers trembled as she held onto the edge of the blanket. Her voice cracked when she finally spoke, “It started with the manager.”

You frowned. “What do you mean?”

She looked at you then, her eyes glassy, and the words came out in a shaky rush. “There was a budget report. A mistake. I thought I was helping when I pointed it out. I did it privately, not to humiliate him, I swear. But... after that? Everything changed.”

You stayed quiet, listening, though your fists clenched at your sides.

“No one would sit with me at lunch. People stopped answering my emails. My desk got moved… shoved into the corner like I didn’t belong. I started getting dumped with work. Not just mine—everyone’s. Even intern jobs. Like printing flyers. Making coffee. Picking up supplies.”

She laughed bitterly, but it didn’t reach her eyes. “I thought I could bear with it. Keep my head down. I didn’t want to cause trouble, I thought… maybe it would pass. But it didn’t.”

Your heart sank as you watched your twin’s composure fall apart piece by piece.

“I was the popular one, remember?” she whispered. “People used to like me. I didn’t know how to be invisible. And then the silence, the fake smiles, the isolation… It was too much. I couldn’t eat. I couldn’t sleep. I just… wanted to feel normal again.”

You noticed her hand twitch over the thin hospital blanket.

“I started taking antidepressants. Just one at first. Then two. Then I didn’t count anymore. I didn’t even realize how many I took today until I was on the floor.”

Her voice broke, and so did something inside you.

“Fuck, Levi…” you gasped, your voice sharp with disbelief and fury. “I’m gonna kill them.”

“No! Don’t,” she cried out, grabbing your wrist with all the strength she could muster.

“Why do you care about them when they nearly killed you?” Your voice rose despite yourself. “Do you even realize what could’ve happened today?”

She looked away, biting her lip, eyes stinging with tears. “Because it was my dream job.”

You stepped back, stunned. “Your dream?”

“You don’t understand…” she said softly, the words barely forming. “You’ve always belonged in the military, just like Dad. You fit in, you have command, respect. I don’t. I never liked the field, the isolation, the rules. I liked people. I liked the city, the rhythm, the energy. I wanted to work in a glass building, wear heels, drink overpriced coffee, and be someone.”

Her voice cracked again, and you saw the girl who used to twirl in front of her closet, planning outfits the night before school, asking for your opinion even though she knew you’d just grunt and shrug.

You exhaled through your nose, jaw clenched. She wasn’t weak. She had just been broken by the very world she thought would lift her up.

Before you could respond, the door creaked open, and a doctor stepped in—a woman in a navy scrub top and tired eyes.

“The patient needs to rest,” she said kindly but firmly.

You nodded, even though you didn’t want to let go of your sister again.

“Get some sleep, okay?” you said quietly to Levi.

She didn’t answer, but you saw her grip the edge of the blanket again—like a child afraid to be alone.

You gave her one last glance before stepping out.

The hallway outside the room was quieter now. Your team stood at a respectful distance. You waited for the doctor to finish checking Levi’s IV and then approached her.

“Doctor,” you said, voice lower now, steady. “Can I ask what exactly happened to my twin?”

The doctor nodded. “She’s under extreme psychological stress. High cortisol levels. Insomnia, malnourishment, emotional collapse. Her body is running on fumes. She’s lucky she didn’t go into cardiac arrest.”

You felt your stomach twist.

“She needs time. Not just physically—but mentally. If she keeps going at this rate, we’ll be seeing her again. And next time, it might be too late.”

“I agree,” you said with a firm nod. “She needs to rest. Whatever it takes.”

The doctor gave a soft sigh. “We’ll run a few more tests. If everything looks stable, she might be discharged tomorrow. But she’s not out of the woods.”

“Thank you, Doctor.”

You left the hallway and walked outside the hospital’s automatic doors. The night air hit you like a slap—cool, heavy with city noise and distant sirens.

You sighed.

