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lethallyprotected · 17 days ago

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come back to me | b. barnes

⋆✴︎˚｡⋆ synopsis: it’s been three years since you and Bucky called it quits. you learned to live without him, to stop waiting for a knock that would never come. until tonight, when he shows up at your front door with his team and tired eyes, asking for a place to crash. his presence, bathed in the soft light of your doorstep, stirs feelings long buried—ones you thought had vanished the night he did.

-> pairing: post-thunderbolts!bucky x fem!reader

-> disclaimers: so much angst that it’s sickening, yearning, cursing, minor use of y/n, reader and bucky are exes, the thunderbolts are a found family and i make sure of it, bucky has relationship insecurity, unresolved tension, i got carried away with angst (peep word count), bucky and his beautiful dyson airwrap blowout, happy ending.

-> word count: 10k+ (BYEEEE)

-> song rec: cardigan by taylor swift

-> a/n: first ever fic on this blog and it’s angst. i thrive off of tense silence and painful longing. it’s long but worth it (this deserved length)

The knocks come close to midnight. You’re still awake, folding all of your laundry you’d tackled on your day off. You aren’t tired by any means, however, you definitely weren’t expecting the company behind those three even raps on the wooden door of your apartment.

You approach the door with rightful caution—something your years of fighting crime, aliens and evil villains had taught you—but nothing you’d faced before could have ever prepared you for what was on the other side of that peephole.

You almost didn’t open it, backing away with a heartbeat that pumped too quickly for you to keep up. Your breathing grew heavy, like the weight you’ve spent so long trying to lift off your shoulders came crashing down on you again. Yet, there’s a part of you inside that desperately wants to swing the door open, which only makes you angrier—that after all this time, your heart still fails you in the presence of him.

Despite the voices in your head screaming at you from every angle, your body betrays you. Fingers switch the locks and you’re pulling the door open, a small gust of wind following in its path.

Bucky Barnes looks different from the last time you saw him—in person, at least. You’ve seen the new prince charming hair and scruffy beard plenty of times on your television but after a while, his face grew harder to look at so you stopped paying attention. Something once familiar became foreign and you convinced yourself you accepted that.

But there he stands at your front door. Only he isn’t alone, because behind him are the rest of his team of bandits turned heroes; bruised, bloodied and battered.

For a second, you don’t think you’d be able to speak but then your mouth moves faster than your brain. “You’ve got to be fucking kidding me.”

It’s silent, and you’re pissed. The goddam Thunderbolts are at your front door in the middle of the night and none of them have the decency to speak. Not even the man who brought them there.

“Is this a joke?” You say, blinking.

Bucky, as if your words snap him out of some sort of daze, raises his chin. “Hi Y/N.”

His voice was as gruff and deep as you remember and the sound of his name rolling off your tongue triggers something you thought you’d long gotten rid of.

When you don’t respond, out of equal parts shock and anger, Bucky continues, “We’re on a mission and it hasn’t been going well. We need,” He pauses. “We need some place to stay. Just for the night.”

There was no way, you think. Maybe you passed out and hit your head, hard enough for your brain to conjure up this sadistic nightmare.

“Seriously?” You breathe, fingers clutching the door with an effort that makes your knuckles turn white.

Bucky opens his mouth but is unable to come up with any words—shame and guilt flickering in every corner of his eyes.

You use the silence to glance around at the other five strangers standing at your front door. They look like they’ve all gone through the ringer; dirty and exhausted. When your eyes land on hers—Yelena’s—your breath falters.

She looks exactly like Natasha under the harsh fluorescent light of your hallway, with a deep gash on her lip and those same rich blue eyes. She stares back at you, tired in a way that makes your heart hurt.

Suddenly, you felt like shit for contemplating slamming the door right in their faces.

When your eyes meet Bucky’s again, that thumping in your heart is undeniable—the one that reminds you of just how much he’d once meant to you, of how you would’ve pulled him inside without question had he knocked on your door years earlier. It was yelling at you to let him inside. Them.

Because that part of you, the one that once loved him and everything that came with him, wasn’t entirely gone. No matter how much you tried to get rid of her.

With a sharp inhale, you step to the side for them to walk through.

Bucky hadn’t expected you to. Of course, he knew the kind of person you once were but he didn’t know the kind of person you are now—you had every right to turn him away and yet, your apartment door was wide open.

His feet feel frozen in place. After a moment of waiting for him to move, and sharing confused glances when he didn’t, the rest of The Thunderbolts begin walking through your door giving you murmurs of appreciation.

Bucky was the last one to step inside.

He feels the energy shift the second he walks through the threshold of your apartment. He hasn’t been inside since the breakup—since the day he practically ripped your heart out with his hand and tried to move on like nothing had happened.

You hate the way he doesn’t bother to look around like the rest of his teammates because he already knows the apartment like the back of his hand. More so, you hate locking the door behind him because that makes the situation all the more real.

Clearing your throat, you spin around despite the fact that your brain still feels as if it’s melting. “I’m Y/N.” You don’t know why you bother telling them your name when surely he beat you to it.

“Oh, we know who you are.” The big man—Red Guardian, you think—laughs, a smile stretching across his face in admiration. “You are Avenger. I see you fight on television. Big fan.”

You blink. “Well, I’ve seen you all fight on TV too,” Your words are laced with bitterness and you resist the urge to side-eye Bucky in the process. “The New Avengers. That’s taken some getting used to.”

Everyone in the room can feel the tension between you and the man who stands near the archway of the hallway, attempting to remain out of the way.

They know you and Bucky used to be a thing, the whole world does. The details of said separation are unknown to most but people have their theories and the creation of The New Avengers is rumored to be one of them.

“For us too, believe it or not.” The woman with a short brown bob and thick accent steps forward. “Thank you for opening your home to us. I’m Ava.”

You give her a simple nod of acknowledgement before the room falls back into quiet.

Then, John Walker who leans against your wall cockily, clears his throat. Your head shoots towards him and you resist the urge you have to drop kick him out the window of your apartment.

You knew him, of course. You’d been there when Sam and Bucky took down the Flag Smashers, and when the same shield that once belonged to Captain America was dripping with blood on live television at the hands of the very man standing in your living room.

“Ma’am.” He nods, offering a mock salute.

“Right.” Your voice is clipped when you look everywhere but at him, disregarding him sassily.

“Is this,” an unsure voice interrupts. It belongs to the brunette man with the shy face whom you hadn’t heard speak until now. He stands near the side table, his hands tucked into the pockets of his jacket like he’s afraid of intruding by just asking. “Is this you?”

He’s looking at one of the various picture frames on the table, stopped in front of one in particular—a slightly worn photo in a gold frame. It’s of you, sitting cross legged on a rooftop during golden hour. You were laughing, with your head thrown back happily and wearing his sweatshirt that was slightly too big for you. The city behind you was blurry but glowing, making your smile look radiant.

You swallow. The laugh in the picture still echoes in your head and you remember every second up to that photo being taken.

Years ago, Bucky and you sat on the rooftop of a building in Prague. The two of you had been on a mission, a long and exhausting one where you’d figured you both needed a moment of peace among the chaos. On the roof, you watched the sunset together and you practically begged him to take a photo with you to commemorate the night. He refused nonchalantly, and you teased him that he’s never in any photos. He joked that he can never sit still long enough to take them.

“Gives me cramps.” He smiled.

You’d thought that was the funniest thing you’d heard all day. Your laugh was genuine, pure and sweet sounding in his ears as it bounced off the rooftop of the building. At the sight of your easy smile, Bucky lifted up his phone and snapped the photo. You’d scolded him for taking the candid without giving you a warning, but he absolutely loved it.

“‘M gonna frame this,” He stared at it in admiration between your laughter. “You’re so beautiful.”

“Bucky.” You’d whined, a flush gracing your face.

“Seriously.” He turned to you, eyes softening. “Always so damn beautiful.”

The next time he’d come into your apartment, the first thing he had done was place the framed photo on your table, insisting you keep this version because he’d already printed out one of his own.

Now, the picture sat still and quiet, collecting dust because it hadn’t been appreciated since he left.

“That’s me,” You confirm to the man. “A few years back on a mission. Someone told a joke and I guess I laughed hard enough to be worth remembering.”

He nods, a gentle smile on his face. “It’s a good picture. You look happy.”

You blink, the photo staring back at you almost mockingly. “I was.”

Bucky shifts on his feet where he stands the farthest away in the living room. He knows exactly what photo it is without even having to see it because it’s still the lockscreen on his phone, only he never lets people get close enough to question it.

The younger man’s gaze flickers up to you like he can sense the sadness you feel by looking at the photo. He steps towards you, offering you his hand meekly. “I’m Bob.”

Maybe it’s something about his face, or the attentiveness with which he holds himself, but you smile back—small and sweet. “Nice to meet you, Bob.”

You’re still holding Bob’s hand when another voice speaks from behind you. “You’re a lot quieter than I imagined.”

You twist around and there she is, staring at you with sharp but exhausted eyes.

“Yelena,” She says, stepping forward and offering her hand too. “Belova.”

You take it, her grip steady, and fight the urge to say that you already know who she is. It appears she caught onto the fact that you recognize something in her.

“Y/N.” You nod your head back, taking the moment to analyze her face because it looked so much like the one you’d grown to miss.

She swallows, eyes flickering between your own, like maybe she wishes she knew you like her older sister had. “I like your place. It smells like coffee and books.”

The comment makes you huff, a quiet and gentle laugh. “Thank you.”

When you pull your hand away, you take a moment to scan the room full of standing guests, waiting to be told what was appropriate of them by you, who was now their host. You rarely have people over anymore so you aren’t entirely sure how to do this. Your eyes linger in the direction where Bucky stands for only a second, before you clear your throat and shake him off of you.

“Can I get you guys anything?” You ask no one in particular.

“Change of clothes.” Yelena.

“Water.” John.

“A first aid kit.” Ava.

“Snacks, please.” Bob.

“Tequila.” Alexei.

A small “oh” leaves your mouth as The Thunderbolts speak over each other, staring at you with hesitant grins and eager eyes.

“Yeah,” You nod your head. “Uh, the bathroom's down the hall and the kitchen’s through those doors. I don’t have any tequila but I do have snacks, water, and vodka in the top left cupboard.

Alexei practically threw his fist in the air with a joyous, “Yes!”

Bob almost did too at the mention of free snacks.

“There’s also blankets in that basket right there and the remote for the TV is on the coffee table,” You explain, motioning around with your hands and entirely unaware of the way Bucky’s softened eyes fixate on you and your natural hospitality. “I’ll go get the first aid and clothes, but uhm, help yourself to anything. Except if you’re Walker, which in that case, you can sit on the couch and not speak.”

It was a sarcastic joke—one that earns a snort from Yelena and a soft chuckle from Ava. Even Bucky, who remains behind you at a far enough distance, feels his lips curl up in a grin.

“I deserve that.” John nods, plopping down on the couch with an exhausted huff, ultimately just happy to have somewhere safe and comfortable to rest for a little.

Bob and Alexei remain still, neither man wishing to overstep boundaries, especially yours, though they so desperately want to get into that kitchen. Sensing their eagerness, you nod towards the kitchen once more in reassurance. Both of them immediately set off for it, seemingly racing each other to see who can get to the goodies first.

You blink, shaking your head in what was still disbelief before twisting around on your feet to head towards the hallway. Unlucky for you, Bucky still leaned against the doorway to the hall and when your eyes meet his, you nearly freeze in your spot.

You almost forgot he was there.

After so long of him being gone, you eventually got used to not having his physical being pressed to the couch or sleeping in your bed. However, his presence straggled in every corner of your apartment, haunting you in a way that kept you up at night because of how strongly you felt it—felt him. The fact that he’s back inside feels extremely surreal, but something you’d secretly imagined for years whenever you looked at a photo of him for too long or smelled the lingering scent of his cologne on one of your pillows.

You open your mouth, as if you instinctively want to speak, but shut it equally as quickly. You have nothing to say to him. Not right now.

You can’t pinpoint when it starts to feel normal. Not entirely, but just enough so that the silence in your apartment isn’t uncomfortable anymore. Just enough that their boots by the front door and empty water glasses on the table don’t feel like clutter but rather, signs of life.

Maybe it’s when you toss back a shot with Red Guardian, because he insists it’s his way of saying thank you, and his laugh almost physically shakes the apartment with how happy he is to be “drinking with an actual Avenger!” Or when Ava and John sit on the couch, fighting over the remote and arguing about what movie they should watch for the night.

Maybe it’s when you catch Bob carefully folding up one of your throw blankets into a comfy square, before plopping on the ground to eat a granola bar like it was a five star meal. Or when Yelena clamors all over your kitchen in search of microwave popcorn and shortly gets distracted in a conversation with you about your makeup routines, so the first batch burns. You both laugh about it extensively and even more so when Alexei insists you let him eat it instead of throwing it out.

Or maybe, just maybe, it’s when Bob—sweet, innocent Bob—asks where your glasses are so he can get some water, and before you can even get up from your seat on the couch, Bucky’s already on his feet.

“Bottom cabinet, to the left of the sink.” He says over his shoulder, though he’s already halfway there.

You hesitate, lips parting like maybe you mean to say something but no words are capable of coming out. You merely watch him as he moves with ease–like he still belonged, like nothing has changed.

He doesn’t look at you either, not when he opens the cabinet and pulls out the glass without question. Not when he passes it off to Bob like it’s completely normal. Not when he walks right back to his seat on your arm chair in the corner of the room without so much as glancing in your direction.

Suddenly, you’re angry again–that same heat bubbling up in the middle of your chest and threatening to spew out with every second you spend staring at him.

How dare he? Your brain screams. How dare he float around your apartment after everything that happened? How dare he bring his team to the place where you live and just expect you to let them in? And how dare you be so completely and utterly helpless as to fall for it.

You curse yourself and your stupid heart; the one that still reserved a spot for him despite all that you’d done these past years to try and relinquish him. It was impossible to forget Bucky Barnes and you learned that the hard way. Even more so, it was impossible to unlove him. You realize this the more you look at him sitting, with his idiotically beautiful prince hair and uniform that he hasn’t bothered to change out of yet.

As if he could feel your eyes on him, he glances up from where he fiddles with a ring on his finger and your eyes meet for what feels like one too many times that night.

This time, though, you really can’t find it in yourself to look away. Not yet.

His breath hitches in his throat and you notice the way his body goes still under your gaze. He leans back in his seat, slowly but softly, like he’s tired and no longer wants to hide it from you. His tough, soldier demeanor falters for a second, his eyebrows softening at the distant expression in your face.

It was killing him inside, that he was this close to you physically, but so, so far away from you emotionally.

Bucky had been the one to call off your relationship around three years ago. After the whole ordeal with the Flagsmashers was over and Sam had finally gotten the shield back, you and Bucky had decided to move on together. He’d completed his book of amends, having made peace with all of the people he’d harmed and finally feeling like he’d made peace with himself.

The two of you were good–perfect, even—for months after that. You were settling down, taking things slowly, but beginning to live a life that didn’t always require missions every other day and constantly fighting off evil villains.

He’d practically moved in, falling asleep and waking up beside you in your bed, limbs tangled in the sheets like you could stay forever that way. He’d make you coffee in the morning after you’d smothered his face in kisses to wake him, then you’d spend all day together because you couldn’t bear to be a minute apart. You’d walk around town going to restaurants, or shops, or little book stores where he watched you scan the shelves with such admiration, you thought he might’ve jumped out of a romance novel himself.

He took you on dates and never once forgot flowers, no matter how many times you insisted you didn’t need that many bouquets of lilies. He’d stay up late with you while you binge watched one of your ridiculous reality shows, sitting behind you on the couch and pretending he wasn’t engaged though you knew he secretly loved it. He’d smile whenever you danced around the living room of your apartment while you were cleaning, and complained, but ultimately gave in when you’d tug him by the arm and insisted he slow danced with you too.

That was the life you’d dreamed of and just when the both of you started to get it, things began falling out of reach.

Bucky still struggled, hell, you did too, but adjusting to the simple life was a lot more difficult for him than it was for you. He’d still wake up with frequent nightmares where you’d then hold him until he felt safe enough to fall back to sleep in your arms. Sometimes he’d go silent, leave to get some fresh air and not come back for hours. When he did though, you’d always be waiting with a gentle hug and a warm cup of tea—ears open if he wished to speak about it, which he never really did.

Each time he felt like maybe he was getting better, he always fell back into old habits. You helped, of course. In fact, you were the only thing making him happy in his own life and the knowledge of that made Bucky overwhelmed with guilt.

He knew you wanted to settle down, wanted to slowly begin living a life of peace and quiet, with the occasional ‘saving the world mission’ here and there. Yet, he was worried you would never be able to achieve that tranquil lifestyle with him attached at your side. He was used to the chaos, to the noise and restlessness, so it was only a matter of time before he began feeling like one giant burden to you.

Your kindness, your hope, your ability to love without condition were all things that Bucky felt completely undeserving of—wonderful things that you were wasting on him. He’d felt selfish asking you to wait beside him while he tried to fix himself over and over again, so he convinced himself that letting you go was the most selfless thing he could do.

“Bucky,” You had stepped forward, with a frown and tears that threatened to spill over your waterline. “I just, I want to be here for you.”

“I know,” He nodded, trying his best to make you understand though he didn’t quite understand it himself. “But you shouldn’t have to. I don’t want to hold you back anymore. I don’t want you to keep bending yourself backwards for me, it’s not fair to you.”

“This isn’t fair to me,” You shook your head in disbelief. “I want to be with you. None of it bothers me, not if it means I get to have you, you know that right?”

“And what about the life you want to live?” He hummed, water brimming his own eyes. “I’m not going to be able to give you that–none of the peace or the quiet–not when I can barely go to sleep on my own without waking up from these fucked nightmares. There’s, just, so much more out there for you than this.”

Every word that slipped from his mouth was equivalent to someone taking a knife that was freshly sharpened and lodging it in your chest repeatedly. “So what,” You blinked up at him. “You’re gonna leave? After all of this, you want to leave because you think you’re too difficult?”

“Y/N, you don’t get sleep anymore because of me. You say it yourself, you’re so exhausted and it’s because of me. You stay up, waiting for me to come home and I feel like shit the moment I step through that door and see you still awake on the couch. It kills me that you feel like you have to do that, because you don’t and you shouldn’t. You shouldn’t have to wait for me anymore.” He continued.

“That doesn’t matter to me. I’ll do it, I’ll wait for you no matter what.” Your words come from your gut—genuine and determined. “When we started dating, I told you that I’d be here to take care of you regardless of the circumstances. I meant that because I love you too much to let you do this alone.”

“And I love you too much to drag you down with me.” He blurted, just as a stray tear rained down his cheek.

Your body faltered and you paused at the feeling of your heart crack away in your chest. The reality of the situation had weighed on you, and you needed a moment to catch up—to understand that Bucky was being serious.

Sure you’d argued before, over little things that you resolved with a second of alone time, some communication and a shared kiss. However, this didn’t feel like the sort of conversation that could be fixed with a kiss. The expression on Bucky’s face started to make you think that he had already made up his mind.

“So,” Your voice cracked. “So what, this is it? You’re just gonna leave after everything we've been through, after all the time we’ve spent here? This is your home.”

“And it was your home first.” He breathed. “You opened your door to me and so I came in, with all of my bullshit and problems. I intruded.”

“You did not intrude–”

“I did.” He pressed, sternly. “I don’t want to ruin this for you, I can’t. Not when you’re so bright, and full of life, and good. God, you’re so good, that I don’t want to be the one responsible for taking that away from you. You deserve better than me, better than this.”

Had your knees not locked, you thought you might’ve collapsed right there on the floor of your living room. It was a horrible dream, a sick one even. Except, the more you stared into the depths of his, once, vibrant ocean eyes to find them darkened to a storm blue, you realized just how real this was.

Bucky approached you slowly, his gentle hands finding their places on the sides of your hips, holding you up and simultaneously closer to him. “I’m sorry,” He whispered, it sounded more like a whimper past his devastated lips. “I’m so sorry.”

You sobbed almost immediately, dropping your head and letting it fall against his chest. He didn’t push you away, only wrapped his arms around you and held you like it was the last time he was going to—which in this case, it was.

It didn’t feel the same though. His grip was tight around you but his hold was loose, like he had already checked out by the time he’d placed his chin on top of your head and ran his hand down your back in comfort. Regardless, you savoured the moment, melted into it for as long it took to commit his touch to memory. Unfortunately for you, the feeling of his skin on yours would linger like a tattoo for all the years that he’d be away.

Your sadness was shortly accompanied by anger, a feeling completely foreign to you, especially around the man you loved. You were wiggling out of his grasp, and pushing him by the chest to increase the distance between the two of you.

He watched with knitted eyebrows as you wiped the tears off of your face on the sleeves of the hoodie you wore—one that belonged to him. You tried to regulate your breathing, make it as leveled as you could so you could spit out the words, “Fine. Go.”

This time, it was Bucky who felt like he’d just gotten stabbed in the chest.

“If giving up on our relationship is easier for you than sticking around, there’s no reason for you to be here anymore.” You hiss, sudden resentment dripping off of your tongue.

You had every reason in the world to be upset about this, he knew this. He also knew that it was hypocritical of him to be hurt by your words because this was his doing, after all. He deserved this, he reminded himself, your anger and your hatred as opposed to your patience and love. Because Bucky’s days as The Winter Soldier had trained him to be unloveable–to be cruel, and sad, and lonely. That was all he knew and sometimes, he felt it was all he was made for.

“Go.” You snapped when he couldn't find the dignity to move his legs. “Please. Just, please get the hell out, and don’t come back.”

With an empty void where his heart should be, Bucky left that night, for good this time. He didn’t quietly enter again at two in the morning to be greeted by the love of his life carrying a warm cup of freshly brewed tea. He didn’t climb into your bed with you so you could comb your fingers through his hair and lull him to sleep. As much as he wanted to, he didn’t because he knew the distance was the only thing good for you. It was the only thing that would keep you free from him.

That distance held true for three years. No matter how many times you’d see him on your television, whether it was under the guise of Congressman Barnes or now, New Avenger Bucky, you never once ran back to him. It was something you’d thought about many times because god, you missed him more than you’d missed anything in your life, but you weren’t going to fall victim to your own heart.

Instead, he eventually ran back to you–standing at your front door with his new team, his new friends, his new priorities. None of which involved you. Up until the moment he needed a place to stay for the night.

Your attention finally flickers away as you turn back to the rest of The Thunderbolts that gathered in your living room despite the fact that it was well past midnight. Yelena, who sits beside you on the armrest of the couch, immediately jumps into storytime about what went wrong on their mission that resulted in them camping out at your place.

Alexei however, sprawls out on the floor with a small bowl of trail mix in his lap, tossing back peanuts into his mouth like a sport. His focus seems to be on Bucky. With a curious head tilt, he asks during a pause in Yelena’s story, “What’s up with this guy?”

The room falls into a beat of silence and all eyes flicker over to the super soldier, including yours, but you look away faster than any of them can notice.

“What?” Yelena hums.

“He has not said anything at all for the past hour.” Alexei continues.

“He doesn’t talk much, you know this.” Ava shrugs simply.

“Yeah, but he is talking a lot less than usual.”

Bucky inhales, leaning back in his seat and offering the room a small but sarcastic smile. “Just tired. Long day.”

The Thunderbolts nod in agreement, all except for Alexei who tilts his head between you and Bucky curiously. “Well, there is an elephant in this room and I think it is very big.”

“Dad.” Yelena hisses, nudging him in his foot with her own.

Your body tenses on the spot and you swallow the lump in your throat harshly.

“What? I am just curious,” He says genuinely. “They were a thing, no? Her and Barnes?”

As badly as you want to chuck one of your throw pillows directly at the Red Guardian’s head, it’s clear to tell that he was sincerely asking. He’s horrible at reading the room though, you’d give him that.

“There is a time and place,” Yelena mumbles under her breath. “We talked about this, remember?”

“I think this is the place,” he argues. “It feels so heavy in here, like I am crushed.”

You don’t want to look up to catch Bucky’s reaction to his teammate’s words, though you were sure it mimicked your own. Desperately needing to put an end to whatever this was, you straighten your shoulders in an attempt to be casual.

“It wasn’t really a thing,” You say lightly, like it’s not a carefully crafted lie. “We worked together for a long time, that’s all.”

A beat.

“So it was not anything more?” Alexei continues, in between crunches of trail mix. “Because I watched the news and the news said you were dating. But it can be wrong, the news can be wrong.”

Your stomach was churning quickly, like your ribs were bruising from the inside out. You hated talking about it because the wound was still fresh, like a cut that never scabbed over properly.

“We were partners who got close, but that's it. It was work, ” You respond simply, reaching for your glass of water like it would save you from this confrontation. “That’s all it ever was.”

And it hurts to say it like that—to minimize everything that once was between you, but it was the one thing you learned how to do since he left. It made the loss of him easier to manage.

Alexei, finally seeming to have caught on, frowns into his snack bowl and mutters something under his breath about Americans being too vague. Bob clears his throat, totally uncomfortable by the silence and tension, just like Ava and John who focus their attention on the television screen though it was obvious they were thinking about something else. Yelena gives you a small glance–not pitying, but knowing.

Bucky doesn’t say a word, but his hand is curled tight around the glass he sips from, so much so that his knuckles have gone completely white.

It pains him, so much more than he’d like to show on his face, to hear you diminish your relationship to simply business. Because he remembers it all; the early mornings and late nights, the dates and bouquets of unnecessary flowers, the slow dances in the very same living room you were gathered in. Despite having been the one to walk out, he thought about those moments every day of his life and it killed him to know that it was all just passing to you.

In your peripheral vision, you catch it; the way he gazes at the floor like if he stares at it long enough, he might just be able to sink right into it—the look on his face as if he’s watching the life he could’ve had disappear all over again.

The damage had been done and while it should’ve felt like a weight lifting off of your shoulders to say, it only makes your lungs close up even more. Your breathing begins to feel dense and the longer you sit in the living room, the more it feels like its walls are closing in on you.

You push yourself off of the couch to turn towards Bob on the ground and hold your hand out for his empty glass. “You want a refill, Bob?”

Truthfully, he doesn’t but he notices the desperation in your expression for a way out so he nods his head quickly.

You take his glass and set off towards the kitchen. The second you step inside, you immediately put the cup down to grip the edge of the counter. Dropping your head, you close your eyes and try to regulate your breathing but your chest is so heavy, it almost feels impossible.

You feel ridiculous for letting this bother you as much as it was, but how could it not? You’re trying so hard to fight the collapse of the walls around your heart but, god, they’re shaking. Buckling. Breaking. It’s only a matter of time before they crumble completely under the weight of every memory you’ve tried to keep buried.

Why does it hurt so much? Why does it still hurt so much?

You want to cry, your throat burning with the pressure of holding it all back. You inhale a deep breath, one that rattles on the way down. You keep your palms flat against the countertop, like maybe if you hold onto it hard enough, it might keep you from crashing to the ground.

A creak sounds from the floor behind you, soft and careful, indicating that someone has stepped into the kitchen.

“Are you okay?” Yelena’s raspy voice asks.

You don’t turn around right away, but open your eyes with a heavy breath. “Yeah.”

The lie was weak and perfectly unoriginal. Yelena doesn’t call you out for it. She just waits, unmoving.

Finally glancing over your shoulder, you see her—arms crossed over her chest as she leans against the doorframe, watching you with equal parts sympathy and intrigue.

“I feel like an idiot.” You admit, wearing your feelings right on your sleeve. “When I saw him at that door, it was like everything came rushing back and, and I couldn’t do anything but let him in. God, I’m so pathetic.”

“You are not pathetic.” Yelena tilts her head.

“Yes I am.”

“No,” She steps forward with knitted eyebrows. “You are not.”

The two of you stare at each other for a moment. When you can’t find the words to speak, she exhales a soft breath.

“We were in deep shit on this mission,” She explains. “Bucky told us he knew a friend who might be able to help but I had no idea that it’d be you. I don’t think he was even sure you would be willing, but you were the first person he thought of anyways. You didn’t have to open the door but you did because you’re good. Doesn’t sound pathetic to me.”

The admission makes your head pound and you nearly wince at the ache you feel around your temples.

Yelena watches you lean against the counter, your eyes darting around as if searching for an answer that wasn’t there. She swallows and asks cautiously, “What happened with you two?”

You bite the inside of your cheek, the sensation of lingering tears itching the back of your throat. You hate talking about it, but it’s been so long since anyone bothered to ask, that you think you might be able to get through it this time.

“It was his idea,” You say with a shaky breath. “To end things.”

Yelena doesn’t respond right away, doesn’t push—she just gives you room as your gaze fixates on the tiled floor, like it might offer you some clarity.

“He told me I deserved better,” You continue, the bitterness in your soft voice laced with sadness rather than spite. “That I was too good. Didn’t want to hold me back, or burden me. He said he wanted me to live a life where I wasn’t constantly trying to pull him out of the dark.”

Yelena’s gaze is quiet, unflinching as you move to sit across from her at the table with a sigh.

“The worst part about it is, I don’t even think I fought hard enough. I mean, yeah, I begged and I cried but, then I just got mad,” Your brows furrow as you recall the memory, like it physically pains you to do so. “I let him leave—I made him, and he did it like it was the easiest thing he’s ever done.”

You finally look up to meet her eyes.

“So yeah,” you say. “I’m still so angry. Angry that he left and found a new group of people to rely on, angry that I let him and didn’t fight harder for us, angry that I still—”

You stop yourself short, the words halting in your throat because saying them out loud terrified you.

Yelena blinks, softly nodding her head in understanding. “You still love him.”

Hearing her say the exact thing you were thinking makes the back of your eyes sting with tears that have been hiding themselves all night. You pause for a second, because she’s right, and you can’t stand it.

“I remember everything, Yelena. Every single fucking thing and I hate that I do.”

Yelena leans closer on the table, catching your eyes with sincerity. “He remembers too.”

You pause, breath tight in your throat.

“He never talks about it, but I can tell, we all can.” She continues gently. “There’s this bracelet—gold and braided with a star charm—you made that for him, didn’t you?”

Swallowing, you nod, remembering the one night where Bucky couldn’t sleep and you’d insisted on staying up with him, claiming you could do crafts to pass the time. He taught you how to make little animals out of origami and you taught him how to make friendship bracelets.

“He still wears it. Everyday, on every mission.” She explains. “The other day he forgot his phone on the kitchen counter. I tapped it to check the time and that photo of you, the one Bob saw in your living room, it’s still his wallpaper.”

You think your heart might give out right then and there. A single tear drops from your eyes and you dig your nails so far into the skin on your palm, it’s enough to make you bleed.

“Y/N,” Yelena speaks softly, reaching out to carefully place her hand on top of yours. “I do not think he has ever stopped thinking about you—loving you.”

This time, more tears fall before you have the chance to hold them back. Softly, you let Yelena unclench your fists so she can slip her hand into yours to hold.

“Then why did he leave?” You whisper between a small sob.

Yelena frowns, shaking her head. She didn’t have the answer.

You did though, so it was silly you even had to ask.

The night Bucky left replays in your head like a film reel, and his words echo in every corner of your brain.

“I love you too much to drag you down with me.”

It was ironic, you thought, because you’d only started drowning when you were without him. He was not your anchor but rather your life jacket—pulling you out of the deep end when you got too tired to swim. These last three years without him were the longest moments you’ve ever spent with your head submerged underwater.

When he left, you sank all over again.

The quiet chatter has slowly dissipated to a still, and the only noise comes from the gentle hum of the television.

From where you sit in the corner of the couch, you glance around the room at the silence. On the couch, Yelena lays with her head on your lap and her feet tangled with Ava’s, whose sleeping figure matches Yelena’s on the opposite end. Near your feet on the floor was Bob, resting comfortably on top of one of your throw pillows. The rest of the floor is occupied by Alexei and John, who sprawl out with outstretched limbs—Alexei face down as if he’d just passed out from a three day bender, and John using his backpack to rest his head because he refused when you’d offered him a pillow.

You let yourself glance briefly in Bucky’s direction, where he still sits on the armchair in the dark corner of the room. You can make out the silhouette of his fully clothed figure. His head leans back towards the ceiling, a tell he had to be sleeping.

While you don’t want to risk waking any of them up, you’re beginning to grow uncomfortable squished on the couch.

Gently, you lift up Yelena’s head just enough to tuck a throw pillow beneath it so she doesn't recognize your absence. Slipping off of the couch, you adjust her head atop it, brushing a stray strand of hair out of her face to as she hums in delight before sinking further into the pillow.

Reaching into the wicker basket beside the couch, you unfold a fleece blanket and delicately drape it over Bob who’s curled up like a ball. He, too, makes a soft noise of satisfaction, and you swear he mumbles something under his breath that you can’t make you.

Of course he talks in his sleep. You can’t help but smile to yourself at the observation.

Twisting around, you step over John’s feet and over towards Alexei, whose snores are so deep, he seems to grumble with each step you take. With a hushed chuckle, you pick up the bowl of trial mix beside his body so he doesn’t knock it over in his sleep.

Backing away slightly, you falter in admiration at the scene before you. Your apartment has never been this full and you can’t remember the last time you had people over besides that time you hosted dinner for Joaquin Torres and Sam Wilson. Other than that, you’re always by yourself.

Except for tonight.

The team of heroes occupy so much space in your living room, it makes the walls feel less empty—less sad. Regardless of how you felt about them before they entered the threshold of your apartment, you knew how you feel about them now. They’re chaotic, and messy, and unbelievably new to this whole “working as a team” thing, but in the few hours that they’ve kept you company in your place, they’ve offered you more joy and comfort than you’ve experienced in a while.

Beside you, Bucky shifts in his seat. He’s been wide awake the entire time—enough to see you give Yelena the pillow and Bob the blanket, enough to watch you observe his team with a soft, longing expression. The same one he carried whenever he looked at you for too long.

It was endearing, to say the least. To watch you care for his team like they were your own, despite not knowing any of them at all. You’ve always been that way—sweet, nurturing, and just plain kind. It makes Bucky’s heart swell, knowing that at least you didn’t lose that part of yourself when he left.

At the sound of movement, you glance in his direction and, once again, your body tenses at the sight.

“I didn’t know you were awake.” You say quietly, before your brain really registers you’re speaking to him.

He replies, “I couldn’t sleep.”

Blinking, you nod quickly before moving to carefully pick up the empty water glasses from the table. “Me either.”

You struggle to gather all of the cups so Bucky pushes himself out of the seat and moves to help you—against his inner monologue that tells him you’d likely be much happier if he sat down and didn’t move at all.

“It’s okay,” You stutter. “I’ve got it.”

“No, it’s alright, I’ll help.” He answers, picking up the remaining cups that you can’t.

You try to swallow the lump forming in your throat but it’s nearly impossible as you spin around to walk towards the kitchen, and Bucky follows hot on your trail. It’s silent when you place the glasses in the sink and you hate how natural it feels to watch Bucky do the same.

“I can clean these when I get up tomorrow,” Bucky nods. “Before we leave.”

“No, it’s fine.” You shake your head.

“I’ll just do it real quick so you don’t—”

“Seriously,” You interrupt more sternly this time as you finally look at him. “It’s fine, don’t worry about it.”

He visibly swallows at your harshness, but nods nonetheless.

Then the two of you fall back into an odd quiet, where neither of you know what to say to each other but both understand that a conversation was inevitable from the moment he walked inside.

Blinking, you motion towards the sleeping bunch in your living room. “They’re, uhm,” You say. “They’re really great.”

Bucky purses his lips at the casualness with which you speak. “Yeah, they try.”

“Even Walker,” You continue, grabbing a towel to wipe down the counter because you so desperately need something to do with your hands. “He seems different.”

“He is.” Bucky nods, watching you intently. “I think we all are.”

His words have double meaning, this you know, and you hate the way you want to press him for details. Instead, you bite the inside of your cheek and focus on the counter you were cleaning.

Bucky knows he has to talk to you—keep the conversation going—because he knows this is the only opportunity he might get. It really is now or never.

“I’m sorry for asking you that favor.” Bucky says suddenly, sincerity laced in his soft but gruffly voice. “For showing up unannounced.”

You nearly pause, your knuckles squeezing the towel in your hand like it was the only force keeping you on earth. “Would you have shown up announced?” You ask, your words holding a hint of hostility.

Bucky stills. “Y/N,” He breathes, his voice just above a whisper, like he can read all of the sarcasm you speak with.

He watches you intently with a burning desire to fix all of the wrong he’d caused that day he left—to mend what was broken between the two of you because he’s not sure he can live anymore knowing you’re angry with him.

You shake your head quickly because not only was it stupid to have this conversation in the kitchen where a few feet away, his entire team slept, but also, you were petrified of the words that were going to leave his mouth once the two of you finally worked up the courage to talk it out.

“Bucky,” You breathe.

He pauses, waiting for you to go on.

Only you don’t. Instead, your eyes flicker down to the uniform he still has on. With a sudden blink and a change of demeanor, you tilt your head. “Do you want to change clothes?”

He pauses. “I didn’t bring any.”

You don’t know why you suddenly cared whether or not he was comfortable in his clothes. A lot of things, you notice, got confusing when you were around him.

“I,” You pause, hating yourself for thinking of what you were. Deciding it would simply be way easier to do instead of say, you twist around on the balls of your feet and begin walking down the hallway towards your room.

Bucky blinks, until you glance over your shoulder at him.

“C’mere.” You say quietly, your suggestion soft in his ears, whether you intend it to be or not.

His feet move faster than his brain can even process. His head gets foggy as he maneuvers through the hallway. He knew exactly where he’s going because he’d been to your room so many times before in the past. It almost made him sick to his stomach when he realizes that’s where you’re taking him.

When you turn that corner into your bedroom, Bucky stops just outside the doorframe. He glances inside, immediately overwhelmed by the familiarity of it all. It’s practically exactly as it was when he’d walked out that day, reminding him of just how much he’d left behind—a happiness he’d pulled out from right under your feet.

He watches you rummage through your closet, reaching high onto a shelf in search of something. You mindlessly glance in his direction, chest clenching at the way he stands frozen outside of the threshold. He's too afraid to step foot inside which is so weird, because the Bucky you knew once took up space in this room like it was his own.

Tugging down two articles of clothing from the shelf, you twist back to him and hold them out. “Here.” You say. “You left these here.”

The navy blue hoodie and black sweats are folded neatly in your outstretched hands in such a way that almost makes them look brand new. Only they aren’t. You wore them for months after he left because it felt better to sleep in his clothes than it did your own.

Bucky looks from your face and back down to the clothes. He doesn’t want to step forward to grab them—feeling entirely undeserving of walking back into your room after all this time. But you aren’t going to him. So you stand frozen in the middle of your room, waiting for the moment he musters up the courage to come inside and retrieve them himself.

Eventually, his feet make their way slowly over to you, taking the clothes with a gentle ease. He can’t figure out what to say so he gives you a small nod of appreciation before turning back around, heading down the rest of the hall towards the bathroom.

Without him in the room, you’re finally able to take a deep breath. It’s shaky and long as it leaves your chest like you've been holding it all night.

You can’t stand it but somewhere deep down, this entire ordeal feels normal. You’re beginning to realize just how much you’ve missed it—missed him, and that thought alone keeps you wide awake because if being awake means more time with him before he leaves all over again, you’d have to take it.

Minutes pass of you bouncing your leg up and down where you sit on the edge of your bed, when the bathroom door clicks open and a newly changed Bucky emerges. It makes your stomach twist into a pretzel, to see him in the same hoodie you wore that day he left.

You press your hands into your knees, hesitating even more at how ridiculously good he looks in it. “Are you,” You hum. “Are you alright?”

Don’t ask that, I don’t deserve it, was what he wanted to say but he merely nods as he lingers in your door’s threshold again. “Why’d you keep them?”

Swallowing, you shrug. “I was gonna set them on fire, but the hoodie was too comfortable.”

For the first time that night, the corners of Bucky’s lips almost twist up into a smile. “Really?”

“Really.” You nod, glancing at him when he leans against the doorframe with his arms crossed. “That and, I guess I always hoped you’d just come back to get them.”

Bucky falters with an expression that you can’t quite read. A silence washes over the two of you before he exhales, “I wanted to.”

“Did you?”

“I did.”

“Okay.” You hum sarcastically.

Bucky purses his mouth shut with a tilt of his head. “Y/N,”

“You know what,” You say with squinted eyes. “I don’t actually believe that, like at all, but it’s fine. Doesn’t matter to me anymore.”

“Why?” Bucky breathes. “Why don’t you believe it?”

“Because you left, Bucky!” You snap, your anger finally cutting through the surface after brewing all night. “You left and we never spoke again. I waited for you for months—to call or to text but you never did, so yeah, maybe I did believe you’d come back at some point but then I just got tired of waiting.”

“You moved on.” Bucky points out. “That’s good, that’s what you were supposed to do.”

“Yeah, except I didn’t.” You huff, pushing yourself off of the bed to glare at him. “You left because you wanted me to be happy but I wasn’t happy, I’m still not. The life you wanted me to live for myself was only possible if I lived it with you.”

Bucky’s face tightens in guilt as you let your words slip from your tongue.

“Then, I have to watch you on my television screen with your new team, the new people you have to take care of, and it kills me inside.” You don’t bother wiping away the stray tear that slides down your cheek. You look up at him, dead in the eyes and ask, “Are you happy?”

The question catches him off guard. He steps into your room with hesitancy, maintaining his distance but needing to be close to you to shake his head.

You nearly wince as you watch his face contort into a sadness much similar to your own.

“Not happy in the way I was when I was with you.”

The words are genuine, making your ears ring in disbelief. You swallow, but the lump in your throat feels like it might be permanently stuck.

“I have never been the same since the moment I walked out that day. I thought I was doing the right thing, I swore I was,” He admits. “I threw myself into work because I believed that somehow it would make up for what I was missing, but I learned right away that none of this could ever fill the gap that you left.”

You don’t seem to notice when you instinctively take a step closer, your body drawn to his as if your hearts were magnetized.

“You followed me everywhere, Y/N,” He exhales a defeated breath. “There were so many times when I just wanted to run back here, back to you, but I couldn’t because I figured you’d be doing better without me—without my burden.”

“You were never a burden.” You add, shaking your head with a furor you hope makes him understand. “Neither were any of your problems or trauma, and I hate that you think you were. I took care of you because that’s what you do when you love someone.”

Bucky takes a step closer too, though neither of you seem to notice with the way your eyes are trained on the other pair.

“Love someone?” He asks, his voice the most quiet and careful you’ve heard it all night.

It took years, and Bucky Barnes standing in front of you again, to finally admit it: you did still love him. What you felt for Bucky had never been surface level affection. You loved him desperately, like he was the air you needed to breathe and the light against all of the darkness that you’d hid from your whole life.

Loving him had never been easy. It came with deeply shared fears and anxiety of vulnerability and closeness. Though, you never desired an easy love anyways. You wanted a love that was complex and passionate, where obstacles were something you could leap over together if your relationship was built on a foundation of sincere care and respect.

Your love for him was so rooted in your veins, you always believed that your souls were destined to merge—surpassing time and change. You knew for a fact that you’d love him no matter how far apart the two of you were; your heart was his across states, countries, planets, timelines.

There was a vast multiverse out there, much bigger than your brain could even comprehend, and you were positive you loved Bucky Barnes in every single one of them.

“Love.” You nod, the most confident you’ve been about anything in years. “I’ve always loved you, James. I’ve never been able to stop.”

The sound of his name on your lips makes his heart swell, desperately wanting to jump out of his chest and towards you—where it knew it’d finally be at home.

Bucky can no longer deny the way he feels either, only he’s never really been able to. He loved you like you were the only thing on this planet of any importance. Sam saw it, Yelena saw it, hell, so did the rest of the goddamn world. He’d never been the same since he left and nothing ever felt right, not until he stepped back into your apartment where the walls remembered him and whispered stories of memories he’d never forgotten.

He lets out a shaky exhale. “I messed up so badly.”

“I did too.” You nod. “I shouldn’t have let you leave, I should’ve tried harder to-”

“No, hey, no,” Bucky shakes his head immediately, stepping forward so you two are the closest you’ve been in years. His fingers brush against yours, and when you don’t flinch away, he links his pinky with your own. “None of this was your fault, don’t blame yourself. I fucked up, I’m the one who left. This is not on you.”

You remain quiet, the small act of physical contact rendering you speechless.

“You were on my mind everyday. Whenever I got up to speak at congress, whenever I did press for the team, on every mission, every late night and early morning,” He whispers, eyes scanning your face like it was the first time he was getting the privilege of looking at you. “I hate myself for making that decision for you, for thinking we’d be better off. You were my world, still are.”

Everything comes flooding back, the walls around your heart breaking like a dam that was doomed to fall from the beginning. You want to cry, want to break down right there in his arms and hope the Bucky you still knew would be there to hold you.

“I can’t change what I did, but I can tell you what I want to do,” He goes on, hand coming up cautiously to cup the side of your face. “I want to love you all over again, the right way this time. I will spend the rest of our lives trying to rebuild what I tore down, if you’ll let me, and I promise to do better this time and give you whatever it is you want—”

“I want you.” You interrupt. “All of you. I want to know how you’re feeling or the things that keep you up at night because I want to be the one to help you through them. Don’t hide yourself from me.”

Bucky swallows at the desperation in your tone. How lucky was he to have your unconditional care once, and then all over again now, even if he still feels like he doesn’t deserve it. You’re still too good—far too good for him—but this time, he’s determined to be just the same for you.

“I promise.” He nods, his thumb rubbing your cheek like you’re a porcelain doll he’s afraid of breaking.

You place your own hand on his hand cupping your face, before running your other hand through his beautifully blown out hair. He grunts out a soft noise of delight, one that makes your stomach twist.

“God, I’ve missed you so much.” He says.

This almost doesn’t feel real; his touch or the words that leave his mouth, but it is—he is. He’s unbelievably real beneath your fingertips and it suddenly feels like you’re falling in love all over again as you stare at him.

“You came to me first.” You hum, your voice just above a whisper. “Yelena told me.”

Bucky lets out a small chuckle but his eyes still hold traces of disbelief, like he can’t fathom you’re running your hands through his hair the way you are. “She did?”

“Mhm.” A smile begins to curl its way onto your lips, one you can’t deny.

“She’s a rat.” He grumbles, his hands dropping to your waist to gently run his palms over your sides.

“She’s sweet,” You correct, reaching down to grab his non-metal arm and gently pull his sleeve up, revealing the bracelet on his wrist. “And she also told me you still wear this.”

Bucky watches your fingers run over the braided material before his eyes flicker back up to you. “I’ve never taken it off.”

Your gaze meets his soft blue eyes where you can read the longing all over them. It’s been so long since you've seen it and yet, it’s still capable of sending a cacophony of butterflies through your stomach like something out of a dream sequence.

“I love you.” He says out of the blue.

The three words have your breath hindering in your throat.

“I’ve loved you every moment I was here and every moment I wasn’t.”

You don’t know what to say, how to express how much you reciprocate that love, so before you have the opportunity to think about it, you stand up on your toes and press your lips against his.

Bucky wastes no time. He wraps his arms further around your waist and tugs you closer to his chest. With your hands placed on the sides of his neck, you sink deeper into the kiss.

Kissing him feels just like it had all those years ago. It’s warm just like you remember it to be but more passionate, if that’s even possible. For Bucky, kissing you is still sweet but delicate in a way that reminds him of just how lucky he was to be able to press his lips against yours.

You kiss each other with a burning desire to make up for all the lost time, to fill the gap of what was once missing between the two of you—not lost but something simply misplaced. The two of you wished to stay forever that way, and maybe now you would.

“I fucking knew it.” A voice whisper shouts from the frame of your open door.

Pulling apart, you and Bucky both turn your heads in the direction of the hallway. Yelena stands with her hands in the pockets of your sweatpants, a knowing smirk stretching across her face.

You look down like you just got caught doing something you shouldn’t have, all while biting back your smile. Bucky’s face turns red and he purses his lips with a small nod. He side-eyes you as you cover your mouth with your hand, suppressing your small hysterical giggles. Your laughter made him grin helplessly, and he squeezed your hand, gently moving closer to your side where he intended to stay for good.

Yelena smiles. “Ava owes me twenty bucks.”

3K notes · View notes

lethallyprotected · 17 days ago

Text

Halfway to Saying It

Pairing: Roommate!Bucky x Reader

Summary: You agree to a date with another guy to forget about the boy you’ve loved forever, only to acknowledge that your heart keeps finding its way back to him.

Word Count: 8.3k

Warnings: pining; emotional hurt/comfort; unresolved feelings; self-worth worries; perceived unrequited love; jealous!Bucky; sad!Bucky; two idiots in love

Author’s Note: This took me a while to write and post, but now it’s here, so please bear with me. It’s part of my little roommate series A Window Open to the Moon, but can be read as a standalone. And y’all, these two are idiots here, I’m not even exaggerating. But they’re idiots in love, and I’ll be honest, this could be me lmao. Anyway, I hope you’ll enjoy ♡

Series Masterlist | Masterlist

“I’m feedin’ the cat.”

Bucky’s voice sounds like he is announcing something so important it should have come with a press conference.

You’re standing in the doorway of the kitchen, a half-empty iced coffee sweating in your hand, the strap of your bag still hanging off one shoulder. You’re not even sure why you came in here. To tell him, you think. Because you always tell him things. Even the stupid ones. Especially the stupid ones.

And this might be the stupidest thing yet.

“He asked me while I was waiting for my order,” you continue softly. “Said he liked my sweater.”

Bucky still doesn’t look at you. He’s bent over Alpine’s dish as though he is performing surgery, shaking dry kibble into the bowl with intense concentration, as if getting the measurement right might save a life.

The tiny white kitten trots up on quiet feet, tail high, and starts crunching away.

“I’m feedin’ the cat,” he mutters again, scooping out the tiniest bit of pâté as though it is a peace offering.

“You said that already.”

“Still true.”

You chew on your bottom lip, watching his broad back and how his shirt pulls at the shoulders when he moves.

“And, um,” you keep going. “I said yes.”

His hand stills mid-pour.

There is a pause. A second. Maybe two.

Bucky is still crouched there, as though Alpine’s lunch is the most emotionally taxing task of the century. As though he isn’t listening, but you know he is. Bucky always listens, even when he doesn’t want to.

You cross your arms, trying not to feel the cold silence between you. You try to fill it.

“He was nice. Funny. A little awkward, but sweet.”

Nothing.

You blink. A small laugh slips past your lips, a little uncertain. He doesn’t look up. Doesn’t make a joke like he usually would. You watch the way his jaw shifts, that muscle in his cheek ticking just barely, and for some reason it makes your stomach flutter in the wrong kind of way.

“Sounds great, doll.” He sounds distant. Bucky gives Alpine a little scratch behind the ears. She mewls softly, nuzzling his fingers as though she tries to reassure him.

“I’m not gonna marry him or anything,” you add with a nervous chuckle, because now you feel ridiculous. You wish you hadn’t said anything.

With a grunt, he scoops another time.

“Buck, I think she’s had enough.”

“Nah,” he says, but his voice is quieter. “She’s small. She’s still growin’.”

He won’t look at you. That’s the part that starts to hurt. Really hurt. Bucky always meets your eyes, always smirks a little, always throws you some teasing quip that makes your chest ache in the most confusing ways. But he’s not doing any of that.

“You okay?” you ask softly.

His head tilts just slightly. Still facing Alpine. He shrugs one shoulder and it seems the movement costs him something. “Yeah. Why wouldn’t I be?”

“I don’t know,” you answer quietly. “You tell me.”

The sound of Alpine’s chewing seems almost exaggerated now, as though she is mocking you with tiny, delicate crunches.

“He really seemed nice,” you offer, unsure who you’re trying to convince.

“Hm.”

“He has a rescue dog named Harold.”

“A real winner.”

You pause.

“Bucky.”

He stands. Slowly. Still doesn’t look at you.

The kitchen is too quiet, too warm. The sunlight is cutting across the counter in slanted golden lines, hitting the edge of the fridge where you stuck a magnet that says Do not eat my leftovers unless you wanna lose a finger. His handwriting. Sharpie. Bold strokes.

He finally turns, arms folded across his chest, his hair a little messy in the front as though he’s been raking a hand through it. His grey shirt fits him too well and he’s wearing those flattering pajama pants and socks with tiny cartoon bananas on them.

The domesticity of him hurts your feelings.

“So,” he acknowledges, voice too level. “You’re going on a date.”

You try to smile, and it feels crooked on your face. “Yeah.”

“When?”

“Tonight.”

He nods. One of those tight, one-second-too-long kind of nods.

“That’s great,” he says, and it is, objectively, the worst lie anyone has ever told.

You tilt your head at him.

He looks down at Alpine’s bowl, which now contains enough for a three-course meal and a snack for later.

He leans down to pick up a kibble Alpine flung on the tile and you watch him fuss with the bowl as though it holds the answer to every question he’s too scared to ask.

She has enough food in her dish to survive at least three mild apocalypses. One more scoop and she might unionize.

You lean your hip against the doorframe, iced coffee sloshing in your hand. “You know, I think she’s good, Buck. Pretty sure she’s full.”

Bucky shrugs again. His favorite gesture when he doesn’t want to tell you something. And he doesn’t. Not always. His silences can be long, sleepy rivers you’re always tempted to wade into, just to see if he’ll pull you under or let you drown in the quiet.

“I’m makin’ sure.”

You raise an eyebrow at him.

Bucky sighs. Scratches the back of his neck as though it itches with something.

You look at him for a long moment. Let yourself really look. He won’t really meet your eyes which means you can see everything else. The way his jaw keeps tightening, loosening. The faint pink blooming high on his cheeks like embarrassment is trying to sneak out of him. The way his fingers twitch as though they want to do something - as though he is trying to put the world back in order but keeps dropping all the pieces.

“I didn’t think you’d say yes,” he remarks eventually, and it comes out too fast. Too quiet. As though maybe he didn’t mean to say it at all.

Your heart gives a little jolt. Stupid thing. Useless thing. Always hoping.

“Why not?”

He shrugs, fiddling with a spoon for no reason at all. “I dunno. Just- Never thought you were into that type.”

You raise a brow. “You don’t even know what type he is.”

“I can guess.”

You keep your arms crossed. “And what do you think my type is?”

And Bucky looks at you. Right into you. And there is something like grief in his expression. As though you dropped a stone in his stomach and now it’s sinking, dragging the rest of him down with it. “Not guys who can’t spell their own name without checking their Instagram bio.”

You snort. “You don’t even know if he’s that kind of guy, Buck.”

“Again,” he repeats flatly. “I can guess.”

You bark out a laugh, mostly because it’s that or burst into tears. “Wow. Harsh.”

He grins, just for a second, and you want to wrap it in tissue paper and tuck it in a drawer. Keep it safe. Look at it later.

There is a pause. Long and soft. The kind where breathing feels like breaking the rules.

You pick at your fingers. “He just asked. I thought - maybe I should say yes. Try something new.”

Bucky nods again. Slower this time. “Yeah,” he states, voice low. “Makes sense.”

He then he watches Alpine - sweet, nosy, manipulative Alpine - as she rubs up against his ankle and then immediately loses interest, padding off to lie dramatically in the sunbeam on the floor as though she is done with both of you. Probably is. Probably thinks you’re idiots.

“She’s gonna get fat if you keep feeding her like this,” you state plainly.

“She’s emotionally complex,” he mutters, but his voice sounds far away.

There is something hanging in the air now. Something heavy and slow, like a fog rolling in off the coast of a conversation you weren’t ready to sail into.

You look down at your coffee cup. Consider how this all feels. How he feels.

Standing, but stiff, his back drawn tight. The sleeves of his soft shirt stretch over his shoulders. He is so present. So here. A permanent thing in your life. Familiar. Necessary. You’ve had him next to you for years, the way you have your favorite hoodie, or the chipped mug you refuse to throw out because it feels like home in your hands.

You take a breath.

“Look,” you start sweetly. “I know you worry, Buck.”

He freezes. Lets out a heavy breath. His shoulders shift.

You assume he knows just how worried he gets. He worries when you get home late and forget to text. He gets all twitchy when you wear that one coat that doesn’t zip right. He always makes sure you walk on the inside of the sidewalk. He kept checking your brakes after you mentioned your car made a weird noise, even though you were sure it was harmless. He drove six blocks looking for you in socks that time you said you were going to walk home from the train station.

He has always been like that. Big feelings, quiet hands. Careful with everything but himself.

“And I know that’s why you’re acting all weird about this.”

“I’m not-”

“You are.”

“I was just feedin-”

“Bucky-”

He exhales again, this time longer. As though maybe he is letting something go. Or trying to hold something in.

“I just-” he starts, then stops. Rubs a hand over his face, as though he can smooth out the thing he doesn’t want to admit.

“You don’t know him,” you begin, before he tries to dodge the conversation again. “But I really think he’s nice. Not like, take-home-to-meet-the-cat nice. Well, yet. But… kind. Polite. Smart, I think. He asked me out in a normal way. Respectfully.”

Bucky makes a face as if respectfully is offensive.

“He told me I had a nice laugh,” you add.

Bucky doesn’t even flinch. He just clears his throat and stands a little straighter. His knee cracks and Alpine bolts across the floor as though someone dropped a vacuum.

You take a few steps into the room and set your coffee down, because your hands feel too warm all of a sudden. “You don’t have to like him, Buck. I just thought… I don’t know. You’d maybe ask what I’m gonna wear. Or tell me to send my location in case he turns out to be a serial killer.”

He is stone in sweats and a shirt, and somehow it breaks your heart.

“I was gonna get there,” Bucky mumbles. “Eventually.”

You can feel your heart sink just a little. Just enough to know you shouldn’t have expected anything. Not from him. Not about this.

You didn’t want him to be protective.

You wanted him to care.

Not because he’s your roommate. Not because he’s your best friend. Not because he worries.

But because he likes you.

Because he’s been pining the same way you have.

You glance down at Alpine who is now sitting next to the counter, licking her paw, uninterested. Maybe even she can’t fix this one.

“I just thought you’d be happy for me,” you tell him. Soft. Small. A little hurting. “It took a lot to say yes, you know? I never say yes. But I thought- maybe- I should try.”

Bucky looks as though he’s been punched.

His eyes are wide, unsure, as though he just realized he made you feel like you’re not worth celebrating. That he let his feelings sit too long in silence, and now they’ve curdled into disappointment instead of support.

He rubs a hand over the back of his neck, cheeks pink, hair falling into his eyes. “Shit, doll. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean it like that.”

You shrug. Try to smile. “It’s fine. I get it. You don’t have to be excited.”

But that’s not what he wants to hear. You can see it in the way his shoulders sag. In the way his mouth opens like he’s going to say something and then closes again like it hurts.

He looks off balance. As though he is trying to stand on something that’s not quite there.

“I just don’t want you to go out with someone who makes you forget what you deserve.” His voice is soft, too soft, and his eyes are tired and deep in that tender way that makes you want to cup his cheek and ask him what’s really wrong.

You blink. “What?”

Another shrug. But it’s heavier now. “Some guys are good at bein’ nice. For, like, a while. ‘Til they get what they want. And then they change.”

“Bucky-”

“I’m not sayin’ he will,” he adds quickly. “I’m just… I dunno. Maybe I’m just being an ass.”

You frown at him a little. “You’re not-”

“I just-” he interrupts, gesturing haphazardly at Alpine, the bowl, the sunlight on the floor. “I like when you’re happy, y’know? That’s all. Even if it’s not ‘cause of me.”

You stare at him.

He is staring at the wall behind you.

Alpine yawns with a little squeak.

Your fingers fiddle with the hem of your sleeve. You don’t want him to know that your heart’s being weird again. That it did that little skip-jump-stumble thing it always does when Bucky says something just a little too soft, a little too close to the line you swore he wouldn’t cross.

He glances down at the kitten, then back at you. “Look, I’m just- I’m not good at this kinda thing, alright? Feelin’ stuff. Sayin’ stuff. Especially when it’s not what I wanna feel.”

“What do you mean?” Your voice is confused. Your mind and body are confused. Because where is he going with this?

He pauses. Runs a hand through his hair as though he tries to rearrange all the thoughts he doesn’t want to have in the first place.

“I mean-” he begins, then shakes his head, not looking at you. “Nothin’. Forget it. Just- don’t go thinkin’ I don’t care. ‘Cause I do. You know that, right?”

You nod slowly. Still not enough.

Bucky shifts on his feet. Alpine meows as though she’s giving him a nudge. Bucky stops, scoops her up in one arm, and meets your eyes with a drawn out sigh.

“You’re right. He’s probably a good guy. Deserves a shot, yeah?” His voice is low, quiet. A little flatter around the edges. “You should go.”

Something in your chest crumbles. Because he means it. He’s trying. Even if it’s killing him. He is working so hard to sound okay even when he’s clearly not.

You want to wrap your arms around him. You want to say forget the date and stay in and watch a bad movie and eat cereal on the couch with your knees touching and your feelings buried under laughter. But you can’t. Because you said yes. Because you have to try. Because he never did.

“Thanks,” you murmur. “But if Alpine throws up, it’s on you.”

His mouth twitches - almost a smile. “Kid’s got an iron stomach.”

Alpine wiggles in his grip and lets out a soft mrrp. You both laugh.

And then - like he flips a switch - Bucky straightens up. Rolls his shoulders. Clears his throat.

“So,” he says, in a voice two notes too cheerful. “You want me to help you pick an outfit, or you wanna go full surprise?”

“What?” You laugh softly.

“I mean, if this guy’s gonna be all respectful and admirin’ your laugh and whatever, he better lose his mind when he sees you, too. That’s basic manners.”

Your eyes narrow. “You’re joking.”

He grins, a little forced. “C’mon. I’ve got taste.”

“Oh yeah? What are your qualifications?”

He leans against the counter next to you, arms still around Alpine, pretending to be cool even though you can see his ears turning red.

“I live with a style icon,” he says, nodding at you. “And a cat with a crown-shaped food bowl. I know fashion.”

You laugh despite yourself. Despite everything.

He smiles too, but quieter now. It is a soft, deflated thing curling up at the edges of his mouth. Something that says he is trying, even though part of him is crumbling like paper in the rain. And the spark in his eyes that always flares when he makes you laugh is gone.

You glance at Alpine. Her tail flicks as though she knows something. She meows as though you’re wasting her time.

Bucky is holding the cat in his arms as though he’s holding onto both of you as best he can.

****

You open the bathroom door with slow fingers, the soft click of the handle echoing into the hallway like the opening chord of a song that might end in heartbreak.

The light spills out behind you, golden and warm, hanging onto your silhouette like some kind of halo.

Your cheeks are warm and flushed from the heat of the curling iron and your heartbeat, and your dress clings just right on the places that matter.

You catch your reflection in the mirror on the wall next to the bathroom door and hope this better be enough to distract a man from looking at his phone every four seconds.

You feel it before you even step out. His eyes.

They’re on you the second you cross the threshold, and you try not to shiver under his attention. Even though you spent the last hour preparing for this - shaving, moisturizing, curling, painting, fluffing, glossing. You did the work. You look good. You know that. You feel the rare glimmer of confidence like a sugar rush in your veins.

But when you look up and meet his eyes it’s like your breath jumped out the window.

Bucky is standing near the living room archway, leaning against the frame as though he didn’t mean to be waiting, as though he just happened to be passing through at the exact moment you emerged, and it’s a poor performance. He is terrible at casual. His arms are crossed, muscles tense, jaw locked up tight, Alpine balanced like a bread loaf on one broad forearm, completely disinterested in the tragedy of the moment.

In his other hand he is holding a glass of water he clearly doesn’t need. Something to do with his hands, maybe.

You fully step into the hallway.

Bucky blinks once.

Twice.

His mouth opens and doesn’t quite recover.

The silence eats a hole right through your stomach.

You stand there for a second, your fingers fiddling with the chain around your neck, your heart in your throat, your entire body one big, glittering question mark.

Bucky is frozen as though someone just hit pause on his thoughts.

“…damn,” he lets out, voice low, hoarse like he forgot how to use it. “You, uh-”

He shifts Alpine as though she’s in the way of his words.

“You look-” He swallows. “You look beautiful, doll.”

Heat curls up your neck so fast you feel dizzy with it.

And then he shakes his head a little, forcing himself to regroup. “But- like, I mean- you don’t even need all that, y’know?” His hand starts gesturing to your entire body and then retreats as though he’s been caught stealing. “You look good, all the time. You didn’t have to do all this. Not for some guy.”

His voice trails off into something smaller, sadder. Something unpolished.

You laugh gently, mostly because you don’t know what else to do with the way your heart is behaving. It’s skipping. Misfiring. Tapping out a beat as though it wants to be caught. And for a second, you wonder what he would have done if you were dressed like this for him.

“Thank you, Bucky,” you say softly. “That’s sweet.”

He doesn’t answer. Just nods. Too fast. As though he’s trying to convince himself it’s fine. Like it’s all good. Nothing tragic happening in his chest at all.

He looks at you as though he wants to say something more and keeps deciding against it.

You are smoothing your dress down, adjusting the hem even though you’ve done it twice already. There is this little flutter of panic in your chest that came out of nowhere, like maybe you went overboard. Like maybe he’s saying it out of politeness.

“Is it too much?” you ask, forcing the question through an anxious breath. You look down at yourself - your hair done, makeup soft and glowing, dress hugging you just right. “I mean- like, the dress, the heels, all of it. I haven’t been on a date in forever, and I don’t know, maybe I should’ve worn jeans and a shirt. He’s just some guy I met at a café and I probably look like I’m trying too hard-”

“Hey, doll. No, no, none of that.” Bucky sets the glass down. He doesn’t even notice it lands crooked on the table, and steps closer, that familiar furrow between his brows. He meets your eyes and something inside of them is splintering. Quietly. Devastatingly.

“Doll, you look stunning, alright? You’re gorgeous.” He shakes his head as if the words won’t land unless he unsticks them from somewhere deep in his chest. His throat bobs. “And not just tonight. Always. You didn’t have to do a damn thing to knock the wind outta me, but here we are anyway.”

His voice breaks a little at the end. Softens. And for a moment there is something in his expression that looks like surrender.

Your heart does complicated things and you look away, biting down on a smile that is equal parts joy and ache. “That’s a bit dramatic, Buck.” But your voice is a little too close to breathless.

He huffs a laugh, but it’s dull. He rubs Alpine behind the ear as a distraction.

“It’s just the truth, doll.” His voice is quieter now. “You could never be too much.”

You smile, but it’s the brittle kind, the one that feels like holding your breath too long.

He is standing close. Close enough to feel him. Inside your body.

“Thanks, Buck,” you say again. And you mean it. But you need to get this conversation out of your head before you start climbing him and forget the other guy.

You walk over to the table to grab your bag, and he follows a few steps behind, like Alpine when she’s pretending not to beg.

You check your earrings in the mirror beside the door, fluffing your hair where it is curled at the ends. You feel his stare like pins on your skin.

“You sure this guy’s okay?” he asks, as if he’s just casually curious. As if he isn’t dying.

