leyannrae

[leyannrae]

okay but hear me out: bucky and reader get fake married for a mission. except he forgets it’s fake and starts calling her “my wife” casually and gets way too comfortable way too fast. i’m spiraling.

um, absolutely heard!

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You were still halfway convinced the mission brief had been a fever dream.

In what universe was “get married” the logical step to infiltrating a high-security gala? Apparently, in this one. According to Natasha, the hosts were obsessed with exclusive “couples only” events, and fake marriage was the fastest cover that wouldn’t draw suspicion.

You’d agreed—reluctantly—because the alternative was going with Sam, and Sam had loudly declared he’d rather wrestle a bear than sit through a dinner of “lobster foam” and “deconstructed oysters.”

So here you were, walking beside Bucky Barnes with a thin gold band on your finger and the taste of champagne still lingering in your mouth from all the toasts.

It was supposed to be fake. You had rules.

No PDA unless you were sure someone was watching.

No pet names unless it was to sell the cover.

No forgetting it’s a mission.

And Bucky—Bucky had thrown every single rule out the window before dessert.

It started small.

A passing waiter asked if you wanted another glass of champagne and Bucky, without even looking at you, said, “No thanks, my wife’s good for now.”

It was so casual you almost didn’t notice—until you caught the faint curve of his lips, like he knew exactly what he’d done.

Later, when the hostess complimented your dress, Bucky smiled that soft, dangerous smile and said, “She’s the prettiest wife in the world, isn’t she?” like it was a fact of nature, like the sun rose for that very reason.

You didn’t call him out for breaking the rules right there in front of half the guest list. But oh, you made a note.

Back in the safehouse that night, you confronted him.

“Barnes, you can’t keep throwing around ‘my wife’ like it’s nothing.”

He didn’t even look up from unbuttoning his cufflinks. “Why not? It’s our cover.”

“You said it to the waiter. The waiter doesn’t care.”

“Maybe I was practicing,” he said, shrugging, eyes flicking up to yours in that infuriating way. “Gotta sound convincing, doll.”

Your pulse did a stupid, traitorous thing at the nickname. You ignored it. “Just… stick to the plan, okay?”

He gave you a mock salute. “Yes, ma’am. Whatever my wife says.”

You threw a pillow at him. He caught it one-handed, grinning like you’d just confirmed all his worst (best?) instincts.

The next few days, it got worse.

At the market, he told the vendor, “My wife makes the best pasta, you know,” like you’d ever cooked pasta for him in your life.

When you split off to check security feeds, he said, “I’ll find you later, sweetheart,” like it was the most natural thing in the world.

Even Natasha started side-eyeing the two of you. “You remember this is fake, right?” she muttered while Bucky was across the room.

“Of course I remember,” you hissed back. “He’s the one—”

“Yeah,” she said, smirking. “That’s what I thought.”

It all came to a head at the final gala night.

You’d slipped into the shimmering dress Nat picked out—backless, fitted, the kind that made you feel like the most dangerous thing in the room. Bucky looked… unfair. Hair pulled back, black suit that fit like it was sewn onto him, and those blue eyes doing dangerous things when they swept over you.

“My wife,” he said in greeting, like that explained the expression on his face. Like it was the only thing he wanted to call you.

You rolled your eyes. “Focus, Barnes.”

“I am focused,” he said, offering his arm. “On my wife.”

The night went smoothly, until a group of overly curious socialites cornered you both near the balcony.

“How long have you two been married?” one asked, swirling their wine.

You opened your mouth, but Bucky was faster.

“Two years,” he said smoothly, hand sliding to your waist. “Met by chance. Love at first sight.”

You glanced at him, startled at the detail. This wasn’t in your agreed-upon backstory.

“Oh?” another chimed in. “What was your wedding like?”

Bucky’s eyes stayed on yours. “Small. Just family. She cried the whole time.”

Your throat went tight. You didn’t know why—maybe it was the way he said it, soft and fond like he’d actually been there, like he’d actually seen you walking toward him with flowers in your hands.

You played along, smiling faintly. “So did you.”

The corner of his mouth lifted. “Course I did, doll. Look at you.”

The group laughed, charmed, and eventually drifted away. But Bucky didn’t move his hand from your waist.

When you were finally alone, you stepped back, needing distance. “You keep doing that.”

“What?”

“Making it sound real.”

He tilted his head, considering. “Maybe it is.”

Your heart stuttered. “Bucky—”

“I’m just saying,” he said, stepping closer. “I like calling you my wife.”

“It’s not—” You swallowed hard. “It’s not real.”

“Doesn’t mean I don’t mean it.”

The words hung between you like a live wire.

Before you could decide whether to grab it or run, comms crackled in your ear—mission update. Extraction in ten. The spell broke.

The debrief was short. Mission successful. No casualties. Natasha gave you both that “I know more than I’m saying” look, but didn’t comment.

Back at your apartment, you expected things to snap back to normal.

But Bucky followed you inside, shrugging off his jacket, loosening his tie like he belonged there. Like a husband coming home.

You crossed your arms. “Why are you still here?”

“Thought I’d make dinner.”

“You can’t cook.”

“Guess my wife will have to teach me,” he said, smirking.

You stared at him, torn between exasperation and something dangerously warm in your chest. “Bucky—”

“Tell me to stop,” he said quietly. “If you want me to.”

You opened your mouth, ready to say it. But the words didn’t come.

Instead, you found yourself stepping closer. “You’re ridiculous.”

“Yeah,” he murmured, reaching up to tuck a stray hair behind your ear. “But I’m yours.”

It was supposed to be fake.

So why did it feel like the most real thing in the world?

[leyannrae]

i suck at dating .. once i find out you talk to other people i don’t like u anymore

[leyannrae]

Come Home To Me (Pt 2)

pairing | 40s!bucky x 40s!reader

word count | 8.8k words

summary | he came home in pieces, broken but breathing, and slowly—painfully—learned how to be whole again in the arms of the woman he loved and the child he never thought he’d meet. now, with another baby on the way, and a house built from promises once whispered in wartime, james buchanan barnes is finally learning what it means to be at peace.

tags | (18+) MDNI, unprotected sex, p in v sex, smut and fluff, lactation kink, post-war bucky barnes, domestic!bucky, angst with a happy ending, hurt/comfort, parenthood, healing, slow burn recovery, baby fic, pregnancy, period-typical sexism, protective!bucky barnes, monster-in-law, dad!bucky

a/n | in honour of father's day here's some dad!bucky, and based on this request. and oh my days, everyone wants a part 2 of everything guys, lmao. and I won't lie to you guys I totally forgot about Steve.

likes comments and reblogs are much appreciated ✨✨

ᴍᴀsᴛᴇʀʟɪsᴛ — ᴘᴀʀᴛ 1

divider by @cafekitsune

He came home, but it wasn’t easy.

There was no parade. No smiling reunion with a neat, happy ending. No soft fade to black.

It was harder than that. Messier.

Bucky didn’t come back whole. He came back in pieces—some broken, some missing, and some so twisted by what had been done to him that he didn’t know how to name them anymore.

At first, he didn’t sleep.

Not really.

Not more than an hour or two at a time, and even that was borrowed—fitful, heavy with sweat, jaw clenched so tight it clicked when he finally startled awake.

You kept the light on. You learned quickly not to touch him before he saw you. You moved slowly. You kept your voice low.

And sometimes, like tonight, even that wasn’t enough.

You startled awake just before it happened—some instinct in you catching the shift in the room. The tightness in his breath. The tension pulling at the air. You turned just in time to see his fingers curl into the sheets, his body twitching once, then twice—

Then the sound came.

A sharp, guttural gasp. Then a choked noise, somewhere between a cry and a growl. He jerked upright like he was being yanked by invisible hands, panting like he’d run a marathon, eyes wide and wild in the dark.

You didn’t rush.

You sat up slowly, careful not to touch him yet. “Bucky,” you said softly.

He didn’t respond. He wasn’t here yet.

“Bucky, baby—it’s me.”

His chest heaved. One hand fisted the blanket. The other trembled against his thigh. You could see the outline of the scar running down his forearm, barely catching the low light from the window.

You reached out then, slowly, and touched the back of his shoulder—warm, damp with sweat.

“Hey,” you said again, more firmly now. “You’re not there. You’re here. With me. You’re safe.”

His head snapped toward you, eyes still frantic. And then slowly, slowly, you saw the panic fade. It didn’t vanish. It never did. But it loosened its grip, just enough.

You scooted closer and slid your arms around his torso, your cheek pressing against his bare back. His skin was damp and chilled under your touch, muscles coiled tight as wire.

“You’re here,” you murmured again, letting your hand move in slow, steady circles across his chest. “You’re home. You’re in our bed. You’re not there anymore.”

He didn’t speak.

Didn’t have to.

You felt the way he exhaled, like something had been knocked loose in his chest. His shoulders slumped. His hand—still trembling—came to rest over yours.

You kissed the space between his shoulder blades.

“You’re in my arms, Bucky,” you whispered. “That’s all that matters now.”

He turned then, slowly, and buried his face in your neck.

You didn’t say anything else.

You just held him.

────────────────────────

The morning came slow, gray light spilling across the floorboards, pooling in soft patches along the bedroom rug. Bucky hadn’t gone back to sleep. He rarely did after the nightmares. Instead, he sat on the edge of the bed, shoulders hunched, blanket wrapped tight around his waist like armor.

You were still dozing, curled under the covers behind him, one hand resting lightly where he used to be.

He stared at the metal.

At it.

The glint of it in the light made his stomach twist.

The way it didn’t move unless he willed it to. The soft, nearly silent whir when he flexed the fingers. The weight of it, always present, always reminding him.

It didn’t feel like part of him. It felt like a warning label.

Disfigured. Crippled. Not whole.

He hadn’t said those words out loud, but he’d heard them. From Hydra. From the dark, aching corners of his own mind. And he believed them, most days. Even if you didn’t.

Especially because you didn’t.

And then—

The bedroom door creaked open.

He stiffened, breath catching.

Tiny feet padded across the floor with that unbalanced, wobbly rhythm unique to toddlers. A small gasp of effort as chubby fingers gripped the edge of the bed.

“Mama?”

Your eyes fluttered open.

Jamie peeked his head over the edge, messy-haired and pajama-clad, his smile all gums and mischief. When he saw Bucky sitting there, back to him, his whole face lit up.

“Pup!”

The name hit Bucky like a punch to the chest.

He didn’t turn around.

He didn’t move.

Jamie grunted and tried to climb up himself—made it halfway before you reached over and pulled him gently into the bed, settling him beside you.

Bucky stayed frozen, shoulders tense, head bowed. His right hand curled into the blanket. The left stayed still. Cold. A weight.

Jamie didn’t seem to notice. He crawled clumsily over the mattress until he reached his father’s back and pressed a small hand—warm, sticky, unbothered—against Bucky’s spine.

“Pup…” he said again, softer this time.

You felt Bucky’s breath hitch.

He finally turned, just slightly. Enough to see Jamie’s wide eyes blinking up at him, so open, so trusting.

He lifted his metal arm an inch, then stopped.

He couldn’t do it.

“I don’t want him near this,” he said quietly, not looking at you. “I don’t want him touching it.”

You sat up slowly, Jamie still leaning against your hip. “Bucky…”

“It’s not right,” he said, voice tight. “This—this thing on me—it’s not safe. It’s not normal. What if—what if I drop him? Or he gets scared of it? What if I—hurt him?”

“He’s not scared,” you said gently. “Look at him.”

Jamie leaned forward again, unbothered by the tension in the room, babbling softly as he reached for Bucky’s hand. The metal one.

He didn’t hesitate. He wasn’t afraid.

“Pup,” he said again, gripping one thick finger and holding it in his tiny fist.

Bucky stared down at him.

And then at his hand.

Jamie didn’t flinch. Didn’t pull away. He giggled.

Bucky made a sound then. Barely audible.

You touched his back, light and steady.

“He loves you, James,” you said. “All of you.”

Bucky looked at you, eyes wet and uncertain.

“I don’t know how to be a father,” he whispered.

You smiled, soft and aching. “You’re learning. And that's okay.”

────────────────────────

The nursery was dim, lit only by the soft glow of the lamp near the rocker. The curtains swayed gently in the breeze from the cracked window, casting shifting shadows across the floor. The scent of lavender and baby powder lingered in the air.

You sat in the rocking chair, Jamie cradled against your chest. He was already asleep—limp with baby weight, warm and soft, his cheek squished against your shoulder, little fist curled near your collarbone.

You hummed quietly, the same old lullaby you always sang, your voice barely above a whisper.

The creak of the floorboards behind you was soft, hesitant.

You didn’t need to look to know it was him.

Bucky stood in the doorway, shoulder pressed against the frame, arms crossed over his chest. He wore a sweater his mother had knit him during the war—worn thin, sleeves pushed to his elbows, exposing the steel curve of his arm where the fabric stretched too tight.

He didn’t speak for a long moment. Just watched.

The expression on his face was unreadable—but his eyes… his eyes were full of something heavy. Something quiet. Something hopeful.

You shifted Jamie just slightly, brushing a kiss to his hair before looking up.

“He’s out,” you whispered. “Didn’t even make it through the first verse.”

Bucky smiled faintly, lips barely twitching.

Another pause.

Then—softly, like he wasn’t sure he had the right to ask—he said, “Would it be okay if I tried next time?”

You blinked.

Your heart clenched.

You nodded immediately, your voice catching slightly. “Yeah. Yeah, of course.”

He looked down, shoulders tense like he was waiting for shame to set in anyway. “I… I just don’t want to mess it up. He’s so small. And I’m just—this isn’t exactly what they trained me for.”

You stood slowly, careful not to jostle Jamie, and walked to him—closing the space with soft, sure steps.

You reached up with one hand and brushed his hair back gently from his forehead.

“You don’t have to be perfect,” you murmured. “Just present.”

He nodded, eyes shining but never quite falling.

“He already thinks the world of you, you know,” you added, glancing down at Jamie. “To him, you’re not the man Hydra tried to make you. You’re Pup.”

That broke him a little.

He stepped forward, kissed your temple, then Jamie’s soft head, his metal hand brushing your elbow—light, reverent.

“Next time,” he said again.

“Next time,” you promised.

And he stayed with you in the doorway until the room was only breathing and warmth and the soft creak of the rocking chair.

It started the way it always did now—quiet, soft, familiar.

You were curled into Bucky’s chest, the baby monitor humming faintly on the nightstand, your fingers tracing slow circles along the seam of his shirt. His arms were around you—flesh and metal—and you were safe. Always safe with him.

But tonight, the air between you felt heavier.

Not sad. Not distant.

Just… thick with something waiting.

Your hand slipped under the hem of his shirt, fingertips brushing warm skin. He sucked in a breath—almost imperceptible, but you caught it.

He always did that when you touched him now. Not because he didn’t want it. But because some part of him still couldn’t believe he deserved it.

“Is this okay?” you asked softly, your voice barely a breath against his collarbone.

He didn’t answer right away.

Then he nodded. “Yeah. Just… gimme a second.”

You pulled back slightly, eyes meeting his in the dim light. “You sure?”

His gaze dropped, jaw clenched.

“I’m not what I was,” he said quietly. “Not the man you married. Not even the one you remember.”

You reached up, touched his cheek, thumb brushing the stubble there. “Neither am I.”

He looked at you again—eyes scanning your face, searching.

“I’ve got scars, Bucky. Stretch marks. Softness where there wasn’t before.”

“Don’t care about that.”

“Then why would I care about yours?”

That hit him.

He swallowed hard, then slowly pulled his shirt over his head. His chest was broader now, more muscle from the serum, more shadows carved by pain and reconstruction. The metal shoulder gleamed dully in the dark, the seams where flesh met steel jagged and raw.

You sat up, eyes on him.

Then you reached out, slow and steady, and placed your hand flat against the scarred seam of his shoulder.

He flinched. Just a little.

You leaned in and kissed it.

He closed his eyes.

Your lips trailed lower—to the angry red line that crossed his ribs, to the curve of his side, to the center of his chest. You didn’t rush. You just breathed him in.

“I still love every inch of you,” you whispered. “Even the parts you don’t.”

When he kissed you, it was different.

Slower. Reverent.

Like he needed to relearn your mouth, your breath, your shape beneath his hands.

When his hands slid under your shirt, you let him.

He paused again.

“You sure?” he asked, his voice hoarse.

You took his hand and placed it over your stomach, over the softness you used to be self-conscious about.

“I grew our son in this body,” you said. “How could I ever hate it?”

His eyes shimmered.

And when he touched you, he moved slowly at first.

His fingers slid your nightdress up, exposing inch after inch of skin—soft, real, yours. His hands trembled just slightly, and not from fear. From reverence. Like you were something holy he didn’t think he’d ever be allowed to touch again.

You reached up, carding your fingers through his hair. “Bucky,” you whispered, and that alone undid him.

He bent down and kissed your breast—gently at first, then with more intent, his lips closing around your nipple, tongue swirling as he moaned low in his throat. When the faintest taste of milk touched his tongue, he froze.

His breath caught.

Then he sucked harder, greedier, and you gasped.

“Oh,” you breathed, back arching into him.

He groaned, long and low, hands tightening on your hips. It was like something had snapped in him. Like this was the thing he hadn’t known he needed—your milk, your warmth, the undeniable proof of the life you’d carried while he was gone.

He drank like a man starved.

His tongue lapped, lips pulling, and when more milk spilled into his mouth he moaned again, eyes fluttering shut, like it was feeding him in ways nothing else had.

You clutched at his hair, gasping softly. “Bucky—Bucky—you don’t have to—”

“I want to,” he growled against your skin, voice raw. “Please. Just let me.”

And you did.

Because how could you not?

This was his way of coming back.

Of reclaiming what he thought he’d lost.

He switched to your other breast, suckling hungrily, one hand sliding between your thighs to find how wet you were for him. His fingers brushed your folds and he groaned against your nipple.

“Christ, baby…” he murmured. “You’re dripping. All for me?”

You moaned, breathless. “Always for you.”

That undid him.

He kissed down your belly, trailing wet, desperate heat until he was between your legs—worshipping you like he hadn’t just sucked your milk like it would keep him alive. His tongue moved slow at first, savoring. Then faster, deeper, tasting everything you’d held back.

You writhed beneath him, clutching the sheets, your body breaking open under the weight of it all.

He made you come with his mouth.

Then again on his fingers.

Then slid inside you with a low, guttural moan—deep and full, like it was dragging out of the hollow part of his chest that had ached for years. Your body welcomed him without hesitation, soft and wet, pulling him in like it had missed him just as much.

His hips pressed flush to yours, breath shaking. He didn’t move. Couldn’t. Not yet.

“Oh my God,” he whispered.

You cupped his face, brushing sweat-damp hair from his forehead. “You’re home, Bucky,” you whispered. “You’re right where you’re meant to be.”

He made a sound—half whimper, half breath—and dropped his head into the crook of your neck.

When he started to move, it wasn’t just thrusting. It was pouring. Every slow, deliberate roll of his hips felt like he was trying to bury himself deeper—like he could hide inside your body, crawl into your ribs, and finally, finally rest.

“You feel like home,” he gasped against your skin. “I don’t—I don’t wanna be anywhere else.”

You held him close, thighs wrapped around his hips, heels pressing into his back to pull him in even deeper. “You’re okay, baby,” you whispered, lips brushing his temple. “You’re safe. I’ve got you.”

His pace quickened, hips snapping harder now, his body trembling with the force of his own desperation. Every thrust felt like a prayer, a plea—don’t let me go, don’t let me disappear, don’t let this be a dream.

He shifted, chest heaving, and latched onto your breast again—drinking you, moaning into your skin like it was too much and not enough all at once.

“I missed this—you,” he panted, voice breaking. “Missed your voice, your body—your smell, your taste—fuck.”

You stroked his back, nails dragging lightly down the thick muscles there. “I’m here,” you breathed. “I’m not going anywhere. You can have all of me, James. As much as you need.”

He whimpered into your chest, hips driving into you harder now, deeper, almost brutal with how tightly he held on to you.

“Let me stay,” he gasped. “Please—please, let me stay.”

“Stay, baby,” you whispered, tears stinging your eyes. “Stay as long as you need. I’ve got you.”

He cried when he came.

Not loud. Not broken. Just silent tears pressed into your neck as he buried himself as deep as he could and let go.

He didn’t pull out.

Didn’t even try.

His breathing was uneven against your neck, forehead pressed to your collarbone, arms locked around you like if he let go, he’d disappear again. His body was still trembling—small, helpless shudders that rolled through him like aftershocks.

You didn’t say anything right away.

You just held him. One hand threaded through his hair, the other drawing slow, grounding circles on his bare back. The room was warm with sweat, with breath, with the weight of everything that had just broken between you.

“You’re okay,” you whispered—not as reassurance, but as truth. “You’re here. With me. With us.”

Bucky didn’t answer.

But his grip on your waist tightened just a little.

And then, after a long pause—quiet, rough, like the words had to crawl out of his throat—he said, “I don’t know how to stop needing this.”

Your hand stroked through his hair again. “Then don’t.”

Another silence. Deeper this time.

And then he lifted his head, just slightly. His eyes were red, lashes damp, cheeks flushed—but there was something clear behind them now. Something raw. Present.

“Can I…?” His voice was barely there.

You didn’t ask what he meant.

You just nodded.

He lowered his head to your chest again, and when his mouth closed over your nipple this time, it wasn’t frantic. It was slow. Gentle. Like he was trying to take in comfort one drop at a time.

You cradled his head, holding him against your skin as he drank quietly from you.

And for the first time in a long time, he started to calm.

His breath steadied.

His hands relaxed.

And when you looked down at him—your soldier, your husband, the father of your child—he looked peaceful.

Still inside you.

Still holding on.

And for now… that was enough.

Brooklyn, Late March 1947

It wasn’t a surprise—not really.

Not after the way Bucky touched you.

After that first night, it was like something inside him broke open, and all the need he’d held back came pouring out. Gentle. Desperate. Reverent. Like he was making up for every moment Hydra had stolen, every soft breath he hadn’t been allowed to take.

He took you almost every night. Sometimes with a quiet tenderness, other times with a hunger so sharp it left you breathless. Always with his hands on your skin like he couldn’t believe you were real.

So when you missed your period in March, it wasn’t shock you felt.

It was a heavy, low ache in your chest.

And exhaustion.

You stood in the bathroom that morning, palm flat on your belly, heart already beating with that frantic rhythm that came with too much, too fast.

Jamie was still a baby. Barely over a year and a half. His little hands still reached for you when he was sleepy, his cries still piercing when he was scared. You were still learning how to mother one child, still writing columns for the Brooklyn Standard, still keeping the household moving while Bucky tried to find his footing.

And Bucky…

Bucky was working again.

He’d taken up his father’s old job at the auto garage, the one on 32nd and Vine. It helped. The clank of tools, the grit under his nails, the old-school rhythms of fixing something broken—it made sense to him in ways people didn’t yet.

The other workers had gotten used to the way he worked in silence. The way he flinched at loud bangs. How his left arm lifted entire engines with ease, metal flexing like it was born to carry weight. He could lift a Buick’s rear axle with one hand and loosen bolts with the other.

Sometimes, you watched from the office window when you came to drop off lunch.

He looked powerful. Capable.

Grounded.

When you told him, his reaction was quiet.

He didn’t speak right away—just blinked, mouth parted slightly, eyes darting to your belly and back.

Then he said softly, “Really?”

You nodded, eyes stinging.

And Bucky—he smiled. Small at first. Then a little wider, with a kind of quiet, aching joy that made your stomach turn. “We can do this,” he said. “I can do this. This time… I’ll be here.”

His arms wrapped around you gently, hands spreading across your lower back. You felt the warmth of him, the certainty in his body, how right it all felt.

And yet—

You didn’t return the smile.

Not fully.

────────────────────────

Later that night, when Jamie was asleep and Bucky was already dozing off with an arm thrown over his eyes, you sat on the edge of the bed and stared at the wall.

“You know I always wanted more than marriage and housewives and babies, right?”

You’d told him that once—your arms around his neck, your chin lifted high. And he’d smiled and said, “That’s not what I’m askin’ for. I want you, just how you are. Loud and brash and brilliant. I just want to be yours — proper.”

Now?

Now you were here.

Pregnant. Again.

Barely thirty, but your life felt like it had already been folded and sorted into tidy categories—mother, wife, columnist, survivor.

And Bucky… he was trying, God, he was trying—but the tremors still came sometimes. The nights when he wouldn’t let you touch his left side. The way he kept a knife hidden in the drawer under the sink, even though the war was over.

You placed a hand against your stomach and whispered, “I don’t know if we’re ready.”

And in the stillness, it felt like a confession.

The afternoon light was soft, slanting in through the living room window, catching dust motes in its gold-tinted glow. The radio murmured in the background—something jazzy, low and warm—but neither of you were listening.

You were at the far end of the couch, folding laundry with practiced motions—Jamie's overalls, one of Bucky's undershirts, a baby sock so small it barely looked real. The rhythm of it felt grounding, mechanical. Something to keep your hands busy while your mind wandered.

On the floor, Jamie was giggling—sharp, delighted peals of laughter—because Bucky had taken to the rug on his back, letting Jamie clamber over him like a mountaintop. His thick hair was mussed from small fingers, and his sweater was twisted at the hem where Jamie had pulled it.

“Careful with your old man,” Bucky chuckled, grabbing gently at Jamie’s belly to make him squeal. “He’s got mileage.”

Jamie bounced and babbled nonsense, eyes bright.

You smiled.

But it didn’t reach your eyes.

Bucky noticed.

He watched you between Jamie’s squeals—your soft half-smile, the faint downturn at the corners of your mouth, the quiet way your eyes kept drifting from the pile of clothes to the floor, like gravity was pulling your thoughts somewhere heavier than the room allowed.

You folded the same shirt twice.

And Bucky knew.

So when Jamie had crawled off into a tired, milk-heavy nap, and you were still folding slowly—deliberately—he shifted on the floor and leaned back against the couch, his legs stretched out, fingers tapping lightly against the wood grain.

He didn’t look at you when he said it.

“Is it the baby?”

You blinked.

The shirt in your hand went still.

You turned to look at him, startled. “What?”

He turned his head, met your eyes now—those soft gray-blues always full of something aching when it came to you.

“You’ve been quieter since you told me. Distant.”

“I’m just tired, James.”

He tilted his head. “No. It’s more than that.”

You let out a breath. “I’m not distant. I’m not… I’m fine.”

He didn’t move, but his jaw worked once. Twice. “You don’t have to lie.”

“I’m not—”

“Yes, you are.”

You stopped.

There was a long silence.

Then:

“It’s just soon,” you said finally. Your voice was low. Not ashamed—just cautious. “Jamie’s still so little. And I’m still working. And you’re still healing, Buck. You barely sleep some nights. You flinch when the wrench clanks too hard at the garage. And now… another baby?”

His throat moved, but he didn’t interrupt.

“I told you, back when you asked me to marry you—I wanted more than this. Not *ust marriage and diapers and—”

“I know.”

“I know you're not the same the man I married, Bucky.” You bit your lip, then softened. “But I still love you. I just… don’t know if I’m the woman you married anymore, either.”

He was quiet.

Then he reached up—rested his flesh hand on your knee, fingers warm and a little rough from the garage.

“You don’t have to be thrilled. You just have to be honest with me.”

You looked down at him.

There was no judgment in his face. Just the same soft, aching gaze. And the faintest tremble at the corner of his mouth, like he was worried this was the part where you'd pull away for good.

There was a long silence between you. The kind that filled the whole room, soft but heavy, like the lull after a storm that hadn’t quite passed.

Your fingers tightened around the fabric in your lap. Jamie’s little onesie, blue with tiny ducks on the trim.

You smoothed it once. Twice.

Then said, very quietly, “I did it all alone last time.”

His brows furrowed.

You didn’t look at him.

Your voice stayed steady—but only just.

“Not because I wanted to. Not because I thought I could. Because I had to.”

The words didn’t tremble, but your shoulders did. Just slightly. Enough for him to notice.

“I worked until I couldn’t stand. I wrote columns and took the train to the office, waddling up and down those damn subway steps like a marching cow. I gave birth with a stranger’s hand in mine. I came home with stitches and a screaming baby and no clue what the hell I was doing.”

You swallowed.

“I got up at two a.m. every night to feed Jamie. I wrote pieces between feedings, between diaper changes, between crying. And when he got sick that first time and I thought he wasn’t gonna make it through the night?” You blinked hard. “I sat in the bathroom with the door closed so he wouldn’t hear me cry.”

Bucky’s fingers twitched against your knee.

“I know it’s not your fault,” you said quickly, looking at him now—finally. “I know it’s not. You didn’t choose what happened. You didn’t leave because you wanted to. But you were gone. And I had to do it all. Every goddamn piece of it. Alone.”

There was no accusation in your voice. Just tired honesty.

“And I don’t know if I have it in me to do it again. Not right now. Not when Jamie’s still in diapers. Not when I’m just starting to find me again. The me who writes. Who sleeps. Who laughs without holding my breath.”

You exhaled slowly. Carefully.

“I want this baby,” you said. “I do. But I’m so scared I’ll disappear again. That I’ll become someone I don’t recognize.”

Bucky didn’t speak right away.

He just reached for your hand—slow and careful, like he was afraid you'd pull away.

You didn’t.

His fingers closed around yours. His metal hand stayed on the floor, steady and still.

Then he looked up at you, eyes glassy and dark.

“I hate that I wasn’t here.”

You opened your mouth—but he shook his head gently.

“Don’t—don’t tell me it wasn’t my fault. I know that. I know it in my head. But in here—” He tapped his chest once, hard. “I still hate it. That you had to carry all that. That I wasn’t there to see our son take his first breath. Or his first steps. Or help you when you were too damn tired to even remember your name.”

He blinked, slow and careful. “But I’m here now. For this. For you. And I’m not going anywhere.”

Your throat tightened.

“I want to be the man who gets up at two a.m. this time,” he said. “Who wraps you up when you cry and holds the baby when you’re too tired to move. Let me carry it now. Let me help.”

You looked at him—really looked—and for the first time since the test came back positive, something inside you cracked open.

Not with fear.

But with a strange, aching kind of relief.

You didn’t have to do this alone.

Not this time.

And it didn’t fix everything. But it was enough for right now.

Brooklyn, July 11, 1947 – five months later

The air was thick with summer.

Not the good kind either. Not the romantic kind with lemonade and linen dresses and soft breezes off the Hudson. No, this was the suffocating kind—sun like hot glass pressing down on your skin, sweat prickling your neck, your five-months-pregnant belly making everything clingy and itchy and ugh.

And the backyard? A minefield of frosting-smudged toddlers, collapsing balloon animals, overturned paper plates, and parents with that glazed “we’ve been here too long” expression.

You should have said no.

But Winnifred Barnes had insisted.

“It’s a milestone, darling. He’s two. That’s important.”

You wanted to ask her if she planned to throw a sweet sixteen for every time her grandson figured out how to say truck.

Instead, you’d gritted your teeth and said, “Of course, Mrs. Barnes.”

Now she was here—in full force.

Hair set. Pearls on. Wearing pale blue like she’d come straight from a tea party in 1923. She moved through her backyard with the confidence of a general inspecting the troops.

“Oh no, dear,” she said now, reaching over and rearranging the napkins you had just set out. “Diagonal folds. Much more polished.”

You stared at her.

Then at the napkins.

Then at your swollen feet.

She smiled sweetly, patted your arm like you were simple, and moved on.

From across the yard, Bucky was crouched next to Jamie by the kiddie table, showing him how to twist the birthday candle so it looked like a little spiral. He looked up once, squinting against the sun. When he saw you? His brows furrowed. He could read you in an instant now.

Which wasn’t hard.

Because your eye was twitching.

Winnifred reappeared beside you. “Are you sure you want to keep the ice cream cake outside? It’ll melt in minutes. Maybe I should call the bakery and ask if they’ve got a freezer—”

You exhaled. Slowly.

If you didn’t sit down soon, someone was going to lose a limb.

And it wasn’t going to be one of the toddlers.

────────────────────────

The heat inside the kitchen was worse than outside.

Maybe it was the open oven door. Maybe it was the sunlight pouring through the lace curtains. Or maybe it was just her.

Winnifred stood like a statue beside the counter, frowning down at the stack of mismatched plates you’d just set out. She didn’t say anything for a moment. Just pursed her lips and gave a slow, pointed sigh.

You braced yourself.

“That pattern doesn’t match the napkins,” she said finally, voice light as chiffon. “You’re going for a circus theme, aren’t you? The polka dots on those plates make it feel a bit more… luncheonette.”

You turned slowly from the sink, drying your hands on a dish towel.

“Winnifred, they’re plates. For toddlers. Who are currently trying to eat glitter glue.”

“Well, you never know who’s going to notice. Presentation matters.” She offered you that clipped smile again—the kind that was more threat than warmth. “I do want Jamie’s party to be something people remember.”

You stared at her. “You want?”

She blinked, her expression slipping for just a second.

You took a step closer. “I never wanted this party. I never asked for it. You did.”

Winnifred folded her arms. “Yes. Because someone had to. Someone had to step in.”

You scoffed. “Because I’m just failing left and right, aren’t I?”

“I didn’t say that,” she replied, lifting her chin. “But you do look… overwhelmed. The pregnancy. The boy. The job. It’s understandable. You’ve never really—well, you weren’t raised for this sort of life.”

You set the towel down hard on the counter. “You mean I wasn’t raised to be a housewife. Yeah. You’re right. I wasn’t.”

“I know,” she said, almost too softly. “That’s why I made sure this was here. At our home. Jamie deserves something. Since he didn’t even have a party last year—”

You froze.

Then turned to her fully, eyes sharp. “Sorry. I was in mourning. And up all night nursing a colicky infant while dealing with postpartum. And bleeding. And living off dry toast. Sorry I didn’t manage balloons and a clown.”

Winnifred tsked. “You young women and this postpartum nonsense. When I was your age I had James and Rebecca to deal with and I never complained. Women today just can’t handle—”

“Ma.”

Bucky’s voice sliced through the kitchen like a whip.

You hadn’t heard him come in.

He stood just inside the doorway, holding Jamie on one hip. His jaw was clenched. His eyes were cold.

Jamie blinked between you both, chewing on a toy horse.

Bucky’s voice was low, controlled—but sharp. “Don’t ever talk to my wife like that again.”

Winnifred looked up, startled. “James—”

“No.” He shifted Jamie slightly and pointed at her with his free hand. “She’s raising our son. Carrying our baby. Holding this whole damn family together. And you? You’re throwing plates and guilt at her like she owes you something.”

You swallowed hard, blinking quickly.

“She’s not overwhelmed,” Bucky continued. “She’s tired. Because she works her ass off. Because she didn’t just throw this party—she survived a war without me. She did the hardest parts alone.”

Winnifred opened her mouth. Closed it.

“Go lie down, sweetheart,” Bucky said to you, voice softening as he turned. “I’ve got this.”

“I’m fine,” you muttered, turning back to the sink.

“No, you’re not,” he said gently. “And you don’t have to be.”

He crossed the room, pressed a kiss to your temple, and murmured, “I’ll deal with her. Go.”

You hesitated, eyes flicking to his mother—who looked like she’d bitten into a lemon.

But your legs were aching. Your back was sore. And your throat… your throat was thick with the words you hadn’t dared say.

So you nodded.

And left the kitchen.

As the door swung behind you, you heard Bucky’s voice again—low, cold, and full of steel.

“She’s not just my wife. She’s everything. And I won’t let you make her feel less than that ever again.”

────────────────────────

Bucky had never been so overwhelmed in his life.

Not during basic training. Not during covert ops. Not even that one time Steve broke a rib in the alley and he had to drag him home without making it look like Steve was half-dead.

This?

This was war.

“Where’s the juice—” someone called.

“He just took a bite out of the balloon!”

“James! James, the ice cream’s melting faster than we’re serving it!”

Bucky pivoted, a frown etched deep into his brow, trying to focus on five problems at once. He was sweating in his button-down, his hair was starting to curl at the temples, and the paper plate tower had just been knocked over by a baby wielding a party hat like a sword.

He rushed to pick them up.

Then someone tugged on his pants leg. “Excuse me? I think this one just put a crayon in their ear—”

He stood up too fast and knocked his head on the edge of the table canopy. “Jesus Christ.”

He hadn’t even noticed Jamie had gone quiet until he turned and found his son squinting into the sun, lips turned down in that telltale I’m about to lose it pout.

“Nope,” Bucky muttered, crouching fast. “No sir, you are not about to melt down on me—c’mere.”

He scooped Jamie up and stood, feeling the boy’s sweaty forehead press against his neck.

Jamie groaned softly, wriggled. “No nap. Wanna bounce.”

“I know, buddy. But you’re already gettin’ floppy on me.” He looked around, breath short. “I can’t—I gotta do like three things in the next—”

“I got it.”

Rebecca appeared at his side, hands already smoothing the tablecloth, her lipstick slightly smudged from chasing kids around with juice boxes.

“I’ll handle it,” she said. “Go get him down before he turns into a gremlin.”

“You sure?”

“Buck.” She gave him a look. “You’re sweating like a bootlegger and look two seconds from crying. Go.”

He sighed in relief, shifted Jamie on his hip. “Thanks, Becs.”

She smiled faintly, and he kissed her temple.

Then, muttering a trail of reassurances to Jamie, he ducked into the house and up the stairs, heading for the quietest place he could find.

Bucky paced with Jamie in his arms, whispering every half-baked lullaby he could remember from his own childhood.

“Down in the valley, the valley so low…”

Jamie squirmed. Whined.

Bucky tried bouncing. Rocking. Whispering nonsense.

“You got a real stubborn streak, huh? That from me or your ma?”

Jamie didn’t answer. Just blinked slowly, one chubby hand gripping the collar of Bucky’s shirt like a tiny grappling hook.

“Y’know,” Bucky muttered, blowing out a breath as he leaned against the banister, “this party was a dumb idea.”

A grunt. A hiccup. The threat of a wail.

“Okay, okay, alright—deal, soldier. Truce.”

Eventually, after what felt like the longest twenty minutes of Bucky’s entire war-decorated life, Jamie’s little body began to soften in his arms, the fight draining out of him in sleepy spurts.

“Yeah, that’s it…” Bucky murmured, brushing a hand down the boy’s damp hair. “Just needed some quiet, huh? Me too, pal. Me too.”

He moved toward the guest room—his old room, the one he’d once shared with Steve for a summer, the one that still had baseball posters peeling off the walls and a crooked shelf that leaned like it missed him.

He opened the door quietly.

You were there.

Fast asleep.

One arm curled under your head, the other resting lightly across the belly he hadn’t even realized he’d been watching rise and fall. Your hair was mussed from the pillow. Your mouth parted slightly in the softest breath. You looked like a painting.

Jamie lifted his head.

Saw you.

And without warning, he squirmed down from Bucky’s arms with surprising toddler stealth, thumping to the bed, crawling up over the mattress on his own steam.

“Mama,” he murmured, so soft it barely qualified as a word.

He tucked himself right into your side like a puzzle piece, nose to your chest, fingers curling in the hem of your sleeve.

And that was it.

Out like a light.

Bucky didn’t say anything.

Didn’t move for a long moment.

He just watched.

And something in his chest ached with it—that sharp, tender ache that came from seeing something too good and wondering if he ever deserved it.

He stepped in quietly, grabbed the thin blanket at the foot of the bed, and pulled it gently up over both of you. You didn’t stir, just shifted slightly as Jamie’s little body pressed closer.

Bucky knelt down beside the bed for a moment, resting his arm on the edge, his metal fingers brushing your wrist where it peeked out from the blanket.

His voice was barely a whisper. “Thanks for doing this. All of this. Even when you’re tired. Even when I don’t make it easy.”

He leaned forward and kissed your forehead. Then Jamie’s soft curls.

Then, with one last glance, he sat on the floor beside the bed, back to the wall, and let the quiet take him too.

Brooklyn, December 15, 1947

The snow came early that winter.

Fine powder drifted down in quiet flurries, brushing rooftops in white, coating the windows with thin frost. Brooklyn’s streetlights glowed dim and golden through the haze, casting long reflections in the puddles turned to ice.

And inside Metro General Hospital, on a night that bit straight through bone, a girl was born.

It wasn’t easy.

Nothing about your life had been easy—and bringing Maggie into it followed suit. It was long, and painful, and loud in a way that seemed to crack something open in the walls themselves.

You clutched Bucky’s hand through most of it, dug your nails in when it got bad, and when it felt like you might break apart entirely, he just held you harder.

“You’re okay, sweetheart. You’ve got this.”

“Breathe. That’s it, baby—breathe through it.”

“I’m here. Right here.”

You didn’t let go.

Not even once.

And then—just as the wind screamed outside and the city howled with midnight cold—she arrived.

Ten fingers. Ten toes. Red, slick, screaming like she had something to prove.

She filled the room with sound, punched her little lungs full of breath like the world owed her from the second she landed in it.

And Bucky—God.

He swore he forgot how to breathe.

The nurse placed her on your chest and you both stared, blinking in disbelief. You were crying—tired, open-mouthed, whole-body crying. But he wasn’t sure he was making a sound.

Because Maggie.

Maggie wasn’t Jamie.

Jamie had been all soft cheeks and blue-gray eyes. A mirror of Bucky, from the moment he first opened his eyes.

But Maggie?

Maggie looked like you.

Right down to the slope of her nose, the dark lashes fluttering weakly against her flushed cheeks, the deep color of her eyes (even if it was still that muddy newborn gray). Her skin, dusky with warmth. Her little mouth shaped just like yours.

You were whispering to her—he couldn’t even make out the words. Your lips trembled, your fingers stroked her back, your whole body curled around her instinctively. Protectively.

“Hi, baby,” you whispered. “Hi, babygirl.”

And Bucky?

He sat there beside the bed, one hand on your thigh, the other trembling on the rail.

His whole chest ached. Like something holy had just cracked open inside it.

The doctor said something about congratulations. The nurse asked for a name.

And without even looking at each other, you both answered.

“Magnolia.”

“Winnifred.”

There wasn’t hesitation. Just agreement. Your mothers' names. The names fell like prayers. Like promises. Names that made each of you feel safe.

Magnolia Winnifred Barnes.

Maggie, for short.

You looked up at Bucky with swollen eyes and a tired smile and said, “She’s got my ma’s nose.”

And Bucky laughed.

Choked on it, really.

“She’s you,” he said, his voice thick. “God—she’s all you.”

She stayed curled against you that night, pink and snuffling and impossibly tiny. And when Bucky finally reached out, tentative, she curled her hand around his metal finger like it wasn’t any different from the rest of him.

He stared down at that small grip for a long, long time.

And then he kissed your forehead, kissed his daughter’s hair, and whispered into the warm silence between the three of you—

“I’m never letting go.”

────────────────────────

Brooklyn, December 1947 – A Week Later

The city was asleep.

At least, most of it.

Beyond the frosted windows, streetlamps cast faint pools of light on the empty sidewalks, and the radiator hissed softly, its steam like a lullaby. The apartment was warm, but still felt too small. Two bedrooms, four heartbeats, and a thousand things left unsaid in the quiet.

The monitor on the nightstand crackled.

And then it came—the sound. Thin, sharp, fragile.

A newborn’s cry.

You stirred instinctively, muscle memory from Jamie kicking in. Your body was sore, still healing, still not quite your own. But you moved anyway, your breath catching slightly as you started to sit—

A hand pressed gently to your stomach.

“Mm-mm,” Bucky’s voice rumbled low, not fully awake but firm. “I got it.”

Your brow furrowed, half-protesting.

“James, I—”

“Sleep,” he murmured. His hand didn’t lift. “You’ve done enough.”

You blinked up at him in the dark.

The room smelled like him. Like soap and starch and a trace of milk still drying into the sheets. His eyes barely opened as he leaned in and pressed a kiss to your forehead. “I’ll take care of her.”

And just like that—your body relaxed.

Because you trusted him. Not just with Maggie. With everything.

The bed dipped as he rose, bare feet padding across the old floorboards. The baby monitor hissed again. Another cry. A hiccup. Then the creak of the nursery door opening.

You rolled to your side, one hand resting across the empty part of the bed, and exhaled.

He had her.

And you let yourself fall asleep to the distant, muffled sound of your husband whispering in the dark.

────────────────────────

The nursery was dim, cast in the pale blue glow of the nightlight shaped like a rabbit, soft shadows spilling across the wallpaper with tiny painted stars. The air smelled faintly of powder and warm cotton, quiet except for the rhythmic hum of the radiator and the high-pitched fussing of a newborn.

Bucky opened the door slowly, careful not to let it creak. He padded inside barefoot, his gray tee clinging slightly to the sweat along his spine, his hair mussed from sleep.

Jamie was already awake.

The toddler stood beside Maggie’s crib, clutching the rails in his small hands, curls tousled and pajama legs rumpled. His sleepy eyes blinked up at his father, wide and sincere.

“Baby crying,” he said solemnly, pointing with one chubby finger toward his sister.

Bucky’s heart did that thing—it squeezed a little too tightly in his chest, pulled by something so small and overwhelming he could barely breathe around it.

“Yeah,” he said softly, crouching beside him. “She is.”

Jamie’s lower lip stuck out slightly, not in a pout, but in quiet concern. His voice was soft, like he didn’t want to make it worse. “She sad?”

“Maybe a little,” Bucky said. “Or maybe she just wants someone to hold her.”

He rose slowly and leaned over the crib, scooping Maggie up with practiced ease. She was small but squirmy, red-faced and warm, her cries more frustration than panic. Bucky held her close to his chest, one hand supporting her head, the other wrapping securely around her tiny body.

“Hey, hey, hey,” he murmured. “It’s okay, sweetheart. I got you.”

Jamie watched intently, his head tilted as he followed every movement. Bucky gently rocked her, pacing a slow circle in the nursery. Maggie’s cries stuttered, caught, then ebbed into hiccups as her body relaxed against his shoulder.

“Sorry she woke you up, buddy,” Bucky said over his shoulder, voice low.

Jamie stepped forward and touched his father’s leg, patting it twice like he was giving reassurance instead of asking for it. “Is okay.”

Bucky’s mouth twitched into something like a smile.

Maggie was starting to settle, her whimpers softening into sleepy sighs. Bucky adjusted her in his arms and sat down carefully on the edge of the rocking chair, patting her back with slow, rhythmic taps. Her little hand curled into his shirt, breath still uneven but beginning to slow.

Just as he was about to start humming, the sound of soft footsteps padded across the wooden floor.

Jamie, with his curls fluffed from sleep and his tiny socks slightly crooked, toddled toward the chair. In his hand was one of his worn picture books, corners slightly chewed, the spine taped clumsily from how often it had been loved.

He held it up wordlessly to Bucky.

“For baby,” he said, voice sleepy but serious. “Story helps.”

Bucky blinked—something about the suggestion, so pure and earnest, swelled hot and tight in his chest.