It felt like the adrenaline from the mission earlier had evaporated. The celebration, the cheer of your team, the taste of victory—it all felt meaningless now. Because the person you’d spent your life protecting had been suffering right under your nose.

****

“Boss.”

The familiar voice made you flinch. You spun around instinctively, your hand twitching toward your holster.

“What the—?” you breathed. “Ortiz?”

He stood just a few feet away, hands raised in mock surrender, the rest of your team fanned out behind him in the shadows of the hospital parking lot.

“What are you guys doing here?” you asked, heart still pounding from the scare—and everything else.

Casey tilted her head with a dry smirk. “You seriously didn’t notice we’ve been tailing you since you left the ER?”

You blinked. “No.” Honestly, how could you have noticed? Your mind was still spinning with the image of Levi’s pale face, the IV in her arm, and the way she clutched your wrist, begging you not to retaliate.

Your voice dropped, distant. “Wait… does that mean no one reported back to the Captain?”

“Well…” Ortiz rubbed the back of his neck, sheepish. “We sacrificed Dom instead. He’s probably getting chewed out by the Colonel right now.”

Despite everything, a breath of laughter escaped your throat. It was brief, but it grounded you for a moment. You looked at them—your team, your family in the field. And for the first time since Levi’s overdose, something settled inside you.

Casey stepped forward, voice softer. “We’re sorry about what happened to your sister.”

You nodded slowly, swallowing the lump in your throat. “Thanks. I mean it.”

Their presence helped. A little. Enough to make you stand straighter.

Your eyes darkened. “I’m gonna deal with those bastards who bullied her.”

Your tone dropped so low it vibrated with rage, and the shift in energy was immediate. The entire team stiffened. You were known to be ruthless on mission—but this was personal. The kind of personal that made trained killers hesitate.

Ortiz raised an eyebrow. “You never told us you had a twin.”

“I did,” you said without looking at him. “I said I had a sister.”

“Yeah, but you didn’t exactly say she looked like your mirror image.” Casey added, crossing her arms. “That was kind of a shock.”

You shrugged, eyes fixed on the concrete. “Levi and I... we used to be inseparable growing up. But we chose different paths. She stayed in the city. Corporate dreams, bright lights. I took Dad’s rifle and joined the army.”

You looked up, jaw set. “We don’t see each other as much now. I thought she was happy…”

Casey’s face softened. “You didn’t know.”

You shook your head. “I should have. She’s my twin.”

There was a pause. Then Ortiz asked the question everyone was thinking.

“So… you going to take revenge for your sister?”

You didn’t answer right away. Instead, a slow smirk crept across your face. That dangerous, unhinged one that usually preceded a wild, nearly illegal plan.

“Of course,” you said. “Now we’re speaking the same language.”

Casey narrowed her eyes. “How?”

You cracked your knuckles and leaned against the hood of a parked SUV. “I’ve got a crazy idea. And I think you guys are going to think I’ve finally lost it.”

Twenty minutes later, anyone walking through the hospital parking lot would be confused—and maybe a little alarmed—at the sight of a group of soldiers in full tactical gear huddled in a tight circle, whispering like they were planning a heist.

Casey leaned back first. “That’s insane.”

“But you're not saying no,” you said with a grin.

She shook her head, exhaling sharply. “I’m not.”

Ortiz tapped the butt of his sidearm. “It could work. It’s risky as hell—but if anyone can pull it off, it’s you. Just depends on your timing.”

You looked at each of them in turn. These were the people who’d bled beside you, shielded you, and followed your orders into gunfire and chaos. Now, they were standing by you in a war that wasn’t waged with bullets—but with dignity.

You smiled, something feral in your eyes. “If I have you all backing me up, I can do anything.”

Casey extended her fist. “Then give them hell, boss.”

🏢🏢🏢🏢

Another day. But nothing about today felt normal.

You stood at the base of the high-rise tower, the glass windows reflecting the clouds above like the building was trying to scrape the sky itself. It was a far cry from the concrete and steel of the military barracks you were used to—no gun oil in the air, no shouted commands, no weight of a vest strapped across your chest.

