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[slutforsr]

Quiet Rewards

◟♯ . / pairing . ! thunderbolts!bucky barnes x fem!reader

◟♯ . / synopsis . ! after a failed mission, you decide to take care of bucky and his injuries—and so does he, but in a different way.

◟♯ . / word count . ! 3.2k

◟♯ . / content warnings . ! 18+ mdni, enemies to lovers, smut with plot (i guess), p in v, unprotected sex, oral (f!receiving), fingering, orgasm denial if you squint, pussy nicknames, slight voyeurism, sub!reader, dom!bucky and sweet!bucky at the end, messy makeout, kitchen counter sex, pet names (baby, sweetheart), bob being unaware of his surroundings as always, NOT PROOFREAD sue me.

◟♯ . / author’s note . ! guess who watched ‘fresh’ for the first time? yep, me. i was traumatised but i can fix him (no really i can), jokes aside, this idea came to me when pinterest showed me a pic of bucky’s bruised face.

The compound was thick with tension, everyone’s faces a bit unrecognizable due to the never-ending fight you had endured in the past hour. Humiliation wasn’t a strong enough word, but the damage your ego received was bigger.

It wasn’t every day that your team—as Yelena called the group of mentally unstable assassins—were this quiet. Walker was somewhere in his room probably praying that his beautiful face would be as flawless as before.

Alexei had taken a Vodka from the counter half an hour ago, walking with Lena into a secluded part of the Watchtower for more privacy when he’d break down and claim that he was supposted to be the best of the century.

And Bob? He was zoned out and tucked into the couch, almost merging into it as a soldier that wanted to hide from his enemies.

You didn’t leave the kitchen, too busy sorting the war inside your head that was clouding your thinking. Failure was something that you couldn’t help but fear—in every way of your life, it didn’t matter if it happened a year ago or seconds ago, it still lingered in you.

The sudden hiss of pain that came from the hall got your attention, snapping you out of your self-critising moment. When you turned to identify to find out who the sound came from, his blue eyes were already mentally throwing daggers at your head.

If you had to rate your teammates from how much you liked them, Bucky would’ve been at the end, if not in the negative numbers in the rating. The feeling was mutual, he never showed any care or affection toward you—and you didn’t pay much attention to it, feeling the same about him.

But there was always that unmistakable tension between you, filled with something neither of you dared to explore—too caught up in ignoring each other.

Bucky’s face was littered from small and pink cuts all the way to bigger cuts that were still leaking with his crimson blood. Rolling your eyes, you snapped your head back to stare at the glass that had been the victim of your constant fidgeting.

His footsteps became louder and closer, reminding you of his presence. As he came into your peripheral vision, you noticed his knuckles looking similiar to yours—damaged and slightly hesitant with their movements.

You were abruptly aware of how the small the kitchen seemed, with him in it. The lingering smell of his perfume filled the air, occupying your space that you created.

“Shit,” The swear he let out was louder than he intended, making you shift your gaze onto his tugged up sleeve that was now revealing his flesh—covered in red, the cut spreading across his whole forearm.

Injuries like this shouldn’t be taken lightly, his veins standing out more than they should have—making you worry, but not about him, not really, your concern was targeted only on the limb itself, at least that’s what you told yourself when you raised up from the chair you were previously sitting on, approaching him.

“God, where’d you get that?” Your fingers brushed against the cut, earning you a quiet whimper that came out of his mouth before he could stop it, internally cursing himself for it.

He rolled his eyes, shaking his head as it fell back against the cabinets, “Well, I remember us protecting ourselves earlier, but I dunno if you were there too.” The joke dripped with deep sarcasm, making you question why you bothered to help him in the first place.

Your legs were thinking before your brain could, carrying you into the direction up the hallway and swiftly disappearing into the bathroom that was neatly cleaned, mirror almost too shiny—reminding you of what your messed up face looked like.

Targeting the first aid kit, you rumarged through the whole cabinet with hurry in your movements, telling yourself that it was just because of your instinct to take care of everyone and everything.

He yelled your name into the air, as the sound echoed off the walls, you sped up in need of the kit. When you finally spotted it, your hands clutched it with unneccessary force as you picked up your speed making your way back to him.

“Sorry,” You mumbled as you stepped back into the kitchen, rounding the kitchen counter as you stood in front of him again, noticing his closeness and how his body surrounded yours almost poetically.

Bucky closed his eyes in need of a distraction from the pain that shot up into his system as you pressed an alcohol pad over it. He was a supersoldier, but lately the minor wounds were more painful than years ago.

Maybe it was because of the serum slowly leaving his veins, already being there for more than a hundred years—or maybe it was because the injuries demanded your attention silently.

As his gaze settled back on you, he observed your motions carefully as if he was mentally sizing you up and judging the potential danger you could put him in. It was an old habit that never quite got away, accompanying him even after he escaped his old self.

“This is gonna hurt,” He stiffened at your sentence, suddenly aware of your presence that was slowly wrapping around his body. His eyes traveled down to where you were holding a needle, along with some medical things that he didn’t quite care about.

“Just get it over with.” You nodded at his words, slowly sliding through the skin with a hint of gentleness in your digits as you stitched him up with care.

The silence wasn’t tense anymore, filled with a calm but healthy tension between both of you as you focused on the job, he couldn’t help but scan how precise the stitches were.

He wasn’t used to someone taking care of him and never did he think that you’d be taking care of him in the kitchen of the compound that he was supposted to act like an invincible soldier in.

Your touch wasn’t intended to turn him on in any way, and he knew that—however he couldn’t help and envy every person that you laid hands on recently or that received the same care that he was experiencing now.

As you tied the last knot into his skin, your teeth smoothly broke off the thread and threw it into the trash without a word.

Bucky didn’t move from where he was standing, looking at you as if you were something sacred he should keep locked somewhere safe, and as you stood in front of him—organising the necessities back to where they belonged, you accidentally brushed against the front of his jeans, earning a small grunt from him.

You tried ignoring it, but when you felt him against your back, the heat spread across your body and settled between your legs, almost mocking you that you were feeling like that just because of a minor movement.

Quickly gathering the things, you tried leaving the kitchen, but unsuccessfully. His cold, metal fingers wrapped around your wrist smoothly, pulling you back into his body as he took the small bag out of your hands, setting it beside him on the counter.

“Not so fast, where’d you think you’re going?” He leaned down into your ear, his breath tickling the sweet spot on the back of your neck—sending shivers down your spine, “Just wanted to take it to the bathr—“

Before you could finish the sentence, you were pressed against the kitchen island, trapped between his body and the cold marble that decorated the surface of the furniture.

“I’m a gentleman, baby.” His words were like a promise that was meant to be just between the two of you, escaping his mouth too softly for you liking. “Wanna give you what you deserve.” He added.

Your gaze settled on his, the grin that was plastered on his face now widening at your dazed and chaotic state of mind, as if he was trying to mock you. You gradually relaxed in his hold, earning a nod of his head out of him.

The space between your bodies was now non-existent, your chest flushed against his, you were sure that he could feel your hardened nipples against the soft leather that covered his torso.

“You gonna be quiet f’me? Yeah?” Bucky’s question made you squirm, uncomfortably pressing your thighs together in the stiff suit that was still clinging to your body.

As you nodded, he gently kissed your temple, moving your hair behind your ear—holding you delicately in his arms as if you were a trophy he was too afraid to break or press too hard into.

You couldn’t think clearly, lust and want clouding your mind, already begging for him to do something. You didn’t care if you sounded desperate, too drunken by his touch to care at this point.

He sank to his knees, his shoulders just in level with your hips as he caressed the sides of your thighs tenderly, reminding you that he was still there. Still with you.

And even if he didn’t kiss you, yet, you were already gone for him—the sight before you was something you haven’t even dreamed about, your eyes rolling back out of reflex as his hand slowly disappeared under the waistband of your suit.

His eyes were locked on your face that was now out of his reach, studying the way your neck moved as you swallowed, smiling to himself he pressed a teasing kiss on your lower stomach, but not quite where you needed it.

The teasing continued with how slowly he pulled your pants down, as you looked down you found him looking sinfully exquisite.

Never in your wildest dreams would you think that the most feared super soldier in the world would be kneeling, before you, for you. It was something that you were sure would stick in your mind for years—if not decades.

Trying to relieve the uncomfortable wetness between your folds, you shifted as if trying to escape. His metal hand pressed hard into your waist, not letting you move in the slightest, he looked like he belonged there.

When his fingers finally tugged at the lace of your underwear you couldn’t help the loud moan that escaped from the back of your throat, immediately regretting it as his digits stopped what they were doing.

“Bucky— Please.” Your begging didn’t get you anywhere, his pointer and middle finger finding their way up your body, stopping on your chin as you looked down.

“Suck, sweetheart,” His words should’ve thrown you off guard, but leaving you to feel pathetic as your mouth softly parted letting his flesh into it.

You tried your hardest to focus on the task, fighting the urges to just grind your hips into his face like a bitch in a heat—which you were currently feeling like.

It felt pathetic, him having you wrapper around the back of his hand so easily, right there in the kitchen that you used every day to make the team dinners and lunches.

Despite that, your tongue greedily swiped, sucked and licked his fingers, as if proving to him that you could do it and take it, even if you were convinced otherwise.

He removed the digits with a wet and obscene pop, catching you off guard as he instantly buried them in your needy cunt, making you throw your head back in the satisfaction that shot through your body.

You were suddenly in heaven as his mouth devoured you, eating you up as if it was his last meal in his life—putting in extra effort and sucking your sensitive bud into his mouth.

“Fuck,” The curse combined with a whine rolled off your tongue as your hands found their way into his too-long hair, kneading and pulling at the strands as if they did something to you.

The heat of the moment is too much, you’re too far gone as he whispered, “Come for me, doll, give it to me, yeah?” He smiled maliciously, burying two of his fingers into your tight hole.

Your pussy makes wet, creamy sounds that you didn’t know you were capable of, riding his hand slowly as the fire ignited in your body—suddenly snapping like a thread.

“Such a good girl.” His tongue soothed your pulsing heat, calming you down as you came back to your senses, almost gasping for air from the satisfaction that coursed through your body.

Bucky stood up, studying your face and searching for a hint of discomfort—yet he found none. Your face only showed signs of mild exhaustion, but over all you were content, the euphoria wrapping around your body.

His fingers were wet with your fluid, glistening against the angry white lights that were turned on, as he placed them into his mouth, tasting you once more before threading them through your hair and moving your head as he wanted.

You were surrounded by his body, touch and smell—it was intoxicating, but it was something you enjoyed, as if the waters didn’t want to swallow you, but let you live.

Desperate, you reached for his lips first, pulling him into a messy kiss that quickly turned into a make-out, his tongue pushing against your lips, seeking entrance as you parted your mouth for him gently.

He tugged on your hair, licking deeper into your throat, swallowing you whole. It was maddening, how suddenly things snapped and you two adressing the heat and want.

Both of you were a little sweaty, the buzz of the adrenaline slowly wearing off, making you aware of the ache between your legs, yearning for more of his attention.

His palms found the back of your thighs, setting you up onto the counter with hidden gentleness in his actions—carefully spreading your legs, exposing you completely to him, “Trust me? You still with me?”

The words meant more than you could imagine, even though the both of you were on the verge of losing control, he still made sure you were okay, when you nodded, it felt like he was waiting for a proper answer.

“Mhm,” You murmured softly, latching onto his neck with light kisses as you heard him unbuckle his belt between your calves with ease.

There wasn’t any hurry in him anymore, savoring the moment—not wanting this to end so soon, he wondered if you felt the same, or if it would all go back to the ignoring gazes and short sentences between you.

But when you bit down on his neck, surely leaving a deep mark on the flesh, he pulled out his cock—pulling you to the edge of the cabinet, nudging his leaking head against your pink entrance.

You looked down, staring at how perfectly he fit you, as if he was made for you, or as if you were made for him, but it didn’t matter, not now, not here.

He pushed inside, stimulating your clit to make it less painful—even if he was slow, gentle and patient, he was aware that he was big, and so were you. Your cunt squeezed him so perfect, making it harder for him to keep his focus.

“You good? Keep talkin’ to me, baby,” He swiped his dick through your folds, pushing out and thrusting inside in one smooth motion, it made you cry out, burying your head in the crook of his neck, you tried to keep quiet.

As you regained some control, you mumbled a small, “Yeah—keep going, please.” You begged so beautifully as his hips sped up, nudging the spot deep inside you from time to time.

You both got lost in the sensation, moaning and whimpering into each other’s ears as if this was the normal thing between you. When you opened your eyes, you found his closed—nose scrunched up in pleasure.

Shifting your gaze down, you couldn’t help but admire how good you were stretching around him, his cock filling you in the best ways possible. His finger remained on your bud, the metal one sneaking around your neck as he pressed a kiss into your shoulder.

“‘M close,” He managed to choke out, slowly but surely reaching the high that threatened to take over him, snapping his body against yours in more frequent rhythm.

As you felt the warmth of his cum fill you up—you couldn’t help but gasp, whining loudly, maybe too loudly based on where you were. The buzz finally cracked, your moistruse coating him and spilling down onto the cold marble.

You both breathed hard, trying to calm yourselves down just by each other’s presence, and it more than worked.

His hand slid to the back of your head, stroking it with hidden protection and possessiveness, pressing light kisses on your sweaty forehead, “What did you do to me?”

The words made you chuckle, shaking your head you looked up at him with something deeper than lust in your eyes—smiling, you casually replied, “Didn’t expect you to turn soft on me now.”

What snapped you both of the haze of pleasure and long-lasting enjoyment were faint footsteps that were now approaching the kitchen, “Fuck, shit—get dressed!” You whisper-yelled at Bucky in horror, pulling up your underwear and pants on quickly.

He rolled his eyes, buckling his belt back into place and pressing one last kiss against your wet lips that were now covered in his saliva, not that you even minded.

“You guys… okay in here? I heard some…. sounds.” The voice belonged to the guy in his messy pyjamas that padded into the room, barefoot as always. Bob scanned you both, tilting his head curiously, trying to figure out what happened between you two.

You and Bucky nodded at the same time as you spoke up first, “Yeah, we were, uhm—“ You looked up at him for help, widening your eyes at him in desperation, “We were fighting, that’s what we were doing.”

His words completed yours perfectly, his significant stupid grin now across his face, proud of what he successfully hid from the oblivious Bob standing right before him.

Bob tilted his head, pointing at the counter— “What’s that?” He asked, making you shift your gaze onto the wet spot that was shining on the white surface, your cum.

“I spilt my drink, so fuck off,” Bucky shifted back to his usual, cocky self, grabbing a wipe and smoothly erasing the evidence of what sin happened right there.

Bob’s mouth tipped up a bit, as he vanished back into the living room in his unaware state, humming to himself softly as if nothing happened back there.

Back in the kitchen, you turned to Bucky.

“What the fuck was that?” You frowned, hitting his chest playfully, no real anger behind the gesture, teasing him about it instead.

“I don’t know who came on the kitchen counter, baby.” He muttered before sealing your lips in another passionate kiss, silencing your stupid chuckle.

And there, you were whole.

With him in your arms, and with Bob being… Bob.

© kissesforbucky original work !

[slutforsr]

proof of return | bucky barnes x reader

Summary: You die and come back—every time. But when a mission pushes your limits and you don’t return right away, Bucky’s worst fear threatens to finally be true.

MCU Timeline Placement: Post CACW / Avengers AU

Master List: Find my other stuff here!

Warnings: depictions of death, medical trauma, near-death experiences, resurrection themes, discussions of mortality, panic/anxiety responses, emotional dysregulation, implied PTSD, field injury descriptions, medical experimentation implications, intense emotional themes, soft romance with heavy angst!!!

Word Count: 9.4k

Author’s Note: brb posting this again because my dumbass accidentally deleted it. but this one was a request and i absolutely devoured it—i loved the concept so much i maybe (definitely) left the ending a little loosely tied up on purpose… might’ve gotten a bit carried away with the angst and emotional spirals, but honestly? no regrets. thank you to the lovely anon who sent this in 💀🖤

The first time Bucky saw you die, he didn’t believe in miracles.

Not really. Certainly not in the Hallmark kind. And definitely not in the gods-and-glory kind. Not after the war. Not after the ice. Not after Hydra. Not after the Avengers fell and the Sokovia Accords cracked open everything that had once felt like progress.

He’d barely believed Steve when he told him the Avengers were a family again. Patched-up, stitched-together, maybe limping a little, but still standing. Still fighting. 

Bucky hadn’t expected to be pulled into that house. Hadn’t expected them to let him stay.

And he hadn’t expected you.

You were fire where the rest of them were steel. Not volatile—just burning, always. Bright eyes, steady hands, too much laughter in your lungs for someone who carried as much loss in their file as he did. 

He hadn’t noticed you at first, not really. You weren’t loud like Tony or cocky like Clint, didn’t crackle with power like Wanda or jab like Sam. But Natasha passed you the remote without asking. Clint stole your fries and never got glared at for it. Steve nodded when you spoke, like your word was enough. Rhodey let you reroute a live op mid-briefing without batting an eye. Even Tony, who didn’t trust anyone he couldn’t outtalk, actually listened when you muttered a correction under your breath.

You had a room in the south wing, but half the time you were in the gym or on the roof, or behind a console in the mission control room, legs kicked up and a lollipop jammed between your teeth like you were doing a bit. Bucky didn’t know how to approach someone like that. 

You didn’t scare him, but you didn’t make sense, either.

Not until that mission in Belarus. Not until the firestorm. Not until the building collapsed, and you—without hesitation, without backup—went in after a hostage nobody had even confirmed was still alive.

It happened fast. They always do. One second, he was behind you, shoulder to shoulder, rifle sweeping the hall for stragglers. The next, a pressure plate went off. The whole floor heaved. He remembered seeing your body twist mid-air, pushing the civilian ahead of you toward a half-shattered window. And then nothing. Just dust. Screaming metal. Silence.

And then red. Everywhere.

He found your body half-buried in the rubble. Neck bent too far to one side. Eyes wide and glassy. Lips open like you’d died with a breath caught in your chest. You didn’t look peaceful. You didn’t look gone. You looked ripped away.

And Bucky—who’d seen bodies pile up like cordwood, who’d watched friends bleed out under moonlight, who’d held too many soldiers as their lungs gave out—could not breathe. He dropped to his knees beside you, gravel and glass biting into his palms. 

Sam’s voice was in his comm, sharp, ordering a retreat. Steve was yelling something, calling his name. But all he could hear was the static of his own pulse roaring in his skull. All he could see was you.

He wasn’t supposed to panic. Steve had told him that. Not in those words, but close enough. The night before their first mission with you, Steve had pulled him aside after briefing, lingering near the map table long after the others had left the room. 

The compound lights had gone dim, casting that glassy blue reflection over everything, and Bucky remembered the way Steve rubbed his thumb over the edge of the table—like he wasn’t sure how to start. Which was rare. Steve always knew how to start.

He had told Bucky you had a… condition. That you could recover from injuries that would level anyone else. That death wasn’t always the end for you. But the words had come with too much weight and not enough clarity. Bucky had assumed it meant you healed fast, like someone like him. Something cellular. Scientific. Something manageable.

Not this.

Because talking about someone’s tendency not to stay dead didn’t prepare you to watch their neck snap against a concrete beam. It didn’t give you tools for handling the stillness of their chest, the unnatural twist of their limbs, the mouth gone slack and blood pooling under their skull. It didn’t make it any easier to reach out and try to close their eyes, only to find them already glassed over.

It was one thing to be told.

It was something else entirely to see.

And yet no one else seemed to be moving like he was. Sam had cleared the building. Natasha’s voice crackled in his ear with calm, crisp updates. Steve sounded winded but focused, calling coordinates for extraction. The rest of the team had already folded the loss into their protocol, trusting that the wrinkle would smooth out. That you’d sit up. That you’d shake it off. 

That it was temporary.

You came back on the jet, somewhere over the Baltic. Coughed once, loudly, and then swore like someone had woken you up from a nap. Your pupils were blown wide, disoriented, blinking into the overhead light. Your voice cracked. Your ribs were still healing when you sat up and reached for a damn granola bar.

Bucky watched the whole thing from across the cabin like he was watching a ghost dig itself out of the grave. No one else even flinched. Steve patted your back. Natasha tossed you a bottle of water. Sam made a joke about “another life gone down the drain.”

After that, he started watching you differently.

It wasn’t obvious. He wasn’t obvious. Just...more aware. How you moved. How you fought. How you flinched sometimes when the flashbangs went off, how you touched your own throat after every mission like you had to remind yourself it was still there. He started walking a little closer to your side. Started memorizing the way you breathed, just in case he had to hear it stop again.

And he did.

He heard it stop. Again. And again. And again.

A dozen times over the past year. Maybe more. He’d stopped counting after the tenth.

And every time it happened, no matter how fast you came back—thirty minutes, five minutes, once in under thirty seconds—some part of him still reacted like it could be the last time. 

It didn’t matter if it was a sniper’s shot that caught you in the neck or a car bomb that threw you half a block down a dirt road or an enemy blade shoved clean through your spine. You dropped. You went still. And Bucky would freeze. For a breath. For a blink. For just long enough to feel that quiet pull in his chest like gravity trying to drag him down with you.

He never got used to it.

Not once.

He never let the others see how it shook him. Never said anything. Just picked up your body when he had to. Pulled you out of fire when no one else noticed you’d fallen.

Because you always came back. That was the rule. Everyone else had accepted it like a fact of nature. But for Bucky, it never felt like science. It felt like gambling. Like every time you died, death got a little greedier. The odds stacked a little higher. And one day, the universe would call it.

And he hated it.

Hated how reckless you were. How little regard you had for your own body. You weren’t suicidal—he wasn’t sure you could be—but there was a fearlessness in you that read like self-destruction. You joked about it. Sam called you “the immortal dumbass.” Tony called you “useful.” Steve said you were brave. But Bucky saw something else behind your eyes. A kind of numbness. A weightless tilt.

It scared him.

Because what scared him more than dying himself…was watching someone else do it. Again. And again. And again.

The compound was quiet at night in the way that only military-grade buildings ever were—buzzing, humming, never truly silent. The ventilation systems always sounded like breath. The floor lights pulsed faintly, like veins. Even the steel walls seemed to whisper in low frequency. But the quiet now was different. It was waiting. Restless. A low, thrumming kind of tension that had nothing to do with the building and everything to do with what was coming.

Bucky sat upright in bed for over an hour, jaw locked, staring at the far wall like it might give him something to focus on that wasn’t you. It didn’t.

You were leaving in the morning.

You, Natasha, and Stark—some infiltration op on the edge of Ukraine that had started as a tech recovery and escalated into something else. Bucky hadn’t asked the details. Didn’t want to know. Didn’t want the mental image of another burning compound or another half-collapsed stairwell or another sniper’s nest tucked into a tree line where you couldn’t see it until the shot cracked through your spine. 

He’d already watched it happen too many times. The last three missions you’d been on? Dead. Dead. Dead. And then back again. You always came back. But that didn’t make him feel better. It made everything worse. It made the space between each heartbeat unbearable.

Eventually, he gave up pretending to rest. The sheets were cold. His skin felt too tight. The compound clocks glowed 2:38 AM, and the hallway lights flicked on one by one as he passed, barefoot, hoodie sleeves tugged over his palms.

He didn’t expect the kitchen to be lit. Or occupied.

But there you were—back to him, standing by the sink with the kind of posture that didn’t belong to someone who was tired. You were wide awake. Methodical. Precise, like you were rebuilding a bomb or stitching a wound. Except your hands were moving around the kettle. Teabags. Your favorite mug.

You turned your head, sensing him before he made a sound. Always did. “Hey, Buck.”

Your voice was low. Not a whisper. Just soft, like you didn’t want to scare the quiet away.

“Can’t sleep either?”

He stopped just inside the threshold. Blinked once. Swallowed the first thing he thought and offered something neutral instead. “Didn’t try that hard.”

You smiled without showing teeth. It didn’t reach your eyes, but it tried. And without another word, you turned back to what you were doing and pulled a second mug from the shelf. Not a guess. Not a question. His mug. The one with the faded shield logo and hairline crack at the rim.

He watched you move in silence, jaw working slightly as your hand hovered over the tea canister, pulling out the one he liked. Not the basic black tea ones the others used. Yours smelled like warm bark and orange peel and cinnamon. You added a splash of milk and just enough honey to kill the bite without making it sweet. You didn’t measure, never did, but it was always perfect. 

You passed the mug across the counter without fanfare, fingers brushing his briefly. They were warm. You always ran warm. He took it without speaking.

“You’re leaving in, what—” he glanced at the digital stove clock, “less than seven hours?”

You nodded, stirring your own tea slowly. “More like six and a half. Don’t remind me.”

He tried not to frown. Failed.

You sipped and leaned back against the counter. Your legs were bare. Oversized hoodie, no armor, no gear. No bulletproof vest. Just soft cotton and skin and the delicate shimmer of a healing scar above your collarbone where a blade had gone in clean two missions ago. You hadn’t even blinked. Bled out in Tony’s arms. Came back with a cough and a nosebleed like it was a mild inconvenience.

You noticed his stare but didn’t call him on it. Just nudged the edge of your mug against his knuckles and murmured, “Don’t do the broody look. I know what it means.”

He glanced down, unsure if he was glaring or just giving himself away. “What does it mean?”

You tilted your head, considering him. Your hair was a mess. Damp at the ends. No makeup. No effort. He liked you better this way. Not performance. Not mask. Just you.

“It means you’re thinking too hard again.” You didn’t say it accusingly. More like it was something you admired and hated all at once. “That or your tea’s already gone cold and you’re too polite to tell me I messed it up.”

Bucky exhaled through his nose. Shook his head once. “It’s fine.”

“It’s perfect,” you corrected. Then you added, quieter, “I always make it the way you like.”

There was no flirt in your tone. No edge. Just fact.

He didn’t know what to do with that.

You were watching him now. Really watching. Like you could see the tension in his shoulders, the slow grind of his jaw, the way his eyes kept darting back to the clock like it was counting something down.

You leaned forward slightly. “You alright?”

He looked at you.

Really looked.

You, who had died more times than he could count. Who always smiled when you came back, like it wasn’t terrifying. You, who hadn’t asked him for a thing, hadn’t pushed for closeness, hadn’t teased him the way others did, but who had somehow become the only person in the compound whose absence he felt like a bruise.

He let the silence stretch. It took effort to speak through the tightness in his chest. “Just… try not to die this time, alright?”

You blinked once. Then you gave a half-smile. “That’s the plan.”

“That’s always the plan,” he said, voice low, rough. “You just never stick to it.”

You raised your mug in a lazy sort of salute. “Well, someone’s gotta keep things exciting around here.”

He didn’t smile. Didn’t return it.

You sobered immediately. “Bucky.”

He looked down at his tea. Didn’t answer.

Your voice gentled. “I know it’s hard.”

That made something sharp move in his gut. He swallowed it. “Do you?”

“I do.” You shifted, setting your mug down. “It’s hard for me too.”

His eyes snapped back to you then, confused.

You exhaled through your nose, slow, measured, like you were weighing the shape of what you were about to say. Like even now, even with the space between you tighter than it had ever been, there was still something in you that hesitated. 

“Everyone assumes it doesn’t really hurt. Dying.”

The words slid out like you’d been holding them back for years.

“I don’t really correct them. What’s the point? I’ve done it so many times it’s almost natural at this point.” You gave a small shrug, and Bucky hated how casual it looked. Hated how practiced it felt. “They think it makes it easier to watch if it’s clean. If it’s clinical. Like I’m slipping under for a nap or something.”

You laughed, but it wasn’t a real laugh. It had a rawness to it, like it was built to cover something far older and more bitter.

“It’s not,” you said. “It’s not clean. It’s not quiet. And no, it doesn’t always hurt. Sometimes it does. Sometimes it’s just cold. Sometimes it’s like static ripping through my chest. Sometimes it’s like drowning. But I’ve done it enough times to know—”

You hesitated.

Then, softer: “The worst part isn’t dying.”

Bucky’s grip on the mug shifted slightly. Not enough to clink it against the counter, but just enough that the tension bled through his fingers.

He stared at you. At the way your expression barely moved, but your voice had pulled taut—something strung between exhaustion and confession. And before he could stop himself, before he could measure the weight of the words or consider whether he wanted to hear the answer, his voice slipped out, quieter than he meant.

“Then what is?”

You didn’t answer right away. Your mouth parted like you might, then closed again. You looked down, thumb running along the seam of your mug, then up again like you were scanning the ceiling for courage or language or both.

“Coming back,” you said, after a long breath. 

Your fingers traced the rim of your mug, absent, like they needed something to circle. “It’s like being dropped into your own body from a great height—like everything’s disjointed and wrong, like your cells are trying to knit themselves into something they almost remember being but keep getting it wrong on the first try. I wake up choking on a breath that doesn’t belong to me. There’s always this—delay—between my heartbeat and my mind, like I’m being rebooted from the inside out.” 

You paused, eyes somewhere near the floor, shoulders rigid but low. “The world doesn’t feel real at first. My senses are too loud, or too quiet, or off, like I’m underwater or too deep in my own skin.”

Bucky didn’t move. Couldn’t. His palms had gone clammy against the ceramic, but he didn’t dare set the mug down—it felt like the only thing tethering him to the moment. 

You looked up then, not at him, but through him, gaze unfocused like you were reliving something only you could see. “I don’t always remember my name. I don’t always remember if I was supposed to come back at all.” Your voice cracked then—barely—but it landed in his chest like a breach. 

“And it does hurt, Buck,” You exhaled, slow and tired. “God, it’s like being remade out of raw wire.”

Bucky didn’t know when he stopped breathing. Didn’t know how long his body had been holding still like it was trying not to wake something. The mug in his hand felt cold now. Heavy. Like it had been drained of heat the same way he had. And still, he didn’t let go of it. He wasn’t sure what he’d do with his hands if he did.

And then, softly, you reached out.

Your fingers brushed his forearm like you were checking to see if he was real. Just the lightest touch at first, then a firmer press. 

You didn’t say sorry, didn’t ask if it was too much, didn’t flinch away when he didn’t move to meet you halfway. You just held there—gentle, grounded. The way someone might try to soothe a trembling animal. Or offer comfort without making a show of it. And maybe it was stupid, or selfish, or something worse, but Bucky let himself lean into it. 

“I don’t want it to be my first move, Buck. It never is.” Your thumb shifted against the fabric of his sleeve like you couldn’t help it. “When I charge in, when I make a call that looks reckless—it’s not because I’m aiming to die. It’s because in the moment, there’s no better option. No faster way to stop it. No one else in range. Sometimes… sometimes it’s just easier if it’s me.”

His throat was tight. Too tight to speak.

Because he believed you. Of course he did. But that didn’t stop the ache in his chest from flaring sharp and sudden. Didn’t stop the cold curl of dread he felt every single time your comm went quiet. Every time the room stilled after an explosion. Every time he turned and you weren’t there.

His voice came out low, uneven, laced with too much he hadn’t meant to say.

“Just—just stay close to Romanoff tomorrow. Or Stark. Don’t run ahead unless you have to. Don’t be alone when it happens.”

When.

Not if.

He hated how easily the word came out.

You gave him a soft, lopsided smile. The kind that didn’t make it to your eyes but still tried. “It’s alright, Buck. I’ve done this long enough. I’m used to it.”

And that broke something small and vital in him.

“You shouldn’t be.”

His voice was sharp, sudden, louder than he meant. It cut through the hush of the kitchen like a blade. He saw your eyes flicker at the sound, but you didn’t recoil. 

“You shouldn’t be used to dying alone,” he said, softer now. Raw. “You shouldn’t come back alone, either.”

He didn’t say the rest. Didn’t say I want to be there. Didn’t say I would hold you through it if you let me. Didn’t say it kills me every time I have to watch you fall.

But he didn’t have to.

Because your expression shifted, just enough.

And then—still slow, still careful—you slid your hand from his forearm down to his wrist. Let your palm settle over the place where his pulse jumped like it was trying to escape.

“I don’t want to get used to it either,” you said quietly. “But if I have to… I’d rather it be you waiting for me when I come back.”

The words lodged deep. Lodged somewhere past logic, past instinct—somewhere in that hollowed-out place he didn’t let anyone touch. And he didn’t know what it meant, not really. Not what it implied or promised or asked of him. 

Because that was the one thing he knew how to do.

Wait.

Watch.

Endure the parts no one else wanted to witness.

He’d spent a lifetime surviving the aftermath of things—wars, experiments, governments, grief—and this felt no different. Just another kind of ruin. Just another body he couldn’t stop reaching for. But if there was even a sliver of a choice here, if there was any piece of this he could claim, it would be what you asked.

When you finally looked at him again—wary, uncertain, something like tired hope flickering behind your eyes—all he could do was nod.

The first thing he registered was the sound of his own boots slamming against the tile. The weight of them. The violence of it. Bucky didn’t run in the compound. There was never a need. Never a reason. But now he was sprinting. No hesitation, no precision, just raw momentum. Like if he stopped, the whole world might catch up and swallow him whole.

The overhead lights stuttered past in a blur—white, blue, white, blue—his reflection shattering and reforming in every panel of glass he passed. The comm still buzzed in his ear, but he’d stopped parsing the words. It had become background noise, panic laced with protocol, two voices overlapping in jagged bursts.

“Vitals flatlined—”

“Still no activity—fuck, fuck, we need Bruce—”

“I’ve never seen her take this long—”

“ETA three minutes, someone prep the med bay—”

Tony’s voice cracked on the last word, something clipped and sharp sliding under the usual bravado, and that was what made Bucky run faster.

He didn’t wait for the elevator. Barreled up the north stairwell like it would collapse behind him. His lungs burned. His shoulder ached. He barely registered when he passed Sam near the third-floor turn, just the sound of his name shouted down the corridor, ignored. Nothing else mattered.

Because you were supposed to be back by now.

Not on the quinjet. Not in the air. Not in stasis.

Back.

On your feet. Joking about needing a sandwich. Complaining about the lights being too bright. Mumbling something sarcastic as your system recalibrated. That’s how it always went. Messy, yeah. Ugly, sometimes. But reliable. You came back within the hour. Always. Always.

This time, you hadn’t.

And Bucky had felt the shift in his bones the second the mission feed cut out mid-transmission.

It was subtle at first. Just dead air. Then a flicker of video from Natasha’s body cam—frantic movement, blood on the wall, your body collapsed in a narrow corridor with debris still falling overhead. Tony had shouted something unintelligible over comms. Nat was already kneeling beside you. Trying to wake you. Then the feed cut out again.

Bucky hadn’t heard what happened next.

He didn’t need to.

He knew. He always knew.

And still, he’d waited. Ground his teeth. Paced the hall outside mission ops like a ghost with no orders. Told himself it wasn’t new. Told himself you’d done this dozens of times. Told himself not to make a scene.

But then the timer passed sixty minutes after Tony and Natasha had loaded you onto the quinjet.

Then seventy.

Then ninety.

And no one said it, no one dared, but the silence on the channel had changed. The kind of silence that meant containment, not comfort. Containment of panic. Of grief. Of the beginnings of a body bag.

By the time he reached the landing bay, the hangar doors were already yawning open, air pressure groaning with mechanical grief. Steve was behind him now, not far. Bruce was shouting something to a tech, slamming gloved hands into the control panel and barking for clearance codes. Bucky’s eyes locked on the quinjet’s silhouette as it cut through the horizon, still high, but descending fast. Too fast. The bay lights washed the whole space in a sterile blue that made everything look surgical. Wrong.

The quinjet’s landing gear screamed against the platform as it made contact. The bay was full now—techs, med staff, Bruce at the front with a gurney, clipboard in one hand, tablet in the other, already barking orders before the ramp even dropped. And Bucky—he stood rooted at the bottom of the stairs, fists clenched at his sides, heart hammering like it might give out.

Somewhere in the back of his mind, Bucky still expected you to walk off that jet like nothing happened.

There was a part of him, desperate and stubborn, that still clung to that image. That hoped you’d emerge before the engines even powered down—smirking, smug, asking why everyone looked like they’d seen a ghost.

He could almost hear your voice. Relax, Barnes. I’m contractually obligated to survive.

But the ramp dropped. And you didn’t walk out.

Tony did.

No suit. No helmet. 

Just his bare hands curled around your limp form. One arm under your knees, the other locked around your back, holding you close to his chest like something fragile. Like something already gone. His face was pale, eyes rimmed red. Whatever had been holding him together on the jet was cracking now, and Bucky watched the breath stutter out of him as he carried you down the ramp and toward the waiting gurney.

Natasha was already moving. Straight to Bruce. Her voice was low, urgent, fast, but Bucky couldn’t hear a damn word of it. It was all static in his skull—white noise flooding out every sense except for the sight of you. Head lolling. Arms dangling. That stupid hoodie half-zipped over your tac gear, stained dark down the front. 

No movement. No twitch. No rise of breath.

Tony laid you down without ceremony. Like he couldn’t bear to hold your weight a second longer. His hands hovered as he stepped back, twitching once before curling into fists at his sides.

Bruce was shouting. Snapping gloves on. Calling for neuro pads, ordering an amp of sodium bicarb and a second gurney of crash meds. The med team swarmed, rapid and precise, like they’d rehearsed this. Maybe they had. But none of it made sense to Bucky. Because no one was saying the thing he needed to hear. No one was saying you were alive.

And then you were gone.

Rolled away down the corridor on a rush of wheels and panic, monitors trailing, IV bags bouncing against the rails, Bruce jogging beside the bed while the team barked vitals and stats Bucky couldn’t parse. The doors hissed open. Then closed.

And Bucky moved.

He didn’t remember his legs making the decision—just that he was following, ignoring the hand that caught at his arm, the voice that tried to stop him.

“Bucky—” Natasha’s voice, behind him. “You don’t have to—”

But he did. Of course he did. Where else would he be.

By the time he reached the med bay corridor, the viewing room was already sealed. The glass looked too clean, too polished, reflecting his own wrecked face back at him as he stepped inside. The lights overhead were harsh, clinical. He didn’t blink. Just locked his gaze on the room beyond the glass, where your body lay motionless on the biobed, surrounded by noise.

There were five people in the room with you—Bruce, a trauma nurse, and three field medics. The readouts were red. Your core temp was low. Too low. And that was wrong. Because your body didn’t deteriorate. Not like this. Not if it was going to come back.

Bruce’s voice cut through the comm system, clipped and clinical:

“She’s entering cellular stasis—no signs of resync. EKG flat. Core temp’s dropping—eighty-four and falling. Prep the defib pads. Set to 300 joules.”

Bucky’s stomach twisted.

One of the techs stepped in, gel already applied to the paddles. Bruce checked your chest placement, then gave a nod.

The charge fired. Your body jolted.

No rhythm.

Another nurse adjusted the IV line. “Bicarb’s in. Still no spike in brain activity.”

“Try again,” Bruce snapped.

Another charge. Higher. Your body arched, then slammed back down. No response.

“Still nothing.”

“Try again.”

It was wrong. All of it. Bucky’s nails dug into his palms, fists clenched so tightly his knuckles burned. They were treating you like a patient. Like someone they could save. But this wasn’t how it worked. You didn’t need to be brought back. You just came back—like clockwork, like breath, like gravity. There had never been any need for any involvement.

Bruce turned to the others, rattling off a new protocol—hypothermic suppression, something about delaying tissue damage, prolonging viability. Words like organ stability and neural oxygenation passed between them, and Bucky could barely process it, because all of it translated to the same thing:

You weren’t coming back yet. And they don’t know how long you had.

The door behind him hissed open.

He didn’t turn.

Natasha stepped in without a word. No sound but her boots against the tile as she came to stand beside him. Arms crossed. Face unreadable. She didn’t speak, not at first. She didn’t try to comfort him. Just stood next to him, shoulder to shoulder, and stared through the glass like she was holding vigil too.

It took him several minutes before his voice cracked out of him, low and sharp.

“What happened?”

Natasha didn’t answer right away. She didn’t look at him, either—just kept her arms crossed, gaze fixed on the glass where your body lay surrounded by wires and machines and steady, unchanging noise. He saw the way her jaw flexed. The tick in her cheek like she was chewing through something unspeakable.

And that alone told him this wasn’t routine.

She never hesitated when it was routine.

Finally, her voice cut through the silence—low, clipped, too measured to be natural. “We were clearing a lab. North end of the facility. Looked like abandoned HYDRA tech, but older. Pre-Winter program. Lots of redundancy, lots of analog systems. Nothing networked. Tony was busy cataloging the hard drives—we thought it was just a data dump. Then she found some sort of weapon.”

Bucky didn’t move. He didn’t breathe.

Natasha’s arms tightened against her ribs. “We didn’t even recognize it at first. It wasn’t primed. No energy signatures, no alerts. Looked inert. Like junk.”

His heart slammed harder.

“She picked it up to inspect the casing. Turned it over. There was a crack in the housing. We think the firing mechanism was already damaged. Or maybe proximity triggered it—Bruce or Tony would know better than I would. But it discharged.”