“Yeah?” he said, voice rough with sleep and something deeper. “That’s a good plan, pal.”

He patted his thigh.

“C’mon up.”

Jamie clambered onto his lap with practiced ease, nestling himself into the right side of his father’s chest, legs tucked sideways and head resting against Bucky’s shoulder. He handed the book over solemnly, and Bucky took it with one hand, careful not to jostle Maggie.

She shifted slightly, her little head resting against his collarbone now, her breath beginning to even out.

“Alright,” Bucky said, opening the book slowly with his right hand, “let’s see what happens tonight in the land of Mr. Fox and his missing socks.”

Jamie giggled quietly.

Maggie let out one last soft sigh, the kind that let him know she was almost asleep.

And Bucky—holding one kid against his chest and the other in the crook of his arm—began to read.

Voice low.

Warm.

Steady.

Wrapped in the hush of the night, his words filled the small room like a lullaby.

He didn’t even realize he was smiling.

Brooklyn, June 1948 — 5 Months Later

“You’re going to kill us,” you said flatly, fingers gripping the edges of the blindfold. “I hope you know that.”

Bucky only chuckled from the driver’s seat, one hand on the wheel, the other resting casually on the open window. “You’ve got no faith in me.”

“I’ve seen your parking,” you snapped. “And you’ve had me blindfolded for fifteen minutes—what if I get carsick? Or die? Or both?”

“Then at least you’ll die surprised,” he said cheerfully.

You groaned and shifted in your seat. “Bucky—”

“Pup!” Jamie interrupted from the back, kicking his little legs in the car seat. “I see cow! Cow, Pup! Cow!”

“Yeah, buddy?” Bucky glanced into the rearview mirror, grin growing. “You see a cow?”

“COWWWWW!” Jamie howled again, full toddler volume. You winced.

“I swear, if this is a field trip to a barn—”

“Shh,” Bucky said, patting your knee. “We’re almost there.”

From the backseat, Maggie let out a delighted little babble—one of those sweet, vowel-heavy sounds that came with spit bubbles and gurgled giggles.

“She agrees with me,” you said, still suspicious. “This is a trap.”

Bucky only hummed, the car rumbling steadily underneath as he took another turn. You could smell summer through the open windows—fresh-cut grass, warm pavement, the faint scent of wildflowers on the wind.

Jamie began narrating the drive in the only way a toddler could—“TREE! ROAD! BIRD! TREE AGAIN!”—and Maggie added her own commentary in bubbly, contented noise.

And still… the blindfold stayed on.

“James Buchanan Barnes,” you muttered, “you better not be kidnapping me.”

He reached over briefly, squeezing your thigh. “Almost there,” he said, softer this time.

Something about his voice made your heart skip.

Almost.

The car came to a gentle stop, engine purring into silence.

You were still muttering under your breath as Bucky got out, the door shutting with a soft click. “This better not be a weird roadside diner,” you grumbled. “I swear to God, if you blindfolded me for a tuna melt, I’m pushing you into traffic.”

“Noted,” he said, entirely too amused.

He unbuckled Jamie first, then Maggie, and their little sounds and fidgeting filled the car like background music to your ongoing skepticism. You heard Jamie chirp excitedly, “House, Pup?” but it didn’t register—not really.

Bucky came around to your side, opened your door, and carefully helped you out, guiding you like you were made of glass.

“Alright,” you muttered, still blindfolded, one hand gripping his bicep. “This is where you reveal you’ve secretly joined a cult.”

“Shut up and walk.”

You felt grass underfoot.

Then a sidewalk.

Then gravel crunching softly.

“James…” you warned. “I swear if you got me a goat—”

The blindfold lifted.

You blinked hard against the sudden light, eyes adjusting to warm sun and white paint and red brick. A small, two-story house stood in front of you—charming in the way that made your throat tighten. A porch with peeling steps. Big windows. A yard that needed mowing but not fixing.

It looked… real.

Lived-in.

Possible.

You turned to him slowly, confused. “What is this?”

Bucky’s face was quiet, soft.

“The job at the auto shop pays good,” he said. “Especially with the hours I take. Been putting away every bit of it.”

You looked back at the house. At the porch. At the way the sun caught the little windows upstairs.

“There’s three bedrooms,” he added. “One for us. One for Jamie and Maggie. A backyard for them to run in. Room to grow.”

You swallowed.

Hard.

He reached into his jacket pocket, pulled out a folded paper—something official. He didn’t show you. Just held it like it made it more real.

“And one day,” he said, eyes meeting yours, “when I come home for good, I’m gonna carry you over the threshold of a real house. Big porch. Little garden. No leaky faucets.”

The words hit like a heartbeat echoing in your ribs.

You remembered them. That promise. More than five years ago. Whispered back when the world was black-and-white and full of war and waiting. You’d both been so young, terrified, full of hope you didn’t dare say out loud.

And now?

Now he stood in front of you, older, stronger, a little cracked—but whole. Holding this life in his hands like it had weight.

Like he meant it.

Your eyes prickled.

You looked at the house again.

Then at him.

And for the first time in a long, long time… you felt the tight coil in your chest loosen.

Because Bucky Barnes hadn’t just come home.

He’d built one. For you.

[leyannrae]

i need some absolute heart shattering angst about bucky "dying" and then a few years later he suddenly shows up at the door

AND YOUR WRITING IS SOOOOK CHEFS KISS 🤭🤭🤭🤭🤭

lmao babe, I'm not gonna lie, this was soooo vague so I went off the rails with this one a bit, lol, which means I accidentally wrote a mini 15k fanfic

Come Home To Me

pairing | 40s!bucky x fem!reader & platonic!steve x reader

word count | 14.7k words (lowkey this is like a three part story put together)

summary I during the rise and ruin of the second world war, a sharp-tongued brooklyn girl falls for james buchanan barnes—only to lose him to the battlefield, a presumed death, and the silence that follows.

but almost two years later, when the war is long over and the wounds have scarred over, he comes back through her door, proving that some promises do survive the fire.

tags | (18+) brief smut, canon divergence, slow burn, friends to lovers, soft!bucky barnes, strong female character, angst with a happy ending, angst and feels, domestic fluff, pregnancy, bucky barnes needs a hug, period-typical attitudes, racially ambiguous reader, no use of y/n

a/n | I hope this satisfies you guys for the rest of the week, because I will be working unfortunately. lowkey have no idea where this idea even came from, but I'm actually in love with this. for context, they're all the same age so, 1936 - 18, 1941 - 23, 1944 - 26, 1946 - 28

likes comments and reblogs are much appreciated ✨✨

ᴍᴀsᴛᴇʀʟɪsᴛ — ᴘᴀʀᴛ 2

divider by @cafekitsune

Brooklyn, Summer of 1936

Bay Ridge streets smelled like hot pavement, coal smoke, and fresh bread — if you were lucky. If you weren’t, it was just piss and heat and someone hollering three blocks away.

You were leaning against the iron railing outside your building, arms crossed, one scuffed boot propped up behind you. Hair pinned up in a rush, streak of grease on your cheek from helping your mother with the busted fan in the window. You didn’t hear them so much as feel them coming — like a ripple in the rhythm of the block.

“Morning, boys,” you said without looking, voice dry as kindling.

“Sun’s barely up and she’s already packin’ attitude,” Bucky Barnes replied, that usual drawl in his voice like he thought he was the second coming of James Cagney.

You gave him a sideways glance. “And you’re packin’ delusions. Must be somethin’ in the water on your end of the street.”

Steve gave a tired chuckle, already wedged between the two of you in spirit if not in body. He had a half-eaten apple in one hand and worry in his eyes — like always. “Can we go one day without a brawl before lunch?”

You raised a brow. “You think this counts as a brawl? Stevie, this is foreplay.”

Bucky damn near choked. Steve went red all the way to the tips of his ears.

You let the silence sit for just a second too long before snorting, then pushed off the railing. “Relax, Rogers. I wouldn’t flirt with this guy if he was the last swing dancer in Manhattan.”

Bucky smirked. “Don’t flatter yourself, trouble. You’d miss me if I dropped dead.”

“Only thing I’d miss is the peace and quiet.”

But he knew, and you knew, that wasn’t exactly true. You butted heads with Bucky like it was your second job, but there was something magnetic about him — the kind of boy who knew the weight of every girl’s stare but still acted like the world owed him one more.

He dressed like he owned the sidewalk — suspenders slung loose over a plain white tee, sleeves pushed up to show the muscle he never stopped bragging about. Hair slicked back, grin sharp enough to cut a streetcar in half.

You hated that he could smile like that and get away with murder.

Steve, sweet and lean, kept his shoulders tight like he was always bracing for something. He didn’t speak unless he meant it, and when he did, people listened — not because he was loud, but because he was honest. If Bucky was a firecracker, Steve was the matchbook — quiet, flammable, and always trying to keep things from going up in flames.

“Where we headin’?” you asked, pulling a cigarette from your purse. You didn’t light it — just liked the feel of something between your fingers when you talked. “We going to that theater again?”

“Nickel matinee starts in twenty,” Steve said, tossing the apple core into the gutter. “Double feature — G-Men and something with Myrna Loy.”

“Ugh,” you groaned. “Another damn fed movie? They’re just propaganda with prettier faces.”

Bucky gave you a lopsided grin. “You just don’t like cops ‘cause they keep catchin’ you runnin’ your mouth.”

You stepped in close enough that he blinked, caught off guard by how quickly you cut the distance. “I don’t like cops ‘cause they don’t care about girls like me unless we’re dead or useful. Big difference, soldier boy.”

His grin faltered — just a flicker — and Steve, ever the peacemaker, cleared his throat and gently nudged his way between you both.

“She’s not wrong,” Steve said quietly, adjusting the strap of his satchel. “Cops only come to our side of the block when someone’s bleeding. Or brown.”

Bucky glanced between you two, then dropped the grin altogether. His voice went soft — maybe even respectful. “I didn’t mean it like that.”

You didn’t answer right away. Just tucked the cigarette behind your ear and started walking. “You never do, Barnes. That’s the problem.”

But still — still — when your shoulder brushed his as you passed, you didn’t pull away.

And he didn’t move either.

After the movie, the three of you settled along the edge of the promenade overlooking the East River, legs swinging above water that glinted dull and gray under the setting sun.

You were mid-rant. Again.

“And don’t even get me started on the benches,” you said, jabbing a thumb behind you like the injustice was sitting right there. “I mean, really? A freakin’ bench? Can’t share a place to sit ‘cause someone’s skin looks different? What kind of country invents trains and planes and peanut butter and still can’t figure out where a person should be allowed to sit?”

Steve nodded slowly, elbows resting on his knees, listening like he always did — not with judgment, not with pity. Just taking it in, quiet and steady.

Bucky popped the cap off a soda bottle with his belt buckle, because of course he did, and took a long sip before muttering, “You sure you don’t wanna run for office? You talk enough for three senators.”

You shot him a glare. “If I ran for office, I’d be dead before I made it to the first speech. They don’t like girls who say what they mean — especially ones who don’t smile while doin’ it.”

Steve winced. “She’s got a point.”

You gestured at him. “Thank you. Steve gets it.”

Bucky held up both hands, defensive but grinning. “I didn’t say you were wrong. I’m just sayin’, maybe the bench thing ain’t our fight. Not really.”

You stared at him. “See? That right there. That’s the problem.”

He blinked. “What is?”

“You thinking just because it doesn’t hurt you means it ain’t your fight.”

Steve looked over at Bucky, brows raised slightly. “You walked into that one.”

Bucky sighed and leaned back on his palms, looking up at the sky like it might hold some kind of answer. “I’m not tryin’ to be the bad guy, alright? I know the country’s busted. I know some people got it worse than me. I just—” He shook his head. “It’s not like I can do anything about it.”

You snorted. “That’s what they all say. ‘Ain’t my place,’ or ‘it’s just the way it is.’ Then you blink, and it’s been seventy years since slavery ended and we’re still out here arguing about who gets to use a water fountain.”

Bucky looked over at you — really looked. You were staring at the river like it had betrayed you personally, eyes hard, jaw set, that fire in your belly burning so bright it practically radiated off you.

“I just think,” you said, softer now but still fierce, “if you’re not mad, you’re not paying attention.”

Steve nodded again, quiet and firm. “You’re right about that.”

Bucky was silent for a beat. Then he said, quieter than either of you expected, “I am payin’ attention.”

You didn’t say anything back. You just sighed.

────────────────────────

One Week Later

It was too damn hot for anything. The kind of sticky, breathless heat that made the whole neighborhood move slow. You were sitting on the curb outside the corner store, nursing a warm soda and fanning yourself with a folded-up newspaper when Bucky came jogging around the corner, looking far too pleased with himself.

“Oh no,” you muttered as soon as you saw his face. “You’ve either done something stupid or something worse.”

He stopped in front of you, grinning and breathless, hands on his hips. “You remember that diner on 10th? The one with the best cherry pies in Brooklyn?”

Your eyes narrowed. “The one with the ‘whites only’ sign in the window?”

“Yeah, that one.”

You stared at him. “Bucky. What did you do?”

He pulled something from his back pocket and held it out — a metal sign, rectangular, scratched and dented, but unmistakable.

The words “WHITES ONLY” had been spray-painted over in red.

“I may or may not’ve borrowed this,” he said, tossing it onto the sidewalk with a loud clank. “And I may or may not’ve told the guy behind the counter he could shove it where the sun don’t shine.”

You stared at him. Blinked. Then burst out laughing — not because it was perfect (it wasn’t), or smart (definitely wasn’t), but because it was so Bucky. Loud, impulsive, dramatic, and maybe even a little dangerous.

He looked proud of himself, then uncertain. “Was that… stupid?”

You stood, brushing your hands on your skirt. “It was loud. It was reckless. And it was probably illegal.”

He winced. “Okay, so yes.”

“But,” you said, stepping closer, eyes locked on his, “you listened.”

Bucky shrugged, suddenly sheepish. “Don’t really like the idea of a place that’d take my money but not someone else's. Doesn’t sit right with me.”

Your throat tightened at that. You hadn’t expected much — just the usual back-and-forth, the teasing and fighting. But this? This was real. Maybe not world-changing, but it was Bucky-changing. And that mattered.

“You know,” you said slowly, “for a guy who runs his mouth like it’s his job, sometimes you say the right thing.”

He gave you that damn grin again. “I’m a man of many talents.”

You rolled your eyes — but this time, you smiled too.

────────────────────────

Brooklyn, August 1936

It was late afternoon, and the sun had dipped just enough to turn everything golden. The heat still clung to the brick and concrete like a second skin, but a breeze finally cut through, lifting the hem of your skirt as you stood outside Wilson’s Department Store, eyeing the newest window display.

There it was. The dress.

Soft yellow with a sweetheart neckline, pleated skirt, and delicate white piping along the seams, like something you’d see on the pages of Ladies’ Home Journal if you ever had the spare coins to buy one. It was soft, feminine, ridiculous — and perfect.

And looking like it belonged to a girl who didn’t have to count pennies or scrub floors.

You stood there staring, thumb hooked into your belt loop, brow furrowed. You weren’t wearing anything special — a hand-me-down skirt that was a little too loose at the waist, and a blouse with a stain near the hem you’d tried to cover with a brooch. Your heels were scuffed. Your nails had oil under them from helping patch the neighbor’s busted radio.

You weren’t ashamed, not exactly. You’d worked for every thread on your back. But you still wanted to look nice, sometimes. Wanted to feel like a girl instead of just a fighter.

“Ey,” a voice behind you called. “You gonna rob the place or just stare it down ‘til it surrenders?”

You didn’t need to turn to know who it was. That voice had been haunting you since you were thirteen.

“Don’t tempt me,” you muttered.

Bucky chuckled and stepped up beside you, Steve just a step behind with a tired smile already forming.

“What’s the occasion?” Steve asked, looking at the dress too. “Not your usual color.”

You shrugged, arms crossed, jaw tight. “Just lookin’. Ain’t a crime.”

“We were headed to Deluca’s,” Steve offered. “Thought you might wanna come.”

You hesitated — just for a second — then gave a shrug. “Sure. Can’t afford the pie but I’ll steal bites off your plate.”

The three of you fell into step down the sidewalk, the usual rhythm settling in. Bucky tossing a coin up and down in one hand, Steve quietly narrating neighborhood gossip in a tone that suggested he didn’t quite believe half of it, and you walking just a little ahead, tongue sharp and posture tougher than you felt.

“Y’know,” Bucky said after a while, like the thought had only just occurred to him, “never figured you for the dress type. Thought you were more… y’know. Practical.”

You turned to look at him.

“Practical?“

“Yeah,” Bucky said, encouraged by your silence. “Like… you don’t care about all that frilly stuff. You’re not like the other girls. You don’t care about all that stuff. Lipstick and ribbons and whatnot. You’re... different.”

“Different,” you repeated, flat.

Your jaw tensed.

Steve gave Bucky a sharp side-eye, already sensing disaster. “Buck—”

“I mean,” Bucky went on, oblivious, “you’re always talkin’ about politics, and unions, and—hell, you cursed out that priest last week for callin’ Roosevelt a communist—so like you don’t need to be pretty. You’re, y’know... rough around the edges. But in a good way.”

Steve groaned under his breath.

You stopped walking. “Rough around the edges?”

Bucky, to his credit, froze. “No, I meant— Not rough like bad rough. Just— You’ve got character.”

Steve tried. “He’s saying you’re—uh—authentic.”

You turned on Bucky, arms folded. “Let me see if I’ve got this. I’m not like other girls, I don’t care how I look, and I’ve got rough edges and character.”

“No, no—dammit,” Bucky rubbed a hand over his face. “That’s not what I meant. I’m saying you don’t have to put on airs. You’re... you.”

Steve muttered under his breath, “You should stop talking.”

“I meant,” Bucky tried again, hands up, “you’re—different in a good way. You’re smart, and tough, and you don’t need a dress to be beautiful.”

You stared at him, arms folded so tight across your chest you could’ve snapped a rib.

“Oh, so I’m not beautiful now, and I get points for not trying?”

“No! That’s not—Jesus, that’s not what I meant—”

Steve pinched the bridge of his nose. “Buck, for the love of God, please.”

“I meant you are beautiful, but not because you try, just… ‘cause you don’t? Like, you’re not… shallow.”

“So girls who like pretty things are shallow now?”

“No! Not shallow. Just, y’know—less…” He trailed off, realizing he had no end to that sentence that wouldn’t get him killed.

You scoffed. “You’re lucky you’re pretty, Barnes, ‘cause your brain’s hangin’ on by a shoestring.”

Steve coughed into his hand to cover a laugh.

Bucky was flustered now — flushed, nervous, trying to backpedal in boots made of wet cement. “All I’m saying is, you don’t gotta change a damn thing. You’re already—you’re already you, and I like you.”

“That’s rich,” you said, backing away him. “Coming from the guy who just said I’m not like other girls. Like being other girls is some kind of disease.”

Steve sighed. “He’s an idiot. He means well—”

“She knows I didn’t mean it like that,” Bucky said to Steve, then looked at you. “C’mon, honey—”

“Don’t patronize me,” you snapped.

His face fell. Just a bit. But enough.

You took a step back, jaw tight. “I do care how I look, Barnes. I just don’t have the luxury of pretending I don’t. I like dresses. I like lipstick. I like feelin’ pretty. But you know what I don’t like?”

You didn’t wait for an answer.

“Feelin’ like the only reason a guy’s got anything nice to say about me is because I’m not like the girls he thinks are too much. Like I’m some prize for not askin’ for nothin’.”

Bucky looked stunned, like he hadn’t even considered that angle. Like he’d been trying to give you something and dropped it straight into the gutter.

Steve, quietly, said, “She’s right, Buck.”

You held your stare with Bucky a moment longer, then exhaled — sharp, frustrated, done.

“I’m goin’ home.”

“Wait—hey, hold on—”

You were already turning, fists clenched, eyes burning — not with tears, never that — just anger. Embarrassment. The ache of being seen just enough to sting.

“I said I’m goin’ home,” you called over your shoulder, “before I break somethin’ you can’t sweet-talk your way out of.”

You didn’t stop walking.

And this time, neither of them followed.

────────────────────────

Brooklyn, Early September 1936

It had been a month.

Thirty long days of radio silence — no knocking on the stoop, no wisecracks outside the shop where you helped your uncle sort through junked radios, nothing.

Steve had tried. Lord, had he tried — showing up at your stoop like a walking apology letter, rambling about how Bucky was a jackass “but not that kind of jackass,” and half a dozen “he means well” speeches. You’d listened, arms crossed, jaw tight, thanked him politely, and shut the door with the kind of finality that said grudge fully intact.

And honestly? You didn’t miss Bucky Barnes. Not really. Not much.

...Maybe a little.

Now it was a Saturday night. Crickets chirped under the hum of streetlamps and jazz drifted faint from a neighbor’s radio. You were stretched out on the front parlor couch in your slip, your hair pinned halfway, half-heartedly reading a borrowed copy of Gone with the Wind that you’d dog-eared so often you were certain the library’d start charging you.

That was until your Ma called out from the kitchen, voice thick with flour and annoyance.

“Get the door! I’m elbow-deep in potatoes!”

You muttered a few curses under your breath — ones your Ma would swat you for if she heard — and pulled on a robe as you headed for the front door.

You pulled it open, half-ready to bark, “What?” — and then froze.

There he was.

James Buchanan Barnes.

Hair slicked back like always, but a little messy, like he’d run his hands through it too many times. No smirk. No swagger. Just Bucky, standing there with his hands shoved into his coat pockets like a schoolboy who’d lost his lunch money.

“Hey,” he said softly.

You blinked at him, arms crossing out of instinct.

“What do you want?”

Bucky shifted on his feet. “Can I... can I talk to you?”

You glanced over your shoulder, then stepped halfway onto the stoop, leaving the door cracked open behind you.

“I’ve been practicin’ this,” he admitted, eyes down. “For, uh. For a while. In my head.”

“Didn’t get a chance to use it on the other girls you insulted this month?”

He winced, hands tightening in his pockets. “No. Just you.”

You said nothing.

“I’m sorry,” he began, voice low. “For what I said. For how I said it. I was tryin’ to say you don’t need all that stuff to be beautiful, but it came out like you weren’t allowed to want it. And that’s... that’s not fair. You can want lipstick and dresses and still want to break the whole damn system.”

You arched an eyebrow, still guarded. “Where’d you hear that?”

“Steve,” he muttered. “Well, mostly. And maybe a little from this pamphlet I found at the co-op, but it was all in real small print, and the lady at the desk was real intense.”

That made you almost smile. But not quite.

“I know I talk too much,” he continued. “And I don’t always think before I do. But I’ve been thinkin’ a lot. About how I made you feel. And how I hate the thought that you might’ve thought... you weren’t enough. Or too much. Or whatever the hell it was I made it sound like.”

You sighed quietly, leaning against the doorframe. “I don’t wanna be angry all the time, James. It’s like—people expect me to be. Like the minute I open my mouth, it’s just bark, bark, bark. Sometimes I wish I could just... be. Y’know?”

He looked at you like he understood. Not fully. Not yet. But enough.

“I like your bark,” he said, almost sheepish. “But I like when you’re just you, too.”

You looked down, toes tapping the wooden stoop.

There was a pause — soft, honest, unpressured — before he asked, gently, “Did I blow it? Or... have you forgiven me?”

You tilted your head, narrowing your eyes like you were calculating the weight of the whole damn thing.

“I’m takin’ one of those quiet moments where I weigh your good qualities against your bad ones,” you said slowly, “to decide if you’re actually worth the trouble.”

He straightened, hands dropping from his pockets like he wanted to prepare for a punch.

You tilted your head. Composed. Narrowed your eyes.

“You made it.”

His grin bloomed across his face — that trademark Bucky Barnes smile, the one he used when he won a game of stickball or caught the last seat on the trolley.

It knocked the breath out of you a little, not that you’d admit it.

“I, uh—” He rubbed the back of his neck, suddenly shy. “I got somethin’. For you.”

He stepped back a bit and pulled something from his coat pocket— a neatly folded bundle wrapped in brown paper and tied with string. He held it out.

You looked at him, suspicious. “What is it?”

“Just... open it.”

You frowned, lips already pursed, but your fingers tugged at the twine anyway.

You tugged the string loose and unwrapped the paper — and then you saw it.

Your breath caught.

Soft yellow cotton. Sweetheart neckline. White piping at the seams. The exact dress from the department store window. The one you’d stared at. The one you’d fought about.

Your heart tightened like a fist. “Bucky—this ain’t—this wasn’t cheap.”

“I know.”

You pushed it back into his hands. “Take it back.”

“No.”

“Did you steal this?”

“What? No!” he raised his hands. “I took extra shifts at my pop’s shop. I’m still covered in oil under this shirt. Go ahead, check.”

You gave him a flat look.

He softened. “I remembered you starin’ at it. That’s all.”

You looked down at the dress. Ran your fingers over the hem.

“I’m not takin’ this.”

“You are,” he said firmly. “Because if you give it back, I’ll just sneak it in through your window next time you leave it cracked.”

You stared at the dress. Then him. Then the dress again.

Your lips twitched — damn him — and you rolled your eyes, but you didn’t hand it back.

He noticed the smile threatening to appear on your face.

“Stop lookin’ so pleased with yourself,” you muttered.

“You’re smilin’.”

“I’m not.”

“You are.”

Then, slowly, you held it close, not too obvious, just enough to breathe in the new fabric. Your lips twitched. “Fine.”

He smiled wider. “Fine?”

“Don’t make me repeat it.”

He chuckled under his breath. “Alright.”

Bucky hesitated again, rocking back on his heels. “I should probably head home. Don’t wanna push my luck.”

You looked over your shoulder, then back at him. “Ma’s makin’ shepherd’s pie.”

His brows rose. “Yeah?”

You nodded. “You know it's just me and her, and she always makes too much.”

He cleared his throat. “I mean... if you need help eatin’ it...”

“You comin’ in or what, Barnes?”

His grin turned boyish again — a little crooked, a little sheepish, all charm. “You sure ’cause I wouldn’t want to impose—”

“Oh for God’s sake, Barnes, come in before I change my mind.”

He stepped over the threshold so fast you’d think you’d offered him gold.

And just like that, you shut the door behind him.

Five years Later

Brooklyn, September 1941

The diner smelled like strong coffee, burnt toast, and a little bit of grease — same as it always had. The bell over the door jingled as Steve and Bucky stepped in, the wind from the street trailing in behind them. The place was half-full, same old chipped counter, same tired cook hollering from behind the swinging door.

Bucky slid into a booth near the window, knocking his shoulder against Steve’s as he grinned.

“You’re buyin’. I got grease on my pants for you this morning.”

Steve rolled his eyes, shrugging off his coat. “You volunteered to fix the radiator, Buck.”

“Doesn’t mean it didn’t take effort, punk.” He kicked his boots up under the table and leaned back like he owned the place.

“Always with the dramatics,” Steve muttered.

Just then, the bell on the counter gave a sharp ding, and a voice called over it:

“Well, well. If it ain’t Barnes and Rogers. Lookin’ like you crawled outta a sewer and a church basement, respectively.”

You.

You were in your uniform dress — nothing fancy, blue apron tied at your waist, hair pinned back (mostly), a pencil tucked behind your ear. You had a rag slung over one shoulder and that trademark glint in your eyes.

Steve smiled. “Hey. Didn’t know you were workin’ today.”

“Pulled a double,” you said, striding over. “Mrs. Fratelli called out again. Probably ran off with the meat truck driver like she threatened.”

Bucky’s face lit up the second he saw you.

“Hello, sweetheart,” he said smoothly. “Miss me since this mornin’, or you too busy dreamin’ about me in your sleep?”

You gave him a flat look. “I dreamt I ran you over with a trolley. Twice.”

Steve snorted into his water.

Bucky grinned wider. “Still think that’s your love language.”

You leaned in, eyes narrowing as you placed two menus on the table, voice low and teasing. “You keep talkin’, Barnes, and I’ll slip hot sauce in your coffee.”

“I like it when you threaten me,” Bucky said, eyes gleaming. “It means you’re thinkin’ about me.”

You rolled your eyes before bending just a little and pressed a quick kiss to his mouth — soft, familiar, like it wasn’t even a question anymore. Just something you did. His hand instinctively brushed your hip as you pulled away.

Steve groaned and dropped his forehead to the table. “Not in front of me. Please.”

You raised your eyebrows. “I kissed his face, Rogers. Relax.”

“Yeah, but then he’s gonna get all dopey and start sayin’ stuff that makes me wanna drown myself in syrup.”

“Too late,” Bucky said dreamily, eyes still on you. “Already feel like I’m swimmin’ in sugar.”

You grabbed the coffee pot from behind you and poured two cups — sliding one in front of each of them with a pleased smile. “And that’s why I’m rationing how much coffee you get today.”

Bucky raised a hand solemnly. “If lovin’ you means sufferin’ through caffeine withdrawals, I’ll take it.”

“Awful,” Steve mumbled. “You’re both awful.”

You winked at Steve. “You love us.”

“I tolerate you.”

“I’ll take it,” Bucky said.

You were already walking off to the next table, hips swaying, head turned just enough to catch Bucky watching you. You rolled your eyes at him, but there was no bite in it.

He looked across at Steve, still grinning like a damn fool.

Steve sipped his coffee. “You’re pathetic.”

“Maybe,” Bucky said, watching you over the rim of his cup, “but I’m in love with a girl who can verbally eviscerate me and still kiss me like I hung the moon.”

“...Pathetic and doomed.”

Bucky just smiled wider. “Can’t wait.”

The diner’s usual low hum was alive with clinks of silverware and the hiss of coffee pots, but Bucky’s eyes were fixed on only one thing — you.

You were making your rounds like you ran the place, pouring coffee into mugs with an easy flick of your wrist, tossing back quips with regulars who knew better than to get fresh.

Your hair was coming undone in the back, a curl slipping down your neck, and your apron had a grease smudge near the hem — and Bucky swore he’d never seen anything prettier.

Steve followed his line of sight and let out a sigh into his coffee. “You ever blink when she’s in the room?”

Bucky didn’t even look away. “Would you, if that was yours?”

Steve snorted. “She ain’t yours. She lets you hang around.”

“She’s got that look in her eyes today,” Bucky said, head tilting as he watched you swipe a rag across a booth. “Like she’s two seconds away from smashing a sugar jar over someone’s head.”

“That’s just her face, Buck.”

Bucky finally turned to Steve, flashing that familiar smirk. “You remember last fall? That night in Fort Greene, after the street fair? I kissed her—right outta nowhere. Thought she was gonna sock me in the jaw—”

“She probably should’ve.”

“—but instead,” Bucky said, practically glowing, “she grabbed me by the shirt and kissed me back.” He smiled wider, tapping the side of his head. “Swear to God, I thought I’d been knocked out cold. Like I won the damn lottery.”

Steve made a face. “I think I liked you better when you were pining and pathetic.”

Bucky raised his cup in mock toast. “I still am. Just, y’know, happily pathetic now.”

Steve shook his head, a quiet laugh slipping from him. “She keeps you humble.”

“She keeps me honest,” Bucky corrected, and turned back to watch you.

That’s when the radio near the register crackled a little louder than before, catching just enough attention to lower a few voices.

“…German U-boats continue patrolling the Atlantic, with reports of more attacks on British convoys. American destroyer Greer engaged by German submarine in recent weeks. Though no formal declaration has been made, the Roosevelt administration urges continued readiness…”

Your hand slowed on the countertop, just slightly. Conversations across the diner dipped low or stopped altogether. The cook leaned halfway through the window to turn the volume up.

“—and while President Roosevelt affirms America’s stance as non-combatant, whispers out of D.C. suggest it’s only a matter of time. Should Congress act, all eligible men eighteen and up may be called to serve.”

The old man in the booth behind Bucky snorted and muttered, “Guess the boys better enjoy their hot dinners while they can.”

Someone else murmured, “Been coming for a while now.”

And just like that, the warmth in the diner cooled by a few degrees.

Steve rubbed the back of his neck. “It’s just talk. Same as last month. Same as the month before.”

Bucky didn’t answer right away. His eyes were still on you as you busied yourself clearing a table, like if you just kept moving, it wouldn’t matter what was on the radio.

That look was on your face again, the one Bucky knew well: that mix of anger and weariness you always wore when the world decided to take something instead of fix it.

Finally, he spoke, voice low. “Nah. It’s real now.”

Steve looked at him. “Buck—”

“I know it’s coming,” Bucky said, trying to sound casual but not quite managing it. “Same way my pop did. He knew in ’17. Signed up before they even came knockin’. Said if it’s gonna come for you anyway, you meet it head-on.”

Steve was quiet. He hated this part — the inevitability of it. Watching people he loved step into something they might never come back from.

Bucky looked down at his hands, fingers running over a small tear in the napkin dispenser. “If I go…”

“You don’t know that you’re going—”

“If I do,” Bucky cut in gently, “look after her.”

Steve blinked. “Me?”

“You’re the only one I trust to,” Bucky said. “She’s got no one left but you and me. Since her Ma passed…”

His voice faltered a little. Just enough for Steve to notice, but not enough to make Bucky admit it.

Steve leaned back, gave a dry laugh. “Buck, she’s more likely to look after me. She’d have me patched up, scolded, and fed before breakfast.”

Bucky smiled faintly. “Then look after each other. Promise me.”

Steve held his gaze. “Alright. I promise.”

They both turned to look at you, now laughing softly with a little girl sitting at the counter, sliding her a cherry from behind the counter when the cook wasn’t looking.

Bucky’s voice was soft, but firm. “She acts tough. Mouth like a sailor. But she’s got this big heart, y’know?”

Steve nodded. “Yeah. I know.”

The radio crackled again.

And in the brief stillness that followed, Bucky looked like he was trying to memorize everything — the sounds, the feel of the place, the curl of your lips and the way your smile came slow but full.

Just in case.

────────────────────────

Brooklyn, November 1941 – Atlantic Avenue Train Station

The wind was bitter that morning, the kind that bit through layers and settled into your bones. Steam hissed from the train engine as the platform filled with a quiet hum of voices — families clustered close, trying not to show just how tight they were holding on.

You stood a little behind Steve, arms crossed over your chest, Bucky’s coat wrapped tight around you. The sleeves were a little too long — he always said he liked seeing you swallow up in it. But you kept your chin high, eyes fixed on the tracks like if you didn’t look at him, this whole thing wouldn’t be happening.

Bucky stood a few feet away, saying his goodbyes. He bent to hug his ma first — her face pulled tight and red with holding back tears. His father clapped him on the back with a hand that lingered longer than usual. And Rebecca, red-nosed and blinking back tears, hugged her big brother like she couldn’t believe he was actually leaving.

You shifted your weight, watching the family scene in silence. Steve nudged your shoulder lightly, offering the smallest smile. You didn’t return it, just stared ahead.

Then Bucky turned. Said his final goodbye to his folks, kissed Rebecca's temple and whispered something that made her laugh through her tears.

You watched it all, arms crossed, jaw set.

Steve stood beside you, shoulders hunched, breath curling in the air. He wasn’t saying anything, which you were grateful for.

And then Bucky turned.

He made his way over, bag slung over one shoulder, grin already blooming on his face even though his eyes didn’t match it. He stopped in front of Steve first.

“Well, punk,” Bucky said, trying to keep it light.

“Jerk,” Steve answered, just as steady.

They clasped hands — firm and fast, pulling into one of those hugs that ended with a clap on the back that said all the things they weren’t going to say.

“Stay outta trouble,” Bucky said, forcing a smirk.

Steve gave a small laugh. “How can I? You’re takin’ all the trouble with you.”

Bucky chuckled, low and tired. “Somebody’s gotta stir things up overseas.”

Steve looked at him, jaw flexing. “You’ll be alright.”

“’Course I will.” Bucky bumped his fist against Steve’s arm. “You think I’m gonna let you get taller and better looking than me? Not a chance.”

Steve laughed softly, blinking fast. “Write when you can.”

“I will.”

They lingered a beat longer, then Bucky turned to you.

You didn’t move. Didn’t meet his eyes. Just stared out over his shoulder at the trains, the people, the nothing that didn’t matter.

Bucky stepped toward you, slower than usual. You kept your arms wrapped around yourself, shoulders stiff, almost as if you were protecting yourself.

“Hey,” he said gently. “You’re really gonna make me leave without seein’ those eyes?”

You swallowed, jaw clenched as you pulled your coat tighter. “Train’s gonna leave whether I look at you or not.”

He reached out, gloved fingers brushing your elbow gently. “You’re wearin’ my coat.”

“I was cold,” you said flatly, eyes still fixed on something past him. “Not like I did it for sentimental reasons or anything.”

He smiled. “Course not.”

You didn’t answer. Just shrugged tighter into the coat, blinking fast. Bucky stepped in closer, so close the brim of his cap was nearly brushing your brow.

“I’ll be back before you know it,” he said quietly. “Just a little while. You’ll barely notice I’m gone.”

“Don’t lie.”

That made him pause.

You finally looked at him. Really looked. And the moment your eyes locked, something in your face cracked — not broken, but bent under the weight of all the things you weren’t saying. The world behind your eyes was loud, and Bucky could hear every scream of it.

“I’m scared,” you said finally, voice small.

“Me too.”

Another silence. Longer this time.

Bucky’s face softened. “You think I ain’t comin’ back, don’t you?”

“I think a lot of boys say that to their girls before they leave,” you said, voice even but tight. “And not all of ’em get to mean it.”

Bucky reached up, thumb brushing the side of your face, glove rough against your cheek. “I’m not all of ’em. I’m me. And I’m coming back to you.”

You looked down at his chest, fingers curling slightly like you wanted to hold on and didn’t know where to start.

You bit your lip. “If… if something happens—”

“Don’t,” he cut in gently. “Don’t say it.”

“I need to say it, James. I need to—”

“No.” His voice was firmer this time, but not harsh. He leaned in, pressing his forehead lightly to yours. “I’m comin’ home. You hear me? I’m gonna come back and you’re gonna yell at me for leavin’ my boots at your door again, and you’re gonna steal all the covers, and we’re gonna forget this whole goodbye thing ever happened.”

You blinked fast, breathing shaky.

“If you need anything,” Bucky said, “go to my ma. She’ll take care of you.”

You raised your brows, voice dry. “Your ma hates me.”

Bucky blinked, then huffed a quiet laugh. “She doesn’t hate you.”

“She glares at me like I taught Rebecca to swear.”

He paused, then grinned crookedly. “She just doesn’t love you as much as I do.”

You let out a small, breathy laugh — not quite whole, but better than nothing.

He kissed you then. No heat, no show — just steady and sure, like he was trying to anchor the both of you in the moment. Your hands clutched at his coat, pulling him closer for one more second, two, three.

When you pulled back, your voice was quiet.

“Come home to me.”

Bucky rested his forehead against yours. “You’re all I wanna come home to.”

The train let out a loud hiss. Passengers began calling their goodbyes, some already starting to board.

Bucky kissed your forehead, quick and sure. Then stepped back — one step, then two — still looking at you like he didn’t want to turn around.

“You stay warm, alright?” he called, voice louder over the bustle. “Eat something other than burgers and coffee once in a while!”

You scowled faintly. “You’re one to talk!”

He gave you that big, crooked grin, the one that always made your stomach flip.

Then he turned and walked toward the train, duffel slung over one shoulder.

And you stood there in his coat, trying not to let your eyes water in the cold, with Steve silently stepping closer beside you — not saying anything. Just being there.

The train pulled out of the station a few minutes later. And Bucky was gone.

Three years later

Brooklyn, October 1944 – Atlantic Avenue Train Station

The train pulled into the station with a shriek of steel and smoke, hissing to a stop under the gray Brooklyn sky. The platform was packed — families pressed up against the rails, hopeful and desperate, faces turned toward the windows of the arriving train like it might spit out salvation.

You were right at the front, your press badge pinned to your coat as you tapped your heel anxiously against the concrete, not even trying to play it cool. You looked good — hair pinned sharp, lipstick bold, a belted coat cinched over your skirt, the hem just brushing your knees. You always made a point to look good when he came back.

You weren’t just you anymore — not the loudmouthed girl with calloused fingers and second-hand dresses. You were a name in print now. Famous columnist at The Brooklyn Standard, known for stirring the pot and refusing to let anyone — the government, the public, or the boys back home — forget the hypocrisy of this so-called land of the free.

You had a national voice now, but today, that didn’t matter. Today, you were just the girl waiting on her boys to come home.

And then you saw him.

Steve stepped down first, tall and broad and shining like something out of a poster — because, well, he was now. The star-spangled uniform clung to him like it belonged there, a coat trying and failing to hide it, but that open smile on his face? That was all Steve. Your Steve. Brooklyn Steve. The one who carried extra change for the subway because he was sure one day you’d forget.

You didn’t even have time to shout before Bucky followed behind him — slightly thinner than you remembered, bruised under the eyes, but real. Whole. Alive. Still him.

And when he saw you—

“Doll—!”

You didn’t wait. You shoved past a vendor and a couple of sailors, arms already out. You practically launched yourself at him.

Bucky caught you mid-stride, arms wrapping around your waist and pulling you clean off the ground. Your legs lifted, and you buried your face in the crook of his neck, arms tight around him like you were afraid he might vanish if you let go. His duffle bag dropped to the ground with a heavy thump as he spun you once, breathless and warm.

“I missed you,” he murmured against your temple. “God, I missed you, baby.”

He held you like he was afraid you weren’t real. Like if he let go too fast, you’d vanish into the smoke and the station noise and all the things he saw out there in the dark.

“I’m not crying,” you muttered against his neck.

You pulled back just enough to kiss his face — everywhere. Cheek, brow, nose, temple. He laughed, a sound somewhere between hysterical and joyful, as you brushed your fingers over the short edge of his hair.

“I’m kissing you so you know it’s me,” you whispered. “So next time you disappear, I’ve got your damn face memorized.”

He grinned, breathless. “Don’t plan on disappearing again.”

You pressed your forehead to his for one more second before turning to Steve, who stood nearby with a patient smile.

“Well, well,” you said, arching a brow and resting your hands on your hips. “Would you look at that. Steve Rogers. Has anyone seen him? Small fella, polite, sketchbook always tucked under his arm? You’re wearin’ his face, stranger.”

Steve laughed — loud and whole and rich. “That’s me, alright. Just with a bit more… calcium.”

Bucky snorted behind you, still clinging to your waist like he hadn’t seen you in a decade. “You mean steroids.”

“Super-serum,” Steve corrected.

“Fancy steroids.”

You grinned, stepping forward to pull Steve into a hug, strong and sure. He hugged you back with those new arms of his, still gentle like he might break you.

You whispered to him as you held tight: “Thank you for bringing him home to me.”

His voice was quiet. “Would’ve brought him back sooner if I could.”

You pulled back and cupped his cheek. “You brought each other back. That’s more than most people get.”

Just then, a kid across the station shouted, “Hey! It’s Captain America!”

Steve flinched slightly, and you rolled your eyes. “Great. They spotted you.”

“You’ve been in the papers too, y’know,” Steve said, tugging his bag higher. “Every time I see your name, someone’s mad about it.”

“Means I’m doing it right.”

Bucky watched you, chin tilted slightly, pride glinting behind tired eyes. “Told the fellas you were raising hell while we were gone.”

“I did more than raise it. I printed it in bold.”

He slid his hand into yours, fingers tight between yours like he hadn’t remembered what it felt like until now.

“We got you for a few days?” you asked, voice softer now.

“Four,” he answered. “Four days, and then they send us back to God knows where.”

You nodded. “Then I’ll make ‘em count.”

He glanced at you, and a little smile flickered on his face.

“You already are.”

────────────────────────

Your Apartment — 2:47 a.m.

The radiator hissed in the corner, clanking loud enough every so often to make you flinch. The warmth it gave off didn’t quite reach the corners of the old apartment. You were used to that — this was the place you’d grown up, after all. The chipped paint, the creaky floors, the faded wallpaper your ma had put up in '28.

Bucky had crashed in your bed as soon as you'd gotten home. You'd followed later, after checking in on Steve — who was passed out in your old room, still fully dressed. Poor guy had barely gotten the boots off before slumping on your old too small twin bed.

Now it was late, maybe two, maybe three in the morning. Outside, the city hummed quiet and cold. Inside, the room was dim, lit only by the soft amber glow of the streetlamp filtering through the thin curtains. You'd drifted in and out of sleep — curled against Bucky’s side, your head on his shoulder — until the sudden jolt of his body broke the stillness.

He gasped sharp, sucking in air like he’d been drowning, his muscles tensed tight beneath you. You sat up instinctively.

“Bucky?” you whispered, brushing your hand over his chest.

His eyes were wide and wild, not quite seeing. Sweat clung to his brow, and his breath came hard and fast. You gently cupped his face and leaned closer.

“Hey. Baby, it’s me. It’s just me.” You reached up to stroke his hair, fingers tangling through the soft brown strands. “You’re not there. You’re here. You’re home.”

He blinked, chest still heaving as he tried to slow his breathing. Your other hand rubbed soothing circles against his sternum.

“There you go,” you murmured, voice barely a breath. “Breathe with me, okay? You’re safe. You’re with me.”

He was quiet for a long beat. Just breathing. Then he shifted, head pressing into the crook of your neck, his arm curling tight around your middle as if he was trying to burrow into you, as if your body was the only thing tethering him to this world.

The room was quiet save for the sputter of the radiator and the soft rhythm of your fingers in his hair. You didn’t ask too soon. You knew better than to push.

After a long while, his voice emerged — low, ragged.

“They kept us underground,” he murmured finally, voice rough. “No light. Cold. No names. Just numbers. They… they strapped us down, filled us with something. And when the pain started, it didn’t stop. I thought my head was gonna split open. I couldn’t scream after a while. My throat just gave out.”

You didn’t move, just kept your fingers stroking slow, steady lines along his scalp, the other hand curling along the back of his neck.

“I thought…” he swallowed. “I really thought that was it. That I was gonna die in some freezing hellhole in the Alps with no name and no grave.”

“Hey,” you whispered, voice cracking. “But you didn’t. You came back to me.”

He was quiet for a long beat. Then, “Sometimes I feel like I left pieces of myself behind. Like I didn’t all make it back.”

Your chest ached at that. You tightened your hold around him, pressing a kiss to his temple.

“You’re all here,” you whispered. “And the rest… the rest we’ll find together, yeah?”

Your throat tightened, but you didn’t cry. You didn’t let yourself. Not while he needed you steady.

Silence again. But the kind that wasn’t heavy. Just close. Breathing. Rebuilding.

His head rested over your heart, and you felt him calm as he focused on the steady beat beneath your ribs. Then—

“Marry me,” he said suddenly, muffled against your skin.

You blinked, startled. “What?”

He lifted his head, eyes locked with yours now — clear, steady, fierce in a way that made your stomach flip.