You glance at him through the mirror. “I think so. He seemed nice.”

Bucky’s eyes dart away. His fingers are fiddling with the ring on his index finger. “Just sayin’, if he does anything shady, you come home. Immediately. No questions. I’ll make you popcorn. We’ll put on a bad movie. Just us.”

Your chest stings.

“You got pepper spray?”

“Bucky-”

“Does he know you’re allergic to fake cinnamon?”

“I don’t think we’re going to a candle store.”

He breathes out a laugh, but it breaks halfway through.

You hesitate. “Are you going out tonight?”

“Nah.” He waves a hand. “Just hangin' in. With Alp. Probably gonna order takeout. Watch some crime documentaries. Y’know, real cheery stuff.”

You nod slowly. “No Steve? No Sam?”

He shrugs, noncommittal. But it’s like something in his chest caves with the movement. “They got stuff goin’ on. I’m good here,” he declares in a voice too casual. “Gotta be here when you get back, right?” he says, trying to grin. Failing. “Someone’s gotta make sure you don’t trip over your heels comin’ up the stairs.”

You stare at him, at his subtle sadness and twitchy hands and the way he looks at you as though he is memorizing the moment in case he never gets another. As though he is already grieving something that hasn’t happened yet.

The part of you that wanted this date feels smaller now.

Alpine meows.

You don’t know whether to hug him or stay perfectly still or cancel the date and climb into his lap.

You want to curl up with Bucky and Alpine and forget the whole damn date. But instead, you slip your phone into your clutch with hands that suddenly feel too clumsy to belong to you.

“Text me, alright?”

You glance up at him, confused. “Yeah. Of course.”

“I mean it,” he says, stepping forward, Alpine tucked into his arm like a security blanket. “If this guy makes you uncomfortable, if he talks with his mouth full, if he looks at his phone too much- you call me.”

“Bucky-”

“I’ll come get you,” he insists, eyes fierce now, worried. “I’ll walk there and drag you out myself if I have to. Just promise me. You text me. You don’t sit through some crap date because you’re tryin’ to be polite.”

You smile, helpless under the sheer care in his voice. It tugs at your ribcage.

“I promise.”

His jaw ticks as though it’s not enough. As though even your promises aren’t safe anymore. He is still staring at you.

There is a second when he opens his mouth again. And you swear you see it rush over his expression - that he’s right there, teetering on the edge of saying something different. Something deep. Something important. Something sharp and glittering and buried under years of I shouldn’ts and she wouldn’t want me like that and she deserves better.

And you almost find yourself hoping another aching time.

But it doesn’t come.

Instead, he presses his lips together. As though sorrow has already folded itself under his tongue.

His eyes flick toward the door, and it stings.

“I think he’s a good guy,” you reassure quietly, trying to fill the silence with something easier. Safer. “He seemed sweet. You don’t need to worry, Buck.”

He snorts. Humorless. Looks at the kitten in his arms as though she needs all his attention right now. Alpine mewls once as if to agree.

“Yeah. Sweet,” he mumbles, brushing a hand through her fur. “Still- just… be careful, alright?”

You nod. He doesn’t look up.

“If he’s late, or he says anything that makes you feel weird, or you’re not havin’ fun - you let me know. Just give the word, I’ll come swingin’. In sweats and all.”

That earns a small laugh from you. But he still won’t meet your eyes. He scratches Alpine behind the ears while she blinks at you with innocent, unknowing affection.

“I will, okay? Promise. But really, I mean, the date could be great,” you offer, voice a little unsure.

His expression changes so subtly you would miss it if you didn’t know him that well. His shoulders deflate, the corner of his mouth tugs downward as though gravity finally got to him, as though someone popped a balloon in his chest and now he’s trying to remember how to stand.

“Yeah,” he says, too quiet, too distant. “Could be.”

There is a knot forming in your chest. A slow-growing tension that seems half regret and half longing. Bucky is towering over you, but he still seems so small like this. Folded in on himself. As though he is trying not to break in front of you.

You take a step toward him, heart hammering in your throat. You lift up onto your toes, lean in, and press a kiss to his cheek.

Soft. Careful. A brush of lips against faint stubble and skin that smells like cedar soap and him.

He goes still.

You feel his breath hitch. As though you just reset his entire nervous system. You feel the way he sways slightly toward you before catching himself, grounding himself back in the tension he wears.

You pull back and offer him the kind of smile that means everything and nothing at all.

“I’ll text you,” you whisper.

He swallows hard, nods once.

“Have a nice night, Buck,” you add, backing toward the door.

His voice is thick when he finally answers, barely above a rasp. “Yeah. You too, doll. Have fun.” It sounds like he’s underwater.

Alpine yawns as though this is all so exhausting.

You reach the door, one hand on the knob.

“And if he’s a jerk-”

“I call you. And I come home.”

You open the door and as it clicks shut behind you, you swear you can still feel his eyes on your back.

You lean against the door for a beat, heart knocking against your ribs in a pattern you’ve come to recognize.

Bucky doesn’t follow. He doesn’t call after you.

But inside, you know he’s still standing where you left him with Alpine clutched close, staring at the empty space you left behind.

And you want to go back inside. You want to spend your evening with him. You want to cheer him up and ease his mind with staying in.

But he didn’t stop you. So you don’t stop yourself.

****

You don’t remember most of the walk home.

The city buzzes around you in blues and golds, in late-evening puddles and the traffic lights changing colors.

The dark sky is soft and full and sighing, and the moon hangs above, following you home.

You hug your coat tighter around yourself. Your dress itches where it clings to your ribs, and your heels sound like guilt against the sidewalk.

You didn’t text him you were coming back early. You didn’t know how to say it without saying too much. Without exposing yourself for the fraud this entire night has made you feel like.

You tell yourself it’s because it’s not that big of a deal, that the date just ended early, naturally, like the way a song fades out instead of ending with a bang.

You tell yourself a lot of things.

You’re not sure which ones you believe.

Because the truth is - the guy was lovely.

He was kind. He smiled a lot, and asked good questions, and listened when you spoke. He pulled out your chair and paid for dinner and didn’t make weird jokes. He didn’t talk over you. He didn’t get too close too fast. He laughed with you. He was attractive. Safe. Sweet.

He was everything you’re supposed to want.

And still, you spent most of the night nodding at his stories while watching the condensation collect on your glass, wondering if Bucky had remembered to let Alpine sit on the windowsill and watch the city before shutting the blinds. Wondering if he was watching TV with the volume too low again because he gets a headache from the noise. Wondering what he has been eating tonight. Wondering if he was thinking about you the way you were thinking about him - constantly, painfully, like something in your head with no off switch.

Your date had asked you about your weekend plans, and you’d said “Oh, probably just hang out with my roommate.”

And your heart had tripped over the word, knowing it meant so much more than that. As though roommate is short for the boy I’ve loved for years but never touched.

The moment your date leaned across the table to compliment your eyes, you - soft idiot that you are - instantly heard Bucky’s voice instead. The way he always says stuff like that in passing, tossed casually between asking you if you’ve seen the TV remote or if there is leftover pizza in the fridge.

And it sits deeply in your chest. Sinking further with each passing beat - the truth.

You can’t give this guy a chance. Not the way he clearly deserves.

Because your heart is still living in a brownstone apartment with creaky floors and a broken light switch in the kitchen. With soft sweatshirts that aren’t yours but always end up draped over your desk chair. With a man who feeds your kitten as though it might end all the hunger in the world and treats you like you’re his favorite person.

You pull out your phone and reread the messages from Bucky, sent in ten-minute intervals.

“all good? Guy still got both kneecaps?”

“everything okay?”

“he better be treating you right.”

“or I’m showing up in crocs.”

You had smiled. Told him all was well. That the guy was nice. That you weren’t being kidnapped.

He replied with a thumbs-up emoji and then-

“lemme know when that changes.”

“and if he’s a jerk.”

“and if you need me to fake a plumbing emergency or something to get you out of there.”

You didn’t tell him you were already heading home.

Didn’t want to see the dot-dot-dot of typing, and then the silence.

Didn’t want to see hope, or disappointment, or relief.

Didn’t say you were going to try harder. That you’d hit your emotional limit somewhere between dessert and the walk to the subway.

You’re on your street now. The one with the crooked lamp post and the peeling red mailbox and the cat that’s not Alpine but sort of looks like her in bad lighting. You know this street by heart. You could walk it blindfolded, dizzy, drunk of heartache.

And there is your building. Soft lights glowing in the window above.

He’s up. Maybe waiting. Maybe not.

You pause outside the door. Let yourself lean against the brick for a second. Let your breath stay lodged in your throat. Because you’re not ready to walk in. You’re not ready to look at him and feel it again. Having the certainty that you are absolutely screwed, because you’re not able to get over your best friend even when going out with a nearly perfect guy.

But you also can’t stop thinking about the way he acted earlier. The way his voice broke so subtly. The tightness in his jaw, the way he wouldn’t meet your eyes, the tense silence around his body.

And you’re not supposed to hope.

You’ve told yourself that. Too many times to count. But tonight it sits so close to your heart, so deeply embedded, so hushed and burning.

Maybe his reaction wasn’t only about worry. Maybe it wasn’t just protectiveness. Maybe it wasn’t just Bucky being Bucky.

Maybe he was jealous.

You are trying so hard not to let that possibility bloom, trying not to name it or feed it, but it still grows.

Your heels clack against the building’s stairwell as you climb, one by one, pretending you aren’t listening for signs of life. Pretending you aren’t about to see him again after hours of spending your time with another guy but only thinking about him.

You reach the door.

The apartment is quiet on the other side, dim under the light of the single hallway lamp that always flickers twice before it stabilizes.

You slip your key into the lock and step inside on a breath.

You open the door with quiet fingers. The kind of careful that says I’m not sure what I’m walking into even though you know. Even though you always know. Because it’s home. Because it’s him. Because his jacket is still slung over the coat rack the same way it was when you left, and Alpine’s scratching post leans slightly to the left, and the lights in the living room are still on, soft and amber.

And there he is.

Sitting on the couch in sweatpants and a shirt still, one leg pulled up, socked foot balanced on the edge of the cushion. His phone lies screen up and plugged in right in front of him as though he has been waiting for it to light up again. As though he didn’t want to miss anything. As though it has already burned a hole into the cushion with how long he’s been staring at it.

He’s illuminated in the soft light of the TV where a half-hearted commercial flickers across the screen. He’s not really watching. The remote is in one hand, limp.

Alpine is a perfect little loaf on his chest, her head tucked against his sternum. His hand strokes her in slow, nervous passes, more fidget than affection right now.

He looks up the second the door closes behind you.

Not startled, exactly. More like the kind of flinch you feel under your ribs. Eyes sharp. Shoulders tight. As though your return is both a relief and a complication.

Alpine makes a soft, delighted chirp when she sees you, lifting her head and blinking sleepily.

“Hey,” he says. His voice is quieter than usual, as if he has forgotten how to speak at full volume.

You smile timidly. “Hey.”

He shifts his arm as though maybe he’s going to sit up, maybe he’s going to say more, but he just watches you. Not with the smug little smirks or teasing remarks he would usually toss your way. Not even with the tight, overprotective frown he wore earlier.

No, this is worse.

He’s trying so hard not to look like he’s waiting.

The soft clink of your keys in the bowl by the entryway is too loud in your ears.

“You’re back early,” he utters after a pause. His voice is low, rough with something not quite sleep and not quite surprise.

You nod and toe off your shoes slowly. You pretend your heart doesn’t stutter when you see the way his eyes drag over your face as though he’s trying to read your mood.

“Yeah,” you murmur. “Guess I was tired.”

He nods. Swallows. Looks as though he wants to ask something and then immediately regrets it. His hand moves to scratch Alpine between the ears but you beat him to it, crossing the room and crouching in front of the couch.

“Hey, sweetie,” you whisper, burying your fingers in her soft fur and scratching the spot beneath her chin that makes her purr like a lawnmower.

Your hand brushes his against the fur.

He doesn’t move. You don’t either.

When you look up, his eyes are on your face, darting around your expression as though he is searching for bruises that aren’t there. Words that haven’t formed yet. Meaning you haven’t chosen to give.

Alpine meows and you start moving your hand again, not having noticed your hand stopped under his gaze. You reach out to scratch the top of her head and your knuckles brush his chest. He twitches. You both pretend not to notice.

“She missed you,” he says softly, swallowing gruffly as though it might steady the wobble in his voice.

You give him a small smile. “Missed her too.”

Alpine leans into your touch and, because she’s draped over him, your fingers trail briefly over his shoulder when you scratch under her chin. He is warm. Stiff, but warm.

You don’t sit. You hover. You don’t know why. Maybe because sitting means staying and you haven’t decided yet if your heart is capable of holding everything tonight.

“You okay?” Bucky asks. It’s gentle. So careful. Too careful. As though if he speaks to you wrong, you’ll pull away from him forever.

You shrug, eyes on Alpine. “Yeah.”

He nods slowly. Waits. You can tell he’s waiting for you to say more, but you don’t know what more would even look like. It’s a shape you can’t hold yet.

“I mean, he was nice,” you add, because you feel like you have to. Like it’s some sort of requirement. Like you need to prove to yourself and him that you tried. That it mattered. That it didn’t.

“Good,” Bucky replies. He clears his throat. “I mean- I’m glad. I figured he’d, y’know… be decent. Or whatever.”

You shift a little closer. Your knees brush the couch.

“Yeah, he was,” you admit quietly.

Bucky nods, but it seems to be a heavy gesture for him. There is something anxious behind his eyes.

“So…” he starts, then stops. Clears his throat roughly, as though it got stuck somewhere behind his teeth. “…You seein’ him again?”

The question is soft. Uneven. Barely anything. As though he’s asking if the sky plans to rain. But it sounds practiced. In front of a mirror, maybe. Or mouthed to the ceiling between glances at his phone.

You pause. Draw in a breath.

You don’t look at him.

Your fingers drag down Alpine’s soft spine, slow, as though it might stop your thoughts from chewing on themselves.

There is something about the way he asks it. Something that pulls at a string inside you that was already frayed and coming undone the whole way home.

You sigh. A long, slow exhale that sounds like defeat.

You feel his eyes on you.

And then you shake your head. “No. I don’t think so.” And it feels like something falling out of you. Soft and resigned and a little afraid.

You see him in the corner of your eye. He doesn’t speak. Just waits. The quiet stretches, elastic, until it almost snaps. His hands have gone still. He has gone still. Completely.

“I mean, he really was a nice guy,” you affirm, as though the explanation might make the no easier to carry. “He was early. He paid. He even pulled my chair out. Held the door. Laughed at the right moments. He talked about his sister. It was- it was good.”

You stop. Swallow hard. Sigh harder.

You say all this as though you’re reading the bullet points off a recipe for happiness. And still, nothing. No spark. No fire.

“But?” Bucky prompts on a breath, so soft.

You lick your lips. Shake your head.

“I don’t know. He did everything right. But the whole time I just…” You trail off. Look down. His gaze dips, searching your face. “I guess, I wasn’t really there, tonight.”

Bucky says nothing.

You don’t tell him that the reason you couldn’t focus, couldn’t stay present, couldn’t even taste the food properly was because you kept hearing his voice in your head. Kept imagining what he’d say about the music in the restaurant, or how he’d roll his eyes at the way your waiter pronounced gnocchi.

Or that you kept thinking about Alpine knocking Bucky’s cereal bowl over yesterday. And the fact that he always hides the yellow skittles because he knows you hate them. And him laughing at those bad commercials, and the weird humming noise he makes when he brushes his teeth.

You don’t say any of that.

But maybe he hears it anyway. Because he’s still watching you with that sweet, unreadable look. As though he’s trying to figure out which part of you he’s allowed to hold.

“Okay,” he murmurs, after a moment. Not smug. Not satisfied. Just warm. Gentle. The way someone sounds when they’ve been holding their breath and they finally get to exhale. And he does seem to breathe easier. Looser.

His eyes drop. Then rise again, fast. “You look beautiful, by the way. Meant to say that earlier. I mean- I did. I said it. But-”

You smile, small. “Thanks, Buck.”

He clears his throat and shifts on the couch as though he suddenly remembers he has a body.

He looks at his lap, then back at you. “I, uh- I got takeout,” he says, as though he’s trying to move the conversation onto safer ground. “Just in case. Thought maybe you’d be hungry after.”

Your chest tightens. “You didn’t have to-”

He shrugs, looks at Alpine. “Didn’t know what mood you’d be in. Figured it wouldn’t hurt either way.”

“Thank you,” you say, voice softer than you meant for it to be.

“Welcome,” he mumbles, scratching the back of his neck. “And well, you always say you’re not hungry and then you eat half my spring rolls. So.”

That earns him the tiniest giggle from you.

He lights up a little.

You stand slowly, dropping your purse to the floor with a thud. “I’m not hungry,” you admit, sinking down onto the couch beside him. “Just tired.”

And you are. But not just from the night. You’re tired of pretending. Of swallowing how you feel. How he makes you feel. Of dancing around truths that tremble between you two like overfilled cups.

You reach for the remote, brushing against his thigh as you do. He stills as though your touch is a match to his skin.

The screen flashes something mid-scene - some low-budget crime show with horrible lighting and a suspiciously attractive cast.

You shift deeper into the couch, your knee brushing his. The screen continues flickering. Someone’s shouting about getting the suspect and a car explodes a second later with all the realism of a microwaved burrito.

You squint. “What even is this?”

Bucky briefly glances at you when he answers. His voice is half a mumble, half a smirk. “Special Crimes Unit 9. Or maybe 11. They keep changin’ the number every season.”

You turn your head to him. Utterly unimpressed. “Is this the one where the coroner uses a cookie cutter to get evidence out of a corpse?”

He grins. You see it. You feel it. “You remembered.”

You sigh, overly dramatic, because it’s the only appropriate response. “How could I forget? I think about it at least once a week. You owe me therapy for that.”

Bucky chuckles - low and breathy and genuine. You think maybe it’s your favorite sound in the world. You’ve heard it hundreds of times and it still makes your spine sit up a little straighter. It makes your ribs feel too small for your lungs.

You both watch in silence for a moment. There’s a woman on screen wearing six-inch stilettos to a crime scene. You raise an eyebrow. Bucky hums.

“Very practical,” he states dryly.

“So tactical,” you reply, deadpan.

You glance over and find him already looking at you. His smile is quiet, more of a curve than a grin. It reaches his eyes a little bit, just a little, and softens the space between his brows. He looks more relaxed now, eased further into the cushions. You don’t look away, even though you should. You should.

But he’s so close. And he’s warm. And your body always seems to tilt toward him like a sunflower.

Then Alpine, that little traitor of a feline angel, climbs into your lap with all the elegance of a marshmallow being lobbed onto a plate. She settles in, promptly making biscuits on your thigh. Her paws press in soft little patterns and her tail swishes over Bucky’s leg.

“Hi, baby,” you whisper, petting her head. She tips her chin up like a queen receiving tribute. She’s purring loudly.

“She’s so attached to you,” Bucky murmurs, watching as Alpine headbutts your hand almost aggressively while you stroke her fur. “Startin’ to think I’m just the guy who opens her food.”

He’s got that half-smile again. But it’s just a little smaller now. Not the usual smirk. Just soft. Something that doesn’t know it’s been seen.

You smirk, scratching behind her ear. “Well, you do open her food like a pro.”

“That’s my one skill. Impressive, huh?”

You giggle. It tumbles out of your mouth and echoes softly in the living room, bumping into corners and creasing into his smile. “So very impressive, Barnes. I’m proud of you.”

He laughs. And it’s real. And it makes your skin prickle. It makes goosebumps rise.

You glance at him again. He’s still looking at you. Not in the way you sometimes catch people looking at you. Not the idle glance, not the curious sweep. This guy is looking at you as though you’re the whole screen. As though he is memorizing your laugh because he wants to play it back later when it’s quiet and you’re not around and he misses the way your eyes crinkle.

The soft light makes his eyes darker, deeper. His hair is pushed back, messy from fingers you can’t stop imagining in your own hands.

He looks at you as though you already said the thing he’s been waiting to hear.

Your heart trips. But it doesn’t fall. It tries to recover.

He’s closer than before. Not by much, just a few inches maybe. But enough to notice. Enough to make you wonder if it was intentional or if the gravity between you is just inevitable.

There is a beat. A second. A heartbeat in between two breaths.

The TV keeps playing. Sirens and dramatic synth music. But it’s not present in your mind. The real show is here. His eyes snap to your mouth. Just for a second. Just one.

You swallow. Look away.

He blinks. Clears his throat. Shifts again.

“So,” he says, voice a little raspy, nodding at the screen. “You wanna know what happens next or should I save you the trauma and tell you now that the killer’s definitely the janitor?”

You snort. “Always the janitor.”

“Guy’s just tryin’ to mop floors and everyone’s framing him for murder.”

You both laugh, too loud for the scene currently unfolding on TV. Bucky’s hand drapes over the back of the couch and it shifts slightly behind you. Not touching, but there. And you could lean back if you wanted. You could rest against him.

But you don’t.

Because your chest is already too full. Because if you speak, you’re scared you’ll say something you can’t take back.

Instead, you sit with him in the quiet, both of you surrounded by the purring of a small white kitten and the flickering nonsense of a terrible crime show.

And you let the silence say what you’re still too afraid to.

At least for tonight.

“If I had a flower for every time I thought of you, I could walk in my garden forever.”

- Alfred Lord Tennyson

986 notes · View notes

lethallyprotected · 19 days ago

Text

the thunderbabies ; bucky barnes x reader

pairing: bucky barnes x reader

word count: 20.4k (sorry)

summary: you and bucky barnes were enemies. always arguing, always getting paired up for missions that ended with yelling and maybe a few broken ribs. but when the rest of the thunderbolts get turned into toddlers by accident, you and bucky are the only ones left to take care of them. suddenly, you're stuck playing mom and dad to five chaotic babies with too much energy and too many opinions. between diaper changes, late-night cuddles, and a few soft moments you didn’t expect, something between you and bucky starts to shift. but when the babies go back to normal, will they remember what happened... and will he?

warnings: slow burn, enemies to reluctant co-parents to something more, emotional whiplash, soft bucky barnes, soft reader but in denial, found family vibes, accidental parenting, hurt/comfort, some angst, a lot of fluff, crying (mostly the reader), bucky calls the toddlers “his kids” once and means it, thunderbolts chaos, baby bob being the favorite, baby walker being loud, baby yelena being feral, baby ava being shy, baby alexei being dramatic, tiny duck plushie slander, and one single dance on the porch that might ruin you.

note: this was supposed to be a joke. it is not a joke anymore. it got feelings. i blame baby bob. thank you to my brain for deciding bucky barnes as a dad is both funny and heartbreaking. this story includes a lot of cuddles, chaos, and emotional damage. thank you for reading and if you cry, good. i did too.

masterlist

The elevator dinged just once before the doors slammed open like they were afraid of the man inside. Bucky Barnes stormed into the Tower lounge with all the grace of a loaded weapon. His boots were thunder, his jaw was a locked trigger, and his eyes were practically glowing with rage. The kind that was cold, quiet, lethal—but held together by the sheer force of “if I talk right now, I will commit a felony.”

The rest of the Thunderbolts froze mid-conversation. Ava paused in her weird halfway-phase through the kitchen counter. Yelena blinked, a Cheeto half-raised to her mouth. John Walker raised an eyebrow like he was about to make it about him. Again.

Only Bob—the sweet, sunshine-soul Bob—visibly recoiled, clutching his comic book like a holy relic and mouthing a silent “oh no.”

Bucky's metal hand slammed onto the kitchen counter hard enough to make everyone jump. “I can’t stand that bitch.”

The room went dead silent.

Except for Alexei, who straightened on the couch like a Soviet mother had just entered the room and slapped him.

“HEY!” he barked. “We do not talk to women like that!”

Bucky didn’t even look at him. He was pacing now, jacket half-off, murder radiating off him like steam. “She acts like she knows everything. She doesn’t follow orders, she pulls blades out of thin air, and then she’s got the nerve to put one to my throat—”

“She did what now?” Yelena asked, suddenly way more interested.

But Bob was frozen. Like actually frozen. Pale, wide-eyed, whispering something that sounded like a prayer—

Because you had just appeared beside him. Not walked in. Not entered through a door.

Teleported. Green shimmer. Quiet spark. Instant chaos. You were sitting way too calmly on the edge of the couch, next to Bob like you'd been there all day. One hand resting lazily on the back cushion, the other pinching a chip from his bowl like you hadn’t just appeared from a different plane of existence.

“Aw, Bucky,” you said sweetly, voice smooth as honey and twice as toxic. “Miss me already?”

Bob made a noise like a dying animal and scooted three inches away without blinking. Bucky stopped pacing. Turned. Saw you. And you smiled. Smug. Glowing. Infuriating.

His nostrils flared. “You—”

“Me,” you said, cocking your head. “The ‘bitch’ in question. Please, go on. I love fan mail.”

“Do you try to be insufferable,” he growled, “or is that just a natural talent?”

You gasped, mock-offended. “Why, Barnes. If I didn’t know better, I’d say you’re obsessed with me.”

He pointed at you. “You put a knife to my throat!”

“You put your hand on mine,” you said, still grinning. “I thought we were playing.”

Alexei stood up now, arms crossed, beard twitching. “I do not approve of violence unless it is mutual, respectful, or in sanctioned combat—preferably against Nazis.”

Yelena popped a chip in her mouth. “Or bad exes.”

“Or him,” Ava added, jerking her thumb at Walker.

“Excuse me?” Walker said, offended. “I was literally just standing here.”

“I’m just saying,” Ava muttered, “you look punchable.”

Meanwhile, Bob—still terrified—whispered, “Do we need to… call someone? Like HR?”

You were still staring at Bucky, your smirk razor sharp. “I didn’t even go for the jugular,” you added, chip between your fingers. “Should I have?”

Bucky’s jaw was locked so tight it looked like he was going to break his own teeth. He stepped toward you—dangerously close—and leaned down, voice low enough to chill bone.

“You really want to see what happens when I stop holding back?”

You tilted your head, lips parting in the softest smile.

“Yes,” you said. “I do.”

BOB ACTUALLY FAINTED.Bob slumped sideways, half sliding off the couch like a fainting goat in a tactical vest. His head lolled against the cushion, eyes fluttering shut as he murmured something unintelligible that might’ve been a prayer. Or a death rattle.

“BOB?!” you yelped, already scrambling to catch him before he hit the floor.

Your whole vibe shifted in an instant—from feral gremlin to panicked older sibling with a protective streak the size of Asgard.

“Oh, my god—Bob?! Hey, hey, don’t you dare pass out on me, sunshine.” You cradled his head like he was made of glass, gently tapping his cheek. “Wake up. Come on. You’re okay. You’re okay, I’m here. Shhh.”

Yelena, from across the room: “He’s rebooting.”

Walker leaned in, squinting. “Should we get like—uh, water? Salt? Exorcist?”

“I swear to god,” you snapped, eyes blazing as you whipped your head toward Bucky, “if he doesn’t wake up in ten seconds I’m shoving your vibranium arm up your emotionally constipated ass.”

Bucky blinked. “My fault?! He passed out because you—you—teleported in like a damn banshee and started running your mouth!”

“Oh no, no no no,” you said, finger in his face, still cradling Bob like a sleepy kitten. “Don’t you DARE try to pin this on me. You’re the one who came in here radiating murder! You slammed a table. You screamed. You scared my baby.”

“Baby?!”

“Yes, Barnes. MY baby. Not yours. Not ours. Mine.”

Alexei, from the background, solemnly nodded. “She has claimed him. It is law now.”

“You yelled,” you continued, full-on mom rage now. “You yelled and Bob immediately shut down like a Windows 98 laptop in a thunderstorm. That’s not dramatic. That’s trauma.”

“I didn’t even touch him!”

“Yeah, well, your aura did!”

Bob stirred weakly, blinking up at you with the slow confusion of someone waking up after anesthesia.

“Wh-what… happened…?” he mumbled.

“Oh, sweetie,” you whispered, brushing his hair back. “You saw raw unfiltered heterosexual conflict. It was too much.”

Walker blinked. “Why’s she treating him like a Victorian woman recovering from a fever?”

“Because Bob,” you hissed, “has never raised his voice. Or his fist. Or hurt anyone. Unlike you, Buck-o, who storms into every room like it owes you money.”

Bucky stared at you. Fuming. Flushed. Entire body tense in a way that made the room feel ten degrees hotter.

“Oh, I’m sorry,” he said. “Should I have walked in calmly after you tried to slit my throat earlier?”

“It was a conjured blade! It barely even had weight!”

“IT GLOWED!”

“So do I when I’m mad! Are you scared of me too?!”

“Yes!” Bob croaked weakly from your lap.

Ava covered her mouth to muffle a laugh. Yelena was openly filming now. Walker had pulled up popcorn from somewhere like this was Thursday night drama on live TV.

You stood up slowly, gently setting Bob back on the couch like royalty.

Then you squared up to Bucky again. Face to face. Eye to eye. Breathing hard.

“You owe him an apology.”

“I owe you a—”

“No, no. Don’t even. Apologize. To. Bob.”

Bucky looked like someone had just asked him to punch a puppy. His mouth opened. Closed. Reopened. He stared at Bob, who stared back like a kicked bunny.

“…Sorry?” Bucky grunted.

Bob gave a thumbs up. Then passed out again.

And that was it. That was your breaking point.

You inhaled sharply, stood tall, turned to Bucky—and smiled. Oh, not a nice smile. The kind of smile that came with homicidal intent, the kind you gave people right before throwing hands, flipping tables, or setting their house on fire with your mind.

Bucky looked at you like he could already hear the incoming war drum.

“Don’t,” he warned.

You didn’t even respond.

You punched him.

Hard.

Clean. Right hook. Square to the jaw.

It made a solid crack sound. That perfectly satisfying movie-punch sound. His head actually snapped to the side.

The room went feral.

“OH MY GOD—” Bob murmured mid-faint.

“YOOOOO,” yelled Yelena, who dropped her phone but was already scrambling to hit record again.

“ZAS!” Alexei shouted, absolutely delighted.

“YESSS,” Ava whispered like it was the climax of a soap opera.

Walker gasped like a southern belle at a brunch fight. “Did she just—”

“Yes, she did,” Ava muttered. “Iconic.”

Bucky slowly turned his head back toward you, blinking like he wasn’t sure if he was turned on or concussed.

And you?

You just shrugged.

“That’s for scaring Bob.”

He opened his mouth like he was gonna say something snarky—but too late.

Your hand was already glowing green. A shimmer of chaos energy wrapped around your fingers, licking at the edges of your suit as you crouched down, wrapped an arm under Bob’s knees, and hoisted him bridal-style like he weighed nothing.

“You don't deserve to breathe the same air as my baby,” you muttered.

And with that—

POOF.

Gone. Just like that.

Left behind was a puff of green light and a bunch of emotionally unstable adults who looked like they’d just witnessed the season finale of the messiest relationship in existence.

“…I’ll kill her,” Bucky said under his breath, still touching his jaw.

Yelena choked on her popcorn. “You’re gonna what now?”

Alexei pointed sternly. “You deserved that punch. Also—apologize better next time.”

“She glows when she’s mad,” Bucky muttered again, still dazed. “It’s… not fair.”

Ava glanced at Yelena. “Wanna lock them in a supply closet later?”

“God, yes.”

“HELP!” you shrieked, storming through the automatic doors of the compound’s medical wing like the gates of hell had flung open behind you. “HELP, PLEASE, MY BABY FAINTED, I THINK HE’S DYING!”

Bob Reynolds—six foot two, elite Thunderbolt operative, and literal human marshmallow—was slumped like a tragic sack of potatoes across your shoulders, one arm dangling limply down your back, the other flopping against your hip every time you jogged a step. His glasses were askew. His hair was in disarray. And you looked like a mother raccoon dragging her emotionally fragile child to the vet.

A nurse dropped her tablet. A doctor nearly tripped over a gurney. Chaos bloomed.

“Ma’am—uh—what happened?!” one of them gasped, rushing toward you.

“He fainted!” you cried. “Barnes scared the hell out of him and he fainted! Like actually lost consciousness! Like swoon style! And now he won’t wake up!”

“Is he injured—was there trauma—?”

“YES,” you said, wide-eyed. “EMOTIONAL trauma! He saw his teammates fighting and his nervous system just said no thanks and now he’s DEAD.”

“He’s… he’s breathing,” a medic said gently, placing two fingers at Bob’s neck while you crouched to let his weight slide off your back. You immediately cradled his head like he was a newborn angel who’d been smacked by sin.

“HE’S FRAGILE,” you snapped. “Don’t touch him like that, you’ll bruise his soul.”

Bob groaned softly, blinking once.

You gasped like he’d just come back from the brink.

“Bob! Oh thank god—hi! Can you hear me? Blink twice if you recognize me. Blink once if you want me to punch Bucky again.”

“...what happened?” he murmured.

“You passed out from stress, sweetheart,” you cooed, brushing his bangs back with shaking hands. “Which is totally valid. Honestly, same. But I carried you here because you are precious cargo, and now you are banned from ever hearing emotionally charged arguments again.”

A nurse stifled a laugh. One of the doctors whispered to another, “Is she okay?”

You turned to them, eyes burning.

“I am NOT okay,” you hissed. “That was Barnes’s fault. I told him not to yell. I told him Bob’s nervous system is like a fainting goat on a rollercoaster. And what did he do? Walked in like a drama queen with a vendetta and a jawline and now my cinnamon roll of a teammate is in a goddamn coma!”

“He’s awake now—”

“That’s not the point!”

Bob gave a small thumbs up, still horizontal on the cot, eyes half-closed. “She’s not wrong…”

You leaned down, pressing your forehead to his like he was your baby bird.

“Don’t you ever do that to me again,” you whispered dramatically. “You scared me half to death. You are my emotional support introvert and I can’t lose you. You’re the only normal one on this team.”

He blinked, dazed. “…Ava’s normal.”

“She’s phasing through walls on purpose to avoid Walker’s playlist, Bob. That’s not stable.”

Another nurse walked in. “Hey, someone said there was a—”

“He’s fine now,” the first doctor sighed. “She just needed to panic dramatically for a few minutes.”

“I’m still panicking,” you muttered, grabbing a blanket to tuck around Bob like he was freezing to death. “Bucky traumatized him. Again.”

Bob whispered, “...did you punch him?”

“Oh, honey.” You kissed his forehead like a war widow. “Of course I did.”

You don’t mean to look like someone’s mom.

Okay, that’s a lie. You absolutely mean to.

The tactical harness is half-buckled over your hoodie as you chase Bob around the room with a protein bar in one hand and a sealed serum injector in the other. He’s dodging you with the agility of someone who’s fully trained in combat scenarios but has the emotional age of a kindergartener when it comes to shots and breakfast.

“Bob,” you warn, voice tight but full of affection. “If you don’t hold still, I swear to god I will sedate you and carry your ass onto the Quinjet in a papoose.”

“I hate needles,” he groans, ducking behind the couch.

“You’ve been SHOT before!”

“I was unconscious for that!”

You huff. Dramatically. The way a tired mother might when she’s already had three cups of coffee and not a single one did the job. You mutter a spell under your breath—just a tiny one—and the serum injector floats, slamming itself gently into his upper arm.

Bob yelps. “Hey!”

You pop the protein bar into his mouth before he can whine more. “That’s for stamina. And to shut you up.”

He chews grumpily, cheeks puffed like a cartoon chipmunk. You run your fingers through his hair, smoothing down the chaos. He lets you, grumbling something unintelligible through the granola. You pretend not to hear it.

Across the room, Bucky watches with a scowl sharp enough to cut titanium.

“You gonna do that for everyone on this mission?” he asks, arms crossed.

“Nope,” you say brightly, fixing the collar on Bob’s jacket. “Just my favorite.”

Bucky scoffs under his breath, but you see it—the twitch in his jaw, the flicker of something beneath the surface. He hasn’t spoken to you since the fight. Since the dagger. Since the words you regret and the ones you don’t. And frankly, you’re not ready to rip that scab off just yet.

This morning isn’t about him.

This morning is about Bob, and Yelena, and Ava, and the rest of the team being sent off on a mission you’re not cleared for. Something dimensional. Temporal. Dangerous, probably. But Val insisted. Said they were the only ones who could do it.

You? You’re “still on cooldown,” apparently.

Read: emotionally unstable.

You kiss two fingers and tap them to Bob’s forehead. “No touching weird glowing objects. No speaking to old women with no eyes. No dramatic sacrifices unless you’re being watched by at least two cameras so I can go viral.”

He gives a crooked smile. “You’ll miss me?”

“I’ll cry exactly once if you die. Twice if you forget to bring back snacks.”

You help him strap on the last piece of gear, fingers lingering at the shoulder just a little too long. Like if you hold him together tightly enough, he won’t come back broken.

And then—he’s gone. Off to the jet. Yelena waves. Ava nods. Walker and Red Guardian are already arguing about socks or strategy or both.

The room empties.

You’re left standing in the middle of it, hands on your hips, magic curling at your fingertips like it knows something you don’t.

Beside you, Bucky speaks, low and gruff. “You really think they’ll be okay?”

You don’t look at him. You just whisper, almost to yourself—

“They better be.”

You always forget how quiet it is out here.

The trees murmur softly around you, their summer leaves catching the light in pale flickers as the wind rustles through the branches. The river moves slow, steady. It glides past the edge of the dock with lazy purpose, carving its way through the grass like it’s got nowhere to be but here. It smells like earth and water and peace.

It’s unnatural. Too soft. Too still.

You’re sitting cross-legged at the edge of the wooden dock, hands idle in your lap, chin tucked toward your chest. There’s a fishing rod resting beside you—not that you’re using it. You just like the illusion of a task. Something to explain why you’re here. Something harmless. Normal.

Like you didn’t nearly stab your teammate to death a few days ago. Like you’re not still vibrating with leftover magic under your skin, the kind that crackles too loud in silence. Like you’re not haunted.

You reach down and skim your fingers along the river’s surface. The water’s warm—sun-heated, soft—and it doesn’t flinch when you touch it. That always surprises you. For all the things you’ve broken, the chaos you carry, nature never seems to mind you.

Unlike people. Unlike Bucky. You suck in a breath and tip your head back to the sky.

The clouds are fat and slow-moving. Lazy. Blissfully unaware. The kind of sky that should be seen from a picnic blanket or a hammock or maybe a child’s drawing. You want to hate it for being beautiful. But you don’t. You’re too tired for bitterness today.

This was his house, after all. Tony’s.

You glance behind you toward the rustic, lake-view cabin. It’s still exactly how he left it. The same red roof. The same old porch swing. The same scattered junk in the shed that looks like it shouldn’t be legal or safe. Morgan’s old crayon drawings still decorate the kitchen fridge, faded but defiant. You never asked Pepper for permission to come here. You didn’t have to. She told you once—quietly, and without ceremony—that the lake house was always open for you.

He wanted you to have somewhere to come back to. You curl your knees to your chest, resting your chin there. God, you miss him.

You miss the sound of his voice when it softens for you. You miss the way he’d flick you on the forehead when you got too moody, and then immediately bribe you with fancy lab snacks. You miss the way he’d look at your magic—not with fear, not with awe, but with curiosity. Like you were a puzzle he wanted to solve, not a threat to contain.

No one else ever looked at you like that. Not even Bucky. Not even now.

You close your eyes, swallowing the lump in your throat. It’s stupid. It’s been years. Tony’s been gone longer than he was in your life. And yet, this house feels more like home than anywhere else you’ve lived. More than the Tower. More than the SHIELD bunkers. More than your own childhood bed, which hasn’t existed for a long time now.

It’s because he believed in you.

Even when you didn’t.

You rub at your face, feeling the crusted edges of the healing bruise along your cheekbone. You haven’t done magic since you got here. Haven’t summoned a single blade. You came to this place to breathe. To remember. To not destroy anything.

You wonder if Tony would laugh at all of this. Probably. He’d say something ridiculous like “I always knew Barnes would be the reason you’d snap. Should’ve let me shoot him in the knee back in ’16.”

You smile at that. Just a little. “Miss you, old man,” you whisper.

And for a second—for a breath—you almost think you hear him. Not words. Not a ghost. Just a spark. A flicker in the air. Like the arc reactor still humming through the fabric of the world.

The mission had been simple.

In and out. Grab the relic. No fighting, no magic, no “accidental” body counts. The directive had been clear: retrieve the object, contain it, don’t touch it. So of course, the moment they got back to the Tower, all five of them stood around the thing like it was the last bottle of vodka in Siberia.

It sat dead center on the briefing room table—short, squat, and sealed with a black wax emblem none of them recognized. The bottle was glass, thick and oddly shaped, like something that belonged in a medieval apothecary or a vampire’s liquor cabinet. And inside it?

A deep red fluid. Thick. Slow-moving. Almost… alive.

"Why is it glowing?" Yelena asked flatly, propping her chin on her fist as she squinted at it. “It wasn’t glowing before.”

“It’s not glowing,” John Walker said, arms crossed. “It’s… resonating.”

“That’s worse,” Ava muttered from across the room.

“I think it’s cool,” Alexei said, looming far too close to it. “Very dramatic. Makes a statement.”

“You want to make a statement?” Ava snapped, flinging her hands in his direction. “How about ‘Don’t store interdimensional biohazards on a kitchen table’? Or maybe ‘Let’s call a sorcerer before we accidentally melt into puddles’?”

“It’s not melting anyone,” Walker scoffed. “We didn’t even open it. It’s sealed.”

“Yeah? Well maybe we shouldn’t be breathing near it either.”

“Oh my god,” Yelena groaned. “Can we not do this for once? We got the creepy demon juice, we’re back in one piece, let’s just—I don’t know—wait for Val?”

“Sure,” Ava said coolly. “Let’s all wait. And if one of us starts speaking in ancient tongues or turns into a pigeon, I’ll say ‘I told you so’ through gritted teeth.”

“Guys,” Bob piped up, timid and wide-eyed, “maybe we should move it to a containment unit?”

They all ignored him.

A beat passed. The tension simmered.

And then, like fate herself decided to screw subtlety, Ava threw her arms up in frustration—just as Walker leaned forward to say something else stupid—and someone’s elbow clipped the bottle.

It wobbled. Wobbled again. And fell. The moment it hit the floor, it didn’t shatter like glass.

It burst. A pulse shot out like a heartbeat—silent, red, heavy—and then thick, crimson smoke curled up from the remnants, slithering into the air like it had a mind of its own. The room filled with it instantly—sweet-smelling, cloying, oddly warm—and then it was everywhere.

Ava choked. “What the hell did you do?!”

“I DIDN’T TOUCH IT—”

“YES YOU DID, I SAW YOUR STUPID ARM—”

“EVERYBODY SHUT UP—”

Too late.

The smoke coiled tighter, circling them like a serpent, and then—, Val walked in.

The automatic door hissed open just as the red cloud finished swirling and vanished into thin air like it had never existed.

Val paused. Took one step into the room. Brows furrowed. “...What the fuck?”

No one answered. Not at first.

There was just silence. Stillness. The room looked the same. The table was wet with the remains of the fluid, the bottle pieces scattered like shattered candy. There was no fire. No screaming. No alarms.

And yet. Something was… off.

Val’s heels clicked as she walked further in, eyes narrowed.

“Okay,” she said slowly, taking in their expressions—or lack thereof. “Who broke it?”

Nobody moved. Nobody spoke. Just wide, blank eyes staring back at her.

Bob blinked first. Then, he sneezed.

It was a very high-pitched sneeze.

You didn’t speak to each other at first.

The elevator thrummed gently beneath your boots, a soft mechanical hum that did little to settle your nerves. You stood on opposite sides of the lift, backs to the walls, arms crossed like shields. The kind of stance people take when they’re trying very hard not to punch each other again.

The silence dragged.

Bucky was the first to break it, voice low and rough. “You think she’s exaggerating?”

You raised an eyebrow without looking at him. “It’s Val.”

He sighed. Ran a hand through his hair. He looked… worse for wear. Tired. Bruise healing along his jaw. A tiny scratch just beneath his ear that you didn’t want to stare at, but your eyes kept flicking to anyway.

“She sent twenty-seven texts in five minutes,” he muttered. “She doesn’t do that.”

You nodded slowly. “Which means it’s either interdimensional, magical, or something’s exploded.”

“Or all three,” Bucky said darkly.

The elevator pinged. Floor 44.

You shifted your weight, tugging your sleeves down over your wrists, trying not to fidget. You hadn’t spoken since the lake house. Since the fight. Since you’d stabbed him in a training room full of witnesses. And now you were here—reunited by shared emergency, standing side by side in uncomfortable silence like the world hadn’t tilted three inches to the left the last time you were in the same room.

Another beat passed. Bucky cleared his throat. “I, uh—was gonna text. After…”

You didn’t answer. Didn’t need to. He fell quiet again.

The elevator slowed as it reached Floor 47—restricted access, Val’s designated “oh-no-no-no” floor where emergencies were dealt with before they spilled into the public. You turned toward the doors, fingers tingling with restrained magic, muscles tensed.

Bucky watched you from the corner of his eye. “You ready?”

“Not even a little.”

The elevator chimed. The doors slid open. And your breath caught in your throat.

You blinked once. Twice. There, in the middle of the hallway, was Val.

She looked like she'd been through a war. Hair disheveled, one heel missing, shirt untucked, and a stain on her blazer that looked suspiciously like applesauce. In her arms was something squirming. No—someone.

A baby.

A small, squishy, extremely furious baby with way-too-familiar dark hair and an itty-bitty SHIELD onesie.

You blinked again.

“Don’t say a word,” Val snapped, eyes bloodshot. “Just… come inside.”

You and Bucky exchanged a look.

Then, slowly—cautiously—you stepped into the madness. And chaos met you like a tidal wave.

You hadn’t even crossed the threshold before your instincts started screaming. Magic—thick and wild—still clung to the air like smoke after a fire. It buzzed faintly against your skin, prickling at the fine hairs on your arms as you stepped deeper into the hallway. Bucky followed close behind, one hand near the knife strapped to his thigh, the other flexing like he was itching to punch the unknown square in the face.

The lights in the corridor flickered ominously, and you had to sidestep what appeared to be a trail of goldfish crackers leading directly into the main conference room. You didn’t ask. You didn’t want to know.

Val stood just inside the doorway, her face an exhausted masterpiece of rage and disbelief. Her dark hair was pulled back into a half-undone ponytail, her mascara was smudged, and she held what looked like a baby in her arms—fat-cheeked, glaring, with a tuft of auburn hair and a scowl that, disturbingly, reminded you of John Walker.

You stopped short. Bucky nearly bumped into you. Val didn’t give either of you time to process.

“Come in,” she said, voice hoarse and tight with a fraying edge of hysteria. “Close the damn door behind you.”

Your boots clicked against the tile as you obeyed. Bucky muttered something under his breath that you couldn’t quite catch, but it sounded like a prayer. The moment the doors sealed shut behind you, a new sound filled the air—high-pitched, chaotic, overlapping.

Crying. Arguing. Giggling. Something heavy crashing to the floor. You turned the corner and froze. All logic stopped.

Five small figures occupied the room like gremlins unleashed from hell itself. One of them—Alexei, you assumed—was trying to climb the window blinds using only his teeth and a wildly ineffective pair of toddler arms. Another, unmistakably Ava, sat cross-legged under the conference table, surrounded by floating pieces of dismantled tech, tiny face screwed up in furious concentration.

Yelena was in a corner, stabbing a juice box with the savagery of someone trying to commit war crimes through a straw.

And in the center of it all, surrounded by a small pile of blankets, was Bob. Tiny. Round.

Wearing one of those ridiculous “I’m the future” shirts that someone must have dug out of a Stark Industries drawer.

He saw you and his entire face lit up like a sunrise.

“Mama!”

You blinked. Bucky swore under his breath, spinning on his heel like he was about to hit the emergency elevator button and vanish from this plane of existence. You grabbed the back of his jacket before he could escape.

Val rubbed at her temples and muttered, “I told you not to touch the bottle. But noooo, someone had to argue about proximity spells and elemental containment and—well, now we have baby assassins, congratulations.”

You stepped forward on unsteady feet, crouching slowly as Bob toddled toward you with his arms outstretched. He tripped once, recovered, and barrelled into you like a chubby missile, wrapping his tiny arms around your neck.

“Mama,” he mumbled again, this time softer, more tired. “You came.” Your throat closed.

You wrapped your arms around his tiny frame, magic flaring silently under your skin as you scanned him for injuries. Nothing broken. No magical burns. Just… small. Vulnerable. And looking at you like you were the only safe thing in the world.

Bucky crouched beside you, eyes flicking over Bob and then around the room like he was still waiting for the real threat to reveal itself. “They’re all like this?”

“All of them,” Val said, sounding like she needed a drink, a nap, and possibly a new career.

You stood up, lifting Bob easily in your arms. He curled against you instantly, one thumb in his mouth, the other hand tangled in the collar of your shirt.

“This is temporary, right?” Bucky asked warily.

Val didn’t answer right away. She just exhaled slowly, like she was bracing herself for an explosion that hadn’t happened yet.

“I don’t know,” she admitted. “We’ve got two sorcerers on a call, one is crying, and the other just said something about ‘age-locked soul regression’ and hung up.”

Bucky ran a hand down his face. You just stared at Val.

“So what you’re saying,” you said flatly, “is that you called me back from my grief vacation to run a daycare full of mini war criminals, and you don’t even know how long this lasts.”

Val smiled grimly. “Welcome home.”

Val checked her watch like she wasn’t surrounded by chaos. Like there weren’t juice stains soaking into Stark Tower’s designer rugs or an unconscious Red Guardian face-first on the floor after trying to body slam a beanbag chair. She smoothed her blazer, adjusted the one-heeled shoe still attached to her foot, and—while you cradled a drowsy toddler Bob on your hip and Bucky stared blankly at the wall like his soul had just left his body—said the words that would forever haunt your dreams:

“Well. I gotta go.”

You blinked. Bucky blinked.

Val clapped her hands once, as if trying to shake off crumbs. “I’ve got a crisis call with a coven in Prague, and then there’s a press situation brewing with the UN. Something about unauthorized dimension-hopping and a minor possessed goat.” She waved vaguely toward the ceiling. “Anyway. This—” she gestured broadly at the pint-sized chaos, “—is officially not my problem anymore.”

“Val,” you said slowly, adjusting Bob’s weight in your arms as he yawned and drooled on your shoulder, “you cannot be serious.”

“Oh, I’m very serious,” she replied, already moving toward the exit. “Pepper said not to disturb her unless something was on fire or bleeding, and technically no one is bleeding right now, so.”

“Yelena bit Walker,” Bucky said flatly, arms crossed.

“Baby Yelena,” you clarified. “Bit baby Walker.”

“She also cursed in Russian,” Bucky added. “Twice.”

Val waved that off like it was paperwork. “You’ve both handled worse. I have faith in you. You're a natural leader.”

“You left a literal god in a diaper and called it leadership,” you muttered.

“Correct,” she said cheerfully, already halfway out the door. “And hey—think of it as team-building. Trauma bonding. Therapeutic domestic immersion!”

The door hissed shut behind her before you could hurl something after her.

Silence fell. Well—not silence. There was still the sound of baby Ava stacking StarkPads like building blocks, the rhythmic creaking of toddler Alexei trying to bounce off the walls again, and a very soft, very suspicious splorch noise coming from somewhere behind the couch.

You sighed. Loudly. Bucky exhaled beside you and rubbed a hand down his face, voice low and tired. “What the hell do we do now?”

You looked down at Bob, who had his thumb in his mouth and his other hand tangled in your hair. His eyes were already fluttering shut. He looked so peaceful. So innocent. So unaware of the raging dumpster fire surrounding you.

You adjusted him against your chest and said, “First? We find juice boxes. Then? We pray.”

Bucky nodded, slow and solemn. And for the first time all day, he actually looked at you. Not just a glance. Not a glare. A real look. Soft. Quiet. Maybe even… apologetic. But there wasn’t time for that now.

Because baby Yelena had disappeared. And the emergency sprinklers just turned on.

There is a kind of silence that comes right before everything explodes. A charged, fleeting moment where the universe holds its breath.

And then—

The crying starts.

It begins with Bob. Just a soft whimper, barely a sound, muffled against your chest as he stirs from his nap. He’s warm, flushed, eyes still bleary, but the instant he realizes he’s not in your arms anymore—just lying beside you on a pillow—his mouth opens in a slow, terrible wail that rises like a storm cloud and does not stop.

You reach for him instantly, but you’re too late.

He sets off Ava.

Her screech is sharper. Meaner. Like glass shattering on tile. She’s standing in the middle of the room with her fists clenched, bottom lip trembling, tears welling like twin tidal waves. One second she’s fine. The next she’s full banshee. She throws her spoon. It explodes against the wall.

Alexei joins in before he even knows why. He hears the sound, sees the distress, and promptly throws himself on the ground, legs kicking, wailing like someone just stepped on his dreams. He rolls over, bumps into a cushion, and starts yelling louder.

And Yelena—sweet, violent, unpredictable Yelena—stands up from the laundry basket she was using as a fort, looks around at the descending bedlam, and starts crying out of pure spite.

It’s deafening.

You scramble across the room on your knees, arms outstretched, magic sparking helplessly at your fingertips as you try to gather them. Bob first—his arms are already reaching for you. You scoop him up, kiss his forehead, shush him, bounce gently. He does not care. He screams louder.

“Where is Bucky?” you growl, trying to untangle yourself from Bob’s sticky grip.

“Right here!” he barks from the hallway, rushing back in, hair a mess and his shirt inside-out. Yelena is clinging to the front of him like a spider monkey, her face mashed against his collarbone, screaming directly into his soul.

He looks wild-eyed. Rattled. Afraid.

You want to laugh. You don’t. You don’t have the air to laugh.

“Help me!” you shout, trying to levitate a bottle of formula while Bob beats his tiny fists against your chest and Ava levitates a couch cushion with intent to murder.

“I DON’T KNOW WHAT TO DO,” Bucky yells, trying to detach Yelena without getting bitten.

“You’ve fought HYDRA death squads, Barnes, just PUT THE BABY DOWN—”

“She’s got my hair—”

“I DON’T CARE—”

A loud thud cuts you off. You whirl around.

Alexei launched himself off the back of the couch and landed flat on his stomach, wailing like a siren. He doesn’t seem hurt. Just… upset. And wet. He’s crying with his whole body, fists pounding the ground like it personally offended him.

Bucky finally peels Yelena off his shoulder and deposits her into the playpen. She immediately tries to scale the mesh wall like she’s in baby prison.

“WE NEED A PLAN,” he pants, hands braced on his knees.

“I NEED SIX PAIRS OF ARMS AND A DAMN EXORCIST,” you snap, trying to keep Bob from kicking his bottle out of your hand.

The noise crescendos. Crying. Screaming. Something electronic explodes in the corner, sparks shooting out from under the TV. You don’t care anymore. You’re soaked. You’re sticky. You’re seconds away from crying with them.

And then—

Silence.

Just for a second. Just long enough for you and Bucky to lock eyes across the battlefield.

You’re both breathing hard. Wide-eyed. Disheveled. You with Bob on your hip and dried applesauce in your hair. Him with baby sock prints on his shirt and Yelena’s pacifier tucked behind his ear like a grenade.

“This,” you breathe, “is hell.”

He nods. Grim. “Actual hell.”

Then someone starts crying again. And the moment shatters.

You were one scream away from combusting.

The lights were flickering. The tower’s temperature regulation had failed—again—and somewhere in the hallway, a fire alarm was going off that no one could reach because it was twelve feet in the air. Ava had levitated two coffee mugs and was currently banging them together like ritual drums. Alexei was naked. You didn’t know when or how, but he’d shed every piece of clothing and was sprinting through the living room like a glittery gremlin on a sugar high. Walker was sobbing into a pile of couch cushions like the world had personally betrayed him. Yelena was sharpening crayons. Sharpening. Crayons.

And Bob, your sweet little Bob, was wrapped around your leg like a weighted anchor, wide-eyed and sniffling, clutching the hem of your shirt like it was a holy relic.

Your eye twitched. Your jaw clenched.

And then, very quietly, you snapped.

Magic flared like a shockwave from your fingertips. Not out of rage, not yet—but out of sheer, unhinged desperation. You waved one hand through the air with a sharp, sweeping motion, and with a flick of your wrist, the living room shifted.

The floor shimmered, glowed, and transformed.

The couch cushions floated gently into the air and reassembled themselves into a playpen fortress, complete with safety barriers, tiny blankets, and soft lights that pulsed like stars. A calming scent of lavender and cocoa drifted through the room. The broken coffee mugs reformed into glowing orbs that danced mid-air, swirling like baby mobiles. The fire alarm shut off. Alexei’s clothes reappeared on his body mid-run, and he skidded to a halt, confused but delighted.

Every child went still.

Ava’s mouth fell open in awe. The mugs dropped to the floor with a soft clink as her eyes tracked the lights like they were fairy spirits. Yelena—tiny, lethal Yelena—sat down cross-legged on the spot, crayons forgotten in her lap. Even Walker, snotty and red-faced, blinked up in wonder.

And Bob?

Bob was glowing.

Not literally—but in the way toddlers do when something lights up their whole world. His eyes sparkled as he stared at you, face round and amazed, mouth opening in a joyful little gasp.

“More!” he chirped, grabbing your hand. “Mama! More pretty!”

You let out a breath you didn’t realize you were holding. Something in your chest eased. Warmed.

With a softer motion, you conjured a gentle snowfall. It wasn’t cold—just glittering illusion, falling like sugar from the ceiling. Bob reached for the flakes with both hands, giggling in delight, and Ava squealed, chasing them across the carpet.

Alexei threw himself into a pile of conjured pillows with a triumphant yell. Yelena tried to catch a flake on her tongue and grumbled in Russian when it disappeared.

Bucky appeared in the doorway, stunned silent.

He took in the scene—five tiny Thunderbolts sitting peacefully in a glowing, enchanted wonderland, laughter echoing like music—and blinked slowly like his brain had blue-screened.

“What the hell,” he muttered.

“I snapped,” you said, breathless, still holding Bob close. “Magically. Domestically. Emotionally.”

He walked forward slowly, dodging a floating duck-shaped spark of light. “You turned this into a preschool fantasy movie.”

“I saved our lives.”

Bob giggled again, clapping tiny hands against your cheeks and leaning into your chest. “You did magic,” he whispered proudly. “You magic mama.”

You felt your heart split clean down the middle.

Bucky rubbed a hand down his face. “I don’t know if I’m terrified or impressed.”

“Both,” you replied, brushing a curl from Bob’s forehead. “Be both.”

You made the fatal mistake of blinking.

One moment—peace. Quiet giggles. Sparkly fake snow drifting through the air. You were a goddess among toddlers, a mother of dragons with a halo of glitter and cocoa-scented calm. Bob was nestled in your lap, playing with a soft conjured rabbit. Bucky was cautiously sipping cold coffee while keeping one eye on Ava, who had finally stopped trying to rewrite Stark protocols with finger paint.

But peace, as you were learning, was a trap.

Because the second you turned to conjure a new blanket for Walker—who was beginning to sniffle again with the kind of pout that threatened to erupt—the room descended into absolute anarchy.

It started with Alexei. Of course it was Alexei.

You didn’t see him do it, but you heard the crash. The unmistakable sound of a plastic bin full of LEGOs and emergency tools being upended onto the floor. You turned just in time to see his chubby little legs disappear into the hallway, a screwdriver in one hand, glitter still stuck to his forehead, screaming something that sounded vaguely like, “I BUILD NOW!”

And then Ava shrieked.

Not because she was scared—no, no. It was the shriek of competitive bloodlust. She took off after him like a heat-seeking missile, levitating the duck-shaped mobile and hurling it like a weapon.

“GET BACK HERE,” you shouted, scrambling to your feet, Bob tumbling against your chest like a startled kitten.

“Why is she flying?!” Bucky barked, pointing at Ava as she literally lifted off the ground for three seconds before crashing into a beanbag chair.

“I DON’T KNOW, BUCKY, MAYBE BECAUSE SHE’S MADE OF MAGIC AND SPITE.”

Yelena, meanwhile, took advantage of the chaos by climbing the bookshelf.

You didn’t know how she got up there. You didn’t want to know. One second she was scribbling ominous symbols on the wall in red crayon—yes, red, of course—and the next she was crouched like a tiny sniper on the fourth shelf, chewing on the binding of a S.H.I.E.L.D. training manual like it owed her money.

Walker had begun crying again.

Not just crying—screaming. Full-volume toddler meltdown. He crawled under the couch, sobbing “I WANT MY SHIELD” on repeat like a tiny brainwashed Winter Soldier, refusing to come out.

“Bucky,” you yelled, trying to teleport Bob’s toy out of Ava’s war path. “GET YELENA.”

“She’s got a knife!” he hissed back.

“What?!”

He ducked behind the couch, emerging moments later with Yelena wriggling under his arm, a makeshift dagger made from a broken spatula clutched in her tiny fist. She screamed something guttural and kicked him in the ribs.

“I hate this,” Bucky grunted, staggering.

“I told you we should’ve just faked our own deaths!”

Bob, still in your arms, was clapping. “Fun!”

You looked down at him, sweat on your brow, hair in your mouth, glitter somehow in your eyelid.

“Sweetheart,” you panted, “are you… enjoying this?”

He beamed, two teeth showing. “So much fun!”

You groaned and dropped back into the armchair as Yelena shrieked “FREEDOM!” and escaped Bucky’s grip like a feral badger. Walker was still sobbing under the couch. Ava was now levitating herself again. Alexei had returned and was trying to unscrew the floor vent.

Bucky leaned against the wall, disheveled and furious. “They’re going to kill us.”

“Not if I kill myself first,” you muttered.

A bottle flew past your head and exploded against the wall.

Bob clapped again. “Boom!”

It was Bucky’s idea.

You should’ve stopped him. Should’ve tackled him when he opened his mouth and said the now-infamous words: “Okay, who’s hungry?”

Because the second those words left his lips, all five children lost their collective baby minds.

“ME!!” Alexei screamed, punching the air like someone had offered him a fight instead of food.

“Ava hungee!!” Ava shrieked, arms flailing as she levitated a fork from across the room and nearly impaled a couch cushion.

“I wan’ 'ghetti!” Yelena shouted, her voice dangerously close to demonic pitch.

“I wan’ chikkie!” Walker sobbed, still under the couch but apparently motivated enough by processed meat to join the living.

And Bob—precious, sweet Bob, who had been clinging to your side like a sleepy koala—perked up with a sleepy little smile and said, “Nuggy time?”

Bucky looked at you.

You looked at him.

The kitchen door creaked open like the gates of hell.

You set Bob down in his little booster seat at the table and conjured another chair with magic for Yelena, who was already trying to climb onto the counter with one leg and no pants. Bucky was wrestling Walker out from under the couch with one arm while using the other to hold a frozen bag of peas to his forehead. Alexei kept yelling “HUNGEY HUNGEY HUNGEY” while trying to crawl into the fridge.

“Ava,” you said sharply, ducking as a spoon whizzed past your face, “you levitate one more utensil and I will enchant your applesauce to taste like toenails.”

She froze mid-levitate. The spoon dropped.

“Tha’ gross,” she muttered, pouting.

You started plating like your life depended on it—because it did. Bucky had dumped three boxes of frozen chicken nuggets onto a tray and tossed it in the oven while you used your powers to conjure fruit, toast, mini pancakes, and six bowls of mac and cheese.

Alexei was already trying to eat his with his hands.

“No hands! Use fork!” you said, guiding his chubby little fingers toward the utensil.

“Nooooo,” he whined, stuffing noodles into his mouth and onto his forehead. “Me big boy!!”

“Okay, big boy,” Bucky muttered, putting a juice box in front of him. “Try not to stab your brother with that straw.”

Yelena grabbed her plate, glared at her peas, and yeeted them over her shoulder like a war crime. “I wan’ 'ghetti!”

“I told you there’s no spaghetti!” you snapped, catching Bob’s juice before it spilled.

“I WAN’ SPAGHETTI!!” she screeched, slapping the table. Ava screamed in solidarity.

Walker had fallen asleep in his plate of chicken nuggets.

Bob, on the other hand, was being perfect. Bob ate slowly. Neatly. Like the tiny polite prince he was. He chewed each bite thoughtfully, his little feet swinging under the chair, hands slightly sticky but contained.

You wiped his mouth gently and smiled at him.

“Good boy,” you murmured.

“I eat good?” he asked.

“The best,” you whispered.

Then he knocked over his cup of juice with the most gentle swipe of his hand and looked genuinely surprised.

“Oopsie.”

“Of course,” you muttered.

Across the table, Bucky looked done. His hair was a mess. His shirt had a banana smear across the front. He was trying to convince Yelena to sit back down without losing a finger. His soul had left the building.

You handed him a fork with quiet pity.

“Welcome to the dark side,” you said, deadpan.

“I fought a Nazi assassin on a train once,” he muttered. “This is worse.”

Bucky's Side: The Boys’ Bath

Bucky Barnes had survived snipers, bombs, interdimensional threats, and the slow emotional death of Avengers press tours. But none of that—none of it—had prepared him for giving a bath to three superpowered toddlers in a room tiled like a war zone and soaked like a rainstorm.

“Okay,” he muttered to himself as he set the baby shampoo on the edge of the tub, sleeves rolled up and damp already. “We go in fast. No hesitation. No fear.”

He looked down into the tub where Bob, Alexei, and Walker sat, naked, slippery, and foaming.

Bob was the only one sitting still. Bucky could kiss him for that. The kid blinked up at him with big eyes, cheeks rosy from the warmth, clutching a rubber duck like it was sacred.

Walker was chewing on a loofah like it owed him money.

Alexei was trying to stand.

“NOPE,” Bucky barked, yanking him back down just as the kid tried to launch himself out of the tub like a glittery torpedo. “Sit. You’re wet, not aerodynamic.”

“But I fly!” Alexei squealed, giggling.

“You fly after you graduate potty training,” Bucky muttered.

Walker let out a yell and splashed so hard the shampoo bottle went flying. Bob blinked, looked down at his duck, then slowly and methodically bit its head.

Bucky was soaked from the waist down. He grabbed a cup, filled it with warm water, and tried to rinse Alexei’s hair while the kid twisted like an eel.

“You’re getting shampooed whether you like it or not, buddy.”

Alexei screeched in mock betrayal. “BUKY BAD!!!”

Bucky froze. “You—what did you just call me?”

“BUKY BAD MAN!”

Bob gasped. “No! Buky nice! Buky gib nuggies!”

“Damn right I did,” Bucky muttered, pressing a washcloth to his own soaked face. “I earned your loyalty, Bob.”

Walker dunked himself under water without warning and popped back up sputtering, spitting suds and yelling “I’M 'MURICA!!”

Bucky genuinely considered walking out and joining a monastery.

Your Side: The Girls’ Bath

In the other bathroom—smaller, quieter, but somehow more dangerous—you knelt by the edge of a clawfoot tub with Yelena and Ava seated like tiny empresses in a mountain of enchanted bubbles.