He didn’t speak. Just waited. Let the pause stretch long enough for Natasha to regret telling him anything at all.

“It wasn’t explosive,” she said finally. “No heat, no impact. No shrapnel. But it hit her. One shot. Center mass. We didn’t hear a sound—just this flash of white light, and then she dropped.”

Bucky didn’t react. Couldn’t.

Not at the image of you turning the weapon over in your hands. Not at the thought of white light and silence and you dropping like a puppet with the strings cut. Not even when Natasha’s voice dropped, brittle and precise in a way it only got when she was holding herself together by muscle memory alone.

All he could see—all he could fucking see—was the scene playing out behind the glass. Your stillness. Your silence. The unrelenting machinery keeping your body warm, your blood oxygenated, your brain stem pulsing with artificially induced potential. But not life. Not you.

It hadn’t felt real until now. Not entirely. Panic had a way of making things surreal—like there was still a punchline coming, like it hadn’t fully landed. But this? This was worse. Watching it. Being trapped behind glass while they shocked you over and over, like they were trying to wake a corpse without saying the word.

You’d survived worse. That was the problem.

You’d walked off missions with your ribs in fragments. Pulled yourself out of burning wreckage. Sat up after being shot in the head. He’d seen it. He’d held you while your pulse fluttered back under his palm. He knew the rhythm of your breath when it restarted. Knew how your fingers twitched first, then your jaw. Knew how you blinked like you were trying to remember the shape of your name.

But now you weren’t even twitching.

And his brain was starting to do that thing it did—the one where it spiraled so hard it looped, where logic cracked open and left nothing but noise behind. Because if it was taking this long… if Bruce didn’t have a timeline… if even Tony was panicking—

“She’s not gone.”

Natasha’s voice was quiet. Steady. Like she’d seen the spiral forming in his posture before he had.

“She’s not,” she repeated, sharper this time. “There’s no sign of neurological decay. Tony said her cortex is holding. There’s no evidence to suggest she won’t come back.”

Bucky’s jaw clenched.

“She flatlined for forty-seven minutes that time in Syria,” Nat added, tone more clinical now, like she was reciting a file to ground them both. “We all thought it was over. Bruce was five seconds from calling it when she sat up and asked if we’d eaten her snacks.”

He wanted to believe that should’ve helped. That it mattered. That past precedent meant something. But it didn’t settle the pressure behind his eyes, or the fire crawling up his throat.

“This is different,” he muttered.

Natasha didn’t argue.

He turned just enough to glance at her, the flick of his gaze heavy and pointed. “You’ve never been an optimist.”

“I’m not,” she said simply. “But I’m also not an idiot. If she were really gone, we’d know.”

He let out a bitter, humorless breath. “We’re watching them electroshock her chest every five minutes. You sure we’d know?”

Natasha’s lips twitched—not a smile, not even close. Just something flickering beneath the surface. “You think she’d let some half-functioning relic weapon be the thing that takes her out? After everything she’s lived through?”

He didn’t answer.

But he didn’t disagree, either.

“Tony’s running the analysis now,” she continued. “Whatever that thing was—it wasn’t designed to kill conventionally. That much is clear. It’s probably why it didn’t even register as active. He thinks it might’ve been experimental stasis tech—some kind of field disruptor. Lock the target in a non-degrading state. But even that’s just a theory.”

Bucky ground the heel of his palm against his brow. The ache had started somewhere deep, beneath his skull, where stress nested and bloomed.

His hand pressed harder. “If she doesn’t come back—”

“She will.”

“Nat.”

“She will, Bucky.”

There was a buzzing.

Not a sound. Not exactly. More like a current running through your skin, deep beneath the layers—like someone had threaded copper wire through your veins and left it live. Everything felt… charged. Damp. Wrong.

The air was heavy, too close. Your teeth ached. Your ribs didn’t feel like they belonged to you.

You opened your eyes, maybe. At least you thought you did. Everything was too bright and too dark at once. The edges of the world were sliding. The walls were breathing. Your lungs weren’t. Not quite. Your throat was raw, like you’d been screaming or swallowing metal or—no, not screaming. That would’ve made sense. 

You blinked again, or tried to. The room didn’t shift.

There was a room, wasn’t there?

Something sterile. Bleached light, white tile, silver machinery that hummed like it was alive and watching. Somewhere in the distance, maybe inside your skull, a sound repeated over and over. A slow metronome. A beep. You couldn’t tell if it was coming from you or something next to you. Or beneath you. You couldn’t tell where you were at all.

Your hands weren’t hands. Just weight. Ghosted nerves. One of them trembled. The other didn’t.

You tried to sit up. The effort felt like drowning in a body that hadn’t been built for you. Your limbs didn’t respond so much as wobble, twitching into motion with a lag like bad video playback.

Your feet hit the floor. Bare. Cold. You didn’t remember standing. Didn’t remember walking. But the next time you blinked, the bed was behind you, its sheets twisted like a fight had happened there.

You were… moving. One step. Then another.

The hallway felt endless. Pale and wrong, like a dream version of the compound—hall lights too dim, shadows too tall, silence pressing too close to your skin. There was a tug in your chest. A flicker of wrongness beneath your breastbone, like the rhythm in your body hadn’t fully started yet. Or like it had started crooked.

You touched the wall for balance. The material was cold and real and buzzing. Or maybe that was still you. Maybe it wasn’t the wall at all.

You weren’t dressed right. Thin fabric hung off your shoulders—hospital gown. You registered that in a floaty, useless sort of way. Legs bare. No shoes. One IV port still half-taped to your arm, the cannula snapped off but the tubing still there. 

No one was in the hall. Or maybe they were. Maybe you weren’t seeing them right.

You should’ve gone back. Sat down. Laid down. But your feet kept moving. Left, right, wrong. Left again.

You didn’t know where you were going. You just needed something. Somewhere.

Suddenly, there was a shape ahead. Dark. Tall. Solid.

For one sharp, blinding second, your heart kicked up like it was trying to reboot again, like it had seen something familiar enough to latch onto.

You paused.

You heard a name in your head, but didn’t feel right. It didn’t fit. You tried to reach for it and came up empty.

You blinked, slow and sticky. There was something familiar about him. Something that sent a lurch through your ribs. Broad shoulders. Dark shirt. Dark jeans. Hands clenched at his sides.

Your mouth opened to speak, but nothing came out but a dry, broken sound.

And then there was movement. Too fast for your brain to register. Your legs staggered back a step, warning sparks flaring through your nerves, but there wasn’t enough time. He reached you. Arms wrapped around you like a snap, like a catch, like a promise made good on. It knocked the air from your lungs. Or maybe you’d forgotten how to breathe.

You gasped into the fabric of his shirt. Cold hands on your spine. His arms iron-wrapped around your shoulders, your ribs, your back. Unyielding. Like he couldn’t hold you hard enough.

You didn’t remember how to respond. Your hands hovered, limp, not sure what to do. Not sure if this was safe. Not sure if this was real. Everything felt out of sync.

He pulled back.

Just enough.

Calloused and cold metal hands cupped your face. His thumbs swept under your eyes, across your cheekbones. His touch was trembling. His breath hitched. You blinked up at him, and for the first time, the shape of him sharpened. The fragments aligned. You saw the worry carved into every inch of his expression—the eyes too wide, jaw tight, lips parted like he wanted to say something but couldn’t.

“...Bucky?”

Your own voice startled you. Dry and thready, like it had been caught somewhere deep in your chest and dragged out raw. It barely sounded like you. But he reacted to it like a knife.

His breath caught. His jaw trembled. And then he let out this low, uneven exhale, like it had been sitting in his lungs for years.

“Yeah,” he rasped. “Yeah. I’m here.”

His hands were still on your face. Still grounding you, brushing warmth over your cheeks in shaky passes like he wasn’t convinced you wouldn’t vanish if he let go.

You stared up at him, and for a long moment, all you could do was look. Trace the mess of emotion behind his eyes. The strain in his posture. The red-rimmed edge of grief barely reined in. You could feel it in his touch, too—not just relief, but fear. The kind that lingered even after the danger had passed.

Something in you ached.

You didn’t know what to say. Didn’t know how to say anything. Your body still felt wrong. Out of order. Like it had been rebooted without your permission and the software hadn’t finished syncing yet.

He pulled his hands back slowly. Gave you space. But didn’t step away.

“What…” you swallowed, but your throat burned. “What happened?”

Bucky’s eyes searched yours. Carefully. Slowly. As if he were checking to see just how much of you had come back.

“You tell me,” he said, voice low. “What do you remember?”

Your brow furrowed. You tried to think. Tried to pull something forward.

There had been a mission. You remembered that.

Tony, Natasha, an old facility. HYDRA tech. Dust and rust and data cores. A strange silence under the floor. Static in your comms.

Your stomach turned.

“I—uh. We were clearing a lab,” you murmured. Your own voice sounded off—like it belonged to someone else, like it had been stored too long in a drawer and didn’t quite fit anymore. “Tony was pulling drives. Nat was checking the walls. I saw a piece of something near the far console—looked like an old shell casing, but smooth. Heavy.”

You paused. Closed your eyes.

“I turned it over.”

Bucky’s hands didn’t move. His eyes were locked on yours.

You swallowed, mouth dry. “There was a flash. White light.”

It hit you then. Like a thread being yanked too hard. Like memory trying to force its way back through a door that wasn’t fully open.

“I got hit by it,” you whispered. “Didn’t I?”

He didn’t answer. Just stared at you with something carved into every inch of his expression—exhaustion, disbelief, something ancient and brittle and on the edge of breaking.

“I died?”

The words felt too loud. Too sharp in the silence of the hallway.

Bucky exhaled like he’d been holding his breath for hours. “Yeah.”

And something about that didn’t make sense. Not the dying, that part settled in your chest like it had always been waiting to happen, but the not knowing. The blank space. That was new. That was wrong. Every other time it had happened, you remembered it all. The hit, the fall, the final breath. The fading. The return. You always remembered. Even the worst of it. Especially the worst. 

Your lungs forgot how to breathe again.

You stared at him, heart thudding, pulse catching somewhere behind your ribs. There was no way to make sense of the quiet horror creeping through your chest—not when the room felt too still, too flat, like gravity was being dialed back inch by inch. Like something essential had shifted and no one had warned you.

“How long?” The words rasped from you before you could fully catch them, dry and soft and sharp all at once. 

Because that had to be it, right? That was the only thing that made sense. That strange, sterile absence, like someone had taken a scalpel to your memory and carved a clean edge around it. The only thing that could explain it was time. Too much of it.

Bucky’s expression flickered. His jaw tightened, just slightly, and his eyes dropped for the first time—not in shame, not in guilt, but like he didn’t want to hurt you with the answer. Like even saying it might knock something loose that neither of you could ever put back.

“Three days,” he said quietly.

You blinked. The number didn’t land at first. It circled above you, weightless, disbelieving.

“Three days?” You echoed it like a question, but you already knew it wasn’t. 

Your fingers curled against the front of his shirt, the fabric bunching between your knuckles like it could steady you somehow. 

It had never been that long before. Never more than minutes, maybe up to an hour, maybe. You’d always come back fast. Always. That was the unspoken rule—get hurt, go dark, and snap back into the world before anyone even had time to mourn you. But this…

Three entire days of silence. Of stillness. Of him, of all of them, thinking you were gone for good.

“Oh my god,” you choked out. It ripped from your throat like it had claws. “Bucky. I’m so sorry.”

You didn’t even mean to say it at first. It just burst out of you, clumsy and frantic, like your own voice couldn’t get ahead of the guilt rising fast and unstoppable in your chest. 

“I didn’t mean to—fuck—I didn’t know. I didn’t know it would take that long. I thought—I thought I’d come back like always. I didn’t think—” Your voice cracked, all the breath leaving your lungs in one crushing wave.

He didn’t answer right away. Just looked at you like he wasn’t sure how to hold both your apology and his own devastation at the same time. His mouth opened, then closed again. And then he reached for you—more confident this time, more desperate too—and pulled you into his chest like it was the only thing keeping him together.

“Hey. No.” His voice was low against your ear, strained but steady. “Don’t do that. It’s not your fault. It was never your fault.”

You wanted to argue. You knew it wasn’t logical, that this wasn’t a choice you made, it wasn’t something you did or forgot or failed to prevent, but that didn’t stop the guilt from clawing its way up anyway. It didn’t stop the ache of imagining what it must have looked like from the outside—your body going still, time dragging on, and nothing changing.

You melted into him, arms curling around his waist as if your bones remembered the shape of him before your brain could catch up. Your face pressed into the worn fabric of his shirt, where it clung damp to his chest, and you could feel it. His heartbeat. A steady, shaking rhythm like it had forgotten how to pace itself without yours beside it. 

Your hands fisted at the back of his shirt, fingertips curling like maybe if you held him tightly enough, you could undo it. Take it all back. Erase the look in his eyes. Rewind whatever hell he’d been living through in those three days without you.

“I didn’t want to leave you,” you murmured again, the words barely a breath this time. “I didn’t know—I didn’t think—I’ve never… I’ve never been gone that long, Bucky. I didn’t even know it was possible. It’s always seconds. Minutes. I blink and I’m back. But this…”

You felt him nod against your temple, slow and pained. “I know,” he said. “I know, baby.”

He didn’t let go. Not entirely. Even as you pulled back just enough to look at him, his hand stayed on the side of your neck, like maybe if he kept some part of you anchored, it would keep you from vanishing again. You weren’t sure if the trembling in his fingers was from adrenaline, or if you were just imagining it. But it felt real. Realer than anything else.

You searched his face, trying to memorize him all over again. The lines carved harder into his brow. The shadows under his eyes. The flecks of grey threading through overgrown stubble at his jaw. Things you’d seen a hundred times before, but now, somehow, it felt like starting over. Like he’d aged a lifetime in those three days, and you hadn’t been there to watch it happen.

Your throat worked. “You look like you haven’t slept.”

He huffed a breath, humorless. “Didn’t really want to.”

“Bucky…”

“I kept thinking…” He paused, jaw flexing. “If I closed my eyes, maybe I’d miss it. You coming back. Maybe I’d wake up and you’d be gone again. For good.”

His voice cracked halfway through and you felt it in your ribs like a bruise. It stole the breath from your lungs. You reached for him without thinking, hand sliding up to his chest again like it was the only place you knew how to go.

“I’m here now,” you said, and it came out steadier than you felt. “I came back.”

His smile didn’t reach his eyes. “Yeah. But, god, you were cold, sweetheart. You were—fuck. I held you and you were cold. And I didn’t know how to come back from that.”

A sound punched out of your chest. Some awful, broken thing that didn’t even feel like your own voice. You didn’t mean to cry. You didn’t want to cry. But something inside you cracked wide open, and all you could do was stand there, chest pressed to his, hands curled into the collar of his shirt like you needed to feel the beat of his pulse to convince yourself you weren’t still dead.

“But you came back,” he whispered. “You came back. That’s all I care about.”

“I’m so sorry,” you said again, but softer now. “I didn’t mean to put you through that. Any of you.”

His gaze found yours again after a few silent beats. “You didn’t put us through anything. You’ve saved our asses more times than I can count. You’ve carried me out of the field more than once. You think I wouldn’t wait three fucking days for you?”

Your throat went tight.

He shifted, one hand sliding from your back to cradle your jaw with aching care. His thumb brushed along your cheekbone, his voice dropping even lower. “You didn’t just die. You scared the hell out of me. I thought you’d left me.”

You closed your eyes against the burn. “I didn’t want to. I didn’t want to leave you, Buck. Not ever.”

Something in his expression shattered, cracked open, soft and sharp and impossibly tender all at once. “Then don’t,” he said, just above a whisper. “Don’t go anywhere.”

You leaned into him again, because you didn’t know what else to do. There weren’t enough words to explain the grief of being gone, or the miracle of not being gone. Of being here, now, in this dim hallway with the man who refused to let you die without a fight.

His nose brushed against your hair as he exhaled, the tension in his chest finally loosening where it pressed against yours. “But,” he murmured, reluctant, a thread of warmth tugging at the corner of his mouth, “we should probably get you back to your room before Bruce finds out you wandered off. Otherwise he’ll have a coronary.”

You huffed a breath that might’ve been a laugh if it hadn’t caught on the remains of a sob. It escaped anyway, quiet and shaky, against the curve of his shoulder as you melted into him again. Your forehead pressed beneath his jaw, your fingers curling loosely into the fabric at his side like you didn’t trust your legs to keep holding you up, like maybe you didn’t have to. 

And you didn’t. Not with him. His arms shifted, steady and sure, one looping behind your knees, the other bracing your back as he lifted you without hesitation. You didn’t protest. Just let yourself be carried, the heat of his chest against yours the only reminder you were still here—alive, alive, alive.

The cotton scrubs were gone, thank god, and you were finally back in your own clothes. A soft, lived-in hoodie, sleeves pushed halfway up your arms, and your favorite pair of sweatpants that had survived more missions than they probably should have. 

You sat perched on the edge of the med bay bed, feet swinging slightly off the floor. The sterile scent of antiseptic still clung to everything, and you swore you could hear the damn EKG machine phantom-beeping in the back of your mind, even though Bruce had finally stopped hooking you up to it.

Bucky stood next to you, close enough that his thigh brushed your knee every time he shifted his weight. He hadn’t gone far since you’d woken up. Sometimes he wandered out for coffee, sometimes not even that. You knew the way he hovered was more for his own sake than yours, and you let him. His hand rested casually on your shoulder now, his thumb running slow, grounding passes along the curve of your collarbone like he was trying to memorize the rhythm of your breathing.

Bruce was talking. You’d missed the first sentence—your brain still had a habit of fogging over, like a page half-erased and rewritten at the same time—but you refocused in time to catch the tone of curiosity in his voice, the kind he only ever got when he was equal parts disturbed and intrigued.

“…not a shell casing,” Bruce said, half to himself as he tapped at his tablet. “Or, well—it was shaped like one. That was intentional. Camouflage. What you picked up was a containment vessel.”

“A vessel,” you repeated, brows drawing inward.

Bruce nodded. “Specifically, a dampening field housed inside a compression matrix. HYDRA tech, but not HYDRA-built. We found alien alloy markers in the molecular structure—Xandarian, we think, maybe even adapted from something Kree. That’s why it didn’t register right away on Tony’s scans. It’s old. Repurposed.”

“And boobytrapped,” Tony added, from where he was leaning against the counter with a tablet of his own, fingers tapping fast. His gaze flicked up toward you. “You’re lucky it only discharged once.”

You blinked slowly. “So I… what? Triggered it by picking it up?”

Bruce hesitated, glanced at Tony, then looked back at you. “It was proximity-based. Designed to activate if someone with a certain energy signature got too close.”

You frowned. “What kind of energy signature?”

“Yours,” Tony said, like it was obvious. “Which is why it shorted. It wasn’t supposed to come into contact with whatever the hell you are for more than a second.”

You opened your mouth, closed it again. Your stomach turned. “I’m sorry—what I am?”

Bruce stepped in gently. “That’s not how we meant it. It’s just… we’ve never really gotten to study what happens to you. When you die.”

Bucky stiffened beside you, his hand stilling on your shoulder. You could feel the way the air changed, but Bruce didn’t flinch. He just met your eyes with a softness you didn’t expect.

“We’ve always assumed you regenerate,” Bruce continued. “That it’s some kind of cellular rebirth. Maybe quantum in nature, maybe metaphysical. But this time… this time we had data. You were out long enough for us to run the scans. To observe.”

You felt your pulse stutter. “And?”

Bruce turned the screen toward you. It displayed several charts—brainwaves, cellular readouts, something about energy dispersal. None of it meant anything to you. But the look in his eyes did. That hint of wonder behind all the science.

“You weren’t regenerating,” he said softly. “You were… gone. Dead. No neural activity. No cellular motion. For seventy three hours, you were—there was nothing.”

“But she came back,” Bucky said quietly, firmly, like he had to say it out loud to believe it. “You came back.”

Bruce nodded slowly. “And that’s the thing. We did see something shift. Around the seventy-hour, fifty-five-minute mark, there was a surge—massive, sudden, untraceable to any physical origin point. It wasn’t just energy. It was like… space itself rewrote you.”

You stared at him. Your skin prickled.

“What does that mean?” you asked, your voice too thin.

Tony finally set the tablet down. “It means whatever’s happening to you—it’s not biological. Not entirely. You don’t regenerate. You reboot. Like your existence is being rewritten every time. Like someone’s hitting a reset switch.”

Silence.

Bucky’s hand tightened gently on your shoulder, and your eyes flicked toward him. He looked calm. But only on the surface. You knew better than to trust that expression—he was the king of silent panic.

“Any idea who or what is doing the rewriting?” he asked.

Bruce hesitated. “We don’t know. It’s beyond our instruments. Beyond anything we’ve seen. It’s like you disappear from this reality, and then—bam. You’re back. Same cells, same vitals, same memories. Except this time, you were out too long. And your body didn’t come back on its own.”

You swallowed hard. “So what did?”

Bruce and Tony exchanged a look again, and it was Tony who answered this time—quiet, rare for him. “That’s the question. Because whatever it was… it didn’t come from here. Not from this plane, or dimension, or hell, even this time signature. But something out there yanked you back.”

You leaned forward slightly, elbows to your knees, head in your hands.

“And if it happens again?”

Bruce didn’t answer.

But Bucky did.

“Then we’ll be ready,” he said, his voice low, rough with something that sounded like a vow. “We’ll bring you back. No matter what it takes.”

no more taglists! tumblr’s @ limit said no 💔 follow @cheekybarnesupdates + turn on notifs for all fic drops!

[slutforsr]

𝚈𝚘𝚞𝚛 𝙽𝚊𝚖𝚎, 𝙼𝚢 𝙳𝚘𝚐 𝚃𝚊𝚐𝚜

✦ Pairing: Bucky Barnes x Avenger!Reader ✦ Summary: It starts with a missing hoodie. Then a vanishing water bottle. Then your name shows up on Bucky’s dog tags. Everyone else sees what’s happening except you two. Until Bucky finally decides... maybe it’s time to make it official. ✦ Genre: Fluff, Mutual Pining, Clingy & Possessive Soft!Bucky, Friends to Lovers ✦ Word Count: 2,005

── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ── ✦✦ ── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ── ✦✦ ── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─── It started with a hoodie.

A simple, black hoodie you swore you left folded on your bed, the one Bucky always teased you for because it was three sizes too big and swallowed you whole.

You searched your entire room. Twice. Even texted Wanda to see if maybe you’d left it in the common room.

Nothing. Gone. You let it go.

Until your water bottle disappeared two days later.

That one really ticked you off. Because it was your favorite mint green with a chipped lid and a sticker Sam gave you that said "Hydration or Damnation." No one else would want it. No one except maybe the six-foot emotional disaster who kept showing up at your door with sleepy eyes and soft hair.

Bucky Barnes had been acting… different lately.

Not in a bad way. Just in a Bucky's-being-suspiciously-possessive kind of way.

And it wasn’t just the hoodie. Or the bottle.

It was the way he saved you the last slice of pizza without being asked. The way he leaned against your chair during meetings, shoulder brushing yours. The way he always, always picked you as his partner during sparring.

The way he called you “doll” now soft and warm and like he meant it.

The team noticed before you did.

“Are you two dating?” Natasha asked bluntly over breakfast.

You choked on your cereal. “What? No.”

“She’s wearing his sweatshirt,” Sam said without looking up from his phone.

You blinked. “This is mine.”

“Nope,” Steve said from the fridge. “That’s definitely Bucky’s.”

You looked down at the grey crewneck. “Wait—what?”

And then realization hit you like a Quinjet: this was not your hoodie. This was Bucky’s. Soft, worn, smells-like-him Bucky’s.

You flushed. “He gave it to me.”

“He’s been giving you a lot of things lately,” Nat smirked.

“I—”

“Just kiss already,” Sam muttered.

You confronted Bucky later that day. Kind of. You marched into the gym while he was working a punching bag, his hoodie sleeves rolled to his elbows, metal arm gleaming under the lights.

“Hey,” you said, arms crossed.

He froze, then gave you that lopsided smile you hated loving. “Hey, doll.”

You held up your hands. “Where is it?”

He blinked. “Where’s what?”

“My hoodie. My water bottle. My dignity.”

He snorted. “Pretty sure I didn’t take that last one.”

You stepped closer. “Bucky.”

He lowered his gloves and gave you that soft, stupid look that made your heart do dangerous things. “Fine,” he muttered. “I borrowed the hoodie. And maybe the bottle.”

“And put your name in my sandwich last week?”

His smile grew. “That was just a test.”

You squinted. “A test?”

“To see if you'd notice.”

“Oh, I noticed.”

There was a pause. And then Bucky said quietly, “Did you mind?”

You hesitated. Did you?

Because lately, all his quiet touches and hoodie-stealing and closeness didn’t feel like an invasion. They felt like… home.

“I guess not,” you said softly.

He looked like he might say something else but then Steve walked in, spotted the two of you standing far too close, and made a sound between a sigh and a groan.

“Still not kissing?” he muttered. “Unbelievable.”

You thought things might settle after that. They didn’t.

Because one week later, you found your name on Bucky’s dog tags.

Not engraved. Not permanent.

But there, scrawled in faded Sharpie on the back: your initials.

You spotted it by accident, while you were helping him with a sprained wrist. He shifted, his collar dipped, and there it was shining, bold, quietly screaming.

“Buck?” you asked softly, thumb brushing the tag.

His eyes followed your gaze, then went wide.

“Oh,” he muttered.

You didn’t speak. Just looked at him.

He bit his lip, then sighed. “It’s dumb. I know. I just I wanted to keep you close. Even on the field. Like a good luck charm.”

Your chest tightened.

“I can take it off,” he said quickly. “Or scratch it out. I just—don’t be mad.”

“Bucky,” you said, stepping closer, “I’m not mad.”

“You’re not?”

“No. I’m…” You took a breath. “I’m wondering how long we’re gonna keep pretending.”

He blinked. “Pretending what?”

“That we don’t want more.”

His breath hitched.

“I miss you when you're in the next room,” you whispered. “I look for you in meetings. I wear your hoodie and it smells like home. And now my name’s on your dog tags?”

You smiled. “Just admit it.”

“Admit what?”

“That I’m yours.”

He exhaled shakily. “You are.”

“And you’re mine?”

He grinned, eyes soft and honest. “Since the day you stole my hoodie.”

Later, when he pulled you into his arms and pressed a kiss to your forehead, you mumbled against his chest:

“Does this mean I get a matching dog tag?”

He laughed, warm and low. “Baby, you can have the whole set.”

───────── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: .☽ . :☆ﾟ. ─────────

💌 𝐓𝐀𝐆𝐋𝐈𝐒𝐓 💌

@nerdreader @starstruckfirecat @baguwagu @sunday-bug @murnsondock @7batsinatrenchcoat @overwintering-soldier @surebutwhy @embervelour @bananaminn @butterflies-on-my-ashes @thiscornerofmyfanficbrain @okaytrashpanda @xamapolax @aceofheartsssss @the-real-kellymonster @mars-in-a-cup @doilooklikeagiveafrack @maifics @cjand10 @aesthetic0cherryblossom @rosemary-beach-babe @pattiemac1 @chriszgirl92 @heyrosh @morphoportis @sugamilkey @dreammiiee @riah1606 @suri-de-city @ordelixx @galaxygoddess30 @magnificentreviewdreamer @flowstatefic @prk-hoon @multifandomrandomgirl @sashaiz01 @kodzuminx @sarapolare @sinistersnakey @greatenthusiasttidalwave @najdjjfjjdid @thelastbluecookie @squishyfruitloop @cammiwu @livia087 @ang0320 @boomyoulookingforthis @nvr-land @ruexj283 @sebastians-love 🌸

wanna be tagged in all upcoming theories + emotional damage + forehead kisses? ➝ reply or send me an ask and i’ll add you ♡

───────── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: .☽ . :☆ﾟ. ─────────

[slutforsr]

𝐻𝑂𝑀𝐸𝑆𝐼𝐶𝐾 𝐹𝑂𝑅 𝐴𝑅𝑀𝑆 𝑇𝐻𝐴𝑇 𝑁𝐸𝑉𝐸𝑅 𝐻𝐸𝐿𝐷 𝑀𝐸

pairing: avenger!bucky barnes x agent!reader

summary: bucky barnes was never yours. he'd fortified his walls out of impenetrable scars, trapping himself in emotional solitude. his actions were contradictory - even when breaking your heart, small gestures of affection that escaped his notice brought you a respite from the heartache. but he never offered more than the distance currently separating you. at least, not until the moment a speeding bullet meant for him tears through you instead. 

word count: 6.5k

warnings: gunshot wound, heavy description of blood, angst-ish (but with a soft ending, i promise), tiniest bit suggestive

a/n: a self proclaimed writer who barely writes reporting for duty! 🫡 i felt like writing a little bit of angst, but you already know i'll never leave you without a happy ending. to anyone who gives this story a chance and perhaps even likes it and has a good time reading - i love you, please have a cookie 🤲🏻🍪

𝐦𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭

Dim lights softly illuminated the venue, giving it an otherworldly atmosphere. The high ceiling carried heavy crystal chandeliers, richly illuminated with an abundance of small lights that made it seem as if a sea of fireflies nestled there. Murmurs of voices filled the room, guests mingling about in tailored suits and bedazzled, expensive dresses. There was an air of fabricated luxury filled with cold hearted opportunists and suck-ups with forced smiles trying to get information and gossip to use to their advantage. 

If it were up to you, you would've set off the fire alarm a long time ago and made a run for it. You didn't belong in this crowd. Forced out of your black tactical suit into a dress that was too tight and revealed more than you were comfortable with, you felt completely out of your depth.

Your own pep talk was still fresh in your mind. Act like you deserve to be there. Smile like everything is just fine. It's a good opportunity for the Avengers to find allies. Have a drink, look relaxed. Pretending is the one thing you’re good at. And it’s just for a couple of hours. 

A couple of hours trying not to notice the way Bucky’s suit clung to his thick frame and how good his long hair looked when stylists got their hands on it.

The room was suffocating, all the voices merging into one unbearable pitch and yet everything fell silent within a second when those tired, tormented blue eyes focused on you with an unwavering resolve.

Bucky's very presence, his tall, bulky silhouette in your peripheral vision was enough to ignite the flutter of your heartbeat. These were not butterflies fluttering in your stomach, but hornets. You felt the heaviness of that gaze like it was something tangible. Lifting your head feigning nonchalance, you met Bucky’s eyes, every thought in your mind screaming at the sight of the person who was the object of all your desires. The reason for the gaping heartache in your chest that sank deeper and deeper the longer you lived in a reality where he's not yours. 

I have no right having these thoughts. He is not mine.

But gods, do I wish he was.

At first it was an inconvenience, a ruckus in your chest you thought would be gone soon. You thought it was understandable, given just how handsome and captivating Bucky was.

Then it turned into yearning you tried to fight off, until it grew into something more. Something uncontrollable. Affection. Fondness. Devotion. And now you had to live with it festering inside, unable to fulfill the one thing these feelings wanted to do - to be fully given to the one you desperately desired.

While you were lost in your thoughts, Bucky’s gaze trailed a path up and down your whole figure mapping your dips and curves, like he couldn’t help himself. Every inch touched by his gaze was scorching your skin. A hot flush rushed to your cheeks. Ground swept beneath your feet, movements slowed down to a still and any semblance of time escaped your grasp. Your breaths were laboured, as if you were unable to draw a proper breath. Hands shaking. Knees weak, and ready to fall before him in worship. 

He unknowingly turned your world off its axis the moment he entered your life. The more time you spent around him, the more your thoughts weaved a network of their own you couldn’t control - your heartbeat in the rhythm of his breaths, your thoughts eloping to wherever he was, your dreams a collection of never ending reveries that were only ever about him. Things you shouldn’t think about, things that were not yours to daydream about.

This one-sided affection you felt for Bucky has very quickly turned into a damnation. The love that was growing for him has filled your lungs, creating a garden of delicate flowers; and while the love was diligently nurturing it, too much of a thing eventually becomes poison.

Where flower petals once stood are now sharp, rigid thorns and wilted leaves. How can he be your everything, if he was never yours? How can you be homesick for his embrace, if you were never his? 

You had once believed such lovely things were no longer for someone like you, a broken soul, hidden in the shadows in the deepest corners of the world. Hiding in plain sight was second nature to you, shadows clinging to you in the cover of darkness. Everyone who has ever truly known you has long since died, your liveliness and warmth buried deep with them like long forgotten artifacts erased from history. But that part of you still lingered because soft souls can never truly turn rigid. They can only scar and hide away, unable to resurface through the sharp edges of you.

You’ve locked yourself away, revealing only the parts that were necessary. That’s what agents did, right? You've trained your body into a lethal weapon to help, keep safe and protect. To fight and get your hands opened raw and bloody to escape from yourself. The only way to stop an emotional wound from hurting is to mask its pain by inflicting a physical one. 

In the aftermath of protecting others, you have forgotten to protect yourself. And the most obscure little thing you forgot about caught you off guard, threatening to be your undoing. It slipped your notice that a harmless thing such as love could actually be the most dangerous thing of all.

Your longing for warmth and affection has corroded your heart and thoughts, strengthening your belief that you were not meant to have that in this world after it slipped through your fingers. You’ve lost the ones that meant everything to you, and you vowed that no one will ever become that important again.

Until he reignited you from within. Bucky Barnes. Love was a divine intervention, one which you finally understood only when a pair of ocean eyes met yours at a briefing in a crowded room and stopped time from flowing its course. 

Divine intervention? More like exasperating meddling I never asked for.

These social events have always filled you with dread, especially when he attended them as well. You knew what was going to happen. What always happens.

There was always a woman too tipsy, too flirty, too eager to get her hands on him. Her eyes usually betrayed a lust to conquer, and not to love. It was a mere conquest to these women, something to brag about later. James Buchanan Barnes, an achievement on someone's list, used for the convenience of others.

In his self-destruction he let them, and this evening was no different. You met Bucky’s eyes one more time as he finally lifted his gaze to yours after he took his time tracing the curve of your neck. Burning several degrees higher, your face suddenly displayed an emotion that stunningly looked like yearning to Bucky.

Something deep settled in his eyes, his face betraying an inner conflict. A lovely woman that had been eyeing him the whole night approached him and got on her tiptoes to whisper in his ear, grabbing on to his arm as he was already hers, the manicured nails almost like claws trying to hold him firmly in his place. And what hurt even more was that he did nothing to push her away. Bucky's gaze was however still fixed on you, as if you were the one thing that could make him decide differently.

There was a second of softness as he was analysing your face, so brief anyone else would've missed it. But you caught it. In a breathless moment and eyes clouded with sorrow, you muttered a soft, pleading “James…”. He flinched gently when he read his name on your lips and saw the expression on your face, the softness that graced his features for a second longer ebbing away for a different kind of emotion.

Brows furrowed, eyes darkening and falling into a resolve. He let the woman pull him away, happy to have gotten what she wanted. Your glossy eyes met his broad back, shoulders slumped, moving away from you in more ways than just physical. In some twisted way, you couldn't look away. The thing that hurt you the most was the one you desperately wanted. 

You understood why he was acting this way, going from one woman to the next. He was alone and deprived of intimacy for decades, and he must've craved it so bad that he was finding it the only way he knew. The only way he thought he deserved. 

It weighed heavy on you that he didn’t recognise that you could offer him that, and so much more. Something genuine and real. You suspected that he was aware of your feelings that you wore on your sleeve around him. It was the only thing you couldn't suppress, and it scared you how hot the fire he set alight was burning within you.

He never even dared assume he was worthy of the feelings you felt for him, even though some slight show of reciprocation slipped through the cracks against his better judgment. Feather-like touches to your lower back when he wanted to pass by, positioning himself in front of you during dangerous missions, checking up on you when you were injured. One time when he was too tired and sleepy to care about self-control, he stroked your hair tenderly, tucking an unruly lock of hair behind your ear and caressing your cheek with the back of his hand. You were completely distracted the next few days that you had to sit out a mission for “not having a clear enough head”. 

He was self-destructive and broken, choosing fleeting encounters over something that could be real and solid. He didn't seem to think that he deserved a gentle, genuine connection, which was precisely the reason he's never entertained the thought of having you.

He didn't dare to even think about it. Bucky couldn't offer you himself in an honest, meaningful way, and you deserved more than a trivial one night stand void of emotion.

He never could see just how loving and gentle he was, but you could. You saw. His disdain and hatred for himself blinded him from noticing the genuine kind acts he did for others, in silence when no one noticed. In Bucky's mind, he considered that he was doing such things out of duty, out of this nonsensical conviction that he owes the whole world an exposed repentance for what he has done.

He was such a beautiful, sad thing. A soul woven of inconceivable and unimaginable experiences. An impossible being that somehow came into existence, created against his permission.

And yet, they called him a monster. A cold-blooded soldier.

Soldat. A demon. 

But you loved broken things. Lonely things. You never thought that broken people needed to be fixed, just loved until their broken pieces form a connection between themselves again. And that was what you wanted for James Barnes. He deserved a chance to feel whole again, to feel joy and warmth and love. He deserved that after all the horrors his life has dealt him with. Even if he thought he didn't.

There was no point in staying after he was out of your sight. You moved through the crowd unnoticed, grabbing an abandoned bottle of whiskey from the bar as you passed towards the exit. Heaviness settled upon your chest, hollow and tender, the kind that made a dull pain upon each breath. The ache in your chest was too unbearable to contain, and you couldn't fight it anymore. In some twisted way, you felt a palpable relief that you finally let yourself surrender to your grief. Sometimes it felt good to yield to self-destruction and relinquish all self-control to get the poison out of your system. At least for a little while. And if he can drown his demons, so could you.

The explosion detonated with an ear-splitting thunder, bathing the surroundings in blinding light and rattling your bones, making you lose your balance as you crashed down to your knees and palms, scraping them in the aftermath. Just another mission where the team had a perfectly prepped plan where nothing could go wrong and confidently walked into an ambush no one anticipated. I guess having an inside informant didn’t pan out this time.

This was not the first time this had happened. Nothing ever went according to plan no matter how much prep the team did beforehand. Once you’re out there, nothing can save your life but improvising and relying on your instincts. This time however, something was different. Something was off. An impending doom was approaching fast like a storm cloud, and you could feel it twisting in your gut, like your insides were drilled and your heart was dropping to your feet. 

You were outnumbered, overpowered, and amidst the uncontrollable chaos, you lost sight of Bucky. He was always on the front lines, putting himself in danger before anyone else as if he had no sense of self-preservation. And he didn't. But you still knew that despite all odds he always walked out alive. So why couldn’t you shake off this feeling of dread and agonizing worry? This shaken faith in him to protect himself this time?

You got back to your feet, dust setting down through the air. One foot in front of the other, walking turned into running, running turned into sprinting. Your breaths were shallow, the flying dust sticking to your airways and suffocating your lungs. Every muscle in your body was burning and shaking from exertion, but the adrenaline spike hid all that from your brain. You’ll feel it all later, when there’s time to fall apart.

You ran down a corridor of the damaged building, charred and unstable from the explosion, led lights blinking and throwing a sickly blue hue on the walls. You heard a commotion and a deep, merciless sound as if someone was growling through clenched teeth, making the goosebumps on your arms rise.

He sounded just like the Winter Soldier when he felt trapped. Like a cornered animal with no escape route.

Bursting into a laboratory in full sprint you stopped in your tracks analysing the scene before you, the look in your eyes that of someone who’s only ever gazed upon nightmares and had known no other emotion but that of terror. Your body became wired within a second, and the whole scene played out like someone who controls the threads of reality pulled a string that made everything move twice as slow.

A loud gunshot pierced the air, illuminating the barrel of the gun as the bullet flew in slow motion straight towards Bucky. He was being held by two other Hydra soldiers, muscles taut and shaking from exertion, struggling to release himself from their clutches and titanium restraints they managed to put on his vibranium arm. Despite gaining the upper hand as his vibranium arm violently pulled to shatter the restraints, he didn't have the time to move away from the fast approaching bullet and its trajectory that aimed straight at his heart. 

Your body did the only thing it has ever known - to protect him. To love him and care for him in any way available, which at this moment meant running in front of him without a second thought. Bucky had just gotten himself free, knocking the soldiers unconscious, sharply raising his head to look ahead startled by your sudden presence.

Not a half second later, the bullet pierced your shoulder, dangerously close to the middle of your chest. The sheer force of it pushed you into Bucky's chest as he stood there horrified, quickly catching you with both arms as your body fell. 

The scorching bullet pierced your flesh with a sickeningly dull sound and in a merciful moment of sanity you were allowed before the pain exploded, you gratefully uttered a silent prayer that the bullet didn't exit through your back as it would’ve shot Bucky who was standing flush behind you. 

He slid down and kneeled with you in his arms, crimson blood dripping down his fingers as he pressed down harshly on your wound to stop you from bleeding out.

“What the fuck have you done?!” Bucky's eyes were wild, succumbing to emotions you had never seen him show before. 