And definitely no uniform.

Instead, you wore a fitted blazer over a soft cream blouse, a knee-length skirt hugging your frame, and black heels that clicked sharply with every step you took. Your hair was tied up neatly, your makeup done just like Levi would wear it—light, approachable, perfect.

Your spine straightened. You weren’t you today. You were Levi McCain.

You stepped through the revolving glass door, nodding slightly at the security guard stationed by the gate. Your heels echoed through the marble-tiled lobby as you approached the access gates. Flashing the ID badge that bore your sister’s name and face, you passed through without a word.

The elevator ride felt like a countdown.

By the time the doors slid open onto Levi’s floor, you were fully in character. Warm smile. Relaxed posture. You even adjusted your voice to match hers—softer, friendlier, a little hesitant.

Heads turned.

People paused mid-conversation, frozen like they'd seen a ghost. A junior associate dropped her pen. A guy by the water cooler stared like he couldn’t believe what he was seeing.

“Levi McCain,” came a voice from the far end of the room.

You turned.

The manager. Mid-forties. Too much confidence for too little talent. She strutted forward, arms folded, a condescending smile tugging at her lips.

“You're back from your sick leave,” she said, loud enough for the entire floor to hear.

You kept Levi’s warm tone, smile intact. “Yes. Feeling much better, thank you for asking.”

You bowed your head slightly and walked past her, graceful and calm. But inside, your fists were clenched so tight your nails bit into your palms.

You scanned the office with sharp eyes. Levi’s desk had been pushed aside, away from the windows, tucked behind a pillar near the printer—out of sight, out of mind. Her nameplate was gone. Her chair was missing a wheel.

The woman next to that desk shifted uncomfortably when you met her eyes. She looked away immediately.

You placed your bag down slowly and took your seat—Levi’s seat.

So this is how they did it. No punches. No bruises. No screaming. Just slow, silent cruelty. Isolation. Overwork. Smiles that meant nothing and eyes that cut deep.

You glanced down at the corner of the desk. A tiny scratch in the wood. You imagined your sister sitting here, day after day, alone, drowning in work that wasn’t hers, pretending it didn’t break her.

It broke her anyway.

But they hadn’t counted on this.

They didn’t know that Levi McCain had a twin with military training, a temper, and a very different definition of what justice looked like.

You crossed one leg over the other and cracked your knuckles discreetly under the desk.

They didn’t use their fists here. But that was fine. You’d show them how.

*****

The car hummed steadily along the highway.

Ortiz had one hand on the wheel, the other tapping lightly to the rhythm of a rock song playing low from the speakers. Casey sat in the passenger seat, arms crossed, occasionally glancing at the rearview mirror.

In the back seat, Levi stirred—eyes fluttering open. Her head leaned against the window, a small crease on her brow as she blinked, confused.

She straightened up slowly, brushing a strand of hair behind her ear. Her voice was groggy, soft. “Where... where am I?”

Casey twisted around in her seat, meeting her eyes. Even after a full mission, bloodshed, and chaos, the sight of Levi still sent a chill down her spine. Same face. Same eyes. But the expression��fragile, hesitant—was nothing like her twin.

“You’re safe,” Casey said gently. “We’re taking you home.”

Levi’s eyes widened, panic rising fast. “Where is she? Where’s my sister?”

“She’s handling your problem,” Casey replied, voice calm but firm. “Everything will be alright.”

Levi shot forward in her seat, fingers gripping the headrest in front of her. “No. No, no, no—you don’t understand! Anyone stuck in a room with her... they won’t survive!”

Ortiz laughed under his breath, eyes still on the road. “Well, that’s the point.”

He and Casey exchanged a knowing smirk as Levi shrank back in her seat, looking horrified.

My book Arrogant Ex-Husband and Dad, I Can't Let You Go by Alina C. Bing are on Kindle. Check it out!