“Let’s get married,” he said again. “Tomorrow. Or today. Whenever you want. Just—let’s do it.”

You sat up a little more, still blinking at him, mind spinning. “James—”

“I don’t want to wait,” he cut in, softer this time. “I’ve been through hell and back, and every time I thought I wasn’t gonna make it, all I wanted was to get to you. Just to be here again. To hear your voice and feel your hands and—”

He grabbed your hand then, pressed it to his chest like he needed you to feel how real he was. “We’ve been through too much. We’re already each other’s, right? So let’s make it real.”

You stared at him — this man you’d grown up with, fought with, fell for. His eyes never left yours.

“I got it all in my head,” he added, quick like he was afraid you’d talk him out of it. “We’ll go down to the courthouse, get the papers. You can wear that yellow dress I got you. I’ll wear that suit Ma made me save for ‘something good.’ Steve and my family can be our witnesses. We’ll get egg creams after and laugh about how fast it all was.”

“You sound like you’ve been planning this,” you muttered, heart thudding.

“I have,” Bucky said, without missing a beat. “Since the day you kissed me instead of sockin’ me in the jaw.”

You looked at him — really looked at him — hair a mess, face a little pale under the moonlight slipping in through the window. He looked tired and strong and so, so sure.

You swallowed. “You know I always wanted more than marriage and housewives and babies, right?”

“I know,” he said gently. “That’s not what I’m askin’ for. I want you, just how you are. Loud and brash and brilliant. I just want to be yours — proper.”

You met his gaze, fierce and full of something too big to name. “I love you. So… yeah. Let’s get married, Bucky.”

Bucky smiled. That slow, boyish, heartstopping smile you hadn’t seen since before the war.

Then you leaned forward, kissed him slow, and pulled back just enough to whisper against his lips, “You better not change your mind in the morning.”

“Not a chance, doll.”

──────────────────────────────

The Next Evening

The second that Bucky opened the door, he bent low and scooped you clean off the stoop with a dramatic flair that made you yelp and burst into laughter.

“James Buchanan Barnes!” you gasped, arms flailing before looping around his neck. “What the hell are you doin’?”

“I’m carrying my wife across the threshold,” he grinned, eyes bright with mischief as he marched toward the living room like it was a palace. “That’s what a gentleman does, ain’t it?”

You tossed your head back laughing. “This dump is the same place I've been sleeping for years, James—”

“Not the point, sweetheart,” he said, adjusting his grip under your thighs “I’m startin’ traditions here. And one day, when I come home for good, I’m gonna carry you over the threshold of a real house. Big porch. Little garden. No leaky faucets.”

“You’re outta your mind,” you muttered fondly, brushing his hair back from his forehead as he leaned in and kissed you — quick, then long, then quick again.

Your feet finally hit the ground again and your fingers immediately went to the neckline of your dress — the same pale yellow one he’d bought you all those years ago. The satin straps slipped off your shoulders as you took a breath and said, “Can’t believe this thing still fits.”

Bucky tilted his head like a puppy, eyes scanning your body like he hadn’t already memorized every inch of you.

“Why wouldn’t it fit?”

You scoffed, rolling your eyes as you turned toward the mirror. “Bucky, you got me this dress when we were teenagers. I was still livin’ on Ma’s grocery scraps and bad coffee.”

He stepped up behind you, hands curling around your waist as he dipped his head into the crook of your neck. “You look the same to me,” he murmured against your skin. “Just more beautiful.”

You turned toward him at that — letting your forehead rest against his chest. “You always been such a smooth-talker.”

“No,” he whispered, drawing his fingers slowly down your back, “I just speak the truth when it comes to you.”

He kissed you again, deeper this time. His hands slid lower, anchoring you against him. Your fingers reached for the buttons on his shirt with practiced ease.

“You know,” he murmured between kisses, “if you keep smilin’ like that, I’m not gonna make it to the bed.”

You raised an eyebrow. “You got somethin’ against the couch?”

“No,” he laughed, scooping you up again — this time with a little less ceremony — “I just figured the bed deserves the honor tonight.”

You squealed and let your head fall back as he carried you down the short hallway, your yellow dress now barely hanging on. Once in your bedroom, he laid you down gently, reverently, like he was handling something holy.

“You sure you don’t wanna wait till tonight?” you teased as he hovered above you, eyes dark with love and want. “Make it real proper?”

Bucky’s laugh was low and quiet, almost a hum. He leaned down, brushing his lips against your jaw, then your throat. “We’re married. That is proper.”

Your breath hitched as he kissed the hollow of your collarbone.

“You know I love you, right?” he said, suddenly serious — eyes locking with yours. “I’ve loved you since you threatened to throw a shoe at my head for callin’ you mouthy in ‘31.”

You smiled softly and cupped his cheek. “You still talk too much, Barnes.”

“Then maybe I’ll shut up and show you instead.”

And he did.

He kissed you like a promise. He kissed you like you’d never have to say goodbye again.

His kiss deepened slowly, and when his hand slid behind your neck to cradle you closer, you let yourself fall into it. Into him. Into the warmth and security and the slow realization that this was it. You were married. This was your forever.

Bucky kissed like he meant to remember every second.

He tugged gently at the fabric of your dress, fingertips moving with reverence, not rushing, not demanding—just feeling. When you shifted beneath him, he helped you sit up, fingers fumbling a little with the tiny row of buttons down your back.

“Too many of these damn things,” he muttered.

You laughed softly, leaning back into him. “You’ve been wanting to get me out of this dress since the ceremony, admit it.”

His breath ghosted hot against your shoulder as he kissed your skin between each word. “Since before that. Since I saw you this morning and realized I was gonna be lucky enough to call you my wife.”

The dress slipped down your arms, the delicate fabric pooling at your waist, revealing the soft cream of your slip underneath.

Bucky stilled for a second, eyes roaming over you like you were some rare treasure unearthed in candlelight.

“You’re beautiful,” he said, hoarse. “God—look at you.”

You reached up and tugged at his loosened tie, pulling him down into another kiss. “Then look closer, Barnes.”

That broke something in him.

He pressed you back down into the bed, hands everywhere now—still gentle, but needier. His mouth trailed kisses across your collarbone, then lower, tracing the edge of your slip with aching slowness.

“Can I?” he asked, lips brushing the swell of your breast.

You nodded.

He peeled the slip down carefully, like undressing a secret. When your breasts spilled free, he groaned, breath catching like it hurt. His lips closed over your nipple, tongue flicking gently before he began to suck, slow and deep.

You gasped, arching into him.

His hand moved down, smoothing over your stomach, then lower, over the delicate lace of your underwear. He kissed lower still, murmuring against your skin.

“You’re trembling.”

“I’ve wanted this,” you whispered, “for so long.”

“I know,” he said, voice thick. “Me too.”

He kissed the inside of your thigh, then dragged your underwear down, baring you completely. You heard the sharp inhale he took as he looked at you—eyes blown wide, filled with awe.

Then he was over you again, chest pressing to yours, and you were tugging at the waistband of his slacks, unfastening the button, the zipper, until he was bare too—hard and flushed and shaking slightly in your hand.

“You sure?” he asked, voice barely steady.

“I married you,” you whispered, guiding him to you. “Of course I’m sure.”

And when he slid into you—slow, deep, stretching you in the most perfect, heart-wrenching way—it was everything. You both gasped, your fingers digging into his shoulders, your legs wrapping around his waist.

He moved slow at first, reverent, lips brushing over yours with every thrust.

“Love you,” he whispered. “So much. Always.”

You held his face as he made love to you, feeling him fill you again and again until your breath came in soft cries and your heart was a song in your chest. The pace built gradually—never rushed, just more. Deeper. Closer.

When you finally came, it was with his name on your lips and his body pressed fully into yours. He followed seconds later, buried deep, gasping your name against your skin like a prayer.

After, you held each other.

Naked. Married. Home.

And when Bucky whispered another love you against your neck, you kissed his temple and whispered back:

“We’ve got forever now.”

────────────────────────

Six Months Later

Austria – Hydra Territory, March 1945 | Before the Assault on Zola’s Train

The snow howled outside the makeshift command tent like a restless animal. A biting wind cut through even the thickest of coats, but inside, by the dull light of a single hanging lantern, Bucky sat hunched over a folded piece of paper — his hands trembling just a little.

He had read it once.

Then twice.

Now a third time.

Each word hit harder than the last, scrawled in your handwriting — slightly rushed, ink smudged near the edge where you’d probably leaned your elbow like you always did.

Steve stepped in, brushing snow off his jacket, eyes narrowing immediately at the look on Bucky’s face.

“Hey,” Steve said gently, careful. “What’s wrong?”

Bucky didn’t answer right away. He just kept staring at the paper like it held the entire universe.

Steve leaned forward, concern building. “Buck?”

Bucky's gaze stayed fixed on the paper, his thumb rubbing over the last line like it might vanish if he stopped touching it. Then — slowly — he looked up.

And Steve’s heart dropped. Because Bucky Barnes, mouthy ladies’ man, unshakable Sergeant Barnes, had tears in his eyes.

“She’s pregnant,” Bucky whispered, his voice barely there. He blinked, breath catching.

There was a beat of silence — and then Steve's mouth opened in a stunned, breathless laugh.

“Jesus, Buck,” Steve breathed, standing as the words hit him. “You’re gonna be a dad?”

Bucky shook his head, jaw tightening, smile breaking free like light through clouds. “Six months along. She found out just after I left. She didn’t wanna tell me sooner — didn’t wanna distract me.”

Steve stepped forward, gripping Bucky’s shoulder. “Buck…”

Bucky let out a short, shaky laugh and folded the letter up carefully, tucking it back into the inside pocket of his coat, close to his heart. “A kid, Steve. I’m gonna have a baby. With her.”

“She’ll be a hell of a mother,” Steve said softly.

Bucky pulled him into a hug before he even realized what he was doing. The kind of hug men didn’t give each other unless it was earned through blood, war, and years of brotherhood. Steve hugged him back just as tight.

“You gotta come home for this,” Steve said against Bucky’s shoulder. “You hear me?”

“I will,” Bucky said fiercely, pulling back, that old steel in his voice. “We finish this mission. We stop Zola. Then I go home. I’m not missing that. I won’t.”

Steve gave him a firm nod. “One last job.”

“One last,” Bucky echoed, eyes lifting to the mountains beyond the tent wall. “Then I get to hold her. Both of ‘em.”

The snow kept falling. The train would be here soon.

But for a moment, there was warmth in that tent — a pulse of hope beating hard and stubborn against the cold world outside.

And in Bucky’s chest, beneath layers of wool and metal and grief, your letter sat close to his heart — a promise of what was waiting if he could just survive the night.

────────────────────────

One Month Later

Brooklyn, April 1945

Sunlight slanted through the lace curtains, warm and golden on the worn floorboards. Your fingers moved fast across the keys, glasses perched low on your nose, your rounded stomach nudging the edge of the desk.

You were working on an article about women in shipyards. Words came easier when you didn’t think about how long it’d been since the last letter.

You tried not to count the days anymore.

Then — a knock.

Your hands paused over the keys. You glanced at the clock on the wall. Just past four.

With a soft grunt, you pushed yourself up, one hand bracing the small of your back. You crossed the room slowly, brushing crumbs from your sweater, muttering, “If that’s Mrs. Klemanski again askin’ for sugar—”

You opened the door.

And saw Steve.

Your heart jumped up into your throat before you could stop it.

His uniform looked sharper than ever, chest full of medals, that familiar bashful way he stood with his cap held between both hands. Your smile came without permission.

“Steve,” you said, relief threading through your voice. “You’re—wait—where’s Bucky?”

Then your eyes dropped. You saw what he was holding — a folded jacket, a bundle of letters tied in twine, something metal glinting dully between his fingers.

Your smile vanished.

“No,” you whispered, instantly shaking your head. “No—”

Steve’s face cracked. Like something in him broke the second you said it. He didn’t speak. Just stepped forward with trembling hands, like he could soften the blow if he was gentle enough.

You backed away, hand flying to your mouth.

“No, no, no—don’t. Don’t say it.”

“Sweetheart—” he started softly.

“Don’t call me that, Steve—where is he?” Your voice shook, louder now. “Where is he?”

Steve’s eyes welled up. “The train—we were ambushing Hydra. Something went wrong, Buck—he—he fell.”

Your knees buckled a little. You reached for the edge of the wall to steady yourself.

“I don’t understand,” you croaked. “He promised—he said he’d come back. He promised me, Steve.”

“I know,” Steve said, stepping inside, setting Bucky’s things down on the table like they were sacred. “I know. He meant it.”

“No, no—he wouldn’t leave me.” Your voice cracked, nearly childish in disbelief. “He—he was coming home, we were—he was gonna hold the baby, we hadn’t even picked names—”

Steve crossed the space in two strides and caught you just as your legs gave out. He held you tightly against him, like he was trying to keep you from falling apart with just his arms.

“I’m so sorry,” he whispered, over and over again, into your hair. “I’m so sorry. I tried—I tried to get to him. He was—he was just gone.”

You were shaking. Hands fisting into Steve’s shirt, crying so hard your whole body trembled.

“He was supposed to come home,” you rasped, face buried in his chest. “He promised me, Steve. He swore it. He said—he said after this—he’d come back.”

“I know. I know.” His voice cracked and you felt his tears fall against your hair.

You cried like the world had ended. And for you, it had.

You didn’t even notice the letters scattered across the table, or the chain with the dog tags hanging over the edge. Not yet.

You just held on to Steve like he was the last piece of Bucky left in the world.

And in that moment, maybe he was.

One Year Later

Brooklyn, April 1946, 6:04 PM.

You juggled your bag, house keys, and the folded newspaper under one arm as you pushed open the door to your apartment. It clicked shut behind you with a satisfying clunk — thicker walls, newer locks, good insulation. Worth every penny.

You hadn’t gotten two steps in when the smell hit you.

Garlic, tomatoes, something rich and savory wafting in the air. Your brows furrowed.

You didn’t cook. Not when you’d been running around chasing sources all day.

The quiet babble of a baby's voice reached your ears before you could say anything.

You moved toward the kitchen, already shrugging off your coat.

“Jamie?” you called, more out of instinct and confusion than alarm.

“Hey,” a familiar voice called from the kitchen.

There he was—Steve, of all people—standing at your tiny stove like he owned it, sleeves rolled to his elbows, stirring something in a pot. His cheeks flushed a little as he turned toward you, sheepish.

“I, uh… hope it’s alright. Didn’t mean to intrude,” he said with that boyish, bashful charm.

You leaned your hip against the doorframe, staring. “You're not intruding. Just surprising. Last I heard you were in Marseille.”

“Got back yesterday,” he replied, gently bumping Jamie’s foot with his hand as your son giggled, “And I figured I’d surprise you. Hope you don’t mind.”

You blinked, then shook your head with a soft huff of laughter. “Mind? I’m just surprised Mrs. B let you walk away with Jamie. She told me she was keepin’ him overnight so I could get some rest.“

Steve chuckled, rubbing the back of his neck. “She said I could take him. Only because I promised to bring him back with no less than ten fingers and ten toes.”

You raised a brow. “And?”

He grinned. “I counted twice. All still there.”

“I'm just glad Mrs B loves Jamie more than she dislikes me,” you teased lightly, stepping forward.

Steve snorted as he wiped his hands on a towel. “I think she’s finally warming up to you.”

“Only took her a decade and a half,” you said dryly.

Your eyes shifted toward the high chair near the small table.

There he was—your Jamie. James Steven Barnes. Nine months old, dark hair a soft mess on his head, cheeks full and pink, legs kicking in slow, distracted rhythm as he banged a wooden spoon against the tray. He lit up the moment he saw you.

“Hey, baby,” you cooed, crossing the room quickly. You scooped him into your arms with ease, planting soft kisses across his face as he squealed in delight. “Mama missed you somethin’ awful.”

He babbled and reached for your face, hands warm and sticky.

Steve leaned over the counter, watching the two of you with something unspoken in his eyes. Something soft and heavy.

“Thanks,” you murmured without looking up, brushing Jamie’s hair back. “For watchin’ him.”

“Always,” he said quietly.

You glanced at him, then down at the little boy now tucked against your chest. You bounced him gently, kissing the crown of his head.

He looked so much like Bucky.

Jamie’s eyes had his smile in them. That crooked brightness. That same stubborn little crease between his brows when he concentrated. Every day he got older, he looked more like him. Sometimes it ached. Sometimes it made you laugh.

“Dinner’s almost ready,” Steve said, breaking the silence. “Nothing fancy. Chicken and potatoes. I followed a recipe from one of those little books Mrs. Barnes keeps in her kitchen. The ones with the oil stains and notes in the margins.”

Your eyes narrowed playfully. “You can read her notes?”

“She writes in cursive. I’m not illiterate.”

You snorted. “I didn’t say it, you said it.”

Jamie giggled, delighted by your laugh.

The apartment had gone soft with golden lamplight. The radio murmured low jazz in the background, and your living room-kitchen hybrid felt, for once, more like home than like memory.

Jamie sat now wriggling in your lap, pudgy fingers smacking the edge of the table as he made soft, happy grunts. You held a spoon in one hand, alternating between your own plate and coaxing tiny, mashed-up bites of potato toward your son’s mouth.

Steve, across from you, ate slower now. The nervous energy that had filled him while cooking seemed to have drained, leaving him thoughtful as he glanced between you and Jamie.

You scraped the spoon along the edge of Jamie’s dish, gently cooing at him, “You’re makin’ more mess than you’re eatin’, baby.”

Jamie shrieked with laughter and kicked his legs against your thigh. You rolled your eyes, smiling, brushing his hair back.

Steve watched, silently fond.

After a moment, you leaned back slightly, sighing. “Steve…”

He looked up.

You hesitated, then spoke, voice gentler than your usual sharpness. “You gotta stop putting your life on pause for us.”

Steve’s brows furrowed. “What’re you talking about?”

“I’m serious,” you said. “You’re here all the time, runnin’ yourself ragged makin’ sure we’re okay. You don’t owe us that.”

“I don’t see it like that,” he said.

“Well, maybe you should,” you said, a bit sharper now. “For God’s sake, Steve… there’s a woman across the damn ocean who’s in love with you. Who you love.”

Steve was quiet, picking at his food. “I do love her,” he admitted softly, after a beat. “I think about her every day.”

You nodded slowly, adjusting Jamie in your lap as he reached for your plate.

“But,” Steve added, eyes lifting to meet yours, steady and sure, “I love you. And I love Jamie. It’s not one or the other. It just… is. And Peggy understands that.”

You looked down at Jamie, brushing your thumb across his cheek as he leaned into you, content. You kissed his temple. “You were here when I needed someone. I’ll never forget that.”

“I wasn’t just here because you needed someone,” Steve said. “I wanted to be here.”

You swallowed thickly.

He cleared his throat, his demeanor shifting. More serious now. “I, uh… I need to tell you something.”

You looked at him. “What is it?”

“I’m going away for a while. Longer this time.”

You froze. “What do you mean?”

“They think Hydra’s back,” he said quietly. “There’s a lead—small, but real. I’ve gotta follow it. Could take a few months. Maybe more.”

Your fingers curled instinctively around Jamie’s waist, holding him tighter.

You were quiet for a long moment. The kind of quiet that stretches over aching bones.

Then you asked, voice tight, “Are you comin’ back?”

He nodded. “I’ll always come back.”

You stared at him, gaze sharp, testing him for truth. “You can’t promise that.”

Steve’s jaw tightened. “No. But I’ll try.”

You looked away, blinking hard. “Just… don’t die, Stevie. I can’t lose another man I love.”

You sighed before kissing the top of Jamie’s head and gently passed him across the table. “Take him while I clean up.”

Steve took him easily, and Jamie reached for his face like he always did.

You stood at the sink, your back to both of them, hands trembling as you rinsed plates that suddenly felt too heavy.

Behind you, Jamie giggled.

And Steve said softly, “You’re not alone. You’ll never be alone.”

────────────────────────

Siberia – June 1946

It was colder than Steve had ever felt. The kind of cold that went through bones and memories, through war medals and stitched-up wounds. Snow drifted down in ghost-silent flurries outside the base, the world unnervingly still.

One of the lasts Hydra holdouts. Tucked into a mountain, almost forgotten.

The air inside was sharp with antiseptic and old blood. The hallways were long and shadowed, cracked concrete walls humming under the weight of hidden horrors. The Howling Commandos moved ahead in silence, boots heavy on the ground. Dum Dum took point. Gabe and Morita swept the side halls. But Steve… something had pulled him down this one, this narrow corridor lined with rusted steel doors and buzzing fluorescent lights.

He felt it before he saw it. Something like instinct. Like memory rising from his gut.

Then he saw him.

Encased in thick glass. Wires attached to skin. A cryogenic pod humming low and blue, the frost crawling up from the base, covering the sides in veils of condensation.

Steve froze.

He didn't breathe.

“God…” His voice was barely more than air.

Bucky.

Hair longer, tangled. Face gaunt. But it was him.

Still him.

And his arm…

Steve’s breath shuddered. The left arm was gone. Replaced with cold, glinting steel. Matte black plating layered in Hydra’s signature design, trailing from shoulder to fingertips. Wires snaked from the seams into the pod.

Steve's mouth opened, but no sound came out. It felt like grief all over again—but this time crueler. Because this time, Bucky was here. And Hydra had done this to him. The scars on his shoulder where steel met flesh were jagged and red, raw as if they'd been carved with no thought for healing. His ribs showed under his skin. His hair was matted. There were bruises on his face, half-healed and sunken.

He looked like a ghost.

“Cap?” Dum Dum’s voice came, low and hesitant behind him. “What do we do?”

Steve swallowed hard, eyes locked on Bucky's face. “We don’t touch it. We don’t dare open it. We don’t know what it’s keeping him alive from.”

────────────────────────

Somewhere in Southern England – Allied Base Hospital, One Week Later

It took seven days to move the chamber.

Howard Stark and his team worked around the clock. Peggy Carter coordinated intelligence and security. The best British and American minds worked shoulder-to-shoulder in the converted medical wing of the base. Stark called in every favor he had left. The facility practically vibrated with tension.

And then the pod was opened.

Slowly. Carefully. Oxygen, sedatives, heart monitors. He was intubated, stabilized, removed from cryo. They monitored every breath. Every neural spike.

And then…

Bucky screamed.

Woke like a beast torn from hell.

Hands strapped down immediately. His body thrashed, nearly flipping the bed. He screamed again—no words, just noise. Animal, broken, panicked. One arm flailed wildly—metal catching the edge of a tray, sending it clattering to the floor. A doctor tried to restrain him and got nearly thrown across the room.

Steve rushed in, yelling over the chaos. “Bucky! It’s me—it’s Steve! You’re safe, pal, it’s me!”

But Bucky didn’t hear him.

Didn’t see him.

His eyes—those warm, familiar blue eyes—were wide and glassy. Vacant and terror-stricken. He screamed again and then curled into himself, sobs ripping from his chest. A medic got a sedative in him. Slowly, the tremors faded. His breathing slowed.

Steve stood frozen.

Peggy stepped beside him, placing a hand on his arm. “He doesn’t recognize you.”

Steve didn’t respond. His hands curled into fists at his sides. “They broke him,” he whispered. “They really broke him.”

───────���────────────────

Later That Night

The room was dim now. Quiet. Just the steady beep of a monitor and the gentle hiss of the IV.

Steve sat at Bucky’s bedside. His best friend lay still, unconscious again. Shackled loosely—just in case. The metal arm still gleamed under the muted lights. Stark had examined it with thinly veiled horror. “Cut nerves, fused bone, direct-to-brain wiring,” he’d muttered. “Barbaric. Brilliant. Inhuman.”

Bucky’s skin was a mess of faded bruises and whip-thin scars. The tips of electrodes had left circular burns along his chest and temples.

Steve brushed a strand of hair back from Bucky’s forehead, gently. “I should’ve found you sooner.”

He wasn’t sure if he was talking to Bucky or himself.

Behind him, Peggy lingered in the doorway. Watching quietly. “You never stopped believing he was out there.”

Steve didn’t turn around. “I don't what I believed. I just thought that he'd somehow come back.”

Peggy stepped into the room, her voice gentle. “And now he has. It’s just going to take time.”

Steve finally looked up at her, eyes tired. “How do I tell her? How do I go back to Brooklyn, look her in the eye, and say… he’s alive, but not really?”

Peggy didn’t have an answer.

────────────────────────

Southern England – Allied Base Hospital, September, 1946

It had been five months since Steve had last seen you. And it tore at him every time he thought about it. You’d written him faithfully, letters worn with fingerprints and smudged ink by the time he finished rereading them—every one a small, steady light.

You wrote about how Jamie had taken his first steps at the park, how he reached for a pigeon and toppled into the grass with a giggle so loud people turned to look. How his first word, predictably, had been “mama.” How you were trying to wean him off the bottle and that it wasn’t going well.

You’d written with joy—exhaustion sometimes—but joy, nonetheless. You never asked much in return. You never demanded updates. You let Steve share what he could when he could. And he had written back. But he hadn’t told you about Bucky.

Not because he didn’t want to.

Because he didn’t know how.

What was he supposed to say? “Bucky’s alive, but he doesn’t know he has a son. He wakes up screaming and cries for you like a man who doesn’t know time has moved on.”

You deserved rest. Not more weight.

So Steve kept it in. And he sat with Bucky. Every day.

────────────────────────

Hospital Recovery Wing.

It had been three months since they’d opened the pod.

Bucky was healing—physically, at least. The bruises were fading, and the medical team had finally managed to remove the rusted remnants of Hydra’s control nodes from his scalp. Howard Stark had designed a brace to help ease strain on the shoulder where flesh met steel. There were less screams at night now. Sometimes, there were even full nights of sleep.

But the mind—that was still a maze.

Steve watched from the hallway as Bucky sat near the window, a blanket over his shoulders, hair tucked back behind his ears. He was paler than usual. Leaner. His hands—his real one and the metal one—trembled sometimes when he tried to hold a cup of tea.

But his eyes had life again.

And pain.

And hope.

Steve stepped in. Bucky looked up, and for a second, Steve saw the old grin threatening the corner of his mouth.

“You got news?” Bucky asked, voice still rasped and lower than it used to be, like his throat hadn’t fully recovered from the screaming.

Steve nodded, sitting across from him. “Another lead on Hydra. A nest in the Alps. Small.”

Bucky didn’t care about that. He never did.

His fingers gripped the edge of the blanket. “Steve… just take me home.”

Steve’s heart cracked—again. “You’re not strong enough yet, Buck. You know that.”

Bucky’s eyes were bloodshot, a tremor in his jaw. “I don’t care. I can’t do this anymore, Stevie. I need her. Please—please—just let me see her. She’ll fix me. She always does.”

Steve looked down at his hands, swallowing the knot in his throat.

“She’s pregnant,” Bucky said suddenly. Desperate. “She told me. In the last letter. She’s pregnant and I’m here doing nothing. What if something happens? What if she needs me?”

Steve looked up slowly. He hadn’t told him. Bucky didn’t know.

“No,” Steve said softly. “Buck… she’s not pregnant.”

Bucky’s eyes snapped up in alarm.

Steve stood, pacing. “She was. A year and a half ago. You remember… pieces of it, I know. But it’s been almost two years since the train.”

Bucky looked lost. “But… the dreams. I keep reading her say she’s pregnant.”

“You remember what you needed to. What your heart clung to.”

Bucky’s voice dropped to a whisper. “What… what happened?”

Steve pulled a folded photo from his breast pocket. It was worn. The corners curled from too much handling. He handed it to Bucky gently.

It was you.

Holding Jamie.

In your lap, both of you bundled in coats on a bench, smiling at the camera. The baby’s grin was unmistakably Bucky’s.

“That’s your son, Buck,” Steve said quietly. “James Steven Barnes. He’s… he’s beautiful. He just turned one in July.”

Bucky stared at the photo for what felt like forever. His hand trembled as he held it. His lip quivered.

“I missed it.” His voice cracked. “I missed his first breath. First cry. First birthday. His first… everything.”

Steve crouched in front of him. “You survived. That’s what matters now. You get to be there now. And you will. He’s got your hair, you know. Wild as anything. And your laugh. Same crooked smile too, only shows when he’s about to get into trouble.”

Bucky gave a broken, watery laugh. “God. Steve. I gotta see ‘em.”

“I know.”

“I can’t wait ‘til I’m better. I need to see her, Stevie. Please. I need her. She keeps me here—just thinking about her. I hear her voice sometimes, I see her, clear as day. I need—” His voice broke again. “I need to know she’s real. That she’s safe. That she didn’t forget me.”

Steve rested a hand gently on Bucky’s shoulder, firm and steady. “She never forgot you, Buck. Not for a second.”

Bucky looked down, eyes wet. “Do you think she’ll still want me?”

Steve nodded slowly. “She’s never stopped. And Jamie—he’s going to know his father. Just… let’s get you strong enough to hold him first.”

Bucky clutched the photo to his chest and closed his eyes, whispering your name like a prayer.

────────────────────────

Brooklyn, October 1946 – Late Afternoon

The apartment was warm and golden with late afternoon light, soft jazz floating low from the radio, and the scent of clean laundry still faint in the air.

You sat cross-legged on the floor, your skirt fanned around your knees, Jamie sprawled across your lap in all his squirmy, wiggly glory. His tiny hands tugged at your necklace with single-minded glee.

“Alright, Jamie bear, time to close those eyes,” you said gently, as Jamie giggled, flopping onto his side in a dramatic act of defiance. “I mean it, Mr. James Steven Barnes—fifteen minutes, that’s all I ask.”

He shrieked in laughter.

“Mama,” he giggled, pointing at you like he’d won something. “Mamaaaaa.”

“Oh, you think I’m funny now?” You leaned in, kissing his cheek noisily. “I’ll remember that when you’re sixteen and I’m threatening to walk you to school in curlers.”

Jamie laughed again, grabbing for your nose this time.

You gave him a side-eye. “Baby, I’m gonna be honest—you’re dangerously close to getting tickled into submission.”

He squealed, thrashing happily as you wiggled your fingers near his sides.

“You little tyrant,” you murmured affectionately, brushing his dark hair back from his forehead. “How can something so small hold me hostage with just a smile? I used to be terrifying, you know. Ask anyone. Your mother used to demand respect.”

He blinked up at you like you were the sun, gurgling some nonsense about “ba-da!” before grabbing his foot and trying to chew it.

You sighed, wrapping your arms around him. “You’re exhausting, and perfect. And I’m already losing this war.”

Just as you rocked him gently, trying to coax him into at least entertaining the idea of sleep, there was a knock at the door.

knock knock knock.

You froze, your hand resting on Jamie’s head. His body went still too, his laughter pausing as he tilted his head in curiosity, those wide, wondering blue eyes staring at the door.

There was nothing ominous about the knock. It was solid. Simple. But something in your bones went cold. Something deep and hidden in your belly clenched the way it had when Steve stood in that doorway a year and a half ago—holding a folded uniform and dog tags, with grief weighing down his eyes like stone.

You swallowed, whispered, “Stay here, baby,” as Jamie stared at you with a questioning look, still quiet.

You padded barefoot to the door slowly, every nerve in your body humming. The familiar creak of the hardwood beneath your feet didn’t comfort you like it usually did. Your hand trembled slightly on the knob, your heart pounding without rhythm.

You opened the door.

Steve stood there, tall and square-shouldered in his uniform, his hat tucked under one arm, and that soft, almost apologetic look in his eyes. You blinked, stunned, still registering the sudden appearance of him. Before you could even form a word—

He shifted.

And behind him stood someone else.

You didn’t breathe.

He was thinner and yet... bigger. Paler. His hair longer, jaw unshaven. The blue of his eyes more haunted. His shoulders stooped, as if the air itself weighed too much. A right hand holding a duffle. The other—

Your eyes dropped involuntarily.

And your breath stopped cold.

A gleam of dull silver. Seamless metal. The joints so real, so smooth, that for a split second, your brain couldn’t compute what you were seeing.

Your gaze snapped back to his face.

Bucky.

You stared.

And so did he.

Your knees almost gave out, hand flying to your mouth.

His eyes found yours—and they filled like floodgates breaking. He didn’t smile. He didn’t say anything.

He looked at you, like he’d been starved and was seeing food for the first time. He took one shaking step forward and whispered your name.

You didn’t think. You didn’t breathe. You just ran.

The tears came fast, blurring your vision, and then your arms were around his neck, and his good arm dropped the bag and wrapped around your waist as you collapsed into him.

You clung to him like your body remembered something your mind was still catching up to. Your fingers brushed the metal at his shoulder for half a second and you froze—staggered, breath caught—but then pressed your face to his throat, choosing his warmth over your confusion.

He was real. Cold metal and warm skin and heartbeat thudding under your hand. He was real.

Bucky buried his face in your neck, inhaling like he didn’t believe you were real, holding you with his one good arm like he’d never let go again.

“I thought—I thought I’d lost you,” you choked out, pressing your face against his cheek. “I thought—I held your dog tags, Bucky—God, I—”

“I know,” he choked. “I know, baby. I’m so sorry.”

Behind you, a little voice called from the living room. “Mama?”

You stilled. Bucky lifted his head.

His eyes were wide.

“That... is that him?” His voice cracked.

You nodded. Gently untangling yourself, you stepped back, reached for his hand, and led him a few steps inside.

You pulled him gently into the apartment, guiding him just far enough for Jamie to come into view—standing wobbly on two legs, gripping the edge of the couch for balance, his gaze locked on the stranger, with big, curious eyes.

“Jamie,” you said softly, crouching beside him, heart pounding, “baby, this is your daddy.”

Bucky’s breath hitched audibly. He dropped into a slow, careful crouch, almost like he was afraid he’d scare the child by existing.

Jamie waddled closer, curious, and unafraid.

Bucky stared, completely still.

Jamie blinked at him. Then his face cracked into a gummy, delighted grin. “Pup!” he declared, mispronouncing it as he pointed at Bucky.

Bucky let out a choked breath of a laugh—half-sob, half-shock. “Hi, buddy,” he whispered, opening his arm slowly, still scared.

Jamie stepped into it without hesitation.

And Bucky wept as he held his son for the first time, cradling that tiny body like porcelain.

You moved beside them, touching his shoulder—his metal shoulder. He flinched slightly, but relaxed when your hand stayed steady.

You leaned in, whispering against the side of his head. “He’s been waiting for you.”

“I missed so much,” Bucky whispered hoarsely. “God... he looks like me. But he’s got your nose. He—he said Mama. He can talk?”

“Just a few words,” you murmured. “He took his first steps this summer.”

Bucky’s face crumpled, and he pulled Jamie closer to his chest. “I’m here now,” he said softly. “I swear. I’m here.”

Jamie reached up, tugging gently at his hair, and Bucky actually laughed—a real one this time.

And for the first time in so long, the ache in your chest loosened—just a little.

Because he came home to you.

And he was real.

And he was yours.

.

[leyannrae]

Sweet On The Job

pairing | congressman!bucky x assistant!reader

word count | 9.9k words

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

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

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

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

likes comments and reblogs are much appreciated ✨✨

ᴍᴀsᴛᴇʀʟɪsᴛ

divider by @cafekitsune

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

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

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

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

Lunch with a donor. Christ.

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

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

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

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

His phone buzzed again.

Another email.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“God, yes.”

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

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

Congress. Jesus.

────────────────────────

Some Days Later

Bucky didn’t look up when the door opened.

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

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

Not Brenda.

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

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

He blinked.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“You always this organized?” he muttered.

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

Christ.

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

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

He had no idea what to do with that.

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

That part made him pause.

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

He exhaled. “You’re hired.”

────────────────────────

A Few Weeks Later

The thing was—Sam hadn’t exaggerated.

You were, somehow, even better than advertised.

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

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

And the worst part?

Everyone adored you.

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

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

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

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

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

It threw him off.

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

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

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

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

You’d just noticed.

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

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

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

You never stopped smiling.

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

It made him suspicious.

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

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

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

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

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

You didn’t seem to mind.

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

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

Who does that?

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

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

He hated this.

Not you. Just this feeling.

────────────────────────

Three Months In

It started with a meeting.

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

He didn’t got this.

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

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

Bucky nodded.

But something in his chest pulled tight.

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

He didn’t say anything then.

But it stuck.

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

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

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

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

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

You didn’t.

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

Your stomach dropped.

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

Too bright. Too open. Too much.

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

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

You stayed frozen, heart thudding.

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

You didn’t wait to hear the rest.

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

But you didn’t knock.

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

────────────────────────

It started subtly.

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

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

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

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

But the post-its stopped.

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

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

You just called him Congressman.

That one hit the hardest.

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

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

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

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

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

And the worst part?

He didn’t know why.

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

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

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

He missed the sunshine.

And somehow, he was sure it was his fault.

────────────────────────

He should’ve canceled everything.

But he didn’t.

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

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

He could barely see straight.

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

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

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

You paused. “Are you okay?”

He didn’t answer fast enough.

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

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

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

Before he could object, you hung up.

You showed up 40 minutes later.

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

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

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

“I told you, I’m—”

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

He blinked. “You’re not my—”

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

That shut him up.

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

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

And then?

You took over.

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

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

But your voice remained.

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

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

A pause.

And then—

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Another pause.

Then a final, clipped, “Goodbye.”

Click.

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

Bucky lay there, fully awake now, eyebrows furrowed.

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

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

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

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

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

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

────────────────────────

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He took it slowly, fingers brushing yours.

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

Bucky blinked. “Soup?”

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

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

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

Your voice trailed off, but your smile stayed.

Soft. Open. So completely you.

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

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

Bucky noticed the shift immediately.

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

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

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

You held it out.

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

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

The room went still.

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

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

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

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

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

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

The words sank into him with slow, merciless weight.

Shit.

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

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

That made it worse.

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

He shook his head. “That’s not—”

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

Bucky’s throat was dry. “I didn’t—”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You nodded gently, like you already knew that.

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

────────────────────────

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

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

And now you were in the office—laughing.

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

He hated how familiar that laugh felt now.

And how far away it sounded.

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

He was losing you.

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

You were just… quietly leaving.

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

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

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

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

He leaned back in his chair. That sounded desperate.

What if—

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

A beat.

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

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

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

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

No. No, no, no. Just work.

Strictly professional.

He glanced back out through the blinds.

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

Still leaving.

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

────────────────────────

Bucky liked to think he was a decent boss.

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

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

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

He had not.

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

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

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

He’d blinked. “What sendoff?”

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

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

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

Bucky had stared. “Jimmy?”

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

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

“So… they didn’t think to tell me?”

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

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

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

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

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

Of course she did.

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

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

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

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

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

And no one invited him to say goodbye.

────────────────────────

He wasn’t even supposed to be there.

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

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

Say goodbye.

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

But he remembered.

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

And then his lungs just… stopped working.

There you were.

It took one second. One.

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

Bucky’s feet stopped moving.

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

And he’d never seen you like this before.

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

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

He swallowed hard.

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

But even he didn’t believe it anymore.

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

Your breath caught.

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

“Oh my gosh, you came!”

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

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

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

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

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

You tilted your head. “What?”

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

Your expression softened. Just a bit.

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

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

He should’ve left it at that.

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

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

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

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

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

You didn’t wait.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I—I never told you my birthday.”

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

That did it.

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

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

And Bucky panicked.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You smiled weakly. “That bad, huh?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“You’re gonna miss me, huh?”

You meant it like a joke. Playful. Light.

But he didn’t laugh.

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

“Yeah,” he said softly. “Yeah, I am.”

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

The smile on your lips faltered.

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

And then he said it.

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

Your breath caught in your throat.

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

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

But you didn’t finish the sentence.

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

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

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

Bucky said nothing.

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

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

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

Your throat clenched, but you pushed through.

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

You didn’t dare look at him.

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

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

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

He kissed you.

Just like that. No warning.

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

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

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

And then you melted.

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

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

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

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

Bucky kissed you again.

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

It wasn’t careful now.

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

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

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

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

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

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

That made him smile.

Small, crooked, and stupidly tender.

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

Bucky looked like he was about to say something else.

His mouth opened, barely.

And you didn’t let him.

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

Then you kissed him again.

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

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

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

It wasn’t soft. It wasn’t sweet.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He had no idea what that meant. Not really.

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

Then he kissed you again.

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

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

You smiled into it. Couldn’t help it.

And he didn’t stop kissing you.

Didn’t want to.

────────────────────────

Six Months Later

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

The Watchtower.

New York.

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

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

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

Then his phone buzzed in his pocket.

He pulled it out instinctively, screen lighting up.

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

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

Can’t wait.

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

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

“What the hell is that?”

Bucky didn’t look up. “What?”

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

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

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

He sighed, already regretting not hiding in the gym.

“Who texted you?”

“None of your business,” he muttered.

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

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

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

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

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

Yelena followed.

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

He didn’t answer.

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

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

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

Walker.

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

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

Walker blinked. “What?”

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

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

“You don’t know?”

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

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

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

────────────────────────

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

He barely got through three bites before he felt it.

The shift in the air.

Then the voices.

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

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

Bucky didn’t even look at them. “No.”

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

“Still no.”

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

Bucky stared straight ahead. “Tragic.”

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

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

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

“I’m not. None of us are.”

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

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

Bucky turned up the volume on the TV. Barely.

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

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

“You’re emotionally nosy,” Bucky muttered.

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

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

Walker nodded. “Is she hot?”

Everyone looked at him.

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

Bucky's phone buzzed in his pocket.

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

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

And something shifted in his posture. Barely.

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

“I’ve gotta go,” he said simply.

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

“I’m always dressed in black.“

But it didn’t matter.

They were already following him.

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

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

Bucky didn’t respond. Not a word.

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

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

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

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

Then a sound cut through the air like a missile.

A high, joyful squeal.

“Bucky baby!”

Everything stopped.

The team froze.

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

Before anyone could process that phrase, there was movement.

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

And without hesitation, you launched yourself straight at him.

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

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

Not shy. Not sweet.

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

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

Silence behind you.

Long.

Awkward.

Unblinking.

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Hi,” you whispered.

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

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

No one said anything.

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

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

Silence.

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

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

All at once.

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

Bucky’s jaw flexed. He didn’t answer.

He didn’t need to.

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

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

Diamond. Simple, perfect, unmistakable.

“Fiancée, actually.”

Bucky Barnes Taglist:

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

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

[leyannrae]

butch!johnny gets an invite back home for easter mass and takes her girlfriend with her.

i’d once again like to thank woolie, three, báir, gouge and birdy for all their help & support w this one, ily guys. this was also inspired by three’s amazing father mactavish fic - go check it out!

cw: smut - oral & fingering, heavy religious themes, blasphemy/sacrilegious themes, things done in church that shouldn’t be, reader’s own religion/faith is kept vague and inclusive, lil bit of angst, homophobic parents that think they’re doing their best for you but very much aren’t

would be nice to see you this easter, hen xxx

you squeezed johnny tighter around the waist as you peeked over her shoulder, knelt on the bed behind her where her legs hung over the edge as she read the latest text from her mum.

“could be fun, i’ve never been to scotland,” you said, though johnny knew you meant; ‘i’ve never met your family.’

“bonnie,” she sighed.

you quickly licked at her earlobe before she could deny you fully, sucking it between your lips and biting down gently.

“just something to think about, yeah?” you kissed her jaw.

“easter’s a big one for catholics and my family in particular, they’re pretty… traditional,” she winced. memories of mass growing up, scuffed knees hidden beneath stiff dresses, not-so-subtle digs aimed at her by members of the congregation regarding her shorter and shorter hair and the ever-growing evident lack of an interest in boys flooded forward.

“i can play along, i know my prayers,” your voice dipped low, sultry. you took her phone from her hand and pushed her to lay back, leaning over to drop the phone out of reach on the night stand.

“oh really?” she grinned lazily. her hands rose to hold your hips as you settled in her lap.

“mhmm.” you nodded and bent down to kiss her chastely. when she lifted her chin to chase you, you tutted and pulled back, pressing a finger to her pouting lips. “your piercing isn’t healed yet, handsome. another week to go remember?”

johnny groaned and dropped her head back. “really regretting getting it done now.”

“don’t be a baby,” you chastised. “show me.” you wiggled where you sat in her lap and grinned when she stuck her tongue out at you. you bent back down and licked up the side of her tongue, avoiding the still-healing piercing that glinted in the low morning light, and kissed the tip as she moaned wantonly.

you didn’t stay still however and started crawling down, trailing your lips, feather soft, down her neck. you rucked up her shirt until it was tucked beneath her armpits and continued your path between her breasts and over her soft, quivering stomach, nestling yourself between her thighs. you dipped your tongue briefly into her belly button as you passed and she huffed out a rough breath, like the air had been punched from her.

tugging at her boxers next, you kept your head low, your breath hot against her skin as it was eagerly revealed to you. you snickered when johnny whined, a breathy ‘bonnie’ slipping from her lips as you hovered over her mound. you let your eyes drift back up to your girlfriend as she looked back at you eagerly, impatiently, then you focused back on the prize in front of you.

you cupped her hips, thumbs rubbing over the jutting bone. your hold was light but enough to keep her in place even as she vibrated with anticipation. sensing another whine on her tongue you kissed her christina piercing, your lips wet enough to make a squelching smack against her vulva.

“fuck, keep goin’,” she begged and your eyes flickered back up to her lax face.

“in the name of the father,” you crawled back over her, hiding your smile when she started to frown at the recognisable prayer. “the son…”

you ducked down and kissed her left nipple, flicking your tongue just once over the piercing there before switching sides and taking her right nipple into your mouth, laving at the warm metal, lending it more attention than the last. “and the holy spirit.”

“amen,” johnny sighed. one of her hands had drifted to the back of your head as you made the sign of the cross along her pierced body and she scratched at your scalp softly while holding you close. “don’t remember this in bible study.”

“i’ll gladly catch you up to speed, i’m very studious,” you teased. you blew cold air against her wet nipple and giggled when she groaned. “but it has been a while…”

johnny pulled you up and kissed you firmly, managing to keep her tongue to herself only just.

“i can remind ye how it’s done,” she offered already moving to get you underneath her.

“mmm, you’ve still got a week to go with that,” you gestured at her tongue. “but it doesn’t mean i can’t put my mouth to work.”

“yer too good t’me,” she crooned. you settled back between her thick thighs and rested your hands in the creases of her groin. reaching down with your thumbs, you gently spread her pussy and took a deep breath. she’d been on a low dose of testosterone for a year now and it had a few side effects that you hadn’t realised would turn you on so much. a deeper tone to her voice, her scent becoming thicker, and her taste…

“i’m just taking communion, handsome,” you said before licking a wet stripe between her folds. you held back your own reedy moan at the first hint of her pleasure in order to catch her hitched breath.

you hooked your arms around her thighs, shouldering her into place as you focused on mouthing at her clit, suckling and flickering your tongue against the sensitive bud. another side effect of the testosterone; her clit had grown ever so and gotten all the more sensitive in recent months from it. you’d thought her libido was high already, but when you got your mouth on her, when you worshipped her body and all it gave you, she seemed to find an endless second wind that left you bone tired and aching in all the best ways.

in order to catch your breath you kissed her christina once more with a giggle, grinning when you heard johnny snort then turned and nudged soft butterfly kisses on her inner thigh, nibbling at the thin sensitive skin.