You tried to speak but your mouth filled with thick blood, a violent cough making it splatter out and trickle down your lips. 

“No, no, no, please…not you…“ he frantically said, voice breathless and breaking, raw with panic, “... anyone but you…”

The very warmth of your blood made him nauseous, the feeling of your life slipping through his fingers turned his own blood cold in his veins.

It wasn't supposed to be like this. He made sure to lure the soldiers away from where you were. He made sure you were at a safe distance. It had always been you he tried to protect. So why the fuck did you do that? There was not a single timeline of this life where his life is more valuable than yours.

You heard Bucky yell orders in a tone that left no space for discussion. It was like hearing unintelligible words through thick water.

“...y/n has been shot…”

“...gunshot wound to the chest….bleeding out….” 

“...call the hovercraft and get the medics...” 

Blood was still gushing out, absorbed by the material of your black tactical suit, darkening it as it disappeared out of sight. The only giveaway of your wound was the deep crimson colour staining Bucky's hands. The pain was so excruciating that it almost rendered you numb. A clammy, cold sweat covered your skin that was losing its colour by the minute. 

Gods, you were cold. Your body felt so heavy that you thought you were sinking into the concrete itself. Perhaps if you closed your eyes, just for a minute. Your eyelids were heavy as iron, your strength dissipating. Just a quick rest… your heartbeat spiked in alert as two strong hands violently shook you out of your slumber, sharp pain in your chest increasing. 

“Stay awake,” Bucky rasped, voice now fully shaking. “Help is on the way. You're going to be okay, j-just… hang on tight. Please. Please.” This is the most scared he's been since falling out of that train all those years ago. Hell, he was terrified. His mind drew a blank. He felt useless, paralysed by the feeling of utter helplessness. 

He pressed your wound using more of his strength, making you groan and shiver at the increased pain. The tortured sound that left your lips made Bucky swear that he will do everything to never hear that sound coming from you again. 

“Shit….Sorry. I'm sorry, I'm so fucking sorry y/n,” he stammered, speaking under his breath as he fumbled to find something to press your wound with that wasn't his bare hand. “I know it hurts but I have to, okay? I need to stop the bleeding.“

His eyes were filled with hot unshed tears. He ripped the sleeve off of his suit in one clean and violent yank, and bundled it up in his hands to put pressure on your shoulder. You used the last of your strength to raise your hand and place it gently on his cheek. Your voice was raspy and faint, but you could see that he was slowly descending into unavoidable panic. 

“It'll be alright…” you whispered. ”It's okay James, i-it's okay, you're okay….“

Your voice was weak, void of life and warmth. But you could see that he needed to hear it, to know that you're fighting to stay. 

To stay with him. 

“This is nothing, Bucky. W-we've had worse, remember? James. Breathe…”

You trailed off as your hand fell from his cheek, leaving a red trail in its wake on his cheek. 

The amount of effort it took you just to speak said otherwise. Bucky was bewildered and beside himself from shock and disbelief. Why were you the one comforting him? You were bleeding out in his arms and still trying to keep him from falling apart.

You were dancing on the edge of a double edged sword of life and death, and yet the only thing that mattered to you were his inner wounds and if he'll survive this. The state of his soul being a priority over your physical body and what you were going through was outside of his comprehension. He didn’t deserve this kindness. Bucky looked so upset, so hurt, deep helplessness and anger etched on his lovely features. 

Someone spoke in his ear piece and he sighed an angry exhale, shutting his eyes tightly for a brief moment to compose himself. He needed to be calm for you, at least a semblance of it. He had to get his shit together if he was going to pull you out here alive. 

“y/n, the craft is coming but I need to carry you out of the building.”

There was a pause, and you nodded weakly.

“You understand what that means? It’s going to hurt when I move you and you'll have to keep pressure on your wound until I get you out. I…. I have no other choice.”

A frail and shaky ‘I trust you….’ flowed over your lips stained with blood, a sight and sound so eerie to Bucky’s ears that he knew it would haunt him in his nightmares. 

“I have to get you out.” 

“I can do it, Bucky. I'm not made of glass,” you uttered with a shallow breath. Bucky begged to differ. For such a gentle person, he always found you to be unnecessarily stubborn. He doubted your kindness was what qualified you to become an agent. 

“That's a bold claim for someone who's struggling to speak and breathe properly, y/n.” He inhaled a deep breath. Exhaled with a conviction.

“Take this and press as hard as you can.” You took the dampened cloth with a shaky grasp and hissed when you made contact with your shoulder. An uncontrollable shudder ran down your body when you pressed it on the wound, and he went rigid with anger.

He was angry with you for protecting him. Angry at the soldier who fired that bullet. Angry with himself for not being fast enough. If only he’d gotten himself free ten seconds earlier, this waking nightmare wouldn't be happening. 

Bucky picked you up slowly, mustering every ounce of gentleness he had in him so the pain would be minimal to you. Everything was flowing in slow motion, each breath and movement slow as if it was suspended in water. Gazing at the deep blue his eyes wouldn't be the worst way to die. You wouldn't have it any other way - to be welcomed by swallowing darkness in the warm embrace of his comforting arms that held you so tightly as if he could somehow grasp and tether your very soul to his to stop it from leaving.

Slipping in and out of consciousness, you heard yelling and fast, heavy footsteps approaching. Somewhere in the distance a loud whirring of a jet roared, and there was a bright light behind Bucky, illuminating the both of you. To your hazy, barely conscious mind, he looked luminous against the dark surroundings, as if there was a helo around his stature. Now able to see his face, your heart squeezed itself painfully at the divine, picturesque being gazing at you with raw and unhidden affection.

Perhaps it was divine intervention after all.

You were finally being held in his arms. No need to be homesick anymore. You finally knew how it felt to have his hands on your skin, to be caressed as gently as one would touch rose petals that are about to fall off. 

Oh god. Your guardian angel was crying. Why does he look so heartbroken? It's almost as if he…

Despite all the chaos around you and in you, all you cared about in this moment was him. You let your eyes roam freely on his face, mapping his features and inking them beneath your eyelids so you can see him even with your eyes closed. He was breathtaking. His long, disheveled hair fell softly, his lips plush and kissable, his face flushed and full of life. The blue of his eyes has never looked so crystal clear before, raw with emotion that was fully set free after his walls crumbled. What a sacred sight to see before you die.

He gently laid you down onto the stretcher, cradling your face with utmost care and leaning in so only you could hear him.

“Why did you do this?” he whispered so quietly that you almost missed it. 

“Why are you so afraid of losing me?” you countered softly.

Bucky remained silent, but his ocean eyes never left yours.

You were on the verge of falling unconscious, but you fought it for just a few more moments. If he could hear your inner thoughts, he’d hear a chanting echo of I love him, I love him, I love him. You pulled him gently towards you, your lips brushing his cheek as you spoke the words that would change everything. “That's what people do when they're in love, Bucky…”

The last thing you felt were his searing teardrops trailing down your cheek, and the velvet touch of the softest lips on your forehead.

The first thing you were aware of was your sense of touch. The bed you were in was pleasantly cool and comfortable. You were covered by something thin and soft, feeling like silk on your skin. You hadn’t settled into your body yet. The medication they gave you was still in your system, making it hard to come to your senses.

You tried stretching to alleviate the soreness of your worn out muscles but the stiffness and pain in your shoulder woke you up some more, as it was tightly bound and pulsating with a dull ache. Memories of what happened came to you in gentle waves, each sharper in detail than the one before. 

Blood. Chaos. Blue eyes, unshed tears. Bucky carrying you in his arms. 

You felt your hand being held in a tight grip. Warm, you thought. Safe. 

Opening your eyes, you blinked a couple of times to chase away the lingering sleepiness, and realized you were in your room that was reorganized to fit all the medical tech needed to monitor your vitals. Waking up in a familiar environment in the only place you gave yourself permission to be who you really were was comforting, putting you at ease. You glanced sideways and saw Bucky fast asleep slouched on your bed, his hand enveloping yours. A lifeline you can follow to find your way back to him. 

His skin was slightly pale and purple bruises bloomed under his eyes, his hair disheveled as if he kept running his fingers through it. A lock of hair fell across his face, moving in the rhythm of his breaths. He looked like someone who hasn’t slept for days, and was only knocked out now because his body made that decision for him.

Despite the exhaustion that was obvious, Bucky looked peaceful in his slumber. His features were relaxed, and it made him look endearing with his face smushed and his pink lips slightly open. However, the position he was sleeping in looked very much uncomfortable, and you knew he was going to be hurting all over until he’s had a full night of sleep in a proper bed.

A feeling started settling down in your chest, and you quickly recognized it. Guilt.

He was in this state because of you and your recklessness. It must’ve been quite a scare if someone so stoic succumbed to his emotions in full. The bedside table was a mix of medication, half eaten snacks and empty coffee cups. Bucky’s tactical suit and equipment were draped on a chair in the corner of the room, and he was now sporting comfy sweats and one of his henleys. 

He didn’t notice you were awake yet, and you remained unmoving and silent to steal this moment and look at him. He was lovely when he was disarmed and resting. He looked younger, sweeter. You gently moved the hair that fell over his eyes, and you continued to caress his hair, running your fingers through his hair ever so gently. It felt good to finally do that, like when you give into your desires after fighting them for too long. More than yearning to be loved by him, you wanted to love him.

He felt the light brush of your fingers on him and opened his eyes, fixated on you in an instant.

A pause. Another second. Bucky drew a breath and his eyes widened as his whole body became alert.

“Oh my god. You’re awake-”

He jumped on his feet straight towards you, his body on autopilot. All he could think about was being near you. Touching you. Feeling the warmth of your body. Seeing your chest rise and fall with each breath. Noting down and memorizing each little indication that you are alive.

He stopped himself abruptly, once he was in his right mind to remember that you had a gaping hole in your shoulder two days ago and pulling you into a crushing hug wouldn’t be the best idea.

“Go on then. Or are you just going to leave me hanging without a hug?” Seeing the amused look on your face made him relax, his features softening. 

“Yes y/n, I bet a crushing hug from a super soldier with a metal arm is just what you need to heal.”

You huffed, discontent and determined.  “If you don’t hug me this instant, I swear to god I’ll-”

Bucky started moving before you even got the chance to finish your sentence, and gently sat down next to you and helped you sit up with the utmost care. His hands were warm and steady, and your heartbeat picked up a little bit just by having his hands on you.

“I promise to give you the most suffocating hug when you’re healed. Deal? If your wound opens again, the medics will kick my ass.” Something was off with him despite the light tone he tried to keep in his voice. There was an edge. A heaviness he tried to mask.

You furrowed your brow at what he said. “....opens again?” 

Bucky looked reluctant to answer, as if reliving it again was something that he was not ready for. He debated what to say and how to say it until you intertwined his fingers with yours and interrupted his train of thoughts with a calm tone. “Tell me what happened after you brought me to the craft.”

“I…” his voice wavered only slightly, but you still caught it. You remained silent, watching him. He doesn’t need coaxing, he just needs time to recollect his thoughts. He deserves  patience to answer when he’s ready, not when he’s ordered.

“The medics were all over you when you lost consciousness. Your condition worsened within a minute.” His gaze was distant and pensive. Almost like he was trying to detach himself from the scenes that were plaguing his mind.

“You lost a lot of blood. Your blood pressure was dropping and they had to remove the bullet. Your…” he swallowed heavily, his words caught in his throat. “Your heart stopped. Twice.”

You were lost for words. If the roles were reversed, you had no idea how you’d even keep your composure without completely falling apart. “Bucky…” 

You stroked his arm up and down in a gentle caress, hoping the contact would comfort him. He continued in a strained voice. “They resuscitated you, reopening your wound a couple of times right after they finally managed to stop the bleeding. You were finally stable when we brought you to the compound and had access to full medical tech.”

“Did you sleep here the whole time?” you asked softly.

“I didn’t, but I was with you here the entire time. You needed a blood donation, and a lot of it.” He lifted his arm, a gauze fastened around his elbow. “We’re a match. The serum only affects my cells and not my blood so it's safe for you to receive it. I decided to stick around in case you needed blood again. Not that I wouldn’t have been here either way. Couldn’t do shit until you’re awake and safe.”

He turned to look at you and was startled to notice the stricken look in your eyes, your lower lip trembling with emotion and your eyes filled with hot unshed tears, until one escaped and rolled gently down your cheek. “I’m sorry you had to witness that, Bucky. I’m so sorry you had to do all that. Thank you. Thank you for saving my-”

The interruption was swift, his jaw clenched as he spoke in a low, tight voice, his tone pure ice. “I will not hear those words from you, do you understand? You will never say that to me. You saved my life.” A silent pause. “And what you did will never happen again.” 

“If you took that bullet, that soldier would’ve just shot me next and then we’d both be dead.”

“Don’t you dare be logical right now. I’m still fucking angry with you.”

“Bucky, it was a calculated action with prior forethought! I knew you’d get us out of there and we’d both have a chance at surviving.”

He shot you a look that clearly said that’s bullshit. “You jumped in front of death with absolutely no thoughts in your head.”

You sighed, realizing quickly that there’s no point in arguing with Bucky. “Yeah… true. I did. And I’d do it again if it meant saving you.” Bucky said nothing, but the fury brewing in him was evident from a mile away. Something told you he won't be dropping this easily. 

His voice broke through the silence. “Did you mean it?”

“That I’d save you again? Yeah-”

“No,” he interrupted. “That you did this…out of love.”

A nervous shiver ran down your spine as you heard those words. You knew this conversation was going to happen sooner than later but that didn’t mean you were prepared for it. 

But what bemused the most was that Bucky Barnes, the formidable six feet tall Winter Soldier, was nervously scratching the nape of his neck, looking embarrassed and a little flushed. He’s never looked more endearing than he did right now, disarmed and open. He’s finally opening up to you. He’s finally asking. He’s being vulnerable and you wanted to scream it into the universe until you lost your voice. Instead, you uttered his name softly.

“James?”

“Yes?”

“I’m in love with you.” 

His head shot up so quickly that anyone else would’ve gotten a whiplash and a sprained neck. A bewildered look in his eyes. Relieved. Stunned. Hopeful, you thought with surprise.

“I have been for the longest time. Even when you were breaking my heart.” He looked at you in question, frowning at what you said.

“You let others warm your bed for a few hours just to feel something, instead of finding a steady source of that warmth with me.”

“That's not- I didn’t-,” he stuttered, not finding the right words. 

You looked at him with gentleness, keeping his eyes glued to yours. “I know why you did it. I know you better than you might think. I see you, Bucky. All of you. The person you were before the Winter Soldier is still within you, it's the one thing they couldn't rip away. But you don't need to be the “old” you in order to be loved. No one ever stays the same, we all age and change, but our nature stays.”

He listened to your words, holding on them like they were a tether keeping him firmly grounded. Like he waited for the longest time to hear these words.

“And your nature, my beloved,” you whispered, “is as kind and as good as one can be. You not accepting that doesn't make it untrue.”

“Y/n….”

“You just need someone to make you see it.”

“Can you?”

“...can I what?”

“Make me see it.”

“James Barnes, I have been doing that this whole entire time. Whether you'll let me or not is up to you. I cannot be the one to fix you. You need to heal yourself on your own, but with me at your side.”

Bucky exhaled, and went still. In one swift movement, he brought his face impossibly close to yours. His breath was your breath. Your mind short-circuited, pausing all coherent thoughts. “This is your chance to say no.”

There was only silence coming from you as you slid your hand up his shoulder, resting it on his nape. All it took for Bucky to lose control was a gentle pull on his hair. He closed the distance capturing your lips with his, and nothing else in this world mattered anymore as your body was set ablaze.

His lips were softer than velvet and incredibly warm, moulding into yours in a kiss that you knew will consume your every waking thought. Bucky held your face in his hands as if holding something precious, kissing you senseless until your lungs were burning making you break the kiss reluctantly so both of you can get air. Not even the most rigorous training had you this breathless. Your lips still felt the pressure of his, already missing the contact. 

Nothing mattered but the two heartbeats harmonizing, right here in this room. Bucky licked your lower lip playfully, then placed a chaste kiss on your lips. Then he kissed your lips again. And again. 

“I love you,” he whispered right before he dived again, breathing those words into you as if sealing a contract that cannot be undone.

He placed a feather-like kiss on your left eye, then on your right eye. Next was a quick peck on your nose. Then he kissed your bruised, rosy lips one more time, reluctantly breaking it in a way that promised much more. A tender kiss found its way on your neck, making you shiver with anticipation, the softest moan leaving your lips and a wonderful, achingly warm feeling pooled in your lower tummy. The look he gave you looked a lot like “I feel it too” and “I'll make you see stars later”.

He then lifted your hand up and kissed the inside of your wrist with tenderness that brought another flush to your face. He left his lips linger on your skin for a moment, after which he leaned down until his forehead gently fell on yours, savouring the proximity. “I love to feel your heartbeat on my lips. Something to remind me that you’re alive when I’m not next to you.”

This was it, you thought. Whether I jump in front of a bullet or not he’ll be the death of me.

“y/n…I know I've hurt you. Tell me how to make this right. I'll spend a lifetime retracing my steps to make the right choices if I have to.” 

“Oh, you'd do that for me? Go back in time to make things right? Stealing the time stone might prove to be the one thing that's above even your capabilities.”

Bucky scoffed playfully, nudging you gently. “You know what I meant.”  

A pensive pause. 

“But I'll steal the stone if you ask me to.” He mumbled in his beard, grumpy and moping, “can't believe you said that…. above my skills… as if… ”

“There, there, superhero”, you said in a teasing tone, tapping his shoulder. “I know you're annoyingly capable. Terrifyingly so, really. It’s kinda unfair.”

You basked in this moment where you got to see him this playful. You wanted more of it. More of him. 

Your voice softened, enveloped in a more serious tone. “There’s nothing to make right, James. I just need you to be you. I need you to be with me. And - I need you to hold me whenever I ask. No exceptions.” Bucky placed his palms on your soft hips and squeezed in response.

You closed your eyes and sighed with palpable relief. “You feel like home.”

[slutforsr]

a long rant

tldr: don't like, don't read, don't be a fucking asshole.

this happened while i was at work and i couldn't focus. under the cut for length:

CONTEXT

someone dear in the community received mean messages about the way they write for a certain fictional character—we're talking about bucky barnes. the message essentially tries to discredit this writer's portrayal because it's a taboo topic that may be widely icky to most people.

piggybacking on this, there are other voices shouting out what they see as mischaracterizations of their favorite character. bucky barnes wouldn't do x, y, and z for a, b, and c reasons—going so far as to devalue work that don't meet their rationale.

WHY THIS PISSES ME OFF

there is an underlying tone of moral superiority beneath such messages and takes that read as deeply disturbing to me. sure, a fic can be dark af: noncon, incest, you name it. that doesn't mean the author condones these things. more often than not, the authors i've interacted with who write these types of fics are actually really sweet. writing about murder doesn't make me a murderer. writing about taboo topics like fucking my dad's best friend who watched me grow up doesn't mean i want to do that in real life 🤮 conversely, crying out about wanting softer things doesn't make you holier than the rest of us. fics (and by extension, art) are one of the rare places where taboos can be explored safely. i'm saying "by writing incest, i have learned a lot about the places of the human mind that are too dangerous to tread in real life". hand-in-hand with the already rising popularity of censorships, we're essentially looking at a safe creative ecosystem being suffocated by simply being perceived as "evil". the best part ‼️ is that fic writers don't force you to read these things. it's in the warnings. if you don't like it, swipe away, and give others the grace that they're not stupid enough to click on something they're not into. we're not responsible for your media consumption.

the need to have a "correct" interpretation of a fictional character makes fanfiction obsolete. read that again. we write fanfiction for many different reasons, and one of those is to address gaps in canon. i've read some fanfics that do this even better than their source material did. does that mean what the writer did is wrong? the same thing that applies to plot applies to characters. god knows so many people disagree with the way steve roger's storyline ended in avengers: endgame—and that's canon material. i enjoy reading fanfiction because people have beautiful perspectives that i haven't considered about my blorbo, and if i like them i add it into my kaleidoscope of ways to look at blorbo that makes blorbo so much richer than canon blorbo. if i don't like it, i move on with life. as fic writers, we're literally playing dollhouse with characters that happen to be created by other people. i understand and appreciate the love for them and how they're portrayed. i obviously love them too, enough to create content for them—but i don't condone stamping fics as "right characterization" and "wrong characterization". more often than not, fic writers write for their own enjoyment, and we just happen to share it in case others are looking for the same thing. if you don't agree with what's written about your favorite character, why don't you do something about it and write for them the way you want them to be written? i started writing for logan because i craved a certain type of fic with him and couldn't find it.

across all posts and messages on this topic, there's a consistent and appalling lack of kindness. someone writes a dark fic with a taboo kink you don't enjoy, so you immediately reduce them with "just say you like incest". you tell us to write less x and more y. you put a fic on blast because "bucky barnes wouldn't do that". you block but are unable to shut up about it ‼️ when was the last time you left more than a like on a fic you read? have you tried writing? because i truly don't think you can understand what we go through unless you do it yourself. as fic writers, we're already tormented by ideas, suffer from lack of sleep just so we can write for one more hour, annoyed by requests even when our blog clearly says "requests closed", feel burned out and unappreciated from lack of real engagement other than a comment that says "please give me part 2" without even a lick of appreciation for writing "part 1" in the first place. i'm not here to rant. i'm not asking to be coddled—because god knows everyone needs constructive criticism from time to time, but therein lies the problem. none of this is constructive. it's destructive. the people shaming and demanding fic writers to write (nor not write) a certain way probably don't even view us as human in the first place—that's why it's so easy to type out hate and click post, when you could just use the same amount of physical effort to fucking write what you want to read yourself ‼️ @jbbbetrollin said it best: your fictional character isn't real, but your cruelty is. that says a lot more about you than your takes.

[slutforsr]

Me rn

[slutforsr]

sin eater

brother's best friend!bucky x reader // 6.8k

18+ - explicit content, MDNI, cheating, oral (f receiving), fingering, p in v, unprotected sex, religious themes, secret relationship, reader is Steve's little sister

author’s note: This is an offshoot of something I cooked up for BWA, but here we are with the general public. If you don’t finish reading this hoping that they’ll end up together then I did it wrong…

Your extended family used to rent a stretch of beach houses every summer, close to the water, in a little seaside town. All of your cousins were boys, all older than you. You would try and tag along with your older brother, Steve, and his best friend, Bucky, more often than not. They both allowed it, but really, Bucky was the only one who ever gave you the time of day.

When you were five and he was eleven, you would trail him around the house with your stuffed rabbit, and he'd make you plates of oreos and watch cartoons with you, telling Steve it was fine, that he could go off with your other cousins for the day. When you came to the beach house when you were ten, you were losing the last of your baby teeth, your smile considerably gappy, and Bucky had been sixteen, learning to drive. You had a crush on him then, but you kept it a secret, afraid that Steve would tell him if he found out.

That was the last time you saw him for a while, because your family moved across the country when your dad got a new job, and the conflicting schedules meant that you never could make it back to the beach house, though you tried to convince them to put you on a plane by yourself multiple times, longing for the sun and the sand and the water, and your brother's best friend who treated you like an interesting little thing, like you mattered. He and Steve still kept in touch, and planned to go to college together. You'd seen him once or twice, but it was always fleeting. You couldn't be upset—he was your brother's friend, after all, not yours. Once you went to university, your summers were taken up by all your new friends, evading the beach once more.

You were going to be entering your senior year this year, the last one, and finally, finally, the stars aligned and you and your parents, and all the other aunts and uncles and cousins, were headed to the same group of beach houses that you used to frequent. Steve had long since moved out, twenty-eight now and living a somewhat successful life as a journalist, but even he made the time to come to the beach for old times' sake. You were privately thrilled to learn that Bucky would be coming too, as per tradition.

Bucky remembered you as a little girl with smiling eyes, not this gorgeous creature you’d become in the twelve years since he'd properly seen you. You'd seen photos of him on social media, photos from college ragers with your brother, or nice ones with his parents, the kind that were taken at holidays or for big achievements, but you'd always remembered him with streaks of sun-bleached hair, so proud that he was starting to get a little stubble, that he was allowed to drive you down the road to the little ice cream stand, that you'd ride your bikes together, sometimes. Now, he was an adult, a man, all blue eyes and dark hair and kind smile, all height and muscle, all generosity and intelligence.

You had been a little worried that it would be awkward, that after not being in his presence for over ten years, you would struggle to reconnect, but you were joined at the hip for the majority of the first week, when he wasn't around Steve, that is, and you were surprised to find out that you got along so well as adults, too, not just as kids. The fact that he actually cared to know what you liked, what you were doing at school, who your friends were… it was refreshing. You sometimes felt like your friends cared about nothing more than the next cute boy or party. You'd tried to ask him about his job, something in law, but you went a little cross-eyed when he explained it to you, and he'd laughed and patted you on the head, saying it was okay if you didn't understand, that it just meant a lot that you listened and that you tried to make sense of it.

You had a boyfriend, but you didn't love him. Luke was… fine. But you were mostly dating him because the girls you were friends with were each dating a guy from the same friend group, and Luke had been one of them. He'd unfortunately never made you come, though, and he was more interested in illegal car races than you, unless he was horny or high. But he remembered your birthday, so he wasn't all bad.

All the other cousins had started families or gotten married. Steve was seeing a girl on and off, not ready to ask for something more serious, and Bucky had the excuse of being busy with his career. You had the excuse of approaching your last year of school. Bucky had tentatively suggested that if you didn't know what do to for a job right away, he was sure that he could get you a spot as an assistant at his law firm. It wouldn't be anything glamorous, but it would be something, and you'd have a chance to see a big city on a more intimate scale, if Bucky gave you the tour. He said his apartment lease would be up in the next year or so, anyway, so if you were serious about it, he'd look for one that you could both share, at least until you saved up enough for your own.

The summer had been full of ice cream trips, piggyback rides, and dips in the lake. You'd shrieked and smacked at Bucky's shoulders when he'd picked you up off of your towel and walked to the lake, afraid he was going to throw you in, but he'd just gently waded into the water until it was up to his waist, and then set you down. and the water was cool, but not too cool, and his smile was as warm as the sun, and he'd shyly said, "You should enjoy it today, because I think it's going to rain all weekend," and so you had, both of you floating in the water, occasionally splashing at each other. He'd even been so kind as to help retie your bikini top when it had come loose.

It was just the your family and Bucky, near the end of the summer, the rest of your cousins and aunts and uncles having gone back to their homes and lives. Your parents were going to dinner and a comedy show, and Steve had insisted that he was interested in the 'inner nuances of the last laugh' or something, leaving you and Bucky in the beach house, the clouds rolling in, the sky gray and looming close. He'd asked if you wanted the pineapple vodka soda you'd been partial to all week, and if you wanted to play a few boardgames, since he was pretty sure the power would end up going out at some point. It was more fun than a movie, anyway. You'd said yes, and had started putting away discarded towels and lawn chairs while he went inside, feeling the first fat wet droplets of rain on your skin as you did.

When you came back, you weren't expecting the living room to seem, well… was romantic the right word? You couldn't exactly think of another way to describe it.

The only actual light on was a lamp next to the couch, but the rest of the light came from the little tea candles placed carefully around the room, making it seem cozy and not at all like the middle of the summer time. The Monopoly board was right in the middle of the coffee table, and you could see Snakes and Ladders, as well as Sorry! stacked on the couch. He'd dragged a few pillows and blankets onto the floor, too. He came into the room behind you with two wine glasses.

The rain came pouring down after a huge boom cracked across the sky, halfway through Snakes and Ladders. It was coming in sheets, the pattering loud against the roof and the deck, and you untangled yourself from the blankets to stand at the back door to the porch. You were still holding your glass close to your chest as you watched, admiring the nature, the beauty of it, that tap tap tap of the rain dripping off the edges of the deck.

It came to you immediately, the idea to go out there. You loved the rain. It made you feel pure and clean. You set down your glass on the side table against the wall and flipped the lock before sliding the door open. "Hey, what are you—" Bucky asked behind you, but you ignored him, enchanted by the rain, and stepped out barefoot onto the deck.

You were immediately soaked to your skin, your hair clinging to your face, your clothes sticking to you with fervor, and you laughed, a soft girlish sound, tilting your face up and spinning in a slow circle with your arms outstretched, your eyes closing.

When you opened them again, Bucky was standing at the open door, leaning against the arch of it, his arms crossed, his head tilted, giving you a fond smile. "You're crazy."

"It's so nice! Come out and enjoy it!" you said, motioning for him to join you.

He shook his head, the smile still there, and said, "No way. I don't want to catch a cold. You should come in. Do you want me to run you a bath?"

"Ugh, you're no fun, bucky. I thought you were supposed to be the fun one. Steve's always been the stick in the mud."

"Come inside. I don't want you to get struck by lightning."

"Stand out here for ten seconds. Just ten!" you pleaded, sticking your bottom lip out in a pout.

He shook his head again, making an exasperated sound, and you were ready to admit defeat, but he slipped his shoes off and took a step out and onto the porch. "There, you happy?"

You clapped and laughed and moved towards him, delighted that he'd given in to your wish. His hair was already drenched, and he brushed it back off of his forehead, and the look on his face was something unreadable as he took you in, something genuine and warm and confusing all at once. You stopped in front of him, blinking rain off of your lashes, a silly grin on your face. "Feels nice, right? Like you're reconnecting with nature."

"If that's what you want to call it." he said, a half-smile tugging at his lips. His hand came up and brushed a wet strand of hair off your cheek, tucking it behind your ear. "Now come on, let's go inside. You need to get changed."

You let him lead you, his hand linking around your wrist to guide you back in, your feet making squeaky sounds against the hardwood when you got inside. When he closed and locked the door again, everything sounded muted, just the sound of your breathing, and his, loud in the empty house. You felt a shiver creep through your spine. You'd forgotten the air conditioning was on full blast, and the cold of your clothes made goosebumps break out over your skin. He saw you shudder, and a look of concern, rather than an I told you so expression, crossed his face. "Yeah, I think you need a bath or a shower or something. I don't want you to get sick."

He pulled an abandoned towel from the back of one of the dining chairs and started to dry your hair with it, hands gentle, expression thoughtful as he bit his lip in concentration. You got lost in his eyes for a moment. Compared to the gray cast outside, the blue of them looked so vivid, like the brightest, prettiest topaz you'd ever seen. His hands slowed, then stopped moving entirely. The towel rested around your shoulders. Your breath mingled together, close in the air. His hands came up and held your face, his thumbs brushing under your eyes, and he whispered something—it sounded like, "oh, hell"—and then he was leaning forward, closing the distance between you, his lips soft but sure against yours.

It made you sigh against his mouth, like you'd been holding all the breath in your body and now it was safe to release it to him, for him to keep protected until you needed it again. His hands moved to rest lightly on the sides of your neck, and the towel fell away somewhere behind you, but it didn't matter, because you were lost, gone, absorbed in the feel of his mouth on yours, the glide of his lips, the first tease of his tongue that had you opening to him, sagging against him, his hands moving again to come to your waist and hold you up, your own arms wrapping around his neck.

You stood on your toes to reach him, the water from your soaked clothes seeping into his, your mind blank to anything that wasn't him, the taste of his mouth, the crisp apple of the wine he'd had, the feel of his arms, strong and certain around your body, the smell of him, all rain and sun and sand, the sound of him, because you were sure you could hear his heartbeat, and when you pulled away for breath, the look of him, his eyes heartbreakingly gentle, his nose brushing against yours.

"Let me take care of you." he whispered, and it was a plea, like he was about to be on his knees begging, like you were God and he was your disciple.

You could only nod, and he was picking you up, and you felt like a bride or a princess or something whimsical, nuzzling your face into the hot skin of his neck as he carried you through the rooms of the house. Your room was dim, the ballet pink wallpaper looking silver in the bleak light from the window, until he placed you back on your feet and turned on the bedside lamp, a soft glow ensconcing the space.

Then Bucky turned towards you, and you stood there in your drenched clothes, and he sighed softly before approaching and putting his hands back on your waist, where the hem of your shirt ended. He was slow when he tugged it up and over your head, and you weren't prepared when you could see him again, for the way his eyes had gone dark with want as he looked at you. You'd been in bikinis around him all week and never once had you recalled him giving you a look like that. The bralette you had on was cute and lacy and pastel blue, yes, but no more racy than the stringy swimsuits you'd packed with you. And yet he was looking at you like a precious gem, like there was only one of you in the world, the most devastating thing, like he wanted to preserve you and keep you safe.

He breathed heavily as he observed you, and then his hand flicked the button of your shorts open. It took the tiniest tug on one of the belt loops, done by one of his fingers, for them to fall down your legs and pool at your feet. The groan he let out was the sort of sound a broken man might make, when he learned his lover was leaving him, like he'd heard horrible news, but his eyes were all over you, the matching panties you wore, the way you stood with your knees slightly turned in, like you were shy.

And you were shy, because no one had looked at you the way he was right now. Not your boyfriend, or any boys previous.

"Sit down." he said, and you were already moving before he'd finished the command, settling at the center of the bed, watching him with big doe eyes. He shrugged his own shirt off, leaving him in just his shorts, and he knelt on the floor before you, his hands on your knees, smoothing down your shins. "You are the most beautiful thing I've ever seen." His voice was hoarse, and it filled you with such an ache that you could have been moved to tears. "Say that you're mine, for the night? Please. Please, please, please say it."

"I'm yours." The words left you without a second thought, like they were a fundamental truth, like they were lines in a script you'd memorized.

His forehead fell heavily to your thigh, and the kiss he pressed there burned like fire. Your hand moved of its own accord to card lightly through his hair, and when he looked at you again, he seemed so wrecked that it scared you for a moment, the pure devotion you saw there.

You were the altar he was kneeling at, and he was here to eat his sins.

Because the thing you didn't know, the thing you'd never known, was that as soon as you'd hit sixteen, your kind brother, wanting the best for you, had asked Bucky to promise that he'd never pursue you, and Bucky had agreed, confused, at the time, as to why Steve would even have to ask. You were like a kid sister to him.

Until you weren't.

He was slow, gentle, so careful, but his kisses carved a path of heat up your thighs, and you could only watch, enraptured, as he moved your legs further apart to slot himself between them more firmly. The kiss on your hip nearly undid you, his fingers tracing the line of lace at your waistband, before you felt his breath at your centre, then the press of his nose, then his tongue against the fabric, and the feeling made you squirm, too much and not enough, but you were rooted to the spot, unwilling to move for anything.

He hooked them to the side and the first swipe of his tongue made you go cross-eyed, your hands fisting the bedspread as you whined. He licked into you, taking his time, before sitting back, eyes blown wide, mouth wet, and tugged at your waistband again. "Please. I need these off, baby. Please, God. I'll do anything. Let me take them off."

He didn't even have to ask. You let him help you take them off, and then he was laying you back against the pillows properly, making sure you were comfortable, before he was between your legs again, his hands firm on your hips to keep you from bucking up, licking you like you were spun sugar, like you were sunshine and fresh air and vanilla cream, like you were a fleeting dream. Your eyes had fluttered closed, one arm over them as you cried and keened and whimpered, feeling like you'd left your body and transcended to heaven already, until he latched onto your clit, and you jolted at the sensation. "Bucky—"

He moaned against you, like he was the one being taken for a ride, not you, and all you could feel was the hot brand of his hands and the wet slide of his tongue, your breath coming out in gasps as an unfamiliar feeling spiraled tighter and tighter in your belly. You felt like a bug that had flown into a heat lamp when your orgasm hit, right when he'd stuck his tongue inside you, his thumb rubbing a delicate circle on your clit, your legs clamping around his head like a clamshell protecting a pearl. Wave after wave of it hit you, and your body shook, and you were crying his name over and over, mewling like a kitten, and one of his hands stroked your thigh reassuringly as he worked you through it, until you were shuddering and shivering from overstimulation, feeling like you had entered a fugue state where all you knew was the feel of his tongue.

Your head felt heavy on the pillow, and you were dazed, stars in your eyes, and then he moved until he hovered above you, a hand on either side of your head, his mouth and chin wet and shiny, his eyes bright and adoring. "You did so good. You're perfect. You're an angel. You're my angel, I swear to God, you are."

Bucky kissed your forehead as you made a weak little sound, and then he was gone from you, and you felt confused and lost until he came back with a throw blanket to cover you up with. "Are you… are you going?" you mumbled, feeling sad and empty.

He brushed your hair back. "Only for a minute. I have to clean up the living room. Then I'll come back, if you want me to. Do you want me to?" he asked the last part hesitantly, like he was sure you'd say no.

You used all your energy to grip his wrist, to focus on his eyes, as you said, "Yes. Please come back, please promise that you will."

And his eyes went soft and sweet as honey all over again, and he kissed you one more time, murmuring against your lips, "Yes, of course. I'll always come back to you."

You must have drifted off almost immediately after he'd gone, but you stirred when you felt body heat at your back at little while later, strong arms around your waist, and you turned in search of the source and moved closer, close as you could, until there was no space left, and you heard something murmured in the dark, something that sounded like love, but you were too gone to know that the words had been, "Sleep well, I love you more than words can say."

You woke with the dawn, feeling floaty and light like a dust mite, and you moved to stretch but realized you couldn't, because you were tucked firmly and safely into Bucky's chest like a well-loved teddy bear.

You felt flushed as you remembered the previous night, but not regretful. No, never that. It had been magic. It had been fairy dust. It had been fireworks and comets and sparks, not just what he did for you, but the whole thing, from the first kiss to the last.

Like it was instinct, he came to consciousness moments later, blinking sleepily at you, his hands immediately coming up to stroke your hair like it was muscle memory, like he'd done it before, or for his whole life. He lowered his head to kiss your brow, to mumble against your skin, though his voice was too low for you to tell what he said, so you just snuggled closer, letting him hold you like you were the most important girl in the world.

When he eventually pulled away from you, just enough to look at you, you were stricken by the sadness on his face, open and honest. "I wouldn't change what happened for the world, but you know I shouldn't have done that, right? It was bad. I was bad. I should have been stronger than that. I'm sorry."

"I—no, don't be sorry. Never be sorry. Please. Maybe it shouldn't have happened, but it did, and it was perfect, and I don't want to stop. I want it to happen again. I want you to feel good, too." you said in a stumbled rush, trying to sound firm, to make him understand. "I—I love you, Bucky. Please don't push me away."

You could have stabbed him, from the way he looked after you said those words. "You can't mean it like that."

"But I do. I do, Bucky. I love you. I want to be with you. Please?"

He pulled you close again, so you couldn't see his face. You felt the rumble of his voice in your own chest, the beat of his heart against yours. "My darling girl. You'll be the death of me with sweet words like that."

"Say them back." Now it was your turn to beg and plead, to throw yourself at his feet for a crumb of affection.

"Angel—" he sighed, like he was going to let you down easy.

"Bucky—please." Your voice broke when you said it, your eyes filling with tears. and you didn't know how he knew, but he did, because he was again pulling away to look at your face, to wipe at your eyes, and whisper, "I love you. I love you so much it hurts, it claws me open, it makes it hard to breathe. I love you, I love you, I love you." He pressed kisses to your face until you were giggling.

His forehead pressed to yours. "If we're going to do this, we have to be careful, hmm? Can't let anyone know. It'll be different if you come and live with me next year. But for now, around everyone else, it's a secret, yeah?"

You nodded, eager to please. "Yes. Yes, I'll be good, Bucky, I promise. I can do that. I can keep a secret."

You didn't know exactly why it was a big deal to keep it a secret. Was it your age? You were still in school, yes, but you were an adult. Regardless, you trusted him with everything in your being. And being sneaky sounded exciting.

Keeping it a secret was harder than you'd thought. Keeping it a secret meant that you couldn't sit in Bucky's lap or ask him to join you in the shower after playing around in the lake, or to share ice cream with one spoon. Keeping it a secret meant you could only speak to him like you would anyone else in your family, since he'd been around you so much growing up, he felt like he was, sometimes. But when no one else was looking, you'd boldly mouth the words, "I love you!" with a brilliant smile, and he'd look all at once panicked and happy, and he wouldn't say it back, but the next time he'd sit next to you, he'd trace it with his finger onto your leg or your arm, the digits writing out, "more than words" on your skin.

Keeping it a secret also meant stealing away in his cherry red rental truck, driving down a long dirt road after telling your parents that you were going hiking, something that Steve detested, and then driving some more, into a narrow stretch of trees, shaded from the sun and curious eyes, and you were climbing into his lap like you'd been doing it forever, your fingers twining into his hair, his hands firm on your hips, your body rocking into his as you planted wet kisses down the side of his throat.

Every sound he made took your breath away, and you wanted to learn every one. He fumbled at the buttons of your beach top, until it was falling loose on your arms, exposing your yellow bikini top. The friction of your jean shorts wasn't enough. You wanted more, wanted him, completely, truly, irrevocably. Wanted him to stain your insides as well as your soul. He laced your hands together, stopping you from moving. "Are you sure?" he asked, the question serious, though his eyes were wide and glassy, his lips swollen, his chest heaving.