You had already reinforced the walls with a low-level barrier charm.

For safety.

For sanity.

“Okay, let’s keep hands to ourselves,” you said, gently running your fingers through Ava’s hair. “No throwing the soap this time.”

“She startit,” Ava muttered, pouting as you combed conditioner through her curls.

“I no!” Yelena snapped, slapping bubbles like she was interrogating them. “She touch me face!”

“You touched mine!” Ava shot back.

“Okay—enough,” you said firmly, placing a floating duck between them like a peace treaty. “Duck is neutral. You hurt the duck, you answer to me.”

Ava nodded solemnly. Yelena squinted like she was planning treason.

You conjured warm water and let it rinse gently over Ava’s head. She relaxed a little, eyes fluttering shut.

Yelena took the moment of distraction to summon a bubble the size of a basketball and smack it into her sister’s face.

Ava screamed. You caught her before she could retaliate with a water whip spell.

“Yelena!” you warned. “What did I just say?”

She crossed her arms. “Duck say nothing.”

You inhaled sharply. Counted to three. Didn’t hex anyone.

“You are both getting clean if I have to freeze time to do it.”

Ava hiccuped and curled closer to you. “I wan’ braid,” she whispered.

You smiled softly, brushing back her hair. “You got it, sweetheart.”

Yelena huffed. “I wan’ dagger.”

“Absolutely not.”

Back in the hallway…

Two bathroom doors opened at the same time.

You and Bucky stared at each other across the wet tile battlefield. You had Ava on your hip and Yelena wrapped in a towel like a burrito. He had Bob cradled like a baby koala and Alexei wrapped in four towels for containment. Walker was dragging a shampoo bottle by the nozzle like it was a trophy.

“Please tell me yours didn’t pee in the tub,” you said.

“I’ll tell you,” Bucky grunted, “when I find out which of them did.”

It had been your idea.

Beds—five of them—spread out in the Tower’s movie room like a makeshift camp, each one layered with thick comforters, soft pillows, and tiny stuffed animals that had magically appeared during the day when no one was looking. The overhead lights were dimmed, the air warm, and fairy lights—actual glowing enchantments—lined the ceiling, flickering like sleepy stars.

You sat cross-legged in the middle of it all, Bob curled up against your chest, his curly hair still damp from the bath and his thumb tucked halfway into his mouth. You cradled him gently, rubbing slow circles against his back.

The movie ended ten minutes ago. And yet—no one was asleep.

Alexei was bouncing from bed to bed like a caffeinated frog, yelling about monsters and bears and how he could defeat them all. Walker had declared war on the pillows, launching them across the room with toddler-like glee and zero aim. Yelena was spinning in slow circles, singing nonsense in Russian and holding a plastic spoon like a sword.

Ava sat quietly in her own bed, arms around her knees, eyes darting from one loud sibling to the next. She wasn’t scared. But she was overwhelmed. You could see it in the way she clutched her blanket tighter every time someone shouted too loud.

Bucky walked in then, holding three bottles and looking like a man on his final life.

“I bribed them,” he muttered, passing you one for Bob. “If they lay down, they get a story.”

“That’s not a bribe,” you said, adjusting Bob so he could sip. “That’s diplomacy.”

Yelena ran toward him and jumped into his arms without warning. He caught her with a grunt, her little limbs wrapping around him like a koala on caffeine.

“Story now!” she barked, thumping her tiny fist against his chest. “Bucky tell good one.”

You raised an eyebrow. “Bucky tells stories?”

“Only the epic kind,” he said gruffly, settling into the big beanbag chair with Yelena curled up in his lap, eyes wide and bright. “Also I’m her favorite now.”

“Bet,” you said, grinning, and kissed the top of Bob’s head.

Walker flopped onto the floor dramatically and yelled, “I wan’ da dragon story!”

“No, bear story!” Alexei shouted, diving under his blanket.

“C’n we have both?” Bob whispered against your collarbone.

Ava peeked out from her bed, voice so small it was barely a whisper. “I wan’ story, too…”

You smiled softly, opened your arms. “Wanna come here, sweetheart?”

She hesitated… then slowly crawled toward you, tucking herself against your side, her little fingers slipping into yours.

You looked across the sea of blankets and stuffed animals at Bucky.

“Ready, soldier?”

He nodded once. “Once upon a time…”

He told the first half.

A story about a brave little girl with golden hair and a mean left hook, who fought off shadow monsters with a spoon and never once cried—not even when she got lost in the woods. Yelena listened with rapt attention, eyes wide, fingers tangled in the hem of Bucky’s sleeve. Walker shouted every time the monsters showed up. Alexei demanded to know when the explosions started.

You watched him—Bucky, the grumpy, growly man who had once refused to hold a puppy on a mission—and your heart ached at the way he tucked a strand of hair behind Yelena’s ear like it was second nature.

Then it was your turn.

You told them about a little boy with curls like clouds and a laugh like thunder, who had a magic duck and a glowing compass that always pointed toward home. A boy who got scared sometimes, but always did the brave thing anyway. Bob’s eyes drifted shut halfway through, his breathing slow and warm against your chest.

Ava stayed quiet, listening. You glanced down to find her still holding your hand, her head on your arm, eyes fluttering closed.

When you finished, silence wrapped around the room like a blanket.

Alexei had passed out face-first into a stuffed tiger. Walker snored with a fist in the air like he’d fallen asleep mid-battle cry. Yelena’s grip on Bucky had loosened, her face soft and peaceful at last.

You didn’t move. Neither did Bucky.

Just a quiet glance exchanged across a battlefield that—for the first time all day—had gone still. He gave you a small smile.

“Not bad,” he murmured.

“You too,” you whispered. “Girl dad.”

His eyes softened. You reached over with your free hand, touched his arm.

“We’re gonna survive this, right?” you asked.

“…Eventually.”

Morning arrived in golden streaks across the curtains, slow and quiet, like the Tower itself was still rubbing sleep from its eyes. The fairy lights overhead had faded to a soft, amber glow. Someone’s lullaby playlist had stopped playing around 3 a.m., leaving only the gentle hum of the heater and the occasional squeak of a plush toy being rolled on in someone’s sleep.

You weren’t awake yet. Not fully.

Your mind stirred before your body did—floating somewhere between dream and waking, wrapped in heavy warmth and a surprisingly steady rhythm of breath that wasn’t your own. Your fingers twitched. Something shifted against your side.

You blinked. And then you froze.

Because your head? Was not on a pillow. It was on a shoulder.

A broad, warm, flannel-covered shoulder.

And your leg? Draped over someone else’s. There was an arm around your waist.

Your heart leapt into your throat as your gaze tilted up—slowly, hesitantly, horrifiedly—to meet the sleeping face of none other than James Buchanan Barnes.

His head was tilted back, mouth slightly open, hair tousled from sleep, stubble thick across his jaw. One hand rested loosely on your side, metal fingers curled like he’d relaxed into it hours ago.

You screamed internally.

Before you could even react, a chorus of chaotic giggles rang through the room.

“Buki an’ mama cuddlin’!!” Bob squealed from his little bed, hands on his cheeks like this was the most romantic moment of his tiny life.

Yelena howled with laughter, rolling back and forth in her blanket pile.

Walker blinked at you both, frowned, then burst into inexplicable tears.

Ava watched from the corner, covering her mouth with both hands as her shoulders shook in quiet delight.

Bucky jolted awake with a grunt, arm tightening around you instinctively before his eyes flew open.

He blinked. Looked at you. Looked at your leg over his. Looked at the chaos around the room.

“Are you—” he started.

“I am not cuddling you,” you snapped, scrambling away so fast you kicked off your own blanket and nearly face-planted into Bob’s pile of duck plushies.

Bucky sat up like he’d been electrocuted. “I don’t cuddle people!”

“Same!!”

Walker sobbed louder. Alexei sat up out of nowhere, disheveled and somehow holding a bag of dry cereal. “Why mama yellin’?”

“I’M NOT YOUR MOM—”

Bob crawled into your lap mid-scream and patted your face gently. “You ‘n Buki had sleep snugs.”

You opened your mouth. Closed it. Covered your face with both hands. Bucky groaned and dropped his head against the couch behind him.

“Kill me,” he mumbled.

Yelena threw a pillow at him. “Cuddlerrrr,” she sang.

You peeked at him between your fingers. “You drooled on me.”

He didn’t even deny it. “You kicked me in your sleep.”

Bob gasped. “You kick Buki?!”

“Okay, okay, enough,” you muttered, pulling Bob close, cheeks burning. “Everyone up. Let’s get breakfast before I disintegrate into the floor.”

As the kids scrambled to their feet and chaos began its daily resurrection, you caught Bucky’s eye one more time.

He looked away first. And maybe—just maybe—you missed the warmth.

Just a little.

There were two kinds of mornings in the Tower: the usual half-chaotic shuffle of grown adults trying to act like responsible heroes… and then mornings like this—where five pint-sized mayhem goblins were running on toddler fuel, sticky fingers, and leftover glitter from the bath bubbles.

But today? Today felt… soft.

Warm sunlight poured through the tall windows of the Tower kitchen, casting golden rays across the floor where Bob was sitting cross-legged in his duck pajamas, humming to himself and gently rocking a bottle of syrup like it was a baby. Ava leaned against your leg quietly, watching everything with big eyes. Walker had already knocked over a chair and was using it to climb the counter. Yelena was sharpening crayons for no reason again. And Alexei was running laps around the island chanting “PAN-KAKE! PAN-KAKE!” like it was a war cry.

At the stove stood Bucky Barnes.

Flour on his cheek. Hair tied back in a low bun. Wearing a navy-blue apron that read “Kiss the Cook” (you did not question where he found it). One hand expertly flipping pancakes in a skillet, the other steadying the stack already plated next to him. His face was scrunched in deep, world-ending focus.

You leaned on the counter, arms crossed, watching him work.

“Never thought I’d see the Winter Soldier making bunny-shaped pancakes,” you said with a smirk.

“Never thought I’d be this close to snapping over a missing spatula,” he muttered, flipping one like a pro. “We all grow.”

“You’re… good at this,” you admitted.

He looked up, eyebrows raised. “Did you just compliment me?”

“I’ll deny it the moment you bring it up again.”

Yelena skidded into the room, nearly wiping out, then slammed her fists onto the counter. “Buki!! My pancake has no eyes!!”

Bucky blinked. “What?”

“His face!! No eyes!! You forget eyes!!” she said, holding up a bunny pancake like it had been personally insulted.

You stepped in before Bucky short-circuited. “Let’s get some blueberries, yeah? Pancake eyes, coming right up.”

Bob clapped gently from the floor. “Buki is pancake man…”

Bucky exhaled, set another perfect circle on the stack, then crouched to look Bob in the eye.

“I am pancake man,” he said seriously. “Fear me.”

Bob giggled so hard he fell sideways into your leg.

Ava tugged on your shirt. “Can I have butter on mine?”

You scooped her up effortlessly, resting her on your hip. “Butter, syrup, and maybe a little whipped cream if we’re feeling wild.”

Walker climbed onto a stool with absolutely zero grace and yelled, “I WAN’ TOWER PAN-KAKE!!”

Alexei crashed into him. “NO! I WAN’ TOWER PAN-KAKE!!”

“Okay, okay—one Tower Stack coming up,” you said, motioning to Bucky.

He saluted with the spatula like it was a mission. “Ten-layer pancake incoming.”

Within minutes, plates were passed, juice was poured (carefully), and the kitchen fell into that rarest of states: peaceful chewing. You sat with Bob on your lap, Ava pressed against your side, watching them eat like it was a feast fit for baby kings and queens. Walker had syrup in his eyebrows. Yelena had somehow acquired a second fork. Alexei was stacking mini pancake pieces into what looked like a tank.

Bucky sat across from you, sipping coffee like a man who’d seen war and made peace with it.

You caught his eye.

And for one long, quiet second—you smiled at each other.

Like, really smiled.

Then Alexei sneezed into the syrup and Yelena started sword-fighting with forks and Bob whispered, “I love you, pan-kake…” and the moment passed.

But it happened.

And it was enough.

The world, for once, had gone gentle.

No glitter explosions. No screaming for pancakes. No enchanted utensils flying across the room. Just the soft murmur of little voices—Ava humming to herself in the corner as she scribbled stars with a blue crayon, Alexei grunting in concentration as he stacked blocks that kept collapsing, Yelena hissing at Walker because he tried to eat her bear—and beneath it all, the quiet, steady rhythm of Bob breathing against your chest.

He was out cold.

His curls were damp from the bath, cheeks flushed a sleepy rose. One of his hands was balled into your shirt like he thought you might disappear. The other was loosely gripping the tail of his beloved duck plush, already halfway down your lap.

You didn’t dare move.

Bucky was sitting beside you on the couch, arms resting on his thighs, head tilted just enough to watch Bob sleep without looking like he meant to. His metal fingers tapped once against his knee before going still again.

The Tower had never felt this quiet. Not even when it was empty.

You shifted slightly to get comfortable and winced when Bob stirred, letting out a soft baby sigh and curling closer to your heartbeat.

“Sorry,” you whispered, brushing a hand over his hair.

Bucky’s voice was low, just above a murmur. “He’s really out, huh?”

“Long day,” you said, glancing at the chaos still moving across the carpet. “They wore each other out.”

“They wore us out.”

You smiled, leaning back slightly, careful not to wake the sleeping warmth curled against you. “I’m starting to think we’re the ones being trained.”

Bucky huffed a soft laugh. It wasn’t sarcastic this time. It wasn’t bitter. Just... tired. Soft.

You looked over at him.

His eyes were still on Bob.

“You’re good with them,” you said before you could stop yourself.

He blinked. Turned his head slowly, like the compliment confused him.

“You think?”

“I know.” You shifted your gaze back down to Bob. “You made pancakes for six people before sunrise. That’s not ‘good,’ Barnes. That’s heroic.”

He smiled. A real one. Small. Hidden in the corner of his mouth. But there.

For a while, you sat in silence.

Ava brought you a drawing. She didn’t say anything, just placed it gently on your lap before scurrying away. It was a crayon portrait—lopsided and sweet. A stick figure with curly hair holding a tiny blue duck, another with a big metal arm. Both surrounded by stars.

Bucky glanced over your shoulder at it. “Is that supposed to be you and me?”

You nodded. “Apparently.”

He leaned closer, just for a second. Just long enough that your shoulders brushed.

Then—

Bob let out a long, dramatic sigh in his sleep, and you both froze.

“Don’t you dare wake him,” you whispered.

Bucky held up both hands, eyes wide. “I didn’t do anything—”

“You thought too loud.”

“Okay, that’s not a real thing—”

Bob stirred again.

You glared.

Bucky shut his mouth.

And for the next ten minutes, you just sat like that. Side by side. Breathing. Watching. Holding the soft, heavy weight of a sleeping child and somehow, maybe for the first time in a long time, not feeling like the world was on fire.

Just tired.

Just... home.

It happened fast.

One moment, you were sitting on the couch with Bob in your arms and a blanket over your knees, sipping tea while Yelena braided Ava’s hair and Alexei tried to convince Walker that glue was edible. The next, your comm buzzed to life—emergency alert, priority red. No time to argue. No time to prep. Just a look exchanged with Bucky and a whispered, “It’s quick, I promise.”

Bob had started to whimper the second you stood up.

Ava froze halfway through her braid.

“Mama?” she asked, barely audible.

“Just one hour, baby,” you whispered, brushing her cheek. “Be good for Bucky, okay?”

But Bob was already clinging to your shirt. “Nooo gooo,” he whined, voice cracking. “Stayyy here, mamaaa…”

You kissed the top of his head and passed him gently to Bucky, who caught him like someone handling fragile glass.

“I’ll be right back.”

And then you were gone.

The door shut.

The elevator hummed.

The silence cracked.

And five seconds later, all hell broke loose.

Bob began to sob, small hiccupy gasps as he buried his face in Bucky’s chest. Ava’s eyes welled up, and she clutched Yelena’s arm like she might disappear too. Alexei stomped his feet, yelling “NO FAIR!” over and over again like it was a battle cry. Walker threw himself backward onto the carpet and began to scream—not words, just primal, chaotic sadness.

Bucky stood frozen in the middle of it all, holding one trembling, snotty, heartbroken child and looking like he’d just been dropped into battle with no weapons.

“Okay, okay, hey,” he said, trying to bounce Bob gently while his metal arm rubbed slow, awkward circles on the boy’s back. “It’s fine. She’s coming back. You heard her. Just one hour.”

“Mama gone,” Bob whispered against his neck.

“No, no—she’s not gone, she’s just… busy.”

“GONNNNEEEEE,” Alexei wailed from the corner, throwing a block with the force of a javelin.

Yelena’s bottom lip quivered. “Mama always go ‘way,” she said, her tiny voice accusing. “We no want you.”

That one hit harder than Bucky wanted to admit.

He sank down onto the floor, Bob still attached to his chest, and reached his free arm out toward the girls.

“Yeah, I know,” he muttered, eyes softening. “I’m not her. But I’m here. And I’m trying, okay? So… help me out, would ya?”

Ava came first—quiet, hesitant, sitting at his side but not touching. Then Yelena crawled into his lap, curling against his arm with a dramatic huff. Bob had gone quiet now, his face red and puffy, but his breathing slower.

Walker was still howling into the void.

“Kid,” Bucky called. “You good?”

A loud sniffle.

“…No.”

“Fair.”

Alexei marched over and kicked Bucky in the shin.

“OW—what was that for?!”

“You not mama.”

Bucky looked at the four of them—messy, snot-covered, half-dressed, grieving the sudden loss of the woman who had somehow become their whole world.

“I know I’m not mama,” he said softly. “But she trusted me to take care of you. So let’s just… wait together, yeah?”

Walker sniffed again, then crawled up into his lap without asking. Ava rested her cheek on his knee. Yelena reached up and patted his chin like it made her feel better.

And Bob—little Bob—looked up with tear-glassy eyes and whispered, “You stay ‘til she come back?”

Bucky blinked.

Nodded.

“Yeah, buddy. I’m not going anywhere.”

Bucky had never been afraid of noise. Not really. Explosions, screams, the static hiss of war and metal and memory—it was all part of the rhythm he’d learned to move through like a shadow. But this kind of noise? This relentless, high-pitched, emotionally unstable cacophony? This was not battle. This was something far more dangerous.

This was five grieving toddlers, left in the temporary care of a man whose entire emotional toolkit could fit inside a shot glass.

It was only thirty minutes since you left, but it felt like years.

The living room looked like a battlefield. Yelena had overturned the toy chest and was now guarding it like a dragon with a hoard. Bob had cried so hard he’d vomited, then fallen asleep for ten minutes before waking up even more upset. Walker had locked himself in the hallway closet and was screaming about “being brave alone,” and Alexei had somehow shattered one of the tower’s unbreakable vases and was now spinning in slow, guilty circles whispering “uh-oh” like a broken record.

Ava hadn’t spoken in twenty-five minutes. She sat curled up in the corner with a blanket over her head like she was trying to disappear.

Bucky was sitting on the floor, back against the wall, legs sprawled out in front of him as he cradled Bob again—too tightly maybe, too unsure. He was sweating. His hair clung to his temple. His vibranium hand was trembling.

He didn’t know what to do.

He wanted to fix it, but he wasn’t you.

“You not mama,” Yelena had said earlier, and that truth had landed like a knife under the ribs.

He was not you.

And he could feel that fact with every scream, every whimper, every pair of tear-streaked cheeks that looked past him like they were waiting for someone else. Someone better. Someone that made the monsters under the bed go quiet with just a smile.

“Come on, buddy,” he murmured to Bob, who was sobbing again, clutching at Bucky’s flannel shirt with his tiny fists. “I know, I know—she’ll be back soon. Just... breathe, okay?”

But Bob just cried harder. And Bucky cracked. His head dropped to the wall behind him, eyes squeezing shut. His voice was ragged. “I don’t know what to do.”

He didn’t even know who he was talking to. Maybe the ceiling. Maybe the kid in his arms. Maybe you—if the universe had any mercy left in it.

Then the elevator dinged. And everything stopped.

Bob hiccuped. Alexei froze mid-spin. Even Yelena looked up from her pillow fortress like a wild animal catching the scent of home.

And then the doors slid open. You stepped out, windswept and tired, blood on your collar and soot in your hair—but whole, alive, there.

Bob screamed first. “MAMA!!”

And the floodgates burst. He scrambled out of Bucky’s arms like he’d just been released from prison and flung himself into your legs. Yelena was next, then Ava—silent tears this time, clutching your waist. Walker emerged from the closet and ran like he hadn’t been screaming betrayal five seconds ago. Alexei just collapsed in the hallway and sobbed into your ankle.

You dropped to your knees, arms wide, heart splitting in a million soft pieces.

“I’m here, babies, I’m here—I’m so sorry, I’m here.”

They piled onto you. Limbs, snot, sniffles, joy, heartbreak. Bob climbed up into your lap and tucked his face into your neck like he’d been underwater and could finally breathe again.

You held them all. Every single one. Then your eyes flicked up.

And found Bucky still on the floor, frozen in place, his chest heaving, eyes rimmed red. You stood slowly, carefully shifting Bob onto one hip and brushing Yelena’s curls back as you walked toward him.

You crouched. “Buck,” you said softly, your hand brushing his knee.

He didn’t look up. “I couldn’t calm him down. Any of them. I tried—I tried everything. And they just kept asking for you. Because I’m not you.”

His voice cracked, rough and low, choked by something that was too big to name. You took his hand—his metal one, the one that trembled—and pressed it gently into Bob’s back.

“Yeah,” you said. “You’re not me.”

His jaw clenched. “But they still love you.” He looked up then—really looked—and something in him broke.

Bob leaned forward sleepily, still sniffling, and pressed his little hand to Bucky’s cheek.

“Buki no cry,” he whispered, eyes half-lidded. “You ‘kay now. Mama here.”

And in that moment—cluttered, sticky, messy, real—Bucky exhaled. And maybe, just maybe, let go.

It started with a toy hammer. Of course it did.

You were in the kitchen, sleeves rolled up, humming while cutting strawberries and pretending like your home hadn’t been taken over by an elite squad of emotionally volatile toddlers. It was unusually quiet for a few minutes—too quiet—and you should’ve known something was brewing. Something diabolical.

From the living room: a sudden shriek.

“IT’S MINE!!” Yelena bellowed, her tiny hands gripping a plastic, glittery hammer like it was Mjölnir itself.

“No it’s NOT!” Walker snapped, eyes blazing as he tugged on the other end. “You had it all day!!”

“YOU TOUCH, YOU DIE!” Yelena shrieked.

“YOU’RE NOT MY MOM!!”

Alexei appeared from behind the couch, eyes wide. “FIGHT! FIGHT! FIGHT!” he chanted like a sports commentator.

Ava sat in the corner looking deeply stressed, clutching her stuffed cat to her chest. Bob was on the beanbag, crying—not because he was hurt, but because someone sat on the red one before he did, and that was apparently a federal offense in toddler law.

Bucky stood in the hallway holding a juice box, watching the chaos unfold like he was witnessing a small civil war.

And then? The hammer snapped in half. Silence.

Walker and Yelena froze, each holding a glitter-smeared piece of plastic, stunned by the consequences of their rage. Bob’s crying reached a new octave. Alexei gasped. Ava covered her eyes.

“...Uh oh,” Walker whispered.

And that’s when Bucky stepped in.

He didn’t raise his voice. He didn’t throw the juice box.

He just walked—slow, calm, terrifying like a thundercloud rolling in—and crouched between the warring parties, looking each child dead in the eye like they were dangerous operatives.

“Do you know what I see right now?” he asked, voice low and steady.

Yelena crossed her arms, pouting. “A winner?”

Walker squinted. “A loser?”

Bob hiccuped from the beanbag. “...Daddy mad.”

Bucky raised one brow. “I see five very lucky little gremlins who are this close—” he held up two fingers, almost touching “—to spending the rest of the day in separate corners with NO pancakes tomorrow.”

Everyone gasped.

Ava let out a horrified whisper. “No pan-kakes?”

Bucky nodded, solemn. “Not even one blueberry.”

Alexei collapsed in the background. “Nooo… my soul…”

Walker dropped the broken hammer like it burned him. “I—I didn’t mean to!!”

“She broke it!!” Yelena yelled, pointing with all the fury of a betrayed Spartan.

“You both broke it,” Bucky snapped. “And you both need to fix it. Not with glue. With apologies.”

The room was dead quiet.

Then Bob sniffled. “Can I have the red seat now?”

Bucky turned slowly. “Bob. Do you want the red seat, or the high ground?”

Bob blinked. “...Both?”

“Reasonable,” Bucky muttered.

You peeked in from the kitchen, hands still full of strawberries. “What happened—?”

“Communism,” Bucky replied flatly. “They all think the hammer belongs to them.”

You blinked. “So… Yelena and Walker fought?”

“No. They trained for war.”

Yelena shuffled forward, face pink. “Sorry I yelled. I guess we can… share?”

Walker nodded. “Yeah. Sorry I sat on the red chair.”

Bob perked up. “You said it. Now get up.”

“BOB—”

“Okay,” Bucky sighed, rubbing his temples. “That’s it. We’re instituting the Rotation Chart. Everyone gets the red seat for ten minutes. Timer’s on the table. Touch it before it dings, I swear to God—”

“Will we die?” Alexei whispered.

Bucky didn’t answer. Just glared.

You laughed from the kitchen. “Papa Barnes strikes again.”

And somehow, just like that, the living room began to settle. The hammer got placed in the “fix-it” bin. The red seat rotated. Pancakes were saved.

And Bucky? He finally took a seat.

One long breath in. One sip of juice box out.

The day had been long—block tower disasters, spilled juice, at least one suspicious crayon eaten. But night brought a softness to the tower. The overhead lights were dimmed to a warm golden glow, the air was cool with a hint of lavender from someone’s diffuser (Ava, probably), and every tiny toddler was wrapped in soft pajamas like miniature plush marshmallows.

“Okay, Bob,” you said as you handed him the toy DJ keyboard that lit up and made questionably high-energy noises. “You’re on aux.”

Bob’s face lit up like he’d just been handed the nuclear launch codes. He settled in the center of the living room, pressed a few random buttons, and the air was suddenly filled with electronic bubble pop sounds and a woman’s voice yelling, “LET GO LITTLE FRIENDS!”

“YESSS!” Yelena screamed, launching herself into a spin with arms wide, her pajama top flying up over her belly.

Ava did a tiny, shy shimmy in the corner, holding her stuffed cat like a dance partner. Walker was stomping in place like a Viking toddler at a rave, and Alexei? Alexei was doing the worm. Badly. Repeatedly. On the hardwood floor.

Bucky was standing frozen in the doorway.

“Are they… raving?”

“They’re expressing joy through movement,” you said, grinning as you flicked on the glow sticks you’d snuck out earlier. “Come on, Barnes. Don’t make me outdance you.”

“Challenge accepted.”

He stepped forward, took two glow sticks from your hand, cracked them open, and tucked them into his flannel pajama waistband like makeshift swords. And then—dead serious—he moonwalked.

The babies lost their minds.

“GO BUKI!!” Bob yelled, bashing buttons on his keyboard. “GOOOO!!”

“WOOOOOO!” Yelena howled, grabbing Ava and dragging her into a spinning circle of giggles.

Alexei jumped onto the couch. “I IS DJ NOW!!” he yelled and immediately fell off the other side.

You snorted so hard you nearly choked, one hand over your mouth as you joined them all on the floor, wiggling in place with Bob clinging to your back like a sloth.

Bucky twirled past you—twirled, boss—and pointed. “We need strobe lights.”

You raised an eyebrow. “You’re turning into a party dad.”

He didn’t deny it. Just grabbed Yelena by the hands and started hopping in a circle with her while she screamed-laughed. Ava danced near your feet, swaying her cat gently. Bob tapped your shoulder and whispered, “Mama… dance is love.”

You scooped him into your arms. “Yes it is, baby.”

Ten minutes in, Walker collapsed mid-wiggle, gasping. “I… need… juice box…”

Alexei fell asleep on the floor with a glow stick in each hand like he was guarding the gates of Baby Valhalla.

Yelena was lying on Bucky’s chest now, curled in a sleepy tangle, eyes half-lidded.

You looked around at the mess of glowing sticks, soft music still playing, and the warm weight of Bob in your arms.

Bucky caught your gaze. He smiled.

“You think they’ll remember this?” you asked quietly.

He tilted his head, thoughtful. “Maybe not the details. But the feeling? Yeah. I hope so.”

You nodded, brushing a strand of hair from Bob’s forehead as he yawned, melting against you.

“Dance is love,” you murmured.

Bucky’s voice was soft. “And so is this.”

The tower was quiet in that strange, heavy way—where the silence didn’t feel peaceful, but like the universe was holding its breath.

You were sitting on the edge of the playroom couch, a blanket draped across your lap, Bob nestled into your side. He was chewing on the tail of his stuffed duck, eyelids fluttering, but still awake. He didn’t know. None of them did. Not yet.

The letter from Val sat on the table in front of you, its contents burned into your brain: Formula ready. Reversal confirmed. Administer at 0700. Side effects minimal. Memory retention = 0%.

You’d read it three times. Bucky had read it once, muttered something like “goddammit,” and walked off to fix Bob’s broken toy spaceship in the kitchen with shaking hands.

Now he was standing by the window, arms crossed over his chest, staring out like the skyline held answers it had no right to give.

“They won’t remember us,” you said quietly, voice barely above a whisper.

Bucky didn’t turn. “Yeah.”

“Not the dance parties. Not the pancakes. Not the bath times. Not…” Your voice caught, your eyes stinging. “Not the way Bob says ‘Mama’ like it means everything.”

His jaw flexed.

You glanced down at the boy curled into your side—his lashes long and fluttering, his fingers still gripped around the stuffed duck he insisted on bringing to every room. His chest rose and fell in that slow toddler rhythm, trusting the world around him to stay the same.

He’d woken up this morning and called Bucky Dada.

It hadn’t been a game. It hadn’t been a joke. He’d said it with a sleepy little smile and a stretch of his arms and then asked, “Where Mama go?”

Bucky had frozen. You had blinked. And the whole damn day had folded in on itself like a house of cards hit by wind.

“We knew it wouldn’t last,” Bucky finally said. His voice was tight. Rough. “They’re not really ours.”

“No,” you said. “But… they were. For a little while.”

He looked over his shoulder at you.

Not annoyed. Not detached. Just… broken.

And that’s what undid you.

You pressed your hand to Bob’s back, smoothing his hair. You could feel the tears coming, building behind your eyes, hot and heavy and helpless. “We have one night,” you whispered. “One more night before they forget.”

Bucky crossed the room in slow, quiet steps. He sat beside you, his arms resting on his knees, staring down at Bob like he was memorizing the curve of his cheek, the soft puff of his breath, the innocence they’d both been lucky enough to protect.

“They saved us, too,” Bucky said suddenly. His voice was faraway. “Didn’t they?”

You nodded. “More than they’ll ever know.��

A beat of silence. Then a small voice piped up.

“Mama?”

You blinked, looking down as Bob blinked blearily, his tiny fingers reaching for your sleeve. You caught them in yours.

“I’m here, baby.”

He yawned. “Why you cryin’?”

You smiled through it. “I’m just… gonna miss something.”

He nodded sleepily like he understood, though you knew he couldn’t possibly. “Can I sleep wif you ‘n Dada?”

Bucky made a noise in his throat that might’ve been a laugh—or a sob—and scooped the boy gently into his arms. Bob curled against him like he always belonged there.

You stood slowly and followed them out of the playroom, down the quiet hall, past the nursery that was still strung up with glow sticks from last night’s dance party. One of them was still faintly glowing.

When you reached your room, you pulled back the covers and let Bob crawl into the middle, where he immediately sprawled out like a starfish. His duck tucked under one arm. His other hand found Bucky’s and held on tight. You climbed in beside them.

Bucky didn’t say anything. He didn’t need to. His arm wrapped around you both, pulling you in close, holding like he might break apart if he let go. You stared at the ceiling for a long, long time, wondering if tomorrow would feel like grief or just a different kind of empty.

Would they wake up scared in grown-up bodies? Would they blink and not know you? Would Bob look at Bucky and call him Mr. Barnes with that stupid sarcastic smirk again?

Would Yelena roll her eyes and call you dramatic instead of curling into your side during movies?

Would Walker complain about rules instead of juice?

Would Alexei stop begging you to help him build his block fortress?

Would Ava forget the way she tucked her tiny hand into yours, without ever saying a word?

Would they all forget how it felt to be this loved?

Would you?

You didn’t sleep much that night. But you held Bob. And Bucky held you. And for one last night… they were yours.

Morning came too fast.

The sunlight spilling through the windows felt wrong, like it had no right to be soft and warm when the weight in your chest was made of stone. You’d barely slept. Bucky hadn’t either. His arm was still around you when the tower lights began to flicker on. Bob was still curled between you both, his tiny fingers locked in the fabric of Bucky’s shirt like if he let go, he’d float away.

You stayed that way longer than you should have.

But eventually… it was time.

The babies were quiet during breakfast. No giggles, no complaints, no pancake-related crimes. Ava clutched her juice cup with both hands and didn’t meet anyone’s eyes. Yelena picked at her food with her fork upside down. Walker was practically vibrating in his seat, and Alexei had uncharacteristically asked, “Why today feel weird?”

You didn’t answer. You couldn’t. Bucky was silent beside you, eyes distant, jaw set. Then the door opened. Val.

Black suit. Tablet in hand. Gaze a little softer than usual. “Are they ready?” she asked.

No.

They weren’t. You weren’t. But this wasn’t about you. So you nodded.

The walk to the lab was slow. You carried Ava and held Bob’s hand. Bucky had Yelena on his hip and Walker clinging to his sleeve. Alexei walked between you, unusually quiet, dragging a teddy bear across the floor.

The lab was too bright. Too clean. Too final. The table was prepped. Six tiny syringes. Labeled. Ready.

“Once administered,” Val explained gently, “they’ll begin to age in accelerated time. Physically, they’ll be back to normal in under ten minutes. Mentally… it’ll be as if this week never happened.”

Bob’s grip tightened in your hand.

You crouched beside him, brushing his curls back, whispering, “It’s okay, baby. We’ll be right here the whole time.”

He blinked up at you. His bottom lip trembled. “But… but I don’t wanna be big.”

You froze. His voice was so small, so certain. You glanced at Bucky, whose whole body had gone rigid.

“I wanna stay,” Bob said, tears welling in his eyes. “I wanna stay wif you an’ Dada. We had pancakes. I like pancakes. I like dancin’. I like... cuddles.” His voice cracked. “I don’t wanna f'get…”

Oh God. You pulled him into your arms, sinking to your knees as he sobbed into your neck. “I’m sorry, baby. I know. I know…”

Bucky was beside you in an instant, kneeling, wrapping both of you in his arms.

Bob reached for him blindly, sobbing, “Don’t wanna lose you!”

And then Ava started to cry. And Yelena, from Bucky’s side, shouted, “No! We stay! We live here now!!”

“NO MORE GROWIN’,” Walker declared dramatically.

Val blinked. “Okay, I didn’t plan for this level of resistance—”

Alexei had thrown himself on the floor. “I will die like this!! In pajamas!!!”

It was chaos. Beautiful, heartbreaking chaos. And in the middle of it, you looked at Bucky.

His eyes were red. His hand was shaking as he touched Bob’s curls.

“Can’t we keep them?” he whispered, not to Val. Not even to you. Just to the world. “Just a little longer.”

You swallowed hard, brushing a tear from your cheek. “If we do… if we wait… they’ll remember this.”

He nodded slowly.

“And if we don’t…” you couldn’t finish the sentence. You didn’t have to.

Val sighed, pinching the bridge of her nose. “We can delay. A few days. Maybe a week. But after that, the effects might… compound.”

You looked at your babies—all five of them. Crying, clinging, choosing love over logic.

And for now? That was enough. You kissed Bob’s forehead.

“Okay,” you whispered. “One more week.”

The van ride to the lakehouse should have been peaceful.

It was not.

Between the trail mix fight (Walker dumped raisins in Bob’s hair and called it “war”), Yelena screaming every time they passed a cow (“THAT ONE LOOKED AT ME WEIRD!”), and Alexei singing a cursed remix of Baby Shark at top volume, you and Bucky were already on the brink by the time you hit the dirt road.

Ava was the only one quiet—head pressed to the window, blinking up at the trees like they were whispering secrets just to her. You’d reached back from the passenger seat to gently rub her knee, and she’d leaned into your touch like a sleepy cat.

Bob had insisted on sitting beside Bucky, who was driving with the patience of a monk and the dead eyes of a man on his fifteenth round of “Are we there yet?”

“We live in New York,” he muttered under his breath. “Why did we think a six-hour road trip with five toddlers was a good idea again?”

You grinned, exhaustion tucked into the corners of your eyes. “Because we’re masochists who cry over bath time hugs.”

He side-eyed you. “Shut up.”

But when Bob giggled from the backseat and whispered, “Dada say bad word,” Bucky smirked and gave your hand a gentle squeeze on the console.

And then you pulled up to the lakehouse.

The second the van doors opened, chaos spilled out like confetti.

“WOAHHHH,” Alexei screamed, racing toward the dock like it personally offended him. “WE GOTS A RIVER???”

“It’s a lake,” you corrected.

He immediately tried to bellyflop into it. Bucky caught him mid-air like a linebacker.

“NO. No water until after naps,” he barked.

“But I’m aquatic!” Alexei protested.

“No, you’re not,” Bucky deadpanned. “You’re dramatic.”

Yelena ran around the yard in circles screaming “MINE MINE MINE” and refusing to explain what she was claiming. Ava curled into the porch swing, sighing like she’d lived a thousand lifetimes. Walker immediately made a sword out of a stick and challenged a tree to a duel.

And Bob? Bob tugged on your shirt and whispered, “Mama… can we live here forever?”

You crouched, brushing his curls back. “We’ve got a week, baby. We’ll make it feel like forever.”

Inside, the lakehouse was still just as Tony left it—warm wood floors, sunlight pouring through the windows, faint memories still caught in the walls. You caught your breath in the kitchen for a moment, fingers brushing over an old photograph on the fridge. Tony, grinning, sunglasses crooked. Your heart twinged.

“Hey,” Bucky said quietly, leaning beside you. “You okay?”

You nodded, blinking fast. “Yeah. Just… feels like he should be here, y’know?”

“He’d like this,” Bucky murmured. “You. The chaos. The kids. The secondhand glitter on your face.”

You snorted, wiping a tear. “Shut up.”

He didn’t. Just leaned in, bumped your shoulder, and whispered, “Let’s give them the best week of their tiny little lives.”

And oh, Lord—you did.

The next days were pure, chaotic magic. You built pillow forts the size of small kingdoms. You baked cupcakes that looked like disaster but tasted like heaven. Ava finally spoke—not a whisper, but a full, soft sentence: “This place feels happy.” You almost cried on the spot.

Yelena learned how to skip rocks and declared herself Queen of the Shore. Walker tried to fish using only his hands. Alexei built a “campfire” out of leaves and made everyone sit around it and “share our truths.”

Bob? Bob followed you everywhere. His tiny feet slapping against the wooden floors, his voice calling “Mama!” a hundred times a day, his laughter echoing into the trees. He slept in your arms every night, curled up like a song.

And Bucky… God. Bucky was the glue. He held them when they cried. He played rough and gentle in equal measure. He let Yelena paint his face, wore a flower crown Alexei made him, and whispered stories to Bob until the boy drifted off mid-giggle.

Every night, after the kids were asleep, you and Bucky would sit on the dock—bare feet in the water, shoulders pressed together—and watch the stars.

“You ever think about…” you’d start, but never finish.

“Yeah,” he always said anyway.

The last night came too fast. Bob climbed into your lap as the sun set pink across the lake. His head tucked under your chin, his little fingers clutching your shirt.

“Tomorrow?” he whispered.

You swallowed. “Yeah, baby.”

His voice shook. “Will I still love you? When I’m big?”

You didn’t answer right away. You just hugged him tighter. Let the tears fall into his hair.

And whispered, “I think so, sweetheart. I think some love is too big to forget.”

The sun was setting slow and syrupy, pouring golden light across the lake like it was trying to hold the day in place. Everything felt slower that evening. Softer. Like even time was taking careful steps.

You had your arms wrapped around a wriggling Alexei, trying to wrestle a jelly stain off his cheek while Yelena screamed, “I get to wear the crown! I am photogenic!”

“YOU MEAN PHOTOGENIUS,” Walker bellowed, slipping on the porch stairs because his socks were too long.

Ava was sitting cross-legged in the grass, gently placing wildflowers into Bob’s curls as he sat still and proud, whispering, “Make me pretty, like Mama.”

You pressed your lips together against the wave of emotion rising in your throat. Bucky was fiddling with the camera stand, grumbling under his breath like an old man in the body of a reluctant dad. “Where’s the damn timer button—why is this blinking red? I swear to God, if this deletes everything—”

“You good, tech support?” you teased gently, coming up beside him.

He looked up at you, squinting against the orange glow. “Do I look like Stark?”

“No. You’re taller and moodier.”

He snorted. “And apparently the father of five gremlins.”

You smiled, but it didn’t reach your eyes. You knew what this was. You both did. One last photo. One last chance to catch the moment before it slipped through your fingers.

“Okay, munchkins!” you called out, rallying the crew. “Group picture time!”

“Group hug!” Alexei screamed.

“Group MURDER!” Yelena added, because she was feral and unstoppable.

“No one is dying in this photo!” Bucky barked.

You gathered them all onto the porch steps. Yelena on Bucky’s shoulders, Ava tucked under your arm, Bob standing between you with both your hands in his, Walker doing finger guns, and Alexei holding up a stick like it was a championship trophy.

Bucky set the timer, sprinted back, and scooped Bob up into his arms right as the camera clicked.

Snap.

The light froze all of it.

Messy curls, painted fingernails, pajama pants with little ducks on them. You. Bucky. Five little lives tucked into the safety of your arms. And behind you, the lake—still and golden—like it, too, was trying to hold on.

“WE ARE A FAMILY,” Bob declared afterward, clutching the photo print like it was sacred.

“You got jelly on it already,” Ava said quietly, but didn’t take it away.

And then came the part you hadn’t prepared for.

Bob’s tiny voice, lifting up with hope too big for his little lungs. “Mama? Papa? Can we dance now?”

You blinked. “W-what?”

“Dance!” Alexei shouted. “Like you do when you think we sleep!”

Yelena gasped. “I KNEW IT! I saw Mama spin!”

Ava whispered, “I saw Papa smile.”

“PLEASE?” Bob begged, holding your hand like it was the only anchor he had. “One more? One more dance?”

You looked at Bucky. He looked at you. And both of you—still holding hands from the photo—felt your chests squeeze with something too big to name.

But no. Not yet. Not yet.

Bucky crouched down. “How about we dance tomorrow?”

“Tomorrow we be big again,” Bob whispered.

And that? That broke you.

You dropped to your knees and pulled him into your chest, hugging him like he might disappear. “Okay,” you whispered, your voice shaking. “Okay. One more dance. Just… not yet. We’re not ready yet.”

None of you were. So you stayed on that porch a little longer, letting the stars come out. Letting the fireflies twirl. Letting the world wait.

Because tomorrow was already breathing down your neck. But tonight? Tonight, they were still yours.

The lake was still when you woke up.

No birdsong. No wind through the trees. Just a kind of sacred quiet that came before big things—storms, endings, or in this case, goodbyes. The sun hadn’t crested over the trees yet, but the sky was beginning to glow pale and gold, the kind of light that made everything look like it was made of memory.

You were already dressed.

Couldn’t sleep. Didn’t want to. You’d laid awake most of the night, Bob curled against your side, his tiny breaths hitching now and then like even in dreams, he didn’t want to let go.

Now, as you stood by the kitchen sink with a chipped mug full of untouched coffee, you watched the soft shapes of the trees sway gently outside and thought, I’m not ready.

Behind you, Bucky’s footsteps creaked on the old wooden floor.

He didn’t say anything at first. Just stepped up beside you, his hand brushing yours. You didn’t pull away.

“How long do we have?” he asked, voice quiet, like he didn’t want to scare the moment off.

“Val said to be in the lab before eight.” You didn’t look at the clock. You didn’t need to. You felt the time running out.

Bucky ran a hand through his hair and nodded, jaw tight. You knew he hadn’t slept either. He’d held Yelena like she was a piece of glass all night, humming lullabies you were pretty sure he didn’t know he remembered.

“Are they still asleep?” he asked.

“For now.”

A beat of silence.

“I don’t know how to do this,” he whispered.

You swallowed hard. “We don’t have to know. We just… do it anyway.”

And so you did.

You packed what little they’d brought. Pajamas. Crayons. A bag full of pinecones Alexei had declared were “important evidence.” Yelena’s crown. Ava’s music box. Bob’s duck.

The sun was higher now. The kitchen glowed like it was made of honey. And then you went upstairs.

The nursery was warm and dim, full of soft breathing and quiet dreams. Five little forms were curled up in makeshift beds, the floor covered in blankets and stuffed animals, limbs tangled together like they couldn’t sleep unless they knew the others were close.

You knelt beside Bob first.

He stirred as soon as your hand brushed his hair, eyes fluttering open. He blinked at you for a moment, then smiled sleepily and whispered, “Hi, Mama.”

Your heart shattered and rebuilt itself in the same breath.

“Hi, baby,” you whispered back. “Time to wake up.”

Downstairs was quiet chaos. Toast and juice, Ava sitting in your lap while Bucky tied Walker’s shoes and Alexei asked why everyone looked “like they cried in their pancakes.” Yelena refused to get dressed unless her crown was on straight. You and Bucky didn’t fight it. You let them win every battle today.

Because it was the last. The drive back to the lab was quiet. Too quiet.

Bucky’s knuckles were white on the wheel. Bob was dozing in your lap again, the duck clutched to his chest. You stared out the window, but you weren’t looking at anything.

The lab was waiting when you arrived. White floors. Bright lights. The same sterile calm. Val was there. She nodded gently. Didn’t speak.

The syringes were ready. Each child got their own room. Monitored. Clean. Clinical.

You and Bucky walked them in one by one. You kissed their foreheads. You held their hands.

Walker went first. Loud until the end, fist-bumping Bucky with a watery grin.

Then Yelena, who tried not to cry and failed, sobbing into Bucky’s chest and whispering, “Don’t let me go.”

Alexei gave you his pinecone, said, “So you don’t forget me.” You told him he was unforgettable.

Ava didn’t speak. Just clung to your shirt until the last possible second, then whispered, “Thank you for letting me be loved.”

And Bob… sweet Bob… looked up at you with tear-filled eyes and said, “Will it still be you… when I wake up?”

You kissed his knuckles. “Always.”

Then it happened.

The serum worked quickly. Their little bodies shimmered with a soft red glow, like time reversing itself in fast-forward. Their limbs stretched. Their faces matured. They blinked up at the bright ceiling, no longer toddlers.

Just soldiers. Adults. Confused.

They didn’t remember. They didn’t know.

And when they filed out into the hallway—grown, sharp, strong again—it was like someone had torn pages out of your book and left you with blank paper.

Bob passed you in the hall. He didn’t even glance. And that was the moment that broke you.

You stood there, back pressed to the cold lab wall, your hands trembling, heart cracked wide and raw. Bucky stood beside you, eyes fixed on the floor, jaw locked, like if he opened his mouth, something sacred might fall out.

No one spoke. No one could.

Later that evening, you returned to the lakehouse. Just the two of you. The rooms were quiet. The toys are untouched. You stepped out onto the porch, the same porch where you danced just the night before. It was empty now. No tiny footprints. No giggles. No bedtime stories.

Just you and Bucky. And silence. You sat down slowly, your hands in your lap, your heart still beating to the rhythm of laughter that was already fading.

“Do you think they’ll remember?” you asked.

He shook his head. “No. But I think… we will.”

You leaned into him. He let you.

And together, as the porch light flickered on, you watched the sun sink into the lake and said goodbye—not with words, but with the quiet ache of two people who had held something golden for just a moment…

…and would never, ever forget.

734 notes · View notes

lethallyprotected · 24 days ago

Text

Aftershock | Bucky Barnes x Reader Part 1 of 2

Summary: You find out you’re pregnant days before a mission and decide not to tell Bucky. When everything goes wrong in the field, he’s left putting together the pieces.

MCU Timeline Placement: Thunderbolts*

Master List: Find my other stuff here!

Warnings: canon-typical violence, graphic injury, mild body horror (?), medical trauma, hospitalization, pregnancy, accidental(ish) pregnancy, conversations of potential pregnancy loss, miscommunication / lack of communication, lots of angst but promise happy ending, bucky barnes being so painfully in love it hurts

Word Count: 10.8k

Author’s Note: this was supposed to be a one-shot but then my brain said what about no?? anyway here we are. part 2 is already pretty much finished and will be coming TOMORROW! also i don’t want kids and have zero maternal inclinations irl so this was a weirdly intimate thing to write and i hope it feels respectful + emotionally grounded. bucky barnes is the love of my life and i truly do not know why i keep putting him through hell but i won’t stop now. enjoy <3

The detonation hit before the second sweep.

Concrete teeth split from the floor, chewing through steel and glass as the ceiling groaned overhead and then collapsed. You barely cleared the corridor in time. Something grazed your cheek—shrapnel or bone, hard to tell anymore—and heat bloomed across your shoulder where the blast caught you.

You hit the ground hard. There was dirt in your mouth. Fire down your spine.

The outpost had been a decommissioned Soviet weapons vault, long gutted by time and rain just outside of Kozelsk. But that intel was two weeks old, and it sure as hell didn’t account for the tripwire mines rigged beneath the floor tiles or the new signature explosives packed into the shell of the forward lab.

You spit blood and pushed onto your elbows.

Your comm buzzed once, then cracked to life in your ear.

“Detka, tell me you’re not dead,” Yelena snapped, her voice patchy through static but sharp as ever. “I swear to god if you are dead, I am not hauling your body out of here. I’ll leave you for the fucking vultures.”

You could’ve cried at the sound of her voice.

“Still breathing,” you coughed. “Mostly.”

“Good. Because I am three corridors west of wherever that boom came from and it smells like burning piss in here. You see any of those freelancers yet?”

“No visuals,” you groaned. “But I’ve got bodies. Clean kills. Their throats are open but there’s no blood on the floor. No drag marks either.”

Yelena swore under her breath. “That’s not freelancers. That’s extraction protocol. Someone’s clearing the site.”

You already knew. You’d seen enough black ops sanitizations to recognize the signs: no witnesses, no trace. If Valentina had found this place and thought there was something worth salvaging, so had someone else. And someone faster. This wasn’t a recon mission anymore.

This was a cleanup.

And you were on the wrong side of the mop.

And this time, there was more to lose than just intel. More than reputation. Your hand brushed low across your abdomen, barely grazing the fabric there like it might burn you, like maybe ignoring it long enough would make it untrue.

This wasn’t supposed to happen. Not here. Not now.

You hadn’t even told him yet.

Your chest tightened. Not from pain. From panic. Real and hot and rising up the back of your throat like bile.

A sound echoed down the hall. Boots scraping stone, deliberate and unhurried. You didn’t breathe. Not even when your lungs screamed. You counted the steps. Four sets. Heavy.

“Yelena,” you whispered into your comms. “One o’clock. Not ours.”

Another pause.

“Copy. Backtracking to your location. ETA two minutes. Do not engage.”

Too late.

The boots stopped, pivoted.

You backed into the nearest alcove, just wide enough for shadow to fold around you and let your pulse slow in your throat. Your weapon was warm in your grip. One mag loaded. One spare. Not enough for four if they got close.

Especially not like this.

You took a breath. Then another.

The first one rounded the corner, rifle up. Big. Bulked out in matte armor, but his line of sight was narrow. Tunnel vision.

You waited until he passed you fully, until you could hear the click of his comm mic as he keyed it.

Your elbow slammed into the back of his skull with enough force to make his knees buckle. You twisted, dropped low, and swept his legs as he toppled, dragging him sideways to muffle the sound of his body hitting the ground.

You shoved your knife up under his chin. The blade punched through soft tissue with a wet snap. His body thrashed once, then went still.

The second came running at the subtle noise, catching a glimpse of your crouched silhouette too late. He fired once, the shot ricocheting just inches above your head. You surged forward, used your momentum to jam your shoulder into his gut and drove him into the wall.

Your ribs lit up from the impact, but you gritted your teeth and held.

He swung, catching your cheekbone with the butt of his rifle. The blow made your ears ring. You ducked under his next swing, grabbed the arm of his jacket, and bit hard.

He screamed.

You shoved your thumb into his eye socket before he recovered, using the distraction to snatch his sidearm, flip it in your palm, and shoot him point-blank in the head. Twice, for good measure.

He dropped, still twitching.

You stumbled back, hand instinctively pressed low and flat to your stomach again. You breathed through the sharp pang in your side and steadied your stance again.

There were still two more.

You sprinted toward the third as soon as you saw movement, zig-zagging low as bullets peppered the wall behind you. Sparks flew from the conduit lines as a round hit something vital. Smoke curled in your lungs. The air stung with ozone and copper.

You dove into him feet-first—heel to knee, your full body weight behind the strike. He crumpled with a yell, and you rolled, landed hard on your side, and caught his fallen knife.

But he recovered faster than you anticipated, before you were even on your knees again.

He grinned.

“Не двигайся (Don’t move),” he said, low and rough, the Russian curling sharp off his tongue like he’d said it a thousand times before. Like he had the upper hand. Like you were done.

You hurled the knife, despite your eyesight blurring slightly.

It missed. Barely.

But it made him flinch.

You moved with everything you had left—ducked under his swing, used your shoulder to ram his center of gravity off-balance, and jammed your boot between his legs with such force he let out a choke.

He went down swinging. Caught your bicep with a blade. Hot pain tore across your arm. You didn’t stop. You grabbed the closest thing, a broken pipe that was jagged at one end, and drove it into his neck with a scream.

His blood hit your face in a hot arc.

You staggered back, wild-eyed, panting, blood soaking through your clothes. Smoke still curled from the wrecked conduit. A siren blared somewhere far away.

You fired your last two rounds at the fourth just as he rounded the corner, one round to the knee. He dropped hard, snarling. You aimed for the killshot, but it veered, hitting his shoulder as he went for his weapon. He still managed to return fire.

Fuck.

The wall just beside your head cracked.

You bolted through the next doorway, gun hot in your palm, shoulder still screaming where the blast had torn through muscle. There was blood on your sleeve now, more than before, but your legs still worked. That was enough.

You ducked through a lab corridor, ruined wires dangling from the ceiling like seaweed. A flickering red light pulsed from an old generator in the corner, painting everything in bursts of blood.

It would be enough. You’d make it back. You’d tell him. The right way. With time to breathe. With his hand in yours—No. Not now. Don't think. Focus.

One step—two—and then something gave beneath your boot.

Click.

Then snap.

Pain tore up your leg like lightning through steel, white-hot and blinding, so sudden it didn’t even feel real. Your body flinched before your mind caught up, before you could even look down, before you understood. A crunch. A grind. The jagged burn of something metal sinking deep.

Your vision stuttered.

You hit the ground hard, knees buckling like wet paper, concrete tearing through your palms, breath punching out of your lungs in a single wrecked gasp.

A pressure trap.

You hadn’t seen it—disguised beneath fallen rubble, metal jaws wired to catch from shin to thigh height. It didn’t go off fully. Didn’t explode. But the clamp hit with enough force to break bone.

A scream tore from your throat before you could stop it. The world reeled. You scrambled backward on your elbows, dragging your leg free, gasping as the pain ripped up your side. You couldn’t see straight. Couldn’t focus.

Your hand pressed instinctively to the flat of your abdomen. You hadn’t meant to do it again but—

The comm crackled again.

“Where are you—”

“I’m hit,” you choked. “West wing. Level 2. Trap rigged to the door. I didn’t see it.”

“Stay awake,” Yelena said, sharper now. “I am coming. You don’t move. You hear me? You don’t fucking move.”

But you had to.

Because the sound of boots had returned. The one you shot. Limping, but closer. A soft shuffle, like he was dragging a blade across the tile for your benefit.

Taunting.

You forced yourself up onto one knee, teeth bared. The pain was beyond language now, beyond screaming. Your hand reached for your sidearm. Gone. You must’ve dropped it when you fell.

Your fingers brushed the hilt of your boot knife instead.

The man stepped into view, grinning through blood.

“Милая (Cute),” he said.

Then lunged.

You didn’t have time to think, you just swung.

Your blade hit home right under his ribs. He hissed, dropped low, and drove his elbow into your throat. The air vanished from your lungs. Your head cracked back against the wall. He grabbed for the knife, twisted it out, and slammed it back toward you—

You shoved it down. It missed your stomach by an inch. Sank deep into your thigh instead.

You screamed again, ugly this time. Wordless.

He raised the blade again.

A single gunshot split the air.

He jerked. Stumbled. Collapsed. Blood spilled from the back of his skull like syrup.

Yelena stepped into view behind him, smoke still curling from the barrel of her sidearm.

She didn’t say anything. Just dropped to her knees beside you just as you did, eyes scanning the ruin of your leg and your expression like she was trying to decide which was worse.

You stared up at the broken ceiling above, vision narrowing at the edges. Your lips moved, but nothing came out.

Yelena pressed her hands to one of the puncture wounds. “Hey, hey, hey! Stay with me. Don’t you dare pass out. I don’t have time to carry your dramatic ass out of here—”

You tried to laugh, but it came out broken. Just a dry exhale through cracked lips. Your hands had gone numb—pressure loss, you were sure—but Yelena’s were firm, steady, digging into the torn flesh above your knee with trained precision.

“There’s too much blood, to many entry wounds,” she muttered. “Shit, shit—okay. It’s not arterial. Maybe not. Don’t move. Just don’t move—”

You weren’t planning on it.

The hallway pulsed in and out of clarity, red light still flickering overhead, your own pulse a tidal roar behind your ears. But beneath it, beneath everything, there was a pressure blooming behind your ribs. A wild, animal panic. Not just for you.

Don’t think about it.

You shoved the thought down.

You couldn’t afford to feel anything else.

Not now. Not when the tremor of more boots echoed down the ruined corridor.

Yelena looked up. Went still.

You didn’t have to ask. You knew that sound. Not your team. Too heavy. Too many. Not a rescue. A sweep.

More were coming.

Yelena shifted her weight off your leg, already reaching for your belt—grabbed your spare magazine, tucked it into her own vest. The way her eyes flicked toward the end of the hall made your stomach pitch harder than the blood loss.

“They’ll have to come through me,” she said.

“Don’t be a dumbass,” you croaked. “Go. Take the passage to the furnace room. You can double back—”

“Shut up.”

She pressed her sidearm into your hand. Yours had been lost. She didn’t hesitate. Didn’t even glance at it. “You buy me thirty seconds. I’ll clear the rest.”

“I’m not bait.”

“You’re bleeding into the floor. You are already bait.”

Another laugh. Another failed breath.

Something sharp twisted behind your navel, deep and low, and you flinched. It was too much. The pain. The pressure. The screaming throb in your skull and the weight blooming beneath your skin like a second heartbeat. Something primal and new, something that didn’t belong in warzones or kill zones or places like this where people like you died ugly.

Yelena’s eyes locked on your face. “What was that?”

“Nothing,” you croaked, trying not to focus on the pain.

“You grabbed your stomach.”

“No, I—”

“Don’t bullshit me, that's the third time I've seen you do that today,” she snapped.

You didn’t answer. Couldn’t.

She stared at you for one beat too long, too long to be safe, but you couldn’t give her what she was asking. Couldn’t even say it. Not here. Not with the taste of smoke on your tongue and death pressing in from both sides of the corridor.

You curled your fingers tighter around the sidearm. Your hands were slick. You didn’t know if it was hers or yours.

“Go,” you rasped. “You have to go.”

Yelena didn’t argue this time.

But she hesitated. A blink of something behind her eyes. Not fear. Something heavier. Something sharp.

Then the sound of boots again, closer now.

She shoved a flash grenade into your palm, already armed to detonate in six seconds.

“When you see their boots,” she said, “you throw it. You count to four, then run. Limp. Crawl. I don’t care. But you move, alright?”

You didn’t trust your voice, so you nodded.

Yelena was gone a second later, vanishing into the smoke like a blade into water.

And you were alone.

Alone in a crumbling corridor, leg torn open, lungs full of smoke, blood slicking the floor beneath you like oil. You could feel the weight again, heavy and awful, curling behind your sternum like something waiting. Not just adrenaline. Not just pain.

You didn’t want to die here. Not like this.

You couldn't.

A flicker of guilt followed. A whisper of something like hope.

The shadows moved. Voices barked. Feet thundered.

They were coming fast. A whole squad. You saw the first silhouette appear through the haze—rifle raised, sweeping side to side. You waited, hand wrapped around the grenade like a prayer, heart screaming behind your ribs.

One.

Two.

Three.

Four.

You threw it.

The flash hit with a scream of light so loud it fractured the hallway.

You didn’t look back.

You dragged your body forward, weight on your elbows, on your left knee, hauling yourself through the broken floor toward the stairwell. Everything screamed. Your thigh. Your ribs. The low, foreign ache in your gut that had nothing to do with war but had everything to do with why you had to live.

Gunfire split the air behind you. Shouting. Movement.

It grew louder behind you, closer now. Shouts tangled through the static still buzzing in your ear, foreign commands barked over comms that weren’t yours.

You barely made it to the stairwell. One hand gripped the banister slick with dust, rust, and your own blood. You hauled yourself up a single step, then another, panting, ears ringing from the flashbang.

That ache behind your navel flared sharp again, twisting deep and low, not like any wound you knew. It slowed you. Staggered you.

But the shout that followed snapped everything else into focus.

You heard it before you saw it: the sharp scrape of metal boots. The crunch of shattered tile. Then a yell.

You turned on instinct. No plan. No thought. Just move.

“Yelena—!”

You half-crawled, half-limped toward the sound, yelling out, but you didn't care, vision tunneling. You reached the edge of the corridor just in time to see her—back against the wall, gun empty, knife in her hand, pressed to the throat of a man easily twice her size. There were two more behind him, closing in. One of them had her in his sights.

You didn’t stop to count bullets.

You didn’t stop at all.

You raised the sidearm Yelena had given you, your hand shaking, and fired.

One shot. Missed.

Second. Hit a shoulder. Not enough.

Your hands were too shaky.

So, you lunged into the open, screaming as your leg nearly buckled beneath you, throwing the full weight of your body toward the second man, the one with the rifle.

Your shoulder slammed into his chest, and the impact sent you both to the ground. The rifle clattered away. He was faster, stronger, barely staggered by your hit, and he recovered first, driving his elbow down hard.

Your vision exploded in white.

You didn’t stop.

Your hand found a jagged piece of rebar on the floor. You drove it upward into the side of his throat.

He gurgled once. Then stopped moving.

But not before he got one last blow in, one savage kick to your stomach that left you gasping, choking, every nerve in your body screaming.

Yelena was beside you a second later.

One clean throw, and her knife lodged in the final attacker’s neck. He dropped before he could even react.

Silence fell like a body.

Then the floor tilted under you. Your arms didn’t work. You couldn’t move.

You were still looking at Yelena, her face flushed and streaked with blood, crouched in front of you. You tried to speak. Nothing came out.

She grabbed your face, her palms rough and shaking. “You fucking idiot. That’s twice now.”

You blinked hard. Everything was blurring. Your fingers curled weakly toward your middle.

“I—I had to,” you whispered.

Yelena’s eyes were wide. She shook her head. “You’re gonna bleed out. Stop talking. Save your breath—”

“Tell Bucky…”

You barely managed it.

She froze. “No.”

Your mouth opened again. “Tell him I’m sor—”

“Shut the fuck up,” she snapped, voice cracking now. “You don’t get to say that.”

Your throat felt tight. The pain was unbearable now. Your vision dimmed at the edges, the world flattening to static and heat and the ghost of her hands holding your face.

“Tell him yourself,” she said. Quieter. Fiercer. “You tell him yourself, do you hear me? You don’t get to leave me with that.”

Your fingers twitched once against your stomach.

Then everything went black.

You weren’t shaking until the timer went off.

Three minutes wasn’t long. You’d sat through debriefs far longer. But in that small, stifling pocket of silence—curled on the edge of the bathtub, cheek pressed to the cool tile wall—it stretched and warped like time did in firefights. Slow. Loud. A countdown with no cover and no escape route.

You didn’t look at first. Just sat there, the plastic stick face-down on the lip of the sink, heartbeat pounding like a warning beneath your ribs. You’d picked it up two nights ago. Tossed it into your basket with toothpaste and Advil like it wasn’t setting your whole life on fire.

No reason to panic yet, you’d told yourself. Your body had been off before. Travel. Stress. Field meds. You’d slept six hours across four days and eaten a protein bar that was months expired. This wasn’t new. Wasn’t unmanageable. You were probably fine.

But your body felt…different.

Not just tired. Not just sore. Not even the nausea that crept in each morning the past few weeks and refused to leave. Something deeper. Heavier. Like your blood was thicker now. Like you were carrying something, and your body had already started rearranging around it.

You’d known.

Before the test. Before the countdown. Before the lines even appeared.

You’d known.

And now that you were staring at the proof—those two lines, faint but unmistakable—you realized that the terror didn’t come from the answer. It came from the silence after.

The front door clicked open just as you turned your face to the towel hanging on the wall after splashing yourself with cold water. You didn’t have time to move, didn’t even wipe your eyes before Bucky’s voice filled the apartment. Low and familiar and worn around the edges with something close to fondness.

“Hey,” he called casually, voice already warmer now that he was inside. “They were out of the egg noodles you like, so I got the fried rice instead. Hope that’s ok.”

His boots scuffed softly against the entryway tile. You heard the rustle of a bag, the crinkle of cardboard.

You swallowed the lump in your throat and stood too fast. The room reeled. You shoved the test into the drawer beneath the sink and slammed it shut with your hip.

“That’s…it’s perfect,” you called back. “Stomach’s still off.”

He didn’t question it. He never did. You’d been off before missions before—hell, usually everyone was. He chalked it up to adrenaline, or the fact that Valentina always held the worst ones just long enough for you all to get twitchy. He never read more into it than that.

You didn’t want him to.

When you stepped out of the bathroom, the living room was already warm with light. Bucky stood at the counter with your favorite takeout in one hand and a bottle of ginger ale in the other. His hair was damp from the rain outside, curling slightly at the ends. He wore one of the soft old hoodies you always tried to steal.

God, he looked tired.

“Still nauseous?” he asked without turning, already reaching into a drawer for a fork. “I told you not to eat the eggs in the tower fridge. John says they’re powdered.”

You managed a tight smile. “I didn’t eat the eggs.”

He glanced at you then, brow furrowed. Not suspicious. Just worried.

“Everything okay?”

You nodded. Too fast.

He didn’t buy it. Of course he didn’t. His gaze dropped for a half-second, scanning you like he always did, like you were a map of terrain he’d memorized too many times to ever get lost in. You wondered if he could see it. If your skin looked different. Paler. Warped. Touched by some invisible shift.