“no teasing, not today, not— ah, be sweet f’me now,” johnny pleaded.

johnny had never been big on penetration, but the tentative flicks of your tongue at her entrance had her thighs shaking.

“more, bonnie, jus’ a bit more, yeah?”

you followed her instruction and let your tongue delve deeper, coaxing forward her orgasm and moaning when you felt her clench on the muscle as your nose nudged at her engorged clit. her thighs spasmed either side of your head and you petted at the strong muscles, letting your fingers trace lightly over her t-patch.

as her hips started to rut against you - a sign she was close - you dug your nails into her meaty thighs, revelling in her low groan. little masochist.

your own hips twitched against the bed and you squeezed your thighs tight to ease some of your own building frustration as you lapped at her core like a thirsty dog.

“bonnie, fuck, there y’go,” she huffed. her hand on the back of your head kept you from pulling back even as your jaw began to ache and your huffing breaths were full of the scent of her, her slick pleasure drenching your chin. you sloppily made out with her cunt, eager and desperate after being deprived of her mouth and tongue for the last 6 weeks.

you were just as pent up as she was and you nudged back up to lave at her clit, giving it sucking kisses in between in the hopes of getting her to her peak.

you felt her legs close in around you and you took a shuddering breath just before she came and held you tight against her mound, using you to rut against and drag out her orgasm as it poured over her. you kept your mouth plush and your tongue flat against her and whined in the back of your throat as you looked up and saw her, mouth agape and chest heaving.

harmonising, you thought deliriously as her moan finally broke free from her silent gasps and joined your own. despite how chatty johnny was in bed, her reactions were surprisingly muted and it left you eating them up when you pulled them from her.

“christ on the fucking cross, bon,” she laughed as she let her arms and legs finally drop, limp and spent on the bed.

you slinked back up and collapsed on her chest, grinning at her when you winded her. “what were you saying about scotland again?”

she groaned and swiped a hand over her face, wrapping her other arm around your waist.

“i’ll let her know we’ll go,” she acquiesced.

——

you packed your things into your old skoda a week later and headed up to scotland on the saturday morning.

“ma will be gutted we’ve missed good friday,” johnny said as she drove. she tilted her head towards you and you offered her a bite of your bk burger. “but ah cannae say i miss fasting like they do.”

“wrong time for it,” you said with a waggle of your brows, looking appreciatively at the extra weight she’d put on recently while working double time at the gym.

“might not be friday now but this burger stays between you, me and the big man all the same bonnie,” she said.

you hummed in agreement and held out a chip for her to bite, pulling it away at the last second with a sneaky smile. you bit your lip when she sent you a scandalised look, then put it in your own mouth, chewing obnoxiously.

her hand left the gear stick and pinched the inside of your thigh through your trousers. you flinched and the drink balancing precariously on your other thigh and car door almost toppled into your lap. “johnny!”

“karma, beautiful, i’s only karma.”

“catholics don’t believe in karma, arsehole,” you laughed. you pulled out a couple of chips at once and held them up for her to bite; her teeth clamped down and she shook her head slightly like a rabid dog, growling as she did so to make you laugh. “down girl,” you snorted and looked at the satnav. “not too long now, should be there around dinner. wanna swap seats at the next stop?”

“aye. hopefully it won’t be too dark by time we arrive,” she said. you hummed.

“what’s it like there?”

“not been in a while... it’s a fishing village, small, about a year behind everywhere else when i was growing up,” johnny huffed, amused. “didnae get 10 things i hate ‘bout ye ‘til the new millennia.”

“so a total tourist hot spot with tons of things to do then, is what you’re saying?” you snarked. you patted her thigh and took a sip. “can’t wait.”

——

traffic halfway there slowed you down a little so it was later than you’d originally hoped when you finally arrived.

the streets were quiet as you followed johnny’s directions and pulled up in front of a house; one light lit downstairs, semi-detached and made of the same old brick as the rest of them.

“brace ya’sel’,” johnny huffed before getting out of the car and grabbing your bags from the back seat.

you joined her as she got to the front door and knocked.

it was but a moment before the door swung open and a comely middle-aged woman opened the door, her smile wavering for a moment before growing strong again. “johanna! oh it’s been too long, hen.”

“hi, ma,” johnny mumbled.

“c’mon inside, ye’ll catch y’death out there,” her mum said as she ushered the pair of you in.

you stood in the hallway as her mum pottered, heading towards the back of the house with johnny in tow, sending a hesitant look back to you.

“we ate on the road, ma, i figured we’d have missed tea,” johnny said. looking around the empty bottom floor as she was led to the kitchen in the back.

“oh, tha’s alright then,” her mother closed the fridge. “aye, your dad and the lot are sleepin’; early morning tomorrow,” she said excitedly.

“right,” johnny agreed. “we best be getting to bed too then, aye?”

“yeah, hm. and you’re sharing the room then?” her mum double checked. “you and uh—“

“my girlfriend. yeah. we’ll be sleeping in the same bed, mam,” johnny said firmly as they got back to the front of the house and back by your side.

“right, ok. swell!” she wrung her hands as she glanced at you. “be a good lass johanna and take the bags up, just while i properly introduce myself to our guest.”

you let johnny take your bags with a kiss on the cheek and waited with her mum until she reached the top of the stairs.

“we’re so glad to have the pair ah’ye here,” she started. “i’m fiona, but call me fi; an’ you’ll meet the lads tomorrow; ian, johanna’s dad, and her brothers, paul an’ andy.”

“johnny’s talked about you all so much, i feel like i’ve known you for a while,” you said jokingly.

“mm.” fiona’s smile dropped at the use of johnny’s preferred nickname. “look, hen. ah know you and johanna are… and it’s fine. she’s always been a little different, strayed from the flock so to speak.” she chuffed a soft laugh. “but tomorrow, if y’could do us a favour, do her a favour, and just introduce yerself as a friend and not more.”

you began to shake your head, uncomfortable at the secret request.

“johanna would kill me f’r asking but the folks round here aren’t all that accepting. it’d just spoil her visit ah think.”

you swallowed thickly as you stared the older woman down. “right,” you croaked weakly.

“bonnie? y’coming?” johnny’s voice rang out from the stairs and going from the stern look in her eyes she’d heard at least part of the conversation.

“yeah, yeah you go on, hen. get t’bed, big day an’ all.” fiona rushed you towards the stairs with an easy going smile. “we’ll see you both in the morning.”

you kept your mouth shut until you were back in johnny’s childhood bedroom.

you took the five seconds given to take in the old decor; a dazed and confused poster near the window, another of a league of their own near the little wardrobe. a couple of cds were stacked on a shelf opposite the bed; scissor sisters, no doubt, the cranberries.

“what did she say t’ya?” johnny asked, anger slowing her tone. “she upset ye at all? did she—“

“she was fine, john.” you cupped her cheek. “she just asked if i’d say i was your friend instead of your girlfriend.”

“the fucking cheek. she’s known i liked girls since i was—“

“it’s one day,” you soothed. when she still didn’t look certain, you leant closer. “and we can have fun with it.”

johnny smiled at the sharp look in your eyes.

“but for now i’m knackered, and i know you are too,” you yawned. “so let’s sleep and then cope in the morning.”

“mmm,” johnny hummed as she leant in to kiss you. “how’d ah get so lucky with you, eh?”

“you’ve got a knockout pair of tits and the accent doesn’t hurt,” you mumbled back, smiling when she snickered into your shoulder.

——

the next morning johnny woke you at the crack of dawn with warm kisses and a warmer palm pressed between your legs.

“mornin’,” she cooed and pressed the heel of her hand firmly against your clit.

you let out a soft moan, closer to a gasp. “good morning, handsome,” you sighed. “what’s with the friendly wake up?”

“need you out o’ bed in five, figured this’d be preferred to pulling off the covers.”

you grinded against her palm lazily, shivering at her touch and the thought of the unforgiving cold air. “you’d be right.”

“however, like ah said, five minutes. we don’t really have time for what you want tae do. so it’ll have to wait ‘til after mass.”

“oh you mother fucker,” you groaned with a yawn. “and how long is the service again?”

“usually around three hours,” she chuckled as you turned to burrow into her armpit.

“fuuuck,” you huffed. “mkay, let’s go meet your family.”

you got up and followed johnny’s lead, getting dressed into something more appropriate for company downstairs, but not your temporary sunday best. you were half asleep still and you couldn’t guarantee you wouldn’t drop coffee down the front of the pastel dress johnny had gotten you for the trip.

his family were already eating when you joined them, grabbing some toast for yourself and cereal for johnny.

she wolfed her first bowl down before you’d even finished your first slice, and you already knew she was eyeing up your crusts before she had the chance to ask. you broke the bread in half and passed it over to her.

“better slow down or ye’ll gi’ yerself heartburn,” her dad, ian, warned her.

“is nae wonder yer the size o’a barn, johanna,” one of her brothers guffawed. paul, you thought. “eating like you’re preggers.”

you took the opportunity to gush over your girlfriend, resting your palm over one of her bare biceps and squeezing.

“it’s bulking season,” you bragged, you took a bite of your second slice then handed it over. “coming to the end of it at least anyway, but johnny always gets the appetite of ten men and i can’t say i mind reaping the rewards.”

johnny lifted her arm and flexed it beneath your lax palm, showing off the bulging muscle and her hairy pit. you snapped your teeth at her playfully; you had a penchant for biting down on the thick muscle when it was just the two of you at home, especially if she was fucking you with her strap, her big arms caging you in. you ignored her family’s surprised and awkward silence when she grinned a little salaciously back at you with hooded eyes.

“not just an appetite f’r food that grows, eh, bon?”

you barked out a sharp laugh and knocked her arm back down with a scoff. “behave,” you chastised hypocritically with hot cheeks, moving to grab another two slices of toast to share.

fiona cleared her throat awkwardly, gaining your attention.

“is that what the pair a’ye are wearing for service?” she asked hesitantly, though her disdain was clear as day in the wrinkle of her nose.

“god, no, ma!” johnny scoffed. “i’d not embarrass ye at church, ah know better than that. got bonnie a nice suitable dress for it ‘n’ everything. below the knee.”

you grinned and nodded when fi sent a hesitant look your way, but her shoulders soon fell from their tense hold and her own smile flourished.

“told ye there was nothin’ tae worry ‘bout,” ian said and squeezed his wife’s hand over the table with a wink. fiona nodded smally and agreed.

“boys, go get ready now. we’ll be setting off soon,” she ordered the two grown men sat further down the table. paul and andy stood without complaints and headed off. “you two should probably do the same if we’re not goin’ tae be late.”

“of course, we don’t want to hold everyone back,” you agreed and tugged at the waistband of johnny’s joggers as she grabbed an apple from the centre of the table to eat.

once you were back in the small bedroom, you slipped on the plain, boxy dress with a close lipped smile, but didn’t comment on how the situation made you feel. you’d asked to meet her family and you’d accepted that it might not mean it was all sunshine and roses.

when you turned to see johnny straightening up from tying the laces of her dress shoes, you whistled and forgot all about your own clothes.

“ye like?” she asked slyly, running a hand down her front to make sure her buttons were neat and flat.

“looking sharp,” you said easily as your eyes travelled from head to toe and back again.

“you’re trouble, you,” she said with a grin and an accusing point of the finger. she led you back down stairs before you could distract her.

“ready,” you said cheerily as you joined the others at the front door.

you felt johnny freeze beside you as her mother sighed and her dad’s lips pursed as he looked down to his shoes and away from the pair of you.

fiona hesitated before reaching and running a hand along johnny’s hip, plucking at the pressed trousers her shirt was tucked neatly into.

“ah wish a’could see ye in yer sunday dresses again,” she said, forlorn. “you were just so lovely in them, so so beautiful, hen.”

“i don’t own a dress, ma. didn’t bring one,” johnny replied stiffly. you squeezed her hand tight and cut your eyes to her brothers, quiet where they stood. paul, the eldest had the good sense to avert his gaze, but andy, the youngest, stared at johnny and their mum.

you cleared your throat and his eyes darted to your steely ones before dropping like his father’s.

“oh, well i’ve got a spare,” fiona said. “just the one in mind, in fact.”

you saw johnny’s chest rise slowly as she breathed in through her nose purposefully.

“we’re not the same size, ma—“

“nonsense. ah bought it f’r ye when y’said you were comin’ down.”

you bit your cheek and squeezed harder at johnny’s hand, trying to flood the anger from your body and instead be a beacon of comfort for your girlfriend.

“fiona,” you started.

“i’ll wear it,” johnny interrupted. you watched her carefully as she left to follow her mum upstairs and stayed silent, revelling in the awkward air building between you and her brothers and father, until she came back down.

“ah look at tha’, eh?” ian said as johnny joined them once more. “don’t y’look pretty?”

johnny grimaced and shifted in the frumpy dress.

you leant in and kissed her. “looking handsome as always,” you said and brushed a hand through her hair. she’d spent time that morning styling the mullethawk into something close to neat and respectable, but getting changed hurriedly had mussed it up again. you liked it, it was how she usually wore it, and you tugged it a little if only to make it worse, to make her look and feel more like herself even if she was going to wear the dress.

“would’a been nice if ya hair was grown out too, but—“ her mum started, but paul cut her off.

“ma. stop.”

“ah’right, ok. let’s go now we’re ready,” she said placatingly, lifting her hands in submission before clapped them together in excitement. “so glad tae have ye back for mass, johanna. honest t’god.”

“thanks, ma,” johnny said tiredly.

you all piled into the two cars available and headed to the church. it wasn’t far, walking distance given the size of the oceanfront village, but it was obvious fiona was worried about being late and eager to see her daughter back in the pews.

you felt a wave of nervousness take over you as you got out of the car and reached over to link your pinky with johnny’s.

your group were early enough that you were able to grab a bench together close to the front than the back. johnny led the way to the end, you next and her brothers and parents after that. she’d not dawdled, giving polite hellos on her way, letting her mother fawn over the neighbours that recognised the lost lamb.

“aye, her good friend i believe,” you heard fiona say before she took her seat. your hair on the back of your neck prickled with the weight of strangers’ eyes on you. “johanna had spoken so fondly of her time at church growin’ up, the lass decided to come join us for the trip. lovely how she spreads the word.”

you bit your lip to keep your disbelieving snort at bay and ducked your head. johnny’s dress had ridden up as she’d sat down, revealing her hairy knees and you couldn’t help but smile. you knocked yours against hers and winked when you saw her turn to you in your peripheral.

“i’d say only three hours t’go, but the service hasnae actually started,” she joked.

“please don’t make me curse in a church, john,” you joked.

your girlfriend snorted a laugh and waved at a couple across the church hall. “and face the wrath o’ me ma for doin’ so? i’d rather go tae hell t’face the devil himsel’, bonnie.”

you pursed your lips at her dramatic tone, knowing she was trying to make you laugh even if she truly meant it at the same time.

the priest chose that moment to head to the front of the church, passing by fiona and some others still stood down the the centre of the pews. he smiled as he passed and shook a few hands that reached out to grasp at his own, but quickly made it to the front.

you settled in, taking a deep breath through your nose as he started his sermon.

——

it didn’t take long before johnny’s hand was tugging at yours, drifting it slowly towards her lap.

you cut her a sharp look but didn’t pull away as she pushed it beneath the opening in the wrap of the dress’ skirt so your fingertips landed on the hot skin of her inner thigh. you kept your head facing forward but looked out of the corner of your eye to see if her brother, paul, had noticed the movement.

when you saw him dip to whisper to andy you felt emboldened and traced your fingers deeper into the crux of her, stiffening when your fingers brushed soft pubes and you realised she was no longer wearing her boxers from the morning.

“having fun with it, remember, bon?”

you flushed, but your fingers stayed, trembling against her hot core. the urge to snap at her or to laugh at her antics warred within you but you went for door number three; you ran your middle finger between her lips, collecting the budding wetness there with a shaky breath.

johnny had grown still next to you and you worried your smirk would give you away to the rest of the congregation.

carefully but quickly you rescinded your hand back to her thigh and dragged your finger in two lines, one crossing over the other on her soft skin. you knew if you could see, her slick would be glistening on the fine hairs there in a small cross.

johnny shivered at the motion and you leant close, angling your hymn sheet to cover your mouth as you spoke in her ear. “through this ‘hole-y’ anointing, i free you from sin.”

johnny let out a choking laugh, coughing desperately to cover it up as people turned to look at her.

you faked concern and brought the same hand that was once between her legs to between her shoulders and rubbed gently, patting every so often as she cleared her throat.

“you ok? choke on air, johnny?” you blinked wide eyes at her innocently, doing your best not to laugh at her bright red face as she waved off any concern.

the priest continued after a moment once johnny had quietened down again.

“yer in fer it now,” she whispered croakily once the hymns started.

smiling, you read along and shrugged. gimme your best, the movement dared.

——

the priest, that you had come to realise was called nick, led you all in a short prayer before announcing the taking of communion.

you grinned, standing quickly when your pew was led to the front to line up even as you heard johnny scoff behind you, knowing exactly what you were thinking about.

“ye cross yer arms, bon,” johnny advised in a low voice as you stood behind her brother. “kneel like the rest, but don’t take the sacrament.”

you nodded. this wasn’t your church, and as much as fiona had been slowly grating on your nerves you didn’t want to cause a fuss for johnny in her home town.

you waited for your turn and knelt before the priest with crossed arms. nick smiled with creased eyes and blessed you.

you stood back up and looked over your shoulder as johnny knelt and nick spoke.

“the body of christ,” he repeated. you knew the exact moment she stuck out her pierced tongue as nick’s eyes widened, and his hand flinched before he gave her the papery cracker and let her drink from the cup.

you continued back to your seat holding back your snickers but grinned when you felt johnny’s palm fleetingly on your lower back, fingers trailing to your hip before you both sat.

you looked at her and could tell she was happy. happy from teasing her childhood priest, making this moment hers again in a little way, but also getting to sit through mass and connect back with her religion after so long, even in spite of the complications and hurdles of this morning.

you strained to keep your head from leaning on her shoulder, eager to share in her comfort and joy, wanting that closeness so badly.

but you refrained and listened to the last of the service before heading back outside once it was done.

“johanna, a word?” fiona asked once you were halfway to the parking lot, away from too many listening ears.

“looks like ahm in trouble,” johnny jokingly spoke out of the side of her mouth before heading closer to her mum while you waited by the cars with her brothers and father once more. you heard her call out in defence as she walked over. “i genuinely choked on ma own spit—“

“that’s not wha’ this is about,” her mum waved her off. “i just… i wanted to say that despite how it may seem, i am happy for ye, johanna. and ahm so happy y’found someone that loves you so much.”

“ma—“

“i wish it were easier f’ye here, with all— all that business. but y’must know i love ye all the same; to bits, johanna, and ah always will no matter what.”

johnny felt herself grow misty eyed, a lump building in the back of her throat.

“this,” she said and motioned to her dress. “is proof o’ opposite to that, ma.”

“johanna…”

“it’s johnny, ma. please.” her voiced raised and you perked up, noticing her hunched shoulders. without a second thought you walked over and rested a hand on her shoulder.

“why don’t we walk back, john? you can show me some of the old haunts from your childhood,” you suggested.

johnny took your hand without pause and dragged you off without saying goodbye to the rest of her family.

“do i wanna know what she said?” you asked as you heard fiona huff behind you.

“she’s happy f’r me,” johnny said through gritted teeth. you raised an eyebrow. “so long as ah wear the bastard, ugly dress.”

you hummed.

pulling her closer as you walked hand in hand, hips bumping with every other step, you shrugged.

“i like the dress,” you said with a straight face, though when johnny turned a betrayed look on you, you smirked and continued to tease, “easy access and all that, what’s not to like?”

“fuckin’— ‘easy access’, i’ll show ye easy access,” johnny promised and suddenly sped up her steps. she turned to cut through a few alleyways behind houses until you were back at her family’s home.

“johnny?” you trailed off questioningly.

“they won’t be home fer another hour, usual sunday ritual,” she said. “‘family time’.”

she led you around back and wiggled the back door handle until the lock popped and the door swung open.

“always told ‘em tae get it fixed,” she laughed under her breath. “no bother t’me though, like.”

“house to ourselves? whatever do you have planned, johnny?”

“patience, bon,” she cooed and tugged you by the hips so you were step for step with her as she headed backwards to her bedroom. she kissed you intermittently, her own laughter interrupting her teasing bites and curious tongue before she could really get going.

you stumbled through the bedroom doorway with her as she shed her dress, left in a crumpled pile by the door; barely closed before she dropped her sports bra with it.

“you don’t mess around,” you laughed, letting your arms hang over her bare shoulders as she dove forward to work on the zip of your own dress. she tugged at it roughly when you distracted her with soft presses of your lips against her cheeks and collarbone.

“ah’ve got plans, a schedule to stick to before we’re interrupted,” she said, pawing at the skin that was revealed bit by bit until you were stepping out of the dress and your panties.

“are you sure we should—“

johnny dropped a hand to rub zealously at your clit. your hips jumped back, but she pulled you close again and licked up the length of her fingers before moving them a little more gently against you. she guided you to lean back against her door.

you spread your legs as best you could while stood and panted into her mouth.

“wanna stop?” she asked.

“fuck you.”

“didn’t pack the strap,” she giggled against your shoulders. she ran her finger down the centre of your pussy, her jaw growing lax at the familiar and welcome feeling of your wetness. she spread it further up and then trailed back down and dipped her finger inside, slowly pushing until it was buried to the final knuckle.

you whined, closed mouthed, and held her tight. when you felt her pull out and push for a second finger you tugged at her messy hair in a silent warning to be gentle.

johnny winced and let her eyes flicker back up to your face. seeing the brief annoyance twist your features, she stretched her arm back blindly for her bedside table, taking a step away from you to reach and throw open the drawer, grabbing her rosary beads from inside.

she tangled the delicate beads around your wrists behind your back, pushing the cross into your palm. she dropped to her knees and traced her thumbs gently over your stomach where she held your hips still.

“count ‘em,” she ordered.

you snorted. “what, my sins?” you asked sarcastically.

“ye count y’hail mary’s w’tha’, but im tellin’ you to count how many times ah make ye cum.” she licked her lips and pet at the inside of your thigh with the back of her hand again. “try not t’lose count, aye?”

you shivered. “game on, handsome.”

butch/stud 141 masterlist

moodboard masterlist

moodboard i made for this fic:

[leyannrae]

oops sorryyyy!!! i meant to say tsundere on my last eddie request this is what it means!!

A "tsundere" is a character archetype, often seen in anime and manga, that initially appears harsh and cold, but gradually reveals a softer, more affectionate side towards a love interest.

anywaysss you could make the story up for the fic!! but could you make eddie a tsundere typa character? thank you talented!!!💕

I hope this is what you wanted and you enjoy it! Thank you for requesting ❤️ I hope I did the character archetype correctly 🤞🏻

Hate the world, not her

Eddie groaned as Wayne knocked on his door for school.

"I'M UP!" Eddie yelled as he rolled out of bed. He woke up with a snarl and it never went away. He was positive he slept with a snarl. He didn't see the special joys in life that people raved about. He had guys he hung out with at school and his band. But he'd survive if he never saw any of them again.

The day was going by and Eddie was ready to end the day with a joint and bed. He sat at the lunch table, his ears grinding as he listened to everyone talk at once. He dug into his snacks as he looked at his watch.

"So, Eddie! Lucas has a basketball game tonight, want to come with us?" Dustin asked as he looked towards Eddie.

Eddie gave him a glare, scoffing as he said, "Why the hell would I want to do that?"

"Well, it's a big game, and he's part of Hellfire," Dustin explained but shrunk in his seat as Eddie's glare held heat. "And something about supporting?"

"LISTEN UP!" he yelled as he slammed the table. The table all went silent as they looked at him. "I want to make this perfectly clear," he said as he looked around the table at everyone, "I don't care about anyone's personal life. I don't care about your interests or what sports you play. I don't give a fucking shit about anything, got that?"

The table nodded in unison and awkwardly went back to eating their lunch. Dustin kept his eyes on his tray, terrified to look in Eddie's direction.

~~~

"I don't see why you bother with that guy. He's an ass and hates everything," Steve complained as he stocked the movie shelves.

"He's cool! He's a rockstar! He is an amazing campaign master," Dustin shrugged. "He's very rough on the edges but maybe he's soft on the inside."

"Yeah right," Steve scoffed. "I think he's rough on the outside and the inside."

"Everyone deserves friends. I don't want him to be lonely."

"I get that you are a sweet kid and want to help. But some people are happier on their own. I don't think he's looking for friends."

Dustin sighed but accepted that Eddie wasn't the type to create friendships. He was a loner and that's who he was.

~~~

Y/N rushed through the bar, trying to serve everyone at once. She made it to the end and noticed a familiar face.

"The usual?" She asked as he looked up. He didn't offer a smile or a greeting, he never did. He gave her a small nod and she made his drink, handing it over.

She had no idea who he was, but he came every day and ordered the same thing. She noticed how attractive he was on the first day, but she also noticed his broody exterior. He tipped well, but never spoke a word. For some reason, the harshness and cold vibe he gave off made her like him more.

He finished his drink, her cue to hand him the bill. She brought it over with a smile, leaning over the bar.

"Do you have a girlfriend or anything?" She asked. He kept his head down as he fished out bills from his wallet. He collected the bills and tossed them on the bar top.

"Nope," he said. He kept it short as he walked off and out the door.

She collected his money, a challenging idea in her mind.

~~~

As every day went by, she asked him a question. Slowly opening him up and cracking down his walls. At first, it bothered him, sighing as she would ask something he didn't care to answer.

But then as time went on, he found himself cracking smiles in between. And slowly he wasn't annoyed by it. He realized no one ever cared to ask about him or get to know him. It felt nice to see someone smile when they saw him and wanted to talk to him. He was surprised to find himself interested in her. He wanted to know about her life and what things she liked to enjoy. He wasn't sure why things were different with her, but he didn't mind.

After a year, Y/N was able to crack him to her final question.

Eddie whistled to himself as he walked into the bar. A familiar warm feeling spread through his body as he saw her.

"Hello," he greeted. She smiled at his voice. It was a simple greeting, one he gave every day for the last month. But greeting her was a huge improvement from before. He made sure to say the first word every time. In his book, she was damn special.

He gave her a small smile as she handed over his drink. She felt nervous as she leaned over the bar to ask her question.

"Alright stranger, I've got my question!"

Eddie nodded as she danced on her feet. He slowly worked on his drink, another thing he found himself doing. He wasn't in a rush to leave.

"Let's hear it,"

"Would you want to get a drink sometime together, like a date?" She was nervous, and she wasn't positive if he'd say yes or not. He's made great progress with her but she wasn't sure if this was crossing a boundary.

Eddie thought about it. A part of him wanted to say no and keep his personal life under his control. He didn't like to see people during his free time but her presence wasn't too bad.

He was a little stiff as he nodded, "Yeah, sure."

He didn't look over the moon, but she also knew he wasn't going to show much reaction. He didn't blow her off and that was a win.

~~~

The first date went great and many more dates followed. Eddie became a whole different person with her. He smiled and laughed more than he ever did in his life.

He didn't tell anyone about her. It wasn't that he wanted to be secretive, but he enjoyed how fresh she made his life feel. Running to her was a break from his life, and he wasn't sure if it would feel the same if everything combined.

Eddie hasn't seen Dustin around much since he finished school, but the young boy didn't give up. Dustin still didn't want Eddie to be alone, and he was clueless that he had a girlfriend.

He biked to the trailer, throwing it to the ground as he walked to the door, but stopped when he heard screams coming from the back. He was scared as he slowly walked around, but a deep laugh followed the scream.

Dustin froze as he saw Eddie and a girl lying on a blanket. Dustin was shocked to see Eddie soaking in the sun, but even more shocked to see this girl pressed up against him. For as long as Dustin knew Eddie, he didn't let anyone get close to him, let alone touch him.

Y/N smiled as she ran her fingers around Eddie's curls. His eyes scrunched as he looked at her with the sun right behind her. They had been out there for a few hours, enjoying the sun and the occasional sprinkler that went off at random times ever since Eddie ran it over.

Dustin watched as Eddie reached up to bring the girl's head down to his and kissed her. Dustin was sure a few bugs flew into his open mouth.

Y/N pulled away, looking around as she felt like someone was watching. She screamed in fear as she noticed someone spying on them from the corner of the trailer.

Eddie quickly jumped up, in defensive mode, as he looked to see what scared her. He sighed as he noticed the boy.

"Dustin, did I invite you to my home?" Eddie growled as he stood up.

Dustin shook his head no, in fear as Eddie began walking over to him.

"Good, so why are you here?" He asked as he crossed his arms. Dustin noticed the lip gloss on his lips but refused to say anything. His hair and tank top were soaked, even though Dustin didn't see anything to cause it.

"I wanted to see if you wanted to hang out. But," Dustin lowered his voice as he stepped closer, "Do you have a girlfriend?"

"You don't need to know anything about my personal life, remember?" Eddie snapped.

Dustin was curious if he had any other tone. He always sounded annoyed and harsh. Dustin nodded, Eddie told him all that before, but he thought that after so many months, he might have opened up. Which he might have done, just with someone else.

Y/N could see how tense the boys were. She walked over and tried to ease the tension. "Everything alright?"

"Yeah, Dustin was just leaving," Eddie said dismissively. He gave Dustin a look, forcing him to agree.

"Yeah, I'm Dustin, and you are?" He had manners, and he was taught to use them. Eddie growled from his spot but Y/N ignored him.

"Nice to meet you. I'm Y/N, are you a...friend of Eddie's?" Y/N knew Eddie didn't have friends, but she could also tell they knew each other somehow.

"Yes, but I'll leave you guys to the sunny day! Bye!"

Y/N offered a smile as Eddie grabbed her hand and walked them back to their blanket spot. Dustin couldn't help but watch. Eddie seemed relaxed around her. His body wasn't so tense. They got back on their blanket, and Dustin noticed how Eddie immediately pulled her into him.

Since when was Eddie so touchy?

~~~

That wasn't the last time Dustin saw them. He ran into them at an ice cream shop. Steve and Dustin were lost in a conversation when Dustin looked past Steve. He noticed the broody figure and the sunshine of a girl next to him. Eddie had his arm thrown over her shoulder as she ordered their ice cream. Eddie was silent, his usual grumpy exterior.

As they made it to a table with their ice cream, Dustin couldn't help but watch. Steve noticed he wasn't paying attention, turning around to see what was so eye-catching.

Dustin was surprised to see Y/N feeding Eddie the ice cream, bringing the spoon to his lips.

"Since when did he have a girlfriend?" Steve asked, "and how?"

"No idea. But when I went to his trailer a few weeks ago, I met her! And he's like a different person with her."

"Happens when you're in love, kid. Sometimes for the better and sometimes for the worse," Steve explained. "But seriously, he hates the world and he gets a girlfriend? What am I doing wrong?"

Dustin rolled his eyes, "Not everything is about you, Steve."

Y/N smiled as Eddie brought the spoon to her lips, but it landed on her nose instead. She should have known his big smile was malicious. He laughed as it dropped on the table and she couldn't help but smile from it.

"You're an ass!" She joked as she wiped off her nose. Eddie laughed but moved to sit next to her.

"I'm sorry, sweets," he said as he pressed a cold kiss to her cheek.

~~~

"Wayne needs a refill for his coffee beans," Eddie remembered out loud as he walked down the grocery aisles. Y/N nodded as she pushed the cart, keeping an eye on the shelves.

"Excuse me, could you grab that for me?" A lady asked Eddie as she pointed to the touch shelf.

Eddie took a few steps away as she practically stepped on his shoes. He planned to pretend he didn't hear her, but he felt the cart being shoved into his leg.

He looked at Y/N, and she gave him a look. He sighed as he reached up and grabbed the small box, and handed it to the lady.

"Thank you, you lovely boy!" She slowly walked away, not noticing Eddie rolling his eyes.

"It wasn't that bad," Y/N smiled as she rubbed Eddie's arm. "See,, doesn't it feel nice to help someone?"

Eddie laughed at the question, "I couldn't care less about helping anyone."

But within the same breath as that sentence, he was reaching up to grab a box he knew they needed. He handed it to her with a smile.

"I care about helping you though," he patted her head as he tossed the box in the cart.