"Always sure with you." you said with an honest smile, and then he was smiling too, the most beautiful thing you'd ever seen, and he let go of one of your hands to let you pop the button of your shorts and pull them down, along with your panties. His mouth was parted as he watched you do the same for him, and he shuddered and whined when you held him in your hand, stroking your thumb over the head, watching the look on his face with unbridled bliss. You rubbed him against your folds, slick and wanting, before lining him up and sinking down onto him with a whimper. His quiet curse was music to your ears, and he pushed your bikini up until he could palm at your breasts. "Perfect, so perfect." he breathed. "So perfect—fuck."

The air in the truck was a hot and heavy thing, sticky like syrup. Your breath fogged the windows while your hips rolled against him slow and steady, letting him stay seated inside you while you kissed him like he was the last man breathing. He groaned into your mouth, his fingers gripping your body to rock you into him, deeper, snugger, pushing you down to take every last inch until your clit brushed the coarse hairs at the base of him and made you cry out.

“You feel insane.” he gritted, his voice nearly a growl, broken by restraint. “So warm. Fuck. I don’t wanna pull out, I don’t wanna ever leave you, shit—”

You kissed him harder to shut him up before the words set you off. Your whole body trembled, bouncing slowly in his lap, his hands helping guide your rhythm even as his head dropped to your shoulder, gasping against your neck like you were taking the last of his self-control with every squeeze. You clung to him, arms around his neck, nails leaving light trails as you panted through every needy little roll of your hips.

The truck creaked with your movements, the suspension groaning, a rhythm of metal and desperate flesh. He filled you just right—long, thick, hot, stretching you sweet and deep until your walls were fluttering around him with every downward stroke. You moaned openly, loudly, shamelessly, like you were announcing to the world how he made you feel.

“S’good, Bucky—fuck, it’s so good—feels so good—!”

He kissed your collarbone, tongue flicking, teeth catching gently on the soft skin, whispering against you, “You’re made for me, you hear me? Made to take me. Look at you, bouncing on my cock like you were born for it—fuck, I can feel you clenching—”

“Bucky, Bucky, Bucky—!” you whimpered, dizzy with it, stars exploding behind your eyes every time your clit rubbed just right, body convulsing with every twitch of his cock as it nudged that perfect spot inside you.

“Ride me, angel,” he groaned, his hands now everywhere, sliding from your hips to your ass to your waist, back up to cup your breasts, your bikini top loosening with every movement, before it fell between you. “Don’t stop, yeah? Don’t stop ‘til I fill you up—shit—I’m gonna come, I’m not gonna last—”

You clenched down harder on purpose, gasping at the way he twitched inside you, the way his hands gripped you like he’d fall off of the world if he let go. Your body burned, shivering even in the heat, slick dripping down between your thighs, soaking his lap and the seat beneath you.

And then he was coming—his jaw dropped, his eyes squeezed shut, and he let out a raw, primal noise, somewhere between a groan and a choked-off cry as he held you still and thrust up into you, once, twice, deep, deeper, spurting hot and thick inside your walls. The sensation of his release sent you spiraling too, tipping you into an orgasm you hadn’t known was building so quickly, your body arching, head thrown back, voice breaking with your high-pitched sob of pleasure as you milked him, pulsing around him, both of you shaking.

When you slumped forward, your foreheads pressed together, his arms circled you tight, grounding, safe.

“Jesus,” he murmured, voice wrecked, and you couldn’t help the giggle that burst out of you as you rested your cheek against his damp neck. “Gonna kill me,” he murmured. “You’re gonna kill me, baby girl. Sweetest fucking torture in the world.”

You stayed there, impaled on him, basking in the heat, in the smell of sex and sweat and skin, in the sunshine and the trees and the summer breeze. When you finally lifted your head, you caught his expression—soft, dazed, almost devout.

“I meant what I said,” you whispered, brushing your nose against his. “Always sure with you. I love you.”

His eyes shimmered with something you couldn’t name. One hand rose to cradle your cheek, and he kissed you again, slow, deep, no urgency now—just promise.

“Say it again,” he whispered into your mouth.

“I love you.”

“Again.”

“I love you, Bucky.”

He kissed you between every repetition, like each one was a vow. And when you finally slid off his lap, wincing slightly at the mess you’d made, he was already reaching into the glove box for tissues, already tending to you, helping you clean up like it was the most natural thing in the world. Because you were his.

He redressed you slowly, tenderly. Buttoned your shorts, straightened your top. Then helped you hop down from the truck and pulled you into his arms again in the quiet of the shaded woods. The sun was peeking through the trees, mottling the earth in dappled light. He tipped your chin up and smiled.

“We’ll figure this out,” he promised.

And if you couldn't, he was sure he'd remember the taste of your skin, the taste of your sin, for the rest of his life, anyway, like it was his last supper. The memory of the rain clung to your skin, but now, so did the memory of Bucky's hands, all over you, and you were still warm where they’d touched you, still burning where they’d held on like he was anchoring himself to the world through you.

He fished around in the backseat of the truck for the old Polaroid camera you’d been bringing around all summer. He aimed it at you. “Smile for me?”

And you did, a dazzling, radiant flash of your teeth, a smile that could melt the iciest of exteriors. When it printed out you snatched it before it could develop and kissed the back, the faintest glimmer of pink glitter gloss staining it. “That’s for good luck, so that when you miss me, you’ll always have one of my kisses to keep you warm.”

It was type of thing someone experiencing puppy-love might say, but Bucky didn't care. He looked at the twin smiles, the one in person, before him, and the one in the picture, perfect and preserved, and he imagined where the creases would eventually show from where it would be kept in his wallet, because you were a piece of him now, and he'd carry you with him always.

The last night at the beach house was awful. You were tearful all through dinner, which your parents thought was sweet, that the reunion had meant so much for you. Steve had teased you a little bit, but he couldn't admit that he'd enjoyed his time, too. Not out loud. Only Bucky knew the true source of your tears.

You found it hard to sleep, feeling misery creep into your very essence, the thought of being worlds away from Bucky, your Bucky, making you want to bury yourself in the sand and never leave the place where everything changed.

It was like he heard the sad echo of your heartbeat through the walls, because he stole into your room, an old blanket tucked over his arm, his voice a whisper when he said, “I want you in the moonlight.”

You were floating out of your bed like a feather on the wind, fingers laced with his as you tiptoed out of your room and down the hall, careful for every creak and sigh of the house settling, your footsteps light as he slid the back door open and led you from the porch to the grass, bathed in silver, the air still and silent, the water beyond like the clearest mirror you'd ever seen.

The blanket was a soft, pilled thing, a little threadbare but cozy, and he laid it on the grass like it was the most precious parchment, like he needed gloves to handle it, like it belonged in a museum, like it would seal the memory within the wool. It was a risk, what you were doing. If anyone in the house got up for some water, they would see you from the kitchen window, but the thrill, the reckless abandon, the love shooting through your veins like the sweetest drug you'd ever known made you throw all caution to the wind.

He undressed you like you were carefully packed glass, like he didn't want to ruin or break you, like you were to be placed on display on the mantel, and laid you on your back beneath the stars, kissing you from your hairline to your core, worshipping every inch of exposed skin, touching every part of you, not just with his hands but with his soul, like it was calling to yours.

It felt so right, like he was put on earth specifically for this, for you, to love you and hold you close and whisper sweet nothings to you under the cover of shadows and starlight.

You opened like a flower unfurling its petals on a warm spring day when he slid two fingers into you, diving into your cunt, drinking you in like you were the most divine communion wine, and the sounds you made had Bucky feeling like he was at a private show, and you were dedicating the song to him. Your back arched off the blanket like you were trying to get closer to God, and he held you through it as you shattered apart like a falling star, swallowing your cries with his mouth, brushing your cheeks with his thumbs, looking at the reflection of the moon in your eyes, the silver of your tears.

Entering you felt like a sacred ritual, the heat of you a brand that marked him, ruined him for anyone else, because no one else could compare to you. Your nails scratched gently on the nape of his neck as you pulled him closer to you. He moved slow, savouring the moment, the push and pull, the look on your face, like you were utterly enamored, infatuated, obsessed, his name an exhale on your lips.

Every time he hit the deepest part of you, you both shuddered, like you were melting together, a gradual pour of your hearts into one vessel, until he was burying his face in the side of your neck, his lips on your throat, a whimper of your name leaving him as he filled you full, your walls clenching around him like you were trying to keep him there forever and ever.

It was perfect, your final night together under the stars, intertwined. He held you close and rubbed his hands up and down your arms, watching you lazily blink up at the sky, the universe above you, the blanket a warm embrace, and he didn't know how he'd survive without you tomorrow, or the days and weeks and months after that, so he tried his best to memorize the way you looked there under the deep blue of the sky, all long eyelashes and dazed wonder. If he was going to Hell for this, for corrupting his best friend's little sister, at least he’d gotten to experience something as holy as you.

The morning meant goodbye. Not forever, no. It couldn't be forever. It wouldn't be forever. He helped you load everything into the back of the car and said goodbye to your parents, leaving them to chat with your brother, who was staying behind to hitch a ride to the airport with Bucky. He pulled you aside, murmuring, “You break up with your loser boyfriend. You call me now, yeah? You call me whenever you need me.”

“But your job—“

“You matter to me more. The job is inconsequential.”

The smile you gave him was both sad and happy, like your heart was breaking and repairing at the same time. "Okay. I'll call you. Every day."

Bucky hugged you tightly then, his arms looping around your waist, his lips in your hair. "You and me. It's you and me, yeah?"

You nodded, your cheek brushing against his shoulder, whispering it back. "You and me."

And he didn't say the words, the I love you, because he knew it would bring tears to your eyes, but he hoped you heard them with every thrum of his heart, before he let you go and walked you back to the car, shutting the door after you'd climbed in.

And then Bucky was watching the car drive away, and he stood there, hands in his pockets, watching his heart leave with you, because you had it in your hands now, and he feared you always would.

TAGLIST;; @54nboo, @opheliabbarnes, @flockoff-featherface, @juniebjonesin, @firingstars, @blowingbarnes, @its-in-the-woods

[slutforsr]

the devil on your shoulder

bucky barnes x reader // 4.6k

part one of ???

18+ - enemies/rivals to lovers, fwb, slowburn(?) smut, oral (m receiving), suggestive themes, more plot than porn sorry, reader is sort of ambiguous, also SHIELD is still active but they're good again bc i said so???

author's note: ummm i am so scared to post this omg i am super rusty with writing, in my opinion, but some buddies (@54nboo, @opheliabbarnes, @flockoff-featherface, @juniebjonesin) convinced me to post it so i really hope it isn't total ass. 🥺 if you see spelling mistakes mind your business... i did proof read but i just know i missed something. ummmm n e ways enjoy?

If there was one thing everyone knew, it was to never pair you and Bucky on an assignment together. You argued so much that people had literally requested to never be on the same op as you both. And yet, you were halfway across the country, aiming for a little farm town to pick up some genius that had some sort of desirable value. You had been given an ancient thirty year old car that spluttered and choked the whole drive. You’d been on the road for fourteen hours already. When you were pulled over at a gas station, hungry and tired, your phone rang. You and Bucky were standing outside of the car at the time, squabbling over what to eat. It was Sam. You gave your phone to Bucky. “Answer it. Put it on video; Sam probably wants proof you haven’t murdered me.”

He grumbled but did as you said, holding the phone sideways like a vlogger, which he detested, but it was the only way to get you both on camera. You leaned your head against his shoulder to fit into the shot. “Wilson, hey.”

Sam was grinning at you from the phone. “Hey, you two. I thought you’d still be on the road.”

You snorted. “That old clunker needs a break at every rest stop or else the engine overheats. I’m referring to the car, not Bucky.”

At that comment, Bucky glared at you, which Sam obviously saw, letting out a laugh. “Surprised you haven’t killed each other yet.”

“Believe me, we’ve come close.” Bucky said sourly.

It was true; he’d thought about running you both off the road so that he wouldn’t have to hear you talk anymore. You'd criticized everything from his music choices to his sunglasses. He’d karate chopped your legs when you’d put your feet up on the dash. You poked Barnes in the side. “Yeah, because this guy still uses a paper map instead of a GPS system.”

Bucky looked skyward, as if asking a God to strike him down. You still had two hours of driving left for tonight, before you were due to sleep it off in the car at the next rest stop.

Later, in the car, the bickering continued. Bucky was driving. You wouldn’t shut the hell up. You were complaining about the dimness of the headlights. You were on a derelict stretch of highway, driving past empty brown fields, no one else in sight. Bugs fluttered through the path the lights cast on the road. He opened his mouth to say something, the thought darting through his head like a lightning strike, but thought the better of it. You caught it anyway. You were sitting sideways in the seat, totally ignoring safety regulations, your seatbelt only secured around your waist. Your shorts were barely visible, swallowed as they were by your oversized crewneck. “Something to say, Barnes?”

“No. I think you’ll actually shoot me if I say it out loud."

You smirked at him. “Try me.”

He let out an exhale, looking out of the driver’s side window instead of at you, mumbling, “I was gonna say that I bet you wouldn’t be so mouthy if you were busy sucking my cock instead.” Literally the dumbest intrusive thought he’d ever had, but you brought it out in him—you were infuriating.

Your mouth formed a perfect ‘o’ of surprise, before you started laughing. “Oh, wow. You’re such a prince.” Sarcasm dripped from your voice.

He grimaced. You were really laughing? Figures. He didn’t know what he’d been expecting. His hands flexed on the wheel.

“Well, go on then, Barnes.”

He swerved on the dirt road. “What?”

“Let’s see if that’s true. I’ll give you head right now if you can make sure you won’t drive us into a ditch.” You shrugged a shoulder with a sunny smile. “I could stand to do some charity work.”

Bucky went still, both hands gripping the wheel so hard the old vinyl creaked. He was waiting for you to laugh and brush it off, but when he turned and saw your eyes, steady and sharp in the dim dashboard light, he realized you were absolutely, outrageously serious.

He almost choked, but then—fuck it, you called his bluff. He kept his eyes forward and let out a near-disbelieving laugh. “Yeah? Gonna do community service, huh?” he said, voice just low enough to get under your skin. He heard your seatbelt clack as you moved, unbuckling completely. Your hand was already sliding up his thigh, bold as hell, nails scratching lightly through the denim. He could feel his cock already twitch, half hard from nothing but the friction of the argument and your fucking mouth.

“Don’t crash,” you said, winking, voice syrup-sweet and mocking. “Wouldn’t want to deprive SHIELD of their precious asset.”

The headlights flickered over a signpost—miles of nothing but empty fields and the far-off winking lights of some tractor. Bucky licked his lips, the air thick with your scent, with the lingering heat from their earlier bickering.

You were already easing his fly open with quick, clever fingers. You pushed his jeans down just enough, knuckles brushing his stomach as you maneuvered in the cramped old car, then wrapped your hand around his cock, stroking slow at first just to watch him grit his teeth and keep his attention half on the winding dirt road.

“God, you’re an asshole,” you whispered, but the words came out soft, like you were confessing something dark and sweet. Your tongue flicked the head, tasting him, and Bucky’s hips jerked, barely an inch but enough that the car swayed for a second before he yanked it back into the lane.

You laughed, lips parted, eyes glittering up at him. “Don’t let us die, Sergeant.”

He nearly growled—he could feel the way your mouth molded over him, tongue swirling with deliberate, taunting slowness, your hand pumping just tight enough to make him curse. You were relentless, every movement calculated to torture, to keep him right at that razor’s edge between distraction and losing it completely.

The sound you made far back in your throat as you took him deeper vibrated through him, made his foot heavy on the pedal. He barely noticed the speedometer creeping up. The car rattled over a pothole, and your teeth grazed him, making him bite back a groan.

“Hey,” he warned, but it came out more like a plea, rough and raw, chest heaving.

You only hummed, swallowing around him, your hand squeezing at the base, the other braced on his thigh for balance as the car skittered again. He could hear every filthy, wet sound echoing in the tiny space between you, your mouth working him with zero mercy.

He glanced down, just for a second, and the sight was obscene—your hair messy, cheeks hollowing as you sucked him in deep, spit glistening on his cock. The windows fogged up slightly, heat pooling between you in the darkness. He cranked up the air conditioner with difficulty, trying to clear the fog. The light cast shadows on your face, and you looked up at him with your mouth still full, as if daring him to fall apart right here behind the wheel.

His voice was a hoarse rasp.“Gonna—shit—you're gonna make us crash—”

You moaned, high and soft, the sound shooting straight through him, like you were receiving the pleasure instead of him. The car veered a foot toward the shoulder before he corrected, the old engine chug-chugging in protest. His thighs trembled as he fought to not buck up into your mouth.

“Fuck—” he managed, eyes squeezing shut for a heartbeat.

You went even harder, sucking deep, both hands twisting around him now, sloppy and relentless, spit leaking down over his balls. Every muscle in his body was strung tight, hips barely moving, his mind filled with nothing but the heat and pressure and the electric scrape of your teeth.

He lasted maybe another thirty seconds, every nerve set ablaze, your mouth and hand and tongue milking him until his vision whited out. He came with a strangled gasp, voice rough and broken, nearly sobbing your name as you swallowed every drop, pulling back with a filthy little pop and a satisfied grin.

He let his head drop back, one hand smearing across his sweaty brow, the car drifting lazily down the endless dark highway. You wiped your mouth with your thumb, settling back into your seat like nothing had happened, buckling up again with a smug click.

You shot him a wicked look. “You were right, Barnes. Well, partially. You’re a lot quieter now.”

His couldn't answer out loud—words had ceased to exist. He could only manage to shake his head, hands shuddering on the wheel as you sped on through the night, with you looking out the window like you hadn’t just changed every rule between you forever.

When you both pulled over for the night, it was at another rest stop. You parked in one of three parking spots barely visible, the paint long since faded, and as soon as you’d stopped moving, you had pushed your seat back flat and curled up on your side, facing away from Bucky, acting like you were about to sleep in a cushy, 5-star hotel. Bucky looked at you incredulously, though you couldn’t see it. After the blowjob that had almost killed you both, you’d settled back like you hadn’t just done that on impulse, humming along to the radio, twisting a strand of hair around your finger as you looked out the window. And now, you were honest to God actually sleeping.

He pulled on the seat’s lever and stretched out on his back. He’d definitely be sore tomorrow—humans were not meant to sleep in cars for more than a couple of hours at most, more specifically, humans of his size—and looked up at the gray cloth interior of the car. The only sounds he could hear were of your breathing, the sporadic coo of a bird, and one or two coyote cries. It was going to be a long night. He’d had half a mind to pull the car over after you’d sucked him off to fuck you in the backseat, but he’d restrained himself. It was just a heat of the moment, knee jerk reaction. Most of the time he wanted to kill you.

What had happened was definitely a one time thing.

It didn’t stop him from thinking about it, though, the idea pulling him out of sleep more than once.

You woke up a little after 5 in the morning. You went to use the gas station’s restroom and clean up a bit in the dinky little sink, changing into jean shorts and a tank top that left entirely too much up to Bucky’s imagination. You went and got 50 cent coffees and some sad looking doughnuts when it was his turn to use the restroom, using the charm you reserved for everyone but him on the tired gas station worker. 

It was your turn to drive. It was honestly as dangerous, letting you drive, as letting you put your mouth on him had been. You talked with your hands. That meant that the entire portion of you driving yesterday had been with both hands had flying off the steering wheel more than once, and you had turned towards him when you’d done it, meaning your eyes hadn’t been on the road even a little. He’d actually lurched across the console to grab the steering wheel at one point. 

As you settled down in the driver’s seat now, to clips holding the front pieces of your hair back, the morning sun glinting on both of you, you looked deceptively sweet. That thought lasted all of five seconds, when you ripped out of the parking spot, almost taking a gas pump out on the way. “Christ!” Bucky yelled. “Do you even have a valid fucking license?!” 

You waved a hand at him. “Would you relax? The gas pump was miles away!” 

He glared at you in return. “Do you also have a fucking astigmatism?!” 

You drove for six more hours before you got to the tiny town you’d been driving to. It was the kind of town that was lucky if it had a post office and a grocery store. The mechanic’s shop also doubled as a hair salon. You pulled up at the end of a dirt road, with a cluster of trailers, some nice, some not so nice, at the edge of it.

The sun was high up, relentless, the grass mostly dead. The pavement was full of cracks, weeds sprouting up in some, gravel caked in others. One trailer had lawn flamingos, but they weren't the bright, shiny pink they probably had been when they were new. Rather, they were half laying flat on the lawn, bleached of colour, looking a sad shade of salmon.

You both climbed out of the car. It was believed that no force would be necessary. The guy should have known you were coming; you just had to convince him to get back into the car and drive 20 hours with you. You stopped at the little set of stairs, both assessing the screen door. Your hands were in your back pockets as you squinted at the trailer. “Alright, let’s take it nice and easy. Don’t scare the guy, Barnes. Got it?” 

He rolled his eyes. “I know the protocol, smartass.” 

He left you standing there and ascended the stairs, knocking not on the door, but on the trailer’s wall. “Hey, Ricardo! Open up. We’ve come to collect you.”

 Barnes did not see the curtain twitch to the left of the door, but you did. It was why you were entirely unsurprised when there was a faint crash, and then the bang of the back door opening as Ricardo raced out into his backyard, intent on hopping the fence. “Great going, asshole!” You yelled, before taking off in a dead sprint around the side of the trailer. 

 Five minutes later, Ricardo, a scrawny guy in his 40s, and you, were both grass-stained and sweaty. Your hair was a mess. Your tank top had slid down a tad, making it hard for Bucky (and Ricardo, for that matter) to look anywhere else. You were glaring daggers at him as you hauled Ricardo by the forearm to the front of the trailer. “Pack a bag. Whatever is essential. Then we’ll go, okay?” 

Ricardo nodded as you released him. “Sorry about before. It’s just—he’s so scary! I thought someone put a hit out on me.” He winced as he said it, like it might be offensive. 

You clapped him on the back, sending him a step closer to the trailer’s door. “Don’t worry, he gets that a lot.” 

As soon as Ricardo went into the trailer, you turned to Bucky and slapped him upside the head. “Ow!” He said, rubbing the sore spot. “What the fuck?” 

You breathed deeply through your nose. “What did I say? I said nice and easy. Not ‘make me do a running tackle’.”

 Bucky threw his hands up. “Whatever! I’m gonna wait in the car.” 

He wrestled the keys out of your front pocket before turning to stomp away. Not before he landed a slap on your ass as penance for the slap on the head, though.

Your surprised yelp echoed off the corrugated aluminum trailer. You turned to glare at his retreating back, one hand rubbing your ass at the sting, mouth twisted in outrage and something else. “Try that again, I’ll break your wrist,” you called after him. Bucky just shot you a shit-eating grin over his shoulder, flipping the keys in his palm as he headed down the steps and toward the sun-blasted car, boots crunching in the gravel. It was barely 11 a.m. and the heat felt like a physical thing, crawling up his spine, sitting on his shoulders.

Inside, the car was a sauna. He cracked the window, cranked the ancient AC as far as it could go which did little except sputter out a hot, dusty breeze, and closed his eyes. He could still see you out there—hair a mess, cheeks flushed, shoulders heaving, the line of your collarbone catching the sunlight. For a moment, his mind flashed back to last night, the cramped heat, your mouth around him, the wet pop and slide and your wicked, lazy smile. He forced his eyes open, blowing out a breath. One time thing. It was a one time thing.

Ten minutes later, the car door yanked open. You tossed yourself into the passenger seat, the force rattling the car on its tired suspension. You had grass in your hair and a streak of dirt along one leg. “He’s got a duffel bag and a laptop, so I think we’re good. He’ll probably sleep the whole ride.”

Bucky grunted, but didn’t look at you. “Try not to traumatize the next civilian we’re supposed to rescue.”

You reached over, flicking his shoulder. “Try not to scare them into running for their lives.” You arched an eyebrow, the challenge unmistakable, but there was something softer in your expression—a rare flicker of camaraderie, or maybe just exhaustion. You handed him the world’s saddest powdered doughnut, sticky from the heat, from where the box had been shoved in the footwell. “Eat. You look like you’re about to kill something.”

He took it, brushing your hand with his thumb a fraction too long, and tried not to think about how close your face was in the cramped car. Ricardo appeared at your window, clutching his duffel and a battered laptop case like talismans. He was pale, sweat beading his forehead, but when you flashed him a grin and gestured for him to get in the back, he obeyed without argument, still shooting wary glances at Bucky like he might sprout fangs.

The back seat barely fit Ricardo and his bag. He fumbled with his seatbelt, hands shaking. “So, um, you guys do this a lot? Pick people up in—” he glanced around the car, nose wrinkling, “—classic rides?”

That was a nice way to put it. Bucky would have called it a shitmobile on wheels.

You snorted. “SHIELD’s budget is so thin, you’re lucky we’re not on bikes.”

Bucky put the car in gear, glancing at you as he did. “You drive like you’re on a bike, that’s the problem.”

You rolled your eyes, but didn’t bother defending yourself. Ricardo looked between you, caught the current of something half-hostile, half-electric. “Should I, uh, put headphones in? Or will I need to mediate?”

You grinned at him. “Oh, no. If he tries to murder me, just take notes for HR.”

Bucky muttered, “Don’t tempt me,” but it was automatic, more than born of real irritation.

As you pulled onto the road, Ricardo slouched in the back seat, eyes flicking nervously from you to Bucky and back. After a few miles, the tension eased. The road stretched ahead in a long, hot shimmer. You propped your feet up on the dash, and Bucky smacked your shin until you huffed and pulled them down again. For a few minutes, all you could hear was the old engine, the soft tap of Ricardo’s laptop keys, and the way your laughter slipped out every time Bucky’s glare lingered on you a moment too long. "You look like an angry kitten." You said at one point, which he didn't deign with a response.

Somewhere outside of town, the fields gave way to hills, and you twisted around to glance at Ricardo. “You’re not gonna try to bail out at the next rest stop, are you?”

He shook his head, glancing at Bucky. “Nah. I think I’d rather take my chances with you two than whatever’s out there.”

“Smart,” Bucky said, eyes on the road. You looked at him sideways, something almost approving in your smile.

You'd driven until 9 at night, with you switching over for the last four hours of it. That was half the drive done already. You could have gone a little longer, but you opted to stop at a motel that honestly looked like it should have been in foreclosure ten years prior. You’d gotten a room that had two beds. The idea was that Ricardo could rest in one, and Bucky and you would take turns in the other. One of you would catch a few hours’ rest while the other stayed up and kept watch. Ricardo wasn’t a well-known obtainable asset, but it paid to be careful anyway, in case anyone was sniffing around.

The linens had been white, once. The wallpaper was a garish palm leaf pattern. The one living chair looked like it had been scratched half to death by a cat. The carpet was so flat it might as well have been another material entirely. The bathroom had seen better days, too. You had showered with moderate success. Your hair was damp—you’d dried it with your tank top instead of one of the towels, and you were back in yesterday's bike shorts and another tank top, this one cropped, exposing a couple inches of your stomach. You'd dressed for the hot-as-hell weather.

Bucky was slumped in the chair, ready for first watch, since you’d been the one doing a lot of the driving today. Ricardo was already asleep in his bed, hugging a pillow, facing the bathroom door. You were supposed to take the one closer to the window that overlooked the cactus ridden dirt parking lot. You stood in the middle of the room, running your fingers through your hair to tease out any knots.

You stepped closer, just barely between Bucky’s knees as you kept untangling, lowering your voice to a whisper to not disturb Ricardo. “Can I trust you to actually stay awake? I know your bed time is usually 6 pm.”

He frowned at you, confused. You made an annoyed face. “It’s not funny if I have to explain the joke. I’m calling you a senior citizen.”

He rolled his eyes. “Wow. Real original.”

You gave him a sharp smile. “Can’t blame me for sticking with the trusted material.”

He observed you standing there, close enough to touch. The way he could just barely see the outline of your ribs. You weren't wearing a bra, either, which made him want to salivate. Your shorts were thin spandex. Intrusive thoughts won over again, before Bucky could analyze them and discard them. He leaned forward, settling his hands on your waist, dragging you closer between his legs. You went to say something but he beat you to it. “So, when can I return the favour?”

You raised an eyebrow, your expression dubious. “Come again?”

He grinned. “I’d love to, but I should eat you out first before you do me again.”

His hands slid down a little, to your hips. You didn’t stop him right away, but you glanced back at Ricardo, still asleep. “This isn’t exactly a private room, Barnes.”

He almost choked. He had expected you to slap his hands away. You’d literally bitch slapped him once at one of Tony’s parties when he’d felt you up by accident. But you weren’t doing it now. “What, you don’t think you can be quiet?” His hands slid lower, cupping your ass.

You gave him a warning look. “You’re not going down on me while our asset is sleeping five feet away.”

“If he wasn’t, though?”

You pushed your hands down onto his wrists then, so that they broke away from you and fell to his lap instead. You stepped away, to your own bed. “Please, Barnes. As if you could satisfy me.”

Bucky just stared at you, lips parted in incredulous offense—like you’d thrown down a glove and challenged him to a duel at high noon. He let his hands rest in his lap, watching you climb into bed, the mattress springs creaking under you as you curled up with your back to him, facing the ugly curtains. You didn’t bother with the covers, just pulled your knees up, one foot kicking at the sad, flat comforter until it pooled around your ankles. The silence stretched.

From the other bed, Ricardo let out a snore, snuffling into his pillow. You stayed facing the window, your breathing settling, but Bucky could feel that you were awake—tense, stubborn, your whole body coiled in that particular way you had when you were thinking too loud. He leaned back in the battered chair, the scratchy fabric tickling to the bare skin of his arm, watching you out of the corner of his eye. His pulse was annoyingly fast.

After a moment, he let out a soft, derisive snort, just loud enough for you to hear but not enough to rouse Ricardo. “You say that, but I know you’re thinking about it.” His voice was low, teasing, but edged with something sharper. He’d meant it as a taunt, but the thought alone—you, writhing under his mouth, forced to bite down on the pillow to keep quiet—sent a surge of heat low in his belly.

You didn’t answer, not immediately. He watched your fingers twitch in the low light of the moon, peeking through the edges of the drapes, the hem of your tank top rising and falling with each breath.

He grinned to himself, shifting a little in the chair, stretching his legs out long and lazy. “One of these nights,” he murmured, “you’re going to beg me to do it. Don’t worry—I’ll make sure you’re the one struggling to stay focused.”

Still, you didn’t turn around. Instead, you pulled the pillow over your head, blocking him out, but he caught the way your shoulders trembled—whether in annoyance or laughter, he couldn’t tell. Bucky settled in, eyes roaming over the curve of your spine and the bare skin of your waist. He’d let it go for now, but the challenge had been issued.

The hours crept by, the battered wall clock ticking loud as a drum in the suffocating quiet. Outside, a car rumbled past, headlights slashing through the curtains, then vanished. Ricardo’s snores grew louder, then softer again. Bucky checked his watch. Two more hours before he’d wake you for to switch.

You never did fall fully asleep. Every so often, you shifted, huffing out a sigh, tugging at your shorts or adjusting your tank top as if the heat or the thought of what he’d said was keeping you awake. Bucky smirked to himself. He knew the game wasn’t over; if anything, it was only just getting started.

The motel room remained quiet, the air thick with heat and the unspoken challenge hanging between you—two fighters, too stubborn to admit who wanted what more. For now, anyway.

When you’d all had enough of the motel, you’d gotten back on the road. Bucky took the first five hours. You took the next five. You’d stopped halfway through for some cheap drive-thru burgers and fries. You were much closer to civilization at that point. By the time you’d made it back to the compound, the sun was all but gone again, and you had left with Ricardo, getting the sign-in process as a SHIELD asset started. Bucky tossed the keys at one of the mechanics, glad to be rid of the shitty maroon car.

He thought about it again, the feel of your mouth, your tongue, your teeth. The shadows slanting across your face. The sound. The way he really had almost crashed the car. He'd make you pay for that.

He just didn't know when.

tagging bc u told me to: @firingstars, @blowingbarnes, @snoopystales

next >

[slutforsr]

bucky barnes isn’t real. not in your bed, not in your browser history, not standing behind you saying, “actually, i’d never do that.”

he is ink on paper, pixels on a screen, a story stretched a hundred different ways.

your trauma isn’t his, your headcanon isn’t law, and your hate isn’t holy scripture.

he’s not real. but your cruelty is. and that’s the part he sure as hell wouldn’t approve of.

[slutforsr]

if you don’t like what I’m posting, don’t read it.

if you don’t like a certain trope or kink, don’t read it.

if you don’t like my page, block me.

please be mindful that there’s a person behind the screen.

[slutforsr]

one hundred sleepless nights

i. "the chain" || part two || masterlist

winter soldier!dark!bucky x f!reader

Warnings: 18+, noncon, smut with a sprinkle of plot, p in v, stockholm syndrome, kidnapping, brainwashed bucky, confinement, dacryphilia, angsty, degradation, dirty talk. please tread carefully.

Summary: Your only purpose is to serve as a reward for the Winter Soldier. Each time he completes a successful mission, Hydra delivers him to you, and he uses you however he pleases. But when the other super soldiers wreak havoc and the base falls apart, you expect the cold and heartless Winter Soldier to finally dispose of you. Instead, you’re left reeling. Because you never anticipated what he would do next.

Word Count: 3.3k

You had been confined in a Hydra base for what felt like a hundred nights. But in truth, you lost count after day sixty-three.

Every night since your capture, they locked you in a freezing cell—nothing but a toilet in one corner, a thin mattress and a chain in the other. They fed you, they cleaned you, they kept you alive—though only in the way captors keep their prisoners alive.

You still remembered the first night they brought you in. Hours of crying and screaming had left your throat raw before you finally slumped in exhausted defeat. You thought those moments would be your last—until the heavy metal door creaked open.

A tall figure stepped inside, the glint of a metal arm catching in the dim light. You shot to your feet, begging and pleading for your life. The guard spoke to him in Russian, words you didn’t understand. But the soldier’s eyes never left yours. When the guard left, shutting the door with a cold metallic clang, the air in the cell grew heavier and scarier. 

“Please,” you pleaded to the soldier as he approached you slowly, but it seemed to fall on deaf ears. 

Maybe he couldn’t understand you. 

“Please don’t do this. Just let me go. I won’t tell a soul—”

But before you could finish your words, he was already pouncing on you. He ripped through your clothes like it was paper. You tried to cover your body with your arms but he’d only grab them roughly and pried them away. He grabbed the chains and used them against you. He ignored your cries when he threw you on the mattress, forcing your legs apart and sinking deeper and deeper inside your unwilling cunt.

And from that day onward, The Winter Soldier came to you every night after every mission—ready to claim his reward.

Sometimes his presence was terrifying, but sometimes… they were confusing. 

There were nights where he said nothing at all. Nights where he would simply remove his clothes, sit beside you, and hold you in silence until he fell asleep. But by morning, he would always be gone.

It wasn’t until three months into your captivity that you realized he spoke and understood English. One night, after you had begged for him to be gentle, you heard his voice for the first time—low, quiet, and unexpectedly human.

“Please,” you whimpered. “I can’t, soldier. I-it’s too big!”

Some nights you would beg for mercy, some nights you would just be silent and take what you were given. But your body was so sore and aching from the brutal pounding the night before—you felt like you couldn’t take it anymore. 

“Soldier, I can’t—” you cried out, clinging onto him tighter. “Please!”

You knew it was meaningless. You’ve cried, kicked, and begged before, and every single time he didn’t pull away. At this point, all the yelling and fighting was just a coping mechanism for you—a pity way to mask the reluctant moans that threatened to escape your lips every time he took you.

Then his voice came in. It was the first time he spoke, and at first, you thought you were imagining it. 

“I know,” he murmured, brushing a hand against your hair in a gesture at odds with the tight grip he had on your thighs. “Just a little longer, okay? I need this.”

You froze, staring up at him—unsure of what unsettled you more. The fact that he understood every word you’d ever said and ignored you… or that he’d chosen this very moment to answer.

“You… understand me?” 

He looked you in the eyes, and for a second, you think he might actually pull away. But instead, his grip on your thigh tightened and his other hand twisted deeper into your hair. His body enveloped yours entirely as he leaned over, his breath hot against your neck as he pressed sloppy and wet kisses. Suckling. Biting. Surely leaving marks and claiming you as his. 

“Wait!” you shoved weakly at his shoulders, a desperate attempt to put space between you. But instead, he grabbed your thigh and hiked it over his shoulder, giving him the angle to plunge into you even deeper. “Ah!” 

He let out a low groan at the tight and warm feel of you—your pussy squelching helplessly around him as you’re forced to take every thick inch of him. 

“Hold still,” he gritted out through clenched teeth. “Can’t—can’t fuck you properly if you don’t hold still.” 

His breathing is heavy and labored against your neck, his heavy balls were slapping against your bare ass, his hold on your leg was tight—all of it combined were overwhelming your senses. Your bodies were hot and sweaty, yet your blood ran cold in fear.

“Please,” you squirmed beneath him, desperation in your voice. “You’re hurting me—”

His hand came up from your thigh to your neck, fingers pushing up against the smooth column roughly as he held you down against the mattress. With one hand still in your hair, the other around your neck, and his entire body swallowing yours—it was a losing battle you were never destined to win. 

The least you could hope for was for him to listen to you. 

“Soldier! I can’t—slow down… it hurts—” 

“Shut up,” he growled. “You’ve taken my cock plenty of times before. You can do it again.” 

One thing about the Winter Soldier was that he didn’t like being ordered around while he was claiming his prize. In this cell, in this very moment, he was the one in charge. There were no orders for him to follow for once—and he sure as hell wasn’t going to listen to you. Not especially since you belonged to him. 

You whimpered and cried beneath him, tears rolling down your cheeks and onto the mattress as he rutted into you like a beast in heat. 

“P-please,” you begged, your voice wheezing out pathetically.

“Keep begging,” he grunted. His cock throbbed and twitched in pleasure after every whimper and whine. “Fuck. I love it when you beg… makes my dick s’fucking hard.” 

He angled his hips slightly, hitting that sweet and sensitive spot deep inside you with his weeping tip. Your walls instinctively clenched down on him as you pressed your lips together and squeezed your eyes shut—trying to drown the moans that threatened to slip out. 

“Fuck!” he barked out. “Your pussy is taking me in so sweetly, baby. I can’t get enough.” 

You couldn’t help the broken whimper and pathetic sobs that came out after being pet-called. Before this, he never spoke. He only grunted, moaned, and snarled. You never expected to hear the word ‘baby’ ever escape his lips.

His hand came down from the locks of your hair to your face, rubbing the tears and smearing them all over your cheek. “That’s it,” he growled, thrusting into you even harder. “Cry for me, baby. Cry for your soldier.” 

He leaned down, pressing kisses all over your face. You tried to pry yourself away from him, but his hand cupped your cheeks—squishing them roughly and forcing you to look at him. 

“Stop looking away. Look at me, baby. I want to see your pretty eyes wet with tears,” he grunted, his patience wearing thin as you continued to defy him. “Dammit. I said stop—fuck.” 

“Let me go! Please—!” 

His grip on your cheeks tightened. “Look at me, goddammit!” he screamed in your face. 

You flinched hard, shrinking deeper into the mattress with fear. You rarely hear him talk, much less raise his voice. His hips stilled inside you, and his grip on your cheeks softened just barely. He let out a sigh—and you couldn’t tell if it was a sigh of sympathy or annoyance.

“I could easily snap this pretty neck of yours,” he warned dangerously, “but I won’t—because I need your body nice and warm for me. So if you want to make this easier for yourself, you’re going to do as I say. Got it?” 

His other hand lingered around your neck, pressing his fingertips deeper into your skin—a warning. You whimpered, and his cock twitched inside you.

“Tell me you’re sorry.” 

You swallowed hard and looked up at him in fear. “I’m sorry.” 

He hummed in approval, but you could tell that he wasn’t satisfied. 

“Tell me you’re sorry for being such a disobedient slut,” he growled, his face getting closer and his grip on your throat getting tighter.

“I’m sorry,” you gasped, your small hand encircling his wrist, trying to pry it away. “I’m sorry for being such a disobedient slut—I’m so sorry!” 

A deep, threatening chuckle escaped his lips as he slowly ground his hips against yours, his cock twitching at the friction from your silky and tight walls.

“That’s right, baby. You should be sorry. You should be sorry for having such a tight fucking body. You should be sorry for being so damn irresistible,” he moved his hips faster, fucking you with newfound vigor. 

“Every time I’m sent on those damn missions, the only thing I can think about is getting back to your cell…” he grunted as your walls tightened down on him, “and fucking you senseless, over and over again until your body’s had enough.” 

He let out a hiss as your sobbing cunt pulsed and ripped around him—tightening against his thick shaft as he rutted into you. He brought his hand down between your sweat-slicked bodies, his rough fingertips finding your clit and rubbing it in quick circles. 

“I—I can’t… soldier–!” you whined as you held onto his shoulders for support, feeling yourself come undone around his cock. 