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[galactict3a]

Masterlist (Updated May 2025)

Jake ‘Hangman’ Seresin - Top Gun Maverick (October 2023)

- Cold But Sweet (Part 1)

- No Boyfriend But Not Single (Part 2)

Steve Rogers

-Wicked Love (Series) (On-Going) (Mafia AU)

Chapter 1, Chapter 2, Chapter 3, Chapter 4,-

-Loving You Is Too Difficult (Angst) (COMPLETED)

Chapter 1, Chapter 2, Chapter 3, Chapter 4, Chapter 5, Chapter 6, Chapter 7, Epilogue.

Alternate Ending : 

I Don’t Love You Anymore .  

-Reunion (One-Shot), Reunion Why It took Her Ten Years. (Modern AU)

   Drabble : -When You Found Out You Were Pregnant

                    -Bucky As a Silly Uncle

-Strawberry Kisses & Candy Wine (CEO AU)

-My Problematic Girl (College!Steve Rogers) 2023 Series

- I Did Drugs For You - Oneshot (October 2023)

- Zero Crush (October 2023)

- Tiny Soldier (October 2023)

Ransom Drysdale - AU

Oneshot:

-I’m All Yours 

-He Changed A Lot 

Drabble:

- Ice Age 

- Sports Car 

- Afternoon Walk

- He didn’t want a dog

- Oat Biscuits

- Can’t Handle The Cuteness

- His Hidden Hobby

- Little Miss Diva

- Business Trip

- His Rival

- Little Detective

- His Birthday

Bucky Barnes

-“Make Yourself At Home.”

-Supportive Boyfriend

-King Of Spoiler

-His Silly Princess (November 2023)

- Frosty Affection (November 2023)

- Love Lesson (November 2023)

-Cryptic Rivalry (November 2023)

-Arrogant Ex Husband (November 2023) - Series

-Harmony Of Hearts - Oneshot

-Tears In His Ferrari (December 2023) - Series Completed

-Cozy Secrets (December 2023) - Series

-Glad You Broke Up (January 2024) - Series (R19)

-Silent Heir, Hidden Dangers (January 2024) - Series

-Curses from Ex-Boyfriend (January 2024) - Oneshot

-Echoes Of Revenge (January 2024) - Oneshot

-Secret Sorrows (January 2024) - Series (On-Going)

-Let Me Love You (February 2024) - Series (Completed)

-Underworld Insomnia (February 2024) - (Ongoing)

-Lovers Say Goodbye (February 2024) - (Ongoing)

-Past Connections (Oneshot) (March 2024)

-The Lady - Mob!Bucky and Eddie Horniman from The Gentlemen

-Mischief Makers - If Y/N has kids with Bucky or Eddie

-Guilt (Oneshot) April 2024

-Love Me A Little - April 2024

-Did I Make You Proud? - April 2024

-Unexpected Trip - April 2024

-Mission Dad - April 2024

-Flour Power - May 2024

-Nothing Has Changed - May 2024 - On-Going

- The Malicious Daughter Is Back! June 2024 - On-Going

-I Hate It When You’re Drunk - July 2024

-Another Ending - August 2024

- Darling, Bad Luck Seems Endless

- The Imperfect Couple - September 2024

-He’s A Killer - October 2024

Lloyd Hansen

- 3 Billion Divorce

-Every Time You Lie

- Switched Sides

- I’ll Be Sad If You… (Oneshot) October 2023

-Be Mine - April 2024

-Bad Romance - May 2024

-Feeling Blue Without You - June 2024

Buy me Ko-fi please 🥹

Divider from @firefly-graphics

[galactict3a]

Leave You Breathless

Pairing: Thunderbolts!Bucky Barnes x Thunderbolts!Female Reader

Summary: Bucky wants to ask you out and you give him the courage to do so in an unexpected way.