She rolled her eyes, once again using the cart to jab him.

~~~

"Do you know why you hate everything so much?" Y/N questioned as her head rested on Eddie's chest.

He shrugged, playing with her hair as he looked at his ceiling. "Not the best childhood, made me see how different I was from everyone and how much they didn't like me for it. It was easier to feel nothing than to allow myself to be hurt. I'm perfectly fine on my own, and I usually like it that way. You're just an exception."

She smiled, leaning up to press her lips against his. Her heart hurt for his younger self, but she was glad she was there now.

He hated people, hated most of the world, but he loved the parts of his life that she was in.

@bmunson86 @mxcheese @ladymunson @michaelfuckinglangdon @z0mbie-blah @biittersweet @mirrorsstuff @somethingvicked @micheledawn1975 @ago-godance @magnificantmermaid @tlclick73 @hargrovesswifee @cityofidek @silky-luxe @lokiofasgard616 @loving-and-dreaming @eddiemunsonsbitch69 @ashlynnkennedy @strangerthingsstories5255 @harringt8ns @pleasinghellfire @whoscamila @stusdollface93 @gretavankleep37 @bellaisswagger @arlxt @ineedmentalhelp123 @emxxblog @meetmeatyourworst

[leyannrae]

always a woman, to me - part two (fic)

post-tfatws!bucky barnes x established!fem!reader | inspiration

content warnings: complex family dynamics (we hate Darren); brief mentions/allusions to PTSD and trauma; sexual content (p in v; f and m receiving; praise (like so much praise); unprotected but use of contraceptives - i.e. the pill); discussions of fertility and fears of infertility; discussions of pregnancy; self-loathing; domestic bliss; brief mentions of historic unhealthy coping styles (e.g. drinking).

word count: 23k.

blurb: you slotted so easily into Bucky's life that he wonders whether he's always been waiting to find you. After the two of you move in together, a housewarming dinner with Barbara, Lucy and Sam has Bucky's mind wandering to the future. With that, questions arise. The main one: can Bucky even have children anymore?

author's note: part two to 'always a woman, to me' | can be read as a stand-alone but makes more sense in the context of part onepost-tfatws but pre-thunderbolts | bucky is a congressman and enjoys it; reader is a masseuse | if you want to know more about cribbage (I love this game so much) then here's a guide! | this is very long and very domestic, but I loved writing it and want to continue this little series as their story progresses: so please let me know what you think!

_ * _ * _ * _ *

Bucky Barnes has a secret. 

It was different to the one he had before, nearly two years ago. That secret had smelt like essential oils, had stuck like steam on tiled walls, and had lingered like your kisses on his lips. That secret had long since been bared to the world, and to you.

This secret had crept up on him like an evening mist. Quiet at first, and then all consuming. It plagued his every thought, disturbed his sleep by keeping his mind ticking, and distracted him during the day. Unlike his other secret, this new one was solely Bucky’s. He couldn’t tell you. Not yet, at least. Partly because he didn’t know how, and partly because he wasn’t sure if he should. But Bucky hated keeping things from you. It was next to impossible. The two of you shared nearly every thought that passed through your minds, as mundane as it might be - “do you think Superman gets tired of flying the way we do of walking?”, “shall we have Thai for dinner, or pizza?”, “is Brad Pitt a good actor or is he just a hot white guy?”. Withholding this recurring cycle of daydreams from you was like holding his breath. And yet…he did. 

Bucky can remember when this strange fixation first caught him like a mousetrap. It was around ten months ago. December: with cold nights and frost-bitten window panes and layers of blankets stacked atop of one another. December had been beautiful in the way Bucky had missed. The lights shone a little brighter with you in the picture, like some corny Christmas card came to life. The movies and music no longer filled him with an empty pit in his stomach of longing, but rather served as a nice backdrop to languid make-outs on the sofa in the twinkling lights of the Christmas Tree. New York was bitterly cold that year. The wind was ruthless, and dragging yourself to and from your apartment to Bucky’s through the ice and sleet and trodden, soggy snow proved difficult and plain annoying. One night, you casually asked: “what if I just moved in?”. Bucky had never agreed to anything faster in his life. January was then a whirlwind of packing tape and cardboard boxes and countless trips to the Salvation Army. But finally, finally, all the hard work came to a head, and with a car and rented trailer full of your belongings and earthly possessions, Bucky drove the two of you away from your apartment, and towards his. Towards your new home. 

Settling on moving into Bucky’s apartment was easy. It was larger than yours, for one, and resided in a nicer neighbourhood. Bucky had found somewhere when he first returned to New York that was as close as he could get to the streets he grew up on. Of course, nothing looked the same, but there was a weird echo to the streets that sounded like memories of a life he once knew. It didn’t matter much to him now, but when he was first adjusting to life in the modern world - a life without Hydra, or Wakanda, or Steve - he appreciated the comfort it brought. Added to that was the cheaper rent and the handy coincidence that your lease was coming to an end. The downside of Bucky’s apartment? The elevator was broken more often than it was functioning. 

Bucky rounded the staircase, making his third trip down to the car to retrieve more of your things, when he came face to face with a cardboard box sprouting legs. 

“Can you tell me where the first step is?” came a muffled voice that sounded an awful lot like yours. 

“Seriously?” Bucky asked, quirking a brow. 

“Yeah, ‘seriously’,” you grumble, imitating his low timbre. He watches, mildly amused, definitely concerned, as you take a tentative step forward. The box wobbles in your shaky arms. Bucky chuckles quietly, shaking his head, hands planting on his hips. “Quit laughing and tell me where the steps start.”

“Here’s an idea-” He placed his hands on the undersides of the box, sharing some of the weight. “You give me the box and find the stairs yourself.”

“Excuse me,” you say, promptly lowering the box to the floor. It lands with a thud at your feet. Your hair is a mess - flyaways buzzing up all over - and there’s a sheen of sweat on your forehead from all the manual labour of the day. You’re dressed in denim dungarees and a vest top - the sweater long abandoned from all the staircase climbing. Bucky smiles to himself. You look adorable, especially with the unhappy furrow of your brows. “I’m a strong independent woman. I can carry this box myself.”

“Mhm,” he hums, unconvinced. 

“I can!”

“I believe you,” Bucky says, perhaps not all-the-way honest. “But wouldn’t it be easier if I stick to the heavy boxes and you stick to the boxes of - I don’t know - pillows and sheets?”

Your teeth grind. Bucky smirks. He loved pushing your buttons. “It’s my duty as a feminist to carry my own heavy boxes,” you declare. You lower to a squat to retrieve the box. Only this time, from this different angle, it seems the weight is significantly harder to bear. You grit your teeth and your brows tug together even further, and Bucky tries and fails to stop his smirk from growing smug. Grunting, you try and try, but the box barely shuffles off the floor. 

“Ugh fine!” you exasperate, standing upright again with a toss of your arms in the air. “Be a big strong man - see if I care.”

“Love you too, baby,” Bucky chuckled. You promptly flip him off over your shoulder as you start back down the stairs. They groan and creek under your feet as you go. Still smiling, Bucky picks up the box (easily) and carries it up the stairs (slightly less easily). 

You’d been alone for five or so years: the stubborn independence that came with that was hard to shake. Bucky wasn’t sure he wanted it fully gone. He liked how self-assured you were. He only wished there’d be a bit more wiggle room to accept help once in a while, or at least ask for it. It’s as if you forgot Bucky was there sometimes to be that extra pair of hands and lighten the load. With time, he thought as he passed through his doorway, it’ll come with time. 

Bucky placed the box in the living room. For the most part, things had been organised. Kitchen boxes in the kitchen and bedroom boxes in the bedroom - that kind of thing. Taking a breath, Bucky surveyed what once Sam had deemed his ‘lonely-bachelor-pad’. Phantoms of you had already existed before today: a drawer of your things in the bedroom; a shelf dedicated to you in the bathroom. Of course, massage oils and lotions had appeared like snowdrops after winter. But now, this was all of you. A permanent intertwining of his life and yours. No more back and forth. No more occasional nights alone, missing your warmth. Just…you. 

“There’s only a couple of boxes left in the car,” you say, walking through the flat towards him. Bucky meets you halfway and takes the box (that looks significantly easier to carry) from your arms, and this time you don’t complain. He puts it in the living room and turns to find you taking in the room just as he had done moments before. He didn’t need to ask to know that your thoughts were tracing his steps. A small smile sits on your lips and it grows when your eyes land on Bucky. He smiles back. An unspoken conversation transpires: it’s official, we live together now. You nod your head towards the doorway. “C’mon. Let’s go get the rest.”

Once the remaining boxes join the chaos of Bucky’s apartment, the two of you start unpacking. Lazy unpacking, like rifling through the first couple of boxes and picking out miscellaneous objects. When your stomach growls loud enough for Bucky to hear it from the other room, he orders take-out. The dining table is covered in clutter so the two of you sit on the floor of his living room atop of the rug; a buffet of Chinese takeaway circles around you like a ritual circle. You lean forward and dip your spring roll into some sweet chili sauce. 

“I think maybe,” you say, mouth half-full, “if we move that bookshelf” - you point to a bookshelf in the far side of the room - “over there” - you point slightly to the right - “then we could get a bit loveseat-type sofa to put in that nook. Kinda like a reading nook? Make it all cosy, with some orangey lights and throw pillows.”

“You and your throw pillows,” Bucky murmurs to himself, amused. 

“Don’t hear you complain whenever you fall asleep on my sofa,” you mutter, heading for a dumpling with your chopsticks. 

“Our sofa,” Bucky corrects. You glance up and mirror his playful smile. 

“Right. Our sofa.” 

Bucky goes to get a dumpling himself and you bat his chopsticks away with your own. He frowns up at you and you look at him like he’s just shot your non-existent dog. 

“What?”

“You said you didn’t want any dim sum.”

“I didn’t but–”

“But,” you echo, accusatory. 

“But it looks good. I wanna try some.”

“Too bad,” you say. He barks out a laugh. 

“Seriously?”

“They’re mine!”

“Woah,” Bucky whistles. “Guess who’s the only-child in the room?”

“Hey, I am not–” You notice the way you’re pointing your narrowed chopsticks at his face and gather yourself, lowering them. Taking a small breath, calming down, you begrudgingly grit out, “fine. But you owe me a dumpling.”

Bucky shakes his head and finally lets his chopsticks wrap around a dumpling. You pierce through the small parcel, prompting him to meet your eyes once more. 

“I mean it. I won’t forget. You owe me a dumpling. Or a dumpling equivalent.”

“Noted,” he chuckles, holding a hand up in mock surrender. He’s faced off with countless mercenaries, crooks and creeps in his lifetime, but you look pretty intimidating yielding your chopsticks like a machete. You relent and Bucky continues eating. He keeps a mental note of his debt. 

Things hadn’t necessarily changed in the year you and Bucky had been dating. You were still the most beguiling thing Bucky had ever seen. Had him wrapped around your finger, waiting on your every word, rearranging the pieces of his life into something ethereal in beauty. Bucky didn’t necessarily dislike his life before you, but after meeting you, it felt like he’d merely been surviving, not living. Bucky didn’t have to be anything he wasn’t. He was still grumpy and impatient and vaguely judgemental and - despite all the massages - more tense then he’d prefer. He was still haunted by memories and massacres and moments he’d never get back, taken from him rather than lost. But you never minded all that. You never saw them as Bucky’s imperfections but more as parts of him. You accepted them gladly with the rest of Bucky. The parts of Bucky that you seemed to coax out of him without even trying, as if you’d bewitched him in his sleep. The parts that made Bucky feel like his former self was crawling out of the shell he’d retreated into all those years ago. He heard it in the way you made him laugh; felt it in the way you caressed his body; saw it in the stolen glances you thought went undetected; read it in the sweet notes you’d leave on his fridge or counter. 

But with the passage of time, mystery began to fade. He’d seen what you looked like sickly and snotty and sweaty. Witnessed how you were when hanger became you. Which buttons needed pushing for the serene peaceful patience you existed in to crack. How far to push them until it wasn’t funny anymore, for either of you. The way you wore your hair to bed like some riddler’s puzzle so it fell flawlessly the next day. The long process of an ‘everything shower’ when you needed a self-care night. How you put ketchup on nearly everything you put in your mouth, including French toast (I mean, why), and ate grated mozzarella straight from the bag when drunk. When he gathered up all those pieces to form the image of you, all Bucky could think was perfection. 

“We should host a housewarming,” you say, once your momentary sulking of a lost dumpling is over. “Have people over for dinner.”

“Sure. Maybe when the place looks less like a storage locker, but...”

“Oh, definitely,” you snort. You dab the corners of your lips gracefully and recross your legs. “I was thinking maybe Barb and Lucy, and Sam.”

“So willingly putting ourselves up for an evening of interrogation and bullying?” Bucky asks. He glances down to make sure he doesn’t spill rice everywhere as he guides it to his mouth. “Sounds like a hoot.”

You giggle. “I know my gran will want to see this place. She almost had a heart attack from how happy she was when I told her that we’re moving in together. Imagine what she’ll be like when I tell her I’m pregnant.”

Bucky’s eyes shoot open and dart up to look at you. You’re blissfully unaware, currently surveying the spread of food in front of you as you debate what to eat next. You’d said it, right? Pregnant. Who’s he kidding, of course you did. But you weren’t…No, no - you weren’t. That wasn’t what you meant. You just meant hypothetically. 

A hypothetical image of you with a swollen, very-pregnant stomach pops into Bucky’s mind. He forces himself to swallow his mouthful of egg-fried rice. Only then does it occur to him that you’re still talking. 

“...Could maybe do steak, or a ham joint? And you could do those potatoes you always make. Y’know, the ones in the oven with that cheese and rosemary.”

“Parmesan,” he clarifies, still trying to waft away the fog one simple word created in his mind. 

“Yeah, those. And I could do those honeyed carrots you like.”

“Sure.”

You finish your mouthful then ask, “want a beer?”

Bucky can only nod. You push to your feet and head to the fridge: already so at home, just as he wanted you to be. Returning with two bottles of beer in hand, you offer one to him. He thanks you as he takes it, cracking it open and taking two long gulps. It washes down the rice and the momentary blind panic you’d unknowingly caused with a throw-away comment. 

“Hey,” you say, holding your bottle up. “A toast to us finally moving in together.”

Bucky smiles. He clinks his bottle neck against yours and the two of you take a swig, eyes never straying. He watches as your tongue runs over your lips, savouring the taste, as you look down to read the label of the beer absentmindedly. It’s laughable how easy you can turn Bucky on. It’s as if you stole the manual of his libido and studied it for hours on end, versing every tiny detail to memory to taunt him with. Of course, you hadn’t. All you had to do was exist and Bucky wanted to bend you over the nearest piece of furniture and fuck you until you forgot your name. 

“Y’know what just occurred to me?”

“What?” you ask, still reading. 

“How we haven’t christened this apartment yet.”

That has you taking pause. You quirk a brow and glance up at him. A small, knowing grin is trying to unfurl on your face. “Christened it?”

“Yeah. Y’know…Claimed it.”

“What, you want me to go pee in the corner and mark my territory?” you josh. Bucky rolls his eyes. 

“Y’know what I mean.”

“You do know you lived in this apartment for like two years before we even started dating, right?”

“So?”

“So,” you drag out, “we’ve probably fucked in this place about a hundred times already.”

“Only a hundred?” he wonders with faux innocence. You roll your eyes this time, grin betraying you. 

“Give or take.”

“Hm,” he hums, unconvinced by your math. 

“So…I think it’s sufficiently christened.”

“Yeah but that wasn’t when we were both living here. That was just when it was me,” Bucky explains. You consider his words a moment, rolling your lips together. Bucky can practically hear the cogs turning. He spots the second you come to an answer. 

“Good point,” you say. 

Before he can think twice, you’re ditching your bottle of beer, ungainly clambering over the food (careful not to spill any) and falling into his lap. Bucky lets out a oof as your body lands on his, but your laughter is remedy enough. You taste like beer and sweet chilli sauce as he kisses you. It’s messy, disjointed from the two of you laughing, teeth bumping as you try to find some rhythm. His hands find home on your waist; long fingers stretching over the expanse atop of your clothes. You hum happily against his lips, fixing yourself to better straddle his lap, and he feels the laughter simmer into something deep and warm and sensual. Like ivy exploring, your fingers trace over Bucky’s jaw, catching on the scruff of his beard, rubbing soothing circles against his cheekbones, before slithering into his hair and curling around the tendrils. Bucky groans against your lips, now swollen from the kisses, as you rock against him. He feels himself grow hard beneath you. 

“We should move,” you mumble between kisses, not pulling away. 

“Mm.” Bucky isn’t really listening. His mind’s short circuiting from the way you're slowly starting to dry hump against his growing erection, and the feeling of your warm skin as his fingers sneak beneath your clothes. 

“Bucky,” you sigh, finally pulling back. He groans, displeased by the distance, and gazes up at you as you give him a knowing look. “There’s a huge pile of food right next to us on a very nice rug. That spells disaster.”

“I hate when you’re responsible,” he grumbles, unwillingly allowing you to clamber off him. Bucky helps gather up the unfinished take-out and reposit it on the kitchen counter. It’s frenzied and hurried and you let out a few laughs as you go. Once the final plastic container of fried rice is safely out of the way, Bucky’s grabbing at your hips and pulling you back against him. You kiss him again, hard and frenzied. Let him guide you to the couch, climbing atop of you as you lay. He’s glad that you’d decided to keep your couch and switch them over. It was bigger. Comfier. Except for–

“God damn pillows,” Bucky mutters, tossing the obstacles out the way and onto the floor. Your laughter is quick to fade as your hands slide up his chest over his t-shirt, caressing his torso like canvassing his body to mind the way he did yours. They then slowly retrace their journey back down to his waist, catching at the hem of his shirt, and a cheeky smile tickles the edges of your lips. Bucky gladly lets you guide it open and over his head. That joins the pillows on the floor. Your hands don’t stray for long. Bucky sighs and feels his eyes flutter at the gentle way you touch him. 

“Can’t believe you’re mine.” You say it so quiet and secretive, Bucky wonders if you meant to say it aloud at all. As your fingers hook into the chain of his dogtags, Bucky lowers himself back down, his lips a breadth’s width from yours. 

“All yours,” he murmurs lowly. “Always was.”

Kisses fade into sighs and gasps and whispered pleas and taunts. Clothes collect on the rug, adding to the already untidy living space, but it’s hard to care when Bucky’s buried so deep inside you. He’s certain that nothing has ever felt more like home to him before. Over the year you’d been together, the two of you had grown familiar with each other’s bodies in the way you were your own. He’d learnt the things he especially loved when making love to you. Like the sounds you’d make: the little catches in your breath; the whimpers that slipped when you were close; how you’d whisper his name between sweet little pleas over and over and over until it echoed in his mind. 

“Please, James…Please, please…”

You’d grown more accustomed to calling him Bucky despite him being just James at the beginning, back when you were a beautiful masseuse and Bucky a tense client. But sometimes you’d revert back. He didn’t mind. Liked it, even. It made him feel special: that he was Bucky to everyone, but only your James. But Bucky loved hearing you call him James when he was fucking you stupid. 

“Fuck, baby,” Bucky groans from below you. Your hands are pressing down onto his chest, hips rocking as you take him deeper and deeper. But there’s a small furrow pinching between your brows - a twinge of displeasure. Like an itch you can’t quite scratch. 

“I can’t…” you gasp, pivoting your hips so effortlessly Bucky forgets how to breathe for a second. “I can’t get it…”

Bucky’s grip on your hips tightens slightly; his blunt nails leaving crescents in the flesh. “You wanna switch, babydoll?”

You nod desperately with a whining gasp. Bucky catches your lips in a bruising kiss, and then he’s got you on your back, hands falling helplessly by your face. He’s relentless as he pounds into you. The moans that tumble out your lips - as if you can’t think straight to control them - have him grinning into the hot skin of your throat. 

“Is that what you needed, baby? Needed me to fuck you good, huh?”

Another whimper that fades into a moan is answer enough. Your fingers seek out his and he knows what you want. You like holding his hand during sex. He isn’t sure why. Maybe it’s something to help ground you when you fall over the edge. Maybe it’s the intimacy attributed to the simple gesture. His metal fingers roll smoothly into place, slotting between yours, bending at the knuckles. His dislike for his vibranium appendage was lesser than that of his old arm, but it lingers nonetheless. But seeing his prosthetic intertwined with your smaller hand - it makes him feel like maybe there’s good that could come of it rather than just pain and punishment. The quiet whirring is overshadowed by the lewd sound of skin on skin and your gasping breaths fading into Bucky’s grunts. 

That white hot pressure builds and Bucky can feel you clenching around him. You’re so fucking close, and - shit - so’s he. You can’t keep your eyes open; they’re clenched shut with pleasure, mouth slightly agape. Bucky can’t do nothing but stare at you. He watches as your orgasm washes over you; feels your fingers tighten in his hold. 

“James, oh my God–”

With that barely audible gasp from you, Bucky falls over the edge with a string of grunts. He rests his forehead in the nook of your shoulder, chest rising and falling quickly, almost in rhythm with your own. Your fingernails lightly scratch down his bareback soothingly. Bucky tilts his head up enough to press a gentle kiss to your jawline. 

“I love you,” he murmurs into your clammy skin. 

“I love you too,” you quietly reply. He can hear the smile in your voice. And that’s how you both stay for a while; him still inside of you, turning soft, skin to skin. That is until your voice breaks through the bubble. “I do love you,” you repeat, “but can we finish our take-out now?”

The weeks following are spent mostly unpacking. In between, the two of you feel what it’s like to live together. You’d both spent the night or several days at a time at the other’s place, but this was different. This was consistent and constant. To put it simply, Bucky loved it. Right down to the tiny things like standing side by side whilst brushing your teeth, or the way you smile sleepily when he brings you coffee in the morning. Those were like the fine details on a painting - the eyelashes on the Mona Lisa. The things that somehow made it a masterpiece. Of course, there are disagreements. For example, you insisted on keeping those God awful candle holders, even stating an ultimatum at one point - “you accept the candle holders or I leave - and Bucky was digging his heels in about not painting the bathroom because “a brown bathroom is diabolical, baby. No way.” 

One evening, Bucky hears the door open up just as he’s about to shift the bookshelf you’d pointed out nearly a month ago, on the official moving-in day.

“What’re you doing?” you ask, dropping your bag by your feet. Bucky hears you kick off your shoes as he studies the emptied bookshelf, contemplating the best mode of action. 

“You said you wanted this more to the right, yeah?”

You nod, making your way over. “Could’ve waited for me to help, at least.”

“Guess I got overexcited.” You give a small laugh and plant your hands on the right side of the shelf, nearest to you. Bucky takes the other side and checks for the greenlight, and the two of you shuffle the shelf to the right. You let go with a grunt and huff. Stepping back, you both review the work. 

“Now all we need is a loveseat,” you say. Bucky nods. “Could go to the furniture store this weekend?”

“You’re not working?”

“Only the Sunday.”

“We should get a calendar," Bucky says as a passing thought. 

You laugh again. “Phones have built in shared calendars, James. The wonders of the modern world.”

He rolls his eyes and squeezes your waist, eliciting a giggle. You make your way to the impressive stack of books Bucky had created when emptying the shelf. Wordlessly, you pick up two and slot them onto the shelf. Bucky joins. The two of you work in comfortable silence for a short while, standing in sock-clad feet, still in respective uniforms - your plain black wide legged pants and wrap-around top, and him in his suit, tie loosened and top buttons undone. 

“How was work?”

“It was okay. Only had three clients today. Two Swedish massages and one facial. There’s a hen party tomorrow though so that’ll be a busy one. They’re always fun though. Most of the time they just talk and talk about the upcoming wedding - it’s so sweet,” you smile. Bucky slots two hardbacks besides the three you’ve placed. “Barb and Luc were there. Asking after you, and about the apartment. They’re itching to come see the place.”

“I think we can host that dinner in a couple of weeks. I should text Sam about it,” he replies. Then, as a thought occurs to him, he awkwardly wonders, “wedding things, huh? You like hearing about those?”

You shrug. You’re likely not oblivious to his subtle investigating. Marriage and children somehow hadn’t come up in the many conversations shared between you both. Bucky didn’t take you as the “put a ring on it or I walk” type, especially considering the shitshow that was your father, Darren. He can still remember that day when he’d met Darren, and you’d faced your dad for the first time in months. That was the day that Bucky saw sides of you that you kept hidden, like the farside of the moon, never cast in the sun’s light. That was the day the relationship the two of you shared turned into something deeper, and Bucky realised that this was it. That you were it, for him. 

“I don’t know. I like the idea. The white dress and the pretty decorations. I mean, I had a Pinterest board for it growing up. Having all your friends and family there to celebrate your love, with your fiance - that all sounds quite nice. But I guess as I got older, I didn’t mind as much. I mean, before you,” you bump your hip against his, “there wasn’t any eligible Bachelors around to even consider.”

“So…” Bucky begins. “It’s a ‘if it happens it happens’ kind of deal for you?”

“Yeah, I think so,” you say. You lean against the shelf and look up at him. Bucky pauses his reshelving to meet your gaze. “I mean, you know I love you. I don’t think we need a fancy piece of paper to make that any more real. And there’s other things in life which are more tying than a marriage.”

“Like?” 

“Buying a house together. Paying a mortgage for God knows how many years, in this economy. Having kids.”

He hums, bobbing his head. “Guess I never thought of it that way.”

“I think my parents are living proof that marriage doesn’t equal happiness. Hell, I suppose your parents are too,” you offer, rather matter-of-factly. “But I know you come from a bit of a different generation and things, so if it’s something that’s important to you, then I’m open to marriage. I’d be happy with or without.”

Bucky nods thoughtfully. After over a hundred years on the earth, the values Bucky had been raised in had become more recommendations rather than rules to live by. Back in the forties, he’d pictured the typical thing for his generation: the white wedding and two point five kids. It would bring shame to the family if there wasn’t a marriage before the children. Maybe not to the point of being stoned in the streets, but judgemental glances and whisperings about how taboo it was. It just wasn’t worth the theatre. But Bucky hadn’t even entertained the idea of being in a relationship after the forties, let alone one serious enough for marriage. Then…you. 

He nestles the information away in a safe corner of his mind and the two of you continue stacking the shelves with books. Bucky watches your fingers pause on a dusty leather bound book. It’s slightly smaller than the rest and weathered on the edges. The pages had yellowed and the nostalgic scent of old drifted up as you opened to the first page. You smile and glance up at him. 

“You had cute handwriting as a kid.”

“You don’t have to lie. It looks like chicken scrawl.”

You giggle and gently flick through the pages, touch delicate like handling a timeless relic. “Where’d you get this?”

“It was in Rebecca’s possession. I managed to get in contact with her friend, the one who had a lot of her stuff after, um…” Even still, Bucky can’t bring himself to say the word ‘passed’. Rebecca was his younger sister: he was supposed to die first, as morbid as it sounded. “She let me go through things and take what I wanted. Just got lucky, I guess.”

Your smile is bittersweet, like recalling a fond memory from years long past. Returning back to the first page, you read aloud: “James Buchanan ‘Bucky’ Barnes”. 

“Yep,” Bucky says. You look up thoughtfully. 

“Did you ever have a nickname growing up?”

“Other than Bucky?”

“Yeah. Or Barnes.”

Bucky frowns. “Not really. Me and Steve called each other jerk and punk plenty of times, among other things.”

“So not Jimmy?”

Bucky barks out a laugh. “No, not Jimmy.”

“Jimbo? Jim-bob? Jimmothy?”

“How do they keep getting worse?”

“Sargeant Jimmothy Bucky Barnes at your service,” you announce in a strange deep voice. 

Bucky laughs quietly, rolls his eyes, and gently takes the book from you. He glances over his inscribed name, written by a version of him that feels like a stranger now, and closes the small leather book. The spine has the title printed in gold font. The Great Gatsby. Him, Steve and Rebecca used to play make-believe around the book. He��d be Jay and Steve would be Nick and Becca would make up her own character, because Daisy was off the table. She’d complain endlessly about it - ‘why can’t Steve be Jay so I can be Daisy?’ - but Bucky would refuse. Out of him and Steve, it was obvious who was closer to Jay Gatsby and who was closer to Nick Carraway. The “game” was mostly imitating high fashion life in their two bedroom flat, barely big enough to fit three beds. They’d pretend to smoke cigars and act as though the milk they drank was whiskey on ice. They’d put records on and dance around, waltzing through the living room until the neighbours hollered to keep it down. Bucky smiles fondly from the memories that he’d nearly forgotten. He can feel you watching him but you don’t ask. It’s as if you can tell that the moment is private. A safe space in his mind that was so rare for Bucky to stumble by. A memory which didn’t have his heart trying to run from his chest, but instead made him want to curl up in bed like a child calling for their mommy. The book safely joins the others. 

There’s a break for dinner. Bucky fills you on his day when you ask. Meetings and discussions about legislation: nothing particularly exciting. But Bucky likes his job as a congressman in the running. He likes the feeling of making a difference without having to get his knuckles bloody. For the first time in a long time, Bucky’s life feels relatively normal. After eating, it’s back to the shelves. You'd turned on some Lionel Richie to help busy the quiet. Soon enough, all that remained were the large, heavy hardbacks. The encyclopedias and cookbooks and things of that sort. Bucky picked up one on massage therapy that looked well loved. Somehow, his fingers lost grip, and it clattered to the floor. As it fell, a folded white piece of A4 paper floated down to the wooden floorboards like a feather. It landed just behind where you were sitting crossed legged, back facing him, slotting books into some sort of order. Bucky retrieves the paper, opens it, and frowns as he reads. 

…Congratulations! We are pleased to inform you that you have been accepted into the John Hopkins University School of Medicine. We sincerely hope that you accept this offer and join our cohort in September…

“Hey, what’s this doing in here?”

You turn your head, looking over your shoulder, and narrow your eyes as you try to read the letter Bucky holds up. There’s a moment of recognition - so brief that he would have missed it if he blinked - and then it’s back to neutral. Shrugging, you turn back to the shelf. “I forgot I even had that. You can throw it.”

“Throw it? Isn’t it important?”

“Not especially,” you shrug again. “I thought I’d thrown it years ago.”

“I found it in a massage therapy book.”

“Must’ve forgotten to toss it, I guess,” you say. There isn’t any semblance of sadness in your tone. You talk about your med school acceptance letter like recalling the weather forecast. Mundane, boring, nothing irregular. Bucky rereads the letter quickly and glances over to you once more. Then, he folds it into a quarter and slips it into his back pocket. He doesn’t mention it and you don’t ask, but alongside the earlier conversation of marriage, Bucky squirrels the thought away for later. 

That weekend, you do buy a loveseat. It’s rounded with a curved plush back; a deep navy blue like the depths of the ocean. You decorate it with a waffle-textured cream blanket and four throw pillows of varying sizes and shades. With a wall-mounted reading lamp fitted with a sunset orange bulb, the vision is a reality and the nook quickly becomes your shared favourite part of the apartment. Evenings are spent cosied up, reading your respective books, your limbs a tangled mess - making it hard to decipher when one began and the other ended, and whom each belonged to. Sometimes one of you would laugh underbreath at something in your book, and read it aloud to the other. Bucky’s working his way through the Lord of the Rings series for the second time. It was easy to lose himself to the fantasy in this safe haven you’d created together.

Days turn to weeks and before Bucky knows where he’s at, the two of you have been living together for three months, and the fateful dinner party is upon him. You’d been running around like a headless chicken for the past two days getting everything perfect. One would think you were hosting the royal family rather than your loving grandma, her lifelong best friend, and Sam. Bucky was certain that you’d vacuumed the apartment three times in the past twenty-four hours. He had to correct the throw pillows every time he sat and stood. Items in the fridge had passive-aggressive sticky notes attached to them. DO NOT EAT - OR ELSE. Okay, maybe not passive-aggressive. Just…aggressive-aggressive. It was sweet, though, the attention to detail you had. 

“You wanna use the green napkins or the black ones?” Bucky asks from the dining table. You’d asked him to set it. 

Your head pops out of the kitchen doorway and you ponder his question before answering, “green please.” 

Bucky lays the table: the nice wine glasses and the fancy decanter he’d found in Rebecca’s belongings which he remembered belonged to his parents. He joins you in the kitchen. You’re sliding a tray of your honeyed carrots into the oven. Dressed in a midi-length dress, the sweetheart neckline tastefully accentuates your figure. It’s a carnation pink with red nondescript flowers printed across it. Bucky smiles to himself. You eventually notice his presence. There’s a vague stressed look hidden beneath your expression. 

“It smells amazing,” he tells you. 

“You think it’ll be enough?”

“Doll, you’ve cooked enough to feed the whole damn building,” Bucky chuckles. You smile and roll your eyes. 

“More is always less, as my mother would say.” Your mom. One of the many mysteries Bucky still hadn’t uncovered about you. You didn’t talk about your family, apart from Barbara and Lucy (who you considered like a great-aunt). Bucky knew it was a sensitive topic. Asking about it felt like touching a half-healed scar. No matter how gentle he might be, it would always bring some sort of pain. All he knew about your mom was that she was sick with something chronic and refused to divorce your waste-of-oxygen dad, Darren. Barbara had passed on the news to Bucky one day at the spa that your parents were no longer living together. Darren was now playing house with your aunt Millie and raising your half-brother-slash-cousin, Landon. You never mentioned it once. 

“How’re the potatoes?” he asks, moving to glance into the oven through the window. 

“Perfect. And the ham joint. And the tenderstem broccoli.”

“Perfect,” he parrots. Bucky wraps his arms around your waist and kisses your neck. He breathes in your perfume and murmurs lowly into your ear, “shame it can’t be just the two of us tonight.”

“Keep it in your pants, Barnes,” you playfully scold. Your hands lay atop of his, holding him to you, and Bucky sways you both gently in the warmth of the kitchen to the quiet jazz music you’d put on. A buzz on the intercom by the front door startles the two of you. You rush to answer it, the nerves fizzling into excitement. Bucky overhears your side of the quick conversation - ‘hello?’, ‘okay! I’ll buzz you in now!’ - and in a couple of minutes, the door opens and a chorus of joyful greetings rattles through the apartment. Bucky wanders into the hall to find you locked in an embrace with Barbara. 

“Oh, you look so lovely, darl!” she smiles into your shoulder. 

“God, I remember when I used to have a figure like that,” Lucy sighs nostalgically. 

“What do you ‘when’? Don’t get delusional, Luc,” Barbara mutters. It earns her an eye roll. Barbs eyes land on Bucky and she grins. “Well, if it isn’t my favourite fella.” 

“Nice to see you too, Barbara,” Bucky smiles. She pulls him into a hug, her wiry hair tickling his cheek. Next comes Lucy, who then produces a bunch of flowers seemingly from thin-air and offers them to you. 

“Oh, they’re beautiful! Thank you!” you smile. Stepping aside, you usher them in.

“Oo, isn’t it lovely, Luc?” Barbara says, shrugging off her jacket and shamelessly handing it over to Bucky. He smiles to himself and doesn’t complain: hanging it on the hooks by the door. 

“Let me show you around,” you offer happily. He takes the flowers from you and returns to the kitchen to put them in water. An impromptu tour begins in the meantime and Bucky overhears comments from Barb and Luc. He tries to bite back his cheesy grin when he hears you say things like “we” and “ours” and “home”. You eventually wind up at the dinner table just as Bucky is depositing the vase of flowers in the centre. 

“Well, you two seemed to have settled in quite nicely, huh?” Barbara says as she lowers into a seat. 

“I’d say so,” Bucky replies, catching your eye. Your smile softens and he can’t help but mirror it. Lucy coos teasingly from her seat at the table beside Barbara. “Luc here is twenty dollars down. She lost a bet to me.”

“Bet?” you ask, quirking a brow. 

“That the two of you would be shacking up before she turns eighty,” Barbara smugly replies. 

Lucy rolls her eyes, clearly displeased at being reminded of her loss. “This is why my game is black jack. Less gloating grandmas involved.”

The intercom buzzes and Bucky answers this time, saying as he goes, “that’ll be Sam.”

Sam brings a bottle of wine as an offering. The two greet with brotherly hugs and Sam whistles as he glances around the entryway. “Wow. She really sucked the depressing out of this place, huh?”

“Thank you, for that,” Bucky mutters. He leads the two of them into the dining room. Lucy gasps at the sight. 

“There he is!”

“Well, if isn’t my two favourite ladies. How y’all doing?” Sam grins handsomely. Lucy practically swoons in her seat. Barbara shakes her head disapprovingly at her friend.  

“Just two, huh?” You say, pretending to be offended. “What am I? Chopped liver?” 

Sam crosses the room and hugs you. “Good to see you too, missy. You know I gotta play it safe with the bionic staring machine standing by.”

“Sam brought wine,” Bucky tells you, opting to ignore Sam’s comment. He hands you the bottle. Lucy and Barbara perk up like Pavlovian dogs. You pursue the label and nod approvingly.

“Shall we start with it?” 

The table quickly becomes busy with plates: carrots and broccoli and potatoes in serving dishes. A ham joint sits proudly in the centre, half now missing. Ramekin dishes of sauces and garnishings. Half-full wine glasses and mostly neglected glasses of water. The apartment was alive with chatter the moment everyone arrived. You recall anecdotes from the weeks spent moving in together. Bucky smiles and listens and nods. He offers pieces of information when prompted, comfortable to let you lead. Barbara and Lucy reminisce on their first homes and Sam provides an update on his family’s boat. From there, the journey of conversation became less regimented. Topics come into fashion without rhyme or reason. Bucky’s hand finds yours atop of the dining table. Food long finished, cutlery neatly placed centre of the plates, everyone sips their wine, shares stories, and enjoys the company of your chosen family. 

“So this fool decides to barrel roll out of the plane–”

“-I did not barrel roll,” Bucky interrupts, pointing at Sam across the table. 

“-and falls like a sack of potatoes.”

“Oh my,” Lucy gasps. Your fingers squeeze Bucky’s. 

“Thankfully, the trees helped break his fall. But let me tell y��all - the video I got of him, meeting the ground,” Sam cuts himself off with a wheezing laugh. He shakes his head at Bucky. “Man, I got blackmail on you for life.”

Bucky shakes his head. Taking his wine glass and slowly bringing it to his lips, he pauses before drinking to mutter, “not as much as I do from when you were practising with the shield.”

You snort from his right and Bucky smiles into his glass as he takes a drink. 

“I’ve got to say,” you begin, “I’m glad your vigilante days are mostly over. I’m not sure I could handle the stress of knowing you’re willingly barrel rolling out of airplanes every other day.”

Everyone chuckles good naturedly. Your lips have a faint stain of red from the wine. Bucky can’t help but watch you. You’re so beautiful, he sometimes can’t wrap his head around this being real. Sometimes his nightmares play into the worry: that he’ll blink and it will all have been some warped dream his mind created to help him through the suffering. That he’ll wake up on the hard floor of his living room, alone. So alone that he can feel it in his bones, aching and creaking and gaping. You glance over to him and something about his thoughts must read on his face, because your brows furrow slightly. A silent question. ‘Everything okay?’ Bucky smiles. He nods, squeezes your hand, and you reluctantly return to the conversation. 

“Oh, that reminds me,” Barbara says suddenly, diverting from her story. Her eyes level on you. “It’s nearly Landon’s first birthday.”

The stiffening of your posture is invisible to the untrained eye, but not to Bucky. 

“Oh, yeah. I saw about that on Facebook,” you reply, attempting to sound casual. 

“Mil and Darren are planning on having a party for him,” she continues. You nod absentmindedly. “Seems silly, having a party when he doesn’t have object permanence yet.”

That earns a few quiet laughs. The energy in the room shifts, a simmering tension settling. Taking a long, slow sip of your wine, you swallow and rub your lips together. “Well,” you eventually say, “I’m sure it’ll be a lovely time.”

Barbara doesn’t push and Sam doesn’t ask. There’s a silence which follows. It’s not particularly uncomfortable, but it’s different than before. Then, Lucy clears her throat. “So, now that you’ve both moved in together - when are you going to start having babies?”

Bucky chokes on his wine. Sam sniggers at him and Bucky contemplates kicking him under the table, but the risk of accidentally catching Barbara is a bit too high. You laugh nervously. “That’s certainly one way to ask that question.”

“Oh, come on! It’d be a disservice to the world if you two didn’t have kids!” Lucy rambles. “I mean his looks”- she points at Bucky- “with your looks”- she points at you- “and three incredible role models to help raise them”- she gestures at herself, Barb and Sam- “and they’re bound to be the most attractive, well-rounded humans on this planet.”

“And humble, too,” you mutter sarcastically. 

“Lucy does have a point, darl,” Barbara chimes in. She tips her wine glass at you as she adds, “a biological clock is no joke.”

“You don’t have to say that like I’m cusping on the menopause, grams,” you laugh. 

“‘Sides, I don’t think it’s her biological clock we should be stressing about here, ladies,” Sam says. Everyone looks at him, mildly confused. He raises his brows as if the answer is obvious. “I think we might be forgetting that fossil here is pushing one-hundred-and-twenty. For all we know, his swimmers have turned to dust at this point.”

Barbara and Lucy laugh and you give a small chuckle. Bucky tries an amused smile and rolls his eyes. He hopes it looks natural, but his heart twitches nervously in his chest. 

“This wouldn’t have anything to do with any more bets the two of you have placed on us, would?” you wonder, eyeing Lucy knowingly. 

“That’s beside the point,” Lucy waves off - meaning yes, it is. “The point is, Barbara wants great-grandchildren to give away Darren’s inheritance to.”

“Well, whilst we definitely appreciate the unapologetic curiosity about our sex lives,” you deadpan, “don’t hold your breath for any attractive, well-rounded offspring.”

“Or any moth bitten ones either, for that matter,” Sam can’t help but tag on, prompting more laughter from the conniving old ladies. You sigh mirthfully and shake your head at his childish behaviour. 

“Sam, how are the boys? I forget - what grades are they in now?” you ask, redirecting the flow of the conversation. Bucky’s grateful for the change in focus. 

For the rest of the evening, his mind is distracted. Sam’s teasing comments rattle around his skull like a pinball. Your noncommittal reply also bounces about. Don’t hold your breath. What the hell does that mean? Neither of you bring it up long after the guests have left. In fact, Bucky thinks you might have forgotten about the conversation altogether. You hum contently as you wash the pots and as Bucky dries them, he’s lost in his thoughts. He stares up at the ceiling when you both retire to bed and replays the conversation over and over. When he eventually closes his eyes and tries to sleep, it’s a strange collage of half-formed fantasies. A dining table set four. Children’s school bags slung by the door. You tucked into the reading nook, a children’s storybook in hand, and a fuzzy shadow of a child nestled safely in your embrace. 

Things change after that day, for Bucky at least. He’s keyed into every brief mention or allusion to children or babies. It’s like his brain has been hijacked again only this time to react to ‘diapers’ and ‘colic’ and ‘aw, how cute!’ When he accompanies you to your coworker Lily’s garden party for Easter, he becomes far too locked into Lily’s husband’s recounting of how the pregnancy and birth was for their youngest child. When grocery shopping, he detours down the baby aisle, sparing glances at the different formulas and diapers like they’re medusa. One afternoon whilst out in the city, you drag Bucky into the baby clothing section of a store, on the hunt for a present for Landon, your half-brother-slash-cousin. 

“I thought we weren’t going to the party,” Bucky says as he walks by your side, hands tucked into his leather jacket pockets. 

“We’re not, but it’s the kid’s birthday. I want to get something for him,” you shrug. Bucky smiles slightly at the thought. Despite all of it, you were still trying. Not necessarily to be there for your father or aunt, but more for the little person that resulted from a shitty situation. It was like you’d said before the baby shower: it’s not like the little one asked to be born into some weird-Greek-tragedy nightmare. 

You gravitate to the onesies and flick through the tiny hangers. Bucky warily eyes up the adorable little sneakers. His heart is beating about a mile a minute; he’s trying desperately hard to appear nonchalant. When you ask for his opinion on a sweater, he gives a stiff nod. You don’t question it - assume he’s bored, most likely - and head to the cashier. 

The following week, the two of you are watching a movie. His feet are in your lap and you’re giving a professional-graded massage to his sock-clad feet without even paying attention. At first, Bucky felt guilty for taking advantage of your skillset outside of your working hours. But it didn’t take long for him to learn your love languages, and ways of giving and receiving them. You enjoyed physical touch. Would seek him out and offer massages. You also needed words of affirmation. Reassurance that you weren’t too much, or too little. Compliments, as simple as they might be. The praise? Bucky had picked up on that one pretty quick in the relationship. All it took was him murmuring a ‘so proud of you baby’ into your ear and you were coming around his dick with a whining gasp. He liked toying with you, knowing how much it affected you. Would whisper little things in your ear in public just to see your skin prickle, hair standing on end. He can’t imagine the smugness you must have felt the night you realised it went both ways. You’d panted into his neck what a good job he was doing, fucking you, and he had to fight every ounce of himself not to come.   

He comes back to the room as the woman begins screaming bloody murder on the TV. She’s in labour. The cinematography leaves little to the imagination and Bucky is mildly concerned how they managed to make it look so real. 

“Dude,” you mutter, eyes fixated on the screen. “Labour looks like the first circle of hell.”

“Does it?” he dumbly asks. 

“Are you kidding me? Pushing something the size of a watermelon out of me does not ring a good time, in my opinion,” you scoff. Bucky nods. The follow-up question lingers on his tongue: “do you not want to go through labour?” but for some reason, he can’t bring himself to ask. Maybe it’s because he’s half-certain you’d throw a pillow at his head. No woman probably wants to go through labour, but he supposes the gain is worth the pain for most. Before he can muster up the courage, the scene is over, and the moment passes. 

His final straw is when he’s reorganising the bathroom cupboards and comes across your contraceptive pill. You’d been on it since you were fifteen, you’d told him. Once the two of you were tested for STDs, condoms were a thing of history. He stares at the box like it might speak to him if he waits long enough. Humming, Bucky finally makes a decision. It’s time to talk to Sam. 

The time arises when Bucky heads to Sam’s apartment to watch the baseball game. The Yankees were playing: Bucky’s chosen team. 

“Beer or larger?” 

“Is there a difference?”

“Beer it is,” Sam mutters, clearly not in the mood for a spirited debate about the various brewing practices. Two bottles clink together as he pulls them from the fridge. Bucky takes one with a thanks and cracks it open. It’s crisp and cold as he drinks. Sam clicks onto the game; they keep the volume low and lounge back into the couch. Bucky spends the first twenty minutes contemplating how to bring up the conversation until finally, in an ad break, he gives it a shot. 

“You remember when you came over for dinner the other week?” 

Sam glances at him. So far, any talk had been comments made about the game. “Yeah?”

“Do you, uh, remember what you said about the, uh…kids…thing?” Bucky winces at his clunky wording. 

“Kids thing? Man, you’re gonna need to give me more detail than that,” Sam chuckles. Bucky sighs and closes his eyes. 

“The swimmers thing,” Bucky grunts. 

“Oh! That!” Sam begins to laugh, recalling his jabs. “Yeah, man, I remember.”

“Well, I kinda been thinking about it,” Bucky admits. His metal thumb traces the bottle neck. “Just a bit, y’know?”

“In what kinda way?”

“Well, I don’t know if they’d necessarily be dust - I don’t even know if that’s anatomically possible - but I guess it got me thinking if they’d be…alive. Working. That kinda thing.”

“Oh shit, man,” Sam mutters. He sat up straighter. “Look I’m sorry if what I said upset you, I was just messing around.”

“No, no, I know. But what if you’re right?” Bucky cuts himself off with a sigh and tilts his head back. His eyes press shut as he forces himself to say the one recurring thought he’s had over the past month. “What if I’m infertile?”

“Are you guys…you know…” Sam begins to ask. 

Bucky quickly shakes his head. “No, no. We haven’t even talked about that kinda stuff.” 

“Wait, really? Not even a little bit?”

“I don’t know. It’s never really come up. Just the odd comment. Like the other month, when we first moved in together, she said about how she wonders how her grandma will react when she tells her she’s pregnant,” Bucky recalled. He shakes his head, laughing to himself once more, as he adds, “ but then we were watching this movie and there was this labour scene and she said that it looked like the first circle of hell.”

“Believe me, man, from what Sarah’s told me - it is,” Sam chuckles, taking a swig of his beer. 

“So I don’t know. I mean, at that dinner she said ‘don’t hold your breath’. Not exactly a ringing endorsement for pregnancy, is it?”

“Any chance you’ve been overthinking this?” Sam asks, quirking a brow. 

Bucky rolls his eyes but doesn’t disagree. He takes another swig of his beer and looks back to the television. The players run around the field, chasing a hit. Sighing, he admits, “I just…I don’t wanna start a conversation about it with her if there’s not a point to having it.”

In his peripheral vision, he sees Sam nod. “Want my advice?”

“Unfortunately,” Bucky grits out. 

“Talk to a doctor. Go to a fertility clinic and get some tests done.”

“Yeah but…what about the serum? I mean, what if that messed with it, in some way? I don’t wanna put her in danger,” Bucky worries. 

“Can’t you talk to Shuri? Maybe she can put you in contact with some more scientist-based fertility doctors? Ones that can read your paperwork about your serum - or at least, what’s known about it - and can do some testing further than the usual stuff.”

Bucky purses his lips. It wasn’t a bad idea. Taking another sip of his drink, he looks back to the game. Things with the Wakandians had been uncomfortable for a year or so after Bucky and Sam busted Zemo out to help take down Karli. But Shuri had extended an olive branch; she offered to give Bucky’s arm an upgrade. Asking about fertility doctors wasn’t outside the realm of possibility. Bucky had managed through STD testing; he could stomach a fertility test if it gave some clarity. A few moments pass as he works through Sam’s suggestion. With half a mind, he watches the game. 

“Scored a home run,” Bucky points out. Sam smiles to himself. He knew what that meant: conversation over. 

Bucky heeds Sam’s advice. He contacts Shuri and fills her in, and she puts him in contact with a doctor based in Manhattan. Not even two weeks after the conversation with Sam, Bucky’s heading to an appointment. 

The clinic was on the third floor of an office building. The walls were an eggshell blue and the floors shiny white marble. Ahead was a long reception desk seating three workers. Behind that, on the wall, was a glowing sign depicting a pregnant woman. It was coloured pink with a white circular outline. Pink Plus Fertility Clinic, the sign read. It was quiet in the foyer. Elevator music played. The way Bucky felt as he entered was nostalgic to that of the first time he visited the spa. Anxiety at not knowing what the protocol was, or what to do, or how to act. Feeling vaguely like he doesn’t belong, and that everyone regarding him could tell as much. He took a steadying breath and reminded himself of how positive visiting that spa turned out to be. It changed the trajectory of his life. Whose to say this won’t be the same? His stomach churned. Somehow, that thought didn’t make him feel all that better. Maybe it would change the trajectory, but whether it would be a good or bad change was yet to be determined. 

“Good morning, sir,” the receptionist greeted. Her long hair was pulled back in hundreds of intricate cornrow braids. 

“Morning,” Bucky replies. “I have an appointment.”

“Okay, can I get the name for the appointment?”

“James Barnes,” he answers. She types away on her keyboard and nods. After signing him in, Bucky’s referred to the waiting room (carefully avoiding eye contact with everybody), and soon enough, he’s guided into a doctor’s office. Posters hang on the walls portraying pregnant women, advertising treatments for erectile dysfunction, and providing information on endometritis. Funnily enough, none of it helps ease his nerves. 

“Alright, so, if we start with some quick introductions,” the doctor begins, smiling warmly at Bucky. He sinks into the seat. The cushion has little give. “I’m Doctor Cuthbert, and we’ll be discussing your fertility today. Is that what you were expecting?”

Bucky gives a nod. His thumb taps nervously on the armrest of the chair. 

“So, with your consent, I read the files Shuri sent to me about your serum and the biological changes it produced. I understand that you’re not only concerned about your fertility, but also how the serum may have influenced your sperm, is that correct?”

He nods again, stiffly. 

“I understand this may feel uncomfortable and perhaps unfamiliar,” Doctor Cuthbert acknowledges, “but there’s nothing to be embarrassed about. It’s just anatomy and it’s good that you’re taking the initiative to investigate these things.”