“Come here,” he said. “Sit.”

You did. He placed the container in front of you, still warm. Fried rice and plain steamed chicken. The only thing you could stomach lately. He cracked open the ginger ale with a flick of his thumb and set it down beside the plate.

He didn’t ask why you were shaking.

Didn’t ask why your face was paler than usual, or why your breathing was shallow. Didn’t say a word about how your hands lingered too long against the counter or why your gaze kept drifting toward the bathroom.

He just stood there, leaning on his elbow, watching you pick at the food like he could will you back into being okay.

You loved him so fucking much it made your throat close.

And that was the problem.

You couldn’t tell him. Not yet. Not now. God, maybe not ever.

You weren’t sure if it was even supposed to be possible, not after everything they did to him. Hydra had carved him down to the bone and rebuilt him into something inhuman. Something they thought didn’t need softness. Didn’t need futures or family or hope.

Bucky never said it directly, but he didn’t talk about that kind of life. Not for himself. Not after what he’d done. Not with blood on his hands and weight in his eyes.

You knew that kind of grief. The kind that wrapped around your ankles and whispered, you don’t deserve nice things.

You remembered an offhand comment once—months ago, maybe longer—when Yelena had made a crack about raising tiny assassins and Bucky had gone quiet, the kind of quiet that meant don’t.

He’d said it flat, even: “That ship sailed.” Like it wasn’t just impossible but irrelevant. Like it wasn’t even a thought he let himself have.

You’d shrugged it off. Because you loved him. Not for what he could give you, or not give you. Just for him. The broken, beautiful, brutal truth of him. His silence. His weight. His hands, warm against your lower back when nightmares woke you. His voice when it was three in the morning and the world wouldn’t stop spinning.

But now you were here. With a plastic pregnancy test hiding in the bathroom cabinets and a gut full of something new and terrifying and real.

This tiny, terrifying thing inside you. This unknown. This heartbeat that didn’t exist yet but already made your chest ache.

You looked down at your hands. They didn’t feel like yours.

If you told him now, it wouldn’t be fair. He was one day out from deployment, and you were four days out from a mission you’d just been assigned. He needed clarity. Precision. Control. You couldn’t be the thing that pulled the ground out from under his feet.

You forced down a bite. Swallowed it with effort. Took a sip of ginger ale and smiled like it didn’t feel like your entire life had just split in half.

Bucky leaned across the counter and brushed his fingers along your arm, barely there. His thumb skimmed your elbow like he was grounding himself. Like he always did right before he left for something bad.

“You get the call about Kozelsk?” you asked, voice steadier than it felt.

He nodded slowly, still watching you. “Yeah. Valentina’s already sent me the files. Cut and dry recon. You and Belova should be in and out in less than 24 hours.”

You gripped your fork harder than necessary. Nodded like it meant nothing. Like your body wasn’t already vibrating with a thousand what-ifs. You told yourself it wasn’t a lie. Just a delay. Just time to think.

He set the takeout down without a sound. Didn’t speak. Didn’t rush.

Just moved toward you with that particular kind of caution only he ever seemed to get right—like you were both wild animal and wounded thing, like he knew better than to corner you even if you looked fine on the outside.

“Sweetheart,” he said, voice low. A thread of something softer caught in it. “Come here.”

You didn’t hesitate. You couldn’t. Your body answered before your mouth could.

He caught you as soon as you reached him. One arm warm and solid around your waist, the other colder where the vibranium wrapped your back, a press of protection you hadn’t realized you’d been aching for until you were tucked beneath it. He didn’t squeeze. Didn’t rock or shush or demand. Just held you there in the quiet, nose pressed to your temple like maybe he could breathe for the both of you.

You let your face fall against his chest. Inhaled. Exhaled. Didn’t move.

His thumb brushed the back of your neck, slow and steady, like he could coax the tension out of your spine by touch alone.

“You’ve been quiet today,” he murmured against your hair. Not accusing. Not even curious. Just noticing.

You nodded.

Didn’t lift your head.

Didn’t answer.

“You sure you're alright?”

Another nod. Smaller this time.

You felt his chest rise beneath your cheek. Felt him start to ask more, but stop. Think better of it.

Instead: “Do you want me to run you a bath?” His lips grazed your hairline. “I can put the lavender stuff in. The one you pretend not to like.”

You almost smiled.

Almost.

He waited. A long moment. Then leaned down and pressed a kiss to the side of your head—slow and certain, like a promise. His hand never left your back. His other one shifted just slightly, curling around your hip like it could shield whatever part of you was fraying most.

“Everything’s gonna be okay,” he said finally. Quiet. Firm. Like he meant it. Like saying it made it true.

You didn’t correct him.

Didn’t tell him what your body already knew.

You just nodded again.

And let yourself believe it. If only for a minute. If only because it was him.

The call came through at 03:41.

Not a full report. Not even proper clearance. Just a clipped string of emergency codes dumped through a back channel Bucky hadn’t checked in weeks. The kind of channel they only used when there wasn’t time to waste on protocol.

His comms had lit up in red.

Your name came first.

Then injured.

Then unconscious.

Then medevac.

Then...nothing.

No location. No vitals. No timestamps. Just five fragments, jagged and cold, vibrating through the band on his wrist like a warning shot to the heart.

The silence that followed was worse. Not blank. Hollow. The kind of nothing that meant something had already gone wrong.

Bucky didn’t think. There wasn’t time for it. Thought required oxygen, and that had already drained out of the room the second your name hit the screen. His body moved before his mind caught up—spinning on his heel, breaking into a sprint like he could rewind time with sheer speed alone.

He was still mid-mission, a low-risk sweep on the fringes of Senta with a two-man backup team and half a page of useless intel. They were searching abandoned bunkers for intel that probably didn’t exist, tracing signatures that pinged and vanished like ghosts.

He should’ve called in a full reroute. Should’ve waited for extraction clearance. Should’ve done anything except what he did.

But he didn’t care.

Not when it was you.

He reached the jet in under three minutes. Didn’t speak when the co-pilot tried to block him. Just pushed past and took the seat, fingers already flying through the console, overriding the flight path manually. He wasn’t shouting. Wasn’t panicked. But his voice didn’t sound like his own when he keyed in his name and entered the override code.

He didn’t sit still after that.

Didn’t rest. Didn’t blink.

The jet took off and he paced the length of it like a caged animal, barely registering the turbulence, barely noticing the blood on his knuckles from punching the wall beside the comms station when the outbound call failed to connect.

Everything about those few hours on the jet felt like someone had taken a crowbar to the scaffolding of his brain and just kept hitting until all that was left was your name and the phantom of your voice in his head.

You were supposed to be fine. You’d said as much the night before his mission—half asleep on the couch, wrapped in his hoodie, your fingers brushing his where they met on the blanket between you. Told him not to worry, that your op was routine stuff, nothing he had to lose sleep over.

Then you’d kissed him. Real slow. Like you knew something he didn’t.

He hadn’t pushed. Just smiled into your hair and murmured something soft about taking you on a proper date when he got back.

And then yesterday, on comms, you’d called him on your way out. Clear signal. Short call.

“You’ll beat me home,” you’d said, trying to sound light.

“Don’t do anything stupid before I get back.”

You’d laughed. But there was a hitch in it. A crack he’d almost asked about. Almost.

He didn’t remember landing.

One moment, the jet was still five minutes out—dark sky, shaking frame, the pilot avoiding turbulence. The next, the ramp cracked open and he was already moving. Wind in his face, boots hitting tarmac, lungs half-full of air that felt too thin.

Move. Just fucking move.

He took the stairs four at a time, quicker than the elevator. Through the lower hangar. Past Ops. Some tech tried to call his name and didn’t finish it, he was already gone.

The world narrowed to sharp lines and glaring light. The Tower looked the same as it always did—brushed steel, sterile walls, military-grade silence—but it all felt wrong. Too clean. Too quiet. Like the whole place was holding its breath.

Like it already knew.

He turned the corner. Nearly collided with a figure stepping out of the shadows of the west corridor.

John. Shoulders squared. Dressed down in field gear, sleeves rolled to the elbows. His mouth opened like he’d been waiting there, like he knew this would happen. Like he was stupid enough to try and intercept him.

“Barnes—”

“Where is she.”

No pause. Not a greeting. Just fire.

John took a step back. Not scared. Just reading the room. Reading him.

“She’s in room three,” he said. “Med bay. She's stable.”

The word made Bucky flinch.

“Define stable.” His voice scraped low. Controlled, but only just.

“She’s alive,” John said carefully. “But she’s still under, intubated. Oxygen, fluids. The whole nine yards.”

Bucky blinked once. Hard. His jaw locked so tight it popped.

John took that as agreement and turned, motioning him to follow.

The hallway felt longer than it had any right to be. Bucky’s boots beat a steady rhythm against the tile, but his thoughts outran it, spiraling tighter with each step.

“That mission was supposed to be recon,” he said finally, voice rough. “Clean in, clean out. So what the fuck happened?”

Walker followed beside him, matching his pace, but his voice wasn’t flippant the way it usually was. “We don’t really know yet.”

“Try again.”

“I’m not bullshitting you, Barnes. We had no red flags on the pre-sweep. Site had been cold for months. No chatter, no heat signatures. They went in blind.”

“No backup?”

John’s jaw ticked. “Wasn’t supposed to need any.”

They turned a corner. The lights dimmed slightly overhead, switching into night mode. Everything felt more sterile. More final. Bucky’s skin crawled.

John didn’t stop talking. “They walked into what sounded like a fucking cleanup. Not ours. Not friendly. Belova said the floor was rigged—pressure traps, gas leaks, low-profile explosives. No chatter about it beforehand. Nothing in our intel. They got there and shit was already smoking. Someone was erasing evidence, and they didn’t care who they took with it.”

Bucky’s jaw clicked.

He stopped walking for half a breath. Just long enough for John to notice.

“What am I walking into, Walker?” Bucky’s voice dropped, sharp and cold and coiled like a live wire. “Don’t sugarcoat it.”

John’s gaze flicked toward the medbay doors just ahead, then back. “I told you—she’s stable.”

“I don’t give a fuck about stable,” Bucky snapped. “I’ve been stable on an operating table with my arm missing.”

The hallway was suffocating—every fluorescent hum too loud, every inch of floor stretching like it was trying to keep him from getting to you. He was too hot in his jacket. His shoulder ached. His hands wouldn’t stop twitching. There was a sourness behind his teeth, behind his ribs, building like bile in his throat.

“She was bleeding out when they brought her in,” John started, slowly. “Her leg’s the worst of it. Pressure-triggered trap. She pulled herself out of a hallway on that leg. Didn’t wait. Got Belova clear.”

Bucky’s jaw clenched.

“She’s got a skull fracture. Took a hit from behind—blunt force. Her head was bleeding bad. Ribs too. Maybe internal. I don’t know what the hell happened—”

“Fuck.” Bucky’s voice cut through the space like a blade. “She was walking just last week before I left, she was fine.”

John went quiet.

“You ever see her when she’s really tired?” Bucky kept his eyes ahead, voice clipped, unraveling thread by thread, his mouth moving faster than his brain could keep up. “She hums. Half-conscious, doesn’t even know she’s doing it. When she’s too tired to fight it off, she curls her foot up against the couch cushion and knocks it against the fabric until it leaves a mark. Like a metronome.”

He swallowed hard.

“She did that before I left. Last thing I saw.”

The lights above them flickered.

“And you’re telling me that she is behind a wall right now, not breathing on her own, because no one thought to double-check the fucking floor plan?”

“Bucky—”

“You tell me the name of the analyst who cleared that op,” Bucky said, voice low and cold enough to cut steel. “And you tell Val she better not be in my fucking line of sight when I walk out of that room.”

The edges of the hallway started to warp. Not visually, just something in the way the air bent around him, too loud and too sharp. His pulse had long since abandoned rhythm. He blinked hard, once, like it might shake the tension loose from his spine.

John didn’t argue. Just gave a slow nod, jaw tight. He turned toward the panel, reaching for the override to the medbay doors.

“Hey, man—” His free hand hovered like he meant to touch Bucky’s shoulder, to ground him somehow, but he stopped himself. Let it fall. “She’s strong. You know that. Just…it looks worse than it is.”

Bucky didn’t answer. Couldn’t. He’d already started moving.

He walked the last stretch alone.

The corridor narrowed. Dimmed. Sterile med bay walls that had all started to look the same after too many years of bleeding into them. But this one was different.

The door was marked with a small glowing three in the upper corner, backlit in blue like it meant nothing at all. There was a narrow observation window set into the center of it, sterile glass and reinforced steel, standard issue. He could see through it from halfway down the corridor.

Could see you.

He stopped walking.

Stopped breathing.

Stopped everything.

His boots stilled. His hands curled at his sides, tight enough that the vibranium plates clicked under the skin. One step from the door and his whole body locked. Not because of the security code or the weight of John’s voice behind him, but because he could finally see you now. Not a report. Not a briefing. Not numbers or charts or the sound of someone else’s voice saying you’re stable like that meant anything.

You.

You were unconscious. Intubated. Pale in a way he’d never seen before, chalk white against hospital linens, color stripped from your face like it had been taken. Your lips were slightly parted around the oxygen tube. Your chest lifted just barely under the sheet with every controlled breath the machine gave you.

There was gauze wrapped around your head, dark pink in places where blood had leaked through. Your leg was elevated, casted and braced and still twice the size it should’ve been. A bruise bloomed across your shoulder—deep and rotten-looking under the skin—and there was a fresh cut along your cheekbone, barely stitched, swollen and angry.

You looked like you’d been left to die.

Like they hadn’t meant to bring you back.

And for a moment, Bucky couldn’t move.

The air outside the door felt thin. Not stale, just missing. Like everything had been sucked out of this one corner of the Tower and left hollow. Like he was standing in the vacuum left behind by something sacred cracking open.

This was the thing he never let himself imagine. The image he never let form behind his eyelids, even on the bad nights. Not you. Not like this.

He pressed one hand to the wall beside the door and bowed his head, his palm flat to the cold surface. His chest rose, shuddered once, and held. He counted to five. To ten. He tried to focus on the weight of his own body. The feeling of his boots against the tile. The edge of the wall biting into his palm. Anything to keep himself tethered. Anything but your face behind that glass.

You were alive.

But that fact didn’t settle in his chest like it should have. It didn’t soothe. It didn’t offer relief.

Because all he could see were the places where that truth had almost unraveled. The bandages. The monitors. The thin line between your makeshift breaths.

And where it still could. Not when he could see how close it had been. How much of you was still in danger. How easily this could’ve been the morgue instead of a medbay.

How easily he could’ve lost you without ever hearing your voice again.

Without holding your hand. Without telling you that everything else in his life—every broken, violent, worthless part—meant nothing if you weren’t in it.

He didn’t even remember walking toward the door.

Didn’t remember the first step. Or the second. Or how his hand found the keypad through fingers that didn’t feel like they belonged to him anymore. Just knew that if he stood there a second longer, he’d come apart in the hallway and never make it back.

It wasn’t strength that made him move.

It was desperation.

The kind that stripped a man of pride and breath and sense. The kind that whispered cruel things in his ear and made him believe them. She could’ve died without you. She almost did. And you don’t deserve a second chance.

The door opened with a hiss.

He stepped inside like the floor might collapse under him. Every movement was cautious. Careful. Like you might break if he breathed too loud.

The lights inside were low, adjusted to night levels, soft and indirect. The room smelled like antiseptic and gauze and something faintly metallic. Machines hummed in the background, steady and unrelenting.

He made it halfway to the bed before his knees almost gave out.

His eyes were locked on your hand, the one nearest to him, lying limp on top of the blanket with a thin white IV line threaded into the crook of your elbow. He reached for it, slowly, and didn’t care that his hands were shaking so hard he could barely keep them steady. He just needed to feel your skin again. To know it was real. To know you were still real.

He sat beside you, the chair groaning under his weight. He didn’t lean back. Just folded over his knees, one hand gripping yours and the other braced against the side of the bed. His head hung low, and for a long time, he said nothing. Didn’t move. Didn’t blink.

Then, he lifted his head. Reached for your face.

Some hair had stuck to your temple—damp with sweat, clinging to the edge of the bandage there. He brushed it back gently with two fingers, like he’d done a hundred times when you were half-asleep on the couch or pretending not to cry after watching a sappy movie.

But it looked different now. Smaller. Like everything in this room had shrunk down to one unbearable moment, stretched out across too much time.

His fingers trembled as they pulled back.

“Jesus,” he murmured. The word cracked in the middle.

His throat burned.

Your face was still slack, pulled tight with bruising.

You didn’t stir. Didn’t twitch.

That terrified him more than anything.

He leaned forward again, his elbows digging into the edge of the mattress, and he held your hand in both of his—flesh and metal, warm and cold. He stared down at them like they didn’t belong to him. Like he could squeeze hard enough to push time backward.

He didn’t know how long he sat like that.

Could’ve been twenty minutes. Could’ve been hours. The walls didn’t move. The light didn’t change. It was just the constant, low hum of machines and the slow, glacial rhythm of your pulse ticked out on the monitor. Too slow. Too goddamn quiet. He counted the beats. Every one. Anchoring himself to it like it was the only real thing in the room.

At some point, his legs had gone numb.

His neck ached from the way he’d curled it to rest his forehead against the back of your hand. But he didn’t move. Not really. Not until there was a knock at the door, barely audible.

His body tensed.

The door opened with a soft hiss and a man stepped inside—white coat, small tray in hand, a lanyard with two clipped badges bouncing lightly against his chest. Mid-forties, maybe. Tired eyes. The kind of face that had delivered too much bad news to too many people.

“Ah, Barnes,” the doctor said, voice quiet, respectful. “You got here fast.”

Bucky didn’t answer at first. He just sat back slightly, gaze fixed on the man’s hands as he moved toward the IV line.

It was automatic, the way his muscles coiled, just under the surface. His jaw ticked.

He knew this wasn’t a threat. Knew this man was here to help.

But there was a part of him, something wired into his bones and gut and breath, that didn’t want anyone touching you. Not right now. Not while you were like this. Not while he couldn’t do anything to stop it.

He swallowed heavily and kept his voice flat. “Came as soon as I heard.”

The doctor nodded and glanced at the chart hanging near the bed. He was quiet for a while—replacing one IV vial with another, checking vitals, updating a digital pad with a slow drag of his stylus.

Bucky didn’t take his eyes off your face.

“She’s holding steady,” the doctor offered eventually. “Brain swelling’s gone down since the scan we took this morning. That’s a good sign.”

Bucky blinked once. His throat ached. “When’ll she wake up?”

“Hard to say. Could be hours. Could be another day or two. With blunt trauma to the skull, everyone’s timeline looks different.” A pause. “But the oxygen’s helping. And she’s strong.”

Bucky nodded slightly. He’d heard that too many times now. It wasn’t enough. Not even close.

The doctor hesitated. Then cleared his throat gently. “If it’s okay, I just want to ask you a few questions for her record. While we’ve got a quiet window.”

Bucky exhaled through his nose. “Yeah. Sure.”

“She listed you as her primary in the system,” he continued. “So I’ll walk you through some of the next steps once we get past the acute stage. But just for the chart—are you two… partnered? Cohabitating?”

Bucky glanced over. His brows drew together slightly. “We live together. Yeah.”

“And how long’s the relationship been established, roughly?”

The question was phrased clinically, but something about it made the back of Bucky’s neck prickle.

“Four years and change,” he muttered. “Why?”

“Oh, just part of the standard update,” the doctor said casually. “Especially in cases like this, where stress can impact… well, a number of things.”

Bucky didn’t respond. His grip on your hand shifted slightly. The doctor made a note, eyes still on the screen.

A few more seconds passed.

Then:

“She’s… not on any hormone therapy, correct? No recent adjustments in medications?”

Bucky’s jaw tightened. “No.”

Another pause.

The doctor nodded, looking at something on the screen again, something Bucky couldn’t see. “Right. I thought so, but I wanted to confirm. Her file’s a little sparse on that front. We ran a full tox panel and basic endocrine workup when she came in, just routine, and some of the markers… well.”

That cold feeling crawled back up Bucky’s spine.

“Well what?”

The doctor hesitated this time. Looked up.

“I’m sorry,” he said gently. “Pardon my wording here—I just want to make sure I’m not stepping into anything sensitive. But… had the two of you been trying to conceive?”

Bucky blinked.

The words didn’t land at first.

“What?”

“I only ask,” the doctor continued, slower now, more cautious, “because we noted elevated hCG levels. Not extreme, but consistent with early gestation. Six to eight weeks, give or take. It’s not uncommon for someone in her position to not realize it yet. But based on the labs, it seems likely that she may—”

Bucky stood up.

The chair scraped against the floor, sharp and jarring in the quiet of the room.

“She’s...pregnant?” he said, his voice low. Disbelieving. Barely holding together.

The doctor’s mouth flattened. “We didn’t want to make assumptions until we had context. I assumed you would’ve been aware.”

Bucky stared at you. Stared like he’d never seen you before.

He couldn’t breathe.

Not because he was angry. Not because he was blindsided.

Because he felt like the fucking ground had disappeared beneath his feet.

Because it was you. And it was this. And it was real.

And he hadn’t known.

And now you were lying here with a goddamn tube down your throat and a second heartbeat that wasn’t yours might’ve already—

His hand clenched into a fist at his side, metal creaking softly.

Bucky stood motionless, fists curled at his sides, every muscle wound so tight it hurt. His eyes were locked on you, on the bruising at your ribs just visible beneath the blanket, on the plastic tubing taped to the soft skin above your collarbone. He didn’t blink. Couldn’t.

His voice scraped up through his throat like broken glass. “Are you sure?”

The doctor—still standing a few cautious paces from the bed—shifted his weight and offered a nod, slow and grave. “The labs were repeated three times. Elevated hCG levels. Progesterone consistent with early gestation. We ran hormone panels as a baseline given the trauma….It’s not just a possibility. It’s confirmed.”

Bucky’s mouth opened, then closed. The words didn’t form right. His lips were dry. His chest felt like it had been filled with sand.

“You said six to eight weeks,” he said, barely above a whisper.

The doctor tilted his head slightly, expression softening—not out of pity, but out of clinical care. He knew who he was talking to. Knew Bucky Barnes wasn’t the kind of man who cried wolf.

“Give or take,” the man answered gently. “That’s an estimate based on hormone levels, not ultrasound, but yes. I’d say closer to eight weeks along.”

Eight weeks.

That was before this last mission cycle. Before the op outside Madrid. Maybe even before the one before that.

And you hadn’t said a word.

Bucky’s eyes dragged back to you. You were so still. Your hand resting under the blanket, palm turned up, the edges of your fingers bruised like you’d been gripping something hard.

He couldn’t stop seeing it now. Couldn’t unsee it.

You’d been off. He’d chalked it up to nerves, pre-op jitters, the heavy rhythm of one mission bleeding into the next. He’d told you to rest. Offered takeout. Tried to make you laugh the night before he left.

And you had. Smiled. Said thank you. Kissed his cheek. You’d curled into him that night like your ribs ached and your mind was somewhere else, and he’d thought it was just exhaustion.

He’d believed you when you said it was nothing.

God, how fucking stupid could he be?

His voice broke. “She would've known?”

The doctor hesitated. Not from doubt. From restraint.

“There’s no way to say for certain,” he said carefully. “But even as early as four weeks, many people start to notice changes. Nausea. Fatigue. Food aversions. Emotional shifts. Even small things like dizziness or temperature changes. Some miss it entirely. Others…” He paused. “Others don’t.”

Bucky didn’t need a fucking doctor to tell him you knew. He could see it now, clear as a sniper’s scope.

“She didn’t tell me.” Bucky’s voice was hoarse. Raw. Like something was tearing loose inside his chest. “She didn’t say a word.”

“I understand that must be difficult,” the doctor said, not unkindly.

Bucky laughed, just once, sharp and empty. It didn’t sound like anything close to humor.

“She was sick last week. I told her it was nerves. I said she just needed rest.” He blinked, hard. “And she nodded. And let me believe it.”

He felt sick. Hollow. As if someone had cut him open and left the pieces spread out across the room for everyone to examine.

“She made me dinner and couldn’t even taste it. She spit it out. Said it was too salty.” He dragged a hand down his face, breath unsteady.

“I knew. I fucking knew something was off and I didn’t—” He stopped. Pressed his palm into his forehead like he could shut off the noise in his brain. “—I didn’t ask.”

The doctor didn’t respond right away. He didn’t need to. The silence hung there, heavy, just long enough to let Bucky crumble beneath it.

“I would’ve pulled her,” Bucky said, voice low, like it hurt to speak. “If I’d known—I would’ve pulled her off the mission. I would’ve stayed. Christ, I never would’ve let her walk into that hellhole alone.”

“I believe you,” the doctor said softly.

Bucky shook his head. “No, you don’t.” His gaze locked on yours again, like you might open your eyes at any second and tell him it was all a joke, some stupid, sick prank. But your lashes didn’t so much as twitch. “I didn’t even notice. What kind of man misses that? What kind of man lets her go?”

“You trusted her,” the doctor said. “She clearly trusted you too.”

Bucky let out a breath that sounded like it had been clawed from his lungs. “She didn’t tell me.”

“No. She didn’t.” The doctor’s voice was quieter now. “But people keep things for all kinds of reasons. Even from the people they love most.”

Bucky scrubbed a hand down his face, fingers trembling at the edge of his jaw. “You don’t get it. She doesn’t hide things from me. Not like this. Not the big stuff. We—we don’t do that.” He looked up again, eyes wet and sharp. “She was going to tell me. I know she was. I think—shit. I think she was, the morning she left.”

He could hear it now. In the way you’d paused before signing off the comms. He thought you were worried about the mission. About Belova watching your six. About slipping into yet another building you weren’t sure you’d walk back out of.But it hadn’t just been that. It had been this. This had been behind your eyes.

He hadn’t kissed you like he should’ve. Hadn’t said goodbye like it might’ve mattered.

Hadn’t known it wasn’t just your life you were walking into that op with.

He didn’t even realize he was crying until the next breath caught wrong in his throat.

“I let her go,” he repeated. “And now she’s in this bed, and I didn’t even know she—”

He stopped again, unable to finish.

The doctor waited a beat longer. Let the silence settle. Then cleared his throat, careful and slow, trying to guide the conversation back to what had to be said.

“I know it’s not what you want to be thinking about right now,” he said gently, “but we do need to talk through some things. Just to make sure you’re fully informed.”

Bucky didn’t look at him. Just stared at you.

The doctor glanced at the vitals monitor. Back to the chart. His voice shifted—soft, but steady.

“With blunt force trauma to the abdomen,” he said, quieter now, more clinical, “there’s always a risk of complications. Especially in early pregnancy. Her vitals are stable. The fetus hasn’t shown signs of rejection yet—but we’re watching. Closely.”

That was it. The word. Yet.

Bucky turned sharply. “What are you saying?”

“I’m saying we’re monitoring her around the clock. Ultrasound will be scheduled once the swelling goes down and her vitals can handle the scan. But we have to be honest about the risk.” A beat. “The trauma she took to the torso—the pressure trap, the fall, and then the blunt impact to the skull—all of it compounds.”

Bucky’s jaw was shaking now.

“So you don’t know,” he said slowly. “You don’t know?”

“We’re doing everything we can.”

Bucky stepped back like he’d been shoved.

You were pregnant.

And you were unconscious. Intubated. Hooked to machines in a quiet room with no windows while doctors ran numbers behind glass and he didn’t even know you were carrying his kid.

He couldn’t breathe.

You’d gone into that mission with someone else’s life inside you and hadn’t said a word.

He covered his mouth with the back of his hand, eyes stinging.

You didn’t tell him. You didn’t fucking tell him.

And he almost lost you.

Almost lost both of you.

The thought hit harder than anything he’d felt in months. In years. In decades. And it didn’t come like a scream. It came like a whisper. Like a crack in a wall that’d held for too long.

“How?”

His voice was shredded. Barely audible.

The doctor paused mid-step, halfway to the door. Turned back, cautious. “I’m sorry?”

Bucky looked at him, finally. Really looked. And there was nothing left in his face but disbelief—exhaustion and heartbreak stretched thin over bone.

“How is that possible?” he rasped. “I—” He shook his head once, quick, like he couldn’t believe he even had to say it. “I’ve been tested. Just to know. After everything Hydra did—what they rewired, replaced, burned out of me—they said it wasn’t possible.”

The words felt like rot in his mouth.

The doctor stepped forward slightly, his voice measured now, clinical but not cold. “If you’re referring to chemical sterilization procedures or structural modification, yes, those can have long-term effects. Especially in cases involving trauma at a cellular level, or—”

“Don’t give me the medical lecture,” Bucky snapped, not loud but sharp enough to slice. His hands were trembling again. “Just tell me how the hell this is happening.”

The doctor nodded, slowly. “There are always edge cases. Nothing in reproductive medicine is absolute. The body adapts. Heals. Finds workarounds.” He paused. “Even when we’re told it can’t.”

That didn’t feel like hope. It felt like a gut punch.

“You’re saying it was a fluke.”

“I’m saying biology is unpredictable. And what Hydra did to your body…” The man hesitated again. “No one fully understands the parameters of their enhancements. You weren’t born with a blueprint. You were made in fragments. It’s entirely possible that something shifted. Repaired. Regenerated. Something no one thought to look for.”

Bucky was silent.

A breath dragged into his lungs like it didn’t belong there.

His voice was hollow. “Fuck, why wouldn’t she tell me?”

The doctor hesitated. “That’s not a question I can answer.”

Bucky nodded, barely.

No, of course it wasn’t. Because there was only one person who could answer that, and you were lying there pale and quiet with blood dried at the edge of your mouth and a monitor deciding whether or not you were still alive.

The doctor moved slowly, starting to step back, sensing the unraveling thread beneath Bucky’s words.

“If you have any more questions,” he said quietly, “you can reach me on comms. I’ll be just down the hall for the next few hours. We’re not touching her chart again without looping you in.”

Bucky didn’t answer.

The doctor nodded once more, set the tablet down gently on the small table by the foot of your bed, and slipped out without another word.

The door clicked shut behind him with a soft hiss of pressurized air. It was too quiet. Too polite. Like this was just another room. Just another patient. Just another day.

Bucky stood there for a moment, still. Breathing like it hurt. Hands flexing at his sides, unsure where to go, unsure what they were supposed to do now. The silence didn’t feel sterile anymore, it felt thick. Like it had teeth. Like if he stayed on his feet another second it’d tear him apart.

So he sat.

Not with purpose. Not with control. His knees just buckled, and the chair caught him on the way down. Same place as before. Same cold vinyl digging into the backs of his thighs. But this time, there was no weight steadying his hands. No warmth beneath his palm.

Only you. Still and pale and too fucking quiet. And something else now, tucked deep inside you, something no one had planned for and nothing could prepare him for.

His elbows braced on his knees. Shoulders rounded. His hand dragged across his face like it could scrape away the thoughts already forming. The ones he couldn’t bear. The ones he couldn’t stop.

You were pregnant.

And you didn’t tell him.

Not because you didn’t trust him. He didn’t believe that. Not for a second. But because you’d wanted to carry it on your own. Because you didn’t want to burden him. Because something in you—something he should’ve seen, should’ve known—thought maybe he couldn’t handle it.

And maybe you were right.

Because even now, he wasn’t handling it. He was drowning in it.

His throat felt raw. Not from yelling, he hadn’t spoken above a whisper since he walked in, but from the pressure. From everything he was trying to hold back.

A child.

Your child.

His.

It didn’t feel real. Not in the soft, sweet way people talked about in books or in old movies. Nothing about this felt glowing or golden. It felt like being cracked open. Like someone had reached into his chest and handed him something impossibly fragile and said hold this steady while the building burns.

He’d never let himself imagine this. Not seriously. Not in any long-term, Sunday morning kind of way. Not beyond the haze of half-formed thoughts he shoved down when you fell asleep with your hand on his chest and he let himself pretend, just for a second, that maybe he got to keep this. That maybe he got to build something.

But it was never real. Not to someone like him.

Kids were for other people. People who hadn’t been turned into weapons. People who didn’t flinch in crowded hallways or track exits in grocery stores or dream in blood and ash. People who weren’t always calculating how many ways a room could go wrong.

And yet—

There’d been that mission last fall. Rural outskirts of Kashgar, the safe house turned hostage site. He still remembered the layout: three stories, west-facing collapse, no rear exit. Ten children trapped underground. One window for evac. You’d gone in without blinking.

You’d stayed behind to cover the last kid’s exit, barely clearing the detonation radius yourself. He’d screamed in your comm so loud he blew the mic out, but you made it. Coughed through smoke, limped out with soot in your lashes, cradling a little girl in your arms like she was made of glass. And after it was done, after the sirens quieted and the evac crews pulled out, he’d watched you kneel in the dirt and let those kids braid flowers into your hair while you wiped their tears with bare hands.

He’d never forgotten the way you looked that day. Not fierce. Not victorious. Just human. Soft where the world had tried to make you hard. Unshakable. Protective. Gentle in a way he didn’t know how to be, not really.

He’d caught himself watching too long. Something old and aching in his chest pulling tight.

And now that image cut through him like a blade.

Because this wasn’t some faraway fantasy anymore. This wasn’t a brief daydream before falling asleep or a fleeting glance across a wrecked city street.

It was blood.

It was cells dividing inside you.

It was something real, something terrifyingly alive that was already in danger. That he hadn’t known about. That he hadn’t protected.

And what if it was already too late?

His hand curled into a fist. Metal groaned softly under the tension, joints whining from the pressure. He pressed it to his lips like he could hold something back. Like if he kept still enough, quiet enough, maybe it wouldn’t fall apart. Maybe you’d wake up, and this would all just be a nightmare version of a conversation you hadn’t known how to start.

But what if you never woke up?

Bucky looked at you then—really looked. At the pale stretch of your brow, the tiny twitch of the monitor lights reflecting in your lashes. At the loose strands of hair tucked behind your ear, the cut near your temple where the blood had crusted over in dark rust red. He wanted to gather it all. Hold it together with his hands, press his mouth to your skin and promise things he didn’t know how to say.

He would’ve held your hair back every morning if the nausea got bad. Would’ve left saltines by the bed. Would’ve learned every goddamn craving and run halfway across the city to get it. Would’ve kept you off missions. Would’ve made Valentina herself eat glass if she tried to stop him.

He would’ve built the whole world over again just to make it safer for you.

For the baby.

His baby.

Bucky let his head drop into his hands. Breath shuddering. Shoulders heaving once—just once—before he ground it down again. Because he couldn’t break now. Couldn’t afford it.

You needed him.

And he hadn’t been there.

But he was now.

God help anyone who tried to take that away.

no more taglists! tumblr’s @ limit said no 💔 follow @cheekybarnesupdates + turn on notifs for all fic drops!

special wip wednesday tags: @bellemile, @bananaminn, @buckysleftbicep

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lethallyprotected · 24 days ago

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Grade-A Pain in My Ass [masterlist]

Single dad!Bucky x Teacher!Reader, enemies to lovers fanfic

64.2k words || completed || domestic fluff || sexual tension || no y/n || f!reader || angst/comfort || smut

Bucky Barnes is a single dad who doesn’t do love. He’s got everything he needs: a steady job, cozy home, and his whole life wrapped up in one little girl, his daughter Rebecca. No complications, and absolutely no room for romance. After a rude and not-so-pleasant first encounter, he finds out you’re the elementary school teacher of Rebecca’s class. He would make it his mission to avoid you at all costs and to absolutely not fall in love with you. I mean, how could he? Especially since you’re a grade-A pain in his ass.

one || two || three || four || five || six || seven || eight || nine || ten || eleven || twelve || thirteen

ao3

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lethallyprotected · 24 days ago

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ʙᴜᴄᴋʏ ʙᴀʀɴᴇꜱ ꜰɪᴄ ʀᴇᴄᴏᴍᴍᴇɴᴅᴀᴛɪᴏɴꜱ

hi loves <3 I have had such a writer's block lately, so I thought I'd share some of my favorite fics that I have read lately. shout out to all of these amazing writers-- keep doing what you love. you are all unique and thoughtful, putting a little twist into your work that makes it yours. enjoy <3

𝘱𝘰𝘴𝘴𝘦𝘴𝘴𝘪𝘷𝘦!𝘣𝘶𝘤𝘬𝘺 𝘣𝘢𝘳𝘯𝘦𝘴

obsession @barnesonly 18+ (he's so dreamy)

You don’t even really like Bucky Barnes — he’s grumpy, kinda mean, and totally clueless about how you feel. But damn, he’s so hot it’s driving you crazy. Every time he walks in, all you can think about is what it’d be like if he just took you right there. You try to play it cool… but yeah, that’s not happening.

𝘔𝘰𝘣 𝘉𝘰𝘴𝘴! 𝘉𝘶𝘤𝘬𝘺 𝘉𝘢𝘳𝘯𝘦𝘴 (im such a whore for mob!bucky so pls send me fics <3)

sinnerman @aquaticmercy 18+ (OBSESSED W/THIS.)

Bucky Barnes is obsessed with a singer at his favorite jazz club.

sins and silk @magicaloneandmystery 18+ (don't have to force me babe🤭)

under the watchful eyes of his criminal entourage and your unapologetic family, you say your vows to the most powerful man in New York City. despite your doubts, your wedding night surprises you in more ways than one. AKA, Bucky knows how to fuck the reader right.

mad for you @marvelstoriesepic (I cried reading this like deadass)

You are a simple maid who cleans the mansion of the Bucky Barnes, always staying in the background. But when one of his men sees you as a target for assault, and manipulates you into taking the blame for something you didn’t do, you are pushed directly into Bucky’s focus.

𝘉𝘶𝘤𝘬𝘺 𝘉𝘢𝘳𝘯𝘦𝘴

something worth holding @cheekybarnes (I just wanna hug him)

You bring Bucky flowers for his birthday—something no one has ever given him before—and what starts as a simple gesture turns into something far more significant.

eating you out @ddejavvu 18+ (spread it open and flick the bean)

Literally just Bucky eating the reader out, and he hikes her up on his shoulders, with her legs wrapped around his head and she's leaned up against the wall.

manchild @houseofhyde 18+ (this might be the best fic I've ever read. like actually.)

bucky can't help but wonder why they always come running to you,, or your living fossil of a roommate disapproves of your taste in men and its totally not because he wants a taste of you.

gentlemen @buckysleftbicep 18+ (im so down bad for this man)

Like so chivalrous and respectful. But with him being feral and obsessed with you at the same time. Being obsessed with pleasuring you and treating pleasuring you like his life’s honor. NEED HIM

where the quiet lives @cursedheartsclub 18+ (this has a special place in my heart)

You were supposed to be on your honeymoon. Instead, you’re crashing at Bucky Barnes’s lake house—with his grumpy cat and no idea who you are without the man who asked you to give it all up. You went to the lake to forget your ex. You didn’t expect to fall for the man who owns the house.

spellbound @cursedheartsclub 18+ (sex pollen troupe ily)

You took the hit meant for Bucky—magic that curls under your skin like a fever, an ache that won’t ease no matter how many times you break. And the only thing that eases the fire is him.

bound to burn @cursedheartsclub 18+ (SO SO GOOD!!!)

You’ve never kissed Bucky Barnes—never even touched. Now you’re in his lap at a club in Romania, panties pushed to the side, grinding on his thigh while a voyeuristic arms dealer watches from the shadows. The mission said do whatever it takes—so you do. You moan for him. You beg for him. You come on his fingers in a mirrored room with someone else on the other side of the glass. And the worst part? None of it feels fake. Not his voice in your ear. Not his mouth between your legs. Not the way he says, “Eyes on me, doll.” And when it’s all over? You still ache for him. And he’s still carrying your panties in his pocket.

Falling/Drifting Series @probablybucky (this writer is so amazing. ily)

When you find yourself falling for Bucky Barnes (literally), you wonder if you can let go of the past enough to trust him. Set post TFATWS.

Drifting apart was never part of the plan—but neither was falling in love with Bucky Barnes. With a looming threat on the horizon, distance becomes a liability neither of you can afford.

high water @cheekybarnes (so angsty and personal love it)

You’ve stopped keeping track of the bruises. Bucky hasn’t—and he doesn’t say anything, not until the patterns start looking too much like his own, and it’s almost too late to pull you back.

have we met before? @aquaticmercy (sighs in cuteness)

America Chavez says that you and Bucky are together in every universe.

𝘢𝘷𝘦𝘯𝘨𝘦𝘳!𝘣𝘶𝘤𝘬𝘺 𝘣𝘢𝘳𝘯𝘦𝘴

right this time @buckysleftbicep (as he should 😚)

after a disappointing date, bucky decides to show you what a proper date should be like.

creamy or crunchy @marvelstoriesepic (so cute, made my heart ache)

Bucky joins you grocery shopping to everyone’s surprise.

a love letter to stone @cheekybarnes (brb im gonna go cry)

You were Bucky Barnes’ fiancée, a love left unfinished by war, spending decades at his grave, never moving on. But when Bucky finally comes home—broken, free, too late—you’re already gone.

1940'𝘴!𝘣𝘶𝘤𝘬𝘺 𝘣𝘢𝘳𝘯𝘦𝘴

his girl @cursedheartsclub 18+ (1940's bucky has my heart)

He called you his girl long before he ever kissed you. Long before he fell off the train. Before Hydra. Before the ice. Before he forgot your name—Bucky Barnes was just a boy who called you his girl. The two of you grew up tangled in the Brooklyn trio with Steve: fists and laughter, scraped knees and stolen glances, slow dances and so many kisses. You were never official. But everyone knew. He made sure of it. And when he left for war, he shouted it across the room for all to hear— “You know I’m gonna marry you when I get back, right?”

birthday boy @bratscave 18+ (<3 <3 <3)

thinking about how he doesn’t even fucking like celebrating it. the whole “another year, another number” bullshit. what’s there to be excited about? but you—oh, you—pretty little thing that you are, batting your lashes and telling him it’s a special day, his special day, and that you wanna make it good for him. real good.

𝘣𝘳𝘰𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘳𝘴𝘣𝘦𝘴𝘵𝘧𝘳𝘪𝘦𝘯𝘥!𝘣𝘶𝘤𝘬𝘺

always been you @bcksgirl 18+ (love it love it love it love it)

you’re fresh out of a break up, and your brother is determined not to let you dwell on your shitty ex. he thinks your annual summer trip with your shared group of friends should do the trick. you think a summer spent staring at his hot best friend will at least lift your spirits a little.

𝘳𝘰𝘺𝘢𝘭 𝘨𝘶𝘢𝘳𝘥!𝘉𝘶𝘤𝘬𝘺 𝘉𝘢𝘳𝘯𝘦𝘴

lavender @aquaticmercy 18+ (usually I don't go for stuff like this, but I was like what the hell, why not, and it did not disappoint. very Game of Thrones I love it!!)

The princess is engaged to her childhood best friend, though her true love is her royal guard, James Barnes.

𝘤𝘰𝘸𝘣𝘰𝘺!𝘣𝘶𝘤𝘬𝘺

the cowboy rule @hanaridulsetcheese 18+ (as a Texas girl herself, I love it!! need more cowboy bucky in my life)

no summary, so here is my own! after arriving in Texas, you meet a charming cowboy named Bucky. When he offers to show you around, you can't help but notice how attractive he is. One night at a bar, he puts his cowboy hat on your head, which can only mean one thing..."You wear a man’s hat, you take him for a ride."

𝘋𝘢𝘥'𝘴𝘉𝘦𝘴𝘵𝘍𝘳𝘪𝘦𝘯𝘥!𝘣𝘶𝘤𝘬𝘺

honey girl. @violentdelightsandviolentends 18+ (this series is a masterpiece.)

The Universe shows you your soulmate when it feels like you need them most. When you least expect it, you're given yours - Bucky Barnes. Your Dad's best friend. You can try to refuse it all you like; but the universe wants what it wants. There's no denying fate.

daddy's best friend @buckysleftbicep 18+ (“Next time, I’m riding you in your truck.” when is this gonna come out because...)

your dad’s best friend has been avoiding your eyes all night, until he’s got you pinned against the laundry room door, hand up your thigh. it’s everything you shouldn’t want, but you always do.

𝘣𝘰𝘥𝘺𝘨𝘶𝘢𝘳𝘥!𝘣𝘶𝘤𝘬𝘺

just for tonight, night out, stay for a fortnight @thyme-in-a-bubble 18+ (this series is so amazing--you have to read it. there is something so beautiful about sex meaning more idk)

bodyguard!bucky barnes x reader, ex!peter parker x reader, reader’s mom is the british ambassador to france, age gap (10-15 years), forbidden romance, explicit sexual content, total word count is 10.7k

𝘤𝘰𝘭𝘭𝘦𝘨𝘦!𝘣𝘶𝘤𝘬𝘺

change your mind @marvelstoriesepic (I love baseball boys <3)

Natasha drags you to an NYU baseball game. And despite yourself, one player catches your attention.

supposed distraction @marvelstoriesepic (it's so cute and movie I love it)

It’s Bucky’s birthday and you and your friends are planning a surprise party. That leaves you with the task to distract him while the others prepare.

my masterlist <3

2K notes · View notes

lethallyprotected · 24 days ago

Text

if you leave something behind (you gain something too.)

pairing: bucky barnes x multiverse! reader summary: you’re a TVA agent—meant to observe, never interfere—but you fall for him in every universe. every iteration. every version of james buchanan Barnes. and across centuries, across collapse and convergence, that love stays. steady. inevitable. written into the code of the multiverse like a rule it can’t break. (multiverse!) inspired by past lives (2023) and the ministry of time. for an expanded explanation and playlist, click here. word count: 15.7k content warnings: 18+ mdni, fem reader, heavy angst w/ a happy ending, oral (f and m receiving), creampie, piv, praise, overstimulation, hair pulling, breast worship, use of pet names, mentions of death and loss

This is it.

The glamorous, sparkling career of a TVA precision-field agent.

Emphasis on “precision.” Emphasis on “field.” Emphasis, mostly, on “agent,” because the term “analyst” was deemed too misleading after what happened in 1806 Prussia (one rogue spreadsheet, a very confused Napoleon, and three weeks of bureaucratic bloodshed).

You’re not like the Minutemen, stomping into timelines in those tactical chic jumpsuits, pruning anomalies with the self-satisfaction of people who still think “delete” is a solution. You’re not an auditor—thank God—squinting at branching event charts and muttering about entropy coefficients over cold tea.

No. You’re the needle. The thread. The hand that sews.

Your job is surgical. Your presence is a whisper. Where others correct by erasure, you correct by inclusion. You enter the timeline. You become part of it. You don’t push the dominoes over—you walk by, breathe funny, and trust the air will tip them just right.

There’s no glory in your work. No medals. No mission logs, either.

Everything you do is redacted—even from you. You carry the residue of other people’s lives under your fingernails, and sometimes forget which memories belong to whom.

Sometimes you wake up choking on grief that was never yours. You learn to live with that.

It’s the first thing they ask you in training, during the psych filters: Would knowing the future help you grieve less?

No one answers yes. Not honestly.

You understand now why. There’s no solace in foreknowledge, just the burden of it. Knowing that someone dies doesn’t stop you from loving them. It just makes every moment feel like a countdown.

You specialize in delicate convergences: moments in history so precariously balanced that a sneeze in the wrong direction could avalanche into centuries of collapse. Your handlers call them “softpoints.” You call them “the edge of the knife.”

Sometimes you’re a midwife in 1421. Sometimes you’re the barista who smiles just enough to make a physicist reconsider her route to work. Sometimes you’re a corpse at the right place, the right time, to remind a man of the past he keeps trying to forget.

Right now, you're really fucking hungover.

You started having the dream again.

Not a dream, exactly. A memory with the edges worn smooth. At first it came in pieces—clipped sounds, filtered light, the low hum of something old and mechanical beneath your feet. You dismissed it. Just timeline residue. A misplaced echo.

But it kept returning.

Always the same: a red-brick apartment building. New York—no file, no mission tag—in winter. Brooklyn, more specifically, from your view of the bridge. You’re on a stoop. Someone calls your name and you turn just in time to see a shadow disappear around the corner. A laugh rides the wind, low and familiar.

You wake up before you follow. Every time.

Your mouth tastes like floor polish and betrayal. Your eyes open one at a time, not out of coordination, but protest. Your skull seems like it's determined to play a high-stakes game of ping-pong against itself.

You groan.

This is how your days usually start.

You sit up slowly, bones cracking like old film reels, and assess the carnage around your quarters.

Clothes: on the chair, on the floor, one boot in the sink.

Timepad: blinking faintly on the nightstand, still charged.

Your hair is somewhere between “ungovernable” and “formerly respected.” You run a hand through it and immediately regret that decision. Your reflection in the tiny wall mirror is a damning indictment of last night’s choices. Smudged eyeliner. A smear of something neon-orange near your jawline. You shower quickly — TVA-issued water pressure: inconsistent, ironic. You pull on a button-up and slacks instead — neutral, inoffensive.

You’ll blend into whatever century they throw you into next. For now, you settle for looking like you might belong in the TVA cafeteria line.

By the time you lace your boots (twice — the first attempt ends in a mild panic attack and a missing sock), the hangover’s down to a dull roar. Your breath smells like expired mint gum and broken dreams, so you down two cups of black coffee and chew on one of those flavorless temporal hydration tablets like it might save your soul.

You do your job. Reliably. Unremarkably. The way they like it.

And sometimes you drink enough that for a few hours, you don’t remember how you got here. Or how you’ve always been here.

You toss your timepad into your holster, slap a mediocre patch on your face to cover the worst of the under-eye shadows, and mutter something vaguely threatening at your own reflection.

Time to go.

Three mugs deep into lukewarm cafeteria coffee that tastes like regret and the glue holding office furniture together, you’re hunched over yet another Form G-17 — “Suspected Non-Nexus Deviation: B-Class Branch.” Your fourth this week. You’ve logged more hours categorizing existential anomalies than actually interfering with any, which is particularly unusual, for you anyway. You've been dormant for much longer than you're used to.

The previous G-17s included such branch classics as “cow develops rudimentary consciousness,” “Steve Rogers blinks twice during a televised 2013 speech instead of once,” and “Loki starts a book club.” (Unauthorized self-improvement remains a hot-button issue.)

This one, though—this one’s different.

The case file reads:

CASE FILE: #616-BE0 MISSION CLASS: Softpoint Convergence LOCATION: Siberia, USSR DATE: February 1955 SUMMARY: A low-grade temporal softpoint has been detected. Origin ambiguous. Energy output consistent with pre-convergent instability. Divergent potential is not yet sufficient to trigger a Nexus Event, but the timeline is exhibiting signs of local timeline ‘fraying.’ Mission parameters suggest passive stabilization through presence, not correction. Duration: 3 hours. Environmental hostility high. NOTES: Embed into local context. Observe anomaly behavior. Maintain temporal camouflage. Apply Softpoint Integration Protocol if deviation escalates.

You stare at the file.

Cold, quiet dread coils low in your stomach. Siberia. February. 1955. No glamour in that assignment—just ice and silence and the kind of untraceable damage that leaves timelines limping.

Across from you, Casey is organizing his pen caddy by weight again. You catch a glimpse of the sticky note on his lunchbox: “Please do not eat my croissant. Please.” The second “please” is underlined three times.

You stole that croissant yesterday.

Honestly, he should thank you. It was a little dry.

You turn your eyes back to the file and eye the temperature index: -43°C. S. “Oh good,” you mutter to no one. “Toe amputation weather.”

You stand, suit creaking as you shift, and tug on your tie with practiced resentment. You snap your timepad into place on your wrist. The UI pings with a mild hum — dull orange light, sanctioned and soulless.

Casey looks up.

“Heading out?” he asks, hopeful. He always wants your desk when you’re gone. You have the only chair that doesn’t squeak like a dying goose.

“Yup,” you say. “Brad flagged something ‘mildly interesting.’ We’ll see if it’s another raccoon wasted off shrooms.”

“Or a bear,” Casey offers.

You click your timepad open, keying in the Siberia coordinates. “Or a hallucinating bear.”

Casey nods gravely.

The door opens, temporal energy flaring in its signature burnt-orange halo. You take one last swig of your bad coffee, grimace as it hits your tongue, and mutter, “Let’s go see what broke this time.”

Then you step through.

The light swallows you whole.

And you forget, for a second—just a second—that you were ever anything else.

EARTH-616 | SIBERIA, 1955

The walls groaned when the wind pressed against them. Not urgently. Not like they were in danger of collapse. More like an old man muttering in his sleep.

You didn’t trust the ship, not entirely. It had been retrofitted for temporal operations, but barely—still more icebreaker than chronal vessel. The insulation was patchy in places, and every vent exhaled a little breath of cold that bit at your ankles. If the TVA had a top-shelf of deployment crafts, this wasn’t on it. This was bottom-shelf. Dusty. Dinged up. Probably cursed.

Still. It was warm. Warm enough.

Outside, Siberia stretched like a battlefield already lost. White, endless, blank. Indifferent to watchers, to wanderers, to time itself. It didn’t care that the threads of history bent here. That the TVA had deemed this place a convergence zone—a softpoint where multiple outcomes were forming brittle overlaps. No Nexus spike yet. But something was pulsing.

You leaned back against the wall and let the thermos rest against your chest. The rhythmic thump of the engine hummed through your bones. You liked that. The vibration reminded you that you were still solid. Still here. Still someone with a job to do.

Observe. Do not interfere.

And yet. A flicker on the monitor caught your attention.

Unidentified movement—Quadrant C. Low thermal. Not vehicle. Not patrol. One heat signature. Steady. Moving through the storm.

Human-shaped. Probably.

You didn’t move yet. Just watched. Let it crawl across the display while you listened to the wind.

You checked your timepad again. No nexus flare. No spike. But there was a pulse. Faint, irregular. Like the anomaly was alive.

You didn’t believe in fate. But you believed in gravity. In the way some people pulled history around them like cloaks. This place? It felt pulled.

The door behind you hissed open, then shut again with a metallic shudder—just a shift in cabin pressure, but your body went still anyway. One hand tightened around the cooling thermos; the other hovered near your holster. Not paranoid. Just prepared.

You took a breath. Let it sit in your lungs like steam.

The blip on the monitor moved closer. Still slow. Still steady.

Somewhere out there, in that wide, white nowhere, something was walking toward you.

Before you can focus or fixate on the blip, you hear the bang. It’s not the ship groaning this time. Not the distant thunder of ice shifting. This is close. Inside.

Then the ping.

INTERNAL SECURITY BREACH: SECTOR 7 – SUB-HOLD ACCESS. UNAUTHORIZED MOVEMENT DETECTED.

Of course. Of course it’s the hold.

You didn't run. Running was noise, panic, a rookie move. Instead, you moved swiftly and fluidly, silent as frost.

The corridor narrowed as you descended, metal groaning beneath your boots, the walls sweating condensation from the sudden temperature drop. Ahead, you heard clear sounds of intrusion—boots scraping against metal, something sharp and metallic snapping like bone.

Voices shouted orders in Russian, clipped and urgent.

You pressed against the wall outside the sub-hold entrance, flicking your wrist to pull up the heat signatures on your timepad. Four—no, five—distinct signatures flickered on screen, scattered and frantic, like dropped matchsticks.

Far more than the single blip you'd tracked earlier.

You move anyway.

Quiet. Calculated. Not to neutralize—just to see.

Inside, the hold is chaos: crates overturned, equipment flickering, something sulfuric in the air. A soldier stumbles into your path, disoriented, eyes wrong—like the mind inside doesn’t fit anymore. You sidestep, smooth and practiced, letting him fall without intervention. Another crashes through the smoke and doesn’t even register you.

Your breath clouds the air. The hold smells like ozone and rust and something sharper—like old blood sealed in with frost. And then you see it.

In the corner of the hold, something hums—low, persistent, and thoroughly annoying. Not a cryo chamber, thank god. You've had enough encounters with frozen bodies this fiscal quarter.

Instead, it's a pulse field generator—standard TVA gear, uncomfortably grafted onto mid-century Soviet tech. You frown deeply, which is practically your default expression at this point. This thing was supposed to be dormant.

According to the updated log, this thing is officially a Temporal Dissipation Node—a fancy TVA euphemism for a safety valve that bleeds out timeline tension. Supposedly passive, no-contact. The kind of setup they drop into delicate softpoints, relying entirely on subtlety and minimal human interaction.

This node, however, isn't subtle at all. It's malfunctioning, stuttering irregular pulses instead of smooth ones. Perfect. You crouch, eyes narrowing as you spot obvious manual overrides and Soviet tampering. Wonderful. Someone's been messing around inside the casing.

“Great,” you mutter under your breath, tasting bitterness that has nothing to do with your morning coffee. “No wonder they didn’t send backup. Needed someone expendable.”

Before you can fully embrace the gravity of the situation, the far wall explodes inward in a decidedly dramatic fashion—metal screeching, smoke filling the room. You whip around, baton raised instinctively, already calculating how much paperwork this will generate—

—and freeze.

Because someone's standing there. Just standing. Breathing hard, like he ran the whole way here through the ice.

His hair is long and damp at the ends, curling slightly where the frost is starting to melt. His clothes are frayed at the edges—standard-issue Soviet combat gear, only half-zipped, soaked through. There’s snow clinging to the edges of his sleeve. His stance is wide, solid. Familiar in a way that makes your blood run cold.

But it's his eyes that hold you still.

Not the metal arm, titanium and deadly. Not his sharp-edged stance, nor the rifle slung almost forgotten across his back. It's the eyes—pale blue, intensely focused. Clear. Too clear.

Just staring.

Like you’re an answer to a question he hasn’t been able to phrase. Like he’s seen you before and forgot until now.

And maybe—you freeze, stomach folding in on itself—maybe you forgot too.

The Winter Soldier. James Buchanan Barnes.

It’s not recognition, exactly. Not full-blown. But something in you shifts, quiet and tectonic. The sensation of stepping into a half-remembered dream. Or maybe it's the ache you’ve been waking up with lately, the dream you can never hold onto, just shapes and colors and a voice you almost know.

You’ve heard plenty about Bu—the Winter Soldier from hushed whispers in break rooms and blurry security footage in restricted archives. Never once did you picture him looking so… aware.

At the TVA, he’s quietly regarded as a tragedy. Not a threat, not a glitch—just a sorrow too persistent to be useful. His story, in every version they’ve managed to scrape together, is one long unraveling. Grief braided into duty. Identity shredded and rebuilt, over and over, never the same way twice. He’s the man who keeps losing himself and somehow finding his way back—bloodied, wrong, resilient.

Maybe that’s why he doesn’t replicate well. His story’s too heavy to echo cleanly across timelines. The trauma calcifies too early or never forms at all. He fractures, or fades, or dies too soon. The man doesn’t scale. Whatever makes him who he is—the loyalty, the guilt, the staggering, stubborn will to keep trying—it’s never quite transferable.

The few variants that do emerge feel more like flickers than full lives. Glimpses. Reverberations. None of them last long. Some of them are never quite right.

In all your missions, all the cautious mentions of him across different centuries and realities and debriefs and documents, you’ve never actually met any versions of him.

Not directly. Not face-to-face. You’ve seen the aftershocks he leaves behind—cratered timelines, corrupted code, confused agents muttering about ghosts with metal arms. You’ve traced the outlines of his story across so many fractured worlds, each one slightly wrong. The scent of smoke where he should’ve stood. A silhouette in archival footage. A name carved into a resistance wall in a language long dead. But never him. Not until now.

It should be insignificant. It shouldn't matter. There should be no correlation, not even a twinge of paths intertwining.

Except now he’s standing in front of you, and it feels like being struck clean through the chest with something invisible and ancient.

In one smooth movement, he dispatches a soldier—a precise blade across the throat. No wasted motion. No hesitation. Then his eyes sweep the hold again, landing on you and locking in place like he couldn't stand to take his eyes away.

You take in the rest of him.

His face is younger, but that's to be expected. Well, not young, exactly—but preserved, like a man caught mid-sentence and left on pause. Strong jaw, a haunted set to his mouth, cheekbones that look sculpted more by winter than by genes. He looks like he hasn’t shaved in a week and hasn’t cared in far longer. You run a mental calculator, it must've been only about a decade since… the thing.

But it’s the eyes again—flicking over you, sharp and clinical. Blue, frostbitten, edged with something you’d almost call suspicion, if there wasn’t so much… exhaustion in it.

And finally—his silence. Not blank, not confused. Just... watchful. Like he's seen this play out a hundred times already. His head tilts slightly. Just a fraction. Like he’s cataloging the shift in your body language.

Realization hits you with an unpleasant jolt: he’s uncertain. Of the timeline. Of the mission. Of you.

Whatever brutal conditioning was poured into him hasn’t fully rebooted yet. There’s still too much of the man bleeding through the programming. His breath’s too ragged. His movements, a fraction too slow. His gaze—not vacant, not robotic, but… blinking too hard. Like the world’s coming in too fast, too bright, too much.

Your timepad buzzes insistently, a sharp vibration at your wrist—twenty minutes and some change until convergence. You lower your baton slightly, resigned, and open your mouth.

“Look—”

But your sentence is abruptly cut short as a shadow drops from the walkway above, gun raised. Before you can react, a powerful arm wraps across your mouth, hauling you sharply back against a solid chest. The bullet punches into the floor exactly where your head had been, sparking furiously.

“Quiet,” he rasps. His voice is rough-edged, wind-scoured—hoarse from disuse or screaming into nothing or god knows what else. The metal arm presses lightly against your abdomen. Not pinning. Just… grounding.

You nod. One deliberate motion. A signal that you understand. That you’ll play along.

There’s a beat—one heartbeat, maybe two—before he releases you. The contact disappears like breath off a mirror. Quick. Clean.

Two more figures drop from above—armed, definitely not TVA or Soviet. Fantastic. A third-party complication. Just what this mission needed.

Bucky moves first, a blur of ruthless precision. You watch him take down an attacker effortlessly: elbow, weapon disarm, throat strike. Smooth, clinical, deadly poetry.

The air shudders again—an ugly crack in the hull overhead. Your timepad screams: fracture line detected. asset instability threshold imminent. Everything’s shaking. You grab his arm and mutter, “We have to move.”

He hesitates—but only for a second.

Then he runs.

You don’t speak as you sprint through the corridor, ducking falling beams and sparking lights. He stays close. Too close. Like he’s guarding your back on instinct. Like he hasn’t figured out yet that you aren’t the one who needs protecting.

You hit a collapsed hallway and double back, darting into a maintenance shaft. The walls here sweat condensation. Bucky’s chest is heaving from exertion, breath coming too fast.

You glance back.

He’s stopped.

He’s leaning a hand against the wall, eyes shut. Not from exhaustion. From something else.

His metal fist clenches tight—so tight the plating groans—and he presses it to his temple like he’s trying to block something out. His whole body shakes, just once. A full-body flinch. Like his brain’s short-circuiting.

“Hey,” you say, softly now. No command. Just presence. “Hey.”

Nothing.

“Bucky.”

It slips out before you can catch it.

And it works.

He startles. Freezes. His eyes snap open—and they find yours instantly.

Something ancient and aching floods his expression. Not anger. Not threat. Just confusion. Recognition. Fear.

Not of you. For you.

His lips part like he’s going to speak—but no sound comes out.

You move toward him. Slowly. Hands up. Nonthreatening.

You reach him slowly, each step cautious, deliberate. His back is against the bulkhead now, shoulders rigid like he’s trying to hold himself together through sheer force of will. You stop just short, close enough to feel the heat radiating off his body.

The lighting flickers, painting sharp angles across his face. For a moment, he looks nothing like a weapon. He just looks... young. Tired. Worn raw from too many ghosts.

“I’m not here to hurt you,” you say quietly. “I swear. I’m not.”

His jaw twitches. His eyes won’t leave yours. That look again—like he knows you. Like he’s trying to dig the truth out of your face with nothing but instinct and desperation.

“I know this place is loud,” you continue, softer still. “I know your head must feel like a war zone right now. But you’re doing fine. Better than fine.”

A sharp breath. His fingers twitch at his side, metal knuckles flexing like he’s fighting the urge to reach for you. Or to run. You’re not sure which would be worse.

And then the timepad on your wrist pulses—a slow, resonant tone. The kind it only makes when a divergence has been successfully reabsorbed. You glance down.

CONVERGENCE REDIRECTED. NEXUS THRESHOLD STABILIZED.

Of course. That’s what this was. The system was waiting for the moment he didn’t break. For the second he chose not to collapse, or kill, or disappear. A single, improbable outcome unfolding exactly as needed.

It was him. He was the pulse.

You let out a shaky exhale. The node in the hold must’ve gone inert—no more timeline bleed, no more irregular pulses. Outside, the storm’s intensity drops by half in minutes. The hull creaks as pressure stabilizes. Everything’s slowing down. Calming.

It’s over.

The right call now would be to leave. Every protocol you’ve ever memorized is screaming at you to disengage, to extract clean, to leave no mark and make no memory.

But.

You’ve already—fuck, you’ve already. The moment he looked at you like that—like you were familiar, like you mattered—it was over. You are so utterly, catastrophically screwed.

“I don’t know what they told you,” you say, and your voice barely clears your throat. It’s quieter now. Gentler. Like you’re afraid of scaring him back into whatever shell he crawled out of. “About this place. About this mission. I don’t even know if you’re going to remember this tomorrow. But I wanted you to know—”

You don’t finish.

Because he speaks.

“Will I see you again?”

The words are soft. Barely voiced. Like he had to haul them out of someplace deep and rusted shut. They land heavy—denser than sound has any right to be. It knocks the breath out of you.

You blink. “What?”

He steps forward—just one measured step—but it’s enough to change the air between you. Close now. Close enough to see the uneven skin at the corner of his mouth, the wind-chapped crack at his lower lip. Close enough to notice how his left hand shakes, barely-there tremors betraying the tension he’s trying to lock down.

He doesn’t say it again. He doesn’t need to.

You could lie. You could make it easier. There are a dozen lines you’ve used before—smooth, forgettable, safe. But you don’t reach for any of them.

Instead, you smile. It’s lopsided, weary, born of too many years being the one who leaves first. It’s your shield and your surrender, both.

“Only if you start talking more,” you say, a half-hearted tease wrapped in something much more fragile. You flip open your timepad as the breach activates, casting soft gold light against the hallway walls.

The portal hums. Warm. Waiting.

But your heart’s a thunderclap now. Relentless. You’re already tucking away the tilt of his head, the way his gaze softened—not like surrender, but like a question. Like maybe he’d found something in you worth staying awake for.

And you know better—god, do you know better—but your feet don’t move. You hesitate. Just a second. Just enough to feel it. Then you step through.

You don’t look back. You never do.

But the image of his eyes—ice-clear, impossibly human—follows you like a ghost you didn’t mean to keep.

You wait for the hammer to fall.

You expect it in the usual ways—a recall order, a message from Oversight, a polite but unambiguous invitation to report to Subsector 8 for disciplinary review. You expect the breach notice, the system ping that says unauthorized designation use or noncompliant field contact, maybe even timeline contamination: agent-induced.