“Oh fuck, there you go…” he moaned, grinning as you sobbed harder and struggled beneath him. “Take it, baby. Take every fucking inch of me. Fuck… gonna cum—your soldier’s gonna cum!” 

A hard sob choked out of you the minute he slammed into you with one final, brutal thrust. His hips jerked and spasmed as he filled you up completely—hot, thick, ropes of his seed trickled down your puffy, swollen lips and seeped onto the mattress. His heavy body slumped against yours with a tired sigh, his face burying into the crook of your neck. 

By now, he would zip himself up and leave without a second glance. But this time, he remained still on top of you, his cold metal fingers brushing along your jaw in a way that you think is supposed to be comforting, but it doesn’t feel like it at all. 

“Good girl,” he breathed into your neck.

He wasn’t one to give you aftercare when he finishes. The most he’ll do is hold you close against him and fall asleep, but most times he’d leave. You’re not sure if you like this or not. You sniffled as you tried to calm your breathing, and he tilted his head to press a kiss to your wet cheeks. 

“That’s it, let it all out, baby,” he cooed. “Such a perfect little prize for me.”

Since then, he’d been more vocal with you during his reward times—and you’d been trying, cautiously, to reach him with words. Every night when he came, you’d attempt some small exchange.

The metal door creaked open, then slammed shut. Heavy footsteps crossed the concrete toward your mattress. You looked up. His hair was matted with sweat and blood, his eyes dark and unreadable.

“Soldier…” you swallowed hard, your fists tightening around your nightgown. “H-how was your mission?”

He advanced on you as he always did, stopping right in front of you. You looked up at him—eyes soft and vulnerable while you waited for an answer. Instead, a low growl rumbled from his chest. His hands clamped around your face, pulling you in so abruptly your breath caught. His mouth crashed against yours in a rough, unyielding kiss. You muffled, trying to turn your head, but his arm slid around your waist, lifting you effortlessly before pinning you to the mattress.

He pulled away from you to lift the hem of your nightgown, baring your glistening wet folds to him. 

“Soldier… I’m just—trying to talk to you,” you said, voice trembling.

“No talking,” he groaned, pushing your legs apart and settling himself between them. He pulled back just slightly to unzip his pants. His cock sprang out—already hard, leaking, and heavy just for you. “Just need your body.” 

You tried to squeeze your legs together, but he grabbed your thighs roughly and forced them apart. 

“No, please—” 

“Just be good,” he hissed, stroking his shaft as he pressed his spongy tip against your tight little hole.

You gasped as he pushed past your entrance without warning. He shuddered as he felt your tight silky walls accommodating and stretching around him. “That’s it,” he encouraged, sinking deeper inside you. “Fuck, you feel so good.” 

“No, stop,” you choked out a sob. “Soldier, please. I beg of you. Just listen to me—” 

“Shut the hell up,” he interrupted by shoving his metal fingers into your mouth, muffling your cries. “Don’t say a single word.” He warned. “Suck on them.”

You squeezed your eyes shut as you began reluctantly sucking on his fingers—cold and metallic on your tongue. You don’t even want to know where they’ve been or what they’ve done. All you need to worry about now is what they’d do to you next if you don’t comply.

“Thats it,” he grunted as he brutally thrust into your dripping and clenching cunt. “That’s it. Suck on my fingers while I fill this greedy cunt with my seed.”

You choked and whimpered around his metal digits, and the sounds only inflamed his dark urges to claim you. He didn’t stop—couldn’t stop no matter how hard you begged or struggled. 

“So fucking good,” he moaned as he fucked you like a wild animal. “Shit, baby. Gonna cum… gonna… pump you full!”

He angled his hips and slammed his cock directly into your sweet spot. The sensitive bundle of nerves sent a jolt of electrifying pleasure all over your body. You arched your back and came undone reluctantly around his thick length, spilling all over him.

“Ah!” you choked around his fingers. “Mmmph!”

He let out a loud roar of pleasure as his cock pulsed and throbbed—he shuddered as scalding ropes of his thick cum painted your walls white deep inside your cunt. He removed his fingers from your mouth and slumped beside you, but didn’t pull out. He wrapped his strong arms around your waist and pulled you close against him.

You two laid like that for a quiet moment. You were expecting him to leave, but he didn’t. 

“Soldier…?” you tried, but there was no response.

“How was your mission?” you tried again. 

Silence.

“Did… did you kill people? I smell blood on you—”

“What did I say about not talking?” he interrupted you coldly. But despite his words, it seemed like he made no effort to actually stick through with his threats. 

You shifted beside him, trying to get comfortable. “What do you do on your missions?”

He didn’t answer.

You frowned. “Do you have a name, soldier?” 

You felt his arms tighten around your waist, and he held his breath for a second. You blink up at him and he has a dark and dangerous look in his eyes—but there was something beneath them that seemed sad… and kind of lonely. He pressed his lips together as he wrenched his arms away from your body, pulling his softening cock out of your swollen pussy with a wet squelch. 

“Soldier?” you whispered, your brows furrowing in confusion as he rose abruptly, zipping himself back up and pulling on his boots.

He gave you no answer, no acknowledgement. You laid there—sore, shaken—watching him prepare to leave in cold and sharp movements. When you asked for his name again, he didn’t even give you a second glance. 

The door pulled open, and a moment later, the slam of the metal echoed through the cell, leaving you alone in silence once again. 

Two, maybe three days passed. For the first time since your capture, the Soldier hadn’t come. The metal door stayed shut—opening only for food. Your nightgown remained untouched, unwrinkled, whole—for the first time in ages.

For the first time since your capture, you were left alone with your thoughts—and that, somehow, felt worse. You found yourself waiting for him despite yourself, every shift in the shadows making your chest tighten.

While you were sleeping on the cold and stiff mattress, the ground shuddered beneath you. Dust fell from the ceiling, and you snapped awake in a coughing fit. Distant shouts rang from down the corridor, harsh Russian, followed by the rapid cracks of what seemed like gunfire. 

An alarm blared, red light flooding the concrete walls of your cell. You scrambled to your feet, heart pounding in fear. The sounds outside grew louder—metal crashing, men screaming.

You tucked yourself into the corner, terror swallowing you whole. What the hell was going on out there? Did something go wrong? From the noise—crashing, gunfire, endless screaming—it sounded like the entire base was falling apart.

The door slammed open. Blinding light spilled into the cell, and you squinted against it, certain it was a guard come to finish you off.

“Please,” you begged, voice trembling. “Don’t kill me—”

Heavy boots pounded closer. A hand clamped around your wrist and yanked you forward. Wide-eyed, you looked up into the face you knew too well—the same long dark hair. The same haunted blue eyes. The soldier who came to you every night.

“Stay close,” he ordered, his voice like steel. “Keep your head down. Be quiet. And keep up.”

“What are you doing?” you gasped, stumbling against him. “Please—don’t hurt me—”

His grip only tightened. With his metal arm, he hauled you close to his chest like a shield and dragged you into the blinding chaos of the corridor.

You kept your head low as he instructed, but your gaze darted to the floor. Boots pounding. Bodies clashing. Guns firing. Guards collapsing one after another. Screams echoed down the corridor, words in Russian you couldn’t understand—likely calling for him. He ignored them all, pulling you along without hesitation.

“I’m scared,” you whispered against him, hoping he could hear you. “Where are you taking me?”

“Stop. Talking.” 

He didn’t slow until you reached an empty room. He shoved you inside, slammed the door, and locked it. Crossing to the far wall, he forced open a narrow window.

“W-what are you doing?” you stammered, hovering timidly.

Your breath caught when you glanced outside. For the first time in months, you caught a glimpse of the world beyond these walls.

Without warning, he scooped you up in his arms. In an instant, you were lifted through the window. When your bare feet touched the ground, you shuddered at the feel of grass—real grass—beneath your toes.

“Go,” he said coldly, nodding past you. “Run. Run as far as you can. Don’t turn back.”

You just stood there. His words processing in your mind.

Go? Go where? 

Where would you even run to? 

You clutched your nightgown. Your legs felt useless, your bottom lip trembling. “Are you… are you coming with me?”

The door behind him rattled under heavy blows, Russian voices barking commands.

“I said go!” he snapped, drawing a pistol from his belt and thrusting it into your shaking hands.

You grabbed it with clammy and hesitant hands. 

“Go,” he repeated again. “Go, or stay here forever and die. Your choice.” 

You hesitated, the weapon shaking. You could point it at him, end it all, avenge everything he had done to you. He knew you could do  it—yet he didn’t move.

“What’s your name?” you asked him suddenly. 

For the first time, his expression faltered—just slightly—before his face twisted into a snarl. Without answering, he slammed the window shut, retreating into the chaos behind him.

You were left with only your reflection in the glass, drowned by the sound of shouting and gunfire. With the pistol clutched tight in your hands, you turned on your bare heel and ran—ran until your lungs burned, ran until your weak legs gave out. Ran until the base was outside of view.

And still, you didn’t know the soldier’s name.

[slutforsr]

hop little bunny

a/n: the root of this story has been with me for so many years that it has gone through countless different versions, but then, about half a year ago, i couldn't get the fantasy out of my head and then i quickly settled on the main dude being bucky and yeaaahhh, it all just kinda snowballed after that and turned into this adorableness...

summary: you know what wasn't in your five year plan? getting knocked up by some random bartender in your unsuccessful attempt at desperately ridding yourself of the long-festering and devastatingly huge crush you had on your roommate...

warnings: firefighter!bucky barnes x pregnant!teacher!reader, firefighter!avengers (steve rogers, natasha romanoff, tony stark, thor odinson, clint barton, sam wilson, carol danvers, bruce banner, fire captain!nick fury, paramedic!scott lang, paramedic!wanda maximoff), teacher!yelena belova, teacher!peter parker, fuckboy!bartender!billy russo, roommates to lovers, pregnancy, being knocked up from a one night stand, bucky isn’t the biological dad, former fuckboy!bucky, y/n teaches the first grade, found family, mutual pining, she fell first he fell harder, nickname (bunny), domestic fluff, just good vibes only, explicit sexual content, total word count is 18k

masterlist | join my taglist 

PART ONE: NOT PART OF THE PLAN

PART TWO: BE MY BABY

PART THREE: ABOUT TO POP

PART FOUR: CANDLELIGHT

and because i couldn't stop myself, here is a little floor plan of their apartment, made in the sims:

originally steve and bucky's, y/n moved in several years ago after steve got his own place. this spacious two-bedroom apartment opens up into an open floor plan, spacious kitchen and living room that opens out to a cosy little balcony. directly to the right of the front door is the bathroom with a shower tugged away in the corner. right next to the bathroom is the biggest bedroom, a sunny space that belongs to bucky. and lastly, in the opposite corner of the apartment is the other bedroom which belongs to y/n.

series playlist:

erase me ┈ lizzy mcalpine, jacob collier

first time ┈ hozier

fragile ┈ laufey

andante, andante ┈ abba

the river ┈ daisy jones & the six

jealous guy ┈ donny hathaway (live cover)

green to blue ┈ daniel.mp3

dreams ┈ fleetwood mac

i wanna be yours ┈ arctic monkeys

futile devices (doveman remix) ┈ sufjan stevens

little green ┈ joni mitchell

important to be aware ┈ unworn

she's a rainbow ┈ the rolling stones

sweet creature ┈ harry styles

(you don't know) how glad i am ┈ nancy wilson

jackie and wilson ┈ hozier

every little thing she does is magic ┈ sleeping at last (cover)

blurred moon ┈ daniel.mp3

do you belive in magic ┈ the lovin' spoonful

a groovy kind of love ┈ phil collins

comin' home baby ┈ mel tormé

little life ┈ cordelia

mia and sebastian's theme (married life) ┈ birru (cover)

j's lullaby (darlin' i'll wait for you) ┈ delaney bailey

yeh, yeh ┈ georgie fame & the blue flames

dancing in the moonlight ┈ olive klug (cover)

© 2025 thyme-in-a-bubble 

[slutforsr]

i do think after the super serum bucky is quite… big, like thick enough, long enough, perfect enough to hit your little spongey spot that makes you see stars.

so when you take him for the first time, he’s cooing at you, poor little thing with such a tight pussy, never had a man as big as him to give you a proper orgasm—always faking it before with others.

“thatta girl, breath babydoll you got it..” bucky murmurs, slowly sliding into you. your cunt already soaking wet after he fingered you making you orgasm three times in order to stretch you out.

“buckyyy..” you whined, your breathing a little heavy, your cute little cunt squeezing him making him hiss. “fffuckk, such a tight thing, daddy’s got you baby..”

you’re squirming as bucky’s metal hand grips your hip making you stay still while his other hand is wrapped around your throat—not to tight though.. just enough to make you look at him.

your eyes are hazy, blissed out while his are full of love and hunger as he slowly starts moving—in and out, in and out. obscene squelching sounds echoing in the bedroom. did i mention this was raw?

your eyes start rolling back until bucky lightly slaps your cheek, “eyes on me baby.” you whine as you lock eyes with him, your legs wrapping around his waist. bucky moans from the feeling as he speeds up, “gonna fill you up, never wanna leave this pretty little pussy, yeah you’d love that wouldn’t you doll? my perfect, sweet girl.”

[slutforsr]

NO ROSTER, JUST YOU — BUCKY BARNES ONE SHOT

SYNOPSIS you've been friends-with-benefits with bucky barnes for what feels like forever. it's fine. great, even. but when you slowly notice he's open to being with other people, you pull away before he has the chance to let you down easy. besides, you're too busy to waste your time thinking about him, ego too high to let him beat you to breaking it off. yet suddenly, when you take your foot off the gas, he notices. astronomically so.

WORD COUNT 10.2k......uhhh sure?? my bad?

WARNINGS & NOTES fluff, suggestive content and sexual language, no actual smut (would be open to adding maaaybe). self deprecating behavior? first time posting some bucky barnes, surprise? fwb!bucky is very important to me, he's such an idiot. post grad au, everyone’s alive. enjoy???? 18+ mdni.

You've met all kinds of people in your life.

Some are incredibly down to earth, others so shallow the water barely grazes your ankles. A few so detrimentally chatty that you thought their tongue would light on fire as one would light a match, and others so painfully quiet that getting something as simple as their name is comparable to pulling teeth. Once in a blue moon, there's the cocky frat Wall-Street wannabe attempting to pick you up at the bar not suited for such painful small talk, or the girl who drunkenly approaches you in the bathroom complimenting your lip combo and insulting your outfit in the same breath.

But there's no one quite like Bucky Barnes.

On the outside, he's undeniably handsome in a way that turns heads, with a chiseled jaw and bright ceruleans and a smile that could bloom wilted flowers. Not only that, but the deep baritone of his voice simply compliments his looks, laced with a honey cadence that makes you weak in the knees, even if he's saying the most vulgar shit to ever grace planet earth. Dimples indent deep whenever he smiles, creases the corners of his mouth and around his eyes when he laughs, almost another pretty sound.

Yet on the inside — past all the handsome and picturesque physique — there's a sense of rawness to him you've yet to crack.

You've seen glimpses of it, of him, taking in the way he can go from joking in a sense of self deprecation to contemplating the foundation of the universe within a five minute span. He's smarter than he lets on, and way more interesting than simply a pretty face and nearly picture perfect body. One time, he let it slip how obsessed he is with The Hobbit, and you've never been able to see him in the same light since, knowing underneath all those muscles and incessant fuck-boy flirtatious tactics there's a dormant nerd.

It...also doesn't help that he says the most gut-wrenching things in bed as if you were ever his to begin with.

Sometimes you forget you aren't his. Especially when he praises how pretty you look with his cock in your mouth or how you're taking him so well from the back, side, top, any angle possible. It only gets worse after you both finish (yes, he makes you finish. It's impossible to stop sleeping with him) and you're tangled together under his sheets that seem to now smell of you, one of his hands tracing shapes on your vertebrae and the other tangled in your hair, talking about things you wouldn't even confess to a journal. Not the dirty shit. The real shit. The I'm borderline having an existential crisis and simply need to talk out my hopes and dreams and fears and nightmares without anything getting fixes shit. The I just learned about the Fourth Turning and need someone to contemplate the universe with shit. The shit that normal friends with benefits don't engage in.

The whole friends with benefits ordeal happened merely by accident. All your friends had coupled-up by the end of the night, leaving you and Bucky to twiddle your thumbs and keep up your playful banter as long as you could to avoid the obvious seventh wheeling (eight?). Yet, one thing led to another (i.e. a guy approaching you and asking you to dance, and when you realize just how fucking awful he was, you simply sunk your talons into Bucky's bicep and said you had a boyfriend. Not that Bucky minded. At all. Because he almost missed your words because of how hyper-fixated he was on how nice it felt to touch you. For you to touch him? Semantics.). Regardless, you kept up the little act within your foreplay, and somehow found yourself tumbling into his bed.

Over, and over, and over.

And for a while, you thought he liked you, too. You also assumed he got the same kind of butterflies you did whenever you were in the same room. You figured you weren't just any hookup, especially when you've spent more time knowing the inner workings of his brain than you have his body. It almost seemed correct to assume you were friends, at that, who respected each other, who respected the deal you both had.

That is — until you see him getting a little too close with a strawberry blonde you've never seen before in the middle of a packed bar as if he doesn't give less of a fuck about your 'supposed' connection.

But it's actually fine. It is. It has to be.

Because you're not his, you remind yourself over and over, mumbled from chapped lips like a prayer and reiterated in your hurting mind like a mantra, something you're forcing yourself to believe. You down your drink, all hopes of getting laid tonight flying out the window, ignoring the sorrowful looks from Steve, Natasha and Sam, because they know you'll do nothing. Say nothing. And instead close yourself off to shield the last ounce of dignity you have left.

"You wanna leave?" Natasha asks you after another ten minutes of turning your back to Bucky and his new fling, almost forcefully manifesting the saying whatever is behind you is beneath you type bullshit.

But you shake your head, sending her a smile that doesn't quite reach your eyes and doing your best to remain indifferent, because if you don't, it literally will kill you. Besides, he's never actually expressed an interest in being with you and you've never brought it up as a possible next step. So who are you to get upset?

You blink away the image of him and someone else out of your mind.

"Nah. I'll get another drink, though."

And that's what you do... You move on. Or at least go through the motions of doing so. Your friends stay stagnant for one, two beats before shrugging at your nonchalance, knowing they're not getting any sort of intel on your feelings tonight even though they can already tell how you feel. Washed up. Replaceable. Not special in the slightest.

Especially when the thought of being with another guy physically makes you sick.

Because you're too burnt out to be doing this will they won't they shit with him anymore. You hang out. You fuck. You pillow-talk like your lives depend on it. You go about the next day hanging out with all your friends and dismissing the fact you know everything about him, down to the name of his childhood pet to his greatest regret. The two of you converse in front of your friends as normal, civil people do, ignoring the fact you let him hit it raw a mere twelve hours ago. You think you love him, you'd be stupid not to, and that's the part that makes your heart ache more than anything.

You smell his cologne before you feel his presence.

"Hey."

Suddenly, the culprit is brushing your shoulder as he nudges towards the bar, murmuring a quiet, personal greeting to you before addressing the group.

"Christ. That was brutal. Did I miss anything good?"

You stiffen — only slightly, barely noticeable — as he stands arm-to-arm with you, pressing your lips shut as Steve, ever the savior, clears his throat to mediate the tension of the moment. Whether Bucky's aware of the clear apprehension of his friends towards him in this given moment, he doesn't seem to notice, too focused on being back with his group and how your perfume smells like absolute heaven, how nice it is to have you brushing your arm with his.

"No, Buck," Steve answers smoothly, bringing his beer up to his lips. "Unless you count the fact that Sam ate shit on the dancefloor twenty minutes ago and ruined his jeans."

"They're Levi's!" Sam's voice comes from above the music.

And suddenly you're all back in the same rhythm. Joking, laughing, reminiscing over anecdotes that happened ages ago and sharing drinks and shots as if you're back in college again. You nearly lose the image of Bucky with the girl from before, solely focused on how beautiful it is to be out with your friends on such a nice night, all together and happy and enjoying yourselves.

It’s light. Easy. Fun. In fact, it’s so fun that you nearly miss that Bucky’s hand has been pressed against the small of your back for the betterment of a half hour. Light yet firm. Casual but possessive. Cool despite the fire burning in your chest.

You subtly shake it off when you leave briefly to grab another drink, and when you settle back in your spot with a considerable amount of distance between you and him (i.e. not touching arms anymore, practically continents away), he doesn’t put his hand back, instead keeping it polite at his side for the rest of the night, almost as if he noticed his handsy nature and reeled it in.

That is, when Sam is ranting on and on about some nim-wit coworker in his department, you feel a gentle nudge on your arm.

You look up to the left to see Bucky already staring at you. Intent. Soft. Something else behind his eyes that you can't seem to recognize, and you're not really sure that you want to.

"You wanna get out of here soon?" Bucky asks softly, a tone just reserved for you.

And as much as you want to say yes to that, as much as your body wants you to say yes to that, your mind betrays you. It replays the image of him and the strawberry blonde, and it seems to solely remember his face, blue eyes blown black with lust and that half smirk he has when he's trying to pull, when he's flirting. It remembers his hands on her waist, polite yet implying something further, and even if you never saw them kissing, it still fucking hurts.

So you protect your peace.

"I'm actually gonna stay for a while."

You don't miss the way his brows shoot up in surprise, as you've never really turned down his wanna get out of here one-liners before, not that they're even a flirting method. But you stand your ground, sending him an easy smile before turning back to the group, tuning back into Sam's story and even laughing along when it's needed. In the corner of your eye, you see Bucky shrug at your casual brush off, probably thinking nothing of it and assuming you'll be in his bed tomorrow night instead.

Whatever. Water under the bridge, right?

Especially when you give him the same side-hug you give all your friends when you all catch your separate cabs back to your respective homes, not giving him an ounce of special attention he's used to. Especially when you dodge his second attempt to bring you back home with him, blaming your lack of sleep and busy upcoming day. Bucky doesn't argue and lets you leave, but not without a five second are you actually being serious stare as all of your friends have already left.

"You're actually going home?" He asks incredulously as he watches you hail a cab, ego half bruised and half aching with something he isn't ready to confront. "What about last night?"

Your eyes don't leave the road.

"What about it?"

Bucky blinks stupidly at your profile, confused why you aren't looking at him.

"You said you'd come over again tonight."

"Didn't think I'd be this tired."

“We can just go to sleep.”

You pause, heart aching. Stop making this difficult, you think bitterly. Of course you want to be with him. Stay with him. Allow yourself to fully indulge in your feelings for him. But not when he’s had his hands on another merely hours ago, not when it’s all you can see burned fresh in your mind, embers still catching. You know the outcome. You know if you spend the night, you’ll initiate something your heart desires and mind despises. You know yourself too well.

“Bucky,” you sigh, half amused, half exasperated. “You and I both know that’s not gonna happen.”

A beat.

You change the subject before he can protest. "I'll see you this weekend for Steve's movie night, yeah?"

That's when you turn and flash him a warm smile, one that says everything is fine, nothing's unusual. You ignore his pinched brow and head tilt, probably more confused than ever. But he doesn't linger on it, instead blinking and nodding slowly, as if he wants to argue with it but knows better than to confront whatever weird fluttering his heart is doing the more he looks at you.

"Yeah," he says eventually. "Alright."

Finally, a car approaches the curb and you nearly sigh out of relief, not bothering to try and save yourself further as you move to leave. You opt for a polite wave, get in your cab, and force yourself to not turn around and watch him get smaller and smaller as he stands dumbfounded on the curb.

So, in a feeble attempt to be dignified, you simply pull back.

Not loudly, or explicitly, or anything synonymous to drama. It's quiet, calculated, nonchalant. On nights he texts you at an ungodly hour, you're pretending you slept through the fuck-sesh window. When your friend group gets together, you're sticking with Nat and conversing with him when it's convenient. When he shows up to Sam's birthday celebration with the intention of spending the night with you after, you disappear with Wanda before the final goodbyes and smoke a joint for a little too long on the fire escape.

If he wants to treat your connection as something casual, as something he does with the other girls he may bring into his bed, then you want no part of it.

You work later hours. You pick up hobbies to distract yourself from the incessant buzzing of your phone on the kitchen island. You cling to Natasha and Wanda and lean on your support systems. Does part of you miss him? Oh, absolutely. All the time. He’s been your friend longer than most. He’s helped you through your worst and lifted you up at your best. You’ve been platonic. You’ve been lovers. You’ve been strangers. You’ll always love him, regardless of the emotional toll this situationship is taking on your heart, because he was your friend first. A good one, at that.

But you're smarter than this, smarter than letting yourself get strung along by a man who won't put you first, a guy who will make you say you’re his when he’s buried to the hilt inside you, only to spin around and go on a coffee date with a girl from work the next morning, a guy who seems to be dangling the possibility of a relationship on a fish hook right in front of your face, even if he doesn’t realize he’s doing it or not, a guy who is — undoubtedly — the best lay of your sexual career.

(Though you’d rather die than admit that to anyone).

The next time you see him, it's for another one of Tony's charity benefits.

Turns out that when his father left his multi-billion dollar company and said go nuts, Tony didn't take that as a joke. A fairly large portion of the funds go towards these charity events. Another big chunk to his progressive research. Parts to mainly force all of his friends to look nice and be in one place for the night, promising an open bar and free range of the liquor cabinet on the outdoor rooftop patio, to which you and none of your friends can resist in the slightest. Besides, it's a nice excuse to put on a pretty dress and stand in the corner with Natasha and Wanda and viscerally judge everyone's outfits and guess which trophy wives are cheating on their old, wrinkled creeps of husbands.

Tonight you opted for simple, not necessarily in the mood for an over the top get-up. The dress is floor length, hugging your body in the places that make you feel confident while giving you space to breathe all the same, with an open back that dips low, exposing everything down to the base of your spine.

Not that it matters, anyway, because you've been standing with your back against the outdoor concrete walls nursing a now-luke-warm champagne flute, studying the partygoers and trying your best not to bleed green as you watch all your friends break off with their partners, dancing intimately and smiling and looking so disgustingly (and endearingly) in love that you have half a mind to chug the rest of your drink. You politely declined a handsome man's earlier request to share a dance, mind stuck somewhere else. Particularly on someone else.

And — perfect timing — because suddenly, he's leaning his back against the wall next to you.

"Oh my god," he mutters irritably, bumping your shoulder. "That girl from the copy desk would not stop talking."

You ignore the way your heart lurches. "The one who laughs like a dj board or the one who always has lipstick on her teeth?"

He hums amusingly. "No, the other other one. The blonde who's all legs."

Riiiiight. There's no way he's not going to have women approach him all night looking this dangerous, like straight out of a model's fantasy. Or have him approach women. You don't want to think about the semantics of it all.

"Oh," you murmur.

"Yeah," he responds, missing the way your voice gets quiet. "She was explaining her astronaut calendar to me, or something. Honestly, she lost me after she starting talking about dinosaurs."

Bucky sighs like he's had a long day at work, plucking the champagne flute out of your hands like second nature and downing the drink in one go, missing the way your brows furrow and the gears turn in your brain at his last sentence. You sneak a side eye to him, really trying to ignore how beautiful he looks: tie a bit loosened, cheeks flushed, still ridiculously handsome in the all-black suit, not noticing your confusion in the slightest.

"...What are you saying to me right now?"

"Sweet girl, your guess is as good as mine."

"Do you mean...astrology chart?"

"Sure?"

"And Sagittarius?"

"Is that the one with the really long neck? You know, the herbivore?"

You blink at him. "Bucky, that's a star sign. She was telling you about zodiacs."

All he does is stare back at you, a smirk tugging the ends of his lips to mask his confusion. It's clear he's had a flute or two or three, because suddenly his eyes soften as he takes in your appearance: a near-scowl on your face as you hide the best feature of your dress — the open back — scanning the crowd like it's done something to personally offend you. You look like an angry, beautiful fairy. He's decided you've never looked more ethereal in his life.

Suddenly his smirk grows into a grin.

You ignore how it makes your heart lurch. "You do know what zodiacs are, right?"

"Yeah, sure," he says distractedly. Then, "You look beautiful tonight."

You suck in a harsh breath, caught off guard immediately.

All the responses you had in your head suddenly dissipate, evaporate into thin air as you come up blank in how to react, what to say, how to feel. On one hand, your chest constricts at the casual intimacy of it, how he's looking you up and down not lustfully, but in admiration, like you're a portrait in a museum he's been waiting in line all day to catch a glimpse at. On the other hand, you assume that's his opening liner to all the women he's conversed with tonight.

The expression on your face must not be what he was expecting, because his grin slowly morphs into a softer one, brows furrowing in confusion. That's never not worked on you before, as you'll usually quip something playful back at him or compliment him too or try and suppress a smile to appear indifferent. But now you just...don't give him anything besides something that resembles hurt. And, oh, he notices. It kills him.

"What?" He asks quietly, nervously smiling. "Should I have bought you a drink first?"

You attempt to laugh at the joke, but it comes out as a short exhale, not even sure what kind of response you're trying to give him.

"Or..." Bucky trails off, softer. "...asked you to dance?"

Your knees nearly buckle.

"I'm not—" You swallow thickly. "I don't really dance."

He shrugs, not seeing the problem. "Me neither."

"I'd step on your feet."

"I wouldn't mind."

"My stiletto could puncture your toe."

"Is it made of steel?"

"It could be. You never know with shoe manufacturers, these days."

"Sweet girl." A warning.

You suck in another particularly harsh breath, not sure on why he's so adamant on the matter at all. Doesn't he have at least five other girls he could've asked in the time span he's spent trying to get you to say yes? What about the astrology blonde? She'd definitely keep him company, and not only that, she'd keep him entertained, that's for sure.

Because you know if you dance with him now, you'll never get over him, never get over how good it feels to be touched by him, held by him. You need to stay dignified. Stay true to your wordless promise. Keep your distance, protect your heart.

You're about to let him down easy. "Bucky—"

But fate decides to enter the scene like a modern day Superman. And she looks killer with bright red hair and a low cut dress that's comparable to sin.

Natasha pokes her head onto the rooftop, swaying only slightly given all the drinks her and Steve have been pounding all night. When her eyes land on you, they brighten along with a beautiful grin that immediately gives away her elatedness to see you, pointing at you so staggered that the champagne nearly flies out of her flute.

"There you are," she hisses quietly, pearly whites on display. "C'mon, the timeshare guy's wife is about to fuck the bar back. Are you coming or not?"

Your eyes dart between her and Bucky, who is solely amusingly looking at you and waiting for you to make your decision. Yet something catches your eye just over his shoulder: a sliver of beach blonde hair staring at his back, wringing her fingers together as she patiently waits for her time slot with Bucky to open back up. You recognize her from the copy desk, and especially recognize her from Bucky's story from earlier as you can faintly make out a Libra necklace from all the way over here.

So you sheepishly smile up at him. "Raincheck?"

It doesn't look like he wants to take a raincheck. Not in the slightest. But, nonetheless, he nods and smiles gently back at you, a look seemingly reserved for you. He ignores Natasha's incessant prompting for you to hurry up, not taking his eyes off of you while you walk past him and slip back into the ballroom. Bucky's eyes slide down the slope of your exposed back, watching you weave in and out of the crowd with Natasha firmly holding your hand, wishing it was him holding you instead.

He doesn't see you for the rest of the night.

And, later, after your little adventure with Natasha, you poke your head back to peer out onto the rooftop, seeing a very familiar broad backed brunette talking to an overly annunciated blonde.

You don't stay much longer after that.

It isn't until now, three weeks into your internal giving your heart space entourage, when you see a text pop up.

You're sitting comfortably on your couch, half an edible deep with your laptop open idly on the side with today's crossword and a mindless reality show playing softly on the TV. A nearly full glass of wine is perched pretty on the coffee table, as well as a bowl of popcorn you never touched. Wanda left a half hour ago to spend the night at Viz's down a few blocks. Now, left to your own devices, you figure you'll take advantage of the night of solace after three weeks of working late and burying yourself in papers and projects in a feeble attempt to silence the way your heart is screaming for love.

Like an idiot, you check your phone.

Bucky: Sweetheart, when can I come see you?

The words sit like a rock in your gut, and suddenly being crossed off a gummy and a few glasses of wine doesn't seem very fun anymore.

Because the whole point of detaching yourself from the friends with benefits was to get him off your radar. It was to simply keep the friends title and drop the with benefits bit, since it's not like you don't want him in your life anymore, because you'll always want him in your life. But just not in a context where he constantly strings you along emotionally. That's all. Nothing more to it. You need to remind yourself he only wants sex, he only wants your mouth, he only wants your hands, he only wants the parts of you that serve as a convenience to get him off. It has to be.

Your thumbs move before you can stop them.

You: Hey, B. Not tonight.

Staring at your response, a kettlebell settles in your gut, absolutely wrecked and also relieved and also sick to your stomach knowing what you're typing next.

Almost immediately, you follow up.

You: Been meaning to text you for a while. I've got a lot going on and don't have the time anymore to be messing around. So. You can take me off the roster.

Send. Oof. Put the phone on silent, turn it face down on the couch, and pretend it didn't carry an astronomical amount of emotional turmoil that's borderline making you go into cardiac arrest. Take a sip (chug) of wine. Grab a handful of popcorn and ignore your shaking hands. Attempt to mindlessly finish the crossword you started and tune one ear into the soap operatic drama displaying on the television. Refrain from checking your phone with all the strength you can muster. Because it’s not a big deal. At all.

Right?

You fall asleep like this: curled up on the couch, clutching a throw pillow as if it’ll float away if you let go, the mindless tv playing low in the background mixed with the soft sounds of your even breathing. Tears never came, why would they? You know what you’re doing, you’ve known for weeks what the end game was, and you finally cut the string, no longer a puppet to the show of love. It’s agonizing. It’s freeing. It’s lonely.

In the midst of your sleep, you miss the string of notifications that immediately follow your message.

Bucky: Wait what 1 Missed Call From: Bucky Bucky: Roster? Bucky: Sweetheart 2 Missed Calls From: Bucky Bucky: You can't say shit like that and then put your phone on do not disturb. 3 Missed Calls From: Bucky Bucky: If this is what you want, then that's fine. Can we at least talk about it?

When you wake the next morning, you don't reply.

You're actually having the worst day to grace the planet.

The subway was late — what else is new — and by the time you got to work, your heels already started burning blisters into your feet. Your coffee order was wrong, still drinkable, but wrong, and it simply wasn't worth it to jump back into the ten minute line for a minor change. The projects you've been working on need to essentially be redone since another department you've been partnered with decided to send you a new list of completely different numbers than what you've been working with. You were originally supposed to go home at six. It's nearly eleven.

It's just been long. Mentally. Physically. You can't even bring yourself to emotionally bring up the past few weeks of ignoring Bucky. It's all too much, and all you can do at this point is attempt to turn your brain off as much as you can so you can actually sleep tonight. You hope the late night walk home will give you a sense of fresh air and clarity. It doesn't do much, but it helps you unwind slightly.

But of course things can't be good for too long.

Because when you get back to your apartment, Bucky's leaning patiently against your door.

You freeze in the hallway, and the sound of your heels skidding to a stop makes him look up, eyes burdened with something raw and upsetting that it makes your heart flutter. He stands a little straighter, perhaps trying to mask the fact that he's been waiting here for hours without complaints, simply holding onto the mere fact that he has to talk to you, get a gauge on your feelings, because you've been practically radio silent. And it's killing him.

The two of you stare at each other for a few beats, almost surprised to see each other. He, surprised to see you still in your work clothes and heels, and you, surprised to even be seeing him at all. You never thought he'd actually come here and confront you in person, yet you can't necessarily blame him as you've been dodging his messages and treating him as if nothing's wrong in social gatherings.

"Hey," you say eventually, drawing it out in skepticism.

"Hi," he breathes out quietly, voice light. "Are you— Were you working?"

You take a cautious two steps forward, fishing through your bag to find your keys. "Yeah, been stupid busy lately."

When you move to unlock the door, he steps to the side to let you do so, and it takes everything in you to focus on the task at hand yet it's proving increasingly difficult when his cologne gives you a sense of nostalgia you didn't even know you missed. It's like grieving an ex you never had. You were never his. He was never yours. Get a grip.

"I've noticed," he says after a minute.

The door creaks open gently, and you pause for a moment, internally deciding if you want to let him in or not. Part of you knows what will happen if you let him in, physically and mentally, and the thought of rehashing it right here, right now, almost makes you sick to your stomach. You're too tired, too burnt out to even think about what to eat for dinner, too exhausted in every single way possible.

Bucky notices your apprehension immediately. "You alright?"

Well. That's a loaded question if you've ever heard one. How much time does he have?

You decide to play it safe.

"Just exhausted. Is there— Did you need something?"

Bucky's mouth opens and closes, especially when you peer up at him and he notices just how fucking tired you are. All the words he's been dying to say rise and dissipate in his throat, nearly shocked from your appearance. He wants to say something, to say anything, to help you get ready for bed and tuck you in and let you fall asleep in his arms.

But he can't. Not when he can tell some of your exhaustion is from him.

"I— Uh, I just wanted to talk," he murmurs sheepishly. "But it can wait."

You frown, not expecting that. "You sure?"

Then he smiles. It doesn't quite reach his eyes, but he smiles nonetheless. Soft. Reserved for you. Understanding.

"Yes, sweetheart," he reassures gently, nodding towards your apartment. "Get some rest. We'll talk later, okay?"

You ignore the way your heart lurches at the pet name, how selfish he is to say it as if he ever had the right, how wanted it makes you feel. Like you’re his. Claimed. Taken. Yearned for. It’s awful. It’s beautiful. You want to throw up and also feel his arms bear wrapped around you. You want him to call you that forever yet never again. Not if you aren’t his.

"Okay." You find yourself murmuring sleepily. "Goodnight, Bucky."

The last thing you hear is a soft hum behind you when you step into your apartment, send him a tired, apologetic smile, and shut the door. The only image in your head when you're going to bed later that night is how pretty he looked standing in that hallway.

"Have you always been this prone to self sabotaging or am I blind?'

"Natasha, I'm seconds away from flying all the way to San Diego just to kick your ass."

"I'd like to see you try."

You roll your eyes as you prop your phone between your ear and your shoulder, thinly slicing eggplant to meal prep for the work week ahead. Do you want to forget all about being a responsible adult and simply rot on the couch until it's time to go to bed? Absolutely. Have you been slacking on being a real adult lately? Also absolutely. Between work and doing your best to stay busy nearly all the time, you're forgetting to take care of yourself. So, exhibit A: making actual meals for the week instead of relying on foods primarily stuffed with GMOs.

Natasha and Steve are on their annual west coast voyage, but your best friend always finds time to carve you into her schedule. Granted, they're in their siesta hours at the moment, as you can hear Steve gently snoring in the background as she yaps to you, not even caring about her boyfriend finding any peace and quiet to sleep.

You don't mind the company in the slightest, even if it is virtual.

"Seriously, though," she adds after a moment of laughter, tone dropping with an edge of seriousness. "You really should talk to him at some point instead of avoiding him like the plague."

Huffing, you slice an eggplant particularly aggressively.

"Yeah, I'm okay."

"You know I'm all for hating on men."

"Of course."

"But—“

"Natasha—“

"This is Bucky we're talking about," Natasha says almost incredulously, as if him as a person is an excuse in itself. "Yeah, he's one of the biggest idiots I know, and I know a lot of them, but he's not a bad guy. You and I both know he cares about you more than the rest of us, whether you want to accept that or not."

Another harsh slice. Channeling your frustration out on a poor eggplant who did nothing to you.

Sighing clear into the microphone, you relent. "I don't even know where I would start besides standing there like an idiot."

"You could be sitting."

"What would I even say to him?" You say, exasperated and ignoring her smart-ass-itry.

"Maybe, 'hey, sorry for ghosting you for the past month but I am experiencing an influx of emotional volatility at the moment and can't process my feelings for you.' Something along those lines."

"Really?"

She snorts. "The truth would be a good start, no?"

You pause, chopping movements halting as you stare off into space, pondering the simple concept of talking to him. Blabbing your incoherent feelings to him. Letting him in with the possibility of being shut out. You'd think that would be the reasonable course of action as a responsible adult, but you never said you were one. Part of you wants this to fizzle out as quietly as possible, to let your feelings subside like the tide and strictly go back to being friends without any of the weirdness. However, you know that can't slide, not with a guy like Bucky who has no concept of letting bygones be bygones.

Granted, you haven't really been playing fair by dodging every single one of his attempts to clear the air, opting for the safe excuse of being too tired or working or anything synonymous to that. And he's been respectful enough, even though you can tell he's been itching to push you into a conversation. He keeps a distance. Approaches when it's right, not forced, only to be shut down all the same. You know it isn't fair. At all. But your heart can't handle that right now.

"Later," you say simply.

Natasha sighs over the phone, but drops the topic for now.

“I’ll be asking again later," she grumbles. "Anyway, do you remember that old Cape sweatshirt you bitched and moaned about losing like three months ago? Viz said he found it in his closet with Wanda's stuff."