Something in Bucky’s mind clicks off with that. He lets out a long exhale through his nose and tries a polite smile. 

“What we’ll begin with today is some routine questions. This is just to get some insight into how things are currently performing and functioning. Then I’ll ask you to provide a sample today and I’ll do some testing, and results should be ready in around two weeks time.”

“Okay,” Bucky nods. With that, the doctor retrieves a clipboard from her desk and swings slightly in her chair. She asks questions about performance, contraceptives, frequency of sexual activity. She asks about any previous children or attempts to have children, and explores previous diagnoses or infections. Bucky’s certain his face must be tomato red. His eyes flit around the room as he answers, feeling too big in the chair. You and Bucky shared a pretty great sex life but talking about sex with someone other than yourself was not Bucky’s forte. He still struggled to shake the embarrassment of talking about sex from the forties. Ah, a great old decade, where sex was as taboo as shitting naked in the street. Doctor Cuthbert clicks her pen and nods, surveying his provided answers. 

“Well, everything sounds like things are functioning as they should externally. The next step is for you to provide a sample.”

Bucky swallows. This was the part he was dreading. The doctor explains the protocol - it was familiar to the one he followed when you both went for STD testing - and he’s soon left alone in the office with a small plastic tub sat on the desk. Bucky sighs and moves over to the medical bed. Digging about in his jacket pocket, Bucky produces a pair of earphones. He connects them and unlocks his phone. Instead of opening onto the internet, Bucky taps on his gallery. He swipes until he finds a video. It was of you in the living room of your shared flat, dressed in your pyjamas. The two of you had been watching some corny fifties cowboy movie and you were imitating it, goofing around, giggling despite yourself. Bucky smiles as your voice rings through the headphones. The whole concept of having to jack off in a random doctor’s office still wasn’t thrilling to him, but the video was a gentle reminder why he was doing this. He taps out and onto the hidden section of his camera roll. You didn’t send a lot of nudes but a couple times when Bucky had been out-of-state for work, you’d indulged in sending the occasional picture. He opened onto one of his favourites: a matching pair of simple black lace lingerie. It was a mirror selfie, your face half-visible and smiling coyly, with one hand gently groping your right tit. Bucky feels himself grow hard under his jeans. Closing his eyes, his memory conjures up the feeling of the soft, squishy skin of your thigh beneath his finger tips. He could hear the echo of your giggle, breathless with anticipation, teeth drawing your lower lip in as you bite down on your smile, watching him. Waiting, patiently, in nothing but your pretty little panties and a cropped tee. You always looked so pretty, from Bucky’s view between your legs. When his jeans became uncomfortably tight, Bucky sighs. Time to get this over with. 

One sample later - deposited safely in the assigned cup - and Bucky’s back out into the streets of New York as if he hadn’t just spent the last hour divulging his sexual habits to a borderline stranger. Great. He checks the time and after some mental arithmetics, Bucky determines that there’s enough time to run the errand ready for your anniversary next week before surprising you at work. His feet carry him to the shop he’s grown increasingly familiar with after stepping into your life. With a sleek black bag in hand, Bucky returns to his car, starts the engine, and the familiar route to Serenity Spa. 

The foyer is relatively quiet when Bucky enters the spa. It’s nearly the end of the day, after all. It was mostly people finishing their meals or taking a moment before accepting that they needed to leave and start the journey home. He saunters up to the reception desk. 

“Hey Lily,” he smiles. 

“Hey! You here to pick up the old-ball-and-chain, hm?” she jokes. Bucky nods. 

“When’s she finishing up today?”

“She should just be about done with her last client of the day. I’d say she’ll be downstairs in about ten minutes.”

“Perfect. Thanks, Lil.”

“Want a coffee?”

“Since you offered,” Bucky thanks, wrapping his knuckles once against the counter top. After you and Bucky became official, the familiar faces at the spa also changed in Bucky’s life. Lily was one of your closest friends. Her and her husband had joined you and Bucky out for dinner and drinks a few times now. It was always a pleasant time. 

Just as predicted, you make your way down the stairs ten minutes later. Your work bag’s slung over your shoulder and a jacket is in hand. You glance up and meet Bucky’s gaze, and a smile breaks onto your face that’s impossible for Bucky not to mirror. 

“Hey you!” you smile, making your way over. After planting a kiss on his cheek, you ask, “what’re you doing here?”

“Finished my day early. Thought I’d come pick you up,” he says. He stands, takes the bag from your shoulder, deposits his empty coffee cup on the counter, thanking Lily once more. You wave goodbye and follow him out the door. Your fingers intertwine with his as you walk to the car. “You wanna get take-out tonight?”

“Definitely,” you say. “Pizza?”

“Sure.”

The car ride home is filled by quietly singing along to your shared playlist and passing small stories from your day. Your hand stays safely in his the whole journey. Bucky thinks of telling you about his day and the clinic. He wants to; it feels abnormal to keep something from you. But he settles on staving off until he has the results. 

Back at the flat, after you’re both full with pizza and french fries, the two of you are sitting on the bed. Bucky’s shuffling a deck of cards. All the various card games played during the war meant he’d become rather good at card sharking. You’re sitting crossed legs, scrolling on your phone as you wait. There’s a shadow of a smile on your face: your natural hair falling like wildflowers, framing your pretty face. One of Bucly’s plain black t-shirts hangs slightly loose on your frame, and his boxers appear like shorts on you. You dressed in Bucky’s clothes was easily one of his favourite things on earth. A silent mark of ownership that tapped into the primal, caveman side of him hidden beneath layers of civilisation. Mine - that’s what it says. Bucky glances up from his handy-work to catch your smile change slightly. Just like at the dinner, it’s a barely perceivable cue, but to Bucky it’s as obvious as if the world were to spin in the other direction. 

“Looks like Landon had a nice birthday,” you say. Bucky looks at the photograph when you pivot your phone to him. His eyes zone in on the sweater he’s wearing: it looks familiar. “At least they liked the present I sent.”

You study it a moment longer after Bucky’s had his fill. His fingers stutter on the shuffle, unsure whether to name it, but before he can, you’re sighing and clicking off your phone. It’s ditched on the bedside table. Then, clapping your hand together as if to reset the evening, you zone back in to what Bucky’s doing. “Alright! Deal me in, please.”

Chuckling, Bucky quickly deals out six cards each, face-down. He unfolds the wooden scoring board. His large metal fingers prove difficult in picking up the tiny silver pegs used as counters. You thankfully step in and take them from him, perched delicately between your perfectly french-tip manicured fingernails. They slot into place in the divots of the scoreboard. Gathering your cards, you study them for a moment. 

“My crib or yours?” you check. 

“Mine. Crib belongs to the dealer, remember?”

A couple months ago when you were rearranging things in Bucky’s apartment to make space for your own, you’d come across his small wicker basket of games. The majority were old games that he used to play as a child: dominoes, marbles, Ludo. There were also a few decks of cards and a box of poker chips. You’d asked Bucky about which card games he played and he recited off a string of them. In the Howling Commandos, there wasn’t much to do between missions, save for drinking, dancing and sleeping. He’d fast turned into a talented card player. Him and Steve used to bet cigarettes, he told you. Some of the other Commandos would offer up whiskey and rations. The British Commando, James Montgomery Falsworth, introduced Bucky to cribbage. ‘A fisherman’s game,’ he’d said in his Brummy accent. When you’d found the wooden scoring board in the basket of miscellaneous games, you’d asked Bucky to teach you. Now it was one of your shared favourite evening pastimes. Bucky knew what his favourite was, though… 

“Okay,” you say decidedly, sacrificing two of your cards, facing down, to Bucky’s crib. Bucky adds his own and then offers the stack of cards, waiting for you to cut the deck. When your fingers pause mid-movement, Bucky glances up at you. A playful smirk is playing on your lips. “Why don’t we make it interesting?”

“By doing what exactly?” Bucky asks. 

“Whoever wins a lap around the board,” you say, gesturing to the score board, “gets to ask the other one a truth or dare question. And they get to decide which it’ll be.”

“I don’t think I’ve played truth or dare since I was eight years old,” Bucky chuckles. He prompts you to cut the deck but to no avail. 

“Mm, sounds like someone’s too chicken…” you teasingly murmur. Bucky quirks his brows at you, smiling knowingly. You innocently gaze off around the room. Then, very quietly, underbreath, you imitate: “cluck-cluck-cluck…”

“A’right, fine,” he sighs with a breathy laugh. Shaking his head, Bucky relents. “Winner gets to give the other a truth or dare. Happy? Now come on - cut the deck.”

You do as instructed and the game begins. You score eight when counting, and Bucky only four. Then when adding the cards, you triumph again with two pairs and a run of three. The next round is no better for Bucky. The third he takes a small step forward but you’re still leading. After fifteen minutes of playing, you’ve won the first game. Bucky pretends to dread what you’ll ask of him. Impishly, you dare him to lick the sole of your bare foot. Bucky’s so unbothered by the notion that you go to change your mind, apparently “grossed out” by it, but he catches you by the ankle and takes a shameless lick to the sound of your hysterical laughter. It isn’t exactly pleasant but in his lifetime, Bucky can easily name two hands’ worth of things worse than licking the base of your foot. In the next game, Bucky faces another loss. This time, you dare him to go make you a cup of tea (because you were thirsty and couldn’t be bothered to move). Bucky makes a passing joke on his way to the kitchen that this isn’t how you’re supposed to play truth or dare, but you don’t seem to care when he returns with a steaming cup of chamomile tea for you. He grows suspicious of you tricking the deck on the third game. 

“Aw, you see that Barnes,” you taunt, pointing at the scoreboard. “I just need four lovely little points from adding and I’m home free.”

“Just count,” he grumbles. 

You giggle to yourself like a maniac as you drop your cards onto the duvet for Bucky to see. He quickly adds them before groaning and tossing his head back. You drag it out as you count each individual score: “so that’s two for a pair…and two for another pair…and then - oh, wait is that - yes, two for fifteen–”

“-a’right, just-” Bucky mutters, leaning over to move your counter on your behalf. You tumble back onto the bed with another wicked laugh. Clearly, you enjoy winning. Sighing, he sits back on his arms and waits expectantly for your next dare. When you’ve caught your breath and calmed yourself with a sip of your tea, you contemplate for a minute before speaking. 

“Truth,” you declare. Bucky quirks a brow and then nods, giving you the greenlight. The smile on your face softens as you ask, “what’s your least favourite and most favourite thing about this time we’re currently in?”

Bucky stuns a second. He wasn’t expecting such a weighty question to be dropped into his lap, especially not after your rather adolescent requests beforehand. He thinks for a while before answering. 

“I mean, this time’s pretty good. People have more rights - usually - and food’s better. There’s so many more options now. Music, movies, literature: all of it is just endless now, y’know?” You nod along, patient. “I guess…I don’t know, if I had to choose my least favourite, it’d be not having my family here. I had a small bit of hope that when I came out of Hydra and finally had some of myself back, that maybe they’d still be around. My sister, at least. But…it was a long shot. Wishful thinking, y’know? I guess I hoped she’d had children or something so I had someone to hear about her from. What she was like as a grown-up. What she did, where she went. But she didn’t, so that was a dead-end too pretty much. Her friend was nice. She told me a few little stories and things but…it wasn’t the same, y’know?”

You give a small nod and sympathetic smile. It isn’t the first time Bucky’s told you about his family. You like hearing stories from his childhood and youth; you’d asked a million questions about his mother. He’d shown you old photographs he’d inherited, naming everyone right down to crazy uncle Bill. Bucky regards you a moment - all angelic in his clothes, cast in the bedside lamp light - and smiles to himself. 

“She would’ve loved you, y’know? My mom.”

“Yeah?” you quietly ask. Bucky nods. 

“Yeah. She liked girls who were strong. Independent. Hard-working - that kind of thing. I think ‘cause she had to be one of those girls, she appreciated the others who didn’t have things handed to them on a silver-platter.”

You smile and toy with the edge of a card. “I wish I could’ve met her. Your sister, too.”

“Probably best you didn’t meet Becca,” Bucky admits. You brows furrow, unsure whether to be offended, but Bucky cracks a grin. “She would’ve turned you against me. Got you involved in our prank war.”

“Prank war?” you ask, amused. Bucky laughs smally and nods. Your mouth falls open and you look…offended? “How have I never heard about a prank war? For how long?”

“Years long. Just silly stuff really. Salt in the coffee; rubber spiders under the pillows - things like that.”

“Would’ve loved to have seen that,” you tell him. The two of you sit in the sepia of memories and longing. Smiles linger on lips. Then, you gently prompt, “what about your most favourite?”

Bucky shakes his head slightly. It’s laughable you even have to ask. “You.”

Your lips part, taken aback. Giving a breathy laugh, you roll your eyes and correct your posture, sitting with your legs tucked beside you. “Nice line, Barnes.”

“No, I mean it,” he says firmly. You hesitantly meet his gaze. Bucky wonders why it seems so hard for you to believe. He thought it was plain as day on his face that there wasn’t anything he wouldn’t do for you. Hell, if you asked him to, he’d burn the world down for you. You weren’t reluctant to love exactly, but the damage done from your parents left you cautious. Bucky would gladly spend the rest of his life proving to you that they were wrong to let you think that way. To let you believe that love was temporary and transactional. Nothing but empty words and dishonest promises. If he could, he’d live forever to show that his love was timeless. 

You extend out a hand. It’s trembling slightly. “My deal,” you murmur. Bucky hands you the deck of cards. 

The next game begins. The teasing taunts and jabs had returned and the tender heaviness of the previous conversation lessened slightly. Bucky’s mother must be smiling down at him and turning his luck, because Bucky finally wins a game. 

“Oh uh,” you deadpan, tossing your head back as if bracing for impact. “What’re you gonna have me do?” The pause that came as Bucky dragged out the moment, plotting his revenge, was interrupted by you hesitantly adding, “please don’t make me lick your foot.”

Grinning, Bucky sucks his teeth as he contemplates. As much as he liked the idea of daring you to do something equally as childish, there were other things floating through his mind. Some were more tame than others, but he knew which one he wanted to do first. It came to his mind in the form of a picture: a folded white piece of paper tucked in the back pocket of his jeans. With the luck Bucky had been having tonight, he wasn’t sure if he’d win another game to have another chance to ask. His grin softens like butter in sunlight. 

“Truth,” he states. You seem a little surprised - probably expecting him to dare you to sniff his dirty socks. Nodding, you have a sip of your tea as you wait. “I wanna know about med school. About why you dropped out.”

You swallow with visible effort. Avoiding his gaze, you try and fake an amused smile as you shrug. “Why? It’s a boring story.”

“Tell me it anyway,” he says. Bucky knows it likely isn’t a happy tale, but he’s been sitting on it too long. He wants to know every corner of you, even the parts that might be more tarnished. Your eyes slip shut and you take a small breath in. Bucky thinks you’re going to shut it down, maybe walk out the room, but you don’t. Instead, you begin to talk, in a quiet, tender voice. 

“My dad was always unfaithful to my mom growing up,” you say, opening your eyes into Bucky’s. “I was only little but I knew something was wrong with their marriage. They’d argue a lot. Silly fights, usually. Picking each other apart about leaving the dirty dishes out or not putting away the laundry. But they’d get mean with it and make it personal. And then, at some point, they’d rope me in. Wager me like a token to help score them points. Try and pit me against the other.”

Bucky gives a small nod, encouraging you to continue. You look down and trace your finger over a scab on your knee. 

“My mom used to threaten me with dinner if I didn’t tell her what I knew about dad’s affairs. I had no idea what she was talking about. I mean, I was eight. It’s not like my dad filled me in on the women he was sleeping with. Anyway, after a while, I sort of faded into the background. They became hooked on the drama of it all. Obsessed with winning fights against one another. Catching the other out. And, in classic child-logic beauty, I thought I could maybe be the one to fix things. I had this weird, warped logic that if I made them proud - so insanely proud - that they would finally stop all the fighting and we could be this big, happy family. There was this movie I watched religiously - Lilo and Stitch?”

You glance up at Bucky and he nods. He’d seen it. A small smile tries to light up your face. 

“I was so jealous of them. I mean, their parents were dead, right? But…the way Lilo’s sister loved her so much - so much that she risked everything for her? I wanted that. I wanted it so badly. So, I started pushing in school. I asked my parents to sign me up for all these extra-circulars that they wanted me to do. My weekly schedule was filled with study groups and violin lessons and gymnastics. But none of it ever seemed to be enough. And then, one day in high school, I asked my dad what his dream job was for me. And he shrugged and said, ‘I suppose having a doctor for a kid wouldn’t be half-bad.’ And - boom - it was like my entire world perspective shifted. I was going to be a doctor. I was going to finally do the thing that would make my parents so insanely proud that they’d stop all the fighting and bitching and cheating. I was going to fix it.”

The scab you’ve been picking at breaks. You wince and blood prickles to the surface. Slowly, you begin to shake your head. 

“I didn’t hate it at first. I mean, I actually liked college to begin with. I was away from the constant arguments which was nice. I had some independence and I stopped doing the things my parents wanted me to do, like violin and gymnastics, and signed up for my own social groups. Yoga and meditation. My roommate was into that kind of thing too. We shared a dorm together in the first year and all her friends quickly became my friends. She’s the one that introduced me to holistic therapy. Massage and aroma therapy, that kind of thing? I never told her about my family situation because, honestly, I was still trying to pretend that things could be fixed if I just became a doctor. I was pushing it out of my mind because I couldn’t face the truth. That roommate - she became my first real friend.”

You’re smiling, but it’s sad. It’s bathed in nostalgia, like one may look when recalling a childhood teddy that they lost decades ago. With time, the pain had eased, but the memory still hurt. 

“Then school got hard. I was flunking my exams because I didn’t give a shit about medicine. I started drinking, smoking, going to parties. Throwing myself at guys to just feel whole. Like maybe if people paid enough attention to me, that feeling of invisibility would finally go away. I enjoyed stuff about the brain so I thought maybe psychiatry could be my road. But I was a terrible med student. Truly useless. I was burnt out, to put it plainly. 

Towards the end of my second year, my dad came to visit. He wasn’t actually there to see me, I later found out. He had a conference in the same city and decided to swing by for a visit whilst in the area. Charming, right? Anyway, I set him up on my couch. Me and that same roommate from first year were living together now - just the two of us in this tiny little bungalow. I had a yoga class that evening so I told him I’d be back later, and went out. Turns out, the class was cancelled ‘cause the teacher was sick or something. So I went back home and…”

Your breath catches in your throat and you clench your eyes shut. Bucky frowns. He reaches out a hand and plants it on your knee, rubbing slow, soothing circles into your flesh the way you do with him. You’re shaking your head again but it’s as if you’re trying to rid yourself of the memory. Guilt pricks at Bucky’s heart. Maybe he shouldn’t have asked. A tear slips down your cheek and you stop your lip from quivering by chewing on it. 

“They were there. My dad and…and my roommate…together.” The final word is no louder than a breath. 

“Fuck,” Bucky whispers. His head shakes a little too. He doesn’t want you to keep going - not if it’s going to make the pain worse - but you can’t see him. You’re crying now. Properly crying. Bucky tears himself apart from the inside out. 

“And I just snapped. I realised how much time I’d been wasting on someone who didn’t even care about me. How much energy I’d spent trying to shape myself into something just to feel wanted, and how no matter what I’d do, it wouldn’t matter anyway. I wouldn’t matter, not to them.”

You sigh, frustrated at yourself, and wipe your cheeks aggressively. Sniffing, you finish, “so I screamed at them. Told my dad to get out. To never talk to me again. I packed a bag and left my house, and went to sofa surf on some friend’s couches. But they were all her friends too, so that got messy pretty quick as well. Eventually, I got in touch with my grandma, Barbara. She hadn’t been around all that much but not for lack of trying. We later pieced together that Darren was keeping her away because he didn’t want her to know how shitty things were with him and my mom, and how shitty it was for me. She let me live with her in New York. Funded me to go to school for massage therapy and train as a masseuse.”

The tears have begun to ease. You’re sniffling but there’s a smile coming through, like sunlight trying to break through storm clouds. You meet Bucky’s eyes again. “And I stopped caring about what other people might want from me. I just focused on myself and tried to keep my sights set on the good and…And I got a job at Serenity Spa. Made friends, real friends, like Lily, and had a family in Barbara and Lucy…And then, I met you.”

Nobody speaks for a while. Bucky can’t find what to say. He alternates between apologising and comforting but settles on neither. Eventually, you give a little shrug. Trying to sound happy-go-lucky, you murmur, “and that’s my little sob story of med school.”

“I’m sorry,” Bucky finally decides. “I shouldn’t have asked, I– I didn’t think it was so…y’know…”

You quirk a brow, vaguely amused. “Traumatic?”

Bucky lets out a shaky laugh. “Yeah, kinda.”

“It’s okay,” you tell him. The smile on your face strengthens. “It actually feels weirdly good to talk about it. I don’t think I’ve ever played it all through - bit by bit, like that - since it happened. I don’t know, I guess it’s nice to know that I made the right choice in the end.”

He instinctively reaches for your hand and you gladly accept. “Thank you, for telling me about it.”

You nod, smiling appreciatively. Bucky swipes his thumb over the back of your hand. He feels the little ridge of a scar there from your childhood; notices the tiny brush of hairs. 

“Y’know, something just occurred to me,” you say after a short while. There’s a tenderness to your voice. It’s sweet and refreshing like the changing of winter to spring. “If all of that didn’t happen - if I didn’t deal with all that shit - then I wouldn’t have moved in with my grandma, or worked at Serenity Spa. And I wouldn’t have met you.”

Bucky tries and fails to bite back his smile. When you say things like that, something inside of him feels a little less broken. It’s as if you’re soothing a bandaid over one of the many cracks in his soul. The same thought had occurred to him once. When he began therapy, his shrink offered a plethora of positive affirmations to lean on. He never cared much for them. Bucky wasn’t under the belief that some well-meaning catchphrase was going to undo years of trauma. But ever since he met you and this beautiful, unexpected love affair began, he’d started to recall one of the sayings. Everything happens for a reason. If someone ever said that to Bucky, then or now, he’d probably knock them out cold. Bucky wasn’t appreciative for his time in Hydra, or the many years that followed - running, hiding, surviving and not living. He still missed the people from his past: his mother, and sister, and Steve. This was never his plan. But things happened, and Bucky couldn’t change them or turn back the clocks, so he had learnt to accept the journey rather than fight the current. And now, with you, he felt like he arrived at the island that the universe had been pushing him towards. In his life, no matter how much love he still held for the bright-eyed version of himself that he lost, and all the people that raised him and saved him and showed him that he could still be something good: no matter how much love he had for them, Bucky loved  you infinitely more. 

“One more game?” you offer. He gives your hand one more affirming squeeze. Something in him hopes you know that. He can’t bring himself to say it. The universe had this fun, cruel game with Bucky. The minute he’d get too comfortable, he’d lose his footing all over again. Maybe saving some things in his mind might lessen the blow when the inevitable would happen. Bucky wasn’t sure how long he had with you, but he’d do his damn hardest to make it last forever. 

“One more,” Bucky agrees.

- 

There’s a weird prodding to Bucky’s cheek. It’s like a stick poking a hibernating bear. Bucky wills the sensation away. His nose is buried in the duvet; brain still half-asleep. 

“James…”

Bucky doesn’t move. The prodding stops for a moment and he relaxes against the pillow. Perfect…

“Jamie, wake up.”

The voice is barely-there, weightless like a summer breeze. Bucky likes it. It’s soothing. Could lull him back to sleep…The bed shifts and he’s more awake than ever. More touching, only this time someone’s stroking the hair from his face. Not someone. You. He can smell you before he hears you. Body lotion and laundry linens. You're leaning down, hair tickling his cheeks as it tumbles forwards, breath warm as it fans his ear. 

“James…” you tunefully sing-song. Still quiet. Still gentle. 

“M’sleeping,” he slurs into the sheets. 

“Too bad,” you counter. Some shifting, and now there’s a weight sinking down on his body. You’re straddling him on his stomach. He lets out another grunt and keeps his eyes pressed shut, but he tilts his head back to rest face-up on the pillow. “You know what today is?”

“Saturday,” he grumbles. 

“Well, yeah, but do you know what else today is?”

“First day of the weekend?”

“James,” you huff. An alarming feeling of your fingers on his eyelids nearly startles him to death. It’s a weird sensation as you delicately pry one of his eyes open. His vision is blurry with sleep but he can make out the silhouette of you sitting atop of him. “It’s our anniversary.”

He bats your hand away. Of course he knew that: Bucky wasn’t sure if he would ever forget the day you agreed to be his - truly and only. Biting back his smile, slowly rousing to the living world, he relishes in teasing you. Bucky murmurs, “can’t be. That was last year.”

“You’re not going to believe this…” Your tone wins him over - sarcastic and teasing - and Bucky smiles. Balancing yourself with your hands on his bare upper chest, your nose brushes against his. Bucky lifts a hand and instinctively finds your face; his metal fingers trace the curve of your jaw. Like a cat, you press into his tender hold. Your lips are plush and soft as you kiss the base of his thumb. Then, in a hushed whisper, you tell him, “I have a surprise for you.”

Bucky grins sleepily. His mind conjures thoughts of coffee and pastries in dainty boxes wrapped with bows. You pull away and he feels you centre your weight on his stomach. That’s when Bucky finally cracks his eyes open. The bedroom is bright with the daylight creeping in through the half-shut blinds. Your figure casts a perfect shadow and at first, Bucky’s eyes are adjusting, and he can’t see much at all, and then-

“Holy shit,” he breathes. 

The first thing his eyes register is lace. Lace and skin. Lots of skin. The lace is taut to your chest; nipples barely perceivable under the intricate floral design. It’s held up by two thin silk straps stretching over your shoulders. Below the lace, cloaking your body in a sheer black shadow, is a pleated skirt. It ends just as it reaches your thighs, but perched pretty on his stomach, the fabric pools to expose the black lace panties underneath. Finally, as if it were the cherry on an already delectable cake, a thin silk ribbon is tied in a bow below your breasts. Bucky’s eyes don’t know where to linger. They obsess over every detail, mapping your image onto the thousands of pre-existing memories Bucky has compiled of you. He lets out a shaky exhale, chuckling slightly as his lips begin to smirk. Two of his fingers pinch the skirt, thumbing the fabric as if to ground himself. 

“You like it?” you guilelessly wonder. 

“If that’s even the word for it,” Bucky rasps. You giggle and it goes straight through him, down to his dick. His hand possessively plants on your hip and he squeezes. You blink down at him, smiling, eyes giving way to your game. Bucky briefly wonders if he should be worried about the fact that you know how much power you have over him. Patiently, Bucky’s touch slips under the dainty skirt. You hold his gaze as if in challenge as he lets his fingers crawl up and up and up. He can practically feel the pulse of your blood beneath hot skin. A small breath shudders out of your lips and his lips twitch with a smirk. “You think it’s fun, teasing me like this?”

“Maybe,” you whisper. Bucky crooks a brow. His hand descends, actions languid as if he has all the time in the world. When his fingers purposefully catch on the elastic waistband of your panties, your breath catches. Small, imperceivable, but not to him. Your lips twitch, smiling. 

“How long were you going to let me sleep, huh? Knowing that you look like this…” Bucky taunted, his voice husky and heavy with want. He strains against his boxers. Now with his right hand, Bucky drags the tips of his fingers up from your wrist, following the natural curve of your arm, until it strokes across your collarbones. You’re breathing heavier, eyes slipping shut as you track his precise movements. Bucky was used to toying with his prey. A primal instinct inside of him that you coaxed out. His thumb pushes up along the column of your throat before catching your chin in his hold. You gasp, eyes slowly opening to land on him. Bucky’s thumb traces the shape of your lower lip before pushing just-so, and you obey without question. He groans as you suckle on his digit. “So good for me, hm? Always know exactly what I want…”

Your eyes slide shut and you hum appreciatively at the praise. After the other night, playing cards, Bucky wonders if part of it is healing, for you to hear. Feeding that craving that you’ve harboured for a lifetime. He’ll happily deliver. He presses his thumb down against your tongue, easing your mouth open. Your eyes are hooded, pupils dilated, as you stare down at him, mouth now agape by his undoing. Bucky eases his thumb away, over the plumpness of your lip, onto your chin, back down your throat. He rolls his lower lip between his teeth as he watches a damp trial of saliva follow his finger’s path. Fingerprint still moist, he brushes it over your clothed nipple - a touch so light, it’s merely hypothetical. It doesn’t matter though. You let out a whine, preening at his teasing, chasing more. Bucky loves this. Smiles slightly: smug. He loves how trusting you are of him: to take care of you, to keep you safe, to make you feel good. And he will - he always will - but not yet. 

“Turn around for me, baby,” Bucky says. You don’t budge; a small pout shaping your lips. Another featherlight roll of his fingers over your pebble nipple and you yield with a pleased sigh. “I wanna see the back.”

You hook your right leg back over to your left to pivot, and then you’re settled back on his stomach. He can feel the sticky dampness of your panties brush against him. But there isn’t much room to focus on that when his mind turns blank at the sight of a thin string of fabric slid between your ass. Bucky extends a finger and plucks it from your skin. He lets it go as if curious, and it flicks back into place. You let out a startled gasp. Bucky pushes up onto his elbows. He’s obsessed with you, unsure if there’s ever been any other thought, any other thing, more valuable, more beautiful, than you. Before he can tease you again, you're leaning slightly forward, back arching away from him, and then your fingers brush against his clothed dick. 

“Oh fuck,” Bucky gasps, eyes clenching shut. And then - that fucking laugh again. You stroke him knowingly over the cotton of his boxers. You know the sweet, inexplicable torture it brings him. The craving for more like some petulant greedy child. Bucky’s head rocks back, mouth agape with unspoken cusses, as you lick a long stripe along the fabric. If only Hydra could see him now; how laughable it must be, to see their prized asset reduced to nothing more than mush from a few gentle touches. Bucky wouldn’t have it any other way. 

You inch his boxers down over his waist and he instinctively lifts his hips to help. They pool at his mid-thigh; your palm presses on the thick expanse of his thigh’s muscle for balance. Then, with your other hand, you begin to stroke him. Long, slow, evil touches that have him gasping, groaning, damn-near whining. There’s a crude sound as you spit and then you’re taking him into your mouth. Bucky’s head tosses back and he lets out a string of curses that should wind him up in purgatory. You’re hot and wet and so fucking good as you take him, deeper and deeper, moaning around his length like this is good for you too. And it is. Least from the way you’re rocking against his stomach, searching for some kind of friction - anything to alleviate the throbbing ache Bucky knows is there. It brings him back. Guides his hands as they lay on your hips, tugging you gently towards his face. You hum around his dick, unwilling to move, and Bucky chuckles, breathless, against the inside of your thigh. 

“Just try’na return the favour, doll,” he tells you. You turn pliant then; soft and malleable like clay in his hold. Your thighs cage over his head in a lazy straddle. Bucky kisses your inner thigh. Then, he gently bites  down, sinking his teeth just enough to let it pinch, but never to let it hurt. You moan around his length and he groans, licking over the faux injury he’s made. Then, with shaking fingers, Bucky pulls your panties down, hooking them to the side with one finger. You hover above his face and- you’re soaked. Wet and swollen and fucking delectable. Bucky hums appreciatively at the sight, as if he were a starved man presented with a five-star meal. And he was. He fucking was. The smell - the fucking thought. His thumb can’t help but slide through you, parting you, the sticky slick gummy on his fingertip, and you whine against his dick, momentarily losing rhythm. The cool air isn’t exactly unpleasant as your face collapses against his thigh. 

“Fuck, Bucky,” you sigh. He circles your clit; drunk from the mere sounds of your slick. “Please.”

He’s too far gone to tease you much further. He’s practically salivating. Bucky’s greedy: he grabs your waist in a mean grip as he pulls you down to his mouth. He laps up every last drop of you. Moans at the heady taste, poignant and perfect, as he fucks you with his tongue. You’re a mess: gasping and whimpering around his dick, rhythm sloppy, brain nothing but a fog of hazy pleasure. Bucky doesn’t care. It’s perfect. You’re perfect. He sucks on your clit; grins at the feeling of your nails pressing into his thigh. You’re both close. He knows it. Feels it. His spare hand slides up your thigh and he pulls back enough to slip a finger inside - your walls pulling him in - and that: that seems to be your undoing. You clench around him, rutting helplessly, pathetically, against his face, and Bucky doesn’t let up, kissing and sucking and tasting whatever the fuck he can until you’re nothing but a moaning mess. You come hard and the minute you do, his dick slides farther back into your throat. You pull away but it’s too much: all he can manage is a shuddering moan as he tumbles over the edge. It seems you try to take as much as you can, swallowing most of his load, but you’re falling apart, and Bucky feels some paint his stomach. You collapse against his body, turning boneless. Bucky gently eases you down from his face so he can catch his breath. His lower face is sticky and sweet. Eyes slipping shut as he revels in the aftershocks, Bucky licks his lips and smiles appreciatively at the lingering taste. The room is noisy with heavy breathes as the two of you try to centre yourselves back on the planet. Yours are coming and going in little gasping pants. Bucky’s finger reassuringly rubs the bone of your hip. 

“You okay, doll?”

“Mhm,” you reply. Bucky blinks his eyes open. He nearly dies at the sight of you, slightly spread open as you lay on your front, on his stomach, head resting on his thighs. Sliding his hand down to your waist, you melt into his touch, practically weightless as he shuffles you until you're laying beside him, head tucked onto his chest. Bucky kisses your damp hairline. 

“Happy anniversary, baby,” he rasps. He doesn’t need to see your smile to feel it. Your fingers brush the thing smattering of hair on his chest. 

“Happy anniversary,” is your sweet reply. A minute passes and then, amused, you ask, “so, you’re a fan of the babydoll, then?”

“Is that what those things are called?” Bucky asks, feigning awe, and you giggle. He squeezes your waist and you laugh harder. He smiles. The universe sighs. Everything - everything - is as it should be. That’s how the two of you stay before you finally shuffle away (with lots of disapproving grunts from Bucky) to the bathroom. He stays put on the bed, pleasantly sedated, until he hears you call from the bathroom doorway: “I guess you’re not joining me, then?” No man has ever moved so fast in their life. 

One long, largely unproductive shower later, and you’re drying your hair in the bedroom. Bucky brews coffee, dressed in boxers and a tee-shirt. His eyes flash to the black bag he acquired last week.

“Do you think I should change my hair?” you ask, reemerging from the bedroom. 

“Don’t you like it?” he asks, pouring coffee into mugs. Yours has a little white cartoon cat on it. It’s smiling, eyes squeezed shut, and scarlet pink letters read ‘Purrfectly Content’ above it. Bucky’s has a rock on it. Not even a cartoon rock - just a regular old stone you could find at the side of the road. In block black writing it says ‘me before my coffee’. On the flip side of the mug is the same rock, but now the text reads ‘me after my coffee.’ Sam’s idea of a joke, Bucky thinks. 

“I don’t know. Getting kind of bored of it,” you murmur. You saddle up by his side and take your mug. Bucky brushes a strand of your hair out of your face as you have a sip. “Do you like it?”

“I like it,” he says. “But, doll, you could shave your hair off or grow it out like Rapunzel and I’d still love you.”

“Aw. We love a consistent man,” you tease, pinching his cheek in the way he so-called hates. Your eyes then drift to the black bag. Brows furrowing, you ask, “what’s that?”

“Your anniversary present.”

You look at him disapprovingly. “James. We said we weren’t doing presents.”

His brows raise. “What the hell would you call this morning then, hm?”

“I would call that…” You visibly fumble for words before saying, “a favor.”

“If that’s the case, don’t ever offer a favor to Sam.”

Laughing, smacking his chest gently, you shake your head. “Seriously though, we said no presents.”

“Come on, doll,” Bucky starts. He eases the mug from your hands and plants it on the counter. Then, retrieving the bag, he offers it out to you on a crooked metal finger. “You know I’m too old school for that.”

“Flowers would’ve been fine,” you mumble. You’re trying to play it cool, but Bucky can see you the excitement in your gaze as you eye the bag. 

“I get you flowers all the time. This is something more special, hopefully.”

Sighing, you accept the bag, meeting his eyes as you gratefully tell him, “thank you.”

If Bucky hadn’t long mastered hiding his emotions behind walls of indifference, he would have been fidgeting his fingers and wiggling on his toes like a pre-schooler as you carefully untie the black ribbon. Instead, he folds his arms across his broad chest, and watches with slightly bated breath as you remove the tissue paper. The gasp you let out rings in Bucky’s head like victory. Grinning, nearly shaking with anticipation, you ask, “did you really?”

“Maybe,” he grins. You giggle like a kid on Christmas as you pull three bottles of massage lotions out of the bag, followed by three corresponding oils. Bucky didn’t know much about anything when it came to things outside of war and fighting, but you’d gone on and on about these specific massage products enough for him to know that these were the top of the line. You could never justify the purchase. Dropping triple figures on things like that was obscene, you’d said once. But Bucky knew how badly you wanted them and now seeing your reaction, he wanted to go back and buy you the whole store. 

“I think those were the ones you pointed out the other week, but if it’s not then the lady at the shop said we can take them back and swap them out–” Products safely deposited on the kitchen counter, you throw your arms around Bucky’s neck. 

“Thank you, thank you, thank you!” you chant happily into his shoulder. Bucky wraps his arms around you and you’re vibrating. “I love them, thank you! They’re perfect, you’re perfect, I–”

The kiss Bucky interrupts you with tastes like promise and nostalgia and home. When you break apart, you whisper against his smiling lips “thank you” one last time, as if for good luck. 

Later, as you and Bucky are getting ready for your dinner plans - revisiting the restaurant Bucky took you to for the first date - his phone rings. He glances away from the bathroom mirror, cleaning his razor in the sink, to check the caller ID. Pink Plus Fertility Clinic. His heart summersaults in his throat; his stomach constricts like a boa; his lungs go taut. He cracks the bathroom door open and listens out. Your muffled singing-along to your music through the bedroom door tells him you’re distracted. Easing the door shut, he answers the call. “Hello?”

“Hello, I’m calling to talk to Mr Barnes,” a receptionist politely informs. 

“Speaking,” Bucky says. He swallows the lump in his throat but it won’t budge. 

“Oh, perfect. This is Pink Plus Fertility Clinic calling to follow-up on some tests you completed with us last week. We have the results ready for you. Would you prefer for me to schedule an appointment for you to speak to Doctor Cuthebert in person to have the results delivered, or are you comfortable with receiving them over the phone now?”

Bucky hesitates. It was your anniversary. If he was dealt the blow that having children wasn’t in the cards for him, then Bucky’s not sure if he can stomach a meal and pretend everything is okay. Not when he’s just had someone reach into his chest and cut a chunk out of his heart. At the same time, the anticipation would be equally as distracting. He’d feel restless waiting for the appointment. Anxious like a soldier waiting for the order to charge into enemy fire. Perhaps it would be good to rip the bandaid off now.

“Now is fine,” he decides. 

“Wonderful,” the receptionist replies and is it? Is it wonderful? Bucky hadn’t let himself feel something as dangerous as hope in so long, but after meeting you, he’d gotten more and more inclined to letting himself. His metal fingers grip the sink rim so tight he’d be worried about cracking the porcelain if he wasn’t so distracted. He holds his breath, terrified to do anything to interrupt the phone line, as he waits for the woman to speak. “Well, Mr Barnes, I am happy to inform you that it is good news.”

Bucky’s fingers tighten by a hair. 

“All the tests show that your sperm is strong and healthy. There are absolutely no anomalies or abnormalities that we can detect which may have been caused by your serum. In fact, the only so-called abnormal thing is the strength. We can’t determine whether this is biological or due to your artificial enhancements, but your sperm is especially strong.”

“What does that mean?” Bucky breaths. 

“It means that penetrating the membrane of an egg would be easier than for most. So, essentially, impregnating someone would yield higher probabilities. We strongly caution using some form of contraceptive if you are not planning on having children,” the lady clinically reports. Bucky’s lips are moving but no sounds come out. His head is still parsing together the words. Strong. Healthy. No abnormalities. As if to seal the deal, the receptionist affirms, “you can relax, Mr Barnes. You should have no issues conceiving healthy children.”

Bucky doubles over as if someone has winded him. His eyes press shut as he lets the words wash over him like an ice bath. And then, very slowly, he begins to smile. It grows into a full-blown grin in a matter of seconds. “Thank you,” he hears himself say, clearing his throat, “for, uh, letting me know. That’s good news, huh?”

“Very good news,” the receptionist affirms. Bucky chuckles silently, shaking his head, because finally - the cards were falling in his favor. “Any nice plans to celebrate?”

“It’s actually mine and my partner’s anniversary today. We’re about to head out for dinner,” Bucky says. 

“Well! Perfect timing, huh? I can’t imagine a better scene to deliver the good news,” she chirps. Bucky’s smile falters slightly. Right: he still needed to tell you. Not just about the results of the test, but about the fantasy he’s been brewing in his mind - the one that had bubbled into a kaleidoscope of wishes and hopes and unnamed plans. “I won’t keep you any longer then! We’ll send an email copy of the results to you to review, and a copy has been added to your medical files - including those held by Wakanda. If you do have any questions or concerns in the meantime, don’t hesitate to get in touch, okay, Mr Barnes?”

“Right, yeah. Got it. Thank you, again.”

“Anytime. Take care!” With that, the line clicks off. 

Bucky stands statuesque in the bathroom. He listens to the steady drip-drip of the bathroom tap and it works like a metronome to his racing thoughts. He’d just been handed the key to a door for his future, but now he was too scared to open it. The notion of being able to have children had opened up a new fear in Bucky: what if you didn’t want children, after all? He debates bringing the conversation up when he finds you in the bedroom, but you smile at him through the mirror - as beautiful as the morning sunrise - and he decides to wait until dinner. Over entrees, he considers broaching the topic, but you begin to pass an anecdote of the 'Great Flan Disaster of 2016', and Bucky pockets it for the main course. As the two of you indulge in pasta that should have sonnets written about it, Bucky’s opener is hijacked by a spirited debate about which genre of music trumps. The mere idea of discussing children is nothing more than folklore by dessert - not when you’re undressing Bucky with your eyes from across the table, an unspoken and unapologetic passion playing dangerously in your gaze. And so, Bucky doesn’t mention it. He doesn’t bring it up for a month, in fact - not even as the two of you are making your way across the country to Sam’s family’s home in Delacroix, Louisiana, for the Fourth of July weekend. 

Your groan has Bucky looking over from the driver’s seat of the rented car. He frowns. “Still not gone?”

“No,” you sigh, rubbing your forehead with the tips of your fingers. “God, it’s like that gross sick feeling, y’know? Like when your mouth won’t stop salivating.”

Bucky cringes sympathetically. His flesh hand reaches across the console to rest on your thigh. You offer a weak smile. The entire plane ride you’d felt queasy on and off. Despite doing your best to pretend you felt fine, Bucky could hear your elevated heart rate through your t-shirt, and he’d noted the thin sheen of sweat uncharacteristically dampening your forehead. “We’re nearly at Sam and Sarah’s - then you can have a lie down, hopefully sleep it off.”

“Hopefully,” you agree. “I hope it’s just travel sickness, or some bug that’ll pass in twenty-four hours. I was looking forward to this weekend.”

“I know,” Bucky hums. “It’ll still be good. Just take it an hour at a time, yeah?”

When Bucky pulls up onto a dirt road that winds and bends through marshland and trees lush with greenery, you let out a small gasp of delight. He smiles to himself. Louisiana had weirdly named itself as a home in Bucky’s mind. Around Sam and his family, Bucky felt as though he embraced a different side of himself. One less prone to frowning, and glaring, and assuming the worst. The house is a two-story wooden structure, painted duck-egg blue. There’s a wooden porch protruding off the side decorated with outdoor seating. In the yard is a swingset for the boys, and a collection of padding still strapped to trees that Sam had used when practising with the shield. A long wooden jetty stretches out into the water in the distance. There’s a sign on it that’s half-rotten, delineating rules that Bucky is certain the boys don’t follow. Sam wanders out onto the porch at the sound of tires approaching; he stands, arms folded over his chest, with a small smile as Bucky parks. You gladly accept his embrace after making your way over. 

“Good to see you, little miss,” Sam tells you. You pull away and turn to Bucky, who joins you by your side - a suitcase in hand. Sam catches his metal hand in a choreographed handshake. “How was the journey?”

“Long,” you chuckle. 

“This one here’s been feeling sick most the way,” Bucky says, jutting his head towards you. 

“Well, nothing like a bit of Louisiana sun and hospitality to cure you right on up,” Sam reassures you. With that, he wordlessly leads the way into the house. It smells of warm linens and sandalwood; decorated with handmade signs and crocheted blankets and wooden ornaments. On the blue painted boarding of the interior walls are framed pictures and elementary school crafted birthday and Christmas cards. A woman steps out of the kitchen, wiping her hand on a towel, and her face lights up with a smile at the sight of you and Bucky. 

“About time,” Sarah says jovially. You’re welcomed into another embrace. “Nice to finally meet you.”

“You too,” you warmly return. Pulling away, you take in your surroundings as you say, “your house is beautiful. Thank you so much for having us.”

“Of course,” she replies. “God knows Sam here makes enough damn food to feed the whole town. We could use some help.”

“The boys are at a kids gathering in the town. They’ll be back in time for dinner,” Sam says. He turns to face you. “Why don’t you try and get some sleep, if you’re still feeling rough? We got a spare room set up for y’all.”

“I might have to take you up on that,” you admit, smiling gratefully. Pressing a kiss to Bucky’s cheek, you follow Sarah upstairs, falling into conversation as you go. Sam helps Bucky with the bags. They catch-up as they prepare the barbeque outside. Talk about work, politics and sports. Reminisce about the ‘good old days’, and Steve, and Fourths that have been and gone. When Sarah returns, she’s singing your praises. She mixes a pitcher of sangria and another of lemonade. Lays the outdoor table with a red cloth and lets Sam decorate it with the nice plates. Music keeps the mind busy as the three work: hanging bunting for the boys; preparing plates with burger trimmings; tossing salad in a glass bowl. As the afternoon curls in, after Sarah and Sam have left to collect the boys, you emerge with sleep-ridden eyes. 

“Hey,” Bucky smiles. You settle into his side as he stands out in the yard. “Feeling better?”

“A little,” you admit. “Got kinda dizzy earlier. But I managed to get some sleep so I’m ready for Patriotic festivities.”

Bucky chuckles. “And where better to have them than Captain America’s humble house, huh?”

“Where better,” you muse. 

Not long after, Sam’s truck trundles up the driveway of the house. The two boys leap out the back before the engine’s shut off - Sarah’s scoldings falling on deaf ears - and they make a b-line towards Bucky. He grins, jokingly fighting them off, letting them climb onto his back and dangle off his metal arm. The chorus of “Uncle Bucky! Uncle Bucky!” warms his heart. They then become distracted by the bunting and party blowers and bubbles. Sam starts on the grill and Sarah fills glasses with ice cold drinks. You sway your head along to the rhythm of a seventies acoustic song as it hums through the speakers. Bucky smiles. It feels like family. It feels like home. 

When you’re all sat around the table, tucked into your meals, Cass asks you through a mouthful of half-eaten chicken wing: “What’d you do for work?” 

“I’m a masseuse,” you reply, forking a tomato into your mouth. 

“What’s that?”

“Like an assassin?” AJ asks, excited. 

“No,” you laugh. “It’s a person who gives massages.”

“Like back rubs? My dad used to give us back rubs when we felt sick,” Cass tells you. 

“Well, a good back rub does do wonders. What I do is a little more complicated than that though,” you smile. “I’ve spent years studying the human body. I know all the pressure points - all the parts that bring the most relaxation. Learnt the tricks of the trade.”

“Pressure points?” AJ echoes with curiosity. You nod. “Can you show us?”

“Show me first!” Cass interjects loudly, tossing a hand up like he’s volunteering for a game. 

“Boys - we don’t demand our houseguests to give massages at the dinner table,” Sarah sighs, smiling ruefully at her children. 

“It’s okay, I don’t mind,” you reassure. Rising from your seat, you gesture for Cass to stand. He hops to attention and races around to meet you. Laughing, you turn him so his back faces you. “Ready?” The enthusiastic nod brings more laughs from the table. Bucky watches as your fingers fall just below his neck, near to the rise of his shoulders. Pressing gently with your thumbs, a precise pressure softly digs into Cass’s skin through his t-shirt. He lets out a surprised yelp as his body shivers, shoulders shooting up in reflex. You giggle at his reaction as he slips out of your touch. AJ’s up like a shot: “do me! Do me!” The reaction is even better - this time you earn a shriek. Bucky grins as the boys hound you with questions and you try your best to keep up. Bucky knew the boys would like you - he just didn’t realise how much he’d like it too. 

Long after dinner is over, and the festivities have faded into the tepid summer breeze of the evening, Bucky sits outside on the porch with Sam. The sky is that dusky blue that casts all objects as shadows and silhouettes. Cicadas and crickets chirp up a symphony. Distantly, an owl hoots. The susurrus of wind through leaves eases Bucky’s soul as he sips his beer. Their game of poker has long been abandoned. Sam had nearly lost thirty dollars to Bucky in an hour. You’re inside somewhere with Sarah, talking over a shared bottle of wine. It didn’t surprise him how well the two of you clicked. 

“The boys might have a new favourite houseguest,” Sam speaks into the quiet. Bucky chuckles. 

“Think I can live with being demoted.”

“You’re going soft, man,” Sam sighs, not an ounce of disdain in his tone. “You used to be ruthless. Feared by thousands. Now you’re a second away from singing as you walk down the street.”

“I don’t sing,” Bucky mutters. 

“Not yet,” Sam chuckles. “Give it another month and I’ll bet she’ll have you acting like you’re in a Goddamn musical.”

“Starting to get the feeling you’re just bitter when I’m happy,” Bucky joshes. 

“Nah, man,” Sam says. His tone turns serious and Bucky catches his eye as he tells him, “I’m happy for you. Truly.”

Bucky gives a small smile. He offers his beer in thanks and Sam clinks the neck of his against it. From reluctant friends, to borderline enemies, to co-workers, to brothers: Bucky appreciated Sam for the hand he’d offered every time he’d been knocked down. “I forgot to tell you - I took your advice.”

“You got a system reboot?”

“Hilarious,” Bucky deadpans. “I went to the fertility clinic.”

“Oh. Well…shit,” Sam stammers. He sits forward in his chair; blue jeans stretching. “And?”

“And…it was good news. Really good news, in fact.”

Sam lets out a whoop. Clinking his bottle against Bucky’s once more, he grins wildly as he says, “I knew it! Tinman’s still got it! Man, you must be a medical marvel or something! Could go into museums for having the world’s oldest functioning sperm!”

“Please, say it louder,” Bucky grumbles sarcastically. Sam’s voice carries over the marsh as he laughs. A brotherly smack to the knee follows. 

“Congrats, man! You guys must be at it like rabbits now, huh?”

A part of Bucky wants to hit Sam. He might’ve, if it wasn’t for the small pit of dread his comment reopened. All he manages is a weak smile and shake of his head. The beer swirls in his gut like circling a plughole. Bucky still hadn’t told you. He’d been able to identify why he’d been putting it off. A part of him was scared you’d shrug the idea of having kids off. Say it wasn’t something you were interested in. And he could deal with that - really, he could - but it wouldn’t be the nicest conversation to add to his roster. Another part of him, the less rational part, fed into his insecurities. It whispered taunts to him that maybe you would want a family, just not with him. Bucky knew that was ridiculous. You loved him - there was no doubt in his mind about that - but this was different. This was a level of intimacy, of commitment, that triumphed all others. Bucky wasn’t scared whether you’d say no, but instead, how you would say no. 