Word Count: Over 2.4k

Warnings: Longing, pining, mild humor, fake dating mention (of sorts), kissing, referenced masturbation, confessions, getting together, slight possessive and jealous behaviour, Bucky's POV, Bucky Barnes (he's a warning, okay?) and he's smitten.

A/N: Waiting at the airport and whipped this up. What is it with me and game nights? 😂 Not part of Tower Shenanigans, but it has that feel of sorts. ❤️ Not beta read and written on my phone, so any and all mistakes are my own. Please follow @navybrat817-sideblog for new fics and notifications. Comments, reblogs, feedback are loved and appreciated!

Bucky nursed a beer as he sat on the roof and looked at the stars. He was taking a small breather from the impromptu game night after Alexei spilled his drink all over the table. He should've asked you to join him, but you had stepped away to take a call with an annoyed look on your face. Whoever it was that was bothering you he hoped everything was okay.

And if it wasn't okay, he’d take care of it or do his best to cheer you up.

His lips curled in a gentle smile when he heard your footsteps behind him. “One of these days you might be able to sneak up on me,” he said, twisting his head so he could look at you.

The smile on your face nearly knocked the breath from his lungs. He had it bad and he swore he fell for you more with each day that passed. He tried not to follow you around the tower like a lovesick puppy, but he often found himself in the same area as you so he could talk to you or ask you to spar as a desperate excuse to touch you. Whenever he pinned you beneath him, he had to rush back to his room and jerk off as images of your face and echoes of your sighs and gasps raced through his mind.

While he tried not to stare at you either, he always had his eyes on you whenever you were around. That morning he had been so busy staring at you that he poured too much coffee into his mug and burned his hand, which you thankfully hadn't seen. And there was that time he walked right into a wall when you wore a form fitting dress for an event Valentina demanded you attend.

“Bucky! Are you okay?” you had asked, rushing over to check on him. When you cupped his face to look over his face with worried eyes, he nearly melted on the spot.

“I’m fine. Just… distracted,” he answered, almost wishing he was a little injured so you'd dote on him some more.

“Well, let me kiss it better anyway,” you said, surprising him by kissing his nose and spreading warmth up to his cheeks.

“Thanks.” He swallowed hard. “You look beautiful, by the way.”

“Thanks,” you whispered back and walked away, leaving him to stare after you as you glided away with confidence and grace.

“Smooth,” Ava said once you were out of sight. “You know, I’m the one who can phase through walls, not you.”

“Don’t blame Barnes. She looked good in her dress,” Yelena said with a knowing smirk when Bucky snarled. “Perhaps she will wear it again if you ask nicely.”

“Shut up,” he muttered, but he had a goofy smile on his face since the feel of your lips lingered on his skin.

The girls would never let him live it down, and he wondered if his crush on you was obvious to you or if he hid it well enough.

Whatever level was beyond whipped was where he was.

Back in the present, you playfully groaned when you took a seat beside him. “You have enhanced senses. I’ll never be able to sneak up on you.”

Bucky turned toward you, watching as you tilted your head and gazed up at the sky. The night seemed more beautiful because of your presence. “You never know,” he said. You had stealth and agility, and you gave him a run for his money in training.

Your eyes sparkled when you turned your gaze on him, the mixture of your subtle perfume and natural scent making him breathe a bit deeper. “Your faith in me is astounding,” you teased, nudging his arm. He’d always believe in you. “But why did you ditch me down there?”

He chuckled when you pouted. It was fucking adorable. “Wasn't ditching you,” he promised. He’d never do that. “Just needed some fresh air.”

“So, it’s okay if I'm here, too?”

“Of course.” He wanted to be where you were.

You smiled, your knee touching his. “I asked where you went and John put his hand on my thigh when he said you were up here.”

It was as if someone shined a red light in front of Bucky’s eyes from the sudden rage he felt. “He what?” he asked, gripping the bottle tighter and feeling it crack under the pressure.