You expect something.

Because you said his name.

Because you looked at him like a person, not a variable. Because you touched him. Not in passing—not incidental. You chose to.

You’ve seen people get demoted for less. Scrubbed out. Timeline reassigned, memory wiped, consigned to desk duty or worse—shunted into the Void or the Nullspace, that softly brutal end-of-line where broken things go to dissolve.

And you—you—let your guard down in the middle of a convergence zone and called the Winter Soldier by his name. That’s not oversight. That’s not mission drift. That’s a lapse.

And yet… nothing happens.

Not a single alarm. No reprimand. No haunting message from Internal Realities. No pulled credentials. No veiled threats in Performance Management.

Instead, your timepad pings three days later with a new assignment.

Business as usual.

You run it back a dozen times, trying to parse the angle—waiting for the catch. It never comes. You go on a mission in Year 3830 where the only threat is a sentient vine and a mild temporal rash. You document a collapsing micro-timeline in 1994 Missouri. You sit through three mandatory debriefs and a cross-departmental cultural sensitivity training that somehow lasts six hours.

Nothing.

Just… more work.

You fall back into the rhythm, the TVA's particular brand of unremarkable eternity. The recycled coffee, the endless corridors, the clipped dialogue, the dozens of agents who all look slightly frayed around the edges in the same way. The paperwork is never-ending, the bureaucracy divine in its pettiness. Time moves strange here—like chewing on tinfoil. Sometimes it gallops. Sometimes it forgets you entirely.

But there’s something different now.

It’s you.

You keep seeing him—in flickers and echoes, half-formed thoughts you don’t realize you’re having until they hit the page. You start reviewing your field notes only to find entire paragraphs written in shorthand about the moment he tilted his head. About the way he said Will I see you again?

You shouldn’t care. You don’t care. It’s just a glitch in your focus. Just… inertia.

Still, you pull up his file. James Buchanan Barnes.

It’s a fractured thing. Not quite whole, like someone took sandpaper to the edges. Parts redacted, others duplicated. A timeline that can’t seem to decide if it wants to be linear. No two missions involving him look the same. There are strange annotations. Personal tags from long-retired analysts. Notations like non-repeatable trauma pattern and event recursion index unstable.

Some entries are missing dates.

You read through anyway. Not for duty. Not even for curiosity, really.

You just want to.

And then, one standard TVA cycle later, it lands. Another assignment. This time the seal is embossed in gold—Causal Preservation Division. Low-risk, softpoint reinforcement. Routine.

You flick through the details:

CASE FILE: #456-TH9 MISSION CLASS: Softpoint Reinforcement LOCATION: British Isles, Kingdom of Latveria Borderlands DATE: JUNE 1602 ASSIGNED COVER: Itinerant Herbalist, non-native, licensed under local superstition codes SUMMARY: Objective is limited to passive timeline stabilization: ensure delivery of a restorative tonic to a six-year-old child suffering from swamp fever. This act preserves a familial survival event critical to a downstream medical lineage. Mission does not intersect with major temporal figures. You are not to interfere with core narrative threads. You are not here for Bucky Barnes.

(But the file doesn't say that last sentence. You just write it down anyway.)

You frown at the file. It feels… small. Intentionally. A clean mission. An easy one, all things expected. No soldiers, no storms. Just a timeline that needs a nudge.

Still, you hesitate.

Not because it’s dangerous. Because it’s not. And because part of you wonders—quiet, insistent—if he’ll be there again. Not as the Winter Soldier. Maybe as something else. Someone else.

The TVA says every mission is randomized.

But it never quite feels like that, does it?

EARTH-456 | BRITISH ISLES, 1602

The first thing you register is the smell. Damp earth. Horse sweat. Pine sap and someone nearby frying something questionably birdlike in lard.

Your boots sink into wet loam as the time door closes behind you with a dull sigh. It’s quiet here, beneath the canopy—just birdsong and the faint crackle of something cooking over a badly constructed fire pit.

You scan the clearing.

They call it a "camp," but it’s more aspirational than functional. A few makeshift tents, some scattered crates stamped with the royal crest—recently liberated, if the smashed locks and missing inventory are any clue.

You move quietly, cloaked in the nondescript garb of a traveling herbalist—dirt under your nails, satchel full of fake tinctures, a few well-placed knives.

You watch from the shade of the trees as he crouches beside the firepit, running a cloth along the edge of a short dagger. His hair’s tied back, rough and practical. There’s mud up to his knees and blood on his knuckles, dried like old guilt.

He doesn’t see you, not yet.

Later, after setting up a modest stall in the village square (all intentional smoke and drying herbs, designed to blend in more than stand out), you’re told by a fellow field agent to visit the pub.

“The mead’s surprisingly tolerable,” they say, nudging your satchel. “Also, your contact’s not due for another twelve hours, so don’t just sit there and brood. Blend in.”

You go.

The pub is suspended in a towering yew, three stories up a gnarled trunk, accessible only by a ladder that looks like it hates everyone who uses it. The structure groans in the wind but holds, its branches creaking like tired bones. The inside smells of firewood, old ale, and something herbal—probably the same bitterroot tincture you’ve been pretending to peddle all day.

The mead is surprisingly tolerable. You settle into a booth carved into the wall, lit by low-burning lanterns. It’s warm. Quiet. You sip and let yourself feel anonymous.

Right up until the door slams open in that unmistakably theatrical way only someone with a chip on their shoulder and too much presence can manage.

You look up—and still, somehow, you’re not ready.

He’s changed, of course. That’s the constant.

His hair is pulled back in a low tie, streaked with ash and caught with a bit of red cloth. He wears a leather cloak patched with scavenged velvet. The left arm, impossibly, is still metal—but shaped like something out of myth. Not sleek. Not sterile. Forged. Etched in old runes that flicker faintly in the lantern light.

A blacksmith’s nightmare. A knight's inheritance.

And then there’s the way he moves—like someone used to silence, used to watching the world from its edge and only stepping in when absolutely necessary. He doesn’t walk so much as arrive, and the moment he does, the tavern seems smaller. Quieter.

His eyes—those same pale, searching eyes—find yours almost immediately.

He pauses, mid-step. The look on his face isn’t surprise. It’s that ache of recognition, buried too deep to name. Like catching your reflection in a mirror that doesn’t quite match.

He walks toward you without invitation. Controlled. Coiled. Not hostile. Just inevitable.

“My lady, you shouldn’t be out this late,” he says, voice worn at the edges, smoke-scoured and rough from a life that’s clearly involved too many cold nights and too few comforts. “Not alone.”

You take a slow sip, meet his gaze. “It’s always late here. And rarely alone.”

He studies you. Not just your face, but your posture, your stillness. The way you speak like you’ve been somewhere else too long to fully belong here.

Something flickers in his expression. Not memory. But something adjacent.

He lowers himself into the seat across from you without asking. He’s still damp at the collar—rain, or sweat, or both. He’s got a scar running from his jaw to the hollow of his throat, clean and straight like a blade meant to silence. But his voice doesn’t shake.

“Have we met?”

You offer a small, unreadable smile. “I don’t believe so.”

But he keeps looking. You can feel him doing it—mapping the angles of your face against some invisible sketch, something etched into his bones that refuses to fade.

“You look lost.”

“Just passing through.”

His mouth pulls tight at the corner, like that answer doesn’t satisfy. You can tell he doesn’t believe you—but he doesn’t press.

He nods toward a table in the back, where a small crew drinks from shared mugs and watches the door. They wear scraps of stolen uniforms and carry themselves with the weight of people who’ve stopped pretending they’ll live long lives.

“You shouldn’t be here,” he says again.

You glance at them. “Neither should you.”

His silence is telling. It confirms what you already guessed.

He’s part of something. A resistance, sure, but not just that. He’s the center of it. The calm in the chaos. The one who moves supply through enemy lines and burns bridges behind him. His coat bears a crest he’s tried to remove—once royal, now repurposed. His fingers twitch when he’s still too long, and there’s something reverent in how the others look at him when they think he’s not paying attention.

This version of him is no less dangerous. But more visible, somehow. More known. To these people, he’s a savior. To himself, probably a liability.

Always the same story: a man pressed into myth by the weight of his own regrets.

And still, he looks at you with that same protective wariness. Like something in him knows you don’t quite belong here—and wants to guard you anyway.

“Come on,” he says quietly. “I’ll walk you home.”

The words strike you harder than they should. Like something remembered from a dream that felt real long after you woke.

The night outside is so still you can hear the wind whispering between the boughs.

He pauses under the lantern hanging from a bent branch. Looks at you, shadow-draped and silent.

“Why are you here?”

You should lie. You want to lie.

But instead, you say it softly. “Because I said I would be.”

He blinks. The words hit something deep. Maybe he doesn’t understand them. But he feels them.

You step closer. Just close enough to reach up, cup his jaw gently, feel the sharp edge of his breath catch in his throat. And then you kiss him.

The moment your lips touch his, the rest of the world blanks. Not gone—just irrelevant. The pub, the low burn of lanterns, the sound of rain tapping against the wooden slats—it all slips away. All that remains is this.

His mouth is warm, unexpectedly so, and still. Cautious. As if he’s holding still for a test he doesn’t know the answer to.

You’re the one who moves first. Just slightly. Just enough to let it mean something.

And gods—it does.

It means everything you haven’t said aloud. Every hour you spent since Siberia rewatching that moment when he looked at you like he knew you. Every line of his file you traced with your eyes long after you were supposed to close it. Every anomaly he left in his wake, the hollow prints he pressed into timelines like fingerprints you couldn’t scrub clean.

You’d told yourself it was curiosity. Professional interest. A harmless fixation. Just trying to cover your own ass in the event that the TVA catches up to you, foolish, foolish girl. But now you know better.

Because kissing him feels like gravity finally catching up to you.

He doesn’t pull away.

His hand twitches—just once—like he might lift it, might anchor you there with the metal one, or with the other, the one that remembers touch. But he doesn’t. He just breathes against your mouth like he doesn’t know what he’s doing. Like no one’s kissed him like this in years.

Like no one’s ever kissed him like they remembered him.

The kiss is brief. You make yourself pull back before it deepens, before it turns into something hungrier, something you won’t be able to file away as incidental.

But you linger close.

He sends you off with a kiss to your forehead.

You complete the mission in silence.

The child is easy to find—just as the file described. Freckled nose, limp in his mother’s arms, fever-bright. You hand over the tonic with a reassuring word and a warm enough smile to pass for human. The woman weeps when the boy stirs minutes later, the color already returning to his cheeks.

And just like that—it’s done.

Softpoint reinforced. Future intact.

The door opens in a grove just outside the village, where moss curls over tree roots like sleeping hands. Golden light hums at the edges of the breach. You don’t look back. You’ve learned your lesson there.

But as you step through, the last thing you hear—carried faintly on the wind—is his voice.

“I never got your name,” he says into a room that’s not as empty as he thinks it is. Not yet.

You try to stay detached. Try to mark each version of him like a data point—distinct and catalogued, filed neatly beneath coordinates and context. But it never works. The lines blur.

There’s the one with the scar over his brow and the wild dog stare, who watches your hands like they’re a threat and touches you like they’re a prayer.

The one in 2049 who doesn’t speak until the third encounter but holds out his hand like he’s known you forever. The one who plays cello in a city that shouldn't exist, who smiles only for children and flinches at thunder. The one who dies before you can reach him. You stay by his body anyway, until the timeline resets.

Each time, it’s different.

Each time, it’s him.

You start to think: maybe he’s not a variable. Maybe he’s the constant. The fixed point the multiverse can’t help but echo. A gravitational pull in human form—tethered to something your soul must have signed onto long before the TVA ever handed you a timepad.

You wonder if the multiverse is trying to teach you something. Or if it’s punishing you instead—showing you every version of the thing you can’t quite keep. Like a lesson in longing, rerun on loop.

You try not to hope. But the hope comes anyway. It always does. Soft and bright, a bruise you press on just to feel.

Then you get your next assignment.

The file is clean. Neat. Sanitized in that way TVA summaries always are—euphemisms in place of grief, percentages instead of people. But you read between the lines. The divergence happened on the train. Or rather, didn’t.

You read it twice. Three times. It doesn’t change.

This Bucky Barnes didn’t fall. The train held. The mission succeeded. Captain Carter rescued him and helped dismantle the remains of Hydra’s European cell before the war even ended. He was never captured. Never reprogrammed. Never dragged through a Hydra chamber like something to be melted down and reforged.

You try to imagine him without the weight.

You picture Bucky Barnes smiling easily, untethered to the guilt of fifty years of carnage he never chose. A man who still cracks his knuckles but not because they ache with remembered pain. One who walks into sunlight without flinching.

You wonder what that would be like.

So you go.

Of course you go.

You always do.

EARTH-838 | LONDON, 1944

You’ve never liked the long assignments.

Short ones are surgical—get in, disrupt or observe, slip out before the timeline notices the echo of your footsteps. This one, though, is different. Your mission folder is three times thicker than usual. Paper-clipped pages in brittle brown envelopes. Dossiers printed on carbon-smudged letterhead. Photographs tucked inside, blurred by time and memory.

You’re embedded with the 107th, slotted in as a specialist from Intelligence, the kind who shows up with forged credentials and a quiet knack for being in the right place just before things go wrong. Your cover holds. Mostly. They think you’re here to coordinate logistics for Hydra base strikes. They’re not entirely wrong.

The first time you see him again, he’s making a sarcastic remark about British rations and butterless toast. He’s not in uniform—just a pressed shirt with rolled sleeves and a cigarette dangling loosely between two fingers, a smear of grease on his wrist. He laughs when Howard Stark tosses a wrench and almost breaks a window.

It’s different sound from what you've heard over the years.

But then Bucky Barnes notices you.

Not all at once. Not like in the stories people tell themselves after the fact—love at first glance, magnetic fate, sparks across a battlefield. No, it starts in pieces. A glance held a beat too long during mission briefings. A muttered thank you when you slip him a replacement knife requisition that definitely wasn’t cleared. The way he starts lingering near your tent in the evenings, offering lazy conversation while the others clean weapons or sleep.

“You always write that fast?” he asks once, elbow braced on the flap of the entrance like it’s casual, like he didn’t cross half the camp just to talk to you.

You don’t look up. “Only when I’m trying to drown out poorly played harmonica.”

He grins. “Hey, Dugan’s doing his best.”

You snort. “His best sounds like a wounded mule.”

He laughs again, quieter this time. You feel it settle between your ribs like a warm coin. It’s nothing. Just noise. You tell yourself that.

Weeks pass like that. Quiet orbit. You take longer walks to the mess hall because he always times his exit to meet you halfway. He asks questions—about where you're from (a place you name off a pre-approved list), what brought you to London (the war, obviously), if you believe in fate.

You lie when you can. You dodge when you must.

But not everything you say is false. You like coffee too bitter and books too sad. You write letters you never send. You don’t sleep well. You’ve lost people.

He listens. He remembers. He starts showing up with extra coffee. Offers to walk you back to your quarters even though it’s technically against regulations. You start lingering in his doorway.

He never pushes.

And you hate it—how much you want him to.

The first time he touches you, it's an accident. Your fingers brush as he passes you a pen. Your skin sparks. It’s stupid, how much you feel it.

He notices.

"You ever get that sense," he says one night in the empty mess, voices low, "that you’ve known someone longer than you’re supposed to?"

Your breath catches.

You laugh it off. "I get that about my dentist."

He grins. But his eyes stay on yours too long.

You’re not supposed to fall in this one.

But God, it’s so easy. So familiar.

Bucky tells you about his family. His sister. The stoop of his childhood apartment and how he used to sneak Steve a flask when the nurses weren’t looking. He draws out your laugh like it’s a map, like he's been trying to find it for years.

And all the while, you feel it coming.

One night, two months in, he walks you back and you don’t stop at your door. You let the silence linger. The city is dark and rain-slicked, war planes humming overhead like ghosts.

"You’re not like anyone I’ve met before," he says, leaning against the wall.

You smile sadly. "You’ve said that to a lot of girls, Sergeant."

"Yeah," he murmurs, voice suddenly quieter. "But none of them felt like déjà vu."

You almost kiss him. But not yet.

The war ends not with silence, but with song.

London spills into the streets like a wound unstitched—men and women dancing in front of blown-out buildings, children painting flags onto brick walls, sailors kissing strangers with the urgency of borrowed time. The city doesn’t sleep. Neither do you.

You’ve stayed longer than planned.

Your official timeline expired a couple of hours ago. But your timepad’s been blinking quietly in your coat pocket since sundown, like a secret you’re not quite ready to confess. For long-term infiltrations, the TVA grants a small window of flexibility—two to three extra hours, soft margin. Enough to wrap up loose ends. Enough to say goodbye without saying it.

Bucky doesn’t know. He’s too busy laughing—really laughing—face lit by the amber glow of the pub sign behind him, arm draped lazily around your shoulders. He’s had two pints and a victory cigar, and you’ve never seen him look so alive.

He’s in his shirtsleeves again, collar open at the throat, hair mussed from the wind. He smells like tobacco and soap and something citrusy he must’ve stolen from Stark’s ration stash. His hand grazes your shoulder as you step outside the crowded pub and into the cool night air. He’s warm, even in the London chill. Always warm.

“I’ve been thinking,” he says, suddenly serious, voice low in your ear.

You turn, startled by the shift. “About?”

He runs a hand through his hair, eyes flicking to the cobblestone street, then back to you. The revelers blur behind you—drunk joy and blurred music, a world gone soft at the edges.

“You could come with me,” he says. "To New York. Brooklyn."

Your stomach drops.

“We’ve got peace now. There’s gonna be rebuilding. A hell of a lot of it. I know it’s chaos but… I don’t know. I thought maybe…” He trails off, then forces a laugh, too bright. “Forget it. It’s dumb.”

You step in close. The timepad at your hip vibrates again—EXIT NODE ACTIVE. TEMPORAL STABILITY REACHED. RETURN IMMEDIATELY. You ignore it.

“Say it,” you whisper.

“I’ll get a job,” Bucky says.

His Brooklyn accent is thick with hope, slipping out between the cracks like sunlight through boarded windows. His voice is rough and low, but urgent—like if he stops speaking for even a second, this moment might collapse under the weight of everything it’s not allowed to be.

“You’re so… so fucking smart it gets me dizzy sometimes. I watch you in a room and—Christ, I’ve seen tacticians, I’ve seen war heroes—but no one moves the way you do.”

He’s closer now, just a breath away, like proximity might be enough to anchor you to this place.

“I’ll get us a place of our own. A tiny walk-up with drafty windows and floors that creak every time you step wrong. The kind of place where no one knows our names, but we’ll learn the neighbors’. I’ll fix the heater when it breaks. I’ll learn to make your coffee the way you like it—two sugars, not too sweet, extra hot. I’ll write it down if I have to. You won’t even have to ask.”

He swallows, his voice breaking just a little.

“I’ll make pancakes on Sundays, even if I suck at it. I’ll burn the first batch every damn week and pretend I meant to. We’ll fight about the dishes and who left the radio on. I’ll learn to fold the sheets the right way, your way. I’ll leave notes on the fridge. I’ll rub your feet when you’ve had a long day, even if you pretend you don’t want me to.”

His eyes are wet now, but he doesn’t blink them away. He wants you to see.

“I’ll build a life where you can rest,” he says, so softly it barely carries over the celebration in the street. “No secrets. No war. Just mornings and bad coffee and a bed we don’t have to leave unless we want to.”

His hand lifts, hovering like he wants to touch you but doesn’t dare. He’s unraveling. And he’s never been more sure of anything.

“You walk around like you don’t belong to anyone,” he whispers. “But you belong somewhere. You belong with someone who sees you.”

His eyes search yours, bright and raw.

“Darling,” he breathes, “I just want—”

You don’t speak. You want to. You want to say yes so badly your teeth ache with it.

Instead, your hand reaches for him—cups his cheek, thumb brushing the scrape of stubble there. You lean in before you can stop yourself.

The kiss is molten.

Not soft, not chaste. It’s everything you aren’t supposed to want: greedy, aching, desperate. It tastes like smoke and honey and war’s aftermath. You can feel the imprint of his hands at your waist, grounding you, like he already knows you’re slipping.

You gasp against his mouth when he deepens the kiss, his hand moving to cradle the back of your neck like he’s afraid you’ll vanish if he lets go. And you—you clutch at his coat, fingers fisting in the fabric like it’s the only solid thing left in the world. The city roars around you—drunken songs, laughter, heels on cobblestone—but none of it touches this moment. It belongs to you. To him.

He kisses like he’s starved for something he can’t name.

Like every version of himself has been waiting for this.

Somehow, you make it back to his quarters—barely remembering how. The door slams shut behind you and he’s on you again, mouth warm and insistent, hands trembling now as they trace your jaw, your hips, the shape of your spine like he’s mapping it to memory. You let him. You want to be remembered.

“Tell me this is real,” he murmurs against your throat, breath hot. “Tell me I’m not dreaming you.”

You tip your forehead against his, eyes fluttering closed. “You’re not dreaming.”

You pull his shirt free from his waistband, palms skimming over bare skin, warm and ridged with scars you recognize from dossiers—scars you’ve imagined tracing with your mouth, with your hands, in every universe that told you not to.

Bucky's mouth finds the edge of your jaw, your collarbone, the hollow of your throat. Each kiss feels like a confession, like an apology, like a promise. "You're so fucking pretty," he moans into your skin, moving and moving and moving, until you feel his thigh part yours, giving you just the right amount of friction to drive you crazy.

Your shirt's off in turn, and all at once, he drifts down to your tits, cupping them with both palms and burying his face in them. For a moment, your brain short-circuits—he's groaning, tender kisses against your nipples and sucking, nipping at the swell of your breasts. "You taste so good, darling. God, I can taste you all day."

You pull on his hair—hard. "Bucky, please. Give me more."

"Ask and you shall receive."

You're rewarded with a beautiful view of him shedding the rest of his clothes off. You can't—won't—look away. It never ceases to amaze you, how pretty his cock is. You lick your lips as he gives it a stroke, slow and soft and positively ready for you.

Then Bucky leans forward, capturing your lips again with a certainty that makes your heart near burst out of your chest.

Your hand wraps around the base of his cock and you smile when he wrenches his head back, eyes shut in almost agony. Bucking against your hand, like he can't get enough of it. He says your name, and despite yourself, you grin before pulling yourself away from his kiss to lower your head, tongue swiping out to taste what leaks from him at the tip.

"Oh, god," His hands come to twist around your hair, the pull making your eyes water with something delicious, something filled with need. You keep going deeper, until he hits the back of your throat and you both moan. "You're so good to me. So, so good."

He's babbling now, as your lips stay wrapped around your cock and you're pressing the flat of your tongue against his veins, a hand stabilizing you underneath. "Sweetheart, you're perfect. I'm going to—oh, yes, right there—god, I'm gonna marry you. We're never gonna stop doing this. I'm never gonna get enough of you."

You take him there, all the way up, until he's almost to the edge and he has to ground his hands against your cheeks and pull you off. He looks down at you with that goddamned earnest look that makes you fall in love with him in the first place. "Not—not like this. I want to be inside you."

Of course, of course. "Of course, James."

He pushes you onto your back, and you can't help the giddy feeling in your chest, seeing how much of a mess you've made of him. His cock's shining with your spit and saliva, your wetness all over him. When Bucky sees where you're looking, he licks his lips. A preliminary swipe against your folds when you, very intentionally, thrust forward against his hips impatiently.

"So eager."

You glare at him, lips curling even as he takes both of your thighs until he's slotted between them. "There's no need to be a tease—Oh."

He sinks in, inch by agonizing inch, and you're moaning, jaw dropping as his cock disappears inside of you. You're so full. You've never been this full before and it makes you pant, sighing breathlessly, and when his thumb finds your clit, you whine and clench around him. Both of you moan in harmony.

His pace speeds up from there, hard and fast, and it's intensified by the way he looks at you. Eyes dissecting you carefully, trying to remember every expression, every second, every move that makes you keen further into his touch.

"Look at me, baby, please," Bucky growls and you do. "Look at me when you make me come."

You can't look away, feeling the stars gather up behind your eyes as your own orgasm catches up to you—fuck, it's nothing compared to how his release feels inside of you, the warmth, the way he feels so strong under your fingertips. His chest vibrating, mouth falling open in a prolonged, beautiful groan. He pushes himself deeper inside of you, until you feel his release slipping out of you onto the mattress.

You press a kiss to his forehead and let yourself fall asleep like that—him inside of you, tangled up in him.

The light is different when you wake up in the morning.

Soft, pale, almost shy. It seeps through the parted curtains like it doesn’t want to intrude, spilling over the uneven floorboards and up the rumpled edge of the blanket half-draped across your hip.

His arm is still around you. Heavy in sleep. Warm. Bucky Barnes is still asleep.

You don’t kiss him goodbye.

Instead, you whisper something he won’t hear. “I wish we had more time.”

And then you activate the timepad.

Time passes strangely in the TVA.

There are clocks, yes. Digital ones on walls, analog ones in desks, internal ones ticking behind your eyes. But none of them matter. Days don’t pile up here—they just... repeat, under different names. Tuesday is a fiction. Sunday doesn’t exist. Lunch breaks happen when the lights flicker just right, and sleep is what you do when your body gives out mid-report.

You stopped counting after the first month. You stopped pretending to count after the second.

Instead, you worked.

Harder than anyone. Longer than anyone. You took missions no one else wanted—scrubbing nexus events off apocalyptic wastelands, ghosting through centuries where empires rose and fell before you’d even finished breakfast. You volunteered for side branches, anomaly audits, recursive sync loops. Anything to keep moving.

It didn’t go unnoticed.

A plaque went up in the Hall of Merit. "Agent of the Month." Your name, etched in fake gold. Mobius clapped you on the shoulder with a proud little smile. Brad brought you the worst celebratory cupcake you’ve ever tasted. (Vanilla. Dry. Sprinkles like gravel.)

You smiled. You always smile.

You don’t let yourself say what you’re really thinking.

That all of it—all the assignments, all the accolades, all the long nights pinning divergent strands back into place—is just inertia. Just mass multiplied by pain. Because you know what happens when you stop moving.

And you’ve tried. God, you’ve tried.

You dodge his branches when you can. You pass them off to junior agents, citing temporal redundancy. You tell yourself it’s not cowardice if it’s protocol. You let yourself believe it, for a while.

Until the file lands on your desk.

CASE FILE: #2149-BE0 MISSION CLASS: Collapse Softpoint Reinforcement LOCATION: Earth-2149 — Brooklyn, United States / Geneva, Switzerland DATE: April 2018 (Post-Outbreak +1 Day) ASSIGNED COVER: Civilian logistics runner, no official alignment, false survivor credentials SUMMARY: Objective is to reinforce critical softpoint during global collapse event: ensure Scott Lang, Peter Parker, and T’Challa successfully board Wakandan quinjet. This evacuation preserves three downstream nexus threads essential to limited multiversal salvage. Do not interfere beyond softpoint parameters. Infected superhumans active.

You stare at it for a long time. You could say no. You should say no.

But your hand moves anyway. Signs the form. Accepts the mission.

No backup. No reassignment.

Just you.

EARTH-2149 | BROOKLYN, 2018 (+1 DAY POST-OUTBREAK)

Out of all the missions you've had so far, you think you hate this one the most. Which is saying something. Zombie apocalypse timelines are the worst.

The air reeks of ash and ozone. You’re used to strange skies by now, but this one feels wrong in your bones. The light doesn’t fall the way it should—too sharp at the edges, like the sun’s been split into shards and you’re walking through the aftermath.

You arrived forty hours ago. Standard infiltration and alignment. The assignment brief was brutal in its simplicity.

Bucky doesn’t make it out of this timeline. He dies at Camp Lehigh. He buys them time.

And you’re supposed to let that happen.

Your first glimpse of him isn’t cinematic. No slow reveal, no stirring strings. Just a sliver of profile through the cracked door of an old deli, combat boots pacing, rifle slung over his back, the metal arm glinting dull and scratched. He’s talking to Parker—low and firm, the kind of voice meant to ground someone younger, more fragile.

When you step into the light, he turns toward you like he was already waiting. Eyes blue, shadowed. Jaw set. And there it is again—that look. Recognition.

Your breath stutters. You don’t say anything. You just nod, like you’ve been here all along. Like you’re meant to be here.

You don’t know if you can watch him die.

Not when you’ve held versions of him in your arms, heard him laugh half-asleep beside a campfire, watched his hands shake after battle and pretended not to notice.

Peter introduces you. A name you chose at random from a TVA list. He doesn’t flinch when Bucky says it aloud. But something shifts behind his eyes—quiet and soft and gone before it settles.

You get through the introductions. Kurt, smiling nervously. Sharon, bloody but unbowed. Okoye nods once at you, sharp and appraising. Happy makes a joke that doesn’t quite land.

For the next two weeks, you stay with them.

You don't mean to get close to Bucky in this one. (You mean it this time. Seriously.) For the first couple of days, you try your best to stay away. You do your best to focus on the mission and he's… he's just another person in the crowd. You think that would make it easier, when he—when he eventually—You can't even say it.

But it happens one morning, anyway—fog pooling low across the park, the air thick with that awful, metallic smell of rot. You’re both on perimeter watch, standing on opposite ends of a shattered greenhouse. He catches you glancing toward the skyline, what’s left of it, jagged teeth against the pale pink sky.

“Pretty, isn’t it?” he says, voice low, scratchy from disuse.

You blink from your thoughts. “In a doomed, post-apocalyptic sort of way.”

He huffs a laugh. Almost smiles. “I was gonna say the same.”

Silence settles between you, but it’s a companionable thing. Not awkward. Not forced.

You speak first this time. “You always this poetic?”

“Only when I’m tired. Or scared.”

You glance at him. “Which is it now?”

He doesn’t answer right away. Just shifts his weight, runs a hand through his hair, and says, “Both.”

You don’t touch. You don’t need to. It’s all there in the space between you—heavy with implication. Unspoken, but not unfelt.

You sleep on opposite ends of the same room. He never touches you. Never asks. But some nights you wake up to find his jacket draped over your legs. Once, during a particularly bad storm, he nudged a cracked thermos of lukewarm coffee toward you without a word.

He doesn’t have to say anything. You feel it.

All of it.

And the worst part—the most unbearable—is knowing it’s temporary. You feel the convergence approaching like a bruise beneath your ribs. Two days now, maybe three, before you lose him again. Before he dies. Before you vanish back into the timeline like a ghost leaving no fingerprints.

You try not to show it. You smile when Peter cracks a joke. You run drills with Sharon. You help Kurt fix a busted radio, even though it’s hopeless.

But every time you look at Bucky, your heart tightens in your chest like it’s trying to keep him there.

And then it's here.

The journey to Camp Lehigh was fucking gut-wrenching.

You've lost practically everyone—Sharon, Hope, Kurt, Happy, Okoye. It sits in you like a shard of ice. Not grief—there’s no time for grief. Just weight. Just the bitter gravity of survival. The quinjet is prepped and waiting. The remaining survivors—Peter, T’Challa, Lang’s floating head in a jar—are already climbing aboard. You’ve done everything the mission brief demanded. You met the moment. You held the line.

You’ve done everything the mission brief said—down to the minute, the location, the final headcount. And you… you’re standing beside Bucky.

And still, you’re standing beside him.

Bucky’s chest rises and falls with the kind of steadiness that makes you ache. His metal arm glints in the firelight, streaked with ash and blood, fingers twitching in a rhythm you can’t decipher. There’s soot on his cheek, a rip in his sleeve, and when he turns to you, there’s something too clear in his eyes. Not fear. Not even pain.

Resolve.

You taste it in the back of your throat: the copper of a timeline ending.

“We have to go,” you say softly, not to him, not really. Just to the air.

Bucky doesn’t move.

He turns his head slightly, enough for you to see the hard line of his jaw. The wear around his eyes. There’s something about this version of him—familiar, but not calloused like the others. Still earnest enough to believe in sacrifice. Still sharp enough to choose it without flinching.

You hate that.

“I’ll hold her off,” he says, and you feel something break, neat and irreversible, in your chest.

“No,” you breathe. Too fast, too raw.

His brow furrows. “Someone has to. You said it yourself—if we don’t get the jet off the ground, we lose everything.”

“That doesn’t mean it has to be you.”

He smiles, and it’s that same damn smile that’s followed you across time. The one that says it’s already decided.

“I think it always was.”

You want to scream. You want to tell him he’s not disposable, not fated, not just a name on some cosmic itinerary that keeps getting torn out and rewritten. You want to confess that you’ve met him over and over, and every time he’s left a bruise somewhere deeper.

But the timepad at your hip begins to beep.

MISSION END: T-MINUS 2 MINUTES

You ignore it.

“You’ll make it,” he says gently, like a goodbye.

“No, I won’t,” you whisper. “Not really.”

There’s shouting near the quinjet ramp. Peter calling your name. Bruce waving you over. The others are loading in. You should be there. The moment is closing. The window is narrowing.

You don’t move.

Instead, you step forward and press your hand to his cheek. Your skin is cold from the wind, but he leans into it anyway. His eyes flutter closed for half a second—just long enough for you to memorize it.

Then you kiss him.

It’s not gentle. It’s desperate. Greedy. A kiss that says remember me. Your hands fist in his jacket. His mouth moves against yours like it’s something he’s missed without knowing. You drink in every inch of him—the scrape of stubble, the roughness of his palms against your back, the low sound he makes when you pull away.

“I’ll find you again,” you say. It's a promise.

He nods once. His hand lingers at your waist for a breath longer than it should. Then he turns back towards Wanda.

You watch him go. You always watch him go.

The quinjet door hisses shut behind you. The engines roar to life. The pad at your side flashes, like some sick, fucking joke—

Mission Successful. Extraction in Progress.

You don’t look back at the ground. You’ve learned that much, at least. Looking back doesn’t stop the bleeding. But when the jet lifts, when the trees blur below and you can’t see him anymore—

You swear something rips loose in you.

And this time, you don’t think it will grow back.

You’ve seen him in snow.

In bloodied ice, in rusted Soviet hulls, in the shadow of burning quinjets and crumbling castles. You’ve seen him with death behind his eyes and guilt threaded into every line of his face. You’ve seen him careful, methodical. Kind in all the ways no one notices—quiet in a world that demands noise. Someone who doesn’t ask for gentleness, but gives it anyway.

And now you’ve seen him in the dark, too. In 1602, under soot-smudged moons and flickering gaslights, a knife twirling between clever fingers. He hadn’t known you—not really. Not as the woman who’d held his gaze in a cryo chamber. Not as the silhouette slipping into the quinjet before he turned to face the Scarlet Witch. But he’d looked at you like he wanted to.

The thread stays taut between you, no matter the timeline.

So when you get the assignment to go—

It doesn’t land with ceremony. No formal debrief. Just a flicker on your desk monitor, a soft chime that cuts through the static hum of the TVA’s perpetual fluorescent haze. You almost miss it. You almost ignore it. Because everything still hurts.

The kind of hurt that doesn't pulse—it seeps. It rots. You move like you’re wearing someone else’s body, like your own bones are too loud. You haven’t been sleeping—not really.

You open the file with a numb hand. Just procedure, you tell yourself. Just another timeline. Until you see the numbers.

CASE FILE: #616-SV1 MISSION CLASS: Passive Observation LOCATION: Bucharest, Romania DATE: March 2016 ASSIGNED COVER: Independent tenant, upper flat SUMMARY: Subject Barnes, James B., presumed alive and in civilian hiding following HYDRA data exposure and the fall of S.H.I.E.L.D. Timeline approaching critical inflection. Target is not actively breaching; no temporal instability present. Assignment is preventative: monitor for signs of deviation or catalyst behavior.

Do not engage. No interference unless softpoint destabilization occurs.

You let out a sound that might be a laugh. Or a sob. It’s hard to tell.

There’s a reason TVA protocol avoids revisiting timelines. Too risky. Too messy. History isn’t built for recursion. But this—this is a spiral. A closed loop. Like something unfinished trying to write its own end.

And now you’ve been assigned to watch him again.

After all this time. After what you felt splinter through you like glass.

You should tell someone. Flag the conflict of interest. Recuse yourself.

You don’t.

You close the file and begin packing for Bucharest.

EARTH-616 | BUCHAREST, 2016

You land in Bucharest in the dead quiet of early morning, the sky still purpled with sleep.

The city feels brittle—like something trying very hard not to splinter. Your cover’s thin again: traveling contractor, repair work, nothing that draws attention. You rent a room across from a narrow building with stained windows and a faulty streetlamp that flickers at 2 a.m. every night like clockwork.

And you wait.

The first time you see him again, he’s carrying plums.

You’re leaning on a railing, nursing coffee that’s more soot than bean, watching the street in that not-watching way you’ve perfected over decades. And there he is. Gray hoodie, boots worn to the stitching, a canvas bag slung across one shoulder.

He walks like someone trying to be smaller. Eyes down. Shoulders rounded. Every muscle still taut beneath the fabric, but pulled inward. Controlled.

You almost don’t recognize him like this. Then he glances up. Brief. Casual.

But it slams into you anyway.

Because there it is—that flicker. That impossible, unplaceable pull. Like gravity, but sideways. Like someone whispering your name in a language you forgot how to speak.

He doesn’t stop. Doesn’t linger. But you feel it. That taut little wire between your ribs goes taut again, humming faint and low.

You’ve seen him across centuries, across madness and ruins and impossible skies. And now, here he is, just... buying fruit.

You observe him for seven days. No contact. No breach.

Each morning, he walks the same path. Plums one day. Bread the next. He pauses at the corner every time—checks the shadows, the mirrors. Still sharp. Still trained. But dulled at the edges like he’s trying not to be. Like he’s tired of being a weapon, and doesn’t quite know how to be anything else.

He never takes the same route home.

You map them all anyway.

There’s a rhythm to his caution. It’s not paranoia. It’s preservation. You know the difference. You’ve watched enough shattered timelines to recognize when someone’s not trying to escape the world—just survive it.

And through it all, you pretend not to ache.

You keep the timepad dim, tucked under your coat like a second heart. The updates are clean. No deviations. No instability. He’s not a threat. Not a spark.

Just a man. Still whole, somehow. Still holding.

But you find yourself watching anyway. Not for fractures or fault lines—but for the quiet, ordinary proof that he’s still him. The way he double-checks his change at the fruit stall. The soft apology he gives a stray dog he nearly bumps with his boot. The habit of pausing in the stairwell, just long enough to listen for another pair of footsteps behind him. You memorize all of it like it’s going to disappear.

You don’t. Of course you don’t.

Until the night you lose him.

It’s raining. Thin, indecisive drops that fall more like static than water. You’re two streets behind, just enough distance to not spook him, when someone yells, and a car backfires, and you look away for a single goddamn second.

And he’s gone.

You circle three blocks. Then six. Nothing. It’s half an hour later when you feel the grip.

Quick, precise. A hand closes over your arm and pulls you sideways—into a narrow alley between buildings that still wear their war damage like it happened yesterday. The wall hits your spine. The air knocks out of you. And then he’s there.

Close. Too close.

Hood down. Eyes sharp. Rain slicking through his hair.

You don’t move. Don’t breathe.

Because he’s looking at you like he’s been waiting.

“You’ve been following me,” he says, voice low, rough. No heat in it. Just truth.

Your mouth opens. Closes.

He tilts his head, studying your face like he’s comparing it to something half-forgotten. Then he says, quiet, like a memory. “Siberia. 1955.”

The words gut you.

“I remember,” he says. “You said my name.”

His name. That night. The way he shook—like his own mind was something turning against him. The tremor in his breath. The metal arm pressed tight to his temple, like he could hold back whatever wave was cresting inside. And then your voice, just a whisper: Bucky.

And it worked.

He startled like the sound reached deeper than his programming. Like it found something still human.

You don’t mean to—but you reach up, slowly, and press your hand over his where it still grips your coat. His fingers tighten for a second. Then release.

You look at him. Really look.

The rain has soaked through everything, and he’s shivering. Not from cold. From memory. His breath ghosts in the narrow space between you, and his eyes—God, his eyes—don’t look like a stranger’s.

It looks like home.

He takes a step back and mutters, “Come on.”

You follow him through back alleys and slick cobblestone streets to a squat building with iron balconies and doors that stick. His apartment is a few flights up, small and clean in the way that feels practiced—surfaces scrubbed, not decorated. A cot, a kettle, a folded stack of shirts too neatly pressed. No photos. No noise.

He doesn’t speak at first. Just watches you watch the space, like he’s trying to guess what you’ll say.

“Not what you expected?” he asks eventually, voice rough.

You shake your head. “No. It’s exactly what I expected.”

He scoffs. Sits on the edge of the cot, elbows on knees. “How do you know me?”

And you could lie. You could stall. But you’re tired of running out of time.

But you’re tired of running out of time. Siberia. The hold. The pulse. The kiss in 1602. The quinjet, the gaslight, the plague-soaked rooftops and the boy who lived because you were there. The mission you botched. The rules you broke. The dozens of timelines where he didn’t make it. The handful where he almost did. The way it was always him. And when you finally stop—when the words have left you empty and open and raw—he doesn’t flinch.

He exhales, long and deliberate. His fingers twitch against his knee. Then he looks at you—really looks, and you can feel the moment shift.

“When I saw you again,” he says, voice quieter now, but steadier, “on the street… it wasn’t like remembering something. It was like finishing something.”

You blink. “Finishing?”

He nods, slowly. “Yeah. Like… you know when you’ve had a song stuck in your head for days? Not the lyrics—just the feeling of it. The rhythm. The echo. And then one day it comes on the radio, and your chest just—unlocks. Like something you didn’t know was broken gets put back together.”

He glances down at his hands, then back at you.

“That’s what it felt like. Seeing you.”

You stay silent, afraid to interrupt the thread he's following.

“At first I thought I was losing it,” he admits. “Some hallucination leftover from Hydra. A ghost memory I couldn’t place. But then you moved, and—Jesus—I knew it wasn’t just in my head. The way you looked at me. Like you knew me. Like you weren’t afraid of me.”

His jaw clenches, not from anger, but from something deeper. Held longer.

“I’ve seen that look before,” he says. “Fear. Disgust. Pity, sometimes. I’m used to people stepping back. Or pretending they don’t see me. But you… you didn’t flinch. Not even in the alley. You looked at me like I was—” He falters, and then tries again. “Like I was real. Like I had a name worth saying.”

Your chest aches.

He laughs, a short, unsteady breath. “God, and hearing you say it again—Bucky—like it was the first time all over. I don’t know why that hit so hard. But it did. It felt like… like I’d been underwater for years, and suddenly someone opened a window.”

You don’t say anything.

You’re still trying to breathe around the weight of him.

“I don’t remember everything,” he says. “Not clearly. Flashes, maybe. Cold metal. Smoke. That light—on your face, in that hallway. But I remember how I felt. I remember peace. For like… five seconds. It was the only thing that made sense.”

His gaze flickers to your lips, then back to your eyes.

“I think I’ve been looking for that feeling ever since.”

You don't answer—not with words. There's nothing left to say that would hold the weight this moment needs. So instead, you cross the small stretch of floor between you, slow and deliberate, and sink to your knees in front of him.

Your hand finds his, trembling with some emotion neither of you dares to name, and he lets out a sound—half-breath, half-confession—as your fingers thread together.

“Okay?” you murmur.

He nods, once. But it's not enough. His hands rise, hesitant, then hungry—one brushing the curve of your cheek, the other settling at your waist like he’s still afraid you might vanish. Like if he touches you too hard, you’ll be another dream, another phantom gone by morning.

And then he kisses you.

It starts soft, reverent—his lips just ghosting yours, like he's asking permission. But the second you respond, the second you lean in and kiss him back with everything you’ve carried through centuries of almosts, it shatters something in both of you.

He surges forward.

Kisses you again, deeper this time. More desperate.

Your back hits the wall with a muted thump, and suddenly his hands are everywhere—one splayed across your lower back, the other cradling your jaw. He kisses you like he’s starved for it, like he’s trying to map your mouth, your breath, the corners of your teeth. Like he's trying to memorize you from the inside out.

And then—God—he breaks away just enough to kiss the line of your jaw. The soft spot beneath your ear. Your temple. Your forehead.

“You’re real,” he breathes against your skin, almost like a prayer. “You’re here.”

His lips trail lower, find the bend of your knee as you hitch your leg around his waist. He presses a kiss there too, slow and aching, like it means something. Like everything means something.

You’re both breathing hard now, hands roaming, hearts pounding in rhythm too fast to be calm, too synchronized to be coincidence. He kisses your collarbone. The corner of your mouth. The space beneath your eye, where something like grief still lingers.

He's so gentle. Gentle all the way through until he manages to shove you to the bed, kissing his way down the column of your throat and then it shifts. His hands find their way inside your jeans and he gasps, shakily. "You're so wet, fuck—you're so wet. For me?"

You nod, breathless.

It's another slow dance, as he rolls your jeans off, only to quickly find his way back like he can't stand to be parted from you. His fingers find your entrance, the rough pads of them swiftly finding your entrance and spreading the heat, the wetness around, like he's playing with his meal.

Then Bucky brings his mouth, that beautiful, beautiful mouth, to your cunt to replace his fingers and you swear you may have just died. He's so—he's so passionate, devouring you with a hunger until your spine's arching off the bed, your hands tangling in his soft brown hair. He doesn't stop licking and sucking.

"Bucky, please—oh god, please, don't stop."

You get closer and closer to the edge, hips rutting against his jaw. You feel everything so, so deeply. The way his stubble leaves goosebumps in its wake, his hands digging into your thighs to keep you in place—and then, he slides a finger back inside you as he hums, satisfied with the moans he's wrenched out of you.

It's like coming home. Your orgasm's like a strike of lightning, crying out as you release, close to tears as he laps up the rest of your orgasm.

When he finally stands to start taking off his clothes, you've been reduced to nothing more than a boneless heap on his bed. Your knees are wobbling slightly, but you force yourself to get up anyway, helping him shed the rest. "I'm–here. Let me help."

Bucky smiles. Softly.

"You're so sweet. You're too good for me."

You think you lose another shred of your sanity.

The look in your eyes lights something up in him. He joins you back on the bed and you can feel him, the weight of him, and it's all so familiar. He rests heavy on your thigh and your heart feels like it's about to come out of your chest.

"Bucky, please."

His cock slips inside of you, with a gasp and a groan, and suddenly, Bucky's locking his hands with yours. "Promise me you'll stay."

It's almost overwhelming, but he keeps you grounded. There's just so much of him. There's his teeth on your neck, the burn of his stubble on your collarbones, the way he sucks off marks against your skin and looms over you, like he never wants you to leave him again. His strength is addicting, the way he pushes you so close to breaking.

He says your name again. "Promise me."

You tell yourself—you're never letting him go again. You wrap your arms around him like something fierce, kissing him as he thrusts deeply, hitting the spot that makes stars light up behind your eyes. "Bucky—fuck—I—"

Your name falls from his lips with a groan. "Sweetheart, I'm—"

"Me too," You nod, whining when his pace quickens and it—you don't mean to, but it makes you clench around him. "Let go for me. It's okay."

Bucky looks at you, his grip around your hands tightening, and suddenly, it's a rolling wave of pleasure, over and over and over until you're trembling. You can feel him, his warmth, so fucking much of it, it's addicting. He's still groaning, hips thrusting, like he's trying to carve a home out of you.

You’re not sure how long you stay like that—twined together in the stillness, forehead pressed to his, breath shared in the hush of a room that suddenly feels too charged, too fragile to last.

You don’t want to break it. But you have to.

“Bucky,” you whisper, your voice threading through the quiet like a thread pulled taut. “They’re going to try to take me away.”

His eyes snap open. “What?”

You rest your hand against his chest, feel the beat of his heart stutter beneath your palm. “The TVA. They monitor softpoint drift. I’ve pushed too many lines. Stayed too long. This—” You gesture softly between you, “—this isn’t sanctioned.”

He stares at you like he wants to argue. But he doesn’t. Because he knows you’re not wrong.

“Let them try,” he mutters, jaw tight. His hands tighten where they rest on your waist, grounding. Possessive in the way a storm anchors to the sea. “I won’t let them.”

You smile—sad, crooked, fond. “You might not get a choice. But I will. I always find a way back.”

He swallows hard. “You promise?”

You nod. Press your lips to his again—gentle this time, slow and deliberate, like sealing a vow with your breath. Then you whisper against his mouth:

“I’ll come back. I always come back.”

His eyes close for half a second. And when they open again, they’re full of something wild. Unspoken. Undeniable.

“Next time,” you say, voice shaking with certainty, “next time I’ll stay.”

THE NULL SECTOR | TVA DETENTION LOOP C-9

You broke protocol.

Not for the mission. Not for the stabilization of a softpoint. For him. For a man with a haunted gaze and a heartbeat you should never have memorized.

And the TVA caught up to you.

They always do.

They didn’t drag you out of the field. There was no team of Minutemen, no sirens or threat display. Just a pulse through your timepad, a freeze-frame of motion—and then static. You never even got to say goodbye. Just watched as his apartment in Bucharest faded from view. The world around you disassembled. You didn’t fall through time; it collapsed around you.

And then: nothing.

But nothing wasn’t quiet.

Nothing was the absence of coordinates. A place with no variance, no measurement, no entropy. A sealed chamber of cognitive suspension—standard punishment for agents who breach emotional integrity clauses.

They called it “nullspace” in the manual. But that word doesn’t tell the whole story.

Sometimes you remembered his voice. Sometimes you forgot your own. Time didn’t move here. Not in any way that mattered. You floated in it—bodiless, unraveling, stitched together by a thousand what-ifs that all ended in silence. At first, you tried to count days. Then heartbeats. Then regrets.

You stopped when you couldn’t tell which were yours and which belonged to the lives you’d watched but never lived.

You thought of his hand on your back. His voice rasping low when he asked you to stay. The way his eyes crinkled when he smiled—not every Bucky, but that Bucky. The one who knew without knowing. The one who held out hope like it was a knife and an offering both.

Maybe they’d left you there forever.

But something changed.

When the light shifts again, it’s not like waking.

It’s like surfacing—like clawing your way out of a dream that was also a coffin. You blink against it, vision blurred and lungs tight with the phantom taste of ozone.

The TVA fell, you realize. Or maybe it evolved. The pruning stopped. The sacred timeline shattered. The multiverse stretched open like a wound and you—like so many others—were set loose without fanfare.

Just a blinking cursor on a timepad.

You’re on a bench. Clean metal. White walls. No restraints. Just a single timepad laid neatly on the seat beside you, like it’s been waiting.

You reach for it cautiously. No alerts. No directives. No timeline embedded. The screen flashes once and then settles.

“Welcome back, Agent.”

“Status: Cleared.”

“Assignment Log: Vacated.”

You sit in the silence that follows, your fingers trembling.

“You are free to go.”

They’ve never said that before.

There's no debrief. No memory wipe. No analyst knocking at your door to escort you back to a cubicle and a world of recycled coffee and unread reports. Just… release.

It doesn’t feel real. Then you notice the neatly packaged case file.

When you wrench it open, your eyes gaze upon a few simple words. Your name. Not your alias. Not your designation. Your name. Next to a birthplace.

Earth-616. Brooklyn.

And suddenly that dream… that dream you've always had isn’t a metaphor. It isn’t psychic bleed or misaligned memory. It’s real.

The stoop. The red-brick building. The muffled laughter on the wind. It wasn’t timeline residue.

It was home.

You see it all now: the way the sun hit the side of that building in the dream—your building. The stairs you must’ve climbed a thousand times before the TVA unmade you. The shadow rounding the corner wasn’t just any figure. It was him. That version of him. Bucky Barnes in his sergeant uniform, calling for you before you could catch up.

And you never did. Until now.

The words fall into your chest like stones. Every suppressed instinct, every redacted name, every unexplainable ache when Bucky looked at you like you were someone he’d loved in a dream—all of it clicks into place.

You were never a ghost in the machine. You were a person. You were his.

You stare back at the screen of your timepad. At the quiet, singular prompt at the bottom:

“INPUT COORDINATES.”

Your breath shakes.

For the first time in your life, there’s no mission waiting. No protocol. No watchers behind two-way glass. Just the choice you were never allowed to make.

You don’t hesitate.

EARTH-616 | BROOKLYN, 2026

You're not sure when you first fell in love with him. Maybe it was the 1940s, maybe it was in 1602, maybe it was earlier than language and names.

But you’ve always been sure about how he looks in silhouette—how his shoulders hunch slightly when he’s thinking, how his hands twitch when he’s fighting the urge to reach for something he knows he’s not allowed to want.

And maybe that’s why you keep searching for him in the in-betweens.

In lives that never finished writing themselves, in branch timelines that evaporated before they touched soil. You comb through the TVA archives like a woman possessed—not for intel, not even for closure, but for slivers. A timestamp where his name is scribbled in the corner. A blurry photo of someone with his gait. An anonymous field report that ends with, “target disappeared into snow.”

Everywhere, he disappears. And still, you follow.

You love Bucky Barnes the way fire loves oxygen: recklessly, instinctively. Not just for who he is now, but for every life he never got to live.

For the kid in Brooklyn who dragged Steve out of alley fights, for the soldier who fell off a train and was turned into a ghost, for the man who woke up decades later in Wakanda with a name that felt too big for his mouth. You love him for the quiet moments the world didn’t see—chopping wood in the forest, feeding stray cats on apartment balconies, the way his thumb brushes over his dog tags when he thinks no one’s watching.

Bucky, who made you laugh over terrible coffee in a mess hall in 1943. The one who handed you a damp handkerchief in a zombie-scarred train depot, saying nothing as you wiped blood off your hands. The one in 1602 who watched you from beneath a soot-black hood, eyes squinting through torchlight, and still let you pass.

You remember something he once said—maybe it was in 1955, maybe in 2016, maybe in a fever dream. “People like us… we don’t get soft landings.” And you think that’s the tragedy of it.

He has always been built to break. And you—you keep getting assigned to the wreckage.

There’s a concept you came across once, while embedded in a minor deviation out of Seoul, 1957. Not part of the assignment—just a detail on a bookstore receipt someone left behind.

In-yun. Fate through friction. The belief that even a passing graze between strangers means your souls have already brushed, thousands of times before.

It’s nonsense, by TVA standards. Sentiment dressed up as spiritual determinism. No measurable coefficient. No supporting data. But you haven’t stopped thinking about it since.

You’ve crossed paths with James Buchanan Barnes in more than a hundred timelines. You’ve logged the hours, cataloged the events, archived the footage. On paper, it’s coincidence. Strategic convergence. The mathematics of softpoints aligning with the gravitational pull of significant individuals. He is, after all, a heavily-indexed Variable.

But paper doesn’t account for the way he looks at you—each time new, each time the same. Like he recognizes your silence before you speak. Like your presence reads to him not as anomaly, but inevitability.

He's not supposed to remember you. He can’t. And still, he always sees you.

That’s the part that undoes you.

You ache because in every timeline, you find him. In every universe, you lose him.

But you think—no, you know—if you had to live and comb through thousands more universes just to stand in front of him again, in the year 2026, you’d do it. You’d do it a thousand more.

Because even if all he says is, “Took you long enough,” you’d still believe it was worth the wait.

EARTH-616 | BROOKLYN, 2026

The year is 2026. This Earth breathes uneasily in peacetime. Stark’s foundation has pivoted to disaster relief and neural rehabilitation tech. Wakanda opens its fourth embassy—this one in Seoul. Post-Blip survivor benefits have just passed preliminary legislation in three states. And James Buchanan Barnes—former assassin, occasional Avenger—has just won his election for the U.S. House of Representatives.

Redistricting helped. So did the veterans’ vote. So did the way he looked people in the eye when he told them he remembered what it was like to be used, to be weaponized, to be hollowed out and told to smile for the cameras. But mostly, it was him. The myth re-forged as man.

You find him at the VA in Brooklyn. Technically off-duty, technically supposed to be celebrating. But of course he’s here. Rolling up shirt sleeves to take constituent questions. Translating bureaucratic-speak into something that feels like compassion. He looks like a U.S. History textbook illustration—white dress shirt, tie slightly loosened, blazer draped over the back of a chair.

And somehow still the same soul you’ve met in a hundred different guises. The same gravity. The same ache. Like no matter the universe, he’s always trying to make something right.

You step into the lobby, boot heels echoing on tile, and the gravity of him pulls you forward before you’ve fully decided to be brave.

He’s facing away, head slightly bowed in conversation with a nurse, his hair still too long for Washington norms, tucked neatly behind his ears. The sight of him hits low in your stomach—familiar and wild, as always. The sound of his laugh, rare and rumbling, sends a tremor through your ribs.

“Excuse me,” you say, steadying your voice like it’s just another assignment. “I’m a deeply concerned constituent, and I’d like to register a complaint about your policies.”

He turns.

And the moment lands like gravity reasserting itself.

His eyes go wide. Then narrow. Then go soft in that way only you’ve ever seen—like he’s witnessing a miracle he doesn’t trust yet. He doesn’t say your name. Doesn’t need to.

You only just open your mouth to say something else when he’s already in front of you. And then—

He kisses you.

Not tentative. Not questioning. Just real. Like this has always been the ending he was holding out for. His hand cups the back of your neck like he thinks you might vanish again if he doesn’t keep contact. You let yourself press into it—mouth to mouth, memory to body. The weight of the years falling off both your shoulders.

You pull back, breathless. Smiling.

“You came back,” he says, wonder tucked beneath the rasp of his voice. “You came back.”

Your hands are on his chest now, smoothing fabric just to touch him, to confirm he’s real. “Took me long enough,” you echo, and his smile breaks wide and unguarded, rare and all for you.

Then he stills, just a little.

“You staying?” he asks.

You don’t hesitate.

“Yes.”

And that, his laugh, short and disbelieving, his forehead pressed briefly to yours like a prayer, is the softest landing either of you has ever known.

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lethallyprotected · 25 days ago

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heavy in your arms

Summary: Bucky has big arms. And you've been dreaming about losing yourself in them since you saw him for the first time. Inspo: beefy!bucky wrapping his bicep around your neck to pull you flush to his chest while he pounds into you deliciously Pairing: beefy!Bucky Barnes x Female Reader Warnings/tags: smut; porn without plot; breath play (kinda); arm kink; chocking kink; silent play; p in v; unprotected sex; praise kink (reader); no use of Y/N Word count: 2.6k Notes: quick drabble i wrote in like two hours because i couldn't stop thinking about this post by @fckmebarnes

You’re not entirely sure how you got to tonight’s events.

You met Bucky Barnes a few months ago in a local market. He seemed lost. Like buying tomatoes and plums from a sweet vendor on the street was the hardest chore someone could do in a lifetime. You approached. He looked uneasy, pulled away. You spoke, soft and tender. He barely answered. American.

But you saw each other again. And again. And again, on the same market. At some point, you wondered if he would come just to see you. One day, you invited him to your home. You didn’t think he would say yes, but he did.

You know his name. He’s hiding something dark, deep, and he’s got a shiny metal arm instead of a left human arm. All the rest of him is… normal. He’s quiet, quieter than should be comfortable, but you’re okay with it. And his presence in your home comes like a balm. Becomes a routine. He comes over once a week, you make him his favorite soup. He always looks tired.

Then, tonight, something shifted. You made a comment about his arms. His big fucking arms, because, God, he’s muscular and big, so much bigger than you. And you’ve wondered what it would be like to lose yourself in those arms, to have them wrapped around you as he fucked you into oblivion, until you forgot yourself.

You’re both in the living room, and Bucky is the first to reach forward, towards you. He’s careful in his motion, but firm, his body moving with a certain precision. Flesh hand, warm, wraps around your smaller right wrist and tugs you closer, until your bodies are practically touching. Every inch of him on every inch of you - almost.

His icy blue eyes trail over your features like he’s studying you, learning, memorizing. They are directly locked into your own eyes for a moment, holding your gaze, and you think you detect something behind that look, like he’s about to say something, but decides against it. Then his eyes are on your cheeks, taking in the pinkish tone on your skin, and then lower, on your lips. Plump, a little trembling, as if they are begging to be kissed. To be devoured by his own. You don’t need to ask it out loud. Bucky’s memories are scattered across the continents, but the look on your face - the want - that one he recognizes.

His body towers over yours and he starts to lean down, and you still catch the moment he starts to close his eyes. And then, a hairsbreadth later, his lips are pressing to yours. The kiss isn’t tender, isn’t sweet. You didn’t expect sweetness from him, anyway.

Bucky is hungry and he kisses you exactly like a man starving. When was the last time his lips were on someone else’s willingly? When was the last time he felt like his body really was his own? He’s not sure he remembers, but this, right here, your small, fragile body on his - it feels good.

Your lips move together, hard and hungry, and he tastes like alcohol and fruit and the mixture is strange on your tongue but not unpleasant. He licks over your lips, inviting himself into your mouth before his tongue slides past your lips and tastes all of you. His flesh hand is still holding on to your wrist, but when he kisses you like that you moan and instantly, his hand moves to grip your hip tight. Bucky holds you hard against his body, and already you feel the outline of his hard cock through his jeans. Your hips roll forward, teasing, seeking friction, and he makes a noise into your mouth which you swallow like it’s your own.

Bucky breaks the kiss for a moment to search for air, and he takes in the sight of your flustered face. He seems proud of the work he’s done, metal arm reaching up and craddling your cheek as his thumb rubs over the reddened skin.

“You’re beautiful.”, he says, and his voice is rough with desire. You open your mouth to say something, but Bucky catches your lips in another lustful kiss that leaves you breathless before you can get a word out. Then he’s pulling away again. “No, love. No speaking unless I ask you to.” His head lowers and you think he’s about to kiss you again but instead his head dips between your neck and your shoulder and he licks a strip across your neck. Then, his teeth are digging into the skin before he sucks it into his mouth and that elicits another moan from you. His hand on your hip tightens and he groans in disapproval. “No noises either, love. You don’t make a sound. Do you understand?” You’re a quick learner, because his question doesn’t receive a spoken answer. Instead, you simply nod, your body already slightly trembling under his hold. “Good. Such a good girl for me.”

His words bleed into your ears like acid, burning their way through every inch of your skin, crawling, a brand being placed upon you. Such a good girl for me. It echoes inside of you, and you can imagine that, many moons from now, those words will still be glued to you like they are a part of your core.

Bucky is still kissing your neck, and his teeth graze the skin ever so slightly a couple of times. He’s testing you, testing your restraint. And you provide nothing. Not a single sound, only your eyes rolling into the back of your head, back arching slightly into him. He’s hot and warm and built like a wall - firm, big, his muscles so big they completely crowd your every sense. There is so much of him. Standing tall and strong, the red henley strained against his arms as his muscles flex as he grips you tight. And your mind is spiraling, because you had to be blind to not notice how big he was, but now, this close, you feel so small in comparison, so breakable. And you are sure he could break you if he wanted to. You’re not entirely sure he isn’t doing that, right now, just in an entirely different way.

You almost mewl in disappointment when Bucky momentarily pulls away from you, but you don’t, and he takes notice. You’re being such a good girl, and he’s never been quite this turned on, even though you’ve barely done anything at all. Both his hands move to the hem of your shirt and pull it over your head before discarding it somewhere in the living room. Then he’s walking forward, and you walk backwards, and somehow, you end up with your back against the couch. Bucky is grinning at you. Not a full grin, no, but a delicious half-smile, confident he’s tearing you apart bit by bit. His eyes are skimming over your torso, landing on your black lacy bra and he can’t help but immediately move his flesh hand to massage one of your breasts, grabbing, the size of it perfect in his big palm. His thumb brushes the soft material of the bra to the side, just enough to free your hardened nipple and he plays with it between his fingers.

You still don’t make a sound. God, it’s the hardest thing you’ve done all your life - not making a sound when he’s teasing you like this. But you’re a good girl. You can be good for him.

“Love-”, Bucky breathes and he kisses over the expanse of your chest. “Tell me how you’re feeling.” His voice isn’t demanding like the rest of his body is right now, but it’s rough enough to make it clear he needs an answer.

“So good.”

A while later, you’re both naked, Bucky stroking your bare back with his fingers as you suck in a breath.

You are slightly bent over your couch, legs spread, and your arousal is slowly dripping down the inside of your thigh. Bucky catches some of it in his fingers and uses it to stroke his cock as he looks at you.

What a sight to behold. You, spread out for him. Wanting, needing, not making a damn sound, like he asked you to. The imagery makes his cock twitch in his hand and he has to take a deep breath, slow his thoughts, otherwise he’d be gone before this even started.

Bucky runs his metal hand over your hip, around the base of your back, so close to your ass, and his touch is reverent, like he physically needs to touch every inch of skin to make this perfect. Then, the tip of his cock is pressing against your folds, and the intrusion is most welcomed. Your hips roll back into him, and Bucky rests both hands on your hips to stop your movement.

“Don’t be greedy.”, he breathes, but in the next second he’s slowly sinking himself inside of you. His cock stretches you out and you grip the edges of the couch hard, so hard maybe you’ll leave nail marks afterwards, because it’s the only way you can stop yourself from making a sound. Sweat coats your body, and his, and his metal arm circles your waist, gently pressing against your stomach to keep you pressed tight to him as he sinks deeper, and deeper, until he’s fully seated inside of you.

Bucky groans and it’s the hottest sound you’ve ever heard in your life. He doesn’t remember any other feeling quite like the feeling of being buried so deep inside of you. Your pussy feels divine, wet and warm, gripping him like a vice. It feels like it’s singing to him, a goddamn siren song, and he will never be able to leave again.

“Oh, fuck, love- so tight.”, Bucky says, half a whimper, and he gives one tentative thrust. And you feel it then - his body shaking against yours. “Tell me this feels good. Tell me you want this.” Bucky’s pleading, a small contrast to the way he’s handling you, and you let out a soft gasp you had been holding on.

“Please, Bucky, I want you. I want you so bad.”, you respond, and the arousal in your voice is confirmation enough that you’re not lying. “Please, your cock feels so fucking good-”

And then your sentence is interrupted, because Bucky slides his flesh arm around your neck, hard bicep wrapped around you as he pulls you flush to his chest. He uses his knee to lift one of your legs from behind, resting it against the back of the couch, and then he starts fucking into you, thrusts slow, hard, deep, his bicep pressed so hard around your neck that you feel almost light headed. The grip of his arm is not enough to take your breath away, but it is enough to hold you in place, to stop you from moving, from doing anything at all. Anything but moan for him. You’re not sure he wants you to right now, but you can’t really hold it back when his cock is buried so deep, hitting every sweet spot, his balls slapping against your ass in a slow, sensual rhythm that sends you flying.

“Bad girl.”, he moans into your ear, but he doesn’t make a move to stop, and instead, fucks you through it, a little harder, a little deeper. “Making noise when I told you to be quiet.”, he continues speaking, voice hoarse, but his hips don’t snap out of their rhythm, and so you still moan. One of your hands comes up from the back of the couch and you drag your nails over his large arm, the one wrapped around your neck, and his hips stutter for half a second. “Naughty. And I fucking love it.”