After claiming his win from Sam, Bucky renters the house just before midnight (pockets now thirty dollars heavier). It’s cloaked in the silence that comes when  people are sleeping. No television or radio. No oven humming or sink running. Then, Bucky can make out quiet voices through a half-closed door. He isn’t sure why he creeps forward to hear better. He knows it’s wrong to eavesdrop but something is telling him to indulge, just this once. His eyes glance through the crack to make out the backs of your head. You're facing Sarah, sitting on the couch, and she’s listening to you with a sympathetic expression. Not quite sad, not quite happy. 

“...wouldn’t even know how to tell him…” you finish. Sarah hums and nods. Bucky’s brows furrow. Tell who? Him. Tell him what? 

“Well,” Sarah begins, “when it was me, with the boys, I felt the same way.”

“You did?”

“Oh yeah, definitely,” Sarah firmly nods. “I think it’s best to find out first, and then you can go from there.”

“You think so?” You sound worried. Anxious. Bucky wants to push the door open and demand context, and he also wants to turn tail and run. He does neither, standing firmly in place, but before he can overhear more - Sam’s letting the back door close behind him. You startle and turn in your seat, and Bucky quickly sidesteps out of the doorway. It wasn’t as if you would be able to see him anyway, but he wants to be safe. Sam mutters something passingly about Bucky cheating at poker as he makes his way upstairs to bed. “James?” you ask, pushing the door open. He turns to face you: Sarah’s in tow. “Hey! I thought you’d already gone upstairs.”

“No, we were on the porch, talking,” he says. You give a small nod. He can see the flicker of panic in your eyes, worried that he might have overheard. Why? he wonders: why are you so worried? 

“Well, we should probably all call it a night, huh?” you say, glancing back to Sarah, who smiles with a nod. Bucky doesn’t ask what you were talking about as you both retire to bed, though that doesn’t stop him from thinking about it for the rest of the trip.  

-

Bucky has been trained to notice change. He can pick up on a slight inconsistency of pattern. He makes note of a broken twig on a path just trodden: a sign of being followed. He’s careful and precise and deadly. It’s hard to kick old habits. In his head, he’s created a list of traits. Has one for every person he knows, including you. If one thing was amiss, Bucky was on high alert. And this past week? Everything had been amiss. It isn’t anything significant. You haven’t been ignoring him or avoiding him. But you’re home a little later than usual. You linger in the bathroom. Sneak calls and texts when you think he isn’t looking. Bucky trusts you unconditionally. He could wake with you over him yielding a knife and a pillow and he’d assume nothing but innocence. He knew you wouldn’t cheat on him. And yet, here you were - keeping a secret. 

Barbara chewed Bucky’s ear off at coffee. She complained about Darren and Aunt Millie. Worried about you tirelessly. Grilled him relentlessly, shamelessly, about anything that passed her aged mind. Bucky liked her company. She’d offer up stories about you that you would likely die if you overheard. Adorable baby tales and cringey anecdotes from your teenage-hood and young adult life in New York. The pride in her voice when she spoke about you was admirable. Now that Bucky knew more about your past, he could appreciate the love Barbara provided for you in a whole new way. That wasn’t to say that Barbara couldn’t talk for America. Bucky had finally managed to call it quits after the second coffee. 

As he steps into the apartment, he calls out, “I’m back!” before toeing off his boots. It’s quiet, but not silent. You’re home. Bucky frowns slightly and wanders into the living room. You’re sitting on the sofa, head tilted down as if you’re staring at something, and Bucky hates the way that the room feels like it’s bubbling on the surface. Like a chemical reaction waiting to happen. “Doll?”

You startle as if you hadn’t heard him come in. Glancing up and over your shoulder at him, the smile Bucky’s met with is fake. Queasy. “Hey. When’d you get back?”

“Just now,” Bucky says, nodding to the door. Then, tentatively, he asks, “everything okay?”

Letting out a shallow breath, you roll your lips together. “Can you come sit for a second?”

Bucky does as you ask, joining you on the sofa. Your fingers are fiddling mindlessly; nails picking at the nail varnish on your left hand. It’s unnatural, seeing you uneasy. It’s like watching a person talk backwards. “Baby, you’re scaring me. Is everything okay?”

“Um…s-sort of,” you quietly murmur. Sighing, you rub your eyes before announcing, “Look - I’m just gonna tell you something, okay? And then…then you can ask questions, and respond however you feel best fits, m’kay?”

“A’right,” Bucky breathes. 

The swallow takes visible effort as you steady yourself on the sofa. Bucky’s foot twitches nervously. Alarm bells ring in his head. Something’s wrong! Something’s wrong! He pushes them away as you begin to talk. “D'you remember the other week, when went to see Sam and Sarah and the boys, and I felt kinda sick, and dizzy?"

“I remember,” Bucky nods. 

Closing your eyes as if mustering courage, you say, “well, I talked to Sarah about it, and she said it sounded a whole lot like how she felt when she was pregnant with AJ and Cass. I told her I wasn’t. That I couldn’t be, ‘cause I’m on the pill and…Well, she said to take a test just in case.”

Bucky’s throat closes up. He thinks he nods but he can’t be sure. It doesn’t matter anyway. You’re not looking at him. A fleck of nail varnish falls from your nail and onto your thigh. 

“So I did. And…I’m not.” Your eyes open and glance up to meet his. “Pregnant, that is. I’m not.”

“Oh,” Bucky sounds. Something in him rattles. 

“But it got me thinking,” you continue, licking your lips. “About that kind of thing. And I know we’ve never talked about it, and you’ve never brought it up but neither have I. I guess I’ve always wanted to but…I never knew when. Those fucking unspoken boundaries again, huh?” You try with a weak laugh. Bucky tries a smile in reply. He doesn’t think it’s very telling. “But when the test was negative…I was relieved, of course. Not quite ready for a curveball pregnancy - that’s for sure. But then, I was kinda sad? Like, yeah it would’ve been a shock to the fucking system, but…also, maybe it would’ve been nice? To have one. A baby, I mean.”

Bucky isn’t sure if he’s breathing anymore. He’s scared to move, as if it might shatter this conversation like glass. Your eyes struggle to hold his gaze, and your voice is soft and timid as you ask, “so, I guess what I’m wondering is if you even…want children.”

Words are slow to form in his mind. It’s a flurry of sentences and pictures and memories. A strange hazy maelstrom of what could be and what isn’t and what he wants. Bucky isn’t sure how long he sits there, letting the weight of your question roll onto his shoulders, but eventually, he hears himself speak. “Can I tell you something?”

“Could you maybe answer my question first?” you nervously laugh. Bucky smiles smally. 

“It’s an answer. I promise.”

“Then, yeah. You can tell me something,” you nod. Bucky nods back. And finally, the secret he’s been harbouring for half a year, is bared before you.

“After the dinner party we had when we first moved in, I spoke to Sam. He’d made a joke - I doubt you’ll even remember, really, but he said–”

“--that your swimmers might be dust,” you finish, rolling your eyes. “I remember. Could tell how much that psyched you out.”

And that. It’s things like that which make Bucky love you the way he does. The silent noticing but not always telling. The unspoken agreement to have his back, no matter what, knowing that he’ll have yours. Any anxiety that was lingering before vanishes like fog on a windscreen. 

“Yeah, it did. So, I went to a clinic and got some tests.” Your eyes grow wide. Lips move as if to speak, but you don’t. Bucky can’t help his smile as he tells you, “and they were positive. All good news. Everything’s healthy. Functioning as it should, so to speak. The serum ain’t even made a mark, as far as they can tell. Just normal, healthy swimmers.”

“Not dusted or moth-bitten?” you murmur, smiling slightly. Bucky chuckles. He nods. 

“I wanted to tell you. Believe me, I’ve wanted to tell you for a while but…” 

You grin. “Unspoken boundaries?”

Laughing, Bucky nods. “That. And a worry, that maybe you wouldn’t want to. With me, or just in general.”

“Bucky, I–”

“--But now,” he fights on, “now I know how stupid I was being ‘cause all this time, I guess we were thinking the same thing.”

“It’s okay,” you say gently, taking his hands in yours. Your fingers run smoothly over his knuckles: one metal, one flesh. You hold both with equal tenderness. “We always find our way back to one another, hm?”

Bucky presses his forehead against yours. He watches as your eyelashes tease at your cheeks when your eyes close. In a quiet voice, hushed like little children passing secrets, Bucky tells you, “so, to answer your question: yes, I want children. I want children with you.”

The laugh you let out is light and giddy. Nearly wet with unshed tears. “When?”

“Doll, I’ve been on this earth about five decades too many. I’ve been presumed dead twice and lived too many lives for one man. Time don’t really have much meaning to me anymore. I ain’t the one whose gonna carry it, and deal with all the crap pregnancy throws your way, and go through labour. But I can promise you I’ll be there for you every step of the way, during and after. So, whenever you’re ready - I’ll be here waiting.”

Your hand caresses his jawline. “That’s one hell of a speech, Sergeant.”

“Had some time to practice it,” Bucky whispers with a smile. Your laugh is his remedy. No drug on earth compares to you. Your eyes open into his. There’s untold stories hidden between your layers. Secrets you’ll maybe never share with him. Fears he hopes you will, so he can help shoulder them when they get too heavy. Dreams for the future that now, for the first time, feel within grasp. You hold him like he’s something precious. Your skin makes him want to cry. You’re so fucking special. The girl who found the meaning of the world in a papercut. The girl who'd healed Bucky with a simple tender touch.

“I’m ready,” you whisper. Bucky smiles. The universe sighs. And finally, James Barnes is right where he was supposed to be, this whole time. 

holy cow this is long taglist: (please let me know if you want to be added/removed, or if the tag isn't working!) : @abslvrs13 | @s0phreakingfunny | @mayanneaa | @stevesstranger | @thisismysafeescape | @nooneshallfindme | @pastelbabygirl19 | @araunahj | @lmaowhatt | @raineshua | @darlingchronicles | @jjsfavgirl | @vampiriito | @love-at-first-sight-23 | @delusionalxreader | @bee-43 | @zoroforlife | @yujyujj | @brie-mode-activated | @goldengubs | @sebastians-love | @panbotter | @writingunderneathawillow | @buckybarneswife125 | @sleepysongbirdsings | @03michi01 | @person-005 | @rrosiitas |

[leyannrae]

https://www.instagram.com/reel/DLOmnEaOvVt/?igsh=cmtsZWFrODlqZ2Q2 this is mafia!bucky and his son 😆😆

IF Bucky and Mal has a baby boy, half of their conversations would go like this.

Bucky reaches for his son, gently encouraging him to stand up. "Cmon. We have to go, the girls are waiting for us."

Baby Barnes ignores him and keeps on playing with his new toy, a colorful action figure given to him by Bee.

Bucky sighs. Drops his shoulders. Stares at the ceiling. And wonders where his son got his stubbornness from. Couldn't have been from him.

He would continue this standoff but you're downstairs, waiting to start movie night. "Malyshka said let's go."

That's all the baby needed to hear.

"My Misha!" his son beams, immediately pushing to his feet, legs wobbling.

Bucky's gaze sharpens as he takes his little hand. "Our Malyshka."

He swears his son returns his glare. "My Misha."

The argument continues during the walk to the living room and gets more intense when Bucky tries to kiss you, only to have your son shove his hands between your faces.

Bucky has to admit defeat when his son breaks out the bottom lip. Even Bucky doesn't have a defense against that and the baby knows it.

Fine. At least he has his sweet Bee.

Bucky grins down at her, arms opening. "You can sit next to me, Bumblebee."

She starts to skip over when a little voice rings out. "My BeeBee"

And just like that she changes course with a "sorry Papa, be rights back" and runs to her brother.

You carefully hid your grin when Bucky takes the seat on your other side and slumps down with his head on your shoulder. Bucky glances up at you, baleful blue eyes on your face. "You're all traitors."

"You love us."

Bucky flashes a grin, the same one plastered on the two mini mes beside you. "Damn right I do."

[leyannrae]

Can we get Reader’s first Mother’s Day after Eliza is born? I’m imagining Eliza in a little “I 🩷 Mommy” onesie.

Also manifesting a heartfelt moment between Reader & Ryan ok byeeeee ✌🏻

Eliza in onesie? Check. Heartfelt moment with Ryan? Check. Cheesiness? Check.

Words: 6.4k

[As You Wish masterlist]

A low whining starts off slow but grows in both volume and intensity. The moment it registers in Eddie’s sleeping brain, he blinks his eyes open and is quick to grab the baby monitor and turn the sound down so it doesn’t wake you. Gently, he sets the monitor back down on his nightstand and rolls to look over his shoulder, checking to see if you’re still asleep. 

A sleepy smile grows on Eddie’s face as he watches you, still out like a light, lips parted, and curled up with the comforter tucked up over your shoulder. If he didn’t have to get up to get your daughter, your husband would burrow under the blankets and cuddle up against you for the rest of the morning. But today is all about you and that starts with Eddie getting up bright and early so you don’t have to.

The moment the door to Eliza’s nursery cracks open, her whines go from half-hearted to insistent. She knows someone is there and she is going to make damn sure they hear her and come get her. 

“Hey, there’s my little sunshine,” Eddie says as he steps into the nursery. 

Eliza watches him with her wide brown eyes as he goes over to her pink curtains, parting them to let some light filter into the room. The sun isn’t even fully out yet, but the brightening gray sky provides enough of a shine to see by.

“How’d you sleep, hmm?” Eddie asks as he picks the seven-month-old up out of her crib. 

Her chubby little fingers instantly grab at the shoulder of Eddie’s faded Hellfire shirt. She sighs contently when her dad presses a few kisses into the wispy baby hairs at her temple. 

“You hungry?” 

The rest of the house is silent as the two make their way to the kitchen. Eliza’s little hums and coos keep her occupied, like she’s having some sort of conversation, as Eddie sets her into her Disney princess highchair.

“I’ll heat up a bottle and then we’ll go watch some TV, okay?” Eddie asks the baby through a yawn.

He receives no reply as he pulls a prepared baby bottle out of the refrigerator and pops it into the microwave. As it heats up, Eddie goes around the kitchen, pulling out a frying pan, a spatula, and some cooking spray. Eliza watches with curiosity, but the moment the microwave beeps, her eyes snap in that direction, and she whines to get the attention of her father.

“I’m coming, I’m coming,” Eddie says, ruffling the tiny bit of hair that Eliza has as he passes by her.

The milk passes the wrist temperature test, so Eddie scoops his daughter up and makes his way into the living room with her. 

“Okay,” he says through another yawn. “What should we watch? Let’s see what’s already in the DVD player. Oh, you like Hercules. Perfect.”

Eddie presses play on the remote and settles down on the couch with Eliza. He kicks out his plaid pajama clad legs and rests his feet on the coffee table as he situates Eliza against his body so he’s best able to feed her. 

The little girl eagerly accepts her food, snuggling back against her dad’s chest as she takes over the responsibility of holding the bottle. Her eyes remain trained on the screen as she drinks, Eddie becoming invested in the movie as well. He even starts to sing to her as she finishes up the last of her milk.

“Like a shooting star, I will go the distance

I will search the world, I will face its harms

I don’t care how far, I can go the distance

‘Til I find my hero’s welcome waiting in your arms.”

Bright, shining eyes stare up at Eddie, making him chuckle once the song is over. Eliza blinks a few times, her dark long lashes kissing her cheeks with each flutter.

“Like when I sing?” Eddie asks her. 

As a response, she drops her empty bottle and snuggles even further into her dad’s chest, making herself as comfortable as possible. Eddie gently rests his head atop her softer, smaller one and keeps watching the movie with her. 

About halfway through the movie, Ryan comes down the hallway, rubbing his left eye as he trudges into the living room. 

“Morning, pal,” Eddie greets.

“Mornin’,” Ryan answers, waving to his little sister as he passes the couch. 

Eddie turns his head to tell his son, “I got everything you’ll need out for you. On the counter by the stove. Well, you’ll need to get the food parts out of the fridge, but I got the other stuff.”

“Thanks,” Ryan says as he continues on to the kitchen. 

Now instead of the movie, Eddie’s attention is on any and all sounds coming from the kitchen. Yes, he trusts Ryan and knows he’s a competent kid—but he’s still only a twelve-year-old kid. After about ten minutes, Eddie can’t take it any longer and places Eliza in her pink flowery walker so he can go check in on his oldest son. 

Ryan’s doing surprisingly well. He has all the ingredients that he needs out, and he has everything set up around him. He’s about to open the carton of eggs when Eddie raises his eyebrows.

“Did you wash your hands before you started cooking?”

“Oh, right.” 

As Ryan goes over to the sink, Eddie hears “Hi, Eliza!” come from the living room. The heavy tread that accompanies the voice lets Eddie know exactly where Luke is until the ten-year-old pops up beside him.

“I’m hungry,” Luke says. 

Eddie musses up the boy’s curls and nods his head.

“Eliza and I will go wake up the star of the day and then I’ll make you breakfast.”

The door to your bedroom slowly swings open, the heads of your husband and daughter popping in. The moment Eliza’s gaze falls on you, she immediately wants to be brought to your side. 

“Okay, okay,” Eddie whispers as he walks over to the bed. He sits down on his side of the bed and lets Eliza go, who wastes no time crawling over to you. She wraps her small arms around your head, hugging it, and making Eddie laugh. “Why don’t you give Mommy some kisses? Wake her up like Sleeping Beauty?”

Eliza just tilts her head to look up at him, not knowing what he means. Your husband demonstrates by leaning over and pressing a soft kiss to your forehead. This motion is what wakes you up, but you give no sign of being conscious, enjoying listening to your husband and daughter. 

The infant does her best to copy her father, but really just slobbers on your face, which makes you laugh and peek your eyes open at her.

“Well, hello there,” you say, wiping baby drool off of your nose before it can run down any farther. 

“Happy Mother’s Day!” Eddie cheers, one hand on Eliza’s back as if he’s encouraging her to say it as well.

“Thank you, Sweet Pea.” You press a kiss to your daughter’s cheek. “And thank you, baby.” Eddie leans in and gives you a peck on the lips. “Where are my boys?”

“Ryan is actually preparing your first gift of the day,” Eddie explains. “And Luke is either helping him or being a pain in the ass.”

As if he knew he was being talked about, Luke rushes into the room and does a running jump onto the bed.

“I’m heeeeeeere!”

Your middle child belly flops on the foot of the bed before army crawling up to you and wrapping an arm around your neck to press a kiss to your cheek.

“Happy Mother’s Day,” he says.

“Thank you, honey.”

You take a look around at everyone on the bed and stick your lower lip out in a pout.

“I’m missing my oldest.”

Eddie presses a kiss to the top of Eliza’s head and makes sure she’s securely between you and Luke before he gets up from the bed.

“Let me go check on him.”

While Eddie walks out of the room, Luke wriggles himself so his arms wrap around Eliza’s small frame and lays his head on your shoulder.

“So,” he says, looking up at you, his blue eyes full of excitement. “It’s a surprise but you gotta know so you’ll be ready on time so I’m gonna tell you my gift!”

“Ready on time?” you ask, brows pinching together.

“Mhmm!” Luke says, letting Eliza chew on his thumb. “The art studio near Dad’s work is having a special Mommy and Me painting day and you and I are gonna go!”

“Luke, that sounds perfect,” you say, a bright grin lighting up your face. “I can’t wait.”

Eddie steps back into the room with Ryan, who has batter smudged on his nose. 

“Happy Mother’s Day!” Ryan says, coming over and giving you a hug.

“Thank you, sweetheart. What have you been making a mess of?” you tease, poking his nose just below the smeared batter. 

“My present to you!” he says excitedly. “I made breakfast. Just for the two of us.”

A gasp of excitement escapes your lips, and you rest your forehead against Ryan’s.

“He’s even set up a nice place setting out on the porch for you guys,” Eddie adds. “I’ll be managing the gremlins inside.”

“Hey! Who you calling a gremlin?” Luke asks, sitting up and narrowing his eyes at his father.

As if in response, Eliza presses her hands flat against Luke’s stomach and gives him a push.

“He was talking about you too, you know,” Luke tells his baby sister with a sigh. She copies his sigh and flops dramatically across his lap. 

There’s a soft breeze outside as you sit across the table from Ryan, enjoying the French toast breakfast that he made for the two of you. Surprisingly, it tastes really good—better than any breakfast that’s been made for you in a long time.

“I think you should take over cooking for your dad from now on,” you tell Ryan with a playful smirk on your face. Before he can respond, your eyes catch on the mug sitting at your place setting. It’s white with a gold handle, and in the same golden color it says “World’s Best Mom” in a swoopy font.

For a moment you just stare at it, admiring it, and feeling your heart fill up with warmth. Carefully, you reach forward and lift the mug full of coffee towards you.

“This is beautiful, sweetheart,” you tell Ryan, looking at him over the rim of the mug. “Thank you.”

There’s a smile on Ryan’s face that’s a mixture of excitement and that mischievous look he used to get when he was a little boy. 

“You should look at the back,” he says as you’re mid-sip.

Once you swallow your mouthful of coffee, you slowly turn the mug one hundred and eighty degrees to take a look at the other side. The sight that greets you has your eyes immediately filling with tears. Printed on the mug is a family picture of the five of you—the very first picture the five of you had taken together after Eliza had been born. The newborn is still wrapped in her blanket from the hospital as you hold her while sitting on the couch, Eddie right beside you. On his other side is Luke, grinning that hundred-watt smile that can light up any room. And on your other side is Ryan, leaning in close because just before the picture was snapped, he had his head bent over Eliza and was telling her that she was home now. 

As much as you want to thank Ryan for the gift, your throat feels too constricted for words. 

“Oh my God,” you’re finally able to squeak out. It takes you another few moments before you can speak again. “Ryan, I absolutely love it. It’s perfect. Thank you, thank you, thank you.”

You set the mug back down on the table and open your arms for him. The oldest Munson boy pushes out of his chair and walks around the table, where you pull him into a bone crushing hug. He laughs as he wraps his arms around you to embrace you in return. Giving a little extra tug, you pull Ryan all the way into your lap, which has him laughing even harder. The pure joy his laughter radiates has you even more emotional than you already were. 

“I don’t care if you’re too big for this now!” you say, words muffled against his back. Ryan tries to situate himself a little better, so you loosen your grip but don’t let him go. He drops his head back, realizing he isn’t going to be let free just yet, and the way the back of his skull becomes cradled in the crook of your elbow reminds you of how you held Eliza when she was smaller. A chuckle stuffed with a dozen different emotions bubbles out of you and you smooth some of Ryan’s golden brown curls off his forehead. 

“I don’t care that you’ll be a teenager soon. I don’t care that you’re almost as tall as me. You’re still my little boy. You’ll always be my little boy.” 

A smile tugs at the corners of Ryan's mouth.

“I’m so lucky that you’re my son,” you say softly. 

Doe eyes that are so much like his father’s and his sister’s stare up at you from where his head rests on your arm, love and curiosity in his gaze.

“Did you love us before you loved Dad?” he asks.

It’s not something you expected him to ask, not something you thought about in a long time.

“That’s a tricky question,” you say, brows pinching together. “Because they’re different types of love. But, yeah, I did love you guys first. It was impossible not to after spending time with you.”

Ryan tilts his head, looking away pensively. He’s quiet and you wish you knew what was going on in his brilliant, beautiful mind.

“That’s pretty cool,” he finally says. “Some people have trouble finding the person they belong with. But you found three.” He smiles. “You were always meant to be my mom.”

The tears that began to build up earlier now fall down your cheeks and Ryan is quick to sit up and wipe them away. 

“I didn’t mean to make you cry!”

“It’s a good cry,” you assure him with a watery smile through your sniffles. “It’s very, very good.”

The second that you step through the door into the classroom where the Mommy and Me paint session is happening, Luke’s eyes go wide. All the art that hangs on the walls mesmerizes him as the two of you find a pair of empty canvases to sit at. 

Towards the back of the room, you and Luke take seats at a table on the left side. There are two easels perched on the table that hold blank white canvases. Between the two, there are a myriad of colored paints for you and Luke to share, as well as a variety of brushes of different sizes. 

You’re about to redirect Luke into a conversation with you because it seems like all the art surrounding him has him on overdrive, head constantly on a swivel in an attempt to see everything and you don’t want him to get overstimulated. But before you can open your mouth, the teacher at the front of the class calls for attention. 

“Happy Mother’s Day everyone!” she says. “I’m so glad that so many of you wanted to spend time painting with your moms today! I’m Hannah and I’ll be your instructor for this class.” Hannah explains the basic rules, how the class works, and offers to answer any questions. “Sometimes we have themes we work on in these classes, but I’m not here to tell you what to paint. But wouldn’t it be cool if each mom and child’s set of paintings had a common theme?”

Luke perks up at this, instantly loving the idea. He swivels to you in his seat and nods his head so emphatically he reminds you of a bobblehead doll.

When you’re given free rein to work on your paintings, Luke plucks a thin paintbrush out of the holder and taps it against his chin.

“What should we paint?”

“What about…the ocean?” you suggest. “You can paint the pirate ship that’s on top of the water and I can paint the mermaid that’s under the water.”

Luke gets very excited about your idea and nods enthusiastically once more. You swear, you feel like you have to stop him before a spring pops out of his neck. 

“Ooh! We should turn the canvases like this!” Luke tilts both canvases so they’re landscape and would look better one on top of the other.

“Very smart,” you praise. 

Luke appraises his canvas and decides where to start painting the bottom of his ship, when his eyes glance over to your blank canvas and he’s struck with an idea.

“You should make the mermaid look like Eliza! Not like…a baby, but with her color hair and eyes. And maybe a pink tail since she loves pink!”

You chuckle, eyes crinkling in the corner as you nod your head in agreement. “I can’t think of anyone who would make a more magical mermaid than your sister,” you say.

“You would,” Luke says casually as he dips his brush in some coppery-taupe paint. 

Warmth fills your body and your hand stalls on its way to grab a brush at his compliment. You make a mental note to ruffle his curls up later when your hands are clean and press a kiss to the top of his head.

“Like The Little Mermaid?” you ask.

“Yeah,” Luke says, brush stroking from side to side to paint the broad side of the ship. “But, like, the Disney one, not the Brother’s Grimm one where she doesn’t break the spell in time and turns into seafoam.”

Your giggle was pink, the same shade that you’d chosen for your mermaid’s tail.

Conversation flows and ebbs easily between the two of you as the ninety-minute class ticks by—it’s always easy and never boring with Luke around. Occasionally, you ask one another for advice on your paintings or ask how something is coming along. Once the instructor announces that time is up, you and Luke clean up your area while the teacher goes from table to table, taking pictures of the mothers and children with their paintings.

When she gets to you, you squat down so that you can hold your mermaid below Luke’s pirate ship. The ten-year-old holds his painting below his chin, giving the camera a proud smile, while you’re out to the side of the paintings, also sporting a proud smile. But your pride isn’t in your artwork—it’s in having Luke as your son.

When the two of you get back home, Luke eagerly shows off your paintings and Polaroid to Eddie, who, of course, loves them. The photo immediately goes on the fridge, held up by Luke’s favorite Shrek magnet, and the paintings are set on the entertainment unit until you and Luke can find a good place to hang them. 

“Someone says she just woke up from her nap and is ready to hang out with Mommy,” Eddie sing-songs as he walks into the living room from the hall, where he was picking up the little Liza Bean from her nap time. Your favorite part, though, is that Eliza is wearing a white onesie that says “I 💜 Mommy.”

“Well, look at you!” you say, gleefully accepting your daughter from your husband. “And I heart Eliza! Mwah!”

“She’s got a surprise for you, too,” Eddie says.

You cock an eyebrow at your husband. “Oh, really? If it’s in her diaper I’m handing her back to you.”

Eddie laughs and presses a kiss to your forehead.

“No, not in her diaper. But it is in the bathroom.”

“The bathroom?” you question. 

Eliza babbles as if she’s asking about the location as well.

“What are you asking for?” Eddie teases Eliza. “You know what it is.”

After a small boop to Eliza’s nose, Eddie slips his hand into yours and leads you into the master bathroom. Products in an array of colors are laid out on the counter and there’s a radio with a CD player tucked into the corner.

“What’s all this?” you ask, taking everything before you in. 

Eddie casually strolls over to the counter and begins to present the different items as if he’s Vanna White.

“Hair mask for Mom, baby oil for Eliza’s hair,” he begins. “Oh, don’t worry, before you ask, Eliza and I got help from the people at the store who actually knew what they were talking about. Right, baby girl? Right. Okay, so. Next, face mask for Mom, oatmeal lotion for Eliza’s face. Then, as you can see, you have a variety of scents to choose from for your luxurious bubble bath. And body lotion for Mom, and more baby oil for Eliza.”

You’re overwhelmed by everything Eddie prepared and look down at your daughter in your arms, smiling up at you with her single tooth proudly on display in her lower gums. You’re overcome with how adorable she is and need to nuzzle your face against hers.

“Are we having a Mommy and Eliza spa afternoon?”

“All her idea,” Eddie says, holding up his hands in front of him. 

With a chuckle, you step forward and press a soft, slow kiss to your husband’s lips.

“This is absolutely the sweetest thing ever,” you whisper against his mouth. “Thank you.”

“Anything for you, my love. You deserve some relaxation. Thought this would be some nice time for my girls.” Eddie’s eyes go back and forth from you to Eliza, Eliza to you, and the pure love that shines through his gaze is enough to get you tearing up again. 

“Isn’t Daddy the best?” you ask Eliza, who is too busy looking at everything laid out on the counter.

“I think she just wants to get to it,” Eddie says. “I’ll leave you girls to your spa.”

On his way towards the bathroom door, Eddie presses play and the CD in the player begins playing instrumental, lullaby covers of popular songs that you had purchased for Eliza. 

It makes you laugh, and Eddie gives you a wink, about to head out the door, but he stops short.

“Oh! One more thing.”

He steps back in and closes the door to reveal two lavender bathrobes hanging on the back, one that has “Mommy” embroidered on the back and one that says “Eliza.”

“Eddie!” You say his name with a gasp. “Oh my God, they’re so pretty.”

“Gotta keep my girls comfy even when they come out of the spa,” he says with another wink. “I’ll leave you girls to it.”

Once Eddie is gone and has shut the door behind him, you take a deep breath, wondering where to begin.

“Let’s see,” you say to Eliza. “What scented bubble bath should we use?”

Using one arm to grab all five different options, you lower yourself to the cold tile floor below and let Eliza rest between your spread legs. She leans against you and immediately picks up one of the bottles.

“Wanna try this one first? Okay. Let’s see, this is vanilla scented.” You unscrew the cap and take a sniff. It’s a faint smell, but it’s nice. When you offer it for Eliza to smell, she’s clearly unimpressed as she doesn’t even spare the bottle a second glance. “We’ll call that a maybe.” You set that one to the side and grab another bottle. Rose Water. The scent isn’t bad to you, but it immediately makes little Eliza sneeze. That one gets pushed farther away as you giggle at how adorable your little girl’s sneezes are. The third option is Cherry Blossoms and by the way Eliza wanted to take this bottle from your hands, you’d say she liked it. A definite contender since you enjoyed it as well. Tropical Mango is a hit with Eliza, not so much with you, and Citrus smelled nice and clean but Eliza wrinkled up her nose more than you’ve ever seen her do before. Cherry Blossoms it is.

You let Eliza stay seated on the floor and push the other bottles around while you get up to run the bath water and add the bubbles. Next up, adding the baby oil to Eliza’s hair proves amusing because she keeps trying to roll her eyeballs up high enough to see what you’re doing. It’s impossible not to giggle and you press a kiss to her nose. 

“Silly girl.”

Adding your own hair mask is much simpler, but Eliza still studies you, and you can’t help but wonder what’s going through her little mind as she watches you now—never mind what goes on in your house on a day-to-day basis. 

“You ready for the water?” 

Carefully, you step into the tub—making sure both facemasks are within reach—and lower both you and Eliza into the warm water and bubbles. 

The seven-month-old clearly isn’t sure how she feels about sitting in the water at first, but once she realizes you’re sitting in there with her and it’s warm, she likes it. Slowly, she begins to get a little more adventurous and starts to make small splashes. These amuse her greatly until the bubbles start growing higher; then she seems a little concerned by them. All it takes is you scooping some up in your hand and blowing on them so they scatter and fly around to catch the baby’s attention again. She sits facing you and you gather enough suds to give her a bubble beard. This tickles her both literally and figuratively because she can’t stop laughing once it’s on her. 

The sound is pure joy and so infectious. You laugh with her, silently wishing she could always be this happy. 

The song on the CD changes to the instrumental, lullaby version of You’re My Best Friend by Queen. 

“I love this song,” you tell her. 

“Ooh, you make me live

Whatever this world can give to me

It’s you, you’re all I see

Ooh, you make me live now, honey

Ooh, you make me live.”

Eliza is mesmerized by your singing, and it makes you chuckle. She rests her head against your chest but the oil in her hair has her head slipping around, making you laugh even more. 

With a sigh, you sink a little further into the water to relax.

“When you’re old enough to head bang,” you say, “I’ll teach you Bohemian Rhapsody. But fair warning, once you can head bang your dad is gonna make you do it to his music all the time.”

After you’ve soaked for a bit and both your and Eliza’s fingers are pruny, you reach over the side of the tub and grab the face mask and oatmeal lotion. First you apply Eliza’s and you’re surprised at how still she sits and lets you rub it around her face. Maybe it feels nice to her, just like a facial should. As you apply the mask to your skin, Eliza starts to giggle.

“What’s so funny?” you ask her.

Her ferocious giggles continue, and you realize she must be laughing at how you look because she looks silly even in her little oatmeal mask. The two of you laugh and you have to hold Eliza steady because even though she’s getting very good at sitting up on her own now, she’s laughing so hard that she keeps almost falling over. 

Taking a washcloth, you first gently take off Eliza’s mask and then your own. Though her giggles have subsided, Eliza looks up at you with a smile on her lips and a glimmer of happiness in her eyes. 

“This isn’t my first Mother’s Day,” you tell her, voice soft at first, “but it’s my first one with a baby. My little Sweet Pea. You and your brothers—and your dad—made this such a wonderful day. I’m so lucky to have you all. Thank you for choosing me to be your mom. I’d like to think you chose me, anyway.”

The little girl puckers her lips and makes a smacking sound as if she blew you a kiss.

“Right back atcha, kid.”

As soon as you get both of your hairs rinsed out, all you can think about is the soft plush bathrobe that’s awaiting you. But first, lotion. As you apply yours to your body, Eliza watches the water go down the drain of the tub with complete fascination. She peeks over the side of the tub, mesmerized with the whirlpool collecting near the pulled plug. 

“Ready to be moisturized?” you ask her once all the water has disappeared. “Want that baby smooth skin?” Your own joke makes you laugh as you pop the top on the baby oil.

Eliza isn’t used to the sensation of having something slick on her skin. The slightly furrowed brow and the way she keeps running her hands lightly over her arms tells you she isn’t sure how she feels about it. 

The time has now come for the bathrobes. The mini one comes off its hook first. It’s a little difficult to maneuver her body into the robe, but you soon get it situated on her and tie the fuzzy belt at her waist. She is a purple marshmallow, and the cuteness threatens to make your heart burst. A pleasurable sigh hums through you as you slip into your own robe. The way it feels like you’re wearing a pillow and cuddled up cozy but not constricted or overheated has you daydreaming about wearing this every single day. 

“Come on you,” you say, picking up your fashion twin. “Let’s go see Daddy.”

Footsteps approach the living room and Eddie turns his head from the television to see you and Eliza making your entrance. A laugh of amusement falls from your husband’s lips.

“Look at my girls! A vision in purple!”

You walk around the couch and sit down on his lap, holding Eliza on your own.

“Tell Daddy that we had a nice relaxing time.”

“Good,” Eddie says and presses a kiss to your cheek. A strong hand rubs up and down your back and it relaxes you even further. 

“Where are the boys?” you ask, voice sounding slightly distant as his touch lulls your body practically pliant.

“In the kitchen,” Eddie says, “going over the takeout menu for the Chinese place a few blocks over. So we’ll probably see them in an hour or two.”

Letting out a soft chuckle, you snuggle up against your husband, your baby cocooned between you.

“I love Chinese food.”

“That’s why we’re getting it, princess. It’s your day,” Eddie tells you before looking down at your daughter. “Right, Liza?”

Eliza simply blinks at him in response and buries her face in the soft fabric of your robe.

“Oh,” Eddie says as a thought resurfaces in his mind. He looks over the back of the couch to make sure neither of the boys are coming. “I have to tell you what Luke said. And, well, Ryan too.”

“What is it?”

Eddie’s smile is one filled with happiness and pride and it’s making you all the more curious. 

“When you were in the bathroom—excuse me, I mean spa—Luke was telling us about the art class and how much fun it was. Then he kind of pauses and says, ‘You know…no, never mind. It will sound stupid.’ But I was like, come on, what’s on your mind, kid? And he goes, ‘I’ve always known how much Ryan and I are loved by everyone; our family. But I guess seeing how we’re treated the same way…’ And then he trailed off and sighed, and I think he couldn’t figure out how to phrase what he wanted to say. But I guess Ryan knew where he was going because he took over. He says, “We’re not treated any differently than Eliza. We’re all…’ Then he trailed off, but I caught where they were going then. So, I said, ‘You’re all her kids. Each one of you three is just as much her child as the other two. There’s no difference.’”

Tears flood your eyes but you’re not entirely sure what emotion is provoking them.

“They thought—” your voice cracks and you can’t continue.

“No, no, hey,” Eddie reassures you. “Both of them said it was something they never thought about. Not even after Eliza was born. But I guess a kid in Luke’s class or something says his stepdad doesn’t treat him like his son and Luke thought that was crazy. All he’s known since he was five is you loving him as if he’s your own. Because he is your son. Then I guess Luke talked to Ryan about it and they thought back and couldn’t think of a time where you treated Eliza as more important than them. I think it was an emotional revelation. One that they don’t take lightly. They know that they’re your babies, too. God, I wish you could’ve seen the looks on their faces when we were talking about this. Just the pride they have that you’re their mom. That you chose them and love them as fiercely and deeply as possible. Sweetheart, the only thing that was my idea today was the spa with Eliza. Everything with the boys? That all came from them. I hope you know how much they love you.”

“I do,” you admit with a sniffly smile, cheeks completely stained with tear tracks. “They chose me too. They’re my sons.”

Eliza looks up at you and babbles and coos, clearly wanting to be part of this conversation. 

Both you and Eddie chuckle at her insistence and Eddie takes the opportunity to wipe your face. 

“And you’re my daughter,” you say to Eliza. 

“No denying that with how much you look like Mommy, huh?” Eddie says, running the back of his forefinger down Eliza’s soft, chubby cheek. 

“Hey!” Luke says as the boys come back into the room, Ryan holding the takeout menu in his hand. “Why didn’t we get matching robes too?”

“The color clashes with your skin,” Eddie quips.

“I’d like to be included in these things is all I’m saying,” Luke says as he sits on the couch perpendicular to the one you’re on.

Ryan perches on the arm of the couch you’re on and opens the menu.

“We figured out what we want,” Ryan says, offering the menu to Eddie. “We circled them.”

“In red pen,” Luke adds. “The blue pen is from the last time we ordered.”

“Red pen,” Eddie repeats. “Got it.” 

Reluctantly, you slip off of his lap so he can go call and make the order. Truthfully, you’d rather stay curled up in your husband’s lap, forget the Chinese food, and survive on Eddie’s cuddles alone.

“Want your usual, babe?” Eddie asks you.

“Yes please.”

The sound of footsteps fades the closer Eddie gets to the kitchen. You wave both of the boys over to come sit with you.

“Boys,” you stage whisper.

They come over, Luke plopping down on your left side and Ryan hunkering down on your right. Gently, you tuck Eliza between your and Ryan’s bodies before you wrap an arm around each of the boys’ shoulders and pull them in for a hug.

“Thank you for—oh, yes, Eliza you’re included in this too,” you say when Eliza harrumphs at you. “Thank you for the most amazing Mother’s Day. This was one of the best days I’ve ever had.”

“In your whole life?” Luke asks.

“In my whole life,” you affirm. “And thank you all for making me a mom. It’s the hardest but coolest thing I’ve ever done.”

“Being your kid is pretty cool, too,” Luke says. “Don’t worry, we’ll make sure Eliza knows that as soon as she understands words.”

With a tired but content smile, you lean back against the cushions on the couch and immediately feel little hands and knees digging into various parts of your body as Eliza climbs up your body and makes herself comfortable, her clean head and hair coming to rest on your chest. From the position you were in when you hugged the boys, your arms are still stiff and wide open, and Luke is the first to take advantage of that.

He tucks himself into your side, resting his head on your shoulder. Ryan copies his actions (instead of the other way around for a change) and leans against your right side, careful of Eliza’s tiny head that is so close to his. 

For a few moments you just sit there, thinking. Enjoying this time, with all three of your children in your arms. You close your eyes and savor it, just you and your babies in this moment.

Eddie strolls back in from the kitchen.

“Food is on its way—oh. Well, don’t we all look comfortable?” Eddie smiles as his gaze roams over the couch, taking in every detail of the four of you. His oldest babies who helped get him through one of the worst periods of his life. You, the great love of his life who saved him in every possible way. And the small baby girl that the two of you created together. 

You tilt your head and rest it against Luke’s, looking up at Eddie with a soft smile. 

His eyes meet yours and no words need to be said. Everything you need to express to one another is in that look. The love, the happiness, the gratefulness. Both of you realize the million and one things that had to line up just right for this moment to be a reality. It’s exciting to think about what the choices that were made today will lead you to in your future together. Only time will tell—and right now? This particular moment is one you’d like to pause. Maybe pause it until you can wring every moment of blissfulness from it that you possibly can. But you already know that would be impossible—the joy in this moment is endless.

[leyannrae]

JUST THE TIP (Grommash Hellscream/Reader)

Summary: Grommash is determined to have you as his mate. There’s only one problem: Grom is too big.

Author’s note: Oh, boy. I have been OBSESSED with orcs lately. Especially the orcs in the Warcraft movie. Disclaimer btw: I don’t know a lot about Warcraft beyond the movie. I know some lore beyond that. So I apologize in advance. Also I wrote this in a way that you, my dear reader, don’t need to know anything about Warcraft either. Hopefully it can also be enjoyed as just a orc x human fic. And this is my 4th time writing smut, 2nd time writing it in oneshot format so I’m still very new to this lol. Also I don’t know orcish and the internet gave me very mixed translations, so I pieced it together the best I could.

Warning/tags: 18+ MDNI, fem! Reader, Grom might be a little OOC but I don’t care, teratophillia/monster fucking, orc x human, oral sex (f! receiving), size differences (Grommash is bigger than you no matter your size, these orcs are big, okay?), fingering, overstimulation, squirting, just the tip but not actually, unprotected p in v, missionary position, mating press, slight breeding kink if you squint, Grom is secretly a sweetheart, change my mind, love confessions, self indulgent filth, not beta read, yeah I know having sex with an orc this big would be borderline impossible but I don’t care, I swear I made straight A’s in all of my anatomy classes

Also just a for some fun references check out this post and this post about the hand size of the orcs in this movie. I find their size absolutely fascinating and I had to make a fic exploring that.

Word Count: 3.3k

Being the mate of an orc is an interesting experience. It was already uncommon for a horde member to pick a human as a mate. And it was still frowned upon by many orcs. Grommash didn’t care though. Nobody could tell him that he couldn’t have you. From the moment he first saw you he felt himself being pulled towards you.

For the most part, picking you as his mate had been smooth sailing. He had asked you to go on a hunt alone with him. Orcs hunted all the time but asking someone to hunt alone with them tended to be an indication that they were choosing a mate. You didn’t know this when you had agreed to go. But it became obvious when halfway through the hunting trip Grom had pressed you against a tree, his large frame encapsulating you. Soon the hunting trip had turned into a heated make-out session.

Everything was going according to plan. He had gotten you back to his tent and sat you on the edge of his bed. There was only one problem in his plan to make you his mate: Grommash was too big.

There was simply no way that all of him could fit inside of you. You were absolutely sure of it.

There was one undeniable fact about orcs and that was that they were massive. They were bigger than all humans. It didn’t matter your size. They outweighed and towered over every human they came across. And Grommash was no exception. He was a warrior and the Chieftain of the Warsong clan after all, not to mention one of the biggest orcs in the clan.

His biceps were rounder than your head. His hands were bigger than your face. His fingers were incredibly large compared to yours.

You honestly weren’t sure what you were expecting but when you removed his pelt you were at a loss for words.

There was no way.

His cock was heavy and hard, hanging down in front of your face as you sat on the edge of the bed. It was green like the rest of his skin, the head was flushed a purple color.

You lifted it up a bit with your hand, feeling the weight of it. It was long and thick. You couldn’t even wrap your hand around it, your fingertips nowhere close to even meeting your thumb. You were too stunned to speak and your brain was scrambling to figure out the logistics of this massive thing going inside of you.

Grommash seemed to read your mind. He brought his thumb up to your face and rubbed your cheek. He smirked as he looked down at you.

“You don’t have to worry about it just yet,” he said.

As much as Grom wanted to plunge his cock all the way inside of you, he was content with pleasuring you in other ways for now.

His large hand moved down, resting on your shoulder. His thumb grazed your throat as he gently pushed you onto your back. You propped yourself up on your elbows, watching him as he knelt in front of you.

His hand found its way to the hem of your pants, hesitating for a moment to look up at you. After giving him a swift nod of approval his fingers latched underneath the hem. He mumbled something about “humans always wearing too much clothes” as he slid off your pants and underwear.

Grommash hummed to himself as he placed his hands on your knees, spreading your legs as far apart as he could.

“Look at that,” he said.

He was staring at your glistening cunt in awe. You could hear a growl rumble in his chest as he brought his large fingers up to you, gently rubbing across your folds with his thumb. He grazed against your clit causing a gasp to escape your lips.

“So wet for me already,” he said, rubbing slow circles against your clit.

He paused for a moment causing you to whine. He shushed you as he spread apart the lips of your cunt with his large fingers. His index finger dipped down, lingering against your entrance but not entering. He looked as if he was deep in thought.

Maybe, just maybe.

Grommash leaned down further until his face was level with your pussy. He wrapped his hands around your legs, pulling you closer to the edge of the bed. He nuzzled his head in between your legs, tusks pressing into the skin between your thighs, as he licked experimentally up your folds.

You moaned, rolling your hips ever so slightly. Grommash chuckled before licking again, this time dipping his tongue into you. There was another rumble from his chest, the taste of you on his tongue unlocking something feral inside of him.

The grip on your thighs got tighter as he lapped at your cunt, licking and plunging into you in a desperate attempt to taste more of you.

Your hand snaked down, resting on his head as you moaned his name. Your fingers entwined in his raven hair, gripping just a bit. He growled in response, sending vibrations through your body. You shuddered a bit at the sensation.

He dragged his tongue against you, occasionally wrapping his large lips around your clit, sucking at the bud before dipping back down, fucking his tongue into your hole.

“Mmm…Grom, it feels so…good,” you moaned.

Without warning you felt Grom’s thick index finger begin to push inside of you. A guttural moan left your mouth as your back arched, grinding yourself against his face mindlessly. His finger stretched your walls as he entered you. There was some pain but your wetness let him slide in easier than either of you would have expected. It felt so perfect.

His tongue licked upwards before focusing on your clit, sucking it into his mouth once more. Your hips bucked against him causing him to groan. He slid his finger out before pushing it back in. He curled it inside of you, sliding it against your spongy walls. This was pleasure you simply had never experienced until now.

Before you knew it, he was pushing a second finger in, stretching you out more. Your mouth fell agape as you struggled to make any sound. You had never felt so full before. There was more pain than before but he didn’t give you much time to think about it as he plunged both fingers inside of you, thrusting his hand at a faster speed than before.

“Gods, Grom,” you moaned as gripped his hair a bit tighter.

The tent was soon filled with lewd, wet sounds as Grom relentlessly pumped his fingers into you. With every thrust of his hand, your cunt squelched, clenching around his digits.

“Grom, I’m gonna…”

It felt like your breath had been knocked out of you. You squeezed your eyes shut as your orgasm overtook you. Your legs involuntarily clamped down around Grom as he continued to curl his fingers into you, massaging and prodding at that spongy spot inside of you. His tusks pressed harder into your legs as he continued to devour you. You were sure you’d have bruises there by tomorrow but you didn’t care.

Your entire body shook as you rode your waves of pleasure, falling apart under Grom’s touch. You squirmed, your entire body felt too sensitive. Grom continued lapping at your clit, swirling his tongue around it.

“Grom, please,” you whined.

He pulled away momentarily, giving your clit a break. His fingers slowed but continued to slide in and out of you.

“Please what?” he questioned.

He leaned forward, placing his free hand beside your head. You tried to speak but found yourself at a loss for words, too entranced by the texture of his fingers inside you.

“Use your words, my dearest,” he cooed.

You tried to speak but you just couldn’t form the words. All you could do was moan as warmth pooled at your core. Your mouth hung open as Grommash’s hand began to speed up again. He watched you intently, studying your face as it contorted with ecstasy. Something inside of you was building and he knew it, bringing his thumb up to your clit as he continued to work his fingers inside you.

It felt different from the orgasm before. It felt just as pleasurable if not more, but it felt so different, so foreign to your body that it almost worried you. You weren’t fully sure what was happening to you.

“Wait, Grom, wait,” you pleaded.

But it was too late. Another orgasm hit you causing your cunt to clench around his fingers. It felt like something snapped inside of you as his fingers curled, hitting that spongy spot once more. Your hips bucked into him as you gasped, your head falling back onto the furs below you, eyes squeezing shut. Your body trembled, tensing up as you rode out your climax.

“Mmm, look at the mess you’re making,” Grom said, groaning.

Your eyes fluttered open, looking at him in confusion. Your eyes drifted down watching yourself in amazement and mild horror as you squirted around his fingers. The clear liquid spurted out onto his large hands and the bed underneath you with every thrust of his fingers.

You moan at the sight, the euphoria of the new sensation overtaking you. Grom’s hand slowed and then pulled out of you slowly. You whined at the sudden feeling of emptiness, your entrance clenching and fluttering around nothing.

Grommash brought his fingers up to his mouth, licking them.

“Who knew humans could taste so good?” he said.

“I didn’t know I could do that,” you said quietly.

The orc leaned down, pressing his body into yours and placing a kiss on your forehead.

“Well, now you know,” he replied.

You hummed, bringing your hand up to his chest, grazing one of the piercings on his nipple.

He then kissed you on your lips. The cold metal ring on his tusk pressed against your cheek as he did so.

His hand pulled at your tunic, ripping it off completely underneath him. You were now completely bare.

His large hand kneaded at your breast, occasionally pinching at the nipple. You moaned against his lips, letting his tongue slip into your mouth.

As he pressed into you more, you could feel his erection between your legs, occasionally sliding against your sensitive skin. He ground his hips against yours, cock slipping against you, causing himself to groan as he feverishly kissed you.

You knew what he wanted but you weren’t confident that he was going to get it. It’s not that you didn’t want him to fuck you, you were just worried still about him being inside of you.

As you pulled away from his lips you met his gaze, looking into his eyes. They were glazed over, lust-filled, and full of admiration. He wanted you. He needed so much more of you.

He ground his hips against you again.

“Need to be inside of you. Need to make you a proper mate,” he said in a low voice.

His hips bucked, causing you to moan as his cock slid across your folds, desire building up inside of you.

“I know. But I don’t think it’ll fit, Grom,” you said, quietly.

“Nonsense,” he grumbled as he got off the top of you.

He took his cock into his hand. It was already glistening with precum as he gave it a few lazy strokes.

“If you can take my fingers, you can take this,” he stated.

Just the sight of him jerking off was enough to make you spread your legs. You were basically salivating at the sight of him. You wanted him as badly as he wanted you, although the fear of being ripped apart still lingered.

“Take it slow, okay? Don’t put all of it in, Grom. I really don’t think I can take all of it,” you said.