“He put his hand on my thigh,” you repeated, making him clench his teeth. He set the bottle down, too, so he wouldn't shatter it. “Like… Wait, can I demonstrate?”

Bucky nodded and hoped he wasn't dreaming. Asking to touch him showed how thoughtful you were. “Yeah, sure,” he said evenly.

You placed a hand on his upper thigh and gently squeezed. Heat curled at the base of his spine from your touch and he tried not to get excited. He couldn't get hard, not here, not now. He focused on the white hot anger that flowed through him instead since John touched you just as intimately.

Would breaking his fingers be too much?

You moved your hand away and he was two seconds away from taking your hand to put it back there. “I bent one of his fingers back before I came up here,” you told him, making him proud. “I think Bob may have filmed it.”

“That’s my girl,” he said before he could stop himself. His eyes widened when you turned your head and held his stare. “I mean…”

There was no excuse that came to mind for why he said that. All he had to do was confess how he felt. It should've been simple. He was reformed, a super soldier, a hero, and surely he could open his heart to you. So why wouldn't the words come out?

Why couldn't he say that he wanted you to be his girl?

“About that…” You took a breath and scooted away a few inches which had him internally panicking. Did his comment bother you? “What if I sort of told someone that I am your girl?”

His cheek twitched. “I’m sorry, what?” he asked. Did you really tell someone that?

And why did he respond that way instead of playing it cool?

“You know that call I took a bit ago? Well, it was Valentina,” you said, taking another deep breath. He didn't like where this was going. “She wants me to go to a benefit this weekend, and she was hoping I would schmooze a recently divorced potential investor,” you explained, wrinkling your nose and shuddering.

Bucky stomach dropped. You were beautiful and charming, so it wasn’t a shock that Valentina wanted to use you for her advantage. It made his blood boil. First John touching you, and now this. “What does that have to do with being my girl?” he questioned, not connecting the dots.

“I told her I already had a date,” you replied and pointed at his chest. “You.”

Bucky had enhanced hearing, but he couldn't have heard that statement correctly. “You what?”

You bit your lip and risked moving closer again. “I told her you were going as my date.”

The words slowly registered. “So, Valentina not only expects me to be there, but she thinks we're going to be there together?” he asked, gesturing between the two of you. “The two of us.”

You shifted in your seat. He hardly ever saw you uncomfortable. “Yes, the two of us, and I'm sorry,” you said.

Bucky wasn't sorry. Not at all. “Wow,” he breathed. He had pictured himself asking you out so many times and should've done it long ago, but he hadn't imagined a fake dating scenario with you asking him. Is that what it was?

“Bucky, I really am so sorry. I should've asked before I said anything to her,” you said, putting a hand over his before pulling it away just as quickly. ��I understand if you don't want to.”

He shrugged like it wasn't a big deal..“It’s okay. I want to go.” He didn’t stay at benefits for long since kissing up to people wasn't his thing and he couldn't stand Valentina, but he’d put up with all of it to be by your side.

“It is? You do?” you asked, your teeth digging into your lip again and drawing his attention to your perfect mouth. “You’ll go?”

“It is, I do, and I will.” He hesitated, but mustered up the courage to put his hand over yours this time. He’d do anything for you. “Really. It’s okay.”

If Valentina had put him in a spot like that, he may have done something similar.

You looked where your hands were joined together and smiled softly. “And you aren't mad at me?”

“No, I’m not mad at you. Not at all,” he promised, exhaling before he moved his hand to your cheek. He felt the temperature rise in your body, heard your heart beat faster. “But why me? Why not Bob or…” He almost choked when he asked, “John?”

“Because I want you, Bucky,” you said without hesitation. “No one else.”

Bucky’s next breath came out harsher than he intended. You didn't say you wanted to date him- you said you wanted him, and he wanted you to want him in every way. “You really want me to be your fake date out of everyone else?” he asked, the word “fake” like acid on his tongue.

You lifted a hand to brush his hair back. “Would I be pushing it if I said I don't want it to be fake?”