You hum cheerily. "No shit? I thought Yelena accidentally donated it?"

She snorts at the mention of her sister. "Apparently not."

"That'll give me an excuse to leave the apartment."

"Oh, actually you don't have to," Steve pipes up in the background, suddenly awake and alert and interjecting so casually it shocks you. "I asked Bucky to drop that off to you tonight. You're home, right?"

You stop slicing immediately.

"What?"

"Yeah, I texted him like thirty minutes ago," he adds nonchalantly. "He should've been there by now."

Your veins turn to ice. "I thought you were fucking asleep?"

"Why would I be asleep?"

"I heard you snoring."

"Oh," Natasha hums. "That's just his deviated septum."

Steve mimics the noise, instigating further by almost sounding like he had no idea. "Oh, yeah, that explains it."

The knife clatters to the cutting board as you sigh gutturally deep, the sound coming deep from your soul as your irritation skyrockets to amounts unknown. Your friends fully know what they were doing, and you can't even pride them on the setup since they got you right where they want you. You can picture them right now: sitting snug in their hotel bed, suppressing shit eating grins and probably quietly celebrating their successful mission of trapping your situationship back at your apartment. Fool proof.

As if things couldn't get worse, three soft knocks rasp against your apartment door, sending your blood pressure to numbers a doctor would faint at.

“Wonder who that is,” Steve ponders innocently.

You shake your head, knowing you're not getting out of this one.

"You guys fucking suck," is all you meekly respond with.

Natasha snorts. “I hope you shaved your—“

You hang up immediately.

Sighing, you throw your phone face down on the counter and forget all about the boiling food you have on the stove, thoughts instead filling with the man on the other side of the door, who no doubt wants to continue the conversation he tried to start last week.

That was until you practically slammed the door in his face and continued to ghost him into oblivion.

Your feet move before your mind can process it, shifting your body towards the door. A sweaty palm hovers over the knob, almost shaking with the anticipation of seeing his pretty blues up close again, of being in the vicinity where you can smell his cologne and resist the urge to pull the loose threads of his sweaters since he always forgets to. Who knows — maybe he’ll just hand you the piece of clothing and leave. Respect your space. Space that you aren’t even sure you want anymore.

Because truth be told: you fucking miss him. More than you’d like to admit.

You miss his hands that often held your trembling ones. You miss the way his laugh reverberates a room. You miss the way he was so eager to please and made you feel so fucking good every. Single. Time. Like you were the only person on earth worth paying attention to. Like you hung the stars yourself. Like he loved you.

Suddenly, you’re whipping the door open (frankly to avoid hanging onto that last thought that will — no doubt — make you spiral if you dwindle on it).

And there he is.

Bucky Barnes stands tall, shifting his weight between feet and cradling the sweatshirt as if it’ll shatter into a million pieces. His hair is lightly askew, hoodie a bit mussed, as if he’d thrown it on in a rush, yet he looks handsome all the same. His bright blue eyes lock on you immediately, almost surprised at the speed at which you opened the door. But they soften immediately at the sight of you, nearly relieved that you’re giving him some sort of time of the day.

And your heart races. Instantly. Muscles frozen in place as you stare right back at him, ignoring the sizzling from the stove and trying to swallow the giant lump in your throat. No words come. Absolutely nothing. The only thing that you can coherently conclude is how handsome he looks like this: casual, soft, domestic. It’s not fair.

“Hey,” he greets gently. “Delivery for the prettiest girl on the planet?”

“She’s on sabbatical,” you deadpan.

Bucky’s lips twitch as he rolls his eyes playfully. “Steve told you I was dropping by?”

Only forty seconds ago, you think bitterly.

Instead, you nod. “Yeah, he might’ve mentioned it.”

Bucky hums amusingly. “Hope my delivery skills are up to par.”

“Debatable,” you respond pointedly.

Bucky stares at you quietly for a beat. Two. Three. Studying your expression and taking in all your pretty while he still has the chance.

It makes you squirm.

You hand your arm out, palm upturned in anticipation.

“Uh, the sweatsh—“

Suddenly, the smell of fresh burning fills your nostrils, and you whip your head towards the culprit — your kitchen — and forget all about the man standing in front of you, cursing loudly under your breath and dashing to the stove. The batch of three eggplant slices you’d been frying are indefinitely inedible, charred to black and wasted. So much for trying to be a responsible, independent, slightly put together adult.

You wave your arm above the stove, moving the pan off the burner and shut everything off as you see Bucky in your peripheral cautiously enter your apartment, shutting the door gently behind him with the sweatshirt still sitting idly in his hands.

“Motherfucker,” you hiss with annoyance, sighing through your nose, suddenly overwhelmed with his presence lingering in your kitchen. “Uh, you can leave it on the barstool. I’ll rate you five stars, or whatever.”

When you don’t hear an immediate response, you pause your movements of waving the light smoke out of your face, dropping your arm at your side to glance at him. Bucky simply stands, watching you intently. Half amused. Half with a look in his eye that makes your heart flutter uncomfortably. A look you don’t want to begin to decipher, only knowing it’ll hurt your soul in the long run.

Blue eyes bore into yours. As if he’s not interested in looking at anyone else ever again.

“Are you gonna—“

“You look pretty.”

The words die in your throat, actually more like violently sucked out of you at the sincerity of his tone, as you open and close your mouth, agape like a fish. You blink stupidly, hating the way your heartbeat is utterly erratic just from a simple sentence. And whether he means it or not, it makes you a fucking mess of emotions anyway. Regardless if he’s just saying it to be back in your good graces, or if it’s true.

You can’t dwell on the semantics.

All you can do is shut your eyes and sigh quietly. “Bucky…”

“Sweetheart, when are we gonna talk about this?”

You dare to peek your eyes open, taking in his intent expression, almost desperate, as he darts his gaze between your eyes. Flustered, you shift weight between feet, feeling your face flush and palms immediately grow warm. Half of you wants to say forget it and jump into his arms, forget all about your hurt and push it down and pray it goes away. The other half stands dignified.

“There’s nothing to talk about,” you defend meekly.

“I would completely beg to differ.”

Your eyes drift down, locking on his hands as you can’t even bring yourself to look at him in his pretty blues. “We were sleeping together. Now we’re not. Not sure what you want me to say.”

Bucky snorts devoid of humor. “How about an explanation, to start?”

“I’m too busy.”

“I’ll make time for you.”

“That’s not the point.”

“How?”

You sigh and pinch the bridge of your nose. “Bucky—“

But he doesn’t let you get far. “I’m serious. I’ll work around your schedule,” he says casually, as if it’s the easiest solution in the world.

“That’s inconvenient,” you defend weakly.

“That’s called problem solving,” he corrects pointedly.

You nearly scream in frustration, because you knew you’d have some sort of pushback with this, especially with the world’s most stubborn man to ever grace the earth. When he’s set on something — or in this case, someone — it’s nearly impossible for him to back down, to concede into neutral territory and go with the flow. It’s not that he doesn’t see it, in fact he’s fully aware of his ability to argue with a brick wall if it looked at him funny. He uses it to his advantage, like right now.

The other part of you wants to scream in terms of the emotional intensity of it all. Why does he care so much? Why is he blindly opting to carve a chunk of his time and effort out of his day solely for you? When all it’s ever been between you two was casual intimacy? Why is he offering the choice as if it’s the simplest solution, as if it isn’t the most inconvenient option.

Bucky notices your silence immediately, and decides to fill it. “There’s no way I’m gonna just stop seeing you, sweetheart.”

“Don’t—“ You say before you can stop yourself, aching. “Don’t say that.”

“Say what? That I care about you?”

God, he’s not fucking getting it.

You shake your head, exasperated.

“No, the whole sweetheart, baby, sweet girl bullshit,” you sigh tiredly, not even caring about holding back anymore. “I’m not your sweetheart, I’m not your sweet girl, I’m not yours, Bucky. Never have been.”

His jaw slacks.

Despite the way your skin feels like it’s on fire and that your heart is beating so erratically it’d make a cardiologist faint.

“And it’s—it’s fine,” you pointedly admit. “Really. But it’s confusing, and it drives me fucking crazy, and I need space. That’s all.”

Silence engulfs the room.

Bucky simply just…stares at you. Half in awe and half something you can’t pinpoint, as if the gears are turning in his head and he’s understanding your frustration, the reason for your distance, your coldness towards him. It wasn’t out of dislike or disinterest. No. It’s the opposite. You care too much. Feel too much. Felt that you needed to separate to shield your heart, protect your peace, put yourself first.

It’s almost as if the expression happens in slow motion. Because his look of shock and confusion morphs into understanding, almost relief. A noticeable tension releases from his shoulders as he puts two and two together, gaze softening so disgustingly endearing that you swallow thickly. There’s the truth. Floating in the air. Coming to bite you in the ass, as you presume he’s figuring out an easy way to let you down gently.

God, why is he looking at you like that?

“When you texted me,” he starts slowly, calculated. “I had no fucking idea what you were talking about.”

You blink at him.

He continues. “That was the first time I’d heard about a supposed roster. Didn’t even know I had one. Didn’t know that was the impression you had of me.”

A wave of guilt washes over you. “Bucky—“

“Sweet girl—“ He interrupts softly, almost in a gentle warning to let him finish. “I don’t know where you got that from, but there was never anything like that. No one else I was even thinking about.”

The confession makes your blood run cold.

“But— But that girl from the bar,” you defend meekly. “Or the blonde from Tony's party. The girl who’s all legs, remember? You’ve been seeing other people, and, again, that’s fine—“

He grimaces at the mentions of both women, the blonde he really wasn't listening to in the slightest and the redhead from that night at the bar, the night you started distancing yourself from him. He remembers it perfectly: how you leaned away from his touch, dodged his invitations, looked at him like he was everybody else, like he wasn’t special anymore.

Now it makes sense. Total sense. You saw him practically cuddled up — well, if you were any closer, you’d see his clear apprehension and gentle rejections — with a random girl as if it was just another average night. And then cozied up with the blonde at Tony’s gala (not really by his choice). No one to be tied down to. As if you weren’t the only thing on his mind for the entirety of each confrontation. The way you subtly swerved him both nights made his stomach twist so uncomfortably that he felt sick for days after, not understanding your sudden cold — luke warm? — shoulder.

But now he sees it, he sees you. And it gives him all the confirmation he needs to speak carefully. Tread lightly. Let it all out.

“The night at the bar, that was Mariah.” Then, after a moment, adds, “Um, Madison? Something like that. One of my sister’s friends who always got a little too close, you know?”

Heart thumping, you nod slowly. Cautiously. Not trying to appear as though the mere thought of him talking with other girls makes your chest do this weird thing where all you can see is green. Jealousy. Possession over a man you aren’t even with. Pathetic. Trying to appear indifferent because you should be indifferent.

He continues. “She kept talking and talking, it was brutal. Couldn’t get out of it. After a second attempt to ask me out, I just… I don’t know.”

Your chest aches. “You what?”

“Pointed at you,” Bucky says. “Told her you were my girlfriend.”

If your eyes widened any more, they’d bulge out of the sockets.

Because what? He didn’t just— He just said— He couldn’t have possibly meant—? No, he just got tired of her asking. That’s it. That has to be it. There’s no way he casually said that without ever being promoted to, it was simply just a ruse to get this girl to back off, that’s all. No further implications. No secret manifesting techniques. Only a way out. An escape.

“She backed off, and all. So did the blonde, I told her the same thing,” Bucky continues casually, as if he didn’t just short circuit your brain with a simple sentence. “The first time I said it, back at the bar, I came back to the group as soon as I could. But I couldn’t stop thinking about it.”

You dare to bite. “About which part?”

His blue eyes have never been more focused on you. “When I said that to her, it felt… right.”

“Right?”

“Yeah.” Bucky nods, almost a little too quickly. “Real. Forgot it wasn’t true until you went to get another drink.”

“Oh,” is all you can murmur.

“Then I couldn’t stop thinking about if… you know… if we were actually together,” he ponders aloud, spilling his guts with every word. “How nice it’d be to have danced with you. I didn’t realize how much I wanted it to be real until I thought of the possibility.”

The expression on your face must be comedic gold.

“Oh,” you repeat quietly.

“Yeah,” Bucky muses low. “Oh.”

You blink stupidly at him, mouth agape as you take in his words, his confession, especially how sincere he sounds recounting the night. It makes sense: how overtly touchy he was with you right up until you rejected his first attempt to bring you home, and how his hands kept to himself for the rest of the night, how uncharacteristically quiet he was standing broad next to you. You didn’t think about it, about what his interaction with that girl actually could’ve been, and rather jumped to conclusions on what you expected.

In the midst of your self deprecating inner dialogue, you don’t notice Bucky slowly walking towards you, getting closer and closer with each cautious step. When you don’t jerk back or create more space between you, he allows himself to step into your vicinity, now merely a foot away as the sweatshirt he’d need cradling is now forgotten behind him, folded idly on the barstool.

And now — once his cologne has invaded your scent as his pretty blues are suddenly way closer than you remember — you realize just how much distance he squashed in a matter of a few mere steps.

You peer at him, frozen as a statue and confused as an idiot as one of his palms experimentally ghosts over your jaw. When you don’t pull away, he presses it gently against your smooth cheek, burning under his cool skin, and you can’t deny how nice it is to finally feel him again, and you especially can’t deny how pretty he looks like this: lopsided smile and gaze so soft it’d resemble the touch of a warm fire.

“Breathe,” he guides gently.

You let out a breath you didn’t realize you were holding. And suddenly it’s alllllll coming out.

“Sorry,” you say immediately, almost panicked. “I just— Phew, okay. You have to know what it looked like. Really. But I shouldn’t have cared because we aren’t together, we never were, and I’m not that kind of person to, like, monitor who you sleep with— You know I’m not like that—“

Bucky’s grin grows.

“I never wanted to make you think I was trying to sink my claws into you, or some bullshit, I don’t know,” you continue your incoherent rambling, missing the way he’s already made up his mind. “I figured you wanted to explore options? Or something like that? So I gave you space. I needed space to… You know... To get…”

When you trail off, Bucky cocks his head to the side, inviting the gentle confrontation.

“To get what, sweet girl?” He coos gingerly, pressing the pad of his thumb near the swell of your bottom lip.

You blink stupidly at him, wide eyed and embarrassed at your incessant rambling. But when he looks at you like this: soft, intent, as if nothing else in the world is even worth glancing at, you let your guard down slightly. For fuck’s sake, he just poured his heart out to you earlier, you know how he feels, where he stands, what’s the reason of holding back? What’s the harm in keeping your feelings to yourself? Especially now when you’ve practically exposed yourself, anyway.

Your mouth moves before your brain can comprehend it.

“To get over you.”

His brows raise, half surprised and half condescending. “You wanted to get over me?”

Swallowing thickly, you nod. “I thought you had a roster.”

“No roster,” he responds immediately. “Just you.”

“Well, I thought you didn’t like me like that.”

“Sweetheart, I love you.”

Your jaw slacks in his hold, and now his palm presses a bit harder, grounding, firmer, all to confirm his feelings, to get you to understand, to feel him. His hands are cool, calm, composed, whereas your skin is on fire, heart thumping a million beats per minute with a shock value so high that your ears might be ringing. They must be. Because you couldn’t have heard him correctly, right? Because he just— he said that he— he lo… he loves—

“Breathe,” he reminds you again, an endearing smile ghosting his pretty lips.

For the second time, you’re letting out a breath you hadn’t realized you’d been keeping in, staring into those pretty blues as they crystalize into yours. His palm holds your jaw in place, secure, as if he has all the time in the world to do so, to be here with you, regardless of all rhyme and reason. The touch is warm, familiar, something you missed a lot more than you'd like to admit, and you can't help but lean into the content, pressing your jaw and cheek further into his hold.

To think he was off sharing an ounce of this bravado with others is almost comical, because Bucky can't recall ever feeling this gravitates towards anyone. You're the first person he thinks of when he wakes up and the last thing he sees before he goes to sleep. After you spend the night, he hopes you'll take one of his hoodies to bring home so that when you give it back to him, it has your scent. When he arrives at any function, you're the first person he's searching for the immediate second he walks through the door.

Because, sure, the two of you have always been friends. Friendly. Comfortable. But the first time you slept together and created your little agreement, Bucky already knew — from that moment forward — that there was absolutely no way he wouldn't fall for you. Fuck, the first night you fell asleep in his arms, he already knew he was in deep, simply because the mere sounds of your syncopated breaths brought him a sense of comfort no one else has ever been able to provide. And that was only the first night. His infatuation for you only augmented after that.

Meanwhile, your brain is slowly starting to work again.

"That's— When did— Are you sure?"

Bucky laughs boyishly, head tipping back and clearly amused with your shock as you stand befuddled. If you weren't so fucking blindsided right now, you'd take the time to appreciate the way the corners of his mouth crease and how his eyes seem to gleam at the mere sight of your slightly panicked demeanor, because how dare he have the audacity to look this handsome right now, especially when he's practically laughing at your self depreciation.

"Because I'm a lot," you continue pointedly, so serious contrary to his jovial nature. "You know that. It's not— Do you know what you're actually signing up for? Genuinely?"

"I've been signed up," he says casually, still coming down from his laughter. When he notices your perplexed expression, he cocks his head to the side. "What? Sweet girl, you must've known."

"How could I possibly have known?"

"I came immediately when we had sex for the first time."

"Well, I thought you were just...excited."

"Tried sleeping with another girl a week later to try and get over you, and said your name when I finished."

"Semantics."

"I measured your ring finger one night while you were sleeping."

The next retort dies in your throat as you quirk a brow at him, and given the way his eyes immediately widen and mouth agapes that he absolutely did not mean to say that. His pretty blues blink at you for one, two beats. You resist the urge to push the hair out of his eyes.

"For science," he adds quickly.

You suppress a grin. "I don't remember you ever having a PhD."

You don't let him respond before you move without thinking, gripping the collar of his hoodie and tugging him taut to you, stealing his breath with a kiss so sudden that he mmrphs low into your mouth, half in surprise and half in need.

His hand cradles your jaw, feeling the movements of your mouth beneath his palm and kissing you back with just as much fervor, if not more. His unoccupied hand takes its rightful place on your waist, pads of his fingertips indenting deep into your skin almost as a wordless claim, a confirmation that this is real, this is happening, you're here in his arms after what feels like forever. You make a noise you didn't even know you had in you — a mix between a sigh and a whine and something else entirely unholy — and Bucky swallows it immediately.

Your hands brace on his chest, palm over his erratic heartbeat and the other trailing down his abdomen, ghosting the waistband of his jeans, an act all too familiar to you. And to him, because he gets the hint immediately.

When he pulls away a fraction, resting his forehead against yours as his chest heaves, you let your heart speak.

"You really love me?"

Bucky responds immediately. "More than anything."

He's so close, so pretty like this. A bit dazed, soft, eyes set only on you and nothing else. Smile lines by the corners of his mouth, his thumb swiping over your bottom lip almost in admiration, his eyes darting at all parts of your face as if he's studying you intently, remembering your features and taking note of how they look in this lighting. As if he wants to remember how you look in every possible way. Just for his own sake, to picture you in his mind when you're not physically with him.

And your heart just...aches.

But in the best way possible, knowing all your worrying and self doubt was for nothing. In the time you spent wondering if you were his, he was already dead-set on being yours. Irrevocably. Occupying so much space in his mind that there wasn't much space for anything else. He loves you. He loves your smile, your laugh, the way you hold him at night and listen to his dreams and nightmares all in same breath, the way you've made him feel important, like he deserves to be happy, like he's a good person. There's no one else on this planet he can say has made him feel like this, already missing you before you've even left and already wondering when he's going to see you next.

"Sweet girl, let me show you, hm?" Bucky asks gently, a tone reserved just for you.

You're hardly one to refuse that request.

© salem-s please do not copy or replicate work without permission. mdni.

notes sooooo hey? first bucky fic? sorry for the hard launch. hope you enjoyed!

[slutforsr]

the siren call

pairing: bucky barnes x fem!reader summary: bucky swore he’d never lose himself again. so why does he keep looking for you in every room, hearing you in every silence, wanting you in every moment? he thinks your powers are making him fall in love, but when the truth comes out, so does everything he’s been holding back. tags: avenger!reader, superpowered!reader, bombshell!reader, mutual pining, bucky’s doing his best but still represses his romantic feelings for you warning(s): miscommunication trope, reader wears a dress, reader drinks alcohol, the avengers are alive and live at the compound with the thunderbolts because i said so, suggestive content (no smut) word count: 12.1k note: i got my start on tumblr writing bucky fics like eight years ago, so i love that i’m returning to my roots lol. i hope everyone enjoys this one!! there will be more bucky fics from me in the future 🫡

masterlist

Bucky knew you were a problem the moment you started distracting him during missions. Not that he would ever say that out loud. He didn’t say much at all, really, especially not to you.

And even if he wanted to, what the hell was he supposed to say? Hi, sorry, I can’t stop staring at you when I should be watching the guy with the grenade launcher. No. He kept his mouth shut because that was safer. Safer for him, safer for everyone.

But it didn’t matter what he told himself. You were still there, in his head.

It was the way you moved through a room effortlessly. Everyone else leaned closer when you spoke, even people like Tony who rarely listened to anyone.

You didn’t demand attention; you collected it the way fire collects moths. A hand on a shoulder, a laugh tossed lightly into the air, a question asked like you genuinely wanted the answer—and suddenly, you had them. All of them, including Bucky.

That was the part he couldn’t stand. Watching you draw people in and knowing he wasn’t immune. Watching the rest of the team light up around you, and catching himself memorising the way your smile tilted, the cadence of your voice, the way your presence shaped the whole atmosphere.

It made him restless and angry with himself, because Bucky Barnes didn’t get restless over anyone, not anymore. He’d had that burned out of him long ago.

So why the hell couldn’t he stop tracking the sound of your laugh over the comms? Why couldn’t he keep his eyes on the perimeter instead of catching glimpses of you through the chaos?

Bucky told himself it was tactical. In fact, he told himself countless things he knew were complete lies. But every time he caught you looking back at him, even just for a second, he felt the ground shift under his boots.

That was when he decided you weren’t just a distraction, you were dangerous. 

You’d caught the weight of his stare once or twice in the mayhem of a mission; the kind of look that wasn’t meant to be spotted. Quick, averted, almost guilty. But you were stubborn enough to notice him anyway, and stubborn enough to remember.

You didn’t blame Bucky for keeping his distance. Siren wasn’t the kind of codename that inspired trust. It sounded like trouble, like temptation, like something a man with Bucky’s past ought to run from. And your ability didn’t help either. Your voice could slip past a person’s defences like a knife between ribs, coaxing truth before they could resist. 

Useful, yes, but unsettling to anyone who didn’t know the limits of it.

As a former S.H.I.E.L.D. agent, you were capable of holding your own without using your abilities on most missions. But it was the only way to get information out of a mercenary with ties to Hydra. 

You had the merc cornered against a crumbling wall. Your power thrummed in your throat, low and resonant. “Who hired you?” 

The merc’s mouth moved before he could even think to resist, eyes wide as he gave up everything he knew. You dropped the thread of power the moment you had what you needed, your voice gentling back into warmth as you relayed the intel over comms.

Somewhere nearby, Steve was giving orders into comms, boots thundering on cracked concrete. Beneath all of it, you felt the burn of someone’s gaze.

When you turned, Bucky was watching you. Not casual, not even curious about your abilities. He didn’t seem to have noticed you used them in the first place.

Bucky was watching like a man who knew better, but couldn’t stop anyway. His jaw was locked tight, expression carved from stone, but his blue eyes betrayed him; sharp and fixed like he couldn’t help himself.

You offered him a quick smile—polite, maybe a touch coquettish—before moving on.

Back at the compound, everyone parted ways, grumbling about showers and sleep. After a long, hot shower, you padded into the kitchen with sock-clad feet, expecting it to be empty, but found Bucky there instead.

He stood stiffly at the counter like he hadn’t decided whether he was staying or fleeing. His shoulders were hunched as if bracing for impact, but he looked softer around the edges. His hair was almost black when wet, and his clothes were looser too: grey sweatpants and a faded navy T-shirt that clung to his shoulders but slouched everywhere else. 

Most people read that aura as Caution! Do not approach, but you weren’t most people.

“Tea?” you asked, flicking the kettle on and rummaging through the cupboard for your favourite bedtime blend.

Bucky blinked, startled you’d spoken at all. His pause was longer than it needed to be, and against what looked like his own better judgment, he nodded. 

You pulled two mugs from the cabinet, the faint clink of porcelain filling the hush between you. The silence wasn’t empty so much as alive, humming with the soft whistle of the kettle and the faint scrape of your movements. 

Bucky’s gaze tracked every small motion: your hand brushing hair from your face, the curve of your mouth when you concentrated, the way your body seemed to move with easy unconscious grace. He told himself to look away, but he couldn’t. All he could do was admire the way your sleeve slipped back from your wrist and the curve of your shoulders when you leaned forward. 

He was watching too closely, and you felt it, the weight of his attention warm on the back of your neck.

When you turned to face him, steam curled between you in fragrant ribbons of chamomile and lavender, heat fogging the air just enough to make the kitchen feel smaller. You offered him a mug, and for a heartbeat, his calloused, warm flesh hand brushed yours. Though his skin was rough, the press of his fingers against the back of your hand was feather-light. 

The touch was deliberately fleeting, but not so fleeting that you missed the sharp intake of his breath. Bucky pulled back like he’d been burned, lips pressed together.

“Thanks,” he muttered. His voice was rougher than you’d expected, gravel clinging to the edges of his tone even in the safety of the compound. It made the single syllable sound reluctant.

You sipped your tea, letting the heat sink into your palms, waiting for him to say or do something. Bucky didn’t immediately bolt, as he often did when the team tried to rope him into things, so you tried again. 

“Recon missions with new people are always a little hectic. Could’ve gone worse, though,” you said casually.

A pause. Bucky’s jaw worked, and then a low sound rumbled from him, almost like agreement.

You pressed, light but curious. “We don’t get to work together much, do we?”

Another pause. Bucky’s eyes flicked to yours, swift and hot, before sliding away. “No,” he agreed.

You smiled into your mug. “Guess I’ll have to start putting in requests.”

This time, Bucky’s lips curved too. The smallest grin, quick and self-conscious, but real. And when it faded, his eyes lingered on you like he’d already let more slip than he should.

You always found your way to the Avengers Tower’s rooftop by accident. The first few times, you’d gone to the roof when the insomnia wouldn’t let up, and the walls of the tower felt like they were pressing inwards. Even though you had just as many fond memories at the tower as you did at the compound, some moments felt too polished and artificial, and you needed a breather.

Tonight was one of those nights.

The night air hit sharp against your cheeks, that particular New York chill that carried the smell of exhaust and something frying three streets down. You closed your eyes and breathed it in. The city was loud even at this hour, horns blaring, subway grates sighing.

Still, when you leaned against the railing and looked out, your chest tightened. DC wasn’t so far in miles, but it may as well have been on another planet. The memory of rooftops there—quiet, stolen places where you’d sat trying to decide whether you were really helping anyone, or just another cog in S.H.I.E.L.D.’s well-oiled machine—pushed its way in, unwanted. 

The sound of the door sliding open behind you made you stiffen. You expected Tony to lecture you about safety protocols and F.R.I.D.AY. waking him to alert him that someone was on the roof, or maybe Steve to remind you that you actually needed to be in bed to get a good night’s sleep. 

Instead, it was Bucky. He paused in the doorway, shoulders squared as if it’d taken a lot of courage for him to see you through the glass door and decide to join you. He stepped forward, silent despite the heavy weight of his boots. 

You wondered—not for the first time—if the super soldier serum had made him unnervingly stealthy on purpose, or if he just enjoyed startling you.

You glanced at him, but he didn’t meet your eyes. Bucky leaned against the railing beside you, a careful two feet away. He always liked his distance. He wore that heavy jacket of his, zipped high, though you knew it wasn’t the cold that bothered him. His vibranium arm was covered, and his breath came in steady clouds.

“You don’t sleep much either, huh?” you asked, your voice softer than you meant.

Bucky’s mouth lifted faintly, like he wasn’t sure if he’d forgotten how to smile or if he didn’t trust it. “Not really.” His voice caught at the edges, the kind of sound that hummed against your skin long after it faded.

You tilted your head, trying for lightness. “Is it the mattress? Too many Egyptian cotton threads?”

That got you a small huff of air, an almost-laugh. The sound curled through you far too easily, catching low in your chest. Unfair, really, that one almost-laugh could feel like a personal victory.

Bucky looked out at the skyline. “Noise,” he said finally. “City’s loud.” A pause. “I used to sit on rooftops in Brooklyn when I was a kid. If it got too noisy inside, I’d go higher. It always felt quieter up there.”

“I had roof access in DC,” you offered, surprising yourself at how much you wanted to meet Bucky where he was. “Slept better up there than in my own bed. Guess it was easier to breathe when there wasn’t a ceiling above me. Or a mission the next morning.”

His gaze cut to you then, sharp and searching. “You didn’t like the missions?”

You swallowed, the cool air stinging your throat. “Didn’t always know who I was helping.” You trailed off, alluding to the way you, Steve, and Natasha had exposed Hydra’s infiltration of S.H.I.E.L.D. “Funny how you can spend years fighting the good fight and not even know whose definition of ‘good’ you’re following.”

That earned you a heavy silence. 

You let yourself shamelessly watch Bucky, then. Not ogling or studying him, just observing him in the way you always seemed to watch people. As a trained spy, you spent a lot of your time trying to understand people through their behaviours so that you could give them exactly what they wanted from you. 

With Bucky, you just hoped your training would let you get to know him better. You liked the way the streetlight caught in the faint silvering at his temples, and his jaw flexed when he thought too hard. He smelled faintly of leather and soap despite the grit of the day still clinging to him. 

You caught yourself wondering what it would be like to close that careful gap he always held between you.

“The world’s loud in different ways now,” Bucky said at last. His voice was quieter, as if meant only for you. “Hard to tell what’s real.”

You tilted your head, watching the faint curl of your breath fade into the night. “The city, or people?”

Bucky huffed, closer to laughter than you’d ever heard from him. “Both.” His eyes lingered on the skyline. “Brooklyn used to feel smaller. Easier. You knew who was on your block, who’d slip you an extra cannoli at the bakery if you carried their groceries home. Now,” his hand made a vague gesture over the surrounding skyscrapers, “it’s like living in someone else’s memory. Looks familiar but doesn’t sound right.”

Hearing him admit something so personal without you prying surprised you. You softened. “I get that. DC felt that way after S.H.I.E.L.D. Same streets, same cafés, but I couldn’t walk them without wondering who’d known what. Who I’d smiled at in passing while they were pulling strings above my head.”

Bucky frowned, a shadow of empathy flickering across his face. “Guess we’ve both had the rug pulled out from under us.”

“More like the whole floor,” you quipped, before you could stop yourself. But Bucky’s lips curved, brief and genuine, and you decided you’d die happy having put a smile on his face.

He looked at you, steady in a way that made you shiver more than the cold. “So what keeps you here? With them?” His tone wasn’t accusatory, just searching.

You blinked. “What keeps me with the Avengers?”

Bucky nodded.

You shifted, leaning against the railing, your fingers brushing cold metal. “Because even if the ground isn’t steady, the people are. Steve, Nat, Sam—they make the world make sense. And,” You hesitated, aware of the weight of his attention. “Because I want to believe in good. Even if I’ve been wrong before.”

Bucky’s jaw worked, as if he were chewing on that. Then he asked, almost softly, “And do you?”

Your throat tightened. “Most days. Some days more than others, especially when I’m not up all night contemplating it.” You chuckled quietly. “More than anything, I see good more than I believe in it.”

Bucky leaned his forearms on the railing, his shoulder almost brushing yours as he moved closer. If you moved even an inch, your sleeve would catch on his. The thought was absurdly magnetic, pulling at you.

“I don’t know if I’ll ever get back there. To believing.” Bucky glanced sideways, a flicker of something raw passing through his eyes. “But sometimes I think it could be possible. Around the right people.”

You felt the admission settle between you, fragile and earnest. Your chest ached with the desire to ease the rawness in Bucky’s voice. 

You tipped your head, your lips curving into a smile. “Well,” you murmured, “I guess that makes for a decent audition tape for Team ‘Believing in Good Again.’ Obviously headed by Steve, America’s Golden Retriever Boyfriend. Not sure what the benefits package is, though. Fingers crossed for dental.”

Bucky’s mouth twitched. “Therapy would be nice,” he deadpanned. “Think they’d cover ninety years of back pay?”

That startled a laugh out of you, loud and unguarded enough that you clapped a hand over your mouth. “God, that’s dark.” The fact that he’d reciprocated your banter instead of shutting it down made you grin so hard your cheeks hurt.

“Honest,” Bucky corrected, his tone bone-dry.

You laughed harder, helpless against it, and Bucky joined in too. A low sound, quiet but genuine, breaking out of him like it hadn’t seen daylight in a long time. You turned to look at him, wanting to catch it before it vanished.

It didn’t vanish. The sound was rough, unpractised, but real. You wanted to wrap it in both hands and keep it safe.

Bucky was still chuckling softly, shaking his head as if he couldn’t quite believe you’d gotten him there. The sound warmed the cold air more than any jacket could.

“Okay,” you said, breathless with amusement, “I think you make an excellent addition to the team. We don’t have nearly enough comic relief.” Your sardonic tone made Bucky smile again. If anything, the Avengers had too many sarcastic assholes who lived to make everyone laugh.

He arched a brow, the tiniest hint of mischief in his eyes. “That’s why they let you in, isn’t it?”

You mock-gasped. “Excuse you, I’m multi-talented.”

That earned you another little huff of laughter, and this one came easier, freer. Bucky didn’t look away this time either. His gaze stayed with you, steady and open in a way that made your heart thrum. It felt dangerously like trust, like a door creaking open just wide enough to glimpse the man he still was beneath all that armour.

Bucky lingered in the hall longer than he should have. The tower was alive tonight, laughter spilling from the common room in bright bursts. He caught the cadence of Sam’s bark of amusement, Natasha’s low drawl, and Peter’s earnest whining that always gave way to more heckling. Cards slapped against wood, a chorus of voices rose and broke again.

He’d only meant to come down for water. Nothing more; in and out, like one of their recon missions. But when he turned into the hallway and saw you in the kitchen, he couldn’t help but want to linger.

You leaned against the counter, bathed in the pale glow of the fridge. Hair swept up, but just messy enough that it looked deliberate. Your mouth already tipped into a smile when you noticed Bucky in the doorway.

“Well, if it isn’t Sergeant Midnight Snack,” you teased, lifting your glass with a lazy flourish. “At least tell me you’re here for Cheetos or something. Don’t ruin this for me with celery sticks.”

Bucky’s grip tightened on the doorframe before he moved. Keep it steady, he reminded himself. Controlled. He brushed past you toward the cupboard, careful not to graze you. “Water,” he muttered.

“Water,” you echoed, amused. You tipped your head, eyes gleaming. “Living on the edge, I see.”

Bucky almost smiled. God, it was too easy with you. He reached for a glass. His hand stilled halfway when you slid one off the counter instead.

“Here,” you offered, filling it at the sink. The sound of water pouring was louder than the laughter down the hall. You held the glass out to him, steady, waiting.

Bucky hesitated. A thousand instincts screamed at him to retreat, to keep the space between you. He couldn’t afford softness, couldn’t afford the memory of your warmth stitched into his palm.

But he reached anyway. 

The brush of your fingers hit him like a spark—searing through his veins, too quick to disguise. His chest locked up, then hollowed, a dangerous looseness spreading where control should have been.

You didn’t even blink, just looked at Bucky with a smile so easy it made him dizzy. “You know,” you said lightly, breaking the silence but not moving your hand, “if you want, I can teach you how to play. UNO’s not as terrifying as it sounds.”

Bucky huffed, a sound caught between dismissal and laughter. His voice came out rougher than he meant. “I think I’ll sit this one out. Not sure how much of Stark I can take once he’s started with the scotch.”

The common room roared again: cheers, shouts, Peter’s name yelled with mock outrage. But in the kitchen, between the hum of the fridge and the heat of your fingers still brushing his, it was quiet.

You grinned, mischief sparking, your voice velvety soft. “You’re already here, Bucky. Might as well take a seat before Clint cheats again.”

“I don’t cheat,” Clint’s voice called from the other room, immediately followed by Sam barking, “He cheats all the time!”

Your smirk deepened. “See? Justice needs you.” With that, you grabbed your own glass and headed back to the common room.

Bucky shook his head, but his unfaithful boots carried him those few steps toward the noise. He told himself he’d sit for one round, maybe two, and then slip away again.

The table was chaos—cards flying, Steve laughing so hard he nearly fell off his chair, Wanda calmly dismantling Clint’s entire hand with two cards.

Peter made space instantly, practically bouncing in his seat. “Oh! Mr Barnes, sit here! You can totally take my spot.”

“He’s good,” you cut in smoothly, hand brushing the back of the empty chair next to you. “This one’s his.”

For a moment, Bucky paused. The expectation was always that he’d hover at the edges, watching but never joining in. But no one protested. They just kept shuffling, dealing, arguing over the rules—Yelena and Peter louder than anyone else.

“Barnes,” Clint said, already smirking. “You’ve never played UNO, have you?”

Bucky gave the faintest shrug.

“He doesn’t need experience,” you cut in, dealing the re-shuffled deck now that Bucky had joined. “He’s got the look of a man who can sniff out lies. Which means your cheating reign of terror is finished, Barton.”

Laughter rippled across the table. You leaned in, lowering your voice conspiratorially, “Rule number one: don’t listen to Tony. He thinks a Draw Four is a valid form of diplomacy.”

Tony lifted his drink in salute. “It’ll work one day.”

For the next few rounds, it was pure anarchy.

Sam narrated every card he played as if he were a sportscaster; Natasha destroyed Clint with surgical precision; Wanda and Yelena teamed up in a way that made Peter groan dramatically. Bucky seemed to angle himself toward you, so subtly you could almost convince yourself you’d imagined it.

You kept the banter flowing, firing off one-liners like sparks, revelling in the warmth of being part of this ridiculous found family that somehow hadn’t banished you yet.

You didn’t notice the way Steve’s eyes flicked to Sam, both of them catching the soft set of Bucky’s mouth when you laughed. You didn’t see Wanda hiding her smile behind her glass, or Natasha and Yelena exchanging the kind of look that could topple governments.

The pile of cards in front of Clint was obscene, and you had never been more delighted in your life. “Twenty-three,” you counted loudly, pointing to his spread across the table. “That’s not a hand, Barton. That’s a fire hazard.”

Clint, naturally, refused to concede. “Strategic arsenal.”

“Strategic losing streak,” Sam corrected, sliding a card down with far too much flourish. “Which, ladies and gentlemen, leaves me in the lead once again.”

“You’ve been in the lead since 2015,” Natasha deadpanned.

“That’s called consistency,” Sam said, grinning, and you nearly doubled over laughing.

Beside you, Bucky shifted, the kind of minimal movement that would’ve gone unnoticed if you hadn’t already been watching him. The corner of his mouth curved into a real smile, and seeing it felt like a victory greater than winning a game of UNO.

Still, you put down three Draw Four cards and gave the Avengers’ team leader a sugared smile.

Steve groaned loudly. “Unbelievable,” he muttered, staring at his new stack of twelve cards. “You played me,” he accused you.

You fluttered your lashes at him, unrepentant. “Played with you. For a while.”

Steve’s ears went red. “I wasn’t—” He stumbled, tripping over his own words, and Sam let out a delighted cackle.

“Look at him!” Sam hollered, pointing an accusatory finger. “Cap’s blushing like it’s prom night. That wasn’t strategy, that was seduction. You never stood a chance.”

“Seduction?” Steve repeated, scandalised.

“Oh, 100 percent.” Tony leaned across the table, eyes bright. “Textbook Siren manoeuvre. Get him cosy, lull him into trust, then—bam! Draw twelve. You should’ve known better, Capsicle.”

Clint wheezed a little. “She did smile at him all sweet, right before she gutted him.”

“Classic her,” Wanda cut in, smirking. “She pulls the same thing in training.”

Nat agreed, “You fall for it every time, Steve.”

Steve’s laugh grew more helpless, his blush creeping down his throat. “Okay, but she was being nice—”

“Nice?” Sam cackled. “She had you wrapped around her finger, man. Don’t even try to deny it.” He pointed at Bucky in a dramatic warning. “Careful, Buck, don’t sit too close to her. She’ll have you doing her bidding before you even realise she’s humming a tune.”

“Siren,” Yelena said in a husky whisper, teasing you for the codename you’ve had since your S.H.I.E.L.D. days and grinning as Natasha snorted beside her.

Steve complained again, dragging his hands down his face. “This is so unfair!” His protest broke into laughter, the tips of his ears already pink.

You’d been friends with Steve since the Avengers first formed, and you knew exactly how to appeal to your kind-hearted, big softy of a team leader. A tilt of your head, a lowered voice, a smile that suggested conspiracies shared just between the two of you. Steve was putty every time.