He angles his hips better, lifts your leg a little higher with his knee and then he’s changing the pace, his cock driving in and out of you a little faster. The noises coming out of you are pure filth, obscene, and you’re glad he isn’t asking you to be quiet now, because you don’t think you could. Bucky’s lips drop to your neck, and he kisses the soft skin as his metal fingers slide down your stomach and start rubbing circles around your clit in time with his thrusts. He feels you trembling in his arms and he tightens the arm around your neck, keeping you more in place.

“I’ve got you, love.”, he moans against your neck, and his metal hand doesn’t stop, his hips don’t stop and the sound of skin slapping against skin fills the room, along with your moans. “You’re so amazing. Could stay inside this tight pussy for hours.” Your body shudders against him, teeth digging into your bottom lip as his filthy praise makes his way into you. God, you want, need, more of this, more of him.

But he has you pressed flush against his chest, against his body, and you’re his to take. He doesn’t let you move anything other than your arms, everything else in his total control. And you love it, you’d beg for it if he made you.

His metal fingers fasten the movements on your clit, and the cold metal feels perfect against the heat of your folds, so perfect. Your stomach feels tight, muscles coiled with the pressure of the orgasm that is building right in the back of your gut, spreading over your every limb, expanding and threatening to make a mess out of you. Bucky feels it, feels your walls clutching around his cock and it only spurs him on. His hips snap faster, fucking you with renewed vigor and his lips trail from your neck to your ear, whispering all the filthy things you seem to love.

“Gonna cum so hard inside this pretty pussy.”, he says and you whimper. He responds to that by thrusting particularly hard inside of you. “So good for me. My favorite girl. You gonna cum for me, love? Gonna cum all over my cock? Let me feel you.”

Your arms are clawing at the bicep still tightly wrapped around your neck, not because you want him to move it but because you need to hold on to something as you come apart, in all senses of the word. “Bucky, I’m so close- please don’t stop.”

He wasn’t planning to.

And shortly after, he tips you over the edge. You see white, your mouth opening to let out a strangled gasp as your orgasm washes over you and your whole body trembles against Bucky. He whispers soft praise into your ear as you cum, hold you through every spasm and moan, flush against his chest, and his hips don’t falter. He fucks you fast and hard and hot until you’re going limp in his body, and then he thrusts a couple more times, his rhythm broken, before he curses your name under his breath and spills himself inside of you, his seed filling your pussy to the brim.

For another minute he just fucks lazily into you, like he’s just making sure no second of his or your orgasm go to waste. His arm around your neck loosens up and it seems like he’s about to move it completely out of the way, but you hold on to it. You feel his gaze on you, almost confused.

“Don’t move.” You ask, a little pleading. Your eyes are closed as you try to get your breathing back to normal. “Stay. For a while.”

He does.

For a while.

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lethallyprotected · 26 days ago

Text

'All That Jazz'

Pairing: Professor!Bucky/Professor!F!Reader

Fandom: MCU

Warnings/tags: Smut; Explicit, reader is older - as in like "same age" as him (like mid to late thirties), reader is a foreign theatre teacher; speaks a different language (unspecified), reader is like the complete opposite of bucky, guys i had so much fun writing this, plot, subtle tension, technically public sx, HEELS, freaked out lover boy, body worship, yes he's wearing the suit like in the picture above, light masochism- DAMN - not proofreading allat.

Word count: 3.6k+ ... hahaha 😅

i'm trying out aesthetics/decorated posts, don't mind me🙂‍↕️

italicize text in quotations means a different language is being spoken - pictures used are not depictions

did i get this idea when i saw that quote from sebastian saying when he saw women wear heels sometimes he'd think about what she looks like only wearing heels...? don't even worry bout that bruh-

Bucky has been teaching AP US History at NYU for about five years now and has never worked up the courage to talk to you for more than just a conversation about grades or the occasional gossip about students or staff. You were extroverted and smiley. It's taken a while to get used to people calling him James instead of Bucky, but he kind of looked forward to hearing you say it in your sweet, honey-like voice. Everyday since he's gotten the job and seen you in the halls, you've worn a different color/patterned hat and stylish outfit that hugged your form just right, often tied together with a scarf around the neck. It drove him a little crazy to say the least.

Sometimes his students would tease him and tell him to just go for it already, to which he just brushes off and playfully glares at them. And there was that one time he saw you strutting towards the elevator in a blazer and pencil skirt brought together by a pair of red pumps. For the rest of that day he could only think about how you looked with only those heels on...But anyway!

Today was a slow day of grading essays before the midterm. He was knee deep in assignments and just wanted to get it over with.

You are former broadway show runner that hailed from a different country and took up teaching a decade ago in New York City. You were always so sweet and kind to everyone you've met. Theatrical and eccentric in a good way. Your hair was always uniquely styled, a few gray strands that you wore proudly. Your accent was rich as the fabrics you wore and your smile was to die for. You took particular interest in the introverted James Bucky Barnes, as you had never met someone like him before. But you found that to be a good thing.

It wasn't abnormal for you to frequently visit his classroom whether he was teaching or not. Your students often teased you too about how often you went out of your way to go to a whole floor below yours just to see him.

Three light knocks came to the door of his classroom before you popped your head in. You beamed your typical smile at him with a small wave.

"Hello, James," you chimed. "I hope I am not intruding on your grading process?" you asked, still standing at the door.

Bucky looked up from the stack of essays he had been grading, slightly startled but pleased to see you standing at the doorway. He set down his pen and leaned back in his chair, offering you a small smile in return. "Hey, ah, no, not at all. I could use a break from these essays," he replied, gesturing to the pile on his desk. "What brings you in?"

"I was just thinking about the upcoming midterm and wanted to bounce some ideas off you," you explained, stepping further into the classroom. "But now that I said it out loud, it sounds...boring." you added and turned to him. "Perhaps an evening at the jazz bar down the road isn't too big of an ask?"

You looked at him with those bright, expressive eyes, your smile still playing at the corners of your lips. It was clear you had taken a liking to the reserved history professor, appreciating his quiet intensity and sharp mind. The students' teasing remarks about your frequent visits to his classroom only served to encourage you, showing you that your interest in him was not unnoticed or unwelcome.

Bucky raised an eyebrow at your suggestion, a hint of surprise flickering across his face before a slow, genuine smile spread across his lips. "An evening at the bar, huh? That does sound more interesting than grading these essays," he mused, glancing back at the stack of papers on his desk.

He folded his arms across his chest, leaning casually against the edge of his desk as he considered your offer. "I suppose I could stand to take a break from the academic world for a little while. There are a few things I've been wanting to discuss with you as well," he admitted, his blue eyes meeting yours.

Bucky knew he should probably keep things professional, but there was something about your open mindedness for life and eccentric charm that made him want to let his guard down, even if only a little.

"Tell you what, why don't we meet there around 7? I can finish up here and then join you for a drink and a chat," he proposed, already looking forward to spending more time in your company.

"Sounds perfect! I should be able to get a good amount of grading done in an hour and a half. Good call." you nodded and sauntered over to the door. "Goodbye for now. And don't even be a minute late." you playfully narrowed your eyes and pointed at him before you chuckled and left out the door; the sound of your heels receding down the hallway.

Bucky watched as you sauntered out of his classroom, your playful warning and the sound of her heels echoing in his ears. He couldn't help but chuckle softly to himself but also mutter something not-so-appropriate under his breath. He ran his hands over his face and scratched his beard in thought. Thoughts of you and wondering if he just completely missed that you essentially asked him out on a date after work. Huh.

Finally, after what felt like an eternity, the clock was at 6:50. Bucky gathered up the graded essays and put them away in a drawer, straightening his tie and grabbing his coat--burnt orange, like his suit--before heading out of the classroom. After the short elevator ride to the ground floor, he exited the building and spotted the bar just a short distance away.

You were already at the bar with a glass of wine and swaying to the music when he walked in and spotted you. You glanced in his direction as he approached, that familiar smile flashing at him again.

"James!" you chimed and gestured for him to sit down. "Thought you might stand me up." you added in a teasing way given that he was definitely a minute late.

"Wouldn't dream of it." he said as he sat down, ordering for himself before looking back at you. "So, what did you want to discuss about the upcoming midterm?" he asked in a genuinely curious tone. He figured he play it safe, but he couldn't help but notice now that you look a little different than earlier. You weren't wearing a hat or scarf, your dress shirt was three buttons loose at the top and your lipstick was touched up. You appeared more...laidback; inviting.

You hummed and swirled the wine in the glass after taking a sip. "This is a little embarrassing," you said with a small chuckle. "I was really just finding an excuse to come talk to you. My midterms are very different from other curricula as it pertains to materials and...well, I guess I didn't want to sound too forward inviting you out for drinks on a school night." you added as you took another sip of wine.

Bucky nodded and laughed to himself. So he was correct in assuming this was like a date. Noted.

He took a sip of his whiskey as it arrived, the smooth burn familiar and welcome. "Well, I'm glad you found an excuse to invite me out for drinks," he replied, his voice deep and sincere. "Doesn't bother me at all."

Bucky allowed his gaze to linger on you for a moment, taking in the sight of you with the top few buttons of your shirt undone and your lips touched with a fresh coat of lipstick. The look was inviting, alluring, and he found himself clouded once again. All the possibilities laid bare in his mind with you sitting right in front of him. Seldom an ounce of shame.

"We could make this like a regular thing." he continued. The words left his lips before he could process the proposition but you didn't look put off by it. Not even a little bit. Instead, you gave a considering look.

"Sounds like a plan." you said, cheers-ing with his glass and finishing your drink. You leaned on the counter and just looked at him, admiring his features.

"So what does free time usually look like for Professor Barnes?" you asked as you tapped the rim of the glass in idle rhythm. Bucky took another swig of liquid courage before answering.

"Well, as you can probably imagine, my free time is usually spent in the pursuit of knowledge and learning," he began, a hint of playful weariness in his voice. "But I enjoy just sitting in the quiet sometimes. Going for walks to clear the mess that is my mind for a while, some reading, all that jazz."

He paused before continuing, realizing his answer might've been dry or a downer. "Though I must admit, lately my free time has been taken over by thoughts of a certain charming professor from upstairs," he added, his pretty blue eyes locked with yours as a slow smile spread across his face.

Good save, Barnes.

You gave him a look of 'Oh, really?' written all over your face, no words needed as you finished the last of your wine before standing up and holding out your hand.

"Would you like to dance?" you proposed. Your tone was one of why the hell not? What do we have to lose? Bucky stared for a moment, chuckling to himself. He hasn't danced since 1943, it feels like. He wasn't one for the activity, let alone has he ever had the chance to share it like this with a beautiful, talented woman such as yourself. He followed suit and finished his glass before standing up and taking your hand, a small embarrassed smirk on his face. Your heart fluttered at the sight of his eyes crinkling with joy.

"Why the hell not?" he said, letting you lead the way to the floor littered with people dancing together to the song You'd Be So Nice To Come Home To sung live. In a strange way, it brought Bucky back. To a time he thought long forgotten. A time he wanted to forget. Yet being here with you was game changer for sure.

"I have to warn you, though. It's been a while and I'm not as light on my feet as I used to be." he continued with a sheepish laugh under his breath. You waved it off and held both of his hands.

"Not a problem. Let's start steady, just follow me." you said, moving with every other beat so it wasn't too fast for him. He caught on faster than he thought. He matched your moves and rhythm in record time. This was the first time in a while he genuinely smiled. His grin was so wide and his grip on your hands was grounding.

"Someone's a fast learner!" you chirped. "'Been a while' my ass."

Bucky laughed and twirled you in his hand, taking your hands again and letting the song take him over.

"What can I say? I finally have a proper partner." he said, spinning you again. His heart stopped for a second at his own words. Did he just say that?

This time you ended up pulled flush to his chest. Bucky looked down at you with light pink cheeks as he cleared his throat. Just realizing his palm was resting comfortably on the small of your back.

"I didn't- I meant like-"

"I know what you meant." you said with a head tilt and lightly patted his chest in reassurance. You were both panting from the surge of energy that suddenly hit you both during the song. His lips pulled into a short knowing smile. As the song was coming to an end, something clicked in his brain, like he was teleported back to 1942. He held you tighter and dipped you, his face hovering over yours as if it was just you two in the room. Your gasp wasn't missed when you clutched onto his shoulders. You looked up at him like he was crazy, but not in a bad way.

When he slowly brought you back up, he saw a bright young woman in her twenties. A girl he wanted to impress, maybe get some ice cream with later. A girl he just wanted to walk around the city and hold hands with. He would be in uniform and try to sound as cool as possible with soldier talk.

Nobody else dancing around them mattered. And he knew it couldn't be the one glass of whiskey he ordered because he can't get drunk. It was you.

Maybe it was always you.

Neither one of you has uttered a word in the last sixty seconds. Just staring and holding each other. He wanted to say something first but his mouth had gone dry. He blinked and he was brought back to the present. A woman that looked around his age giving him the same look he was probably giving her.

"We should head back." you said. You saw him blink a few more times, as if to snap out of his own thoughts before he reluctantly let you go. He rubbed the back of his neck and gestured towards the exit. He didn't have anything else to say, really. This kind of thing--all of it--was lost on him. It's not like he's never been in love before, but damn it he truly thought he forgot what that felt like. What it was. What it meant to him and what it would mean for anyone he might fall for again.

Perhaps he's being a little dramatic, right? That was your job!

It was a quiet walk back to school. The university building in immediate distance yet it felt a mile away. Bucky felt awkward. Like maybe he messed up somehow with his lover boy bullshit. He had hoped he didn't. And if he did, he'd do anything in his power to fix it.

You, on the other hand, were trying to compose yourself. The attraction you felt towards him was suffocating. The tension between you two given any time you were together could be sliced in half. Now? You couldn't breathe. And the faint cologne on his collar was never a help.

The elevator ride was no better. Close yet so far. You two could barely make eye contact.

Once at his classroom, you haven't a clue why you walked in. You stopped at the door, gripping the knob for dear life. Your muscles contracted with something you haven't felt in years. That familiar sensation in your chest that spread to the rest of your body. You watched him awkwardly walk over to his desk and move some papers around like he was reading something. You could tell now that he thought he did something wrong.

Bucky ran his hand over his beard and sighed before turning to you. "I, uh," he started, taking a few steps towards you with his hand in his pocket. "If I came on too strong..."

He was still talking when you closed the door behind you and walked over to him, a finger to his lips as you pushed him backwards to the whiteboard. He looked at you with a bit of surprise. Shocked at your boldness but also that you made it clear he didn't mistake anything.

You slid your finger from his lips to his jaw, urging him to lean forward to meet your lips. You gave him a simple kiss. You wanted to pull back and maybe make a witty remark about how nervous he was, but he was activated now. You only invited him in and he's moving like he owns the place.

His hands slid around your back to hold you closer than ever. His strong arms unyielding but safe. He even made sure his metal arm wasn't using as much pressure as his flesh one.

It didn't take long for the kiss to get heated. The wine on your tongue nearly as sweet as you. The whiskey on his almost just as intoxicating. You could feel his arousal pressing against your thigh through your skirt, practically screaming to be released from its confines. The serum running through his veins allowed him hold his breath longer than the average person. However, Earth to Bucky, she can't breathe!

He backed away with a soft pant. His eyes half-lidded while the sound of you catching your breath filled this corner of the classroom. He could only think about how you looked with only those heels on...

"You're beautiful." he said, the back of his hand caressing your cheekbone. His gaze by itself was consuming you whole. Part of your focus was your smeared lipstick on his lips and his arms holding you like you were married for years in every timeline.

Bucky kissed you again as he lifted you by your hips to carry you to his desk. Once you were sat down he started to undo your buttons with fervor. There went your shirt in three seconds tops. Then your skirt, which took longer because he loved how it looked sliding down those thighs along with your panties. He sucked marks onto your neck as the skirt hit the floor, leaving you completely bare after he unclipped your bra without missing a beat.

He didn't bother with your shoes and you wondered why. So, when you went to remove them he stopped you, looking you dead in the eyes.

"These stay on." he said, pressing a kiss to your knuckle. He crouched down before you and started to tail kisses up your legs--tip of the shoe first. "Tell me about your favorite play." he whispered against your foot and kept kissing. You shuddered and gripped his desk. The sight before you almost too much to bear.

You started on about your favorite play, when you saw it, where you saw it, how it made you feel. Occasionally pausing in between thoughts so you didn't lose them due to this man worshipping every inch of your body. Bucky gave a longer kiss to a birthmark, smiling to himself when you softly gasped.

Once he reached your thighs, he slowly pried them open but his eyes were on your face. Watching what he's doing right. The most bizarre thing was that he was still fully clothed. His bulge the most obvious thing in the room against those tight ass pants--that did wonders for his ass, by the way.

In the blink of in eye, your lips meet again, your legs wrap around him, and he's inside of you. He groaned and cursed like he took a bite from his favorite food of all time.

You could get lost in the pools of his irises. They were just so blue. James Barnes, akin to a siren without uttering a word.

He wanted to set a slow pace, he really did, but damn it girl he nearly slipped out several times because of how wet you were from him just admiring your legs and you looked butt ass naked in only heels. This wasn't some shit you'd get back home so definitely weren't going back anytime soon.

When your heel scraped his back a little bit, he moaned into your shoulder. Your eyes widened just a tad. Bucky was tucked securely inside of you, thrusting and humping you like he'd die if he stopped. You were half hazy, trying to keep down your own sounds of pleasure but you were aware enough to lift your leg and drag your heel on his clothed back again. He moaned louder, gripping your hips tighter.

"Please," he whispered desperately. "Oh, baby, I'm not ready to be a father."

You twitched underneath him and ran your fingers through his hair, the other hand scratching his back to hold yourself back. That unraveling feeling was rapidly approaching you were seeing stars. Your breaths irregular and your walls clamping down on him. Almost like you were telling him it was okay.

"Shit-" he hissed in response as his hand slid up your waist so he wouldn't lose his grip. The pace increased in an instant and his climax was drawing near too. You felt so good against him. Your skin. Your lips. Your silky walls. The messy, squelching sound that echoed off the walls was a song he'd have on repeat. He made love to you with everything he had. Everything that was mildly irritating him today went into every stroke.

Your heel scraped against him one more time, just a little harder by accident and he was gone. His limbs weakened but he pulled out in time. Quiet, weak whimpers coming from him. Something...Something about that alone got him so excited. Maybe it really felt like he was in the 40s again. It was like sneaking into somewhere he wasn't supposed to be and fucking you where he wasn't supposed to with a dame he wasn't sure he was taking home.

Your climax hit you two seconds after. Your back arched upwards and your feet pointed, making the heel dig into his side for a second. You clenched your jaw so a string of moans didn't wake up the entire social studies department.

Bucky huffed a heavy breath and stood up straight. His hand taking yours and pulling you up to meet him chest to chest. Holding you once again so you wouldn't fall over. He kissed you on the forehead and rubbed your back in the places that the desk definitely left marks, but you didn't look tired though. You carefully pried him off of you and pushed him backwards towards his desk chair with just your index finger, sitting him down before crawling into his lap.

"The suit stays on."

86 notes · View notes

lethallyprotected · 26 days ago

Text

Now , Forever

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x Fem Reader (set during CABNW)

Summary: Bucky ended things out of fear , thinking his dark past made him unworthy of love , but when he found her drowning her heartbreak in a bar, he couldn’t stay away.

Word Count: 2.5k+

Warnings: anstyyyy then ends happy , established relationship , exes to lovers , lots of drinking , smoking mentioned , depression mentions , alcoholism mentions , buckys past mentioned , blood mentioned , throw up/vomitting , hangover symptoms , medicine mentions , kisses i think thats all....

If I missed any let me know! 💖

A/N: im writing this half asleep and in one contiuos go , so sorry for any mistakes till i can proof read it! this little idea just popped in my head when rewatch CABNW and i just had to quickly whip something up. Hope you enjoy bbys :P

read my new series here! MY MASTERLIST

REQUESTS AND INBOX ALWAYS OPEN COME SAY HI OR DROP AN IDEA OR TWO! <3

The night Bucky ended things , you could feel it in your gut before he had even said the words.

He was tense , shoulders tight as cable , his jaw working like he was chewing on something bitter and sticky.

The apartment was a little too quiet , the air too still.

You sat on the edge of the bed , fingers twisting in your lap waiting for the ball to drop.

“Bucky , what is it?” you asked softly.

He didn’t look at you at first.

He stared at the plush carpeted floor, eyes shadowed and distant in deep thought.

His hands clenched and unclenched at his sides , the faint creak of the metal plates as his vibranium fingers flexed.

“I can’t do this ,” he finally replied , voice low and hoarse.

Your heart seized up. “What? What do you mean?”

He dragged a hand through his hair , his fingers trembling.

“I’m not who you think I am. I’ve tried to be… someone better. But it doesn’t change what I’ve done. What I’ve been.”

“Bucky,” you whispered , your voice shaking and broken.

You stood , crossing the space between you , reaching out to touch his flesh arm. “I know about your past. I know it’s hard for you. But I love you. I don’t care—”

“It’s not that simple!” he snapped , his voice breaking on the last word.

He flinched like he’d struck you , his expression twisting and turning. “I can’t let you see it. If you did… if you really saw what I’ve done , the blood on my hands , the ghosts that haunt my mind , you’d never look at me the same again and I can't live like that.”

You swallowed hard , tears blurring your vision pouring out. “I already see you , Bucky. I see the man in front of me. I see the way you try every day. That’s who I love.”

He shook his head , shoulders slumping now. “You deserve more than this , more than me. I can’t keep pretending I’m not… tainted and bruised. I thought I could protect you from it , but I can’t.”

You stepped closer, your hands on his chest , feeling the frantic beat of his heart beneath your palms. “Don’t do this,” you whispered. “Please don’t , you dont mean it right?”

But his hands came up wrapping around your wrists , gently but firmly removing yours from his chest. His eyes were wet now , his lips trembling. “I’m sorry,” he said. “I have to.”

And with that , he turned and walked out the door , leaving you standing there with your heart in your hands and the taste of his goodbye lingering on your lips.

You didn’t go home that night.

Couldn’t. The apartment felt like an empty tomb without him , every shadow whispering his name. So you ran.

The bar down the street was loud and bright , neon signs flickering in the dark and glitter scattered around like promises you knew better than to believe.

You pushed your way in , the music hitting you with a physical force , the beat so loud it rattled inside your bones.

You didn’t bother with grabbing a seat.

You went straight to the bar , your voice barely a thread as you ordered a shot of vodka.

The bartender gave you a once-over , something like concern flickering in his eyes, but he poured it anyway, sliding it over.

You tossed it back, the burn slipping down your throat a welcome distraction from the ache in your heart.

You ordered another.

And another.

The edge of the bar was sticky under your fingertips , the smell of sweat and smoke heavily thick in the air.

The world started to blur around the edges.

Faces became smears of color and simple shapes , laughter and conversation melting into the thud of the bass blaring.

You ordered another shot , your hand shaking so badly the shot glass clinked against the counter.

Someone bumped into you , muttered an apology you didn’t hear.

You didn’t care.

Nothing mattered except the heat of the alcohol and the numbness creeping through your veins.

Just what you were wanting.

Your phone buzzed and lit up in your jeans pocket , a tiny lifeline in the noise and haze.

You fumbled for it , your fingers clumsy and tingling , almost dropping it twice before you managed to answer.

“Hello?” you mumbled, your voice thick and slurred , not even looking at the contact.

“Hey,” Sam Wilson's voice came through , calm but urgent. “Where are you?”

You tried to focus , tried to remember. “I’m… I’m at the bar. The one by the river. He… he left me , Sam.” Your voice cracked , a sob breaking free before you could stop it. “Bucky left me.”

Sam took a breath on the other end , calming himself. “Okay. Listen to me. I need you to stay right there. I’m coming to get you , okay? Don't leave.”

You clutched the phone so hard it could crack under the pressure. “Don’t… don’t tell him where I am . Please. I don’t want him to see me like this.”

“I won’t,” Sam promised. “I’m just going to get you home safe.”

You didn’t remember hanging up.

You didn’t remember much of anything after that , just the constant too loud music pounding in your buzzing head , the alcohol burning a hole in your gut and chest , and the feeling that you were already halfway to nowhere.

You slumped forward , your head resting on the bar top , the shot glass still clutched in your hand like medicine.

You didn’t even fight it when the world went black around you.

When you woke back up , it was to the smell of stale coffee and paper.

Sam’s office.

The overhead light was dim , the soft hum of the city outside the only sound you could make out right now.

You tried to sit up , but your head felt like it was full of broken glass and bricks. A groan slipped past your lips , and you pressed a hand to your forehead , trying to piece together how you got here.

Your eyes caught a picture frame on Sam’s desk , Sam and Bucky, arms slung around each other, grinning wide and bright.

It felt like a punch to the gut.

In your fuzzy , still havely drunken mind , you couldn’t separate the photo from the real people.

You stumbled to the desk , your hands trembling as you reached for the frame. “Bucky,” you whispered , your voice small and raw. “Why’d you leave me? Why didn’t you let me fight for you , for us?”

Tears welled up , slipping hot and fast down your cheeks. You pressed the frame to your chest , your body shaking with sobs. “I love you,” you cried , your voice ragged. “I love you so much , please, don’t leave me.”

The picture didn’t answer.

It just stared back at you , frozen in time. You sank to your knees , the frame still clutched in your hands , your tears dripping onto the glass.

And then , from the doorway , you heard a voice , soft , rough , but unmistakably real and him.

“I’m here.”

You looked up , your breath catching in your throat.

Bucky stood there , his expression a mix of anguish and love , his hands curled into fists at his sides.

“Bucky,” you gasped , the frame slipping from your fingers. “You’re… you’re here.”

He crossed the room in three long strides , dropping to his knees in front of you. His hands came up to cradle your face , thumb pads brushing away your warm tears. “I’m here,” he said again, his voice shaking. “I’m so sorry.”

You threw your arms around his neck , burying your face in his shoulder.

The scent of him , leather and pine soap and something uniquely his , wrapped around you , grounding you to the world.

“I thought you didn’t want me,” you sobbed. “I thought I lost you.”

“Never,” he murmured , his breath warm against your hair. “I was trying to protect you. But I was wrong. I can’t protect you by pushing you away.”

Your fingers curled in the fabric of his jacket , holding him like you’d drown if you let go.

Bucky didn’t say another word as he stood and scooped you into his arms. You let out a soft gasp , surprised by the effortless strength of his hold , but you didn’t fight it.

You didn’t want to.

Your head lolled against his chest as he carried you out of Sam’s office.

The cold night air bit at your skin , but it didn’t matter.

All you could feel was the steady , sure beat of his heart under your cheek.

Sam and Joaquin hovered in the doorway, their expressions worried but relieved.

“Thank you guys,” Bucky murmured , his voice a promise as he shifted you in his arms. “I’ve got her.”

Sam gave him a small nod. “You know where I am if you need anything.”

Bucky just nodded , but his focus was entirely on you.

The ride back to your apartment was quiet and short..

You curled against him in the passenger seat of his car, the streetlights blurring past in streaks of white and golden light..

You felt the rough but also soft pad of his thumb brushing soothing circles on the back of your hand and knuckles , the last bit of tether to reality , in the here and now.

When you reached your building , he carried you inside like you weighed nothing at all.

He kicked the door shut behind him , the soft click of the lock sealing you in with him , no more noise , no more neon lights , just you and him and the quiet of the night.

He set you down gently on the edge of your bed , his hands lingering on your shoulders as he knelt in front of you.

Your eyelids fluttered , heavy with exhaustion and the last dregs of alcohol sinking in , but you forced them to still be open.

“Let’s get you cleaned up baby ,” he murmured , his voice a low rasp that sent shivers down your spine.

You nodded , your breath hitching as his fingers brushed a lock of hair behind your ear.

He reached for a washcloth in the nearby dresser , running it under warm water before wringing it out.

He cupped your cheek with his flesh hand , tilting your head slightly as he began to wipe away the smudged mascara and left over makeup ruined by your tears.

The gentle drag of the cloth was comforting , his touch so tender it made your stomach do a flutter.

“I missed you,” you whispered, your voice barely audible, eyes still closed. “So much.”

“I missed you too,” he said softly, his eyes full of intent on cleaning your face. “Every second.”

He set the now dirty washcloth aside , his hand lingering on your cheek for a moment longer before he moved to brush your hair.

He found your black hairbrush on the nightstand , the bristles worn and familiar.

He worked slowly , carefully , untangling each knot with a patience that made you want to cry again but you were drained of all tears.

Your eyes fell closed again , breathing in the familiarity of having him here with you , letting yourself relax under his touch.

“There you go,” he murmured , his voice a soothing rumble. “Almost done.”

When he was finished , he gathered your hair in a messy ponytail , his fingers deft as he laid it over your back. He tied it off with a small black band , his knuckles brushing against your collarbone in a way that made your skin tingle.

“Better?” he asked, his lips curling into a small smile.

You nodded , blinking up at him with glassy eyes. “Yeah. Thank you.”

He pressed a barely there and oh so quick kiss to your forehead. “Let’s get you into bed , okay?”

He helped you out of your rumpled and dirty day clothes reeking of cheap vodka and that smokey club smell , swapping them for one of his old t-shirts that you loved so much.

It hung loose on your frame , the fabric soft and word against your skin. When he was done , he tucked you in , smoothing the blankets and duvet around you with a care that stole your breath.

He paused for a moment , just watching you.

His eyes traced every line of your face , every dotted freckle , and the soft curve of your lips , even the faint flush on your cheeks.

“I love you,” he said finally, his voice rough. “I hope you know that.”

“I love you too,” you murmured , your voice thick and raw with sleep. “Don’t leave again. Please.”

He brushed your fly aways back from your face , his thumb tracing the curve of your cheek bone . “I’m not going anywhere,” he said. “Not this time, not ever again.”

You drifted off to sleep with his hand in yours , the world fading around you like the last echoes of a bad dream.

You woke to the sharp , twisting pain of a hangover in your gut and piercing dull pain in your head , your mouth overly dry.

You stumbled to the bathroom barely making it , half-blind with the bright morning light streaming through the window.

Before you could even get your mind together , Bucky was there.

He knelt beside you as you vomited into the toilet , his hand steady and warm on your back , his other hand gathering your hair away from your face to keep it clean and out of the way.

“It’s okay , I'm right here ,” he murmured, his voice low and soothing. “Just let it out.”

When you were done and spent , he wiped your mouth with a damp corner of a towel and helped you rinse your mouth and brush your teeth.

You leaned against the cool tile wall , breathing ragged, but he didn’t move away.

He stayed right there the entire time , his thumb brushing over your temple.

“Here,” he said , holding out a glass of cool water. “Small sips not too much.”

You took it with shaking hands , the cold liquid a relief against your parched and raw throat.

You managed a weak smile of thanks , your eyes bleary as you looked at him.

“You didn’t have to do all this,” you said , your voice barely audible.

“I wanted to ,” he said simply. “I love you.”

Tears welled up again , but this time they were soft , gentle. “I love you too,” you said , your voice breaking. “I don’t want you to run anymore.”

He cupped your face in his hands , his thumb brushing away the single tear that slipped down your cheek. “Then I don’t,” he said. “We face it together.”

He pulled you into a hug , his arms wrapping around you like a shield against the world.

You clung to him , your face buried in his shoulder , breathing him in.

“You’re it for me,” he said softly, his breath warm against your ear. “You’re my forever.”

You looked up at him, your eyes shining. “You’re my forever too.”

He pressed his forehead to yours , the soft morning light catching on the tears in your lashes. “Then let’s start that forever right here , right now,” he murmured.

In the quiet morning , with the world slowly waking around you , you knew that no matter what came next , no matter how dark the nights , how heavy the memories , you’d now face it together. And that was all you both needed.

-end 🌷

Comments , Reblogs , Likes and Requests are always loved!

(although if you liked this fic please consider reblogging so it can reach a wider audience)

They let me know that you are enjoying what I'm publishing and gives me motivation to write more and more! :33

452 notes · View notes

lethallyprotected · 26 days ago

Note

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

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

The Education Of James Buchanan Barnes

pairing | post!tfatws!bucky x fem!reader

word count | 6.3k words

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

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

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

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

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

likes comments and reblogs are much appreciated ✨✨

ᴍᴀsᴛᴇʀʟɪsᴛ

divider by @cafekitsune

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

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

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

You snorted into your glass.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You choked.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

It sat there on the table like a challenge.

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

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

He hesitated, fingers hovering over the keyboard.

Then he typed:

"What does CNC mean?"

Enter.

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

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

"...Consensual non-consent?"

He clicked the link. Read further.

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

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

Still, he didn’t close the tab.

He opened a new one instead.

"Edging meaning (not gardening)"

More links. More acronyms. More trauma.

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

His beer sat forgotten on the table.

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

Then he clicked another.

And another.

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

He stared at one.

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

Title: “Training My Pretty Submissive Brat”

He blinked. Then hovered. Clicked.

The video loaded.

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

And then...

“What the hell—” he whispered.

The guy was talking. Dirty. Commanding.

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

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

He stood. Paced.

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

He looked back at the screen.

Unpaused.

A few seconds passed.

He sat again.

Watched. Silent. Rigid.

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

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

Paused again.

His chest rose and fell.

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

Beat.

“And she’s loud.”

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

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

He reopened the search bar.

"How to talk dirty in bed"

The search results hit him like a grenade.

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

He clicked another video.

This one was slower. More intimate.

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

Bucky’s breath caught.

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

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

He froze. Eyes wide. Mouth dry.

He swallowed hard.

“…I need another beer.”

But he didn’t move.

Didn’t stop watching.

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

The next video autoplayed before he could stop it.

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

Bucky swallowed hard.

He sat motionless for a full minute.

Then his hand drifted down.

Hesitant. Awkward.

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

“Jesus,” he whispered.

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

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

And Bucky gave in.

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

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

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

He imagined saying those words.

And then—

He imagined you.

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

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

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

A low moan slipped out. Sharp. Uncontrolled.

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

One more stroke—

And he came.

Hard.

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

Silence. Reality. Shame.

His breath was harsh in his ears.

The screen was still playing.

The woman moaned, laughing, pulling the man closer.

Bucky stared. Then looked down.

At himself. At the mess.

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

He let go like he’d been scalded.

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

Not from what he’d watched.

Not even from what he’d done.

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

You.

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

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

His stomach twisted.

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

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

You were his friend.

You were real.

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

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

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

That hadn’t been just need.

That had been you.

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

A Few Weeks Later

There was a knock at the door.

Three knocks, then a pause.

Then two more.

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

Bucky hesitated.

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

But it was you.

He got up slowly and opened the door.

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

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

He stepped aside without a word.

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

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

Bucky closed the door quietly behind you.

“You’re not a nurse,” he muttered.

“Not with that attitude.”

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

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

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

You just hadn’t said anything.

Until now.

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

He sat. Slowly. Farther away than usual.

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

Not yet.

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

And still—he didn’t say a word.

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

The way your voice had sounded moaning his name.

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

He swallowed thickly.

You kept eating, casual, sharp, familiar.

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Ah—ahh—yes, please—!”

The moaning hit like a tactical nuke.

You froze.

So did he.

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

Bucky moved fast.

Too fast.

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

You dodged.

Smooth, practiced. Years of training paying off.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Give. It. Back.”

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

He growled.

Actually growled.

And for half a second, it stopped being funny.

Because the way his eyes locked on you?

That wasn’t embarrassment anymore.

That was heat. Low. Dangerous.

You grinned, too drunk on the chaos to stop.

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

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

You didn’t notice.

You were too busy poking the bear.

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

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

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

That did it. He moved.

Fast.

Faster than he should’ve.

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

His hand planted next to your head.

His voice low. Controlled.

“Enough.”

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

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

Your mouth parted, but no sound came out.

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

That teasing smile faltered—just a little.

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

You swallowed.

Hard.

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

Your breath caught.

His eyes dropped to your lips.

Then back up.

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

It was a promise.

“You want to see what I’m into?”

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

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

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

Bucky’s jaw tightened.

His silence said everything.

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

You leaned in, lips brushing just beneath his ear.

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

He exhaled harshly through his nose.

You didn’t stop.

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

A choked sound left him—more breath than voice.

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

His hands twitched at his sides.

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

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

His head dropped forward, forehead nearly touching yours.

A beat passed.

Then another.

And then—

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

Your eyes fluttered closed for half a second.

That was not the answer you expected first.

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

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

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

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

Your thighs clenched instinctively.

Your nails curled tighter into his chest.

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

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

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

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

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

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

It wasn’t a kiss. It was a claim.

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

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

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

The bed.

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

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

You tilted your head, voice low and mocking.

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

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

“I told you not to push,” he growled.

You smiled, voice syrup-sweet.

“And I told you I liked pushing.”

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

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

And still—you teased.

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

He looked up at you.

Eyes wild, hungry, dark.

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

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

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

And he did.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Your breath caught.

Dead serious.

You didn’t question it. Didn’t tease.

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

“As you wish, Sergeant.”

That name hit him like a punch to the chest.

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

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

And then?

He pulled you down.

No hesitation.

Just mouth.

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

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

“Fuck—Bucky—”

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

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

“Mine.”

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

His eyes met yours.

Dark. Glazed. Possessed.

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

Right now he was just yours.

And you were his.

You couldn’t stop moving.

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

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

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

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

He didn’t.

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

He wanted this.

He wanted to suffocate on you, drown in you.

And you gave it to him.

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

The coil snapped.

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

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

He didn’t let go.

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

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

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

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

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

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

“You taste like heaven.”

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

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

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

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

That was all it took.

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

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

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

“This how you want it?”

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

He growled again—low, deep, possessive.

“Exactly how I want it.”

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

He didn’t push in yet.

Just rubbed, slow, deliberate, teasing.

You whimpered, tried to push back.

He gripped your hips tighter.

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

Then—he pushed in.

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

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

He held still once he was fully inside.

Like he was savoring it.

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

Then he moved.

Pulled out halfway.

And slammed back in.

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

His hands gripped your waist like you were his anchor.

His rhythm brutal, relentless.

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

You were gasping, moaning, clawing at the bed.

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

You couldn’t speak.

Could barely breathe.

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

He didn’t let up.

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

He was so deep in you.

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

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

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

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

You whimpered, nodding, voice breathless.

“Yes, Bucky—fuck—so much.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

You shuddered, squeezing around him so tight he groaned.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Bucky—please—”

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

“Come for me.”

And you did.

Hard.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He was relentless.

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

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

You nodded, moaning, body jerking with every thrust.

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

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

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

“Fuckfuckfuck—gonna come—”

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

You felt it.

Hot.

Thick.

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

And he didn’t let go.

Didn’t move.

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

“You’re mine.”

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

Eventually, he pulled out with a soft groan.

You whimpered at the loss, hips squirming on instinct.

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

You could feel him watching.

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

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

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

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

His arm wrapped around your waist, warm and heavy.

Neither of you spoke for a minute.

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

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

You smiled, eyes drifting shut.

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

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

You grinned.

Couldn��t help it.

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

He froze.

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

“Don’t.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

His throat bobbed.

You waited.

“I dunno,” he mumbled.

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

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

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

He exhaled slowly, then muttered:

“...Sixty-nine.”

You grinned. “Classic. What else?”

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

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

“Shut up.”

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

He hesitated.

Longer this time.

Then—reluctantly, quietly:

“...Roleplay.”

You blinked.

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

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

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

His eyes snapped open.

And you knew.

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

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

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

“I’m begging.”

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

“I’m never telling you anything again.”

You leaned down, lips brushing his.

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

“Kill me now,” he muttered.

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

You grinned, smug and sated, curling down against his chest, eyes closing as his arm wrapped around you again.

And beneath your cheek, you felt him smile.

6K notes · View notes

lethallyprotected · 26 days ago

Text

Save Me Tonight | b.b 𐙚˙⋆.˚

Pairing | Congressman!Bucky Barnes x Assistant!Reader

Summary | Congressman James Barnes is your boss. When you begin to develop strong feelings for him, you decide to take a practical approach and download Tinder. However, when your date takes a turn for the worse, you find yourself desperately hoping for someone—anyone—to come to your rescue. Bucky will always be there to save you.

Warnings/tags | Between the events of CA:BNW and Thunderbolts*, fluff, slow-burn, hurt/comfort, yearning, cursing, sexual harassment (not by Bucky), angst, panic attack, nsfw, MDNI (18+), kissing, smut, p in v sex, unprotected sex, praise kink, low-key switch!Bucky, protective!Bucky, breast play, fingering, save a horse; ride Bucky, mentions of violence, injuries, Bucky would let the world burn for Reader, no use of y/n.

Word Count | 17.8k

A/N | Hey, lovelies. Thank you for all the support on my last fic and 160 followers!! It motivated me to write this one, and I’m pretty proud of it. To reiterate, this is only my second fanfiction, so bear with me, I’m still learning. There’s a little something extra at the end because I’m a sucker for protective Bucky. Sorry in advance for it being so lengthy. Blame my fingers for typing away without consequence. (Hahaha, you’ll never stop me ~ my fingers) Hope you enjoy, and if you did, let me know or feel free to give any feedback:))

You were falling.

No, you were clearly standing upright, but it felt like you were falling. Whenever you looked at him, you felt like the rug was being ripped out from under you.

Him being your boss, Congressman James Barnes. He’s so handsome in a rugged, but polished way.

Like the white button-up he’s in now. Sure, it’s sophisticated, but he has his grey suit jacket off, draped over the back of his chair. His sleeves are rolled up, exposing a bit of his forearms. A few of his top buttons are undone, leaving an immaculate view of his collarbone. That and his five o’clock shadow leave a perfect mix of rugged and polished.

The scent of his cologne is filling your nostrils—oak, amber, and lavender. It’s making your head spin. You feel crazy. You should not be breathing in your boss’s scent or staring at him like you are now.

Bucky is leaning over his desk, focused on a document. He’s chewing on the end of a pen with a furrowed brow, as if the papers had personally offended him.

You let yourself take him in for a few more seconds before you step into his office. You enter with a soft knock on his door.

”I thought I told you that’s bad for your teeth. And, if you keep scrunching your eyebrows like that, you’ll get wrinkles.” You tease, your voice is light and full of warmth.

Bucky’s eyes shoot up immediately. He gapes at you momentarily before taking the pen out of his mouth and relaxing his face. He snorts and rolls his eyes, but you can see the hint of amusement in his expression.

“Yeah, yeah. I know. Always tellin’ me what to do.”

“Maybe you’ll finally look your age if you get wrinkles.” You bite your lip to suppress a giggle.

Bucky shakes his head, but the corner of his lip lifts. “You’re hilarious.” His tone is laced heavily with sarcasm.

“Thank you,” you bow, your arm over your stomach as you bend. “I’ll be here all week.”

“Not if I fire you.” He tilts his head, smirking.

Your jaw drops in faux shock as you cross the room to his desk. You let out a soft laugh. “Smooth, Barnes.”

He swivels in his chair to face you; it’s evident he’s enjoying the banter. Bucky leans back in his seat, elbow on his armrest with his head propped in his hand. Fuck, he’s sexy.

You gesture to the document on his desk as your face goes serious. “If that’s stressing you out, take a break.”

He waves you off. “Nah, I’m alright. Besides, isn’t that what I’m doin’?” Bucky winks at you. Winks at you! What, is he trying to kill you?

After a beat, you clear your throat and nervously grin. Bucky motions to you as he speaks. “What’d you need, darlin’?”

You honestly forgot why you were even here, but you glance down at the packet in your hand, and it all comes flooding back.

“You’re going to hate me.” Your expression turns apologetic. “But I need you to read this over and sign it.” You sheepishly hand him the packet.

”I could never hate you.” He grabs the papers, and your fingers brush. You feel sparks across your flesh. It’s like tiny fireworks coursing through your veins, threatening to reach your pounding heart. You haven’t let go yet, relishing in the bit of contact.

You snap out of your daze and release them. Your cheeks warm, and you hope he can’t see the slight flush crawling up your face. You tuck a loose strand of hair that has fallen from your bun behind your ear.

Bucky’s jaw sets as he places the packet off to the side. He coughs into his fist and locks eyes with you. “Consider it done. I’ll leave it on your desk before I go home.”

“Perfect!” You force your voice up an octave to distract from your embarrassment. “Sorry, I know you have a lot on your plate.”

“All good, it’s a part of my job.”

“Yeah,” You cross your arms over your chest. “But you work too hard. Take a break.”

He arches a brow, trying to keep a straight face, but fails miserably. “Like I said, always tellin’ me what to do.” Bucky huffs air through his nose. “I could say the same for you.”

You roll your eyes at his attempt to deflect your concern. “I work a normal amount, and my break is in five, so don’t worry about me.”

”I’m always worried about you.” Bucky’s voice softens.

You can’t hear anything over your heartbeat thrumming in your ears. Does he realize how those words affect you? You could die happy knowing you‘re even a thought on Bucky’s mind.

He sits up in his seat and continues. “When was the last time you went home on time and didn’t stay after hours?”

”I do go home on time.” Your voice squeaks; you’re lying.

Bucky lets out a dry laugh. “You’re not foolin’ me, doll.”

”Fine, if I promise to leave on time, you have to promise you’ll take a break.”

He contemplates your words and then gives you a stiff nod. “Okay, I promise.”

You grin as you stick out your pinky. He stares at you with a perplexed expression. “What’re you doin’?”

You let out a deep sigh. “Pinky promise me.”

Bucky‘s eyebrows knit together. “I’m not twelve.”

You give him an unimpressed look. ”You’re right, you’re a hundred and something years old. Now give me your damn pinky.”

He grunts, glaring at the ceiling as if it were the one to make him do this. He eventually concedes and interlocks his pinky with yours.

Your fingers tingle again at his touch. You feel like a touch-starved puppy who’s finally getting some attention. If only both of his hands were on you, holding you by your waist and pulling you in to put his lips against yours-

You mentally punch yourself, so that thought doesn’t go any further. Maybe you need to get laid. Then, all these feelings for your boss will go away. This relationship is strictly professional, so you might want to find something to keep your mind off the idea of it becoming more.

You straighten, beaming at him. You pull your hand away and turn on your heels to stride toward the door.

When you exit his office, you grab the handle, ready to close the door behind you. Before you do, you peek your head in. “Have a nice break.”

“Yeah, you too,” Bucky grumbles.

On your way back to your desk, you're grinning from ear to ear like an idiot. This is ridiculous. You need a distraction. You pull your phone out of your blazer and download Tinder.

This should be fun.

｡･:*:･ﾟ★,｡･:*:･ﾟ☆ ｡･:*:･ﾟ★,｡･:*:･ﾟ☆

Bzz. Bzz.

Bucky glances at your phone resting on his desk before refocusing on his laptop to determine where he left off with his email. Just as he gets his train of thought back-

Bzz. Bzz.

He takes a steady breath in and releases it. Why is he upset over a simple notification? He wonders why you didn’t take it with you to the bathroom. Bucky sighs and begins typing away on his laptop again.

Bzz. Bzz.

What the fuck? How many notifications can you get in a minute? He nearly wants to reach over and grab it to see, but he won’t snoop into your business. That’s unprofessional.

Bzz. Bzz.

Bucky groans, rubbing at his eyes as he inclines back in his chair. How can he get any work done with that thing buzzing on his desk? He hears your heels clack against the wood floor as you enter his office.

“You okay, sir?” Your pretty voice drifts through the air like a bird’s song.

Bucky’s gaze darts to you, and he gestures to your phone. “Can you get that thing under control? And I told you, stop calling me that.” His voice comes out harsher than he intended.

You raise your hands in surrender. “I’ll get right to that, grumpy.”

You grab your phone off the desk, glance at it, and press a button on the side. Then, you slide it into the pocket of your trousers before perching on the seat across from him.

“Fuck,” he grunts under his breath, massaging his temples. “Sorry, I didn’t sleep much last night, but that’s no excuse.”

You shrug and give him a soft smile. “It’s alright, I can handle your grumpy ass.” You motion to your pocket. “I’m sorry, I must have forgotten to silence my phone this morning.”

“Don’t apologize. You have nothing to be sorry for.” Bucky scoots forward, getting back to his email. His fingers are on the keys, but his mind is elsewhere.

“What was that all about anyway?” He points to your pocket.

You cross one leg over the other, settling into the chair. “Oh, nothing. It’s just this guy I’ve been talking to.”

Bucky’s jaw clenches, and he has to force his face to remain blank. He shouldn’t be jealous. He’s not jealous. You're his assistant, nothing more. You deserve to have a life outside of work, outside of him. Anyone would be lucky to have you.

Lucky fucking bastard.

“Yeah? What’s his name?” Bucky lightens his tone as if it doesn’t bother him, which it doesn’t. He doesn’t care about his name, but he’ll try for your sake.

“Uh…Derek.” You mutter.

His posture goes rigid. He attempts to tease you, so you don’t notice. “What’s uh…Derek like?”

You giggle, and it’s the sweetest sound. Like a soft patter of rain against a window. “I don’t know, I guess he's nice.”

”You guess? Haven’t you been on a date with him yet?” Bucky inquires.

This is entirely unprofessional. He shouldn’t be asking about your relationship status. He’s just trying to get to know you, right? It’s normal for bosses to ask their employees about their lives.

He doesn’t see you that way, though. He’d much rather label you as his equal. You do as much work as he does, if not more. He knows he could never do this job without you.

You let out a long sigh, drawing him away from his brain's constant back and forth. “No, our first date is tomorrow.”

Bucky tilts his head. “Tomorrow’s the gala, darlin’. I kinda need you there.”

If you asked for a day off, he would be more than happy to give it to you. However, he wants to be selfish. You are the highlight of his evenings at those damn events. Whenever he feels anxious or overwhelmed by all the rich bastards around him, he seeks comfort in your company.

“I know, that’s why I invited him as my plus one. It completely slipped my mind. I should have asked you earlier this week.”

It’s not the best situation, but you’re still going with him. He hates the thought of you being around another man all night, but he’ll deal with it because it’s necessary. This is a professional relationship, and he has to accept that, even though he wishes it could be something more.

Bucky’s silent, so you continue. “I just didn’t want to be alone all night. I always appreciate it when you come over to check on me, but you shouldn’t have to feel obligated to.” He opens his mouth to interrupt you, but you talk right over him.

“I thought it would be easier this way. You can focus on the political side of things, and I can keep tabs from a distance like we always do, but instead, I’ll have someone to keep me company.”

You’re rambling, your words spilling out like water from a faucet. You’re bouncing your leg and picking at your nails—clear signs of anxiety. He recognizes these behaviors all too well, although his own anxiety manifests as a silent, gnawing feeling. In contrast, yours feels like a wildfire, all-consuming and intense.

“Doll-” Bucky tries to cut you off, to ease the tension out of your body, but your mouth is moving a mile a minute.

“Gosh, what was I thinking? It’s a dumb idea and entirely unprofessional. I’ll cancel and reschedule our date for another time.” Your gaze has shifted to a point on the wall, as if you’re dissociating.

He stands up from his chair and drops down to one knee in front of you. You still don’t notice his existence as you keep chatting away.

“It’s not that I hate galas, I like them, but it’s easier around someone. I don’t even have to talk to them just to be near them-” You stop suddenly when Bucky places his hand on your restless leg, halting its movement.

“Hey, darlin’.” Bucky’s voice is gentle, calmly trying to pull you out of your trance. His thumb strokes your knee over the fabric of your pants. Your wide eyes focus on him, and your breathing becomes erratic.

“You’re having a panic attack. Can you breathe with me for a second?” He demonstrates breathing in and then releasing slowly. “In through the nose, out through the mouth. Do it with me now.”

You follow his lead, breathing deeply into your nose and releasing a long breath out of your mouth.

”Good, do that a couple more times with me.” Bucky coaxes. You obey his instruction, slowing your breathing down.

Once he knows that you can breathe easier, he speaks again. “Can you tell me five things you can see?”

”Huh?” You look utterly confused.

”It’s a trick I learned in therapy. Indulge me.” Bucky continues to gently massage your knee with soothing patterns.

You give him a tight nod. Your eyes begin wandering around the room. “Uh…your laptop, that little white cat figurine I bought you—Alpine.”

Bucky snorts; he really loves that figurine. One day, early in his term, you were discussing pets. You asked him if he would ever consider having a pet, and he replied that he couldn’t because he’s too busy. Curious about his preferences, you asked what type of pet he would choose if he had the time, and he mentioned that he liked cats. That’s how the cat figurine came to be. Of course, you were the one who named it.

”That’s two. Give me three more.”

Your attention flicks back to Bucky, and he notices how drained you look. “Your tie has blue stars on it.”

You lock eyes with him, and a faint smile appears on your lips. "It matches your eyes, though yours are the perfect shade of blue. That color is rare; I don't think I've seen it anywhere else."

Bucky swears that his heart skips a beat. He doesn’t think he’s ever received a compliment quite like that before. He decides he only wants you to compliment him from now on.

He clears his throat when he realizes he stared at you for too long. “One more, doll.”

You lift your gaze again, searching for something in his office. “That dumbass painting.” You point to the wall, and Bucky pivots to see.

You’re referring to the painting with dogs around a table playing poker. He chuckles, scanning your face as if your thoughts are written there and he’s trying to read them.

“What’s wrong with it?” Bucky sounds offended, but he’s suppressing a smirk.

”It doesn’t fit your aesthetic.”

“My aesthetic?” The word feels foreign on his tongue, as if he were never meant to say it.

You clarify, your hands motioning to the room around you. “Your style.”

He no longer tries to hide his amusement, grinning like you are the most interesting thing in the world. “And, what is my style, doll?”

“Dark, mysterious, clean, and you’re a minimalist.” You express it as though it’s obvious, and he can’t deny your description.

”Huh, I guess I’ll remove it then. I didn’t realize you had such disdain for dogs playin’ poker.”

”I don’t, it’s cute,” you insist. “And, don’t take it down. You put it there, and it’s your office.”

“Nope, it’s already settled.” Bucky rises from his kneeling position with a grunt. “I’m removin’ it. I didn’t put it there anyway. It was here before I became a congressman.”

Bucky grabs the pitcher of water off his desk and pours it into one of the stacked plastic cups beside it. He sits in the chair beside you and hands you the water.

“Drink.” He orders, but his voice is soft.

“Now you’re telling me what to do.” You tease, lifting the cup to your lips and gulping down the refreshing liquid.

He ignores your comment and presses on. “Wanna tell me what happened to make you have a panic attack? Was it somethin’ I said?”

“No,” Your shoulders slump forward as you release a breath. You set the empty cup down on his desk before speaking again. “It was the silence. I immediately thought you were angry with me when you didn’t say anything.”

“Have I given you any reason to believe I’d be mad at you?” It’s a sincere question. You’re the only person he genuinely cares about protecting. If you think he’s upset with you, then he’s not fulfilling his role.

You shake your head, and it instantly puts his worries to rest. Bucky clasps his hands together and continues. “I’m okay with the idea of you bringin’ a plus one, I just wish you had told me-”

You open your mouth to speak, but Bucky raises a hand to signal that he isn't finished. “I wish you had told me you don’t like being alone.”

You furrow your brow, surprised by his unexpected response. You bite your lip, searching for the right words to express your feelings.

“I’m not your responsibility.” You murmur. There’s no malice behind your words, just a woman who’s done things on your own for far too long and doesn’t want to ask for help.

“No, you’re not.” Bucky begins. “But we’re a team, and if secrets exist between us, this doesn’t work.”

He’s such a hypocrite. He’s holding back vital information from you. Bucky likes you, and no one can pry that knowledge from him. Feelings are fleeting; whatever he feels towards you will fade eventually. Right?

You smile sweetly, your eyes crinkling at the corners. It’s like the sun has entered the room. You’re bright and blinding. You’ll destroy him from the inside out if he looks for too long.

He doesn’t mind the idea of that, though. He was yours to take apart anyway. How can he move on when you look like that, and you make him feel like this?

“You’re right. No more secrets.”

“Damn right, I’m always right.” His expression is all smug, which prompts you to roll your eyes and giggle, but it seems somewhat frail.

Bucky gets up from his spot. “You should go home. I got it from here.”

You stand to meet his eyes, defiance etched on your face. “No, I’m fine. I was going to help you-”

He cuts you off. "If you want to help me, go home. Get some rest, darlin’. I’ll see you at the gala, and you can introduce me to uh…Derek.”

You snort, shaking your head. “You are not making that a thing.”

“Oh, I’m definitely making that a thing.” Bucky puts his hands on his hips. “Now, go before I fire you.”

You narrow your gaze. “Fine, but you can’t keep threatening to fire me when it’s convenient for you.”

“Nah, I like seein’ the look on your face every time I say it.” His smirk is wide and arrogant. You glare at him in response, and it’s adorable.

He tips his head in the direction of the door. “Do you need a ride home?”

Your expression softens. “No, I’ll manage.” He gives you a stiff nod.

You amble towards the door, but pause, peeking over your shoulder. “Thank you, Barnes. For everything.”

Bucky staggers slightly. He would do anything for you. He doesn’t need a thank you in return, but it sounds too good coming from your lips. He’s staring at you like a damn fool, undoubtedly with hearts in his eyes.

”Of course, doll.” He mumbles. You hum and proceed forward, stepping out of the door and out of Bucky’s view.

As soon as you leave, he flops back down in the chair. He lets out a long sigh, metal hand running down his features.

How will he manage a whole night with another man's arm around you?

｡･:*:･ﾟ★,｡･:*:･ﾟ☆ ｡･:*:･ﾟ★,｡･:*:･ﾟ☆

You’re leaning against the bar, glass in hand, and patiently waiting.

No, pacing by the bar and fixing your hair for the tenth time tonight is not what anyone would describe as patience. You have never been a patient person, and you can thank your anxiety for that.

You arrived at the venue about half an hour ago, an hour before the gala even starts. You like to be on time or extremely early. There’s no in between.

The real reason you arrived early was to meet Derek before the event. You wanted to chat and get acquainted before everyone else arrived.

He’s late. You would understand if he had sent a quick text saying he would be there soon, but you haven’t received anything in an hour.

You spent the last twenty minutes pacing back and forth. The bartender noticed your nerves and slid a glass of water your way. You’ve been sipping on it while trying to fix your curled strands. This is why you usually wear your hair up—so you don’t have to worry about adjusting it repeatedly. Then there’s your dress, which you keep fussing with.

You wore a navy satin dress with a plunging neckline that revealed just enough cleavage. The back was mostly open, featuring crisscross straps. The dress hugged your curves perfectly and accentuated your figure, making your ass look fantastic. You exuded elegance along with just the right amount of sultriness.

It wasn’t your typical style, and the thought of revealing too much of yourself made you feel insecure. Since you hadn’t been on a date in a while, you decided it was the perfect opportunity to try something bold. Now, you worry that after putting in so much effort, he might end up standing you up.

You continue to drink your water, letting it cool you. You almost wish you had something a bit stronger to ease the tension in your body.

Suddenly, you feel a presence behind you as a warm hand brushes your arm. You quickly turn your head around.

Damn. Congressman Barnes.

He looks like snow cast in shadow under the midnight sky, with the snowflakes illuminated only by the moonlight. He’s wearing a crisp white button-up shirt over a black tuxedo and dark dress pants. Although his bow tie is crooked, it doesn’t matter at all. Bucky wears suits every day, but tonight he looks incredibly handsome with his hair slicked back and his blue eyes shining.

Shit. You’re gawking at him. To distract him from your flustered state, you flash him a wide smile. His warm flesh hand rests gently on your arm, but after a moment, he acknowledges that he is still touching you, and he lets his hand fall away.

Bucky opens and closes his mouth several times before spitting it out. “You look…lovely.”

Your smile falters slightly, and you feel your breath become heavier in your lungs from that simple word. Sure, he has complimented you before, but this feels different. You can't quite put your finger on why, though.

“Thank you.” Your voice is delicate, and your grin turns genuine, unlike the showy one from before. “You don't look too bad yourself.”

Bucky huffs air out of his nose, a smirk playing on his lips. His eyes seem to penetrate your very being, as if he's tearing through your flesh to truly understand every part of you. He knows your most vulnerable sides and didn't flinch. So, what’s the harm in him seeing everything?

You turn your gaze away from his eyes, afraid of losing yourself in them. Your eyes shift to his neck as you take a step forward until you're directly in front of him.

“You look perfect, but can I make one minor adjustment?”

He gives you a firm nod in response. You extend your arms to grip both sides of his bow tie and adjust it to your liking.

“Great,” Bucky grumbles. “I can’t even dress myself properly.”

“You did fine, it was just a bit crooked. Sometimes all a man needs is a woman’s touch to look presentable.” There’s a teasing lilt to your tone.

After adjusting, you rest your hand over the middle of the bow tie. Glancing up into his piercing blues, you realize how close you are.

You swear he’s reading every one of your thoughts as if they’re on full display. It’s intimidating, yet his eyes tell you he’ll treasure them, keeping them tucked away in his mind in a special spot just for you.

His cologne envelops you like a warm hug, drawing you in as if urging you to kiss him. You find yourself captivated by the scent, which clouds your mind and impairs your logical thinking.

Instead, you gently pat him and take a step back, admiring your work. “Now you’re ready for your close-up, Congressman Barnes.”

He shakes his head and playfully rolls his eyes. “Thanks, doll.” He peers around the room. “Where’s uh…Derek?”

You let out a lengthy sigh. “Your guess is as good as mine.”

He looks puzzled, so you clarify, “We were supposed to meet thirty minutes ago, but he hasn’t shown up or even sent a text.”

Bucky clenches his jaw, but releases it as if the tension was never there. “Would you like me to wait with you?”

You wave your hand as if to shoo him away. "No, please, go mingle."

He seems like he might press the issue, but gives you a tight-lipped smile. “Well, as soon as he gets here, I’m givin’ him a piece of my mind for makin’ a pretty girl wait.”

He’s stolen the breath from your lungs, leaving you gasping for just a bit of air to keep from suffocating. It feels as if he hasn’t realized that his sweet words are slowly killing you. Then, he walks away as if nothing had happened.

Air rushes into your lungs again, overwhelming you as if it’s choking you. You’re panting like you ran a marathon, yet your feet remain planted in the same spot.

You pull out your phone from your purse and shoot Derek another text.

I’m at the bar whenever you get here.

You need him here now. The whole reason you put yourself out there is to distract your heart from liking someone you can’t be with. And once again, Bucky has turned your world upside down. You must avoid your feelings before they sink their teeth into your vulnerable, beating heart.

Minutes go by, and finally, you see a familiar figure moving around the ballroom. Derek is even more attractive in person. He carries himself with confidence, and his presence fills the space, as if his frame were larger than it actually is.

He is wearing a casual beige polo shirt loosely tucked into mocha-colored trousers, paired with loafers. His dark hair is perfectly coiffed around his eyes, and the sleeves of his shirt fit tightly around his biceps.

It seems he wore it intentionally for that reason, and you don’t mind. You can appreciate some muscle; there’s nothing wrong with showcasing something you worked hard for.

Of course, appearances aren’t everything for you. You matched with him because of his impressive profile. He works as a financial manager, which shows he is skilled with money. He has a dog named Luna, who is a husky. In his free time, he has hosted multiple charity events and volunteers at homeless shelters.

Derek seems like the perfect guy on paper. From your conversations with him, he checks all the right boxes: he’s kind, caring, and communicates well. The only downside is that he left you waiting for almost two hours. However, you believe in not judging someone based on first impressions, so you’re genuinely excited to see how this date unfolds.

You eventually wave him over. “Derek, hey!”

He immediately responds to the sound of your voice, greeting you with an easy smile as he checks you out.

Being examined by an objectively handsome man should elicit some feelings, right? You might expect butterflies in your stomach, your skin to heat, or your heart to skip a beat. But it does nothing for you. Not like when Bucky even glances your way, then your palms become instantly sweaty.

Stop thinking about Bucky and focus on the man approaching you. He wraps his arms around you and pulls you into a quick hug while you drape your arms around his neck. You might feel rigid in his embrace, like stiff cardboard. As he steps back, you remind yourself to relax and not let your nerves get the better of you.

Derek leans back to get the full view of you up close. “Damn, you’re hotter in person.”

Oh, what an interesting way to start a conversation. You can't help but think of Bucky and how gently he spoke about your appearance, as if it were difficult for him to express what he was seeing in just a few words. In contrast, Derek is quite bold. Perhaps that's a good thing?

”Thank you, you’re very handsome in person.”

He smirks at you like he knows it. “Yeah, I get that a lot.” He pushes his hair back and deliberately flexes his arm muscles. “Listen, I’m sorry I’m late. Something came up.”

Well, that’s vague. It’s fine, you’re over it. At least he’s here now.

“All good,” you gesture toward the bar seats. “Would you like to sit?” He nods, climbing onto one of the stools, while you take the one next to him.

“What‘re we drinking?” Derek claps his hands and rubs them together.

“I’m on the job, so unfortunately, it's just water for me. You can go ahead, it's an open bar.”

“Come on,” he pokes you in the side. “Just one, I won’t tell anyone.”

You lightly giggle. “No, really, I shouldn’t.”

He rolls his eyes, and he seems annoyed. “You’re no fun.”

Derek turns to the bartender and orders a rum and Coke. Your water is refilled. You turn in your seat, resting your jaw on your hand, and wait for the conversation to flow.

As the night progressed, the date hadn’t. Derek only seemed to want to talk about himself, which would have been fine if he had included you in the conversation. Instead, he spoke right over you and didn't ask about you once.

You nod along and actively listen. He takes full advantage of the open bar while you stay hydrated. He is not at all what you expected and is completely different from the man you texted daily.

There’s a beat of silence, and you take that opportunity to finally get a word in. “I read on your profile that you do charity work. What charity did you last host for?”

Derek shrugs. “No idea, my dad is in charge of all that shit.”

“Huh?” You give him a perplexed expression.

“My dad runs the company where I work and organizes the charity events. Sometimes I don't even bother showing up.” He chuckles as if it’s funny, but you don’t laugh.

You change the topic since he doesn't know anything about it. "What kind of volunteer work do you do at homeless shelters?"

“That was a lie.” He takes a deep breath before continuing. “Look, it's tough out here for us men. Sometimes, you have to lie to even get a date with these self-absorbed women.”

You suppress your growing anger. Why would someone lie about that? You feel like you need to make an excuse to run to the bathroom.

Derek leans closer to you. “But you’re different, sweetheart.” His hand wraps around your waist, and you can smell alcohol on his breath.

He presses his mouth to your ear and whispers. “Maybe we can find a private room in this place.” Derek’s hand drifts down your back and he grabs your ass.

Your body tenses up, and you feel extremely uncomfortable. He just squeezed your ass as if he had the right to do so. You hadn’t given any indication that such behavior was acceptable. Even if you had, he should have asked for permission before touching you in that way.

You hardly know each other. You know almost everything about him, but he knows very little about you. You’re trying to lean away from him to breathe air that isn’t his, but he’s holding you close.