He briefly closed his eyes, as if it could hide his longing. The simple question rocked him. “Don't ask me that if you don't mean it,” he whispered.

You leaned in and rested your hand against his. “I mean it. I want you,” you whispered, your lips a breath away from his. You wouldn't play with his feelings or heart. “I want the man who talks with me, spars with me.” You kissed the tip of his nose. “Walks into walls because of me.”

“Sweetheart,” he exhaled, the term of affection easily slipping out.

“I don't want it to be fake, Bucky,” you said, wrapping yourself tighter around his heart than he thought possible. “And I don't think you do either.”

He curled a hand around your hip to draw you closer on the bench. “No, I don't. I don't want to pretend,” he confirmed, kissing the tip of your nose the way you had kissed his. “So, why don't I take you out tomorrow?” he asked, finally asking the question that had been burning in the back of his throat for ages.

He felt your next breath when you tilted your head. “Tomorrow? The benefit isn't until this weekend.”

“I know, but I want a real date with my girl before the benefit,” he smiled, his lips skimming yours. “Been wanting to ask you out for ages.”

“Yeah?” you smiled back. “And it took me arranging a fake date to give you that push?”

“Give me a break. I’m an old man,” he joked.

You smirked, a seductive and dangerous glint in your eyes. “Should I wear that dress tomorrow, or will it give you a heart attack since you're an old man?”

He let out a groan. “I think that dress should come with a warning.” He had already jerked off to the thought of you wearing nothing beneath that gorgeous dress and he would think about that again when he finally went to sleep tonight.

“You're the one who should come with a warning,” you teased, still not kissing him quite yet. “Those tactical pants make your thighs and ass look incredible. And your t-shirts? I swear you wear them on purpose to see if I fall over.”

“I walked into a wall because of you,” he pointed out.

“I touch myself because of you,” you blurted out.

He wasn't sure if he closed the gap or if you did, but his lips were suddenly on yours and everything finally felt right. He wanted to devour you, but he slowly let the heat build before deepening the kiss. When your lips parted, he took the opportunity to sweep his tongue into your mouth and worship it the way he wanted to worship every inch of you. He wasn't going to rush or ruin this perfect moment. Not when he finally had you in his embrace, where he wanted you to belong.

He savored the moan that vibrated on his tongue and swallowed it down to keep it buried deep inside him. When you pulled away to breathe, he didn't let you get far before he went back in for another kiss. The world around you didn't slow down or rush by. It was simply a perfect moment that reverberated through his entire being.

Bucky framed your face when you pulled away again, your gentle panting making him smirk. “I touch myself because of you, too,” he said, chuckling and covering your mouth again when you let out a wanton moan. If he wasn't careful he’d have in his lap and he didn't want to rush that either, unless you wanted to. “And I might break Walker’s fingers for touching you,” he growled.

He worried for a second that it was a bit too much, too possessive. But he heard the whimper in your throat and knew you liked it. “Maybe break one to start with since we weren't officially together.”

“Fine,” he huffed. You were right. You weren't technically together earlier tonight, so he couldn't hold it completely against him. “But he isn't touching your thigh again, sweetheart. You're my girl now.”

“About time,” you sighed, bringing your lips back to his.

“Um,” Bob said from behind you two. Bucky hadn't paid attention to his footsteps since he was so consumed with you. Instead of pulling away from each other, you continued kissing as if you hadn't heard him. “Okay. Guess you two aren't coming back to game night. I’ll tell Yelena and Ava not to bother you,” he added before leaving you two alone.

Bucky would have to plan the perfect date for tomorrow and deal with the team teasing and asking questions. Tonight, he’d leave you breathless with kisses and then kiss you again. And he’ll kiss you every day after that because you were finally his girl. 

I guess we can consider this the end of my vacation and my welcome back of sorts agree the week? I missed you lovelies. 🥰 Love and thanks for reading! ❤️

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