“Oh, come on, Rogers,” you teased, letting your fingers tap against the table. “You like trusting people. You trusted me, and it felt good, didn’t it?”

Steve sputtered, “I—that’s not—” He broke off into helpless giggles.

Sam leaned back, delighted. “Would you listen to him?”

Yelena let out a bark of laughter. “Is this normal? Does she do this every game night?”

“Every single time,” Wanda confirmed.

“I was the victim last time,” Peter recalled, matching Steve’s blush.

Laughter rolled across the table, easy and familiar as family. By now, they were used to the way you could shapeshift and charm to fit anyone’s needs—and to the way you shamelessly wielded it on game night. They couldn’t hold it against you. They knew you too well, and still fell for it every time.

But Bucky’s gaze was fixed on Steve’s hand on your shoulder. His chest rose too fast, like his ribs were suddenly too tight, and for one disorienting moment, the world blurred at the edges. The laughter muffled into a distant echo, and Bucky felt oddly like everything was moving in slow motion.

Siren. 

The word echoed, venomous and familiar in all the wrong ways. 

She’ll have you doing her bidding before you even realise she’s humming a tune. Was that why you were consuming Bucky’s every thought? You were using your powers on him?

His pulse thundered like an alarm in his ears. The warmth of the room—the light, easy banter he’d been enjoying all night—faded, leaving only the memories and sting of Hydra training and commands behind. 

You didn’t notice at first, caught up in Sam’s running commentary, in the ease of being teased by people who knew you too well to ever mistake your tricks for malice. You were oblivious to the way Bucky’s hand curled into a fist against his thigh.

When you turned, Bucky’s eyes were locked on you—blue, wide, and startled—like you’d just morphed into something sharp and dangerous.

The sight knocked the air out of you. You’d been making jokes, leaning into the jesting the way you always did, certain this was safe ground. Everyone else had laughed, But Bucky’s face made doubt curl in your stomach.

Had you crossed a line? Had your harmless flirting with Steve made Bucky uncomfortable?

“Bucky?” you murmured. Not playful this time. Just quiet and uncertain, caught between an apology and concern.

He couldn’t hear the softness in it over the ringing in his ears.

It started the morning after game night.

You weren’t expecting Bucky to send you flowers and a mixtape or anything. But you were expecting at least the usual nod in the hall. That minuscule flicker of acknowledgement he always gave, like he knew you existed in the same dimension and maybe didn’t mind it. Sometimes, if you caught him in a good mood, there’d even be the ghost of a smile.

But the next day? Nothing. Bucky passed you in the kitchen, eyes on the floor, shoulders hunched like he was trying to make himself the world’s grumpiest teammate.

And maybe that was just him. You knew he wasn’t Mr. Sunshine at the best of times, but then it happened again. And again. No nod, no hello, not even a grunt when you made some joke loud enough for him to overhear. 

It was like someone had flipped a switch from tolerating you to couldn’t care less if you lived or died.

At first, you brushed it off. People have bad weeks. The Avengers have bad weeks where “bad” involves alien warlords or the occasional robot uprising, so you figured he was busy.

But then you noticed the small things. Bucky had started sitting near you at the briefing table recently—not close, but within quipping distance. Now he deliberately picked the seat furthest away, next to Sam, since you always sat with Nat and Steve. And when you tried to talk to him, Bucky gave you these tight, clipped answers.

Polite, sure, but with all the warmth of an ice skating rink.

Maybe it wouldn’t have mattered if you hadn’t seen the other side of Bucky. The side that came out on the balcony, when his shoulder almost brushed yours and he’d admitted, low and raw, that maybe he could believe in good again. The side that had joked with you and then, God help you, laughed like a careless little kid. Not a grunt, not a huff, but a real laugh, cracked and rusty and beautiful because it was his.

You’d thought—naively, apparently—that you’d reached some fragile truce where Bucky trusted you enough to be honest. But now he was shutting doors you hadn’t even realised he’d opened, and it left you fumbling in the dark.

It wouldn’t have been such a big deal if you hadn’t realised how much you’d come to enjoy those little moments. The way Bucky used to glance over when you were bantering with Yelena and Bob, that half-exasperated twitch of his mouth like he wanted to roll his eyes but was secretly amused. The way he’d linger for a second after you said goodnight, like there was something he might add before deciding against it.

They weren’t big things. They were barely-there things. Things you could almost convince yourself you’d imagined. But their absence was loud, and you kept wondering why it hurt so much.

The worst part was that you had no idea what you did wrong.

The warehouse smelled like damp concrete and trouble. You hated that smell.

“North corridor looks clear,” Natasha’s voice crackled through the comms, calm as always. “Yelena and I will sweep the other side. You two, check the labs.”

You cast Bucky a quick glance, but he didn’t return it. He was busy checking his gun, jaw set, posture locked in that soldier-straight way that always made you want to nudge him to see if he’d flinch.

He didn’t. Not even a twitch.

“Copy,” you said, because someone had to.

The labs were exactly what you’d expect in a bioweapons facility. Sterile walls, glass vials, enough ominous-looking refrigeration units to make you wonder how long it would take one bad leak to end civilisation. You tried to focus on cataloguing and checking for Hydra insignias, but it was impossible not to notice every tiny brush of proximity.

When you both reached for the same file on the counter, your fingers grazed Bucky’s vibranium hand, just a whisper of contact. But you felt the sudden hardness of his grip as he pulled away, and you saw the way his eyes flicked to yours for a microsecond. 

You swallowed, surprised at how much your chest skipped. 

Then, when you crouched to check under a lab bench and came up too fast, you collided shoulder-to-shoulder with him. The contact was short, but Bucky stiffened against you, eyes narrowed in a way that made your stomach drop.

You winced, ready to laugh it off, but the look he gave you had you biting your lip instead.

Your gaze caught a glint of red along the edge of his temple: a shallow cut from a piece of flying debris when the door gave way. “Bucky, let me see,” you murmured, reaching up toward the wound.

“I’m fine,” he said, waving a hand and jerking his head back just enough to evade your touch.

“Just let me look,” you pressed, brushing a loose strand of hair from his forehead.

Bucky tensed, jaw tight, and for a moment, you almost didn’t recognise him. “I said I’m fine,” he snapped, voice low and brittle. “The serum takes care of it. Don’t fuss.”

You hesitated, caught between wanting to push and knowing when to step back. You frowned, growing defensive. “I’m not fussing, I just want to make sure you’re okay.”

Bucky stared at you, his eyes harsh and unreadable, and then he sighed to let you know he was done with the conversation. You wanted to ask him if he’d always made everyone else feel this way or if it was just you. But the moment passed before it could take shape. 

By the time the mission wrapped and you were making the trek back to the Quinjet, your nerves were shot. Your shoulders brushed, once, then again, and neither of you pulled away.

You could feel Bucky holding himself back, the tension radiating off him like something resembling anger. You stole glances at him, studied the furrow of his brow and the tight line of his mouth. It was like watching a storm brew in human form.

The Quinjet landed back at the Avengers Tower smoother than your nerves. Bucky had been staring at you the whole way home, or at least you thought he had. Every time you glanced up from adjusting your seatbelt strap there he was, heavy gaze fixed on you like you were a puzzle piece jammed into the wrong box. 

Not glaring, just watching. And not in a fun, this could lead to kissing kind of way. More like this could lead to homicide.

So, naturally, when the ramp lowered and the others filed out, you decided to test the waters. Light and breezy. Nothing that could be mistaken for poking the grizzly bear.

“Hey, Sarge.” You jogged a couple of steps to fall into stride with him. “Quick question: are we good? Because if this is about me finishing the last donut, I promise I’ll buy another box. Maybe two. Chocolate with sprinkles, right?”

Bucky didn’t answer. He didn’t even look at you, just kept walking—shoulders tight, jaw flexing. Your stomach dipped. Okay, not the donut thing. Probably something worse. 

“Bucky?” you tried again, quieter this time. “You’ve been—” You flailed for a word less desperate than glaring at me like I killed your family. “A little weird. Is everything okay?”

That’s when he paused; stopped dead in the middle of the hangar, boots planted, head bowed like he was holding himself together by the thinnest thread. 

When Bucky finally spoke, his voice was low and taut. “No. It’s not okay.”

Oh, good. Not terrifying at all.

You forced a laugh, aiming for light but landing somewhere nervous. “Well, bonus points for honesty. Do you maybe want to elaborate, or should I just start apologising for every stupid thing I’ve ever said since we met?”

Bucky’s head lifted, and the intensity in his eyes rooted you to the spot. “You’re driving me insane,” he said.

The air left your lungs. Not playful, not an exaggeration. Something raw and jagged bled through every syllable.

“Um,” you blinked. “Okay. Can I ask why, specifically?”

“I can’t sleep without thinking about you,” Bucky pressed on, like your joke hadn’t reached his ears. He took a step toward you, each word sharp, cracking. “I can’t think without hearing your voice. Everything I do, every thought—it comes back to you. It’s like you’ve taken over every part of my brain, and I can’t shut it off.”

Your breath caught. Your pulse was a thunderclap in your ears. Part of you wanted to laugh it off, but the panic in his eyes shoved the humour back down. “Bucky,” you said carefully, trying to steady your voice, “I don’t—”

“You need to stop.” Another step, his shadow spilling over you now. It was the first time you’d ever felt small next to him, not because he was towering, but because his walls were closing in, bricked high.

Your back hit cool concrete of the wall before you’d even realised you’d been walking backwards. Your heart tripped over itself. “Stop what?”

“Using your powers on me!”

You blinked, disoriented. The words made sense in order, but together? They might as well have been a foreign language. “My what?!”

Bucky was breathing hard now, as if saying it out loud tore something open in him. His flesh hand raked through his hair, his metal one clenched like it might shatter. Then he shook his head, hard, like he could fling the thoughts out by force.

“This, whatever this is, it isn’t real!” Bucky’s voice was rising, frayed, trembling with panic. “You’re making me feel things I don’t want to feel, thoughts I don’t want. And I know why, I know what you do to people.”

Your gut swooped uncomfortably. “What I do to—Bucky, are you serious right now?”

“You think I don’t get it?” His voice cracked like a whip, close enough that you felt the heat of his breath. “They call you Siren. You sing your way into people’s heads. Twist them around until they can’t think straight. Well, congratulations, you got me.”

The accusation slammed into you harder than a punch. You swallowed, the air thick and sticky in your throat. Of all the things you thought he might accuse you of—being annoying, overeager, maybe even too much of a flirt—this cut bone-deep.

“That’s—” Your voice cracked before you fought it steady. “That’s not what I do. The name, Siren? It’s a joke. A stupid one, from when I was a new recruit at S.H.I.E.L.D. But I don’t manipulate people’s feelings! I can’t make you feel—”

But Bucky was already shaking his head. “Stop.” His tone was softer this time, closer to a plea than a command. “I just—” His hands flexed, metal glinting under harsh lights. “I don’t want you to talk to me anymore. I don’t want you around.”

And then Bucky tore himself away, storming out of the hangar as if he stayed a second longer, he’d break in half.

You stood frozen in the echo of his absence, heart pounding hard enough to bruise, skin prickling with the sting of it. You’d wanted clarity, reassurance that the tension between you wasn’t all in your head.

Instead, you got a mess of raw nerves and jagged mistrust—and the unmistakable sense that Bucky Barnes had just put you behind enemy lines.

Bucky had apparently mastered the art of disappearing in plain sight. 

It didn’t matter if you were in the gym, the kitchen, the common room, or wedged shoulder-to-shoulder with the rest of the team in debriefs—he was suddenly the kind of man who always had someone standing between you and him. Yelena. John. Sometimes even Steve, which felt like adding insult to injury. And then, before you could so much as blink in his direction, Bucky’d be gone. 

A ghost in tactical boots.

You tried. God, you tried. A couple of subtle attempts in hallways, a few “funny running into you here” gambits that weren’t funny to anyone, least of all you. Once, you even faked needing an extra hand moving groceries into the kitchen. Bucky had slipped through a doorway like mist before you’d finished the word “carry.”

At night, when you stared at the ceiling of your tower room and felt the press of unsaid words burning behind your ribs, you replayed it all: his voice, his accusations, the wrecked look in his eyes when he told you he couldn’t sleep without thinking about you. 

That last one was the killer. Because even knowing he’d meant it as a confession of torment, you couldn’t stop the treacherous part of you that wanted to savour it. It was, in many ways, a confession of everything you’d wanted to hear from Bucky. But it was cloaked in a fear you couldn’t let yourself romanticise.

You might have happily earned your honorary degree in self-pity if your door hadn’t swung open without warning.

“Get up.”

You blinked at the sudden intrusion. Yelena, the picture of menace in cargo pants and a strapless crop top, leaned against your doorway like she owned the place. Behind her, Kate was juggling a bag of chips, a bow case, and the kind of apologetic smile you knew all too well.

“I’m sorry,” Kate stage-whispered, tilting her head toward Yelena, “she doesn’t really, uh, knock.”

“I do knock,” Yelena said flatly, stepping into your room. “But sometimes people pretend not to hear. This is more efficient.”

“Right,” you said, pushing up on your elbows. “So, to what do I owe the pleasure of this home invasion?”

Yelena crossed her arms. “We are going out.”

You blinked again. “Out where?”

“Bar,” Yelena explained. “Drinks. Dancing. Maybe karaoke if Kate Bishop here does not embarrass us.”

Kate made a wounded sound. “My karaoke skills are amazing, thank you very much.” Then, turning back to you with that earnest, slightly awkward energy that was somehow impossible to resist, she added, “You’ve been kind of out of it for the past couple of days. And since this is our last night in the city before heading back to the compound, we wanted to have some fun. No missions, no strategy briefs, and no sulking.”

“I don’t sulk,” you muttered automatically.

Yelena arched an eyebrow so sharp it could cut glass. “You are sulking right now.”

Kate nodded sympathetically. “Yeah, you kind of are sulking.”

You groaned, flopping back against the pillows. “Look, I appreciate it, but I’m not really in the mood to—”

“Wrong.” Yelena clapped her hands once, decisive. “You are in mood. Bad mood. We are fixing it.”

Kate dropped the chips onto your bed and perched on the edge with a grin. “C’mon. One night. Just us. You can wear those sexy combat boots with your black dress. I know you always pack it just in case.”

Your lips twitched despite yourself. “Well, it would be irresponsible to consider heels with her around,” you said, motioning to the blonde menace in the room.

Yelena grinned approvingly. “Smart girl,” she said proudly.

And that’s how, twenty minutes later, you found yourself shimmying into a short black satin slip dress, the hem swishing around your thighs, your favourite black combat boots laced tight. The outfit, while not exactly groundbreaking or original, said you were fun but willing to fight if things got dicey. 

Exactly the vibe for a night out with Yelena Belova.

The bar was already humming when the three of you pushed through the door, Yelena leading the way. Warm golden light spilt from old-fashioned sconces onto scuffed hardwood floors, softened by the lazy swirl of neon lights spilling from behind the liquor shelves.

It wasn’t just the strong drinks or the comfort of knowing the staff would keep any gawkers in line—this bar was used to Avengers appearing like a travelling circus in leather jackets—but the fact that nobody cared who you were, so long as you tipped well.

“See? Already better than sulking in your room,” Yelena declared, tossing you a look over her shoulder. “Less pathetic. More you.”

Kate trailed behind, giving you a conspiratorial smile. “I told her you’d say no if we gave you the option. So she took away the option.”

“Very Russian,” you deadpanned, but your lips curved when Yelena smirked. She knew your comment was all in good fun.

Inside, familiar faces were already waving you over. Natasha with her usual low-key poise, Ava looking like she’d rather be anywhere but here, and Wanda, already halfway through a cocktail that shimmered in deep scarlet like her powers.

Natasha slid a glass across the polished bar toward you. “First round’s on me,” she said. “House rules: no talking shop, no moping, no sneaking out early.”

“Wow. Subtle, Nat,” you said, narrowing your eyes at the look she sent you specifically.

“Subtle is for people who don’t know you,” Natasha shot back.

You laughed, and when Yelena shoved a shot glass into your hand with a curt, “Drink. Or I tell embarrassing story,” you found yourself clinking it against Kate’s clumsily raised glass.

The first swallow burned in that good way, warm spreading through your chest. Around you, the energy of the bar shifted up a notch. 

“Look at that,” Ava murmured, eyeing you with a pleased look. “She remembers how to smile.”

“Barely,” Yelena cut in. “We haven’t seen Siren in forever. She’s hiding.”

At that, Kate raised her glass in mock solemnity. “May she rise from the ashes tonight, preferably on the dance floor.”

“To Siren,” Wanda added. “The one who makes half the room fall in love and the other half wonder what hit them.”

You rolled your eyes, but their laughter was infectious. “You’re all ridiculous,” you said. It was hard to fight the warmth of Wanda’s grin, Yelena’s sharp shove at your shoulder, and Kate’s eager nodding.

“Ridiculous, but not wrong,” Yelena said smoothly. When the music shifted into something louder and sultrier, she tugged you to the dance floor with zero hesitation. 

By the time the others arrived—Steve’s broad frame cutting a path through the crowd, John already chuckling at something Sam muttered, Bob trudging behind with an expression that suggested he’d rather be anywhere else—you were gone.

Not literally, but lost in the pulse of it: twirling Wanda, laughing into Yelena’s shoulder, hips moving in tandem with the rhythm.

Bucky stopped dead just inside the doorway.

It hit him like a punch, the sight of you under the neon haze, hair catching the light like spun fire, laughter so unguarded it seemed to crack the shell he knew you kept tight around yourself. Everyone else in the room was drawn toward you without even realising it. 

You were gravity, you were the centre of orbit, you were Siren in full force, and he hadn’t realised until this moment how much he’d missed it.

Bucky’s chest ached with something he couldn’t name. Not quite jealousy, though the sight of you pulling Bob in and letting him spin you in a circle did spark something sharp.

More than anything, it was awe. You didn’t just light up the room, you made it warmer.

Sam elbowed him as they skirted toward the bar. “Man, you’re staring like you’ve never seen her before.”

Bucky didn’t answer. He couldn’t, not with the sound of your laugh carrying over the music and the way the hem of your already short dress teased the tops of your thighs.

His eyes tracked you without his permission, cataloguing details like he was back on a mission. The sway of your hips was controlled, but loose enough to let the beat pull you. The stretch of your arms above your head, bracelets sliding down your forearms as if the music shook them there. A bead of sweat curved down the side of your neck, catching in the hollow of your collarbone.

Bucky swallowed hard. His throat felt dry, and he took a sip of his beer that did nothing to fix it.

His gaze fell to your legs again. The shift of muscle as you bent your knees, the arch of your back when you moved, and the combat boots that always drove him crazy when you wore them. Bucky knew those legs could knock a man flat in the field, but here, they were all allure and temptation. 

Every step you took felt like it was being stomped on his chest.

You leaned into Bob’s side at one point, laughing, your hair sticking slightly to the sweat at your temples. It should have looked messy. Instead, it was devastating.

Bucky gripped the glass tighter. Cold condensation seeped into his gloved palm. He wished it had done more to ground him, because his body sure as hell wasn’t helping. Heat had pooled low in his stomach, spreading fast, leaving his shoulders tense and his pulse too quick.

He told himself it was just instinct, just observation, just knowing a teammate well. But then your head tilted back in laughter, exposing the clean line of your throat, and he knew he was lying to himself.

Steve said something beside him. Bucky didn’t catch it. His eyes didn’t leave you, the way you lost yourself in the song like no one was watching. Except he was watching; every second, every movement.

You were the first to notice the drinks were running low. Sweat sticking to your skin, music thrumming in your veins, and your glass bone-dry. Bob, bless him, had nursed the same Coke for nearly half an hour, so he needed a refill too.

“I’ll grab us some drinks,” you announced, shouting over the music.

Bob pushed his sleeves up as if he were gearing for battle. “I’ll come with you.”

You gave him a look, half-amused, half-incredulous. “It’s a bar, Bob. I can take care of myself.”

Still, he looked was protective in that gentle way of his. Before you could explain your plan, Yelena leaned in, smirking. “She does not want you cramping her style. Nobody will buy her drinks if you are standing there like bodyguard.”

That earned you a confused blink from Bob, then a sheepish laugh as realisation hit. You couldn’t help the smug little smirk that tugged at your mouth. Yelena wasn’t wrong.

You slipped your way to the less busy side of the bar—far from where the guys had staked out their corner—and sure enough, the second you claimed a sliver of space at the counter, the swarm arrived.

A few leaned too close, voices already slurred; one was way too interested in your neckline. But one—tall, dark hair, dimples—looked more like the golden retriever type. Friendly smile, easy energy. You gave him your brightest grin back.

“You look like you could use a drink,” he said, raising his voice over the bass.

“Well, aren’t you sweet,” you drawled. “One Coke, one gin and tonic, and…” You rattled off the rest of the order, watching his brows climb as the list grew.

But he only laughed, waving the bartender down. “Guess I’ll be the hero of the night.” You tilted your head, enjoying the view.

The bartender set about juggling glasses, and while you waited, Dimple Guy leaned an elbow on the counter, turning toward you like you were the only person in the room. You nodded, smiled, threw in a quip or two, perfectly aware that your friends were somewhere behind you taking bets on how long it would take you to walk back with a tray full of free drinks.

The bartender slid the Coke drink across the bar, glass clinking against the counter, and you smiled at Dimple Guy like he’d just solved all your problems and passed it to Bob. Then you leaned in a little closer to Dimple Guy—because it was loud, because it was fun, because you could—and laughed at something he said. 

The sound of your giggle carried easily over the music, bright and unrestrained, drawing a few more glances your way.

You didn’t notice the way Bucky’s jaw tightened from across the room, the muscles in his forearm flexing where he gripped his own glass too hard. Didn’t see the way his eyes tracked your hand as you gestured, or how he watched your head tilt back when you smiled.

From his vantage point, it didn’t look like you were talking. It looked like you were working.

Siren.

His stomach twisted at the thought—like maybe the sparkle in your eyes and that easy sway of your hips weren’t just you enjoying yourself, but something deliberate, something calculated, meant to reel this guy in.

You had no idea. You were riding the high of the night, warm with sweat and music, free and a little reckless. But across the room, Bucky sat stiff and silent, every instinct in him coiled tight. 

Bob drifted over to their cluster by the bar, a fresh Coke in hand and his cheeks still a little pink from the dancing you’d roped him into. John caught sight of him and smirked, jerking his chin toward the dance floor.

“Guess she got you, huh? Should’ve warned you, she only drags in reinforcements when she’s planning to unleash the full Siren routine,” John said affectionately. He’d been the happy recipient of free drinks on a night out with you before.

Bob chuckled, still catching his breath. “I didn’t even get two steps in the door before she had me. She’s killing it out there, though. Haven’t seen her light up like that in a while.”

A couple of the others laughed, Ava shaking her head with an indulgent little smile. But Bucky’s expression didn’t budge. He set his drink down a little too hard. “You all just let her do that?”

The laughter tapered. Sam tilted his head, wary. “Do what?”

“Use her powers on some guy like that,” Bucky said flatly, his jaw tight. “Make him feel something that isn’t real just because she wants free drinks. That’s not right.”

A beat of silence followed. Kate blinked. Sam looked at Steve, confused. Natasha raised one brow like she couldn’t quite believe what she was hearing.

“Buck,” Steve said carefully, “what are you talking about?”

“You know damn well,” Bucky snapped, low but heated. “She’s Siren. That’s her thing. She manipulates people, makes them fall over themselves and puts all kinds of thoughts in their heads. And now you’re all just standing here letting her do it.”

Steve stared at him for a moment, then laughed—short, incredulous. “Now, wait just one minute. You think that’s her power?”

Bucky’s frown didn’t ease. “Isn’t it?”

Natasha snorted softly and folded her arms. “No, Barnes. That’s just her.”

Bucky’s head jerked toward her, but she continued, her voice edged with fond amusement.

“When she joined S.H.I.E.L.D., half the recruits couldn’t keep their eyes in their heads. And instead of fighting it, she leaned into it, let them underestimate her. Let them drool and stumble over themselves while she smiled pretty.” Natasha’s smile grew proud. “And then she flattened them in hand-to-hand. Outshot them, outran them, outplayed them at every turn.”

Steve’s tone softened, adding, “She can’t mess with people’s heads, she can make people tell the truth. Useful for interrogations, but nothing she uses outside of work. The code name stuck because she was the perfect spy: charismatic, adaptable, instinctive. She could mirror anyone, win their trust, then turn the whole game on its head. That’s Siren.”

Sam let out a low whistle, grinning. “Yeah, man. If she’s getting free drinks, that’s just her charm. Not powers. Don’t cheapen it.”

Bucky stood stiff, processing. His gaze pulled helplessly back to you across the bar, where you were holding a tray of drinks, nodding at something Dimple Guy said. For the first time tonight, the knot of anger in his chest unravelled into something else.

Something that scared him more than rage ever could.

Bucky’s chest felt too tight. The floor seemed to tilt under his boots as Nat’s words replayed in his head, each one hammering another nail into the coffin of his assumptions.

No powers. No manipulation. Just you.

And suddenly every sharp glance, every clipped word he’d thrown your way over the past weeks felt like shrapnel lodged under his skin. He’d treated you warily, even cruelly sometimes; pushing you back, refusing to trust you, accusing you of pulling strings you’d never even touched. 

He’d dismissed your kindness, doubted your laughter, second-guessed every spark of warmth between you, and you hadn’t deserved any of it.

A wave of shame clawed up Bucky’s throat, raw and hot. He should have seen you clearly. He should have known. Instead, he’d twisted every smile into proof of something sinister because it was easier than admitting the truth: you got under his skin, you always had.

He scrubbed a hand over his jaw, the noise of the club fading to a dull roar in his ears. And then, like a gut punch, another realisation hit him.

That night after the mission.

Bucky’s stomach dropped, cold dread sinking deep. He’d cornered you outside the Quinjet, tense and accusing you of messing with his head. About how you were in every thought, how he couldn’t shake you, how you consumed him without even trying.

At the time, he’d believed it was your doing. Your powers; some invisible hook you’d buried in him. But if what Natasha and Steve were saying was true, if none of that had ever been manipulation, then he hadn’t accused you.

He’d confessed to you.

Bucky’s breath caught, rough and uneven. You knew. You’d known all along. Every word he thought was an accusation had been nothing but a bare-knuckled admission: that he couldn’t stop thinking about you, that you lived in his head, that he was falling—hell, had already fallen—for you.

You knew he loved you.

His metal fingers curled into a fist against his thigh. Bucky could almost feel the moment again, the way his voice had cracked, the raw edge of desperation when he’d said you were everywhere. He’d meant it as a warning, a complaint. 

But looking back on it, it sounded like devotion.

And you hadn’t called him on it. You hadn’t laughed, or brushed him off, or told the others. You’d just looked at him. That soft, confused look he hadn’t been able to stand at the time.

Now Bucky understood why.

A low curse slipped between his teeth. He felt exposed, skinned alive. The part of him that still thought like a soldier, like an asset, wanted to retreat—bury this mess, shove it down, pretend it never happened. But the rest of him, the part that had been pulled closer to you despite every protest, was thrumming with the humiliating awareness that you knew him better than he wanted to admit. 

Bucky dropped his gaze to the sticky floor, fighting the useless urge to rewind time and unsay all of it. To crawl back into the comfort of thinking you’d tricked him somehow, because that lie had been easier than the truth pressing down on him now.

The truth that you hadn’t taken anything from him. He’d handed it over, piece by piece, all on his own.

The tower was still humming from the afterglow of laughter and music, the others scattering off to their rooms with flushed cheeks and unsteady footsteps. Natasha’s heels clicked faintly down the hall, Sam’s voice trailed off in a joke half-finished, and then—silence.

You lingered at the counter, fingers curled tight around a half-empty glass of water, as if you held it hard enough it might anchor you. You hadn’t planned on staying, hadn’t planned on being here when the room thinned out, but there was Bucky, leaning in the doorway like some inevitability.

The last person you wanted to see. The only person you wanted.

You didn’t look at him. Your arms folded tight across your chest once you put your glass down, a makeshift shield against the weight of his gaze. 

Bucky’s voice was low, rough. “I need to talk to you.”

“Don’t.” You cut him off, sharper than you meant to. “Just, let me say one thing.” Bucky paused, then nodded. “You of all people know what it feels like to lose your ability to choose. Did you really think I’d do that to you?”

That landed. You saw it in the way his jaw clenched, in the flicker of pain that crossed his face like you’d struck him clean through. Bucky moved a step closer, then another, hands flexing at his sides like he didn’t know what to do with them.

“I know.” His voice cracked, raw enough to scrape at your chest. “I know, and I was wrong. I panicked. You—” Bucky broke off, dragged a hand through his hair, metal fingers catching the light. “You make me feel things I thought were gone for good. Want, longing, desire. All of it. And I didn’t know what to do with it, so I twisted it into something darker because that’s what Hydra trained into me.” Your breath caught, and you fought to steady the shaky exhale that followed. “I thought that if I let myself want anything, it’d be used against me. So I put it on you, and that wasn’t fair.”

You could feel your own heartbeat everywhere: in your throat, your wrists, low in your belly. Bucky’s confession made you grip the counter behind you to stay steady. Because God, if he only knew how many nights you’d been lying awake, caught in that same impossible ache.

And now here it was, on his tongue.

Bucky was a breath away now, and your pulse hammered like a drum in your ears. The space between you was agony and heaven all at once. His eyes darted to your lips, then flicked away, as if he were trying to measure the consequences of the smallest movement.

“I—” Bucky hesitated. He reached out, metal fingers brushing against the air beside your hand before pulling back sharply. “I had to make myself think badly of you. I had to because you’re so good. Funny, warm, and honest. And I didn’t trust myself to feel anything like that and not ruin it. Not break it. So I let my mind turn it into something to be scared of.”

Your chest tightened, a wild thrum of hurt and want colliding. “Bucky,” you whispered, trembling hands moving from the counter to clench at your sides. “I need honesty, not guilt. Talk to me, tell me why you thought I could put thoughts and feelings in your head.”

“I heard everyone call you Siren, on game night, and saying that you’d have me wrapped around your finger,” he said. “I guess it was convenient for me to believe you were putting thoughts in my head, making me feel things I didn’t want to. I—” Bucky broke off, exhaling. “I wanted my feelings for you to be someone else’s responsibility. That way, I could just say they weren’t mine in the first place.”

“I was born with these abilities,” you explained slowly. “When I was little, I realised I could make people tell the truth when I suspected they were lying. That was it. That’s all I can do with my powers, make them verbalise the absolute truth. I mostly ignored it because I knew it was manipulation.” Bucky nodded like he already knew. “I got through S.H.I.E.L.D. on my own merits, earned the codename Siren, and—yes, I can force the truth when I have to. But everything else is just me. Your feelings for me, though? The want, the desire? That’s you.”

Bucky flinched a little at the words, metal arm twitching involuntarily. “That’s me,” he echoed, voice shaking with disbelief.

“Yes.” You took another step closer, your hands brushing the air just above his chest; not touching, just daring him to meet you halfway. “I can’t make you feel this. I may be good at flirting and figuring out what people want from me, but I never turned on the Siren charm for you. So all of this,” you paused, letting your gaze lock onto his, unwavering, “Is you, Bucky. Own it.”

Bucky’s jaw flexed, and his eyes shimmered with something raw, almost dangerous in its intensity. You could hear the faint scrape of his boots against the tile, the subtle shift of his weight as he closed the space, inch by inch.

The warmth of him, barely separated from your body, made your chest tighten. You could feel the faint heat radiating off Bucky’s neck, smell the sharp tang of metal and soap mingled with the faint smoke of the city outside. His breath, slow and deliberate, ghosted over your cheeks.

Bucky didn’t speak. Everything was sound and heat and the faint tang of his cologne, vibrating with the tension of the nearness. Every subtle movement he made, each tilt forward, each flex of muscle, made the desire between you so thick it almost had a taste.

Then his hands moved, a careful, almost excruciating centimetre away from sliding fully against yours, letting you feel the heat, the weight, the need.

Bucky exhaled, an almost inaudible sound that brushed against your ear. He was so close. Every inch of him spoke of everything you’d been holding back, every suppressed need, and now the energy between you crackled, waiting for the moment someone gave in.

His hands found yours before you could think to move, fingers threading through yours, warm and solid, and the shock of contact made you shiver violently. 

Bucky held your hands, careful but insistent, letting you feel his weight, his presence, his unabashed want. You could feel the slight tremor in his fingers, the subtle tension of muscle beneath your palms. Your own hands tingled, every nerve ending singing.

The low rasp of his voice, barely more than a whisper, broke the silence. “I don’t know how to want something without being afraid of it anymore,” Bucky said, and the honesty in it dug into you.

You felt the tension in his shoulders, the taut line of his jaw, the slow rise and fall of his chest as if he were holding back the rest of the words.

“I don’t know if I believe in good,” Bucky continued, his voice breaking slightly, “but I believe in you. And how could you not be good?” His thumb brushed along the back of your hand, tentative but deliberate.

The weight of his admission was almost too much to bear. You lifted your chin, breath mingling in the small space between you.

“Then let me show you it’s okay to want me,” you murmured, your voice steady despite the heat pooling through your chest. “Let me show you that I want you too.” Your fingers tightened around his, a silent promise and invitation.

Bucky’s lips parted slightly, a sharp intake of breath that mirrored your own. His gaze never left yours as he leaned forward, careful, deliberate, giving himself permission, giving you permission. 

His hands slid up your arms, tracing the line of your shoulders, grounding him even as the rest of him seemed ready to unravel. 

“I—” Bucky’s voice was hoarse, swallowed by the tension, but the word cracked through the air like a lightning strike. “I love you.”

You blinked, breath catching on the confession. It was so quiet, almost lost in the shuffle of your racing pulse, and it landed inside you like a shockwave. You didn’t have time to respond before he closed the space between you.

His lips pressed onto yours, desperate, hungry, as if he’d been holding back decades of want and need and fear all at once. The force of it drove you back into the counter, and you clutched at him—fingers tangling in his hair, gripping the leather at his shoulders, pulling him closer with a ferocity that matched his own. 

For so long you’d both been denying this; now there was no holding back.

Teeth grazed in the frenzy, breath tangling, the kiss deepening until it felt like he was trying to drink you in whole. His chest pressed against yours, hard and unyielding, the heat of him searing through your body as his arms wrapped tight around you, like if he loosened his grip for even a second, you might vanish.

Every nerve in you screamed, every breath was stolen. You could taste months of restraint unraveling on his tongue, feel the quake in his body as if he couldn’t believe he was allowed to touch you. The ache you’d carried, the hollow nights of longing, all of it poured out of you.

And still, Bucky couldn’t get enough. 

His hands roamed as though he needed to map every inch of you at once—one sliding down your spine, pulling you flush against him, the other cradling your jaw, tilting your face so he could claim your mouth deeper, longer, harder. He kissed you like a starving man finally given food, like he didn’t know how to slow down even if he tried.

But then it slowed, achingly so, like Bucky remembered that he could take it slower. His grip softened, his lips brushing yours in featherlight passes, reverent and trembling. One hand stayed at your waist, grounding, the other cupped the back of your neck with searing gentleness.

Bucky loved you.

You let your fierceness meet his, but there was tenderness too, a painstaking devotion in the way your lips traced his. Your fingers combed through his hair, your body leaning into his with unguarded trust. You kissed away the ghosts clinging to him, kissed away every Hydra shadow, every jagged scar of memory.

Bucky groaned low in your mouth, raw surrender, and you swallowed it eagerly. Your bodies pressed closer until there was no space left. Just heat, hammering hearts, and the dizzying rush of being completely his. 

Everything around you dissolved. Every brush of lips, every sigh, every whispered gasp became the center of your existence. The kiss broke only to return again and again, each one as hungry as the last, as though neither of you could stop feeding on the moment.

Bucky whispered your name against your lips—over and over, soft and worshipful—and you clung to as you clung to him.

When you pulled back just enough to look at each other, chests heaving in tandem, the room felt impossibly alive. Bucky’s hands lingered on you, thumbs brushing lightly over the exposed skin of your back.

His lips moved against yours in soft, breathless murmurs, just barely grazing your mouth, your jaw, the curve of your cheek. “I love you,” he whispered again, voice low and rough, almost in disbelief.

You smiled against him, a gentle warmth spreading in your chest at the sound of it. “I think you’re going to have to say that more than once,” you murmured, teasing just enough to lift the tension without breaking the intimacy.

Bucky chuckled, an unguarded sound that made your stomach twist in the best possible way. Then, almost reflexively, he said again: “I love you.” And again, and again, and again. Each time, quieter, breathier, and somehow even more insistent, as though saying it aloud made it more real to him.

Your smile deepened, and you pressed a light kiss to the corner of his mouth. “Guess I didn’t need to use my powers after all,” you murmured, letting the warmth of your laughter bubble through, teasing but tender.

Bucky let out a full, real laugh this time, unrestrained, and pulled you back against him, lips claiming yours in another deep, desperate kiss. His hands held you tighter, your arms wrapping around his shoulders.

You both eased back just enough to breathe. Bucky’s arms stayed wrapped securely around you, holding you as if letting go might undo everything. Your hands rested played lightly with his hair, sending a shiver down Bucky’s spine.

He nuzzled your temple. “You’re amazing,” you murmured, half-teasing, half-awed, as the adrenaline and heat of the kiss slowly ebbed.

Bucky let out a quiet chuckle, low and rumbling, shaking his head against you. “I don’t even know how to do this without screwing it up,” he admitted, voice thick with vulnerability.

“You’re not screwing anything up,” you whispered, brushing a loose strand of hair from his face. “You’re here. That’s enough. That’s all I need.”

For a long moment, silence settled over you, comforting and warm. Bucky pressed careful kisses to your head and hair, quietly murmuring to himself.

Then, with a soft giggle escaping you, you tilted your head back slightly. “You’re still saying it,” you teased, voice light, fingers brushing over his jaw.

“I can’t stop,” Bucky murmured against your temple, voice hoarse and intimate. “I love you… I love you… I love you—”

“I love you,” you cut in, grinning as he pulled you closer again.

There was no rush, no urgency beyond the shared need to be near. For the first time since he’d been Winter Soldier, Bucky let himself fully surrender—fully want, fully trust, fully be with you.

[slutforsr]

‘incoming.’ bucky barnes. (part two!!!)

summary: bucky’s gone MIA. you think you’ve lost him until he shows up on your tv as one of the new faces of the new avengers .

pairing: congressman/thunderbolts!bucky barnes x fem!reader

insp by: ‘man of the year’ by lorde as well as ‘decode’ by paramore

word count: 16.8k

cw: angst… mentions of abandonment, family issues, also mentions of ass and stuff, mentions of alcoholism, mentions of wanting to be struck by lightning, if there’s more let me know

a/n: yes im evil yes this is angst… but there’s also fluff and there’s also BOB. i dragged my ass on sea urchin spines to write this for you guys also i’m not american (thank god) so if the congress stuff is a bit… questionable… that’s why 🚽 hope you enjoy!!!

minors dni!!!!!

part one | part two | part three (wip)

getting to know bucky barnes face-to-face was nothing like you expected.

you had been a voice in his ear for a little over two years— the presence that fed him orders during missions, kept him calm in the face of death, and fought his dry humour with quick and witty one-liners.

you'd imagined him to be similar to how he is on comms— gruff, clipped, and a little mean. but now, sitting across from each other in a dimly lit bar with six empty glasses of whiskey in front of you and about fifteen beer bottles in front of him, you can see that you were wrong.

bucky barnes isnt gruff or clipped or a little mean. he was warm in a way that snuck up on you. he laughed easier than you expected, the corners of his eyes crinkling when you caught him off guard, and he leaned in every time you spoke like every word was worth hearing.

you tried to chalk it up to him just being nice to a friend— a common courtesy when meeting someone that, up until recently, had only existed as a voice in his ear— but sam quickly shut that down.

bucky barnes doesnt look at anybody like that— like they've hung up the moon and the stars. sam said. and trust me, he's been looking at you like that loooong before he ever saw your face.

but bucky still looked at you like he was getting used to the fact that you're actually a human— flesh and blood— and that he could lean over right now and feel your heart beating in your chest if he wanted to. you expected nothing less. after all, it had only been about a week or two since you'd made your grand entrance.

although you've been out with bucky before, this is the second time you two have hung out together by yourselves. sometimes sam, joaquin, and bucky would grab dinner together to unwind and catch up beyond work. you'd started tagging along— mostly out of curiosity at first, but then it quickly became something you had looked forward to.

the first time you had been out with bucky was only a few nights ago. it was right after you and the boys had wrapped up a gruelling mission where joaquin almost died, but thankfully didn't. you'd gone to a quiet diner, one that played soft oldie songs and served greasy fries with the right amount of salt.

it was comforting, albeit a bit awkward. this was two people who usually communicated through the comms and were now figuring out how to have a face-to-face conversation without the usual barriers. somewhere between shared fried and stupid jokes, the walls started to come down.

that night had been the first step into this strange yet easy companionship between you and bucky.

you take a long sip of the remaining alcohol in your cup, letting the burn of the whiskey chase away the heat creeping up your neck. across from you, separated by a flimsy tissue holder and his empty bottles, bucky watches you over the rim of his beer, head tilted just slightly.