You almost convince yourself that this is what you want, but your body rejects the idea. The thought of having sex with him makes you feel physically ill. He’s drunk and would only be using you for his own pleasure, which wouldn’t be enjoyable for you at all. You crave meaningful sex, not a brief distraction to forget about your boss.

Your breathing is shallow, and you begin to shake. You try to speak, but the words won’t come out. Silently, you pray for anyone to come to your rescue. Although you could push him off you, you can’t find the strength; you feel frozen.

Save me, please, you think. You don’t know exactly who you’re pleading to, but you hope someone can somehow hear you.

｡･:*:･ﾟ★,｡･:*:･ﾟ☆ ｡･:*:･ﾟ★,｡･:*:･ﾟ☆

Bucky has been watching you all night, especially when Derek arrived. He was supposed to go over and introduce himself to your date, but he didn't have the courage to do it.

He’s fine with watching from a distance. He doesn’t have to hear you laugh at Derek’s jokes or look at him with your beautiful, sparkling eyes.

He places himself so that he can catch a glimpse of you from the corner of his eye during every conversation he has with the wealthy assholes. He hardly pays attention to what they are saying because he is concerned about you. While he adds a few remarks to each topic, he isn’t genuinely interested in their responses.

Bucky becomes especially interested in your date when Derek leans in closer. He clenches his fist and grinds his teeth in frustration. He almost looks away, but notices how uncomfortable you appear. Though Bucky is quite a distance away from you, he knows exactly what he saw.

You attempt to pull away from Derek, but he only draws you closer. Meanwhile, Bucky has vanished without a word to the person he was talking to. He moves through the crowd with purpose, as if on a mission that no one can interrupt.

Derek leans back to examine your face, gently pushing a strand of your hair behind your ear. Bucky feels a wave of nausea; he can tell you're not interested in Derek's advances because you appear to be panicking internally.

Bucky clears his throat as he stands behind you. Derek eventually lowers his hand, and the tension instantly leaves your body. You glance back at Bucky, and your breathing becomes lighter.

”Can I borrow you for a second?” Bucky nearly grits the words out through his teeth.

“Sure.” You turn in your seat and begin to get off, but Bucky is there with a hand out to help you. You grin in appreciation and use his hand to leap down.

After you’re down, Bucky’s hand falls back to his side. You turn to Derek while motioning towards Bucky. “This is my boss, Congressman Barnes.” You swivel around to Bucky. “Barnes, this is Derek.”

Bucky nods in Derek’s direction but avoids making eye contact. Derek stumbles out of his seat, clearly drunk and struggling to hold his liquor.

“Congressman, it’s an honor to meet you,” Derek slurs as he stands in front of Bucky, extending his hand. “Let me just say, your campaign was inspiring.”

Bucky takes a moment to push down the raging fire crawling up his throat. “Thanks.” He grunts and takes Derek’s outstretched hand with his metal one. His grasp is unyielding, as if one wrong move could snap all the bones in Derek’s hand.

“Shit,” Derek growls as he grimaces in pain. ”Strong grip you have there.”

Bucky grins mischievously as he claps his hand on Derek’s shoulder. "Sorry, sometimes I don't know my own strength." He then releases his hand and steps back, offering his arm to you.

You link your arm with his, resting your hand on his forearm. “I’ll be right back,” you assure your date, but he secretly clutches his hand as if the bones have shattered.

Bucky guides you away, his expression marked by irritation. You glance up at him and squeeze his bicep with your free hand. “What’s wrong, grumpy?”

“Nothing. Why would anything be wrong?” Bucky mutters, keeping his eyes forward, as if you’ll see the reason swimming there if he looks at you.

“I don’t know; you tell me.” You stop, making Bucky halt and glance in your direction. Your eyes show concern. “Are the rich bastards stressing you out?”

You reach up, placing your thumb on Bucky’s forehead, rubbing out the frown lines between his eyebrows. His eyes flutter closed at the sensation as he lets you melt away the tension with your touch.

You hum and remove your thumb from its spot when you register that all the strain in his forehead is long gone. Bucky peels his eyes open again as he speaks. “What stress, darlin’?”

You giggle, and it lights up the entire room. “I swear it was there a second ago.” You tease, patting his forearm. “What’d you need me for, Barnes?”

Shit. Bucky didn’t fully consider the consequences; he just wanted to help you escape that uncomfortable situation.

So, he blurts out the first thing that comes to mind. “I need a second opinion. Could you listen in on the conversation? Let me know what’s worthy of my attention.”

“Of course, lead the way.” You answer with warmth in your voice.

Bucky guides you towards a group of people in suits engaged in conversation. You both join the discussion, and Bucky introduces you. You shake a few hands and receive a warm welcome. As the conversation resumes, you actively participate in it.

Bucky is impressed by your enthusiasm for political topics. Words come easily to you, and you have a wealth of knowledge. He always knew you were intelligent, but witnessing you in action is captivating.

The conversation shifts to more personal matters, including families, properties, and everyone’s golf score. You and Bucky don’t participate in that section of the discussion.

You angle your mouth to Bucky’s ear and whisper. “I should get back, but let me know if you need anything.”

He doesn’t want you to leave. Things are easier with you around. Bucky can’t let you return to that jerk, who’s drunk and trying to take advantage of you.

Bucky gently grabs your arm before you leave and leads you away from the suits for a private conversation. “Are you sure that’s a good idea?”

”Yeah, why wouldn’t it be?” You respond, trying to avert Bucky’s gaze.

”Darlin’,” He begins. “I saw him touch you.”

You shrug, acting as if it’s no big deal. “That’s typically how things go on dates.”

Bucky shakes his head. “Not like that.”

”Please, stay out of it.” Your voice is small, like you don’t want to argue with him right now.

“What if he tries that shit again?” Bucky doesn’t mean to raise his voice at you, but he loathes this situation. He wants more than anything to protect you, even if you're not his to protect.

“Then, I’ll handle it. I’m very capable of doing things myself.” You match his tone, clearly showing that you’re getting upset with him.

He wants to avoid making you angry, so he tries to make his voice sound lighter and more compassionate. “I know you’re capable, but I want you to be safe. I’m not convinced you're safe with him.”

You take a deep, shaky breath, and Bucky sees this as a signal to continue. “I’m not trying to tell you what to do, but you shouldn't waste your time on him. He disrespected you, and I don’t think he deserves a second chance.”

“Well, I believe everyone deserves a second chance.” You state calmly.

Bucky scoffs. “Not everyone, doll.”

You don’t miss a beat. “You did.”

Bucky's shoulders slump as he reflects on your words. He has always struggled to believe he deserves forgiveness for his past. Although he knows, on some level, that he had no other choice, that doesn't erase the lives he took and the families he destroyed.

Those feelings will never fade, no matter how often he’s told ‘it wasn’t him’. He still has to live with the screams and gore he witnessed with his own hands. When he relives those memories, it’s his hand that is doing the killing, even if it’s dark now instead of the silver one in his nightmares.

It's not an out-of-body experience where he watches the soldier do his bidding. No, it's all Bucky; that's clear to him. Now, he's questioning his judgment all because of you. With just two simple words and that twinkle in your eye, you convinced him that he deserved a second chance and that he is worthy of the life he’s living now.

How does she do that? That must be a superpower or something.

“Listen,” you begin again. “I appreciate your concern, but please let me do this.”

Bucky’s hand drops from your arm as if he's enchanted. He doesn't want to tell you what to do; God knows he's had enough of that in his lifetime. He shouldn't do that to you either.

“You’re going to give me wrinkles with all this stress you’re puttin’ me through, darlin’.” His gaze narrows at you.

“Aw, you poor thing,” you smirk. “Seriously, please don’t stress. You're first on my contact list, if anything goes wrong.”

First on your contact list? Bucky won’t dwell on that too much, for his own sake. He rolls his eyes, and you chuckle at his disapproval.

You step towards him and quickly kiss his cheek. Bucky practically melts at the brief contact. As you pull away, your eyes shine with forming tears. “Thank you for always looking out for me. I truly don’t deserve you.”

Bucky is stunned into silence as he stares at you, dumbfounded, as if you just told him the world is falling apart. He wants to say it's the opposite—that he doesn’t deserve you—but the words are stuck in his throat, as if he’s choking on them.

You smile at him as if you can read his thoughts, and one of the tears rolls down your face. You turn and stride away. Before he knows it, the crowd has engulfed you.

There's a sharp pain in his chest. For some reason, he feels like he just lost you. Bucky should have fought harder for you. Although he doesn’t deserve you, he would treat you right.

If it were Bucky instead, he would have a hand on the small of your back, whispering sweet nothings into your ear, and asking you to dance. He would take his time with you, making you feel like you were something special, because you are special.

Now he has to spend the next hour drifting in and out of meaningless conversations while he worries about you.

｡･:*:･ﾟ★,｡･:*:･ﾟ☆ ｡･:*:･ﾟ★,｡･:*:･ﾟ☆

You wipe the tears from your eyes as you return to the bar. You’ve never felt so deeply cared for in your life, and you refuse to take it for granted. Already, you’re planning ways to show your gratitude to Bucky, making sure he knows how much you appreciate him and everything he has done for you.

You spot Derek still at the bar where you left him. His head is resting in his hand, and it looks like he has switched to water. Sneaking up behind him, you say with a hint of amusement in your tone, “Did you drink them dry of all their alcohol?”

Derek spins around, and upon seeing you, he bursts out laughing. “No, I thought this would help me sober up faster.” He lifts his glass.

You hum in response. Derek jumps down from his stool and faces you. “I’m sorry about earlier. I was out of line. First, I shouldn’t have gotten drunk on a date. Work was frustrating me, and you were making me nervous. I thought the alcohol might help, but I realize now that it only made things worse.”

Derek takes a deep breath. “Second, I talked about myself the whole time. That was not fair to you. I didn’t even ask you anything; I just rambled on and on about shit that doesn’t matter.”

“Third,” he rubs the back of his neck. “The biggest mistake. I shouldn’t have touched you like that. That was highly inappropriate, and I should have asked you before even thinking about it.”

Wow, you weren't expecting that, but you're pleasantly surprised. It doesn’t justify what he did, but at least he’s taking accountability.

“I think we need a do-over. What do you think?” You offer.

Derek seems relieved by your words. “That sounds great.”

You give him a kind smile. “How about a walk?”

He glances down at your attire. “In heels?”

You snort. “I’ll take them off.”

“I’ll carry them for you.” He winks at you. You already feel more at ease with this new start.

Derek motions for you to follow him out of the room, and you do. You stroll side by side through the hallway. His fingers gently brush against yours, as if silently asking for permission. You feel warmth in your chest and heat rising in your cheeks.

He pauses by the coat room and motions to it. “I gotta get my jacket quick.” You nod for him to go ahead, and he steps inside.

You lean against the doorframe as you pull your phone out of your purse. “I should send my boss a text before we leave.” You swiftly type something out and send it to Bucky.

Change of plans, we’re going for a walk. If you need anything, don’t hesitate. I promise I’ll make it up to you tomorrow. You can make me work extra :)

Derek grabs his leather jacket and throws it on. “I thought you’d never get away from him.”

You put your phone back in your purse, and your brow furrows. “Hmm?”

“I thought he was going to hold you hostage all night.”

“Well, he is kind of my job.” You shrug with a grin on your lips.

“I know that,” Derek crosses his arms over his chest. “Don’t get me wrong, he seems like a nice guy, he just asks a lot of you.”

“I don’t think he asks enough of me, honestly. I have the easiest job.”

He tilts his head. “You don’t think he’s demanding or testy?”

“Not at all. Sure, he sometimes gets grumpy, but I know he means well,” you admit. Derek quirks a brow, then dips his head and shakes it. He stays quiet for a moment.

You press the matter because you're curious. “You seem like you want to say something else.”

“It’s nothing.” Derek waves you off.

“Come on, just say it.” Your tone is playful..

Derek takes a deep breath as he contemplates whether to say what’s on his mind. “I mean, he’s kind of a murderer.”

Your body stiffens, and you frown; you are entirely disgusted by the fact that he said that.

"No, he's not." Your voice is firm and unwavering.

“You’re defending him? I get that you work for him, but you don’t have to follow him blindly.”

You scoff. “Of course, I’m defending him. He was brainwashed for fuck’s sake and he didn’t have a choice. How would you like to be stripped of your choices and used as a weapon?”

Your blood is boiling. Why were you so naive to think that this guy was anything other than a jerk? Derek disrespected you, and now he's doing the same to Bucky. You should have listened to your boss when he advised you not to give this guy another chance.

“You believe that shit? He almost broke my fucking hand, shaking it. That seems like a conscious mind, freely being violent, to me.” Derek shouts.

You could laugh because you weren’t aware that Bucky tried to break his hand. You thought Derek was exaggerating, but now you realize he wasn’t.

You’re finished with this discussion. You need to walk away before you become ‘freely violent.’ You start to march away, but stop and turn around when Derek speaks again.

“Hold on, I see what this is. You follow Barnes around like a lost puppy because you want something from him.”

You let out a dry laugh. You can’t believe you’re still listening to this guy like he has anything relevant to say.

Derek gets closer to you again. “No wait, I got it. You’re trying to get in his pants for a promotion.”

Your heart pounds with anger as you glare at Derek. “Not that I owe you an explanation, but I truly love my job, asshole.”

“No one wants to be an assistant.”

“Well, this date is over.” You stomp down the hallway, attempting to get some distance from him.

“It’s a shame.” You glance over your shoulder, and he’s giving you a condescending smile. “You would have been a decent fuck.”

Your hands ball into fists tightly, and your fingernails dig into your palms. You shouldn’t even be entertaining Derek, but you yell back anyway. “That’s your problem, huh? You think with your two inch dick rather than your brain.”

You can tell that bothered him. “You’re just mad because I figured you out.” You roll your eyes, and your feet shift forward again. “That’s right. Go cry to your boss and beg him to fuck you.”

You keep moving, unbothered by his shouts. Derek continues, much to your dismay, “I knew you were desperate, but I didn’t realize you were also a slut.”

Your movements falter slightly. Out of everything Derek said, that’s what affects you the most. It feels heavy on your chest. Everything he mentioned about you and Bucky feels like weights tied to your ankles, dragging you down. Your vision blurs as tears prick your eyes.

You hear a door shut in the distance, and you hope that means he’s gone because you can’t hold back your tears any longer. You need to sit down, but the waterfall of tears obstructs your vision. You find a wall to lean against and slowly slide down into a sitting position.

You pull your knees to your chest and sob. Tears stream down your cheeks as you gasp for air in a broken cry.

｡･:*:･ﾟ★,｡･:*:･ﾟ☆ ｡･:*:･ﾟ★,｡･:*:･ﾟ☆

Change of plans, we’re going for a walk. If you need anything, don’t hesitate. I promise I’ll make it up to you tomorrow. You can make me work extra :)

Bucky has been standing in the same spot for several minutes, staring at your text. He’s thinking about whether to find you and take you home or stay put like you asked him to.

He struggles to follow your precise instructions; stay out of it. He strides out of the room like a tracking dog following a scent. As soon as he exits the ballroom, he hears it.

Muffled cries fill his ears, and he knows it’s you without even looking. Your back is against the wall, but you’re curled in on yourself. He tentatively steps over to you, so he doesn’t startle you.

“Darlin’?” Bucky’s tone is tender, full of sympathy. He’s never seen you like this, and it breaks his heart.

Your head snaps up from your knees. Your red, tired eyes dart over Bucky’s form. You quickly wipe the tears from your face and force a weak smile.

You point your thumb toward the ballroom. “I’ll be in; I just need a minute.” Your voice is thick with unshed tears.

“No,” he declares as he walks over to you, positioning himself against the wall while maintaining a little distance to give you space. He grabs the fabric of his dress pants at his thighs and adjusts them before sitting down beside you.

Bucky stretches out his legs and lets the quiet settle between you, interrupted only by your sniffles. After a while, he decides to continue his statement. “You’re going to sit with me for as long as you need.”

Once you can breathe clearly and the occasional tear falls, you mumble, “You should have broken his hand.”

Bucky lets out a nervous chuckle. “You saw that?”

“Sort of, but…Derek confirmed my suspicions.” It’s a struggle for you to get his name out as if it’s strangling you from the inside.

He clenches his jaw, furious that Derek hurt you and that Bucky could have prevented it. But then again, you’re stubborn, and he knows you would eventually find a way to return to your date, even if he physically tried to hold you back. Yes, he’s a super soldier, but he doesn’t stand a chance against you when your heart is set on something.

“Do you wanna talk about it?” Bucky murmurs.

You shake your head. “Not right now, maybe later.” You wipe a stray tear from your jaw and rest your chin on your knee, examining a point on the opposite wall.

Bucky's heart squeezes in his chest. He doesn't know what to say or do. When he feels pain, he prefers to sit in silence. Maybe that’s what you want, so he chooses not to speak.

You break the stillness with a question. “You know how we said no secrets?”

He nods his head even though your focus isn’t on him. “Yeah.”

You slowly turn your head to meet his gaze. The color of your eyes is dim, and the skin around them is swollen.

“I don’t want to be alone tonight.” Your voice cracks as if there’s a threat of more tears yet to come.

Bucky's throat tightens as he watches you. The sight is like witnessing a butterfly losing its wings yet struggling to stay aloft. You keep falling, desperately pleading for someone to save you from your impending doom. Bucky has been there for you, arms wide open; he’s just waiting for you to notice him.

“Could we do our post-gala recap tonight instead of tomorrow morning?” you ask, sounding uncertain, and his heart shatters.

“Works for me, doll.” Bucky’s lips lift at the corners. You return his smile, albeit smaller. At least he got that much.

“Damnit,” his eyebrows knit together, deep in thought. “I didn’t bring my keys for the building. I can swing by my apartment-”

You interrupt him. “We can go to your apartment instead.” Your following words tumble out of you like you can’t hold back your growing anxiety. “If that doesn’t make you uncomfortable.”

“That doesn’t make me uncomfortable at all.” He reassures, and your expression softens.

You nod and relax against the wall behind you. “I think I’m going to wait in my car, if that’s alright with you. I don’t feel like being in a crowd.”

Bucky scoffs in amusement; he wouldn't leave you alone in your car, especially not like this. You just admitted that you didn't want to be by yourself.

“No,” he stands up to his full height. You were baffled, staring at him with wide eyes. Your expression read What do you mean ‘no’, but you were hesitant to question his authority.

He offers you his hand and clears up your confusion. “We’re leaving.”

“Now?” You inspect his outstretched hand and then his face.

”Yes, now. You’re ridin’ with me.”

“But, my car-”

Bucky cuts you off. “I’ll bring you back.” He waves his extended hand around. “Take my damn hand.”

You comply, allowing him to help you to your feet. “Always telling me what to do,” you smirk, and he can't help but chuckle. You brush off invisible dirt from your dress and look up at him.

Fuck, you’re the prettiest thing he’s ever seen, even with your exhausted eyes and tear-stained cheeks. You’re like a sunset, with colors in full vibrancy. Reds and oranges swirl together to create the masterpiece that is you.

“Is there something on my face? Oh shit, did I cry all my mascara off? The packaging said it was waterproof.” You grumble as if you’re furious about your makeup. He can just see you writing a lengthy review about how you bawled your eyes out, and the mascara didn’t hold up.

He shakes his head and chuckles. "No, your mascara is fine." He doesn't know why, but he admits the truth about why he was openly gawking at you: "I was staring because you're beautiful."

You blink multiple times at him, then he notices your cheeks flush. “James, I—I know I look like a wreck. Don’t lie,” you stammer out.

Bucky smirks at the sound of his first name. He rarely hears you call him anything other than ‘Barnes,’ but when you're serious or scolding him, you use ‘James.’ He lives for those moments, just to hear you say his name that way.

He shrugs. "Logically, you should. But you're beautiful, no matter the circumstances."

You’re attempting to suppress a smile, but failing. “You can’t say things like that.”

A charming smirk appears on Bucky’s face. “Why not?”

“Because,” you’re searching for the best answer, “you’re going to give me a big head.”

“Don’t worry, I’ll help you hold it up.” He winks at you.

Your cheeks flush a deeper shade of red. You playfully roll your eyes and slap his arm. “Are you going to keep flirting, or are you taking me to your apartment?”

Is that what he was doing? Talking to you like this felt so effortless that he didn’t even realize he was flirting. He enjoyed it and wanted to continue. He liked seeing you all flustered—the way you tried to pretend you didn’t like it, but your flushed cheeks gave you away.

Bucky tilts his head. “I can do both. I’m a great multitasker.”

Your lips part and you suck in a breath. Now he’s thinking that little comment he just made could have a double meaning. Maybe he intended it that way because you definitely took it like that. And, damn, now he’ll be thinking about it the whole way home.

“Uh-huh, I bet you are.” You reply in a mocking tone.

Bucky could do this forever with you and never tire of it. However, he knows that this is extremely inappropriate. No matter how much he wants you, he understands he can’t have you.

He wants to be the person who makes you laugh, comforts you on tough days when you're feeling anxious, kisses your shoulder when he wakes up beside you, and holds you in his arms to relieve his stress, as you melt away his tension. He craves all the cheesy, romantic moments that come with being in a relationship with you.

But you are unattainable. You’re his assistant. Bucky feels like all the other creepy political figures who fantasize about being with someone who works for them. They get a sickening power high from it.

That’s not how he sees it, though. At least, that’s what he tells himself. Unlike the other wealthy assholes who view their employees as mere possessions, he perceives you as something precious that he doesn’t deserve. Perhaps that’s why he believes he can’t have you — because he thinks you’re too good for him.

“Ready, darlin’?”He eventually asks. You nod, still grinning. If he sees you smile like that one more time, he might not be able to stop his common sense from flying out the window.

Bucky offers you his arm, and you wrap yours through the opening, gripping his bicep as he leads you out of the building. He calls for the car to come around and helps you into it, placing a protective hand over your head to prevent you from bumping it.

Once he knows you’re safely inside, he squeezes his eyes shut and wills the feelings within him to stop burrowing into his heart. It’s like a festering wound he can never quite be free of.

One hell of a wish that is. He’ll never get rid of these maddening feelings for you.

｡･:*:･ﾟ★,｡･:*:･ﾟ☆ ｡･:*:･ﾟ★,｡･:*:･ﾟ☆

The car ride to Bucky’s apartment is mostly quiet, which is fine with you because your mind is keeping you thoroughly entertained.

Congressman James Barnes was flirting, and he was flirting with you. He called you beautiful and meant it, even when your face was streaked with dried tears. He winked at you, and you felt your stomach flutter instantly.

You were foolish to think one date would erase these feelings, because now that you know him, no man will ever compare. You’ll constantly hold everyone to the standard set by Bucky.

Bucky's driver approaches his apartment building, which appears to be quite expensive based on its exterior. You know that this apartment was provided to him by the government upon his return to the States; it was part of the deal for his pardon. He received a nice apartment situated high enough that no one would disturb him, but the government was keeping a close eye on him.

It made you feel nauseous just thinking about it, even though he wasn’t being monitored closely at the moment. It was absurd that he had been under constant surveillance in a home he never chose. Hydra had taken away all of Bucky’s choices, so why couldn't he even decide something as simple as where he lives?

You open the door to get out, but you hear another door slam, causing you to stop. Then, Bucky jogs around the car to stand in front of you with his hand out. Ever the gentleman.

You smile and take his human hand to help you out of the car. His metal hand rests gently atop your head again as you exit. You feel like a princess with this kind of treatment.

Bucky subtly waves to his driver as the car pulls away. He then guides you inside, takes you to the elevator, and directs you down the hall to his apartment.

Once inside, you were surprised by how charming and modern it was. It wasn't at all what you had imagined, but you liked it.

“Make yourself at home.” Bucky passes you and wanders into the kitchen. “Can I get you something to drink?”

“Water, please,” you murmur, still taking in your surroundings. You take off your heels at the door, not to be polite, but because your feet are killing you.

You pad into the kitchen after him, and he’s putting ice in a glass. The kitchen is bright white with a splash of color. There’s an island with stools lined up along it, and that’s where you decide to ‘make yourself at home’.

You lift yourself onto the stool, and Bucky slides your water glass over the counter. You nod in thanks and take a sip. He then disappears down the hallway that you’re certain leads to his room.

He returns without his tuxedo jacket, bowtie, and shoes. His collar is unbuttoned, and he's rolling up his sleeves as he rounds the island to sit beside you. Every time you see him like this, you can't help but internally freak out.

You nearly choke on your water, and he’s there with a hand gently patting you on the back. “You okay there?”

“Of course, just drank it too fast.” You nervously smile, hoping he misses your lie. Bucky drops his hand when you stop coughing.

You need to change the subject because you have to stop thinking about how dreamy he looks. “Where would you like to start?”

You take your purse from your shoulder and place it on the surface to dig for your phone. “I don’t have my laptop, but I can write your thoughts down on my notes app and transfer them to a document later.”

He shakes his head and grabs your wrist, pausing your action. “We can do that tomorrow. Relax, talk to me.”

You glance up at him, and your breath catches in your throat. Breathing feels pointless because you can't seem to exhale. His eyes are shifting in a way that makes it seem like his smoky blue gaze conveys something entirely different from what his mouth is saying, but you're struggling to understand their message.

He releases your wrist, and you come back to reality. You set your purse off to the side as you inhale oxygen properly again. “What do you want me to say?”

“What happened?” Bucky mumbles. He doesn’t want to pressure you if you’re not ready to talk.

You take a deep breath and begin to explain. “When I returned to the bar, he had sobered up a bit and apologized to me. I foolishly believed he was genuinely sorry and asked if he would like to start over.”

You let your eyes fall away from him, examining the drops of condensation running down your glass. “But, then, he insulted you, and that apology didn’t mean anything anymore.”

Bucky nods slowly. “What’d he say?” You shake your head, unable to tell him the vile words bouncing around in your skull.

”It’s nothing I haven’t heard before.” He insists.

You meet his gaze once more, and your eyes begin to well up with tears. Not out of pity for him, but because it pains you to hear someone speak negatively about your favorite person. The most heartbreaking part is that the worst of it comes from his own mind.

Hydra is long gone, but now he is torturing himself. You wish you could take away all that pain and those awful thoughts, replacing them with something pure.

From your experience, you understand that the healing process is a slow journey. It requires time and energy to rebuild your mental and emotional state and regain a sense of humanity. You want to be the person he trusts enough to share that process with.

Bucky doesn’t need fixing because he wasn’t broken to begin with; he needs someone to confide in and rely on. You want to be that person who’s there for him through it all, just as he is for you.

“That’s the problem. You don’t deserve that.” Your voice quivers slightly.

He scans your face like he’s trying to find the lie hidden in your features, but he won’t find one.

“Okay,” he lets out a long sigh. “You’re right.”

“Absolutely, I am.” You agree matter-of-factly, then deepen your voice to impersonate Bucky: “I’m always right.”

He scoffs. “I don’t sound like that.”

You raise your hands in mock surrender. ”I know, I’m working on it.”

Bucky smirks, shaking his head as if trying not to laugh. His expression becomes serious again. “What else did he say?”

You wave him off. “It’s not important.”

He raises an eyebrow, giving you a disapproving look. You roll your eyes and say, “Why do you need to know?”

He shrugs. “For research purposes.”

You purse your lips, but eventually concede. “He suggested that I was trying to…get in your pants for a promotion.”

His jaw ticks, but you reluctantly carry on. “On top of that, he called me desperate and a slut, so truly the highlight of my week.” You release a dry laugh.

Bucky’s jaw is clenched so tightly that it seems he might break a tooth. His hands are balled into fists, and the raging fire in his eyes is unmistakable.

”Don’t.” You warn.

“What?” He grits his teeth.

“Don’t get mad. He’s not worth the energy.”

“Not mad.” He growls. You tilt your head and raise an eyebrow, and he proceeds. “I’m fucking pissed.”

“Well, I’m over it, you should be too-”

Bucky interrupts you. “Hold on, I’m plotting his murder in my mind.” His eyes squeeze shut for a second, and you stifle a giggle. “Okay, now I’m at the part where I hide the body.”

You playfully slap his arm, and his eyes shoot open, amusement evident on his face. “Are you making me an accomplice to your imaginary crimes?” you tease.

“Who said imaginary?” He smirks. You laugh, and your eyes crinkle at the corners. You shouldn’t find planning a murder comical, but it feels nice to laugh again.

After a beat of silence, Bucky speaks. “Can I ask why you went back to him?”

Your smile fades as you lean forward, resting your elbow on the surface in front of you and propping your head in your hand. "If this is your way of saying 'I told you so,' just save it. I already know I was being stupid."

“That’s not-” he blurts, but cuts himself off to start over. “I just wanna know. And, you’re not stupid, don’t say that.”

You swallow hard, trying to gather your thoughts before revealing yourself to him. "I haven't been on a date in a couple of years, and I had a lot riding on this one. I know it sounds naive, but I thought it would be a one-and-done situation."

You chew on the skin of your bottom lip. "When he touched me, I thought I was the one with the problem. I believed there was something mentally wrong with me for not wanting him. But I was just making excuses for him, as I always do for horrible men who don't deserve my mercy."

Bucky’s eyes are fixed on you, intently listening and absorbing every word. This support is something you didn’t realize you needed, but it’s helping tremendously, and you hope he understands that.

You sit up a little taller in your seat, feeling a strange sense of relief wash over you as you open up to him. “I tried dating before, and it was terrible—one bad date after another. I made a silent vow to myself that the next guy I met, I would settle for, because I’m tired of coming home alone. I want love, and if that makes me desperate, so be it.”

You give him a weak smile as you finish your rambling. You avert your gaze and start glancing around the kitchen, suddenly embarrassed.

“Look at me,” he orders in a soft voice. You find his eyes again, and they’re earnest. “Never settle, darlin’. You are something special, and you deserve nothing less than perfect.”

You're looking at him as if he has cleared your cloudy sky and made the sun shine brighter. You don't know how to react or what to say. Your heart is pounding against your rib cage, as if it's trying to escape.

Bucky clears his throat and hops off the stool. He veers around the island and picks up an old-fashioned radio that you notice for the first time.

“What are you doing?” you mumble. He turns the dial, and the crackle of the radio fills the air. The noise fades as he finds the station he was searching for. Right away, you recognize that the music is from the forties, instantly bringing a smile to your lips.

“I found a station that still plays music from my era some time ago. I listen to it occasionally, and it takes me back.” A broad smile lights up your face as you notice his relaxed demeanor, as if the mere sound of the music puts him at ease.

Bucky rounds the counter again, standing in front of you. He offers you his flesh hand with a charming smirk. You tilt your head. “What?”

He nods to his hand. “I’m showing you how a real date should go.”

Your stomach does somersaults and you bite your lip. “Are you smooth-talking me, Barnes?”

“Maybe, is it working?” His voice is deep and suave.

“You know it is.”

He extends his hand further. “Dance with me.”

You take his hand, and he helps you down. He leads you to an open space between the kitchen and the living room.

He grabs your arm with his metal hand and places it on his shoulder. Slowly, he lowers his hand from your arm to grip your waist, sending a shiver down your spine. With your hands still interlocked, he raises his elbow and points outward.

“I should probably tell you, I don’t know how to dance.” You mutter.

“Do I have the honor of being your first dance?” His expression is marked by feigned shock.

You giggle and roll your eyes. “Yes.”

His face softens. “Don’t worry. I’ll lead, you follow. We’ll start slow.”

You nod, and he sees this as a chance to begin. “Watch my feet and mimic my movements.”

You glance down between your bodies, and he takes a step back. You take a step forward, then he side steps, and you follow. You register that it’s your turn to take a step back, and he takes a step forward—another side step in the opposite direction, and you find yourselves back where you started.

“Good, you’re a natural.” Bucky sounds pleased, which brings a grin to your face.

He repeats his actions while you follow, and you watch his feet several more times until you feel confident in your understanding.

Your gaze returns to his, and the expression in his eyes is undeniably captivating. This moment feels like much more than a simple dance. You search your mind for a topic to discuss, hoping to avoid getting lost in the music and giving in to the urge to kiss him.

“Do you like being here?” The question runs out of your mouth.

Bucky’s taken aback by your sudden inquiry. He gives you a perplexed expression. “You mean this apartment?”

“Yeah, this apartment. Brooklyn. I know you lived here, but Brooklyn has changed a lot since the forties.”

“Oh, definitely, but I still enjoy living here.” He answers with a shrug. “Why do you ask?”

“Just wondering.” You resume your thought. “Don’t get me wrong; it's a lovely space, but do you see yourself living somewhere else?”

Bucky hums, lost in thought. “Yeah, I do. I want a house away from everything—somewhere without the noise of traffic, surrounded by nature like I had in Wakanda. Maybe I’ll finally get that cat.” He pinches your side, and you let out a snort.

You release a lengthy sigh. “And, I’ll be long gone.” You’re teasing, but there’s some truth to your words.

He shakes his head, clearly offended by your assumption. “That’s not how I see it.”

“Well, if you’re talking about settling down, you won’t be in politics anymore, and I won’t be your assistant.” You clarify.

His eyebrows knit together. “You don’t want to stay friends?”

“Yeah, I do.” You squeak.

“Why’d you say it like that?” Bucky presses, and he’s caught you in a lie.

Your heart is racing now. Are you really about to tell him how you feel? You can’t imagine a future without him in it, but if you remain just friends for the rest of your life, it might break you.

You open and close your mouth before spitting it out. “Because I want to be more than just your friend.”

Bucky’s eyes widen, and his jaw clenches. His metal fingers twitch on your waist, causing more chills to run through your body. He scrutinizes you as if you had said something obscene.

You part your lips to interrupt his thoughts. As soon as you do, his attention shifts to your open mouth. His tongue darts out to lick his bottom lip as his gaze traces the outline of your mouth.

“Fuck,” He grunts. “I wanna kiss you so bad.”

You must've forgotten you were still dancing, as you're tripping over your feet. You recover, getting back into the rhythm of the movements, but your mind feels like it's short-circuiting.

“Th-then,” you stutter, “kiss me.”

“It’s a bad idea.” His tone is serious, though a soft smile plays on his lips.

You contemplate this for a moment. He’s right; your situation is complicated, and kissing your boss would be a bad idea. Yet, you can’t find it within yourself to care.

“Maybe, but you tend to have many of those.” You quip, smirking.

Bucky huffs air through his nose as if it’s funny, but when he speaks, his voice is firm. “No, I mean, it’s a terrible idea.”

You scoff, lightly hitting his shoulder where your hand rests. “That’s not making me feel any better, James.”

His smile fades, and his eyes darken. He looks as if he’s been longing for you, and now that he has permission to have you, he’s still contemplating the situation.

He comes to a sudden stop, causing you to halt your footwork as well. He still hasn’t released his grip on you, almost as if he physically can’t. You hear a deep, frustrated sound coming from his throat, indicating that he's angry with himself.

“Fuck it,” Bucky grumbles.

Before you can fully register what he’s doing, he pulls you in by your waist and crashes his lips against yours. You gasp, and he swallows the sound. His lips bruise yours with a desperate intensity, as though he’s starved, and you’re the only one who can satisfy his hunger.

You reach out and cup the back of his neck with your palm. His hand falls away from yours as he grips the side of your neck, right under your jaw. With your hand now free, you run your fingers along his back, drawing him closer. Your bodies fit together perfectly, like pieces of a puzzle.

His tongue glides along your bottom lip before invading your mouth. It explores every crevice like he’s committing your mouth to memory. You swirl your tongue around his and moan into the kiss.

Bucky shifts his weight, struggling to find his footing, as if the sound alone weakened his knees. His tongue retreats, tugging at your bottom lip with his teeth before he pulls away completely.

Your eyes flutter open, and you find him studying you intently as you both try to catch your breath. His fingers gently brush against your rosy cheeks and swollen lips. He sweeps your hair away from your face and tucks it behind your ear.

“We need to stop.” His voice is strained, as if the words are forced from his throat.

“Why?” You breathe.

He closes his eyes as if he can’t bear to see you in this state, flushed and desperate for more of him. “If we continue, I won’t be able to hold back.”

You smooth the loose strands that hang in his eyes back to their original place. “Don’t hold back.” Your tone is low and sultry.

Bucky's eyes fly open, breathing hard through his nose. His metal arm envelops your torso, pulling you close until you feel him, thick and hard against your lower stomach.

“Darlin’,” he drawls. “Do you feel what you do to me?”

Your chest rises and falls rapidly, and your eyes dart between his features, unsure of where to focus because you desire all of him. Your hand travels down the smooth expanse of his chest, feeling the quick thump of his heart beneath your fingertips. You grasp the fabric of his shirt, pulling him closer until you're only inches apart from his lips.

“Yes,” you murmur against his mouth. “Now, shall we continue, or do you have any more objections?”

He releases a shaky breath against your lips and shakes his head. You must’ve stolen his ability to speak. “Fantastic,” you whisper.

You lean in to kiss him again, this time more slowly. Your lips brush against each other gently, savoring the moment. You relish the soft curve of his mouth, the way his stubble tickles your delicate skin, and the feel of his nose nudging against your cheek.

Your tongue delves into his mouth uninvited, but he welcomes it with a satisfied hum. Now it’s your turn to explore his mouth with your tongue. You don’t get an adequate exploration because his tongue is sliding against yours, making it hard to focus on anything but his taste.

His warm hand slips into your hair, gently tugging at the roots to intensify the kiss. You whimper into his mouth, and suddenly, it feels like a switch has flipped. The kiss quickly becomes heated, as if your mouths are battling for dominance.

You unclasp your fist from his shirt as both of your hands move to the buttons of his dress shirt. One by one, you start to undo them. Once you’ve finished, he removes his hands from you and shrugs the shirt off. You hear the light fabric drop to the floor, and his hands quickly return to their previous positions.

Bucky begins to step forward, pushing you backward while your hands explore the firm contours of his chest and stomach. Your calves bump against something soft, and you realize it's the couch. You break the kiss, but his lips follow yours as if he's not finished savoring you.

“Sit.” You coax.

His eyelids flip up to reveal dilated, icy eyes. He inclines back and smirks. “Always tellin’ me what to do.”

He sits down reluctantly with a huff. You back away from the couch, taking a moment to admire the view. As you scan his shirtless body, you notice the defined muscles. The black metal of his arm glimmers under the dim light.

You reach behind you to pull at the navy ties on your back as he proceeds to complain from his seat. “Y’know, this is my apartment.”

The ties give way, and you start to slide the thin straps down your shoulders. “I feel like I should be tellin’-” Bucky stops himself as the material of the dress cascades down your body, pooling at your feet. You’re completely naked save for the steel blue panties you're wearing.

“What were you saying?” You poke fun at his stunned expression.

He swallows hard as he observes the angles and curves of your form. "It's irrelevant."

You giggle, warm and breathy. You hook your fingers into the waistband of your panties. “Should I take these off, too?”

“No,” he blurts. “Keep ‘em on.”

You let go of the band, relaxing your hands at your sides. Bucky stretches out his arm and beckons you closer. “Come here.”

You saunter over to him. Once you’re close enough, he grips your hip with his metal hand. His cold touch sends shivers down your body. You sink onto the couch, positioning your knees on either side of him as you straddle his thighs.

His flesh hand drags along the length of your figure, fingertips ghosting over you like he’s touching petals on a flower. “You’re stunning, doll.”

Your heart skips a beat at the compliment. Bucky’s eyes shift from your body to gaze up at you, and you cup his cheek. Your thumb strokes his skin, and he leans into your touch.

“Me?” You mutter. “You are perfect.”

His lips curl as he tilts his head up to peck your jaw in gratitude. When he leans back, his head dips to examine your panties again, his fingers toying with the waistband as he bites his lip.

“Do you know why I bought these?” you ask sheepishly. He shakes his head, his gaze still fixed on the steel blue fabric. “They reminded me of your eyes.”

Bucky looks up suddenly at your confession. "You're tryin’ to kill me, aren't you?"

You tilt your head back and chuckle. When you glance down again, he pokes your side. “That’s not funny! I swear, you’re going to give me a heart attack. You can’t just say that and expect me to stay calm,” he scolds, but you can’t help but keep laughing.

You tip your head forward and trail kisses from his cheek to his ear. “Sorry, baby. I wouldn’t want your heart to give out,” you whisper.

As you lean close to his ear, you gently nibble on his earlobe, and he lets out a soft grunt in response. You begin to kiss your way down his neck, focusing on the spots that elicit the strongest reactions from him. Your tongue flicks out to taste his skin, and you feel him shiver beneath you.

Bucky’s metal fingers press into your hip, as if he’s struggling to resist the urge to take you right here and now. His other hand lightly traces the wet spot on your underwear, making you groan against his neck.

“Hmm…you’re soaked,” he announces as he applies more pressure to your pussy. Your hips jerk when his fingertips move in circular motions on your underwear clad clit.

You place lazy kisses along the area where metal touches skin. It's too hard to do anything beyond that now, as your head spins from his actions. You lean your forehead against the cool metal, finding a soothing comfort in it.

“There you go, just relax for me.” His voice is raspy as he speaks in your ear.

He moves your panties to the side, running his fingers through your slick folds. Bucky slides a single digit into your entrance and you suck in a breath. He languidly pumps his finger into you while gently kissing your shoulder.

Your warm, heavy breathing against his chest quickens as he increases his pace. He inserts another one, stroking your walls with his long fingers. You let out a throaty moan and reach up to clutch his metal bicep to ground yourself.

You tip your head back to see him as he thrusts his fingers deeply into you. A delighted sound escapes your lips as his fingers crook deliciously inside of you. You grind against the palm of his hand as he works at your core.

“That’s it. Take what you need, darlin’.” He encourages.

You tilt his chin up and press your lips to his in a passionate kiss. He responds with equal enthusiasm as his fingers expertly plunge further and faster. Lips connect roughly as his teeth graze your bottom lip to nip at it. Your mouth separates from his, and your hot breath brushes across his lips.

“I—I want to ride you.” You pant.

His fingers falter as he processes your comment. He inspects you as if he can’t believe you’re real. His metal fingers brush against your collarbone to tuck your hair back.

“Shit,” Bucky mutters, awestruck by you. “If that’s what you want.”

He gradually reduces his pleasing movements as you nod your head in agreement. His fingers slip out of you, and when he holds them up, they’re glistening with your juices. He puts the digits to his mouth and wraps his lips around them, sucking them clean.

Your jaw drops at the sight; it’s the most erotic thing you’ve ever seen. You didn’t realize he could turn you on even more than you already are.

He takes his fingers out of his mouth with a hum. “You taste divine. I would eat you out, but I guess we’ll save that for another time.” He states with a wink.

You aren't sure you can get off the couch now because your knees feel weak and your stomach is a fluttering mess.

He snaps the band of your underwear, pulling you from your daze. “How ‘bout you take these off for me while I take off my pants, sound good?”

You clamber off the couch as Bucky starts to unfasten his belt. You watch him intently while your thumbs hook into your panties. Sliding them down your thighs, you realize you’re both observing one another getting undressed.

You step out of your underwear and toss them somewhere in the living room. You hear him grunt from his seat now that you are completely bare.

He lifts his hips off the sofa and tugs his pants and boxers down the length of his thighs. You watch his cock spring free and your mouth begins to water. You want to drop to your knees for him, but the thought of him inside you is too tempting to resist.

Bucky tears the fabric from his legs and mimics your actions by tossing it across the room. He reaches out and holds you by your hips, then leans down to place soft kisses on your waist. He pulls you closer, and you both settle back into your spot on the couch.

His dick rests against his stomach, hardened and demanding. You take him firmly in your grasp and he sucks air through his teeth. You pump him a few times, spreading the precum with your thumb.

Your core is throbbing with anticipation. You decide you need him now. You position yourself over him, swiping the head of his cock through your slick. You line up his tip with your entrance, teasing it.

Bucky glances up at you with pleading eyes, and his grip on your hips is almost bruising. “Please, darlin’. I need to feel you.”

You didn’t know how beautiful begging could sound, but hearing it from his sweet lips is like silk blanketing your ears. “I know, honey. I need you too.”

His eyes soften at the nickname. You’ll save that knowledge for later.

You don’t waste any more time. You grab his shoulder with your free hand in preparation. Slowly, you lower yourself onto him as if you have all the time in the world, wanting to memorize every second of this moment.

He releases a strangled moan as his body goes rigid beneath you. He’s stretching out your tight pussy luxuriously as you inch down his cock. You maintain eye contact with him, observing the way his face twists in pleasure.

You settle onto his thighs, and he bottoms out inside you. You feel incredibly full, it’s a sensation you could easily get addicted to. As you take your time to adjust to his sheer size, you brush your knuckles across his cheekbone.

“You feel so good.” You praise. “Where have you been all my life?”

Bucky’s flesh hand loosens on your hip to take your wrist and kiss your palm. “Right here. I’ve been waiting for you.”

You lean in, kissing him desperately because you’re already addicted to him and can’t get enough. Your lips move tenderly against his, pouring every ounce of adoration you feel for him.

You ease up on his cock, moaning into each other's mouth. You fall back down, his dick filling you once more. You maintain a steady pace up and down on him, using his shoulder as leverage.

He breaks the kiss, allowing his hand to wander into your hair. He gently tugs on the strands at the base of your scalp to angle your head upwards. His mouth finds your neck like a magnet, kissing and licking the soft flesh.

Your hips roll at the pace of his languid kisses on your neck. Your greedy pussy is taking every delectable inch of him, drawing him in deep. Bucky groans against your throat, sending vibrations through you.

He caresses his way down your body, letting your hair fall as he trails his fingers over your thigh. Your hips pick up speed, riding him quicker. His forehead rests against your chest due to the sudden change of pace.

“Doll-” he drawls. “You feel incredible.”

Bucky licks a line up your sternum as his metal hand glides up your side. His touch is feather-light on your breast, a cool sensation sweeping over your nipple. His mouth moves to place wet, open-mouthed kisses along the opposite breast.

He eventually finds your nipple with his mouth, flicking his tongue over the sensitive bud. He latches onto it, sucking and swirling his tongue around it. You arch into him, a lewd noise escaping your parted lips.

He palms at the other breast, massaging and swiping his thumb over the delicate skin. The pleasure you’re feeling from his skilled tongue only spurs you on, and it drives you to ride him faster, harder, and deeper.

He grunts and bites your nipple. Your mind feels overwhelmed by the intensity of it all. Has sex always been this magical? Not for you, at least.

Bucky is the missing piece you’ve been searching for, not just because of the sex, but because of everything he brings to your life. The sex is incredible because he is incredible. It’s that simple.

“Just like that. Fuck—you’re doing so good.” He mumbles in between kisses as he trails over to your opposite breast. His metal hand moves back to your hip to help guide your movements.

He backs away from your chest when he knows he’s given equal attention to each of your breasts. He concentrates on your face, observing the way your lips part and the sounds that flow from them.

His fingers dig into your thigh as he begins to massage it. Bucky kneads the pliable skin, moving up and down the flesh until he’s squeezing your ass. With the leverage he has, he bucks up into you with the same rhythm you set.

Your voice breaks into a guttural moan as he pulls you down forcefully onto his cock. You continue to match his tempo, but your hip movements are becoming more erratic.

“Let me take over, darlin’.” He groans. “I wanna make you feel good.”

How did you get so lucky to have a man who is more concerned about your pleasure? He makes it his mission to satisfy your every need; you just have to allow him to do so.

You softly smile. “I think you underestimate what your cock is doing to me.”

“Well, let me make you feel even better,” Bucky reiterates. You nod in response and stop your actions.

“Good girl,” he rasps. He scoots to the edge of the couch while still fully inside you. Carefully, he positions your legs to wrap around his hips, and his metal arm covers your torso. Then, he effortlessly picks you up as if you weigh nothing and begins moving across the apartment.

You cling to him, though you know he would never let you fall. He steps into his room and gingerly sets you down on the end of the bed. Leaning over you, he kisses the tip of your nose, causing you to giggle.

“You didn’t want to fuck me on your couch?” You tease.

“No,” he lowers his mouth to your ear and growls, “because you’re not some random hook up.”

Bucky punctuates that statement by slamming his dick into you. You whine and squirm beneath him. He inclines back and clutches your hips, thrusting into you at an unrelenting pace. You throw your head back against the mattress because he was right, this is even better.

He’s touching parts inside of you that you never knew existed. Your legs tighten around him as you reach for his neck, craving the sensation of him beneath your fingertips. His gaze is locked on you, and his eyes sparkle with a desperate desire to please you.

“Tell me how that feels, doll.”

“Fucking fantastic.” You breathe, your lungs are working overtime, as he effortlessly drains the oxygen from your chest.

A ghost of a smile appears on his lips; that's exactly what he wanted to hear. Bucky's hand moves down to the underside of your knee. He takes hold of it and lifts it up, so your knee presses into your side. Finding the angle he desired, he pushes into you with renewed purpose.

You arch your back, and you wail when he hits that sweet spot deep inside of you. The head of his cock pounds against your g-spot repeatedly, reducing you to a writhing and whimpering mess.

He’s bringing you to the edge, and it’s happening quickly. The pressure is rising within you like a tidal wave, and you feel like you might drown in it. Your senses seem heightened, and Bucky is surrounding you, integrating himself into every one of them.

“James–” His name feels like a prayer on your lips.

“I know you’re close, pretty girl. Let me get you there.” His metal hand reaches between your bodies and his thumb rubs tight circles into your clit.

Your cunt instantly clamps down on his dick and you moan loudly. You were already close, but now you’re teetering on the edge. Your free hand fists the sheets, and your thighs begin to shake.

“I’ve got you, darlin’. Let go. I’ll be right behind you.” His words drift over you like steam rising from a hot spring, warm and enticing.

Your body obeys immediately, your orgasm hitting you like a tsunami. The pressure coiled in your stomach releases and your pussy clenches hard around him in waves. You scream out in a breathless cry, your grip tightening on his neck as you tug him closer.

You’re a shuddering, aching mess under him. Your eyes are sewn shut, and you feel as though you’re floating. A wave of euphoria washes over you, leaving you high on the sensation.

Bucky presses his forehead to yours, whispering your name like a mantra. He grabs both your hips again, as if afraid you'll slip away.

His cock proceeds to ram into your pulsating cunt, working you through your climax until he’s twitching inside you. His cum spills deeply into you with a low groan from his lips. He’s coating your walls and warming your core with the thick liquid.

His hips come to a stop, and his head rests in the crook of your neck. Bucky wraps his arms around you in a tight hug. You lazily fold your arms over him, holding him as if you never want to let go. He nuzzles into your hair, inhaling your scent. You gently scratch his upper back, relishing the intimacy of the moment.

“You’re unbelievable.” He mutters right below your ear. “You’re real, right? This isn’t a dream?”

You let out a breathy laugh. “Yes, I’m very real, honey.” You kiss his shoulder softly. “And I’m not going anywhere.”

Bucky hums contentedly and leans back, gently slipping out of you. “Good.”

He strolls away from the bed and into the bathroom, turning on the light. You prop yourself up on your elbows to see what he’s doing. The sound of running water becomes audible, though you can’t see it.

He returns with a damp washcloth and completes his thought. “I’m holding you hostage.”

You’re smiling broadly. “I don’t believe this is a hostage situation if I’m here willingly.”

“Are you sure you don’t already have Stockholm syndrome?” he asks, a smirk on his face.

You chuckle and shake your head as he moves closer. He opens your legs and steps between them to wipe down your inner thighs, gently gliding his hand over your dripping cunt.

The sight gives you a warm feeling, knowing this isn’t the last time Bucky will take care of you. “Well, aren’t you the king of aftercare?” you joke.

“I can't leave my pretty girl in a mess, especially since I'm the one who made it.” Once he's finished, he tosses the dirty rag into his hamper and lies down beside you. He wraps his arms around you, pulling you close into his embrace.

You hum in contentment, burying your head into his chest. “I have a sneaky suspicion this won’t be the only mess we make tonight.”

Bucky squeezes you, running his hand through your hair to cradle your head. “I think you read my mind.”

｡･:*:･ﾟ★,｡･:*:･ﾟ☆ ｡･:*:･ﾟ★,｡･:*:･ﾟ☆

The door clicks softly behind Bucky as he treads carefully through the hall. His heavy boots thud against the floor, so he decides to take them off at the door to avoid waking you from sleep.

He changes out of his tactical gear and puts on a pair of sleep shorts. Gingerly, he moves the blanket aside to crawl in beside you. You are facing the opposite direction, and your light breathing indicates that you are still asleep.

Bucky wraps his arms around you and kisses your shoulder, unable to help himself. You stir slightly, resting your arms over his and melting into him.

“Where’d you go?” Your sleepy voice breaks the quiet.

His chest warms at the adorable sound as he whispers against your neck, “I had some business to take care of.”

You hum and snuggle into the pillow, settling back into a relaxed state. Suddenly, your head pops up, and you peek over your shoulder at him. “James, what did you do?”

“I didn’t do anything.” Bucky retorts.

You let out a heavy sigh; it's clear you know he's lying. You kick off the covers and hop out of bed, moving toward his closet. He ogles your naked form; fuck, he wants to take you again.

You grab a random shirt from a hanger and slip it on. Turning to face him, you cross your arms over your chest with a blank expression. “Where’s your first-aid kit?”

It's as if you see right through him. One glance into his eyes reveals exactly where he's been and what he's done.

“What? I’m fine. Come back to bed.” He pats the spot next to him.

You narrow your gaze at him, and your expression says it all: you don’t want to make me mad, James.

“Okay, okay.” Bucky points to the bathroom. “Cabinet. Top shelf.”

You practically stomp to the bathroom. He hears the sound of you rummaging around, and you exit with the opened first-aid kit in hand. You set it on his nightstand and search through it.

“Sit up,” you command in a surprisingly authoritative tone.

He smirks and does as you instructed him. “Always tellin-”

You hold up a finger, stopping him. “Not the time.”

“Don’t be upset.” He mutters.

Your shoulders, once tense, relax as you shake your head. “I’m not upset.” Your voice is softer and more gentle now.

“Then what’s wrong, doll?” Of course, he knows what’s bothering you, but he doesn’t seem to want to admit it. You haven’t seen this side of him; he’s afraid that because you have, you might leave.

“You paid Derek a visit, didn’t you?”

Bucky nods stiffly. “I did.”

You rub your forehead with your thumb and pointer finger. “Do I have to help you hide a body?”

“No.” He states simply.

You let your hand fall to your side now that you have confirmation that no murders occurred tonight. You point to his bloody and bruised knuckles and say, "If your hand is any indication, you beat the shit out of him."

“He got what he deserved. I actually let him off easy,” he grumbles, wishing he had done more to the bastard. He didn't use his metal arm; that was an act of mercy. Now he's regretting that decision.

“That’s not the point.” You release a long breath. “What if someone saw? Or worse, what if he talks? Your job could be in jeopardy.” You give him a worried expression.

“No one saw, and I doubt he’ll be saying much, if anything at all.” Bucky’s mind drifts back to the condition he left Derek in. His face was swollen, bloody, and bruised. Yup, he won’t be talking for a while; I made sure of that.

“Not helping.” You scold.

"Listen, nothing is more important than you. I would gladly lose my job if it meant keeping you safe." Your expression softens at his words, and he continues, knowing he has your full attention. “That asshole doesn’t get to speak to you like that, and get off scot-free.”

Bucky adjusts his tone to be light and caring as he takes your hand in both of his—flesh and metal. “I will always protect you. You never have to doubt that.”

After a beat of silence, your lips curve into a smile. “Okay.”

He quirks a brow. “Okay? That’s it, no more arguing?”

“What’s there to argue about?” You shrug. “Like you said, the asshole got what he deserved.”

He returns your sweet grin and kisses your hand gently before letting it go. You bite your lip and turn around to search in the medical kit. Grabbing an antiseptic wipe, you extend your hand toward him. "Now, let me clean you up, honey."

“Yes, ma'am.” He offers his hand willingly. You clean the blood from his knuckles, scrubbing deep into the grooves between his fingers.

“Did Derek at least cry?” you inquire, tilting your head as you examine his wounds.

“Like a baby,” he replies. You snort as you toss the dirty wipe into his trash can. Taking out some ointment from the kit, you apply it to the sores on his skin. He doesn't really need it since he’s a super soldier with rapid healing, but he lets you do it anyway because he appreciates the way you care for him.

“He apologized, by the way,” he adds. “At least, I think he did. I couldn’t understand him through all the blood in his mouth.”

"Bucky," you scoff, but then you break into laughter. "That's awful."

He wants to laugh with you, but is caught off guard when you call him by his nickname. He’s never heard you say it before, and it sounds so pleasant to him. You put away the ointment, and then he grabs your wrist. You whip your head around to meet his gaze.

“Say that again.” His voice is low and rough.

You furrow your brows in confusion but then understand his meaning, and your expression softens.

“Oh,” you shift to face him, your voice becoming seductive and breathy. “Bucky.”

He basically melts; his lips part, and all his muscles loosen up. “Again. Slower. I like the way it sounds.”

You giggle and gently cup his face in your hands, obeying his request. “Bucky…” You lean down and press a lingering kiss to his forehead. His eyes flutter closed; he believes he has died and gone to heaven, with you as the angel welcoming him at the pearly gates.

You lean back, and he looks up at you with hooded eyes. “Alright, my hero,” you murmur. “Let’s get you to bed.”

Bucky's face is etched with amusement as you utter the words ‘my hero’. He has never been called that, nor has he felt like much of a hero anyway. But honestly, that word wouldn’t matter if it came from anyone else because he only ever wants to save you.

“Whatever you say, darlin’.”

3K notes · View notes

lethallyprotected · 26 days ago

Text

manchild.

pairing. bucky barnes x fem!reader mcu timeline. tfatws. synopsis. bucky can't help but wonder why they always come running to you,, or your living fossil of a roommate disapproves of your taste in men and its totally not because he wants a taste of you. warnings. smut ( pwp, service dom!bucky, unprotected piv, oral sex - f receiving, clothed sex for like a sec, fingering, creampie, tummy bulge, dirty talk, dry humping, possessiveness, dumbification, praise, temperature play, food play, nipple play, pussy pronouns, hair pulling - m receiving, multiple orgasms, consent kink, implied competency kink and cum eating, bucky barnes begs agenda 2025™, both bucky and reader spend the whole fic towing the fine line between horny and pervy ), no use of y/n, angst, fluff, frenemies to lovers, roommate!bucky, cocky+flirty!bucky, also guard dog!bucky ( if that even makes sense ) ( it doesn't ), jealousy, pining, so much bickering, attachment issues, miscommunication bc these two combined have the emotional intelligence of a chihuahua, bucky's hobby is baking bc i said so. reader inclusivity. bucky can pick the reader up ( but he's literally a super soldier so 🧍‍♂️ ), one mention of bucky trying to grab the reader's hair, reader has a nut allergy and does not speak russian ( neither do i, so please forgive the very small amount of google translated russian ) word count. 16.3k hyde’s input. god bless sabrina for saving the summer again. also don't let this flop, it's my birthday tomorrow and i'm not above crying over poorly-received erotica ( i'm joking ) ( no i'm not )

Bucky Barnes is not someone you’d call a friend.

He’s more of a nuisance, really. A fossil, dropped off at your door by one Sam Wilson with a simple request: “Can he crash here for a few days?”

That was four months ago, and Bucky’s still living on your couch.

Which is exactly where he’s sat right now, head buried in a book you barely even remember owning. The pages, so full of neglect, give him hassle as he tries to turn them, catching on one another and refusing to be pried apart by vibranium fingers.

“How do I look?” You ask as you step out from your bedroom, hands fastening an earring into your right ear.

Unfazed by your appearance, he doesn’t bother glancing up from his book as he sardonically replies, “With your eyes, like the rest of us.”

You contemplate plucking one of your heels off and throwing it at his head. Knowing your luck, it will fly right past him and smash your coffee table into pieces. Just like your roommate, it’s vintage. Unlike your roommate, you willingly brought it into your home.

“Ha. Ha.” Rounding the couch, you swat his feet off the table before snapping his book closed. “Now if you’re done playing comedian, would you answer the fucking question?”

“That’s your generation's problem, you know? You swear more than you breathe.”

“Better than waging a world war every few years.”

“Considering the current state of the world, I wouldn’t rest too comfortably on that one,” Bucky rises from his seat and squeezes past you, irritatingly close in a way that makes sure you feel each defined muscle in his chest as it brushes against your shoulder. “Anyway, you look fine, as always.”

“I look fine?” You parrot his words and follow his footsteps over to the kitchen. “Careful Barnes, don’t get too excited, it’s not healthy for a senior citizen’s heart.”

“You know what I mean,” a heavy sigh slips out the soldier’s mouth as he busies himself filling the kettle, glancing back at you from over his shoulder as he continues speaking. “I don’t understand why you worry so much about all of… this.” He gestures at you, water splashing off the tips of his fingers.

“God forbid a woman cares about looking good on a date,” you’re becoming annoyingly aware of the pout on your lips and try your best to correct it, whilst prying open the fridge door and fishing out a bottle of beer. “Gee if only it were still the 40s, then I could slap some mercury on my lips and hit the town with a man ready to buy me off my daddy for the cheap, cheap price of two goats!”

The frustration within you only rises as you struggle with the bottle’s cap, the skin of your hand pinching as you put all your force behind removing it. Since when are twist-tops so damn hard to twist off?

Bucky’s by the kettle, pouring boiling hot water into a mug he’s wrongfully claimed as his and looking irritatingly fine surrounded by steam — which has your mind trailing back to a few weeks ago: an early morning, exiting your bedroom to find your lodger stepping out the bathroom with nothing but a towel around his waist and the remnant dew of a steaming hot shower trailing down his very naked, very defined biceps, and pectorals, and- He’s not even trying to mask the amusement on his face as he indulges in your failure.

“Don’t you think you’re being a little ridiculous?” He asks and pries the bottle out of your hold, effortlessly ripping the cap off with a twist of his left hand. A familiar warmth curls between your legs, awakening a response from you that you’ve sworn, under no circumstances, will happen due to Bucky Barnes. You barely want to exchange air with him, nevermind bodily fluids. “There’s no way you’re worth two goats.”

“Every day I wake up and resist the urge to smother you in your sleep.”

Your vitriol is met with a smirk taking over his lips. Watching as he brings the beer up to his mouth, you catch yourself forgetting to blink as the soldier engages you both in a staring contest, all the while he’s tilting the bottle up to steal the first sip. He presses the cold glass back into your hand. You try not to focus on his tongue, peeking out to swipe over his bottom lip and clean up a remnant drop of beer.

In a move that puts you even more on edge, Bucky shuffles closer to you. Delirium floods your mind as the smell of smoke, and musk, and a just a twinge of sweat floods your nose, a smell so masculine it has you debating setting feminism and your own self-preservation back hundreds of years by nuzzling your face into the pulse point of his neck, like you’re some damn animal being exposed to pheromones. Meanwhile, he appears none the wiser to the negative effect he’s having on you, too busy reaching his arm behind you and into the fridge.

“Those boys you entertain, do they ever pay you any compliments?” His voice is so gentle, you almost wonder if that’s how it would sound whispering in your ear. Luckily, you don’t actually wonder about that. Not at all, not even a little. “Or is that your job too, like the bill?”

As quickly as he caged you in against the fridge, he moves away and leaves the cool air to rush over your skin, dragging your mind back into reality and away from whatever thoughts it keeps trying to tempt you with. You track his movements towards the island counter as he sets down a glass bowl, marked by condensation and filled with a batter of some sorts.

It's becoming more and more common to catch Bucky pottering around in the kitchen, a recipe on his phone screen and a personalised ‘Kiss the Baker’ apron — which Sam bought as a joke for his birthday — tied around his waist. He’ll never admit it, but a part of you believes baking helps him relax, to shut off whatever thoughts are floating around in that disturbingly pretty head of his and let him focus solely on measuring, mixing, and making delicious sugary treats. You can hardly complain when he’s gifting you the privilege of an at-home bakery. Fortunately, he gives you plenty of other reasons to complain.

“Boys I entertain? Way to make me sound like a stripper,” you huff, sneaking over to dunk a finger into the batter as he turns to grab his coffee. “And I’ll have you know, they do pay me compliments.”

Licking your finger clean, you can’t fight the humm of approval that creeps up your throat nor the way your eyes slip shut as you savour the cold, tangy sweetness of the cake mix. Something warm presses against your left side as Bucky returns to the island, setting down his mug and a cake tin.

“Really? What kinda things do they say?” Just as you go to double dip, he smacks the top of your hand with a wooden spoon, and you nearly freeze at the contact. For a few short seconds, the factory in your mind goes into lockdown as every single one of your brain cells scramble to not conjure up the image of him smacking that utensil on a very different part of you. “Hands off. It’s a lemon cake, not a lemon and your-dirty-fingers cake.”

You silence your thoughts with a swig of beer before putting a safety distance between Bucky and you, unsure whether to be relieved at his obliviousness to the less than ideal affect he’s having on you, or offended by his complete lack of reaction to being so close to you while you’re all dressed up and waiting for another man to take you out.

Not that you want him to be affected by that, or you in general, though.

Your phone lights up with a text from an unsaved number: im hear, r yu coming down or shuld i com up? You shut it off and stuff it into your purse, deciding it's best to keep a man waiting anyway; he’ll appreciate your presence even more once you finally give him it.

Besides, you’ve yet to answer Bucky’s question.

“I’d tell you but I’m too sober to stomach you yelling ‘Heaven to Betsy!’ and giving me a lecture on your medieval dating ethics.”

You earn a genuine laugh, in which his knees bend a little and his head is thrown back, while his vibranium hand winds up splayed across his midriff. The sun is setting beyond the window, lingering shades of orange warmth frame a heavenly glow around Bucky, highlighting a slight curl in his hair and the piercing blue of his eyes. The view is uncomfortably pleasant, so you bring the bottle back to your lips and turn your head away, suddenly utterly fascinated with the eggshell colouring of the kitchen cupboards.

“I think there’s a leak under the sink,” the comment is absentminded, a meager attempt at steering your mind away from the man and his mixing bowl.

Bucky ignores it and drags you right back to the actual topic at hand.

“That’s funny,” there’s a shuffle of tin behind you. You glance back around to find him smoothing batter into the cake mold, wooden spoon clasped in metal fingers spreading the mix evenly. You’ve never noticed how good Bucky is at spreading things. “Cause I swear I remember Sam mentioning something about the last guy moaning his own name in your ear.”

Beer shoots to the back of your throat.

In a spurt of coughing, amidst the burning pain of the carbonated liquid dripping out your nose, you hurry over to the sink. Mouth dropped open in a dry heave, you lean into the basin and try to minimize the mess you make in search of a breath. Heat envelops you from behind and a pair of sock-clad feet come into view next to your maroon heels. You briefly register the cool brush of metal against the back of your neck as he tries to tidy back your hair and, while you appreciate the action, you can’t help note how completely unnecessary it is. Too distracted to care, your attention shoots straight to the weight of his flesh hand pressing into your lower back. Heavy, warm, large, it pollutes your mind with the knowledge of how it feels to have him soothe your skin — even if there is a layer of silk in the way.