He spread your legs further apart before sliding his cock against your swollen clit, causing yet another moan to come out of you.

“Whatever you say, my dearest,” he said.

You took a deep breath as Grom began to push the head of his cock into you. You hissed as it stretched the tight band of flesh around your walls. You were practically dripping from your last orgasm but your wetness only helped so much.

Grommash let out a low groan as he pushed his member into you at an agonizing pace. Pain was surging through you, bringing tears to your eyes. He was only a few inches in before you placed a hand on his chest, silently stopping him.

“Are you okay?” he questioned, a hint of concern in his voice.

“I’m okay. I think that’s as far as you can go for now,” you said.

He hummed in response.

“Let me know when you’re ready,” he said, rubbing circles on your thigh with his thumb.

You sighed, leaning your head back for a moment. Eventually, the pain began to subside. You brought your hand up to him, sliding it down his chest before giving him a nod to continue.

He pulled out the few inches that were inside you before thrusting them back in. It took everything in him to not push every inch in. He wanted to so badly. He wanted to fill you up so badly but he couldn’t stand the thought of hurting you.

You whimpered as his hips snapped forward, pushing part of his cock into you. The stretch was otherworldly. You knew if he hadn’t fucked you with his fingers earlier there was no way you would’ve been able to take the tip of him. It may have not been much but it felt divine.

“Oh, Grom,” you moaned as he fucked into you.

You could hear your pussy squelching around him as you became more wet by the second.

Your hands found their way to his large arms, holding on to stabilize yourself. Your body had a mind of its own as you rolled your hips forward. Grommash growled, halting his movements.

“Grom, why’d you stop?” you whined.

“Look,” he said with a grunt.

You propped yourself up on your elbows and looked down between the two of you. When you had rolled your hips moments ago, you had taken another inch of him without even realizing it. Too caught up in your pleasure to notice.

Grom rocked his hips into you, almost like he was silently asking you a question with his movements. He wanted to go further and you knew it. You moaned as he slowly began thrusting his hips again.

You were getting so wet. Surely you could take a bit more, right?

“I know you can take it. Let me show you just how good it can feel,” he said.

His shallow thrusts were already threatening to send you over the edge and you couldn’t deny it any longer, you wanted more of him.

You bucked your hips against him causing him to groan.

“Do you want all of it?” he asked.

“Yes…please. I need you,” you said in between broken moans.

“That’s all I needed to hear.”

Grommash hooked his hands under your knees, forcing your legs up as far as they’d go, pressing them against your chest. He replaced his hands with yours, making you hold your legs up. He then leaned forward, climbing on top of you. One of his hands was placed beside your head while the other lined up his cock to your entrance, slowly pushing in. He used his body weight to help sink into you, pushing in further than before, taking his time as he did so.

A choked moan left your mouth as your eyes welled up with tears. It was such a strange sensation. It hurt, a burning feeling seared into your core as Grom stretched you out. But the pain was also laced with pleasure.

Grommash’s hand left his cock, bringing it up and resting it by your head. He was a little over halfway in, sinking into you as he covered over your body. He hadn’t even begun thrusting yet and you already felt like you were becoming unglued.

“There you go. Taking it so well.”

He slid in deeper, another inch. Then another. And another. You whimpered, eyes rolling in the back of your head.

“My sweet human,” he cooed.

He wasn’t all the way in but his hips started moving, thrusting into you slowly, working the last of his way into you.

“You like that, huh? Like being full of my cock,” he said, picking up the pace.

You couldn’t speak. You just nodded your head and moaned.

Grommash pulled out all the way to the head of his cock before slamming back inside of you. You yelped as the sound of wet skin smacking together filled the tent. You could feel low rumbles vibrating from Grom’s chest as he growled, getting louder with every thrust. You were slowly becoming a babbling mess as waves of ecstasy began to overtake you. The pain had subsided and all you could think about was Grommash and how good he felt.

Grom moved one of his hands, bringing it down between the two of you. He circled your clit with his thumb. It felt as if sparks were igniting. Every raw nerve was crackling with pleasure.

You were panting underneath him, growing closer and closer to the edge. You could feel his cock twitching inside of you. His movements were becoming more erratic and you knew he was close to. An all too familiar feeling was forming and your body began to shake.

“Oh, fuck. Grom, I’m gonna…”

“Cum for me, my dearest,” he said.

And that was all you needed. You let out a wail as your vision clouded. Your body spasmed as your cunt tightened around him, somehow managing to suck him in more as if your body wasn’t ready to let go. He kept fucking into you, chasing his own release until his hips stuttered, bucking into you harder than ever. He let out a roar and you were sure the whole clan could hear both of you as the two of you rode out the pleasure, not that any of the orcs would’ve cared.

You could feel his cum, hot and leaking out of you as he slowly pulled his cock out. You closed your eyes as your legs fell from your chest, splaying out in front of you. You were still in a daze as Grommash sat on his knees for a moment, admiring you like you were an art piece. You were officially his mate and he was overjoyed.

You felt the bed shift as he got up. He was only gone for a moment and returned with a washcloth, cleaning you off gently.

You felt yourself drifting off. You were so warm and so very exhausted.

“Falling asleep on me?” Grommash joked as he laid down beside you.

You opened your eyes, looking up at the orc.

“Maybe,” you chuckled.

He wrapped his arms around you, pulling you into his side. You kissed his chest, moving up to his neck, and then his jaw, pecking the inked skin. He held onto you tight as if he was afraid you’d be snatched away from him. You heard him mumble something in orcish that you couldn’t understand.

“What was that?” you questioned.

“Na dova dra,” he repeated, this time hearing him more clearly.

“And what does that mean?” you asked.

He brought your hand up to his lips, placing a kiss against it.

“I love you,” he translated.

Your heart fluttered and you smiled. Admissions of love were another uncommon thing amongst the horde, especially towards humans. But it was true. Grom loved you very much.

You brought your hand up to his face, guiding him to yours. You kissed his lips gently before pulling away.

“I love you too, Grommash.”

[leyannrae]

I Thought We Were Already Dating

pairing | congressman!bucky x fem!reader

word count | 4k words

summary | you thought you were spiraling over a situationship—meanwhile, bucky barnes had been acting like your very committed, very oblivious boyfriend the entire time. one public meltdown, a congressional office full of witnesses, and a very intense kiss later… you're officially his girl (and he never doubted it).

tags | (18+) MDNI, unprotected sex, p in v, established situationship, mutual pining (but one of them doesn't know), miscommunication, public confession, soft!bucky, domestic chaos, comedy & angst, bucky barnes is your boyfriend (he just forgot to tell you), reader is unhinged (affectionate), FLUFF & SMUT, friends to lovers (but they skipped the "friends" and the "lovers" just happened), poor congressional staff, possessive!reader, love confession, bucky is so in love it hurts

a/n | based on this request. i love writing chaotic reader

likes comments and reblogs are much appreciated ✨✨

ᴍᴀsᴛᴇʀʟɪsᴛ

divider by @cafekitsune

Your back hit the mattress in a blur of limbs and low groans, Bucky’s mouth never leaving yours, his hands already sliding under the hem of your shirt like he needed to feel skin, all of it, immediately.

“Fuck, I missed you,” he breathed against your lips, voice rough from hours of holding back everything but this.

You barely managed to smile before his teeth grazed your jaw, his scruff dragging just enough to make you shiver. His body blanketed yours, warm and solid, pressing you down in the most intoxicating way.

“You saw me this morning,” you murmured, fingers curling into his hair.

“Not like this.”

The shirt came off.

Then his.

You didn’t stop him.

You never did.

Because being under Bucky Barnes like this—held like something he didn’t want to let go of—was the only time you felt whole. His touch, his mouth, his breath in your ear as he whispered how good you felt, how fucking perfect you were when you were under him like this.

It was all consuming.

He kissed his way down your chest, every inch of skin worshiped like he didn’t just want you—he needed you. His fingers hooked into the waistband of your underwear, dragging them down, slow, like he loved the way you sounded when you gasped just from anticipation.

You watched him from above, chest heaving, skin flushed—and in that moment, something tight twisted in your stomach that had nothing to do with arousal.

It was the ache.

The quiet question in the back of your head that always came right before you let him *n.

What are we?

You didn’t ask.

You just let your legs fall open, let his body settle between them, and swallowed the question whole.

He looked down at you once more, eyes so soft they burned.

“You want me?” he asked, voice hushed, reverent.

You nodded.

“Say it,” he whispered, leaning down, lips brushing your collarbone.

“I want you,” you breathed.

He groaned, low and wrecked, and then he was inside you.

One thrust.

Slow. Deep.

Your back arched, your mouth parting in a gasp as he bottomed out, hands gripping your hips like he was anchoring himself in you.

He didn’t move at first.

Just breathed.

Pressed his forehead to yours.

“Fuck,” he murmured. “You always feel like home.”

You blinked.

Your heart stopped.

But then he started moving—hips rolling slow, dragging pleasure from your core in waves. Every stroke was measured, precise, like he wanted you to feel every inch of him. Like he wasn’t just fucking you—he was holding you, claiming you without a single word about what it meant.

You let your nails scrape down his back, your thighs tightening around his waist, chasing every thrust like it could answer the questions you didn’t dare ask.

He kissed you again.

Not hungrily.

Not possessively.

Just soft.

Like a man who thought you already belonged to him.

His pace stayed slow at first—torturously so. Each thrust sank deep, dragging friction that had your nails pressing harder into his skin, a soft whimper caught at the back of your throat.

He was watching you now.

Eyes dark, focused, mouth parted like he was trying to memorize the way you looked when he was buried inside you.

“You feel so fucking good,” he murmured, and the way he said it—it was too soft. Too real. Like it meant something. Like you meant something.

You arched up to meet him, hips rising into each roll of his body, chasing that dizzying edge as the room dissolved around you. The only thing real was the heat building between your bodies, the slick slide of his skin against yours, the way he groaned every time your walls clenched around him.

You could feel your release winding tight, breath ragged, body shaking.

And then—

His hand cupped your cheek.

His lips found yours again, tender and aching as he whispered into your mouth, “That’s it. Let go. I’ve got you.”

It hit you like a wave.

You shattered underneath him, crying out as your body clamped down, orgasm tearing through you with a sharp, wet sound of skin against skin and your name on his tongue like it was sacred.

He fucked you through it, his thrusts faltering, rougher now, deeper, desperate.

“I can’t—baby, I’m gonna—fuck—” he groaned.

You wrapped your legs around him, pulled him tighter, wanted him closer.

“Inside,” you whispered, dazed.

His eyes locked on yours—wide, vulnerable, wrecked.

Then he was coming—hot and hard and raw, his whole body shaking as he buried his face in your neck and let himself fall apart in you.

His voice cracked.

“I love you,” he gasped, barely more than breath.

And you heard it.

Your body was still trembling. Your mind was still fogged.

But your heart?

It snapped to attention.

Because he said it like it was obvious.

Like he’d said it before. Like you knew.

His breathing had slowed.

His body lay heavy over yours, arms curled protectively around your waist, lips pressed to your collarbone in a lazy, half-conscious kiss. You could feel the weight of his affection in every touch—adoring, familiar, like this was just another Thursday night in the life of Bucky Barnes, the man who clearly thought you were his.

Because he said it.

He said I love you.

And not like it slipped.

Not like it was some heat-of-the-moment moan tangled in a climax.

He said it like he meant it.

Like he’d said it before.

Like he thought you already knew.

Your hand twitched on his back.

Your heartbeat, which had only just settled, started racing again—but not with pleasure. With full-blown panic.

Because—

What the actual fuck?

You stared up at the ceiling, body still bare, skin still warm from him, and yet—

Your brain screamed: WHAT ARE WE?

He shifted slightly, nuzzling closer, mumbling something incoherent as he pressed a kiss to your chest.

Meanwhile, your soul was clawing its way out of your skin.

Because if he thought this was that—you being his, this being real—then you’d missed a crucial piece of the plot somewhere back in act one.

He never asked.

There was never a “will you be my girlfriend?” conversation. No official status talk. No expectations. Just great sex, unholy chemistry, soft sleepovers, texts that made your stomach flip, and a drawer at his place you never questioned.

You suddenly wanted to sit up and scream.

But instead, you lay there frozen, blinking at the ceiling like it had personally betrayed you.

His hand rubbed slow circles on your hip.

You resisted the urge to launch yourself across the room.

What the fuck is going on.

Are we dating?

Is this real?

He sighed against your skin, content and sleepy.

You swallowed hard.

One Week Later

Your phone buzzed beside you on the kitchen counter.

It lit up with his name, the one you still hadn’t changed in your contacts—just “James 🇺🇸” with a dumb little flag emoji he’d added himself the first week you started… whatever this was.

James 🇺🇸:

On my way back—what do you want for takeout?

You stared at the screen for a second too long.

The question was simple. Casual. Routine.

And that’s what made your stomach twist.

Because it was routine.

The texts. The keys to your place. The way he dropped his jacket over your chair like he lived here. The way he smiled when he saw you, like everything else melted away.

You typed, deleted, typed again.

Finally, you sent:

You:

thai? the dumpling place. y'know the one.

Your phone buzzed two seconds later.

James 🇺🇸:

Already reading my mind, huh?

I’ll be there in 30.

Got you extra peanut sauce because I know you hoard it like a gremlin.

You huffed a small laugh, despite the weight still coiled in your chest.

Then you stared at that thread a little too long.

The little hearts you’d sent last week.

The blurry selfie he sent you from his office at midnight, captioned "Thinking about you and losing a vote at the same time 🫡”

The I love you that still echoed in your ears like a gunshot.

You set the phone down.

Walked into the bathroom.

And stared at yourself in the mirror.

You’d never called him your boyfriend.

He’d never asked.

But he acted like he was yours.

And the scary part?

You wanted him to be.

You just didn’t know if he knew that mattered.

The door creaked open with a familiar scrape—he still hadn’t fixed the hinge.

You turned from the couch, face carefully neutral.

He stepped inside in that unbuttoned suit jacket, tie half-loosened, hair tousled from a long day of pretending not to want to strangle half of Congress.

And he was smiling.

“Hey, baby,” he murmured, like it was the most normal thing in the world, setting the takeout bags down on your kitchen counter without even looking.

Baby.

You froze.

Okay, he calls you that all the time.

Maybe he calls everyone that.

Does he call Sam that?

“Place was packed,” he continued, toeing off his shoes. “Some guy tried to skip the line and the little lady behind the counter threatened to beat him with a ladle. Reminded me of you.”

You stared.

He wandered to the fridge, pulled out your favorite seltzer—your specific lemon one—and cracked it open before sliding it your way.

You caught it on instinct, fingers brushing the condensation.

He hadn’t even asked.

Just knew.

Then, casually, he took off his jacket, draped it over the chair, and loosened his tie more, tossing it with a sigh. His white dress shirt stretched a little at the biceps. He was still talking—something about a subcommittee vote gone to hell—but you were barely hearing it.

Because now?

You were tracking everything.

The way he set down two sets of chopsticks like it was automatic. The way he separated the sauces—your peanut ones on your side, his spicier one near him. The way he snagged the remote and flopped down beside you like he lived here.

Like this was his couch.

Was it his couch?

Was he paying your utilities?

“I don’t know why I let them keep putting me in these budget meetings,” he muttered, cracking open a box of dumplings. “Every time I try to talk, someone from Indiana gives me a migraine.”

You nodded slowly.

Then: “Do you… have a toothbrush here?”

He blinked at you mid-chew.

“Yeah?” He swallowed. “Under the sink. Next to yours. Why?”

Your eye twitched.

“Do you… always leave a change of clothes here?”

He nodded again, popping another dumpling in his mouth. “Babe, half my henleys are in your closet. You know that.”

You did.

You just didn’t process it.

You turned toward him fully, food forgotten.

His arm was already around your shoulders, pulling you in.

You didn’t resist. You leaned in.

And then you stared blankly at the TV as he rested his chin on your head, warm and soft and so stupidly comfortable.

He sighed.

“I missed you today,” he murmured. “It was shit at the office.”

Your heart did a weird thing in your chest—flipped, twisted, frowned.

You blinked slowly.

“…Do you keep anything at anyone else’s place?” you asked, very casually. Too casually.

He snorted. “What?”

“Just wondering.”

He reached for a spring roll. “No? Why would I?”

“Just wondering,” you repeated, mechanically.

He made a soft mhmm noise and handed you a dumpling without looking, already distracted by the TV again, thumb grazing lazy circles against your arm like his body just knew where you were supposed to be.

Meanwhile, your brain was screaming.

Are we dating?

ARE WE DATING?!

And he just sat there, all warm and sleepy and Thai-food-happy beside you, like the man absolutely not at the center of an existential relationship spiral.

You chewed your dumpling, eyes narrow.

You were going to lose your mind.

A Few Days Later

The sky over Washington was a thick stretch of slate.

Fine rain fell in that soft, insistent way that made everything damp without ever fully raining. The streets were quiet, the air cool against your cheeks, and your lungs ached just enough to make you feel alive as your sneakers slapped against the wet pavement.

Beside you, Rachel kept pace effortlessly.

Of course she did.

She looked like she’d been born doing yoga on a yacht.

“I still don’t get how you convinced me to jog in this weather,” she said, breath easy, ponytail bouncing behind her. “You’re getting fit for a reason or just embracing the sad girl cardio?”

You huffed a laugh through your nose, ignoring the sting in your ribs. “Trying to keep up with a guy who’s genetically engineered and built like a statue.”

She smirked. “Oh, right. The Bucky Barnes. Still a thing?”

You didn’t answer right away.

Your feet hit a puddle, splashing your ankles.

Rachel didn’t wait.

“I mean… it’s cute. Really. Him bringing you coffee, showing up to all your little gallery events, texting you like a golden retriever with a crush.”

You squinted through the mist. “Is there a ‘but’ coming?”

She gave a mock innocent look. “No ‘but.’ I just think if he hasn’t made it official by now, he’s probably just riding the comfort wave. You know?”

Your stomach dropped—quiet, slow—like something sliding off a ledge in the dark.

“He’s… not like that,” you muttered.

Rachel made a noncommittal sound, the kind that sounded like “maybe” but meant “absolutely.”

“Sure,” she said lightly. “But a guy like that? Everyone wants him. Powerful, polished, and hot—but still gives off that ‘I could destroy you emotionally if I wanted’ vibe. It’s catnip.”

You bit your tongue.

She went on, like she didn’t just lob a grenade at your chest.

“I’m just saying. If I were dating him, I’d make damn sure everyone knew it. Otherwise…” She shrugged, smiling sweetly. “Kind of feels like letting a limited edition slip through your fingers.”

You slowed slightly, blinking rain from your lashes.

Rachel picked up her pace, unaware—or pretending to be.

Or maybe that was the point.

The worst part?

You didn’t even know what to say.

Because in your head, you were screaming: I don’t know if I’m dating him either.

You didn’t answer her.

You just picked up speed.

One second, you were jogging beside her—lungs aching, mind heavy—and the next, your legs were moving, not with purpose but with sheer emotional combustion.

“Wait—what the hell?” Rachel’s voice snapped from behind you, sharp with confusion. “Where are you going?”

You shouted over your shoulder, breath shallow, “Forgot—I left the oven on!”

It was a terrible excuse.

You hadn’t even used the oven that morning.

And Rachel, in all her smug, sculpted glory, definitely knew it.

But you didn’t care.

You turned down a side street without looking back, rain misting against your skin, hair sticking to your neck as you ran harder, faster, legs burning. You were vaguely aware of your own ridiculousness. You were sprinting through Capitol Hill in soaked leggings and adrenaline—not because of a fire, but because your chest was burning.

Because the words still a thing were still ringing in your ears.

Because her little smile made you want to scream.

And because deep down, you didn’t know how to answer her.

You didn’t know.

Your lungs ached, your sneakers skidded slightly on wet pavement as you turned a corner, and still—you kept going.

Toward the tall glass building you knew by heart now. The security desk that always smiled when you came in. The floor where the man who may or may not be your boyfriend spent hours arguing policy and quietly doodling in his tiny notebook between meetings.

You didn’t know what you were going to say when you got there.

You didn’t know what you wanted him to say.

But you knew this:

You couldn’t keep playing house in your head while the floor beneath it kept shifting.

You needed an answer.

Even if it hurt.

Even if Rachel ended up being right.

You just prayed she got splashed by a Metro bus on the way home.

The doors of the administrative wing slammed open with a bang.

You stumbled in, soaked from drizzle, cheeks flushed, ribs on fire, and about three seconds from a full cardiac event. Your leggings were clinging to your thighs, your hoodie had definitely seen better days, and your lungs were currently staging a mutiny.

Several staffers at their desks froze mid-keystroke.

Someone dropped a pen.

Bucky looked up from where he was speaking with a few of his aides, a file in one hand, coffee in the other—and blinked at you like you’d just teleported in from an alternate timeline.

“Hey—what—?”

“Do you want to be my boyfriend?”

Silence.

Every single head in the room turned.

Bucky’s coffee cup paused halfway to his lips.

You pointed at him, panting. “Because—I think it’s time. I want to be your girlfriend. Officially. Like—not just sleepovers and emotional eye contact over takeout—I mean actual, real-life, ‘we’re together’ kind of thing.”

You sucked in another breath and barreled on before you lost your nerve.

“I know you’re busy, and, like, technically running half of Congress with your jawline, but I just—I need clarity, okay? Because I was jogging with Rachel, who’s a menace to society, and she said some stuff and I started spiraling and I just—I ran here. I ran. Here. For this.”

There was a beat of complete silence.

Bucky’s eyes were wide.

His aides?

They were riveted.

One woman actually had her hand over her mouth like this was her favorite telenovela.

You blinked at the room.

Your mouth opened. Closed. You slowly lowered your arm.

“Okay,” you said, breathless. “So clearly, that was… too much.”

You looked around at the awkward stares, then back at Bucky, your voice flattening with pure, defeated embarrassment.

“So maybe I was delusional. Maybe this isn’t what I thought. And that’s fine.”

You nodded to yourself, a slow descent into insanity.

“If I’m just some situationship moron who caught feelings and made a public scene at a congressional office,” you continued dryly, “I’m going to kill myself and take everyone in this room with me.”

You made eye contact with one aide near the door.

He flinched.

Then you sighed heavily and scanned the room, noting every wide-eyed aide pretending desperately to become one with their laptops.

Then you snapped.

“Show’s over, folks. Go home. Or back to your unpaid Excel spreadsheets or whatever.”

No one moved.

One intern coughed.

You groaned, dragging both hands over your face in slow, mortified defeat, mumbling through your fingers, “This is literally my villain origin story.”

You barely heard his footsteps as Bucky approached, but you felt him—warmth, presence, tall and steady as he stopped just a few feet in front of you.

“Hey,” he said gently, “can you look at me?”

You shook your head without moving your hands. “I’ll die.”

“No you won’t.”

“I might.”

He chuckled quietly, and something about it made your heart twist. Like this wasn’t the end of the world. Like maybe it wasn’t even close.

You slowly peeked between your fingers.

He smiled softly, eyes full of that same calm patience he used when trying to explain to you how Medicare reform worked.

He stepped closer, brushing a damp strand of hair from your cheek. “It’s 2 o’clock,” he said, glancing around the room. “They all get off at five.”

You stared up at him.

“Oh,” you said blankly. “Cool.”

A pause.

Then, softly—almost hesitantly—he added, “I thought we were already dating.”

Your arms dropped from your face as your expression completely short-circuited.

“…What.”

He tilted his head, confused. “Yeah. For, like… a while now?”

You just stared at him.

Unmoving.

Mouth parted.

One eyebrow quirked in silent disbelief.

“…What.”

He blinked again.

Now he looked confused.

“You… didn’t think we were?”

“…No?”

He gave you the most innocent, baffled look known to man.

“I brought you to Sam's birthday party. You met his nephews. You wear my boxers. What part of this didn’t scream boyfriend to you?”

You opened your mouth.

Then closed it.

Then opened it again.

“I—You never asked me!” you accused, voice pitching.

“I didn’t think I had to!” he exclaimed.

You stared at him, absolutely scandalized. “How was I supposed to know then?”

Bucky blinked. “I—what do you mean? Everything I do is—”

“You’re from the 40s, James!” you snapped, throwing your hands up. “You guys used to, like, wear suits and give flowers and do grand declarations and ask girls to go steady in a diner over milkshakes! I was waiting for that!”

His jaw dropped. “Are you serious?”

“I watched Grease with you last week!” you cried. “You don’t get to act brand new!”

He dragged a hand over his face, groaning. “Okay, no more old movies for you.”

You crossed your arms, still damp and out of breath, glaring at him like he’d personally invented confusion.

Then he stepped back.

Took a slow, deep breath.

Straightened his posture.

And said, “Okay. Fine.”

He cleared his throat, eyes locked with yours, serious as a heart attack. Then he said your name—your full name.

“Will you do me the incredible honor of officially being my girlfriend?”

The room went so quiet you could hear someone’s chair creak.

You stared at him.

Then slowly, a dumb smile spread across your face.

“Wow,” you said, blinking. “This is… so sudden.”

Bucky paused, squinting

You pressed a hand to your chest. “I mean… we’ve only been sleeping together, sharing hoodies, texting nonstop, and eating Thai food three times a week for a few months. You barely know me.”

His jaw clenched.

“Don’t.”

“I mean, I barely know me, James. Are you sure about this? How could I possibly say—?”

He said your name—a low, gravelly warning that made your smile bloom full force.

You grinned.

“Yes,” you said. “I’ll be your girlfriend.”

And before he could react—before he could breathe—you launched yourself into his arms, hands gripping his shoulders, mouth crashing into his with every ounce of pent-up emotion and leftover adrenaline.

His arms instinctively caught you—one around your waist, the other beneath your thighs as your legs wrapped around him like you’d done this a hundred times before.

He kissed you back, hard and fast, like he’d been waiting for this moment—like maybe he needed it as badly as you did.

Somewhere behind you, someone definitely muttered, “What the fuck.”

Another staffer fumbled their phone like they were torn between reporting this to H.R. and posting this on the internet.

Bucky didn’t care.

He just kissed you deeper, right there in the middle of his office, as if the whole damn building hadn’t just watched him get emotionally hijacked by the woman he thought was already his.

Eventually, you pulled back, breath a little ragged, lips swollen, cheeks flushed, arms still looped lazily around his neck.

Bucky was wrecked—eyes dazed, mouth parted, chest rising and falling under you like he’d just run a marathon and won.

You leaned in once more, planted a sweet, casual kiss on his cheek, and whispered, “See you at home.”

You slid off his lap and smoothed your hoodie like you hadn’t just climbed him like a tree in front of half his professional staff.

Bucky blinked. “Wait—what? I was just about to go on break—”

You turned at the door, already tugging your hood up. “Yeah, no, I gotta find Rachel.”

He frowned, still catching up. “Why?”

“To tell her to her face that you’re mine now,” you said flatly. “And so hopefully, she dies of jealousy in front of my eyes.”

You opened the door and strode out like a woman on a mission.

Bucky watched you go, completely speechless, still half-hard in his slacks, shirt wrinkled from where you’d yanked on him like you were trying to break his will to serve.

His aides were frozen, stunned, borderline traumatized.

And then, slowly, that grin started to grow on his face.

A little crooked. A little stunned.

But proud.

Because that?

That was officially his girl.

And God help anyone who tried to say otherwise.

[leyannrae]

Please I need a one shot of Bucky as a boy dad, I did a survey on Twitter and the option of a girl dad is winning but I think Bucky looks better being a boy dad soooo please please <3

ೃ⁀➷ ⋆·˚ ༘ * ˏˋ°•*⁀➷ೃ⁀➷ ⋆·˚ ༘ * ˏˋ°•*⁀➷ೃ⁀➷ ⋆·˚ ༘ * ˏˋ°•*⁀➷

a/n: omg, i'm so undecided, i feel like i could see him as both.

warnings: the word "mama" is mentioned once

word count: 1k

masterlist ✶ requests are open!

The Softest Soldier

The sound of giggles breaks through the sleepy quiet of your apartment.

You glance up from your spot on the couch just in time to see Bucky sprint past the doorway, a toddler in footie pajamas slung under one metal arm like a sack of potatoes. Your son is shrieking with laughter, legs kicking wildly, fingers trying to pry Bucky’s arm loose.

“Help, Mama!” he squeals, breathless between giggles. “Daddy’s being a villain!”

Bucky peeks back into the room, eyes bright. “Don’t help him,” he warns you, mock-serious. “He’s committed crimes against bedtime.”

You try not to smile, failing instantly. “What’s the charge?”

Bucky adjusts his grip, tucking your son’s little body snug to his chest. “Conspiring with a known accomplice—his stuffed dinosaur—to escape bedtime. Again.”

You fold your arms, raising an eyebrow. “Sounds serious.”

“It is,” Bucky agrees solemnly, then blows a raspberry on your son’s cheek.

Your boy lets out another high-pitched squeal, squirming like crazy.

It’s a scene that shouldn’t look natural—an ex-assassin turned supersoldier wrestling a three-year-old while wearing pajama pants and a t-shirt that says #1 Dad (your Father’s Day gift, cheesy and perfect). But somehow it fits. Completely.

You’ve seen Bucky in a lot of roles. Friend. Fighter. Fugitive. Lover. But this one—boy dad Bucky—is your favorite by far.

He’s all softness with your son. No trace of Winter Soldier in the way he kneels down to tie tiny sneakers or sits cross-legged in the living room building Lego towers. He’s not afraid to get messy, to get silly. To be the kind of man who reads bedtime stories in character voices and carries a sippy cup in his tactical bag “just in case.”

He doesn’t always realize he’s doing it. That he’s healing. That every moment like this is proof.

“Alright, punk,” Bucky says now, swinging your son gently into his arms and cradling him against his chest. “Say goodnight to Mommy.”

Your son twists toward you, lip wobbling. “But I’m not sweepy…”

“You can not be sleepy in bed,” you say, brushing a hand through his hair. “That’s allowed.”

He considers this. “Okay. But Daddy has to cuddle me.”

Bucky kisses the top of his head. “I was gonna do that anyway.”

And he does. You follow them to the bedroom and watch from the door as Bucky settles your son beneath the covers, adjusting the nightlight just so. He lays beside him, metal arm stretched protectively around his small frame, voice low and gentle as he starts telling some made-up story about a boy and his dinosaur on a mission to save the moon.

You watch until your son’s eyes drift shut. Until Bucky’s voice trails off.

Later, when he eases out of the room and closes the door behind him, you’re waiting in the hallway with a smile.

“What?” he says, pretending not to notice the look on your face.

You just wrap your arms around his waist. “You’re really good at this.”

“At what?” He rests his chin on your head.

“Being a dad. Being his dad.”

Bucky’s quiet for a second, and when he finally answers, his voice is soft in a way that hits something deep.

“I didn’t know if I’d ever have this. A family. A kid who looks at me like I hung the stars. It still doesn’t feel real sometimes.”

You tilt your head up, hands cupping his face. “It’s real.”

He kisses you like he believes it.

You kiss him back, slow and sure, and when you pull away, he still looks a little dazed — like he’s not quite used to having this. To being this.

“Come on,” you say gently, lacing your fingers through his. “Let’s sit for a bit. He’s out cold — you earned at least one couch snuggle.”

Bucky lets out a breathy laugh and lets you tug him back to the living room. He drops onto the couch with a dramatic sigh, sprawling out and tugging you down with him. Your head ends up on his chest, his arms around you like he never wants to let go.

“You ever think he’s too good to be real?” he murmurs after a while, his fingers drifting idly over your back. “Like, he’s this little perfect human and we somehow didn’t mess him up yet.”

You smile into his shirt. “He tried to put a jellybean in the outlet today. So… maybe not perfect.”

Bucky huffs a laugh. “Okay, reckless. Like his mom.”

You poke his side. “Excuse you. I have never attempted to electrocute myself with candy.”

“No, but you did try to climb on top of the fridge to hide the Halloween stash from me.”

“That’s called strategy.”

“Dangerous strategy.” He kisses your forehead. “Just like him.”

You fall into comfortable silence again. The kind that comes easy with Bucky now. No tension, no guarded edges. Just warmth and the slow rise and fall of his breathing beneath you.

Then, softly: “Do you ever think about having another?”

Your head lifts slightly, just enough to look at him. His face is open, unsure. He’s not pressuring — just wondering. Hoping, maybe. You think about your son’s laugh. His stubbornness. The way Bucky looks at him like he hung the damn stars.

You smile. “Yeah. I do.”

He blinks. “Really?”

“Yeah. He needs someone to share the Halloween candy with.”

Bucky grins, that crooked, boyish thing that still knocks the breath out of you. “I can’t believe I get to do this with you.”

“I can. You’re kind. You’re patient. And you do all the bedtime voices.”

“Yeah, but the dinosaur gives me a sore throat.”

“Worth it.”

He leans down and kisses you again — soft and slow and full of promise.

You fall asleep on the couch together like that, tangled up in each other, the quiet sounds of your home wrapped around you like a blanket. In the next room, your son snores lightly, the nightlight casting gentle stars on the ceiling. And Bucky, boy dad and bedtime villain, smiles in his sleep like maybe — just maybe — he’s finally home.

[leyannrae]

Get Around

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

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

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

Word count : 6.1k

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

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

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

Sarah blinked. “Like… a date?”

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

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

—

The coffee date was… fine.

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

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

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

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

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

He was still figuring out how to use Google Maps.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I said I don’t know!”

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

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

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

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

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

“After I just tried to date you?”

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

—

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

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

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

Sarah nodded.

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

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

“That’s… something.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“That’s cold.”

“It’s effective.”

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

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

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

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

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

“Right?” Sarah grinned, delighted.

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

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

You shot her a look. “Shut up.”

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

Completely, undeniably intrigued.

—

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

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

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

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

He found himself smiling. “It’s you.”

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

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

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

“Sarah didn’t tell you?”

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

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

Oh, this was going to be interesting.

—

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

Conversation flowed easy after that.

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

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

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

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

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

Your smile widened.

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

“I’ll take that.”

–

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

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

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

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

“Oh, this is your moment?”

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

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

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

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

–

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Hey, Bucky?” you called.

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

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

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

—

Three days later, you went on your second date.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You beamed. “Chivalry’s not dead.”

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

–

You came in fifth out of nine teams.

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

“You thought Pluto was a planet.”

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

You laughed, waving him off. “Excuses.”

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

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

“Speak for yourself,” he said lightly. 

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

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

“Deal.”

—

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I’m practically koala-ing your arm.”

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

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

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

“I will push you into a wall.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

—

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And he did. Oh, he really did.

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

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

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

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

“And you always asked?”

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

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

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

Oh?

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

So you kissed him.

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

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

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

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

—

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

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

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

You tried to play it cool. You really did.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“A little?”

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

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

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

Sarah nodded slowly. “Good.”

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

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

—

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

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

“You’ve been smiley lately.”

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

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

Bucky rolled his eyes. “I’m not.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Drop it.”

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

“Nope.”

“Is it someone I know?” Sam insisted.

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

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

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

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

“Sam.”

“You’re dating one of the aunties??”

“No! Jesus.”

“Who then? Just give me a hint—”

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

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

Yeah. No thanks. Not until he had to.

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

Kind of.

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

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

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

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

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

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

—

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He squinted playfully at you. “Shut up.”

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

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

“Here?”

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

Your heart skipped a beat.

Before he could overthink it, he kissed you.

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

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

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

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

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

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

“What? Did I—?”

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

He blinked. “The—?”

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

“Oh, shit.”

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

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

You raised an eyebrow. “Oh?”

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

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

You tasted better than anything on the stove anyway.

—

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

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

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

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

Bucky looked over, eyebrows raised. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

You scoffed. “Of course it doesn’t.”

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

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

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

Your smile turned fond. “Good.”

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

Knock knock knock. 

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

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

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

You swatted him. “Shut up.”

He just winked and went to open the door.

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

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

Because he’d looked past Bucky.

And saw you.

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

Sam looks at Bucky. “Hold up.”

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

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

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

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

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

You looked down. Yep. Sure was.

You cleared your throat. “Surprise?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You winced. “Sorry.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

Bucky sighed. “You gonna be mad forever?”

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

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

Sam looked at his fries.

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

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

Sam narrowed his eyes.

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

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

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

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

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

You saluted. “Yes, sir.”

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

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

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

“Yet.”

“Fair.”

—end. 

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

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@yesshewrites1 @thewiselionessss @sangsterizada @jaderabbitt @softpia 

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@badl4nder @natalia42069 @silverdoragon

[leyannrae]

Pregnancy Drabble

Little drabble to buy me some time because the fics ain't ready yet okay?? Taking inspo from this.

Warning: Pregnancy, Birth. Also I have no idea when it comes to baby weights so I googled shit.

Can you just imagine how snappy you'd be towards Simon during your first birth?

In your hospital gown when Simon helped you waddle your way onto the bed, all emotional and pissed because of the pain..

"Why did it have to have your big head?" You said, accompanied by a whimper in pain and frustration to your husband.

You were gripping his hand for dear life, he refused to tell you about the fact that your nails were digging into his palms even after back at home when you noticed the little subtle crescent shaped wounds left behind.

Simon couldn't even respond besides the stifled laugh, he knows he shouldn't take anything to heart.. you were irritable and understandably so.

One minute it was that and the next you were crying about having bigger stretch marks than you had before. During the check ups you came for, even the doctor herself thought that you'd be carrying twins.. low and behold the ultrasound, it was just one chunky baby who inherited Simon's head..

You almost passed out during the birth itself with how long you had to continuously push, you were a little out of it when it was time to hold your little one.. weighing in at 8 pounds and 12 ounces..

No wonder you felt that you could barely hold yourself up during the pregnancy, you swore to yourself that you are never putting yourself through that again.

Simon helped you hold them up after, his other hand in your hair as his thumb rubbed your scalp, comforting. He pressed his forehead against yours, staring down at the little miracle you popped out..

That vow was easier said than done because you now have two taller than average toddlers climbing their dad's arms and chest, along with another baby who is just pure chunk, the chubbiest cheeks with rolls of baby fat crawling up on their dad's leg..

My CoD Masterlist

Taglist: @wishesforyou @puff0o0 @simping4konig @simp4konig @blingblong55 @azereus @rustic-guitar-notes @snowdjinnofpalestine @09maruchan @anonymuslydumb @skeletalgoats @icarustypicalfall @ghosts-cyphera @connorsui @capuccino192 @miss-gms-and-the-rotten-womb @celestialhole @the-second-sage @starryylies @everlastingmoonlightsworld @keiva1000 @iexiam @drewsmuse @konigceo

[leyannrae]

Dad!Simon thoughts for today :D He’s a girl dad, your honor.

With the mouth on that man, Simon Riley definitely has the absolute sassiest little toddler. She’s only three and hardly goes up to his thigh but she will straight up tell him no. It’s a forceful “no”, too, direct and intense, just like her dad. It's even more ridiculous, too, because she's picked up a bit on his accent. Honestly, she’s a delight for you, normally agreeing with a sweet little “yes, mama!” if you tell her it’s time for bed or that she needs to eat just a few more vegetables but her dad does not get the same sweet temperament all of the time. 

You’re on the carpeted floor of her bedroom with photo albums sprawled about, trying to tire out your toddler before bed by showing her your wedding pictures. She’s tired of all the many picture books you and Simon normally read her. Besides, she loves pressing her tiny fingers to the images, squealing with delight as you point out everyone in the images. “See, baby? There’s mama, and your daddy, and here’s your Uncle Johnny, too.”

“Mama, so pretty!” She admires the photographs of you in white the most, tracing her fingers over the fabric of your dress as if to feel it through the image.

When Simon tries to join in, though, his eyes also lingering on the solo images of you in your dress, he doesn’t get the same praise you do. “Is daddy not pretty, too-?” Before he can even complete the playful question in that gruff voice of his, your daughter is sending him a glare.

“Shhh! Don’t talk!” She plops herself into his lap, her little form curled up against him. Her words are blunt and direct in the way only kids can be. 

You have to hold back a laugh as Simon looks down at her in astonishment. He pokes her side, tickling her plush little tummy. “It’s like tha’, huh? I can’t talk but you can use me as a chair? You’ve been spendin’ too much time with your Uncle Johnny. Spoiled thing, you are.” Her shrill giggles fill the room as she wiggles in his lap.

“You sure that sass is not from you, my love?” You ask with an amused raise of your brows.

“You callin’ me mouthy?”

“I am.”

He just huffs out a laugh.

[leyannrae]

John Price who has ditzy!reader as their neighbor. | cw: mdni, fluff, suggestive content, age gap (30s John and late 20s reader)

You’re always peeking on your top toes over the stone wall that separates his property from the main road and ogling over how John takes care of his property. It’s lush and green, full of trees and trimmed hedges, full of beautiful flowers beds, hanging plants from the porch, perfectly bricked path that leads to the backyard, and John is there tinkering at the working bench.

You’re not as discreet as you should be when you’re peeking, it was easier for the older man to notice you because you let out little grunts when you try to look over the wall. Manicured nails and curly hair popping out while your big brown eyes take in the enchanting scenery. And you can’t help but look at John, watching him unconsciously flex his muscles and his back while wiping away the sweat that grows on his forehead— he’s a total dream. And then he’d turn around, hearing he hears the ‘click, clack’ of your kitten heels as you scurry away.

You’re a pretty little thing, he can’t help but eye you himself. He decides to see that little brain work, catch you slipping. Right as you get on your tip toes to peek over the stone wall, your eyes fall onto the new, large carved flower pots that sit near the shed. You can’t help but daydream about the flowers he’ll use. Maybe petunias, or marigolds, or some pink and yellow peonies—

“Are you gonna stare the whole time, or use your words?”

You slipped, chills running through you as you fell back immediately to the pavement. There’s laugher from the other side of the wall and then you hear the gate click open, revealing the man you’ve been staring at without him knowing.

“I- I didn’t,” you pant, hand over your chest, heart racing “I didn’t notice you there.”

“Well I noticed you,” he smirks, coming over and gently taking you by the hand, “You alright? Not hurt are you sweetheart?”

“Not at all.” You hum, dusting yourself.

“You’ve been spying over my wall, yeah?” He raises an eyebrow, playful, crossing his arms over his broad chest. “That’s not very neighborly is it love?”

Your chest pounds out of your chest, you stutter out, “I-It’s just- It’s so pretty! I saw it from up there!” You point, over to your little cottage just a walk at so away. A shabby and old stone two story house, with shrubbery growing out of country and vines climbing up the sides of the home.

He can’t help but get lost in your big brown eyes, your bottom lip pursed out as you try to explain to him why your innocent in this situation, not even realizing that John could care less about it. He just wanted to get closer to you.

Be neighborly.

He gives you a nod and understanding smile, “Why don’t we make your yard pretty too, could use a bit ‘f work, a little lady like you might need some help.”

And you nod, bright eyes and bushy tailed, squealing in excitement, you jump into his arms unexpectedly, taking John off guard.

“Thank you Mr. Price! You’re the best!” And you jump up and down, skipping away, “I have to finish some things at home but I’ll come back tomorrow! See ya later!” and you give him a big wave with your two hands.

You’d be the death to that old man.

John Price who teaches ditzy!reader how to build out her own flower beds with some old spare wood he had in the shed. He’s all the more patient with you even when you ask, “Why do you have to sand it down?” And “which nails do we use again Mr. Price?” He finds you to be the cutest thing on the planet. You don’t even realize that hes had his large hand on the small of your back this entire time but you’re so focused, eyebrows furrowed in concentration. You only seem to only be able to take in one thing at a time.

John Price who has to hide his boner when you come over in nothing but a tight pair of shorts that hugs your ass and hips ever so perfectly and a small t-shirt that lifts everytime your raise your arms.

You tilt you head to the side, blinking twice, then smiling, “You alright Mr. Price?”

No, no he wasn’t.

But he’d simply smile, rushing you off to go back home since it was getting late. You’d furrow your eyebrows but oblige, ever so cutely waving goodbye. And right as the door to his locked shut, John was rushing to take a cold shower.

Ditzy!reader who doesn’t realize John is fully flirting with them. And he’s tried it all, getting close, saying cheesy pick up lines, making the hairy man show off his body. And of course all you do is stupidly giggle, and shy away, peeking over at the older man as your heart thumps so fast, the heat rising under your brown skin.

“Mr. Price you sure are silly, huh?” You always say, smoothing down your skirt nervously. You believe his actions are just accidents. Like his hand on your back, or his sweet compliments on your outfits and your pretty face, and the way he wipes crumbs off your face and licks his thumb that make your guts spin in delights. He must be kind to all the women he talks to.

John Price who takes it upon himself to inform you hes going to kiss you since you looked utterly stunning under the moon and twinkly lights glow after your weekly dinner in his garden.

You were already magnetically pulled together already, and you kept squirming, pushing your beautiful breasts up unconsciously in your mint green corset. Delectable.

“[+]?” and you hum in response, his face right in yours, his cheeks red as ever, pink lips hovering over yours.

“Uh-huh?”

“I’m gonna to kiss you.”

“O-oh!”

And he softly kisses you, once. And then pulls away. But he can’t help but want- no need to feel your lips on his once more. So he kisses you again. Your eyes shoot open but you melt into him, eyes closing and lazily throwing your arms over his shoulders, deepening the kiss. His beard scratching your face ever to lightly. John pulls you into his lap, capturing your lips in a way that makes you lose yourself. It’s nothing but sweet from the pie John made, that you both indulged in.

“I like you,” John finally admits, with a breathless sigh, “I like you a lot, birdie.”

“Really?” You ask, big eyes widening, utterly shocked, “Since when?”

And he can’t help but laugh, your a ditzy little thing.

His ditzy little thing.

a/n: defeating the writers block and disappointment from earlier with John. Please heal me.

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