The moment air returns to your lungs, you shoot up straight and ache to step away from him and his wandering-to-all-the-wrong-places hands. The battle against his touch is mute, not even one percent of his strength is put behind the way he grips your forearms and turns you to face him.

Bucky’s eyes scan over you, studying your features. You swallow back whatever feeling brings salivation to your mouth. His thumb reaches towards his own and you watch, transfixed, as a pink tongue darts out to greet it, licking a stripe over the pad of it. A splash of cake batter stains his ring finger. You swallow back more saliva; confusingly, your mouth feels drier than ever. Only when he delicately presses his thumb beneath your eye and swipes over your waterline do you realise you’re teary-eyed.

“See how clumsy you are?” There’s a chastising lilt to his voice that sends blood rushing to your face, and then immediately back down to the overwhelmingly empty space between your legs. “Can’t even swallow properly without ruining your mascara.”

You need distance.

You need to move.

You need to leave.

“He’s here!” The words are almost a gasp as you turn out of his hold. The weight of his gaze trails over your legs as you rush around the kitchen island, fishing your keys out of your purse and rambling out the nerves he’s summoned. “Okay, there’s some leftover pasta in the fridge if you’re hungry, and you’re welcome to the beers if you get thirsty. Big remote turns on the TV, the little one changes the channel. Behave and take care of the place while I’m away, okay?”

“Quit talking to me like I’m some kind of guard dog,” he complains as you pull open the front door and cross one foot over the threshold to safety.

“Oh, I’m sorry!” You cheer back, trailing the door behind you as you go. “I wasn’t aware you were going to start contributing rent, I’ll send you my bank details.”

With that, the apartment door slams shut and you head out for a date in which three things will happen: you’ll flirt, you’ll fuck, and you won’t think about your roommate.

Only one of those things ends up happening.

It’s not from lack of an offer that you wind up taking a cab back to your apartment. Your date had been nice… enough. He complimented your outfit, took a sufficient amount of interest in you, and he even bought you flowers — of course, he’d accidentally left them in his parent’s home. Where he lived. In the basement.

And the thing is, you’re not shallow. Time’s are tough, the economy sucks, and the world is still adjusting to the sudden return to half its population post-Blip. So you were more than game to play sneak-me-into-your-bed-without-waking-your-parents, but, as the pair of you waited on a taxi to arrive, his hand found your waist and your treacherous mind noticed something it shouldn’t.

Bucky’s hand was larger. And warmer. And more welcomed against your skin.

Sick to your stomach by your own thoughts, your night ended with you tip-toeing past the familiar figure sleeping on your couch — definitely not pausing to take in the sheer width of his naked shoulders dangling half-off the cushion — and crawling into bed alone, belly full of Thai and mind full of Winter.

When morning comes, the bedroom door creaks as you pry it open, a fist rubbing sleep out your eye and a yawn announcing your arrival.

“Did you eat my ice cream?” Bucky calls out from somewhere, voice muffled and full of accusation.

Despite barely finishing a glass of wine the night before, there’s a throbbing pain beginning in your temples and souring your already bitter mood.

“Wow, good morning to you too,” you stumble more than walk over to the kitchen, in search of the salvation of ice cold water.

That’s where you find him: laid out on his back, grey sweatpants clinging to bent knees, with everything from his shoulders up inside the open cabinet beneath the sink. His arms are inside too, tinkering away at something above his face.

“Good morning. Did you eat my ice cream?” If ever a thing such as a verbal eyeroll were to exist, Bucky would be doing it. From the lack of seeing his eyes, there’s every chance he is literally rolling them.

Your journey toward the fridge is interrupted by the troubling sight of a glass full of water, a plate hosting a slice of lemon sponge cake, and two miscellaneous white pills that anyone who suffers the unusually cruel punishment of a menstrual cycle is likely familiar with. A post-it note with your name written neatly across it sits next to the unexpected care package.

“So what if I did?” The painkillers go down effortlessly, though there’s a lingering chemical taste that has you gulping down an extra sip of water. “What are you doing, anyway?”

“I paid for it!” For all his outrage, he doesn’t care enough to poke his head out as he chastises you. “You said there was a leak, so I’m checking your pipes. I’m quite good with my hands, you know.”

Is he dense, or is he saying this shit on purpose? The double entendre in his words is glaring, yet you haven’t the confidence nor the will-power to address it, to poke the proverbial bear out of fear. Fear of him scolding your dirty mind, or fear of him doubling down on his suggestive wordplay, you’re not quite sure.

You choose to steer clear of the topic and, more importantly, the unexpected twinge in your chest in response to Bucky’s unrequested help.

“And I paid for the freezer you left it in, the electricity that kept it frozen, and the apartment you live in,” you don’t intend to sound so snappy, like a sulking child fighting against their own self-confessed crimes. “So I think you can spare me some goddamn ice cream.”

You’ve taken to joining Bucky on the floor, sitting across from him, cross-legged and back pressed against the cabinets that surround the kitchen island. In your lap lies the slice of cake, a mouthful already missing and melting its tangy sweetness onto your tongue. You almost moan, but it’s unclear whether the sugary treat just tastes that good or the visual of the soldier laid out on his back and tinkering away beneath your sink is just so stimulating.

If you mention the strange noise your car’s engine has been making recently, would he fix that too? You can already picture him slicked in sweat and oil, hands on his hips as he stands over the opened hood and assesses whatever the damage is. You’d have to watch over the whole thing, of course — not out of your own self-interest but on the off chance something goes wrong and Bucky needs help taking off his oil-stained shirt, or pants, or-

“Your date was that good, huh?” You almost jump out of your skin when he speaks.

“He bragged to me about how he and his college roommates used to play pool,” the pause in your sentences seems to capture Bucky’s attention, coaxing him out from beneath the sink. “Using a shotgun instead of cues.”

As he sits up, elbows finding rest upon his knees, you can’t help but note the five-o’clock shadow he’s sporting. For reasons that have nothing to do with the fraying seams of your sanity, you need him to shave.

To Bucky’s credit, he doesn’t laugh. Yes, his lips glitch somewhere between a cheeky grin and a serious frown, but he does not outright laugh like you expect him to. Instead, he nods down at the half-eaten cake and tilts his head — an unspoken question, is it good?, that only weakens his argument about not being a guard-dog. Between the puppy-dog blue eyes and the yearning for approval, you half expect him to sprout a tail and start panting.

Scratch that last thought, actually. Bucky and panting should not coexist in a sentence together, nevermind in your imagination.

“Mind feeding me a bite?” Yes, actually, you would mind, but one glance at his fingertips stained in whatever-the-hell is going on with your sink leaves you no choice but to tear off a corner.

Bringing the piece of cake to meet his awaiting mouth, you brace yourself for the tentative scrape of teeth stealing it out of your hold. The delicate brush of his lips enveloping your fingers throws you off your axis, and the challenge in his eyes as they hold contact with your own has your thighs involuntarily squeezing themselves together.

For a moment, you swear you catch him glance down at your lips.

Then you remember the health insurance your job provides does not cover the cost of being institutionalised, so you stop hallucinating and come back to reality where Bucky Barnes is not so much a flirt as he is a pest, a stray animal abandoned at your doorstep by a friend who decided to take advantage of your good-natured heart.

“Can you give me the exact phrasing your date used to describe this shotgun-pool?” The soldier is gone in the blink of an eye, flat on his back again and continuing his attempt to seal the leak.

“Why?”

“I’m making this list,” he says, and he must shift his hands higher above his head because suddenly the soft cotton of his white shirt has ridden up his torso, presenting your eyes with a golden platter of sun-warmed skin. “I’m calling it ‘the manchild files’.”

“That’s not even funny,” neither is the way he inches deeper into the cabinet, exposing not only the glaringly white tan-line delineating where the band of his boxers should be resting but also the beginning dark curls of a happy trail.

“Well ‘the stupid files’ sounds so simple, I was worried you’d try to jump into bed with it.”

“Are you seriously about to slut-shame me in my own fucking kitchen?” Whilst slutting yourself out on my floor like your name is Mike and you’re about to show me some magic? is the quiet part you don’t say aloud.

“I’m critical but I’m not hypocritical,” there he does again with that verbal eye-roll. “I wasn’t exactly the image of celibacy when I was your age-”

“Yay, more grandpa lore!” Your interruption earns you a nudge from his leg, but you know it made him laugh because his shoulders gently shake.

“I’m not slut-shaming you, I’m taste-shaming. I swear, being useless must be the precursor to having a chance with you.”

“It is not!” You gasp, yet you’re hardly surprised — Bucky’s not exactly subtle in his disapproval of the men you date.

If there is anything to be thankful for, it’s the alleviation that comes with Bucky shimmying out from the sink again, happy trail redressed and a hand diving into the pocket of his sweatpants. With a dramatic clearing of his throat, he brings his phone up to his face and starts reciting.

“After being told you have a nut allergy, Carter B. said Wait, like, you’re allergic to cum?” You’d always known showing him how to use the notes app would come back to bite you in the ass somehow. “Tommy L. walked into a lampost because he got distracted… watching a squirrel run up a tree. You almost got stood up by Steve K. because he accidentally locked himself inside his own car. Lee B. asked you-”

“Bucky B. is about to lose his other arm if he doesn’t shut up.”

“I rest my case,” and he still has the nerve to open his mouth, awaiting another bite of cake.

You cave with no fight and give it to him.

Because you’re a nice person, not because you want to feel his mouth on you again.

Something cool drips onto the bottom of your naked thighs after Bucky reaches over you and grabs at the glass of water, stealing an obnoxiously large gulp; or is it just exaggerated by your stare zeroing in on the way his Adam’s apple bobs as he drinks?

A thought pops into your mind.

“Did you leave these on the counter because you expected me to be hungover?” Your tone is inoffensive, and unoffended, a simple curiosity you need answered.

“You have a headache, right?”

“Uh-huh,” your eyes narrow skeptically.

“Yeah, I figured you would,” Bucky takes another sip, more condensation trickling down onto your legs. “You always have one after eating Thai food.”

Something inside of you stops.

Your heart, or your lungs, or your mind. Your goddamn liver, for all you know.

This is not supposed to be happening. Bucky is not supposed to fix things just because you mentioned it, once in passing and as a scapegoat from focusing too much on him. And he certainly isn’t supposed to notice things, useless little factoids that not even you know about yourself until he brings them to light. Hell, he’s not even supposed to still be here, sleeping on your couch and criticising your love life.

When the thing inside of you clicks back into place and starts again, a new weight rests atop your conscience.

Maybe it’s not so bad having a roommate, having Bucky be that roommate. Maybe you’re starting to get used to coming home to the smell of baked vanilla and the signature grouchy look he wears as he asks you about your day, about how your co-worker pissed you off, about why you’re home later than usual and not wearing a jacket out in the cold of winter.

“By the way,” he’s calling out from beneath the sink again. “You’ll be happy to know I’m touring an apartment next week.”

“Oh.” The bite you just took turns sour in your mouth. You struggle to swallow it down. “That’s great. Finally! You’re going, and I’m staying here, and I’ll have my apartment back to myself. That’s… Great. It’s great!”

No, really, it’s great.

“You’re joking,” a palm on your lower back guides you to the right, just in time to avoid being trampled beneath a cart.

“I wish,” you say, and saunter over to some colourful packaging that’s captured your eye.

After a moment of inspecting the product in hand from every angle, you put it back on the shelf.

“Let me get this straight,” Bucky pushes the cart along behind you, grabbing that same colourful packaging and dropping it in with the rest of the groceries. “You lean through his window, kiss him goodbye on the cheek and then he just… What, crashed his car?”

“Into a wall with street art of a cliff painted on it,” as you add the most important detail, laughter is already bubbling up your throat. “He literally crashed his car into a cliff without even getting to switch out of first gear!”

The pair of you make up quite the sight.

An entire morning of tiptoeing through the limbo of delirium, after an entire night spent trying to block out the relentless banging from the upstairs neighbours. The door to your bedroom crawled open some time past four and there was Bucky, head poking through the space and looking rather pleased to find you wide awake — despite his claims of just wanting to make sure you were asleep.

Seated on opposite ends of the couch, both of you found a quiet solace in the other’s inability to sleep. While a movie marathon played over the TV, the sex marathon above continued. When exhaustion took claim of your body, you drifted off with your arms resting on the armchair and your head resting on your arms. You awoke atop a pillow and beneath a blanket, legs stretched out over the couch and Bucky curled up on the floor by your feet — like any good guard dog would be.

After a botched attempt to sneak past the soldier, only to have him scare the living daylights out of you by grabbing your ankle as you tried to step over him, you both came to the shocking realisation that the fridge was void of any food.

Which brings you to here: standing in aisle 7, laughing an ache into your ribs over yet another one of your failed dates, with a half-filled cart and matching bags forming under your tired eyes.

“I think it’s time we had an intervention about where you’re finding these men,” Bucky says that last word like it's covered in poison, burning his tongue on the way out.

“They find me!” You say, as he reaches for the box of strawberries you just put down. “As generous as I am, do you want to maybe slow down on how much shit you load into our cart?”

His hand freezes, the box of red fruit clasped in a confusingly delicate grip of vibranium fingers

“You picked it up,” his tone is riddled with confusion. “Don’t you want them?”

“Contrary to popular belief, I’m not made of money.”

“Okay?” He replies, like it’s the most irrelevant piece of information you’ve ever given him — and you once spent an hour ranting to him about the inefficiency of the ink cartridges in your office’s printer. “I’m paying, so do you want it or not?”

“Since when do you have money? Did your pension finally come through? I mean… You are old enough. Also, aren’t you literally a vet?”

“You managed to say all that in one breath, yet you failed to answer a yes or no question.”

A bubble of silence surrounds you both. Bucky blinks, slowly, exaggeratedly. It’s the perfect opportunity to stare at his face and notice the five o'clock shadow has grown. A gruff ‘excuse me’, followed by a man shoving between you both to grab some strawberries, pops the bubble.

Without a word, you snatch the box and place it in the cart.

Half-way up the fruit aisle, Bucky gets the genius idea to open his mouth again: “You wanna know what my theory is?”

“Nope,” you say, popping the p and glancing back at him over your shoulder. “But you’re going to tell me anyway.”

He looks vexingly domestic like this, wearing a sweater and pushing your shopping around. Thoughts betray you, wandering off into dangerous territory as they begin to question how others perceive you from the outside.

What do strangers see: two roommates that quarrel like it’s a biological need, or a couple doing their weekly shop? Two strangers forced together by a circumstance named Sam Wilson, or two lovers unwilling to voice that the metal container between them is too much distance?

“I think you date idiots because they’re idiots.”

“Gee whiz, grandpa, that’s so insightful. I sure do hope I’m as wise as you when I’m your age, but I’ll probably just be dead.” You feel the cart meet your back in a gentle bump, a non-verbal warning to cut the teasing.

“Dating those incompetent men, it’s like…” he pauses, searching for the right words, and plucks a bunch of bananas from your hand, dropping them in with your mounting pile of fruit. “Jumping out of a plane! You get the thrill of falling but, the moment something a little too real and solid appears on the horizon, you pull out the parachute and, that’s it, you’re safe. No danger of falling flat on your face and getting your feelings hurt.”

“I don’t know when you last jumped out of a plane-”

“Remember that Karli situation a few months ago?”

“But not ejecting your parachute leads to a little more than just falling flat on your face.”

“So my metaphor isn't perfect,” Bucky trails off, eyes staring past you and mind lost in thought. You follow his line of sight and find a couple at the end of the aisle, hands intertwined and smiling at each other like they’re the only two people in the world. An unnamed emotion tugs at the soldier’s lips, but he won’t let it take over his stoic features. “But you get my point. If you were actually looking for something serious, you’d date someone better than those men.”

Unprompted and unwarranted, his words spear your heart.

Memories replay in your head, a kaleidoscope of the featureless faces you let take you out, dine you, wine you, kiss you. A handful of immeasurables: how many times you’ve brushed off mispronounced versions of your name, how many excuses you’ve made for the way they talk to you, how many times you’ve lowered your own standards to help a man feel desired. In your wake lies a graveyard of failed relationships, with no proper funeral nor mourning.

You swallow back the lump in your throat.

“Okay, psychoanalysing me aside, what’s left on the list?” You ask, making your way round to Bucky’s side of the cart.

“Well, I still need to write down Jeff G.’s cliff accident.”

“The other list.” You watch as he struggles to fish out the scrap of paper from his pocket.

“Eggs, pasta, feta, toilet roll,” his brows are furled, his eyes are glaring, and with each item he lists off, his words grow more unsure. “Grapefruit? Your handwriting is shit.”

“I was in a rush!”

“And sitting on a jack-hammer?”

“Gimme that,” you snatch the list, he yields it with no protest. As you scan over the scribbled ink, a frustrating truth comes to light. Bucky’s right, your handwriting is shit. “Is grapefruit even in season?”

“Huh,” it’s the sound of hollow amusement.

“What?”

“Just…” His presence looms over you, infecting your senses with the woodsy smell of his cologne and the arduous heat that radiates off of him. When he nods his head to the right, scoffing out a laugh and poking his tongue into his cheek, you find yourself wrestling between temptations of slapping him or pulling him closer. “You really don’t notice what’s right in front of you, do you?”

Lo and behold, on the right side of the aisle, grapefruits.

You make it through the rest of the shopping list in relative silence, with the occasional side-comment from the super soldier that either rouses a grin onto your lips or has your eyes rolling in faux disagreement. Little by little, you peruse the aisles and fill the cart; and, when Bucky picks out the only ice cream flavour void of nuts, you bite your tongue and choose to say nothing.

“I forgot to ask,” you finally speak, standing in the self-checkout zone and struggling to find something to do with your fidgety hands as Bucky scans each item — you insisted on helping and he insisted he’d get it done quicker alone. “How did the apartment viewing go?”

“Oh. Fine,” you grimace as he says your least favourite f word. “The current lease isn’t up yet, so you’re stuck with me a little longer.”

Are you supposed to feel this relieved?

In theory, you were never supposed to feel anything in regards to Bucky Barnes. In practice, it’s a lot more complicated, a pendulum that seems to swing in constant motion between red hot aggravation and red hot something else you refuse to give a name.

All you know is there are times where you wonder if his back is okay sleeping on the couch, and you contemplate asking him to come meet you during your lunch breaks, and you crave to have the anxious shake in your leg quelled by his daily check-in calls whenever he and Sam go off on another misadventure. Whatever reason lies behind your behaviour, the familiarity of ignorant bliss tempts you away from seeking the answer.

Besides, Bucky will be leaving soon. He’ll no longer be your roommate and you’ll both fall out of whatever routine convenience has forced upon you both.

A series of beeps capture your attention.

At the epicentre of the noise stands an elderly woman, grey hair pristinely curled and an outfit that screams Sunday-bests, struggling with the check-out machine. With no employee in sight and no do-gooder fellow customer stepping out of their way to help, the woman’s distress grows with each beep the machine makes at her.

Knuckles brush down your arm, and there’s Bucky at your side, waiting for you to pay him any mind.

“You mind handling the rest?” He asks, in that softly-spoken tone of his that would make anyone feel like swooning. Maybe that’s why it takes you a few moments to notice the wallet he’s holding out to you. “Cash is in the back pocket. I’ll be a few minutes, okay? Just finish bagging everything, leave the carrying to me.”

There’s no time to get a single word out before you’re staring at the back of his head and watching as he makes his way over to the elderly woman.

For every item you scan, you sneak a glance. The butter beeps onto the screen, and you peek how Bucky has effortlessly become the woman’s personal helper. You pass the strawberries through and reward yourself with the sight of Bucky’s cheeky grin — with the way the elderly lady laughs and swats at his arm, you can only assume he’s made some flirtatious comment. Clicking on the option to pay cash, you nearly give yourself whiplash as you turn to watch them again, Bucky’s just about finishing bagging her groceries while the woman opens her shopping-trolley bag.

Waiting on the receipt to print, your reflection stares back at you on the self-checkout screen: a hue of endearment glowing off your features. The smile quickly melts off your face when you realise that he… Oh no.

Bucky is charming.

Part of you has always known he was handsome — you’re stubborn, not blind — yet the sight of him now, all dashing smiles and twinkling eyes playing rescuer to a woman who, despite the difference in their physical ageing, is closer to his own age than you, it troubles you. The acid burn in your throat is not a manifestation of jealousy, no; it’s the queasy feeling of knowing you’ve never looked across at a date, caught him in a moment of content, and felt the unyielding desire to be the reason behind it.

Someone clears their throat beside you, a man with a wrinkle in his forehead and an agitated look upon his face, so you quickly excuse yourself and, with plastic handles digging into your fingers, you approach Bucky and the elderly lady.

Upon noticing you, Bucky’s quick to tug the bags out your grip, a scolding already falling off his tongue: “I told you to leave these to me.”

“Yeah, well, Mr. Frowny-Magoo over there didn’t appreciate me hogging up the cashier,” the comment is meant as nothing more than a lighthearted joke, yet you swear you see something shift in the soldier’s stance, his shoulders tensing and his jaw clenching as he glances back at the stranger.

Fortunately, the elderly woman interrupts whatever he’s contemplating doing to him.

“Она твоя жена?(Is she your wife?)” She’s looking between you both expectantly, speaking words you don’t understand. “У нее лицо ангела. (She has the face of an angel.)”

Whatever she says, it clearly has an effect on Bucky. His head turns to the side, to you, and a visible softness overcomes his gaze as it traces over your face. His shoulders are relaxing, his jaw is unclenching, and he’s switching the bags over to his metal hand, renewing his grip and freeing up the hand that now hangs right by yours, knuckles gracing over your own in a way that feels like a dare, a challenge, a temptation to lace your fingers together.

You clench your fist shut.

“Я знаю. (I know.)” He says, eyes lingering on you a few moments longer than necessary, before he’s back to smiling at the elderly woman.

Halfway home and doubling your pace to keep up with his effortless stroll, curiosity finally gets the better of you.

“What did she say back there, that lady you helped?”

A stranger rushes past you both, phone glued to their ear and stressing down the speaker. Bucky takes grip of your arm and tugs you closer to him.

“Do you spend your time getting bumped into when I’m not around?” His fingers give your arm a squeeze before releasing you. “And, if you must know, she said I was the most handsome man she’s ever seen.”

Little force is put behind the shove you give his shoulder.

You’re too busy agonising over how much you agree with her.

Bucky leaves.

Not forever, but three weeks away on some stealth mission with Sam sure begins to feel like it.

It happens on a Friday. After the week from hell at work, a friend’s mid-week engagement party, and the unexpected downpour of rain during the journey home, you walk into an unlit apartment and a note stuck to the fridge.

Sam needs me. Be safe, don’t bring strangers home. B.

The batch of freshly baked cinnamon rolls sweeten your night up, at least.

There’s a quiet that always seems to blanket the house whenever you lose Bucky to missions.

Before he was dumped on your front door, you’d been used to living alone and the peaceful silence that came with it. Independence, the ability to need no one and want nothing, a trait of yours that once brought pride, now brings you nothing but the static sound of a muted television and the hum of the microwave spinning a meal fit for one.

Mornings become a ritual of waking later yet leaving earlier, no one is there to distract you from drinking your coffee. Though the workload is the same, somehow the slow drag of hours still finds a way to pass quicker than ever, the revolving doors of the office building spit you back out onto the streets of New York before you’re fully ready. Your evenings waste away, starved of noise and company, while you run out of shows to watch and books to read, and count the hours down until all that silence becomes necessary for your eyes to close and your mind to rest.

It’s when darkness rules over the sky and the hour is a single digit that the phone finally rings. A blocked number, untraceable, pulling you out the hands of sleep and filling your room with the noise of your ringtone. He never speaks first, not until there’s an echo down the line of your own sleep stained ‘hello?’.

“You can go back to sleep now.”

You never stay on the line long enough to find out how quickly he hangs up after he speaks. Because it’s only ever meant to be a way to let you know he’s safe, alive, somewhere out there doing who-knows-what and stopping who-knows-who. It’s just an unrequested favour he’s granted you, after the incident in which both he and Sam fell-off the grid for five days and you were nearly rounding up a search party. He’s not missed a call since, once a day while he’s away.

So, when he doesn’t call, it’s only natural that you worry.

The alarm bell rings when you wake up to birds chirping, sun spilling through the crack between the curtains, and not a single missed call nor voicemail awaiting you.

It’s Saturday and there’s no work to occupy your mind, so you force down a bagel, toss a tote bag onto your shoulder, and head out to the local market. But there’s no joy in perusing fruit stands without a six foot soldier trailing your heels and muttering to himself about how exotic fruit has gotten, and how ‘back in my day you had your apples, your oranges, and your pears.’

You wind up home by noon, and the dwelling begins to grow, still no call.

There’s a weight on your chest, and a balloon of anxiety that grows in your throat, and an unwarranted agitation burning at your skin as you read over his note again, still very much stuck to the fridge and taunting you — Be safe, says a man who clearly can’t take his own advice.

Then, why should you?

You agree to go on a date, one you’ve been dancing around agreeing to for a few weeks yet reach for it the moment you decide you’re not pleased with the way Bucky’s lack of a call is ruining your well-earned free time.

And, hey, the guy’s not a complete loser this time. On paper, at least. He’s handsome, tall, and an athlete — ex-athlete, really, but you don’t bother to point that out while he talks about the gymnastic studio he runs. Most importantly, he’s eager to call a cab and get you home, screw Bucky’s warning. If you want to bring a stranger into your home, you’ll do it.

Brooding, uncalling soldier be damned!

After stumbling through the dark of your apartment into your bedroom, and fumbling with your bra long enough for you to grow tired and just take it off yourself, you and Mister Gymnast tumble into the sheets for a performance so lacklustre, it warrants taking all his medals away. At least your date seems to enjoy himself, spilling onto your stomach and falling asleep the minute his head hits the pillows.

“I finished,” last you checked, he hadn't even started.

You lie awake, staring at the ceiling, and try to will the phone to ring. Encased by a stranger’s snoring and a guilty feeling, you let Lady Sleep whisk you away. When your eyes open next, morning has broken and you’re alone in bed with a remnant trace of warmth on the sheets. But the silence is finally gone.

Beyond your door you hear the faint thud of footsteps, the ding of the fridge being opened, the whistle of the kettle. You almost trip in your rush to get dressed, and nearly rip the hinges off the door as you tear it open. Then the smile falls from your face.

“You’re up!” Everyone’s favourite gymnast is there to greet you, a mug in hand as he goes to pull you in for a kiss. The way you swerve is automatic, unplanned, leaving his lips to land on your cheek. “Uhh, I was hoping you’d sleep a little longer, I wanted to bring you breakfast in bed but-”

“He couldn’t figure out how to boil the kettle.”

And there’s Bucky, leaning back against the kitchen counter with his arms crossed over his chest and a smug look on his face. Aside from the butterfly stitches above his left brow, he looks unharmed. Fine, even. Dressed in all black, with a t-shirt that’s hugging his frame a little too tightly for your liking, the double-combo of his dog-tags and vibranium arm on display. Perfectly safe for a man who couldn’t call.

Your date laughs and sheepishly scratches the back of his head before you get the chance to speak.

“Your brother was kind enough to help me.” It’s unclear who laughs first: Bucky or you. “What’s so funny?”

“Oh, nothing, nothing, just…” Bucky says, shaking the laughter away with a nod of his head. “In what world do me and her look related?”

“Wait, if you’re not her brother then, are you-” Fifty shades of horror spill over the gymnast’s face, his head darting between looking over at Bucky and back at you. “Holy shit, is he your boyfriend?”

“Husband, actually,” the soldier’s all too quick-witted, pushing off the counter and reaching for a mug of brewing coffee. “But don’t worry, we’re open. What do you think of our kitchen lights, by the way? My wife here likes them dim.”

Dumb as he is, your date tilts his head up to inspect the light fixtures.

“Oh, they’re nice!”

That does it for you.

“Bucky, shut up!” You snap, finger pointed over at the menace who’s biting back a smirk and stirring away at his mug, face as innocent as sin. Is this some twisted version of revenge, a punishment for bringing a stranger home? You’d prefer the punishment to be a little more… hands on. Preferably in the form of your slapping that twinkle out of his eyes. “He is not my boyfriend, or my husband. He is the bum that lives on my couch.”

“You see how she treats me, Vince?”

“It’s Lance,” the gymna- Lance corrects him.

Moving towards the kitchen, your eyes check over your roommate once more, as though they expect some previously unseen injury to make an appearance on his skin. Come the end of your search, you’re left looking into a face that is sporting a split brow and a cruel level of entertainment from the situation at hand.

There’s a relief to having him back, and it’s wrestling with the exasperating emotions a single missed call conjured up.

“What are you doing here, anyway? Aren’t you and Sam still meant to be… I don’t know, on a homoerotic getaway, fighting crime?” The questions fire out of you as you slip into one of the island’s stools.

“We finished early,” Bucky appears by your side as though from thin air, hand clasping the back of your seat and pushing you in closer to the counter top.

“Aww, don’t worry, big boy, it happens to the best of you,” you tease, an empathetic pat against his shoulder.

The mockery backfires when you notice his brows shoot up and his stare shifts towards your date, who’s too busy trying to open the sugar jar to notice the dig at his own sexual inabilities.

Wait, when exactly did Bucky get home?

“How do you take your coffee?” One-Thrust-Lance asks you over his shoulder.

Before you can answer, a cup is nudged into your grasp and Bucky looks over you with triumph, metal fingers reaching out to drag over a plate of freshly-baked cookies. The smell of warm vanilla pairs well with the soft musk of his cologne, your eyes nearly roll back inhaling it.

“Mmm,” one sip of your coffee is all you need to know it’s perfect, made exactly to your taste. “Coffee and baked goods… I knew I kept you around for a reason.”

In lieu of any verbal response, the soldier takes to dunking one of the cookies into your mug before stealing a bite out of it. You watch as he chews on the sweet treat, head nodding in approval at his own skills. After he dips a second time, you expect him to take another bite, only to find him offering the chocolate chip goodness up to your mouth. Two eyes, blue as any winter, stare encouragingly while you sink your teeth into the cookie.

Heaven couldn’t taste any sweeter, you think, as the perfect blend of coffee stained dough and the sharpness of the dark chips flood your tastebuds.

“So messy,” Bucky tuts quietly, his right hand grabbing a steady hold of your chin while his thumb swipes away the crumbs dusting the corner of your mouth.

That thing inside of you stops again as you watch him bring his hand up to his own mouth, a pink tongue poking out to lick his thumb clean.

Arousal thrums through your blood, a pulsing rhythm that spreads straight to your clit. A squeeze of your thighs brings momentary reprieve, yet the ache fights back with renewed force, drying up your throat and knocking the sense right out of you.

Squirming where you sit, your legs switch position until one foot finds itself tucked beneath the opposite thigh, the heel of it sitting perfectly against your clothed core. You find no mercy, no chance to roll your hips forward in search of the balm only friction will bring to your burning skin. Instead there’s simply Bucky, eyes trailing down the length of you and settling on your short-clad legs. As though his behaviour is not cruel enough, he wets his bottom lip with his tongue

“You like that?” More than you’ll ever know, you almost scream until the logical side of your brain takes the wheel again and you notice him pointing down at the half-eaten cookie. Of course he’s enquiring about his baking skills, what else would this scrambled-egg-for-brains senior citizen be talking about? “Are you gonna make me wait all day for an answer?”

Something smashes behind Bucky, just in time to startle away the racy thoughts from your mind.

“My bad!” Your date — who you damn near forgot was even here — is apologising, bending at the waist and trying his best to collect the fractured pieces of a mug off the floor. “Where do you guys keep your dustpan?”

Bucky pushes away from the island counter, taking the smell of his cologne with him; if you weren’t fully back to your rational senses, you’d miss it.

“I’ll get it, Vince, you just stand there and look pretty.”

“Okay!” Lance, it seems, is just as eager to please the ex-assassin as you almost were a moment ago.

You decide you need to move, to stand up, to stretch your legs. This has nothing to do with the lingering effect of Bucky’s antics, nor the damp patch gathering against your panties.

Slipping off the kitchen stool, you work on chugging down gulps of coffee with every intention of dumping the empty mug into the sink, dashing to your bedroom, and conjuring up the best plan you can come up with to get not only yourself, but also the trash you brought in with you last night out of the apartment and away from an infuriating roommate.

Something on the floor derails you, however, dragging you away from the path to sanctuary. The tiniest red petal, lonesome and neglected upon the cold tile. Three steps over, and there’s another petal. One step until the next petal. You follow the breadcrumb trail all the way over to the garbage can where, with one gentle push of a button, the lid opens up to reveal the unexpected, thrown away like a dirty secret.

A crumpled bouquet of roses.

Everywhere you turn, there’s tension.

In your neck, from sleeping at an unfavourable angle. Within your stomach, where a queasy feeling keeps threatening to spew your guts out onto the bathroom floor. Between you and Bucky, a foreign energy that’s grown over the course of this last week, during which you’ve been avoiding eye contact and his stare is full of accusation.

Retracing your steps, they take you back to the moment Lance left the apartment and you found yourself drowning in Bucky’s company for the first time in weeks. He was barely half-way through poking fun at the choices you made in his absence — most of his focus being on the blubbering fool you brought into your bed — when your patience ran thin and snapped.

Now here you are, bearing the consequence of your own short temper, wiping lipstick off your teeth whilst mentally preparing yourself to go on a second date, planned sheerly out of spite and the need to prove a point.

Poor Lance is none the wiser to his role as pawn in your game of ‘Screw You, Barnes!’.

“Everything okay in there?” Think of the devil and he shall knock on the bathroom door, apparently. “Thought you had your big date at seven.”

The gymnast’s text thread stares back at you, a wall of grey bubbles. You have to swallow down the lump in your throat to speak, “He’s not answering my calls.”

“You’ve been stood up? By that loser?” There’s every chance your storm of emotions is impeding you from thinking straight, but you swear you almost hear a hint of disbelief in Bucky’s voice. Disgust, even.

There’s no point dwelling on the thought.

After a quick wash of your hands, you pry the door open and watch as the soldier leaning against it nearly topples forward before catching himself against the frame. He’s entirely too close for comfort, close enough for you to notice the different shades of blue in his eyes.

“Maybe he broke his phone?” The lack of assurance in your voice has you cringing, the fear of being called out suddenly doubling.

Bucky scoffs, arms crossing over his chest.

“More likely he forgot to charge it.”

Is that what happened to him? Is that why he left you to dwell in the dark over his whereabouts and wellbeing, rendering the usual distraction of a night-time companion useless? Only for you to find him the following morning, right as rain and as annoying as ever, standing in the kitchen and casting judgement-filled glances at your overnight guest?

Thinking about it, about him, brings on an onslaught of anger you’re not willing to address. Not right now.

“Shut up!” It comes across as less independent girlboss and more petulant child, but you’re too busy noticing how firm his chest feels under your palms as you push past him out of the bathroom to care.

Prying open the freezer, you hear the soft click of the toilet door closing. Good, you think, he’s gone away. Out of sight, out of mind. Even if it is only for the short time it takes him to do his business.

That time ends up being even shorter than expected, for only minutes after you’ve dug your spoon into the creamy, frozen goodness of vanilla fudge, the object of both your fascination and your torture is making his way towards the kitchen.

“Didn’t I tell you to stop eating my ice cream?”

“Didn’t I tell you to move out?” Mouth full of vanilla, you shoot him a toothy grin and relish in the grimace it earns you.

Satisfaction melts away when Bucky invades your personal space, metal arm reaching over head and pulling open a cupboard.

“Don’t do that,” you swat at the vibranium bicep, a futile fight that simply makes you all too aware of how smooth it feels beneath your fingertips.

“Do what?” Brain of a caveman, Bucky continues his rustling through the cabinet behind you, features as stoic as a rock as though he’s none the wiser to how your chests brush against one another with each exhale.

“That,” another swat at his arm, though this time he yields. The space between you doesn’t grow, however. It worsens, his attention fully falling onto you now. “Reaching over me like you can’t just ask me to move.”

“Fine, if it really bothers you that much,” are the last words you hear before you’re airborne, two hands squeezing at your hips and moving you two steps over and out of the way.

The soldier doesn’t struggle, not even for a moment, the serum that’s altered his DNA leaving him primed and ready to manoeuvre the most steadfast of objects. Manhandle them, too. Pick them up, turn them over, pin them down, make them scream… Objects, of course, or those big, bad guys he and Sam are always chasing after.

The anger in you is renewed, burning brighter than a star ready to die. You shove his hands off of you and secure another step of distance between you.

“Well aren’t you a ray of sunshine today.” With the rate he’s going at, one would think the soldier makes a living out of deepening the frown on your face. “Is this princess’ first time being stood up?”

You’d slap him, right here and now, if it didn’t mean moving closer and touching his skin; the current top two of your ‘Things To Not Do’ list.

Luckily, the tub of ice cream sits just within reach and your eager fingers take grip of it, sliding it over the counter towards yourself. A mouthful of coolness precedes the burning question on your tongue, “Why didn’t you call?”

“Are you serious?” Now he’s the one scowling and taking a step closer.

“Deadly,” you dig the spoon back into the carton. “Now answer the question.”

“You’re pissy with me for not calling, meanwhile I’m the one who came home to some asshole in your bed?”

He’s moving closer. You try to step backwards.

“Yeah, well, if you’d called like you were supposed to, I wouldn’t have ended up with said asshole.”

Bucky’s eyes narrow, “Oh, so now it’s my fault that you date degenerates?”

The cackle that escapes you could break the soundbarrier.

“Wow! Everybody, give it up for another original dig at my love-life from James Buchanan Barnes!” Voice dripping with seven layers of venomous sarcasm, you give three slow claps of your hands. The cynical smile that overcomes your face feels borderline deranged, something plucked right out of a horror movie. “Okay, yeah, I date losers! Happy? Jesus Christ, Bucky, what do you expect me to do? It’s not exactly like there’s anyone else lining up to date me.”

“I am!” His voice is raised, his eyes are wide, his chest is heaving. “Maybe I’m the biggest idiot, rushing home last week to surprise you. Even brought you flowers. I just… Fuck!”

You don’t move, don’t blink, don’t breathe.

Bucky runs a hand through his hair, knuckles going white as he pulls on the tresses.

There it is again in his eyes, the accusation.

Even though he’s shaking his head, he steps closer.

The kitchen counter is right behind you, there’s nowhere for you to run.

The heels on your feet almost give out beneath you, you try to steady yourself with your hands.

Bucky has other plans and grips both your forearms.

“I am,” he repeats, softer. Slower. The icy exterior of accusation melts away to reveal vulnerability.

A hand meets your cheek and holds you like you are glass, breakable beneath his touch. Your heart’s in your throat, and there’s a current of electricity running down to your toes, and that neglected hunger in your loins creeps in again. His eyes search your face, while his thumb gently swipes over your bottom lip, prying it out an involuntary capture from your teeth.

It’s unclear who reaches for who first, whether he dips and takes possession of your mouth, or you grab him by the collar of his shirt and lay your claim over him. In a matter of seconds, a tentative press of lips against lips divulges into loss of breath, tongues in mouths, and fevered kisses.

The soldier kisses with starvation, like he has walked through the desert of loneliness and at last stumbled upon an oasis, like a bee seeking every last drop of nectar from a flower dying off with the spring, like a body clings to sleep in the throes of exhaustion. It’s a necessity, a human need, a matter of survival to keep your lips interlocked.

The hand on your face holds you steady as he tilts himself deeper into the kiss. Noses brush against the swells of cheeks, eyelids rest close, feet shuffle closer in search of eradicating the crevice of distance between you two. Metal fingers curl around the nape of your neck, a gesture you reciprocate while your spare hand lays flat-palmed against his beating chest. One of his legs winds up between yours and, as he shifts weight from one foot to another, there’s the faintest relief of friction against your cunt and a whine gets caught between your throat and Bucky’s eager mouth.

Despite how you chase his lips, he pulls back and grants you the sight of pure endearment.

“Look at you, whining already. Where’s all that fire gone?” It’s practically a whisper, spoken with fascination. “Or were you just needing Old Bucky to touch you, huh?”

Second-hand embarrassment burns the tips of your ears, while your own unspoken agreement to his question has your stomach twisting up. Survival instincts, that have never been much of a friend, scream at you to flee this feeling, to throw away Pandora’s box before you risk fully opening it and having it consume you.

Bucky intercepts your attempt to push out of his arms.

“Ah, ah, get back here. Not done kissing you,” his words divulge into a barely coherent mumble as he reconnects your lips.

Beneath the heat of his kiss, the discomfort in your chest turns to ashes. Because, while instinct tells you to run from danger, this is Bucky.

Bucky who fixes cupboard hinges, and sleeps with both eyes on the door. Bucky who carries all the shopping, and holds every door. Bucky who calls to hear your voice while he’s away endangering his life, and brings home the silliest trinkets he finds on missions. Bucky who wakes you when you miss your alarm, and knows if you’ve had a bad day simply from looking at your face.

How could you possibly be in danger when it comes to him?

While you’re overcome with epiphany, he’s taken to tracing his lips over the slope of your jaw and mouthing at the skin of your neck. It’s when he lifts you up onto the kitchen counter that your wandering mind is reeled back in, to the physical present where your legs rest on either side of the soldier and the prized possession of vanilla fudge once again sits within reaching distance.

“Are you stealing my ice cream right now?” His lips tickle your collarbone as he speaks, barely a moment after you’ve scooped the spoon into your mouth.

“I’m warm, and it's melting,” his head pops up just in time to accept the spoonful of vanilla you deliver. There’s a glow in his eyes, one that has you questioning if it's been there all along or if it's a consequence of touching your skin. “Don’t want it to go to waste.”

His mouth is on yours again, a rush of three chaste kisses seared against you before he replies, “Then let’s cool you down.”

At a teasingly slow pace, you feel his fingers tug down your dress’ straps, leaving the silky fabric to slip down your frame and pool around your hips. Under the golden hue of the kitchen lights, his gaze studies your bare skin like it's a work of art, an eighth wonder of the world, the greatest poem never written woven into it. Yet it still manages to pale against the face that overcomes him as he removes a final layer of lace.

Unlike Vince, he has no trouble removing your bra.

“So responsive,” he talks as though only his ears are meant to hear it, his vibranium palm gently taking hold of your left breast and rolling the hardening nipple between two fingers.

He’s studying your reaction, bewildered by the goosebumps spreading over your flesh.

When was the last time he truly touched another person? Weeks, months, years, decades? The thought of his hands on a faceless shape makes you sick. First with envy, and then with hypocrisy, an amalgamation of all the men you’ve taken to bed flashing before your eyes. But none of them ever touched you like you were porcelain, and none of them looked at you like you held the key to eternal pleasure. None of them were Bucky.

A chill runs down your spine and a gasp rips out your chest as Bucky swipes the spoon over your skin, leaving a trail of ice cream atop your right breast for his tongue to follow. He plants a garden of kisses along the swell of your chest before pulling away to give the left side equal treatment, another creamy river along your skin for him to clean up.

Moving at their own volition, your hips grind gently against his steady figure as Bucky coats your nipple in vanilla, moaning into your chest as he lays claim over you with his mouth. Spoiling you in his kisses, the soldier begins to yearn for friction, meeting the careful roll of your hips with his own.

Your hand finds his hair and his stare meets yours, intense and all-consuming as he releases your nipple with a scrape of his teeth. You want to soothe his kiss-swollen lips but they’re already wrapping themselves around your other breast, not even patient enough to lather you in the vanilla goodness this time.

Instead, the coldness on your skin stems from metal fingers, perched on your thigh and creeping up the length of it, inch by tormenting inch. A hesitant hand wraps around a vibranium wrist, tightening its grip before you begin guiding his touch inwards, upwards, to where you need it most. Bucky's stronger, more resistant, and holds off your interceptance, left hand continuing its intended path beneath the skirt of your dress and grabbing hold of your naked waist.

He’s everywhere, all over you. Mouthing at your chest, gripping at your hip, rutting into your pussy. The sweet drag of his bulge over your clothed core sires a wet patch against your thong and has your fingers tugging on the roots of his hair, winning you the hair-raising hum of a groan against your breast.

Desperate to feel more, you renew your efforts to lead his hand to the space between your legs and are met with a shake of his head.

“No,” he mutters, and robs you of a hand beneath your dress, using it instead to cradle your jaw while his lips skim over the shell of your ear. “Wanna feel you.”

The warmth of flesh brands your thigh, Bucky’s right arm now leading the charge beneath the silky fabric. With bated breath, you brace yourself against his strong chest and try not to squirm in anticipation of his touch. With one final squeeze at your inner thigh, the soldier’s hand engulfs your clothed cunt and his breath cracks in your ear, a strangled out, feral noise that has your toes curling.

“She’s so wet, darling,” his voice has you delirious, breathy against your ear. His fingers flex against your pussy and a moan catches in your throat. “You gonna let me touch her?”

Something about the way he’s speaking to you, the words he’s choosing, makes you want to fall apart. Your sex-life has always been liberal, you know what it is to have a man’s hands all over you, trying to take ownership of parts of you he thinks belong to him. Men who take, and take, and take, until there is nothing left of you to give, and not once do they care to win your favour, to plead for permission. But Bucky…

“Please, say I can touch her, wanna give her what she needs,” he’s pleading for it, begging for you — wrecked and desperate, breath run ragged from no more than the relief of rolling his groin against your thigh. “Promise I’ll be real sweat, make you feel good.”

Too caught up in his own head, he doesn’t notice you nodding, until you’re granting him salvation verbally, “Touch me, Bucky.”

He doesn’t hesitate, doesn’t waste time on taking off your underwear, just moves it to the side and drags the tip of his fingers down the inseam of your pussy. You hear it, more than you feel it, the moment he touches your opening, a sharp inhale at your ear telling you he’s exactly where he wants to be.

As his middle finger slips in, it’s hard to tell which of you reacts louder, both a mess of guttural moans. Once it's fully sheathed within you, he curls it and presses against your soaked walls, grinning against your skin at the reaction it coaxes out of you.

“Don’t hold back,” he chastises you as you bite back another pathetic whimper, a second finger slipping into you. “Let me hear what I’m doing to you.”

He must have a magic touch, you’re sure of it. Thick fingers that fuck into you at a steady pace, curling and teasing at that world-bending spot inside you, while his thumb makes itself useful against your clit, a firm force for your bucking hips to grind up into while you chase the pleasure he’s unleashing on you. In a matter of minutes, the room is alive with your melodic moans, Bucky’s endless hums of approval, and the damn-right embarrassingly loud squelch of him fingering your drooling cunt.

You make the mistake of letting your eyes slip shut, relinquishing yourself to the way he touches you with the rough hands of a soldier yet the delicate stroke of a musician playing his favourite instrument. He must feel the shift in you, for he’s instantly prying his face away from your neck and tightening the metal grip on your jaw, fingertips digging into squished cheeks.

“Look at me,” his words are both a command and a plea. An order you follow and a prayer you answer, eyelashes fluttering open to find his face in front of your own. His lips are a hard line, his brows furrowed in disapproval, and there’s a vein threatening to split down the middle of his forehead, but his eyes. His eyes are affection incarnate, two pools of lust and worship that pose no threat of drowning. “Do you want to cum?”

Never has a more needless question been asked.

You nod into the force of his vibranium hand, but that’s not what he wants, frown deepening.

“Say it,” needy, helpless, spoken like he’s the one on the brink of ecstasy. “Please.”

“Bucky,” it feels good to say his name like this, brain melting into mush and heart racing in your chest. “I want you to let me cum.”

“Let you?” He’s offended by the word, fingers burying impossibly deeper inside of you while he continues to stare you down. “I beg of you.”

No warning precedes the coil in you snapping. The muscles in your core tense, your back arches into his broad figure, your pussy squeezes at Bucky’s fingers with a death grip. He guides you through it, ignoring the cramp in his wrist in favour of continuing to fuck his hand into you, a smile finally cracking over his face as he watches you fall apart atop the counter, nothing but Bucky, Bucky, Bucky surrounding you.

He tries to give you reprieve, a moment to breathe and savour the buzz in your veins, the hand around your jaw shifting to stroke at your cheek while the hand between your legs soothes you with featherlight touches.

You don’t let him, hand pawing down his torso and gripping at the belt of his jeans, delighting in the familiar clang of a buckle being undone, nimble digits that tear leather out its loop and tug down his zipper. Bucky’s bringing his lips back against yours just as you palm at his bulge, his tongue licking into your mouth when you finally release him from the confines of his boxers.

Fingers coated in your own slick grip at your thigh while the soldier makes it his mission to steal your breath, rendering you blind to the sight of his cock. But you can feel it. The weight of it in your hand, the burn of want ingrained in his skin. The width of it, and the length of it, and the perfectly mushroomed tip that has him keening into your touch as your pointer finger drags over the head.

“Is this what I do to you?” Still lost in the maze of your orgasm, you manage to gain back crumbs of your usual confidence watching Bucky fall mute. When he merely nods, you play him at his own game, fingers back in his hair and forcing him to look you in the eye. “Say it.”

He doesn’t.

He says something much better.

“D’you even realise how many nights I’ve laid on that fucking couch, hard as a rock and willing you to come out your room?”

“That’s your generation's problem, you know?” You whisper teasingly, incapable of fighting off your own laughter. “You swear more than you breathe.”

“C’mere,” he’s rolling his eyes and pulling you in, kissing you like it’s been a milenia and not a minute, hand nudging yours out the way to take a hold of himself.

Your teeth graze over his tongue as he drags the head of his cock through your folds, and he groans into your mouth before pulling back. Resting his forehead against yours, he’s teasing you both as his tip brushes over your hole before continuing its rutt up, bumping against your sensitive clit.

A wicked voice takes control of your mouth.

“Lance would have fucked me by now.”

“Vince would have cum by now, too,” he’s still rocking his hips, no sense of urgency behind the way he soaks himself in you.

Meanwhile, you’re a handful of seconds away from screaming at him to just stick it in already.

“You- Oh!” Prayers answered, hallelujah, his cock finally sinks into you. It’s a shallow thrust, barely more than the tip before he’s retreating, yet it's enough to mess with your head. “You heard us?”

“Unfortunately,” and he means it, the most subtle of pouts forming on his lips before he feeds himself a little deeper into your pussy. “I’m not great when it comes to timing.”

“I only slept with Lance because you-” Right on cue, he fucks into you even deeper and your words dissappear before they can reach your tongue.

“New rule,” a hand rests on your knee and encourages you to spread your legs wider. “No speaking another man’s name when you’re in bed with me.”

“Technically, this is the kitchen counter-” The bastard does it again, cuts you off with his dick — if it didn’t feel so damn good, you’d slap him.

He’s bottomed out at last, buried himself fully in your cunt. Hands snake around your waist, one palm flattening against your lower back while the other rests a little further up and guides your spine to arch into him, closer, like there’s anymore space left between you to devour.

His pace is still slow, teasing. A toe-curling drag of his cock out of you, letting you feel every ridge and vein before his hips promptly snap back into you and send your eyes rolling back, your head falling back — and smacking loudly against the cupboard door behind you.

Bucky freezes, one hand quick to cradle the back of your skull while his eyes scan over you.

“Jesus, doll, you okay?”

“Please don’t stop,” you plead, ridiculously unfazed by the faint ache when you’ve got him inside of you.

Even though he rolls his eyes, he complies.

“Might have just given you a concussion and all you care about is getting fucked?” He asks, like you could possibly care about anything else when his arms are hooking themselves under your knees and rucking you up off the counter, away from any rogue cupboard that means you harm.

If anything, you’ll gladly shoulder the burden of any possible injury, if it means being granted the sight of his biceps tensing as he effortlessly stands there and fucks you down onto him. Were you in any sane state of mind, you wouldn’t think it, but god bless that super soldier serum.

“You can give me a cockcussion for all I care,” head perched on his shoulder, you watch your nails sink into the fabric of his shirt and wish it would disappear and gift you the naked view of his back.

“Adding that to the list,” he whispers against your forehead, pressing a kiss against it.

Legs bent at the knee, you watch how, with one particularly deep thrust, they bounce at either side of him and one of your heels clatters to the floor.

The room pivots as Bucky turns, you still in his arms and your ankles locked behind his back. At first, you believe he’s aiming to move things into the bedroom, where the only thing your head will be hitting is the mattress when he lays you down. He proves you wrong, however, the cold press of marble against you once more as he settles you down onto the kitchen island.

Much to your chagrin, he slips out of you, cock now sitting pretty against his clothed abdomen and glistening with the sheen of your essence. In the blink of an eye, the soldier is sinking to his knees, metal finger reaching back for your fallen shoe.

The scene plays out like something stripped right out of a morally dubious, low quality pornography retelling of Cinderella, in which Prince Charming has his dick out, Cinderella’s gown is half-way off, and the infamous glass slipper is just a pair of heels you bought on sale.

Bucky is delicate and slow, mouth tickling at your inner knee as he secures the shoe in place. He rests back on his haunches and fully takes in the sight of you, perched upon the counter, hands splayed out on marble, a tangle of silk around your waist, lips parted in search of steady breathing.

There’s an intensity to his gaze, burrowing itself beneath your skin and becoming part of your bloodstream, spreading throughout your body. It makes you want to hide, flee like you do best, but Bucky has other plans.

“The shoes stay on, but this,” Bucky’s fingertips tug lightly on the hem of your dress, exposing a sliver of new skin. “I need this gone. Am I allowed to take it off?”

There he goes again, face the model of innocence while he asks for permission to your body. If you weren’t already dripping against your panties, you would be now. Luckily, he doesn’t push you to verbalise your agreement this time, more than eager to comply the moment you nod your head.

You wiggle your hips as he pulls the fabric out from beneath you, his grip snagging on the waistband of your thong and dragging it away alongside the dress. When your ass cheeks press back down onto the cool of the counter, reality hits you like a freight-train: you’re completely nude, with Bucky on his knees before you, in the middle of the kitchen.

“Buck,” the y of his nickname disappears as you feel him peppering kisses of your leg, inching that little bit higher each press of his mouth. Squeezing your eyes shut, you try to remember where your rational thoughts are stored, conjuring up images of friends, of Sam sitting at this very surface. “I don’t think we should… I mean, people eat off this counter!”

“Don’t worry,” reaching the threshold of your thigh, his kisses seem to speed up, that sauve and composed exterior chipping away to reveal a man who no longer wants to take his time with you. “I intend to eat.”

No sooner than the words reach your ears, Bucky swipes his tongue up your pussy and any fight left in you melts away as you turn to putty beneath his touch, soft and malleable, willing to sit there and take whatever he wants to give.

Give, he most certainly does. Lips latch onto your clit, hands hold your squirming hips in place, tongue dances over your most delicate areas before dipping into your entrance. He drinks from you like you’re the sweetest honey, the richest of red wines, the Holy Grail promising an eternal youth to a man whose time was stolen from him.

“You should see her, doll,” there’s a rasp in Bucky’s voice, a feral undertone to the growl that rests in the back of his throat. One hand tugs his shirt off while the other snakes between your legs, two fingers spreading your lips open in an obscene gesture that has you clamping down on your bottom lip. “She’s drooling for me, all pretty and wet.”

Dropping both your legs over his shoulders, he tugs you right to the edge of the counter and dives back in. You feel his nose bump against your clit and your hand grabs onto your thigh, nails piercing into flesh as your mouth sings a whined symphony.

Vibranium curls around your wrist, prying harm away from your own skin and silently imploring you to hurt him instead, nestling your fingers back into his hair. He’s renewing his effort, a touch that’s more determined than ever to make you fall apart, on his knees and worshipping the altar of your body — fealty and devotion seared into each lap of his tongue, each brush of his lips, each stroke of his fingers.

Who are you to reject his piety? You welcome it, with closed fist and glassy eyes. The soldier shudders — a full-body shiver that shakes down his spine — as the point of your heel digs into his back and your fingers squeeze at his scalp, no mercy shown as you lose yourself in the throes of lust.

When you cum, a silent scream rips through your chest and a burning-too-bright white light turns you blind. He doesn’t let up, tongue still buried in your convulsing walls as your thighs clamp around his head and your feet kick at his back, shoes flying elsewhere into the kitchen. He pays none of it any mind, content to prolong your orgasm for as long as you’ll allow him, slowly rising off his knees with two hands pinning you back against the counter while he continues to feast on your pleasure.

“Ja-mes,” a fractured call of his name is all it takes for him to stop, pupils more black than blue as they stare down at the picture you paint atop the counter: teary-eyes, swollen lips, heaving chest.

He’s hardly the image of composure either, red lines along the expanse of his back, hair a tousled mess, the scruff on his face covered in a sheen of your juices. And, yet, never have you wanted to kiss him so bad.

All you manage, after minutes of floating atop the cloud of your peak, is a cheeky grin and a comment that makes him roll his eyes: “For a fossil, you’re pretty kinky.”

“War camps aren’t exactly known for being fun,” as he speaks, he slowly lowers your legs off his shoulder. “You find ways to keep yourself entertained.”

“Bet you were quite the pleaser, huh?” Trying your best to play it cool, you lay your head fully back on the counter and stare up at the ceiling, praying he doesn’t notice the hypocritical pit forming in your stomach as you listen to your own words. “Probably had all the prettiest nurses fighting over who gets to tend to your poor, aching, throbbing co-”

“Jealousy looks cute on you,” he interrupts, amused, as his hands soothe over your hips.

“I’m not jealous!” You exclaim, barely believing yourself.

One hand reaching out for him, you watch your fingers intertwine with the prosthetic digits and let him tug you back up, chest to chest when his hand finds your cheek.

“I was,” his confession is crooned whilst staring right into your eyes, the tiniest up-turn to his mouth. “Everytime you walked out the door to go date a new loser.”

“Who knew,” your voice is as gentle as his own, nonchalant as a finger dances down the well-defined muscles of his abdomen and elicits a groan out of him. “All along I had my own loser at home.”

Bucky opts for silence as your hand reaches his groin and pays no mind to his cock, red-tipped and leaking, flushed against his stomach. You’re more interested in his jeans — in removing them, to be exact. It doesn’t take much, a sharp tug at the hem before they’re slipping off, meeting restraint as they cling to his muscled thighs and implore him to finish the job on your behalf, shucking them off blindly to where the rest of your clothes lie.

You must have saved a village in a past life to be rewarded with the view of a completely nude Bucky Barnes, skin stained by lust and laced with gold beneath the kitchen light. You must have saved the rest of the world, too, to watch how his eyes roll back and his mouth falls slack when you take his length in hand and give one slow pump of your wrist, releasing it just to watch it slap back against his abdomen.

As you reach for his dick again, his hand secures itself around your own and guides it up and down the length of it. Once, twice, thrice, till he’s breathing heavily and dripping in pre-cum.

“You must be close,” a statement you make with his own bodily reaction as evidence to back it up, yet there’s still room for doubt — to what extent does that soldier serum interfere with him?

“Put me back down on my knees and I’ll cum to the taste of you,” the soldier certainly makes a tempting offer, one that it almost pains you to refuse.

Almost, if you hadn’t already felt the sweet stretch of him inside you.

“Pretty sure putting you back down on your knees might be considered elder abuse, ole buddy.”

“My age may be a hundred and six but-”

“Exactly my point.”

“But my body isn’t,” he’s using that stare of his, the one Sam always warns you about, while you’re full-on cheesing, a rush of adrenaline shooting through your veins as you wind him up.

“Remind me, who threw their back out a few weeks ago pulling a tray of muffins out the oven?”

His flesh hand grips behind one of your knees and tugs you right to the edge of the counter, while his left one, still clasped over your own, drags his tip over your folds.

“I don’t remember hearing you complain when you drunkenly ate half the tray and then threw up over the rest,” admittedly, not one of your proudest moments.

“Shut up and fuck me, Barnes.”

“Yes ma’am.”

Just like that, you’re drowning in him again, gasping for breath as you lose yourself in a flood of lust. Bottomed out, stuffing you full, Bucky barely graces your pussy with the chance to adjust to his stretch once more before he’s moving, the sweet graze of every inch being dragged along your sensitive walls.

Your nerves are still reeling from his mouth, a quiet hum of electric pleasure reawakened by his throbbing cock and his vulgar mouth.

“She fits me like a fucking glove,” his hands are pawing at your waist, your breast, your face, never in one place for too long as he begins to settle into a rhythm of thrusts. “Doing so good for me, darling.”

The softness put into his term of endearment births an ache in your chest, one that will accept no medicine other than your arms around his neck and his lips on yours. Mouths tangled in kisses and sweat dripping down your skin, Bucky halts — your hips pressed together, the swell of his balls resting right against your swollen cunt, the head of his cock resting right against your sweet spot — and grinds.

Slow, deliberate, delicious. You whine into his mouth and feel how he swallows it, feasts on your ecstasy with a willing tongue, and a smiling mouth, and possessive teeth that tug at your lip as he pulls back. He stretches out the feeling, grinding a second time as your noses bump against one another.

“Bucky,” his name is an anchor, a paperweight, something to ground you amidst the floaty feeling of being two orgasms deep with a third approaching any time now.

“I know,” he says, and you believe him. Believe that he knows, that he’s known, that he always knows when it comes to you.

You lay your head to rest upon on his left shoulder when he returns to chasing a high between your thighs, a renewed vigor behind each thrust that has your hips rolling to meet his and your nails raking over the straining muscles of his back.

“I lied,” an unprompted confession stumbles out his mouth, fingers flexing into their grip on your waist. “About the apartment viewing. I didn’t go.”

“Bucky,” is all you can manage, branded into his skin with a kiss along his neck.

“Is that all you can say? Huh?” His voice carries a teasing lilt, paired to perfection with the pad of his thumb rubbing at your clit. “I’m giving pivotal revelations here, and you’re just gonna reply with that?”

Another echo of his name, walls fluttering around his dick.

“Bucky, Bucky,” he’s mocking you, a torturer’s laugh as he moans his name into your ear. “Keep going, you sound so pathetic it’s almost cute.”

Beyond words and beyond sense, you give in to the weight of his palm splaying against your stomach and guiding your back down onto the island. The soldier hooks your legs over his elbows, deepening the angle that his cock fucks into you, and you swear you see stars dance along the kitchen ceiling.

A hand smooths over your gut and you look back at Bucky to find adoration in his eyes.

“You see that?” You almost want to cry when his movement switches back to a slow drag — innnnn and outtttt — until you notice it: the smallest hint of movement beneath your flesh, a subtle visual of the outline of his tip bulging against your skin from inside you. “See how full she is, how good I’m making her feel?”

Pressing your hand against it, you can’t help but giggle as you feel him poke at your palm, only to fall back into a puddle of incoherent noises when he keeps pushing at that sweet spot, over and over. Harder and faster with each draw back of his hips, you feel rivulets of your own arousal roll down your ass and onto the marble, tainting the counter forevermore in the sins the soldier commits against you, the sins you welcome with open legs.

You’re near the edge again, and he feels it, pushing you closer and closer as he slowly spirals into a mess of phrases that barely begin before he’s cutting them off with something new.

“Don’t deserve this-” He catches himself, rips the insecurity in his voice out by the roots. “C’mon, let me see it one more time. Need to see you fall apart.”

“Want you to fall apart too,” you manage to beg, unwilling to watch him hold back or pull out before he finishes. “Please!”

Like any good soldier, he obeys.

Crashing over you like a wave, he’s doubled-over by the waist and sandwiching you between the counter and him. You feel him spill into you, hot ropes of cum painting your walls white as a third crescendo washes over your body.

Both of you seek out the other as his thrusts grow languid and your walls spasm, milking him for every last drop he’s got. When your mouths meet, it’s less of a kiss and more of you simply breathing into the other, exchanging air and body heat.

“So,” you croak eventually, exhausted and spent atop the counter yet completely unwilling to relinquish him from blanketing you. “Are you gonna do that every time I steal your ice cream?

Somewhere between jello-ed legs and cold compresses, you wind up in bed.

Skin clammy, lips swollen, lust satiated, you practically melt into the buttery softness of your bed sheets as Bucky lays you down. Despite how you’re still basking in the glow of your third and final orgasm, the soldier seems to think, for a second, you can handle another.

With gentle hands prying open your thighs and a curious tongue diving in for a second helping, licking up the dribble of his own cum spilling out your hole, he’s quick to be corrected when you roll away from his touch with a whine and a plea, “think I might actually die if you make me cum again, Buck.”

He’s unbothered by the rejection, wholly embracing it as he curls up behind you and snakes his arms over your naked skin. It’s you who drags the sheet up and over you both, turning in his arms to plant your head on his chest. His heart races beneath it, but you hold off on teasing — your own isn't any better.

“Sam’s going to kill me,” you whisper out into the room, when moonlight is peeking through your curtains and both of your heartbeats have calmed down.

“I’m sorry,” you feel him shift beneath your head and, though you can’t fully see him, you feel that blue gaze land on you. “Have I not made it clear enough what name you should be saying in bed?”

“There’s a serious chance I’ll die and you’re thinking with your dick,” he squirms as you pinch at his nipple. “You’re no better than the men on your list, Barnes.”

Silence floats back in between you for a moment, peaceful as the slow stroke of his fingers dancing up your spine.

“Why would Sam kill you?” He pauses, hand pressing a little harder down against a knot in your shoulder. “He knows you have a crazy guard dog.”

Your crazy guard dog just pressed a kiss against your forehead, how frightening.

“He made me swear I wouldn’t get involved with you. He said you weren’t in the headspace for a relationship, that you needed to focus on inner peace first.”

“Turns out inner peace is being inside of you,” you pinch at his nipple again. This time, he doesn’t run from it. This time, you almost swear you hear a little moan creep up his throat. “So, Wilson’s to blame? I can get behind that.”

“To blame for what?”

His hand’s now running up and down the back of your arm, leaving goosebumps wherever its tender touch goes.

“Why it took you so long to jump my bones.”

“You think I jumped your-” Your head rises off his chest and you stare into the navy darkness of the room, trying to make a concrete shape out where you see shadows of his face. “Wait, so these past few weeks, I’ve not been hallucinating? You’ve been… flirting?”

“It’s been more than a couple weeks, sweetheart,” Bucky seems to have no problem finding you in the dark, hand cupping your cheek and dragging you up to press a chaste kiss against your mouth. “You don’t seriously think I waited until morning to check that sink without hoping to be caught, do you?”

“So you were slutting yourself out on the kitchen floor!”

“Think the kitchen’s seen worse,” worse might be the understatement of the century.

Clothes still lay discarded, counters unwiped, ice cream completely melted. Cleaning you up had been the soldier’s only priority, and you weren’t in the mood or the mindstate to argue with him on that.

A fingertip tickles down the slope of your nose.

“Stop fighting it, you’re tired,” you hear him whisper.

“I want to hear more about your desperate efforts to get my attention,” it’s nothing but a weak protest.

“We have all the time in the world for that. Sleep,” you don’t hesitate to comply when Bucky’s hand presses you back down against the warmth of his chest. “You’re going to need it. Our upstairs neighbours still need a taste of their own medicine.”

+ extra hyde ! · 70% of this fic is just dialogue, these two losers would not stfu! · writing banter + sexual tension feels more exposing than writing literal porn. · lore accurate photo of me whenever bucky barnes exists:

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