"what's wrong?" he breaks the silence, eyes darting between yours.

your brow twitches as you shrug, setting your glass down. "nothing." you wipe the droplet of whiskey from the corner of your mouth to try and hide your dishonesty.

he doesnt look convinced. he presses his tongue against his cheek and shakes his head, "nothing's ever just nothing with you. c'mon, spill it."

you know you can't hide from him. he can read your voice like the back of his hand— every hesitant vowel, every inflection, every small thing that you try to bury beneath a smile, he sees. it was like he had a map of you traced in sound and no matter how hard you tried, you couldn't reroute his path.

but you dont tell him about what's really troubling you. you dont tell him how scared you are— scared of how much you like seeing him, or how his presence is something you can't ignore like you used to. you're scared of what that means and what it could change.

"this... congress thing..." you swallow, searching for the right words, "it's just a lot to take in. i'm an intelligence officer— i mean, i flew planes for a quarter of my life— and now i'm a congressman's assistant."

"what, you thinking of dropping out?" bucky quirks an eyebrow, a small teasing grin growing on his lips, "you can't ditch me now."

you huff out a laugh, leaning your head on the palm of your hand, "i don't think i could even if i wanted to." you say, more tired than teasing, your eyes lazily dragging along bucky's face, "what about you? you still in it to win it?"

"i'm too far in to drop out of the election. i'm still deciding whether i should continue going through with it or just... disappear." there's a flicker of in his eyes— a shadow of doubt you've never seen before.

you can see it— how briefly his confidence falters, how the weight of everything pulls him under. his grip tightens around his beer, his knuckles whitening as his usual steadiness is replaced by uncertainty. you almost want to lean over and grab his hand, but you don't.

instead, you offer him a small smile. "well, you'd better decide fast." you slide your glass away from you, "now that it's official, i'll be breathing down your neck until the season's over."

bucky watches you with that look— like he wouldn't mind if you really were breathing down his neck every step of the way. maybe deep down, he's already counting on it.

he huffs a small breath through his nose as he scratches his jaw, "you're saying that like you werent up our asses every mission."

you furrow a brow, "it was my job to be up your asses."

"hmm..." he hums in amusement, "and i bet you loved it."

you scoff, rolling your eyes as you stand up from your stool. the legs scratch against the wooden floor as you toss your bag over your shoulder, "oh, shut up, buck."

there's a shit-eating grin on his face like he's savouring the victory of getting under your skin. he takes a slow swig of whatever remains of his beer and places a $100 bill on the bar— more than enough to cover both of your bills— and follows behind you closely, even running ahead of you to push open the door for you in a small act of playful arrogance.

"it's a shame you can't mute me in real life, huh?" he teases, voice low and smug.

you shake your head, brushing past him, "yeah, a real shame."

you step into the night, the cold air carrying the faint smell of rain that hasn't arrived yet. bucky falls back into stride beside you, his hands shoved into the pockets of his jacket.

the road ahead is mostly empty. the streetlights cast a golden glow over you two as you walk down the street. your footsteps echo in sync, and for a while, neither of you speak. its not awkward— it's easy and worn in, the kind that you earn after several drinks.

you steal a glance at bucky. he's looking straight ahead, the faintest trace of that earlier shit-eating grin still tugging at his mouth. you'd spent years knowing every detail about his voice, and now you're starting to learn all the quiet spaces in between.

the night is quiet. you can hear the hum of the streetlights and the distant buzz of cars a few blocks away. you slow your pace without even realising it, taking in the way the that there's absolutely no one else around.

you stop in the middle of the sidewalk.

bucky notices instantly. he pauses and takes a half-step back just to be near you, "you okay?"

you narrow your eyes as you pull your arms up to your chest, the chill in the air crawling into your bones, "where are we going?"

"i... don't know." he admits after a moment. he purses his lips like he's only just realised it himself. "i was following you."

"hm, great." you grumble, shooting him a sharp look, "two highly intelligent trained people who have no idea where they're going. we're really killing it tonight."

bucky's lips curl into a half smile, his eyes looking at you with a don't start look. he tips his head backwards to look down the empty, outstretched road, and then up at the sky where storm clouds are starting to gather overhead.

"i half-expected you to have a plan." he shrugs, a teasing tone in his voice, "y'know... since you're an assistant now—"

"sorry, i left my itinerary back at the bar." you retort as you pull out your phone. your screen lights up, blinding you for a moment. 2:56am stares back at you.

"geez, it's almost three, buck. we've been in that bar for like... five hours. you stayed out with me all night?"

you frown and look up at bucky, who's looking back at you like you already know all of the answers to your questions.

"someone had to take care of you." he says simply.

normally, you would argue against that— that you didn't need to be babysat, that you're a big girl and you can look after yourself just fine— but tonight, you don't want to. you want bucky to be here and you want him to stay close to you.

you roll your eyes and drop your head back down to your phone to try and hide the faint smile creeping onto your face. you call for a cab, the light from your phone reflecting softly on your flushed face as you wait. you sit on the curb and bucky leans against a streetlight, the silence stretching between you like a thread.

if you weren't tipsy before, you were definitely feeling it now. bucky, on the other hand, looks perfectly fine— too fine, in fact. he stood there, relaxed and broad as usual, his eyes catching the faintest shimmer of light. he actually looks quite handsome in this li—

you stop yourself. nope. not going there. maybe four whiskeys on an empty stomach wasnt such a good idea. you just hoped you didn't throw up in front of bucky— that would have been one way of killing tonight's mood.

you lull your head to the side, "hey, buck?"

he glances over, "hmm?"

"do you ever wonder—" you hiccup, pressing a hand to your mouth before lowering it again, "what life would have been life if you hadn't become... the winter soldier?"

you dont know what had possessed you. you dont know where you gathered the guts to ask bucky such a raw and private question, but you assumed it was hiding in the six glasses of liquid courage you had downed earlier.

your question hangs heavy in the air, and a part of you wants to take it back and say sorry before he can answer, but bucky pushes off of the streetlight and lowers himself down beside you, arms resting loosely on his knees. he studies the road ahead as if it'll give him the answer.

"i do." he says, voice quiet but steady, "but not for long. thinking about what could been... it's a trap. you get so caught up in the 'what-if’s' that you forget about the 'what-nows'. you start living there instead of here."

he glances down at his vibranium hand, flexing it once before letting it rest against his leg, "i cant change what happened... but i can make sure i'm better than i was."

you're yawning, but you still manage to mumble, "wise words from a wise old man."

then he nudges you with his elbow, knocking you awake. he watches as you huff with a small smile. he tilts his head, watching you with a mix of exasperation and a quiet fondness he's never been good at hiding.

"what about you?" he asks, "what would you do if you weren't an intelligence officer or... a pilot?"

"i don't know. it's hard to imagine anything other than this." you shrug as you run your hands over your cold knees, "i come from a military family. my parents were both in the army and all of my siblings joined as soon as they could in one way or another. the conversations at dinner were basically beginner level bootcamp."

bucky huffs a small laugh at that, but you can tell he's listening closely, "so it wasn't exactly a choice then?"

"i guess it was." you bite the inside of your cheek, "but when the path is practically laid out for you since birth, it's hard not to just... follow it.”

youre not sure if it's the alcohol talking or if it's bucky's presence, but the words just comes spilling out faster than you can catch them— and you dont want to stop, and bucky's looking at you like he doesn't want you to either.

"i grew up really lonely, being the youngest. my grandparents raised me for most of my life, so it felt like i was always on the outside looking in." you frown, "they'd all just kind of... vanish whenever they were deployed. i never got a goodbye or anything."

you pause, swallowing hard before continuing, "sometimes i wonder if i joined the air force just to have something to talk about with my parents and my siblings. maybe i thought i'd understand why i was so easy to just leave behind."

youre so enthralled in your own mind that you don't even realise how close bucky has come. his leg is brushing up against your knee, and you can smell the faint mingling of beer and the notes of his cologne drifting from his neck. its intimate in a way you can't explain, and you're sure you're going to be thinking about this for the rest of the week.

god, this is so embarrassing. you think. thor, if you can hear me... please, please, please, shoot me with lightning. please—

you press a hand to your forehead, "sorry, i'm a little drunk."

"hey, don't apologise." bucky quickly says, "you can talk to me."

you glance at him, surprised by the softness in his voice. you're sure you look gross right now— eyes watery, nose running, probably a little droopy-eyed, and you're also a little tired— but bucky's looking at you like none of that matters.

"thanks, buck." you whisper.

the sudden sound of tires against asphalt breaks the quiet between you two. you both glance up as headlights turn the corner, a car pulling smoothly beside you, engine humming softly, and you realise its your ride.

bucky stands up and brushed off his pants while you gather your things with a shaky breath. bucky holds a hand out for you to grab, and you do. he moves quickly to open the car door for you, the motion light and swift despite the late hour. you slip inside, and before you can turn back, he shuts the door behind you with a click.

"oh, sorry, could you hold on a moment—" you mutter to the driver as you slide across the seats. you roll down the window just as the engine hums back to life and catch bucky's eye.

"what are you doing?" you ask, genuinely really confused and also slightly concerned, "are you getting in or what?”

he shoves his hands back into his pockets and gestures vaguely to the empty road ahead, "i think i'm gonna walk."

"walk?" you echo, disbelief clear in your voice, "your place is an hour away and it's about to start raining. you'll get wet."

he shrugs, "i'm okay with that."

"okay." you click open the car door and hop out, shutting the door behind you. you step back onto the pathway right beside him, "i'll walk with you then."

"you're drunk."

"you drank more than me!"

"i'm more stable right now than you are when you're sober, and that's saying something."

you roll your eyes at his obvious attempt at flattery.

"you choose, barnes." you give him an ultimatum, "i walk the hour back with you in the pouring rain, or you get in the car with me and it'll take us ten minutes max."

bucky scoffs. you can't be serious.

but you are. the look in your eyes says you're more than serious. unyielding and stubborn as always, you seemingly already know what he's going to choose. you raise your eyebrows, then turn on your heel and walk back to the car, opening the door and gesturing for him to get inside.

"alright, alright. you win."

bucky slips into the seat beside you and the door shuts. the warmth of the car is a sharp contrast to the chill of outside, and you feel yourself warming up even faster with bucky beside you.

outside, the first drops of rain begin to fall, splattering lightly against the windows. you're almost glad you didn't actually have to end up walking in the rain, but you would have if bucky chose to. neither of you say anything at first.

the driver is having a quiet conversation with someone through his earpiece, but his voice fades into the background. you sink back into your seat, glancing at bucky every-so-often. he's leaning slightly towards you, his shoulder brushing against yours every time the car bumps over the uneven road. you can feel his arm shift against yours, deliberate enough to make you think he's not moving it anytime.

bucky finally tilts his head towards you, analysing you. you're not sure if he's doing it to make sure you're not gonna throw up, or if he's doing it just to look at you. he glances down at your lips for a second, but you don't know if it was just the alcohol making you see things.

"you okay?" he hums, voice low like he doesnt want the driver to overhear something that only meant for you.

you nod, "yeah. just tired."

he nudges his elbow towards you, "you can lean on me... if you want." he offers, his voice low and tentative like he's testing the waters.

you blink, caught a little off guard, but then you cock your head to the side with a smile, "are you trying to flirt with me, barnes?"

bucky shrugs, a half-smile still lingering, "is it working?"

"hmmm..." you hum. your finger presses against your chin like you're thinking, "maybe a little."

"a little, huh?" he muses, "c'mon, i'm trying my hardest."

"if your best attempt at flirting is offering your shoulder to for me to lean on, then you might need to step up your game."

he rolls his eyes, "you gonna take up my offer or not? shoulders getting cold."

you almost don't want to. you want to argue— to push back a little just to get his gears turning, to see if he insists— but you're so tired. your head feels heavy and despite your wishes to stay awake, his shoulder starts to look pretty comfy.

you give in. if possible, you scoot closer to him and tilt your head down to his shoulder. the skin of your cheek meets the cold leather of his jacket. in the faint glow from the streetlights, you can see and feel the rise and fall of each breath.

he's so close. you can smell the leather of his jacket and the faint beer from his lips. you wonder if he can smell you just as much, and the thought makes you wince (you probably stink horribly of whiskey).

bucky doesn't say anything at first, but you know he's looking at you. you can feel the stubble on his jaw brush against the top of your head, the rough graze sending a shiver down your spine.

"comfy?" he murmurs against your head, voice low and scratchy and far too casual to actually be casual.

your lips unconsciously twitch into a small smile. "mm-hmm."

but the truth is, comfortable doesn't even cover it. you're buzzing, hyperaware of every single atom in between you and him and it's taking everything in you not to just lean over and indulge in his warmth and his presence— in his entire being.

your brain involuntarily flashes to what it could feel like. the weight of his arm curling around you, his breath against the skin of your neck, the press of his palm against your waist, the sound of his voice if he were close enough to murmur into your ear. it's reckless and stupid territory, yet your body leans into the thought like you're a woman starved of all the wrong things.

your pulse is pounding so hard that you're sure he can feel it through your temple where it rests against him. every inch between you feels tense, like the tiniest shift could pull you both into something that you could never take back.

bucky exhales softly. he tilts his head ever so slightly, as if testing you to see if you would move. instead, your hand shifts, brushing against the denim on his thigh, subtle enough to be an accident, but absolutely isn't.

when you glance up at him, his eyes flicker down to your lips for the briefest moment. your pulse spikes, and before you can overthink it, you lean in just enough for the space between you to shrink to a breath—

but bucky stops you. his hand presses against your cheek, warm and calloused but still so gentle against your skin. it's firm enough to stop you in your tracks, and for a moment, you're confused.

your eyes dart between his, searching for something. hesitation, doubt... anything that would explain the way he's looking at you— but all you can see in the blue of his eyes is yourself— like you're imprinted in the very fabric of his DNA.

"what?" you whisper. the way you say it feels pathetic.

his jaw tenses, and for a moment, you think he's going to change his mind and just kiss you until you cant breathe, but he doesn't.

bucky can feel the warmth of your body against his and the weight of your body pressing into him like you were made for him. you're so close that he can almost taste the whiskey on your lips, and it takes every fibre of his being to resist leaning in. the way you're batting your eyelashes at him— looking up at him with that half-lidded look— wrings a shaky breath from his throat.

"we can't—" he murmurs against your lips, but the way one of his hands trail down to the sides of your throat betrays him. it's intimate without crossing a line. "you're drunk."

he knows you're not exactly drunk. you're tipsy, but he doesn't want it to happen like this. not under the haze of alcohol and adrenaline. not when he wants you to remember every touch, every look, and every word he says.

"i'm not gonna let you do something you're gonna regret in the morning."

its not rejection— not really. but the way his thumb traces the small scar just underneath your cheekbone sends a jolt through you. it makes you want him all the more, but the mix of his restraint and the care in his touch keeps your mind racing enough to hold you back.

you frown a little awkwardly, feeling the sting of disappointment at his words, but it's mixed with something warm. of course he's not going to let you do this. you're drunk and he's a gentleman.

your hand snaked up to his face as you press a small kiss to his cheek, the stubble tickling your skin. "you're so sweet." you whisper, hesitantly pulling away.

the way his body shivers betrays him. he shifts just slightly, face leaning into the warmth of your hand, but not close enough to cross the line he's drawn. its a fleeting moment that hits you harder than any kiss could.

you let out a soft sigh as you pull your hand from his face. you let yourself melt a little and lay your head back onto his shoulder. you slide an arm around his and hold his arm to your chest.

bucky hesitates for a moment before he lifts your hand and intertwines your fingers with his. the gentle press of his palm against yours anchors you to reality— a reality where, for once, you're not entirely lost. you're exactly where you're supposed to be.

you think you fall asleep. you're not entirely sure how long you were out for, but you feel a hand tuck a strand a hair behind your ear. your eyes blink open. the car has stopped and you recognise your apartment building outside of the window as yours.

you run a tired hand through your hair as bucky leans over and clicks open the car door. he steps out and offers you a hand.

"c'mon. i'll walk you up."

you blink at him, still half awake and a little wobbly, but you take his hand anyway. the warmth of his grip on your hand and waist helps steady you as you walk up the steps towards your building. the sensor light flicks on as you reach the doorstep, showering you two in warm orange light.

"oh, shit." you grumble as you fumble with the zippers of your pockets, "i forgot my—"

bucky pulls his hand out of his pocket. alas, there they are— your keys, silver and taunting, resting right in the palm of his hand. he holds it out for you, placing it into your hand with a faint smirk tugging at his lips.

"my keys." you murmur with raised brows.

bucky looks away for a moment, his voice quiet, but you can hear the teasing tilt in his voice as he speaks, "they fell from your pocket when you tried to... y'know. kiss me.”

oh god. you hoped you'd be able to play it off in the morning and be able to make it seem like you were too out of your mind to remember this.

"right... that. uh—" you cover your eyes. whether it's in embarrassment or something else, you're not sure. "can you maybe... try to forget about that?"

bucky lets out a soft laugh, the kind that vibrates in his chest.

"forget about it?" he laughs, amusement tugging at his face, "i dont think i could even if i wanted to."

bucky sees the way your hands drop to your sides, and the way you awkwardly shift your weight from one foot to the other like you wish the earth would open up and swallow you whole.

"i just... didn't want it to happen like that. with you tipsy in the back of a cab of all places." his voice softens, "you deserve better than that."

you try to ignore the way your stomach flips.

"thanks, bucky." you murmur, and you mean it more than you expected to, "that... means a lot."

he gives you a small, almost shy, nod while you turn to the door. you slip the key into the lock with surprisingly little effort, and you push it open, the light from the apartment hallway flooding onto you.

bucky looks over your shoulder, leaning over to look inside the building as if he's scanning for threats, "you need help getting inside?"

"i think i'm good—" you pause, sucking your teeth in thought. you raise an accusing finger, "although the elevator does like to play tricks on me sometimes."

"alright." bucky's lips curl into a grin as he takes a few steps back down the steps, "if you get stuck, you know who to call."

"goodnight, congressman barnes."

he turns back to the car, expecting the door to click behind you, but his name slips from your mouth— soft and effortless, but laced in sudden realisation.

"speaking of congress—" you call and watch as he turns back, "you have that formal meeting at tomorrow at 8am, but congressman johnson mentioned wanting to go over something before that, so... be up by... six?"

bucky tilts his head, "are you gonna be there?"

"i have to." you half-shrug, "it's my job now."

he shifts his weight, hands tucked into the warm confines of his pockets. he takes a few more steps back, the streetlight catching the silver of his arm, "guess you better get to bed then, huh?"

"i will." you turn on your heel, but not without glancing over your shoulder, "night, buck."

"goodnight, sweetheart." the nickname slips so casually and so sweet from his mouth— like pure honey— leaving a giddy smile on your face long after he's gone.

and just like that, you click the door shut behind you. for a moment, you linger at the small window and peek out as bucky walks back to the cab. you hate to see him leave, but you love to watch him go.

his ass looks really good in those jea— oh my god, shut up!

it was times like this where you wish bucky would take a little initiative.

you dont understand why he stayed out with you all night— why he hadn't cut the night short when you had ordered your sixth drink, or when your hair had a mind of its own, or when you had wobbled off of your bar stool.

you regret your decision now.

your muscles ache, your hair is a little out of place, your heels are digging into your feet in all of the wrong places, you feel like someone is sticking acupuncture needles into your scalp, you probably don't smell very good, and you're almost 100% certain that your blouse is inside out.

but whatever. it doesn't matter now. you've already been sitting in this nice white house cafe for an hour. bucky's almost halfway through the meeting— of which he doesnt look too excited about.

he's trying to be polite, but there's a slight wrinkle on his forehead whenever congressman johnson says something a little too political and borderline offensive, and by the way bucky is chewing on the inside of his cheek, you can tell he wants to be anywhere other than here.

sometimes his gaze would land on you, sitting somewhere off in the corner with congressman johnson's assistant, and a small smile would grow on his face. you like to think that seeing you pushes him a little further.

you almost want to walk over there, pull over a chair, and take over the work for him. youre not sure whether or not you know anything about politics, but you could definitely bludge. you know that bucky will basically do anything you say and he'd probably want you to do it, but on paper, he's still your boss and you're the assistant.

the assistants sit away from the congressmen in their own little booth. congressman johnson's assistant speaks every so often, and when he does, it's usually brief and clipped. you dont even know his name— not because you didn't ask, but because he hadn't told you. you can tell that he thinks you're a mess whenever he glances up from his latte, and he's practically unreadable. youre not sure if he's judging you or empathising with you.

you shift in your seat, clearing your throat, "so, uh... how's the coffee?"

he blinks, caught off guard. he glances down at his cup, then gives you a half-shrug. "it's good. hot. tastes like coffee."

you nod, "that's good. mine's good too. it's... great."

there's a long pause that stretches between you two where he gives you a tight-lipped smile and you give one back. he goes back to clicking away at his keyboard and you go back to idly watching the sun through the lace curtains and trying to listen in on bucky and congressman johnson's conversation.

a part of you is glad that you're at least trying to have a conversation. the other part of you just wants to chug the rest of your drink, grab your shit, grab bucky, and go.

by the time bucky and congressman johnson shake hands, your legs are already stiff from sitting for so long. bucky stands, adjusting the cuffs of his shirt with a curled lip as johnson walks over and claps him on the back to thank him for his time.

you and johnson's assistant let out sighs of relief as they congressmen walk over. he shuts his laptop, you grab your bag, and you both stand up.

you stick your hand out to your fellow assistant with a warm, slightly strained smile plastered on your face, "it was night to meet you."

it takes a moment for him to balance his open laptop on his arm, but he nods and shakes your hand with a smile, "you too."

johnson and his assistant head out of the door first, their words fading as they step outside.

bucky walks up to you. he lets out an irritated sigh the moment he's in your presence, the kind that seems to deflate the tension in his shoulders.

"ready?" he asks you quietly, like he can already tell that you've been counting the minutes, because he had been doing the same.

"i need someone to put me out of my misery." you murmur with a flat look, already halfway out the door.

"you and me, both. i think johnson's set the record for most words said without actually saying anything." bucky holds the door open for you. he follows you out onto the sidewalk and wastes no time falling into step with you. "good to see you're making friends."

the sun is warm against your skin. usually, you'd be all for a little leisure time in the sun, but you're in an unbreathable blazer and you're pretty sure that the fabric is actively conspiring against you. every second reminds you that you're far too overdressed for this weather.

bucky notices your shift in composure but doesn't say anything. instead, he times his steps with yours and angles his body so that your side stays tucked behind his shadow. the warmth of the sun is softened and for the first time since you left the cafe, you can breathe a little easier.

"i probably would've had better luck getting to know the barista. i mean... it was already hard enough making friends when i was a pilot." you grumble, "these people don't seem to like me.”

"whaaaat? that's impossible." bucky's voice drips with sarcasm.

you narrow your eyes at him, but there's no real anger behind it. you veer off of the pathway and stand under the shade of a tree. bucky follows like a shadow without hesitation.

you glance down at your watch, "we have around thirty minutes before we have to head to that meeting. what do you wanna do? i'd say i need a drink, but it's barely noon and thatd make me an alcoholic." you half-joke.

for the first time in forever, bucky doesn't laugh at your joke. he doesnt even try to fake one. you glance up at him, but he's already staring you down like you had just said something outrageous.

"what?" you frown, "do i have something on my face?"

"you look..." he drags, eyes narrowing in on everything about you.

he doesnt even have to finish his sentence for you to know what he means. questionable? sort of freaky looking? sweaty? like you just fell off of the side of mount everest? you want him to tell him to turn around and never look at you again.

"just... don't. dont say anything."

"i wasnt gonna say anything bad. you look good. it just..." he laughs, head tilting as he examines the way your mascara smudges just below your waterline. "you look like you got into a fight with a really big gust of wind and lost."

your mouth opens, ready to tear him to shreds, but you close it. instead, you cross your arms and scowl, "that's genuinely the meanest thing you've ever said to me."

"i'm sorry, i just..." he shakes his head in disbelief, "if you knew we had plans today, why'd you drink so much?

you stammer, "you were paying! i wasnt gonna let that opportunity slip through my fingers." you pause, "and i forgot."

you watch as his eyes trail from your face down to your chest. you know what he's going to say before he even opens his mouth.

"your blouse is inside-out."

"yeah, i noticed, barnes." you huff, suddenly hyperaware of the way the stiff seams scratch against your skin, "i couldnt exactly change it in the middle of a cafe."

bucky just shrugs with a toothy grin. you try to ignore the way he squints at you, almost like he's imaging it. "i wouldnt have complained."

"gross." you roll your eyes, but the corners of your mouth into a smile.

but both of you know that whatever this is— this back and forth, the teasing, the way you look at each other— is the exact opposite of gross.

bucky glances down the street, then back at you, "you hungry?"

you raise a brow, "always."

"there's a food truck a few blocks over. does burgers, hotdogs... maybe sundaes." he suggests, tilting his head like he's unsure if you'll bite, "i heard it's pretty good."

"james buchanan barnes, you had me the moment you mentioned burgers."

the car hums along the streets, tires crunching softly against the asphalt. the sun is setting, throwing streaks of pink and gold across the city buildings. the radio is humming some old song that you're sure bucky recognises.

bucky drives with one hand on the wheel, the other resting on the centre console. you sit angled towards the passenger seat window, eyes watching as the buildings pass.

it's quiet. not the comfortable quiet you've shared before, but it's not awkward either. it's just heavy, like being in a car together reminds both of you about last night and what could've been, replaying the moment in your heads and debating whether it's worth bringing up.

instead, bucky clears his throat. he glances at you for a moment, then turns his focus back on the road.

"any plans for the holidays?" he asks casually like its nothing, though you can hear the undertone of uncertainty in his voice. he's not sure of what he could say that wouldn't circle back to last night, so he settles on something safe and typical.

"i'm probably gonna fly back to nevada for joaquin's birthday." you lull your head to the side, resting it lightly against the headrest, "he told me he didn't want to get blackout drunk without me, and i've never been one to deny a birthday boy's wish."

bucky doesn't know what he expected you to say— maybe that you didn't have any plans, and that you were just gonna lounge around. maybe that you were thinking of heading up north to canada for a week in the mountains, and you were thinking of inviting him. something that didn't involve you being all the way across the country— in someone else's orbit instead of his.

"you know..." your lips curl into a small smile as you nudge the arm that sits on the centre console, "you could just come with me. im sure joaquin would love it if you did."

bucky huffs out a quiet laugh, "as tempting as that sounds, i can't. i've gotta attend all those meetings you set up for me, remember?"

you lean back in your seat with an exaggerated groan, "i regret being responsible. seriously, being an assistant is making me into some weird... spreadsheet monster."

and then it's quiet for a moment, the low hum of the radio and the faint rattle of the car filling the air as you turn to look at bucky. he looks relaxed— maybe even happy— but you can see the flicker of something else in his eyes.

he quietly clears his throat again, eyes turning back to the road, "when do you leave?"

"tomorrow morning." you bite your lip as you stare down at your hands folded in your lap, "you sure you can hold down the fort without me?" you muse, but there's no teasing tone in your voice. it's a genuine question.

he's honestly not sure if he can. you've been everywhere for the past two years, and then so much more after you had shown your face to him. you've been a constant rhythm in his life so long, and now that you're flying back to nevada, he's afraid he might actually go through withdrawals.

the thought of your absence is enough to carve a hole in his stomach. he's afraid he'll long for your voice, for your touch, for the warmth of your presence, for the way you fit into places he didnt even know were empty until you had filled them.

but he turns to you with his soft eyes, almost painfully gentle, carrying a weight he doesnt voice. "i'll be alright."

you want to believe him. you really do, but something in the curve of his jaw and the way his knuckles briefly tighten around the steering wheel tells you that he isn't fooling anyone.

"i'll miss you." you admit.

"you will?" his brow twitches as he lets out a breath.

"of course." you say easily, like it's the most obvious thing in the world, "don't tell sam or joaquin, but you're my best friend, bucky. nobody puts up with me like you do."

bucky feels his throat tighten.

best friend. he thinks. the memory of last night sits bitterly in his chest— you leaning in, the taste of whiskey on your lips, the way you held onto him like he was your lifeline, and that fleeting thought in his mind that maybe you liked him more than he had thought.

but he pushes it down and doesn't focus on that. he focuses on the way you're looking at him now— with your pretty eyes and your pretty face— and suddenly, he doesnt really mind that you called him your best friend. he'd rather be that than a stranger to you.

he lets out a shaky laugh like he's trying to shake off his thoughts, "i was worried i'd have to fight for the title."

"trust me, it's not even a competition." you smile, "unless one of them buys me a car or something... then maybe they'd stand a chance."

the car slows to a stop in front of your building. bucky puts the car into park, headlights shining onto the road before dimming.

bucky's grin lingers, but there's something heavy sitting behind his eyes that does quite fade. he watches as you grab your bag and unbuckle your seatbelt. he drums his fingers against the steering wheel, quiet for a moment before saying— almost casually—

"let me take you to dinner."

you turn and blink, surprised, "dinner?"

"yeah." his voice softens, his gaze fixed on the road like he can't risk looking at you, "think of it as a... going away dinner."

there's a giddy smile growing on your face. you turn away from bucky, clicking the car door open to try and hide it, but you can feel the heat crawling up your neck.

"i'll think about it." you casually throw over your shoulder just to see how he'd react. you shut the door behind you, but you can hear the whir of the window as it rolls down.

"i'll pick you up at eight." he tells you, leaving no room for argument.

you spin back to face him, "i never agreed to dinner.”

"you were gonna say yes. i just saved us a little time." bucky's mouth curls into that frustratingly confident smirk that always makes your stomach flip.

"you really love stroking that ego of yours, don't you?" you muse.

"i try not to." he laughs. his grin is big and toothy and it makes your heart pound in your chest, "wear something nice."

you cant help the little laugh that escapes from you, "okay, fine. eight it is. it's a date."

bucky gives you a little salute before he pulls away from the curb and heads down the road. as soon as his car rounds the corner and disappears from your sight, you do a little silly spin with a stupid smile on your face, already counting down the hours.

you glance at your watch. 6:23pm. that's plenty of time.

you glance at your watch. 8:36pm.

the doorbell hasn't rung. there's no crunch of familiar tires on the road outside. there's no notifications on your phone. there's no sign of bucky.

you glance at the clock on your wall, hoping your watch just had the wrong time, but it didn't. you watch as the minute hand flicks over to 8:37pm and your stomach twists just a little.

you've been standing in your living room for what feels like forever, dressed up, hair done, trying to look casual but still presentable, but the excitement in your chest is starting to twist into impatience.

you collapse onto your sofa. you cross your arms, trying to be nonchalant and totally normal about bucky not being here, but your foot taps against the floor like it's got a mind of its own. you try to convince yourself that he's stuck in traffic, or was helping someone, or was wrestling a racoon out of his trash.

the last one is definitely a bit far-fetched, but it's possible.

a soft sigh escapes you as you stand up again. you're restless— foot tapping, hands fidgeting with the hem of your dress, glancing at the clock every five minutes. every little sound alerts you, and every second that goes by seems to stretch into forever.

your phone buzzes in your hand. you pull it up, your thumbnail in between your teeth as you stare at the notification. it's bucky.

BUCKY BARNES

I'm sorry, something came up

you slump back into the couch. disappointment bubbles from deep within your gut, twisting around your heart like a coiled spring. you rest your head against the cushions, trying to shove down the mix of irritation and sadness that fills your chest.

YOU

all good :)

you reply, even though it's not. another message pings less than a minute later.

BUCKY BARNES

Can we reschedule?

Maybe after you get back from Nevada?

you stare at the screen, your thumb hovering over the keyboard, and the little smile you've been holding onto finally crumbles.

YOU

yeah sure

the sofa buzzes again as your phone lights up. you glance over, the words blurring slightly as you stare at the screen. you dont even pick it up. you're unwilling to move— unwilling to actually respond.

BUCKY BARNES

I'm really sorry, sweetheart.

the text stares back at you like a bad memory.

you wipe at the makeup on your face, smudging it against your skin like you can erase the disappointment along with it. your lipstick stains your fingers as a small reminder of your frustration, but it doesnt really matter anymore.

a small, bitter part of you thinks that maybe you shouldn't have expected much. bucky's still technically your boss and in charge of what happens between you two, and maybe this whole 'date' thing wasn't meant to happen.

but a bigger part of you says that it's okay. yes, you were looking forward to tonight, but it doesn't make a difference. bucky still is and will always be your friend first. this isn't him cancelling on you because he doesn't care. something important must've come up and you know he wouldn't have rescheduled if it wasn't.

that thought eases the sting just enough for you to settle down a bit. you let out a small breath. you can be disappointed and still understand bucky— still trust him.

either way, you've got a plane to catch and a party to attend. you weren't gonna let a silly little 'date' ruin your entire year.

"i cannot believe i let you talk me into doing a keg stand."

you rub a hand against your temple as you waltz into joaquin's living room. the sun is too bright through the windows and joaquin has the tv too loud. you tug at the hem of your shirt like it'll hide the fact that you're still sticky from spilt beer.

joaquin is spread across his couch, a bowl of cereal in his hands.

"i didn't talk you into it. i said you couldn't do it— big difference." he defends himself, eyes still hyper focused on the news channel, "besides, you needed it. you've been walking around like someone stole your puppy."

you don't know why joaquin talking about a puppy brings you back to the thought of bucky, but it does. it's about a week after bucky cancelled on you, and he still lingers in the deepest recesses of your mind. maybe its the way that joaquin talks about the stolen puppy that reminds you of the night that never happened.

you roll your eyes as you plop down into the spot beside him, landing on his shin with a thud. he reacts with a muffled groan, but he can't curse you out like he usually would, because he has a mouth full of milk. you wonder why he's eating cereal at 2 in the afternoon, but you don't judge him.

instead, you lean over, pull the bowl straight from his hands, and start shovelling the cereal into your mouth.

"excuse me."

"hm?"

"that was mine."

you shrug, both cereal and milk already half-gone, "have you ever heard of the phrase 'sharing is caring'?"

he narrows his eyes at you, "sharing my cereal wasn't exactly what i had in mind when i thought of sharing."

"consider this a lesson in generosity." you wave the milky spoon in the air like you're teaching him a genuine lesson.

he just huffs and leans over to grab the remote from the coffee table, then his phone rings, buzzing against the wooden surface. he glances at the screen, eyebrows knitting together.

"who is it?" you ask.

"it's sam." he murmurs as he clicks the answer button, already bracing himself for whatever sam has to say, "what's up, man?"

"wakey-wakey. you two up?" sam's voice comes in crackly through the speaker, but you can still hear the joy in his voice.

"unfortunately." joaquin glances at you, to which you just roll your eyes. a loud humming noise vibrates through the phone, and joaquin squints, "where are you?"

"at work, where a normal working person should be on a monday afternoon." sam smugly replies, his voice carrying a hint of sarcasm that only he can manage to sound so shit-eating.

"it's not quin's fault his birthday is on a sunday." you defend from across the sofa, bowl still in your hands.

you hear sam chuckle, "good to hear you're alive and well, lady of the keg."

you open your mouth to say something in response, but then shut it again. nothing you could say would cease sam's teasing, nor would it ease the pounding headache thats started to kick in.

joaquin lets out a breathy laugh before turning back to the tv, which is muted, but playing some random cartoon, "you're not hungover, wilson?"

"i told you guys that i wasn't planning on drinking." sam replies.

"yeah, i don't..." you shake your head, glancing at joaquin who looks equally as confused, "we don't remember you saying that."

"you were hanging upside down over a beer keg and joaquin was off of his face drunk, so yeah, i didnt think you would." sam says. you can hear a door shut on his end, and it's suddenly much quieter. "anyways... i was just wondering if anyone's heard from bucky."

you and joaquin go quiet. neither of you really know how to respond— joaquin doesn't really talk to bucky like that, and you're still conflicted on whether or not he actually likes you. you still haven't told anyone about it, and that's probably why it's eating away at you.

"you think somethings up with him?" joaquin asks.

you hear sam hum, "not sure. there's something happening in new york— something with shadows or something— and i just have a gut feeling."

joaquin shrugs as if sam can see him and leans over to grab the tv remote again, "ask mrs barnes over here. they've been spending an awful lot of time together in washington."

"hey, whatever you guys are thinking is completely wrong. what bucky and i have is purely professional." you roll your eyes, tugging the throw blanket tighter around your shoulders, "he replied to me after i told him i landed, but after that, he went silent. either way, he should be in washington."

just to check, you pull your phone from your pocket and pull up your messages with bucky. the last text bubble from him sits there, short and sweet, time stamped almost a week ago.

YOU

just landed. everything all right?

BUCKY BARNES

All good. Glad you made it safe. Talk soon.

you stare at it for a moment longer than you want to, thumbs hovering over the keyboard. you type a message.

YOU

hey buck

haven't heard from you in a while

are all of the meetings i set up finally getting to you? 😅😅 if they are then just let me know

you toss your phone onto the coffee table a little harsher than necessary. you exhale and go back to watching the tv. joaquin's still flicking through channels, face contorted as he searches for one that actually looks entertaining.

"classic buck." sam grumbles, "perfectly fine when youre with him and then when he's alone, he goes AWOL and ghosts the people who actually care about him."

"maybe he's just ignoring you, sam." joaquin suggests.

"if he's ignoring me, then that means he's ignoring little miss trouble over there, and we all know he doesn't do that."

then joaquin glances at you, "why don't you just, like... send scout to check up on him?"

you half-scoff, crossing your arms, "i'm not flying my baby to all the way to washington just to check on bucky."

"your baby?" joaquin raises a brow.

"my baby." you echo, "scout is practically my child, just like sam and redwing. you get it, right sam?"

you can almost hear the way he nods in hesitant agreement, "unfortunately, i do."

joaquin doesn't answer. he's too busy flicking through channels. the screen jumps from cartoons to reruns of old sitcoms to an early afternoon news channel broadcast. you're only half paying attention when something catches your eye, but joaquin changes the channel.

"wait, quin, go back." you lean forwards, blanket falling from your shoulders and pooling at your waist.

joaquin pauses, brows pulling together, "what? the news?"

"yes, the news— go back and turn it up." your voice comes out sharper than you mean it to, but your nerves are prickling under your skin.

joaquin clicks back to the news channel, and who he sees staring back at him on the screen has him copying you— leaning forwards, elbows digging into his knees, and eyes boring holes into tv.

it's valentina de fontaine.

she's standing at podium fitted with about fifteen microphones. there's cameras of all sorts surrounding her, waiting for her to speak. a half-assed makeshift backdrop stands behind her flung over a few shipping containers, and in front of that, you can see her— yelena belova.

you know of yelena— sam had told you a bit about her in the past. you know that she's natasha romanoff's sister and that she's just as dangerous as her she was. the fact that she was standing behind valentina like a soldier standing guard brings a sour taste to your mouth.

"sam, turn on the news right now." your voice cuts clean through the phone, eyes glued to the screen.

you can hear sam mutter something under his breath, and then the sound of movement on his end— the scrape of a chair, the click of a button, and the buzz of a television starting up. he's gone silent, presumably watching the same exact thing as you and joaquin.

"for years, i have been working secretly to develop a new age of protection." valentina's voice carried deep and sharp into the sea of microphones like a well rehearsed line, "today, the citizens of the united states needed that protection— and thanks to my hard work, they got it."

she smiles, but it doesn't reach her eyes. it's polished, practiced, and predatory— the kind of grin that makes your skin crawl.

the words sink in, leaving the living room and the static of the phone in a heavy and uneasy silence. you and joaquin dont glance at each other. you don't need to. the knot tightening in your stomach is mirrored in the way his shoulders go rigid with each word.

"ladies and gentlemen... meet—" the camera pans, and the sight before you makes your mouth go dry, "the new avengers!"

joaquin shifts in his spot, head tilted like he almost can't believe what he's looking at, "is that—"

"bucky." you whisper, his name falling from your mouth before you can process it, low and trembling, the weight of it pressing into your chest.

joaquin swallows, "and is that—"

"john motherfuckin' walker." sam spits, voice sharp and grim.

you aren't focused on john walker— you're focused on bucky. bucky, who should be in a meeting with a handful of congressman in washington. bucky, who should be off limits to cameras and the press. bucky, who isn't wearing a suit and whose hair isn't slicked back. bucky, who is standing there like he's just as off guard as you.

you cant take your eyes off of him. the way he stands there, so stiff and awkward, part of something so big and official. it makes your breath catch in your throat.

your thoughts spiral. bucky's there, so close yet so far away, and it feels like a betrayal even if you don't fully understand it. he hadn't spoken to any of you for a week, and suddenly he's joined this new team? and worst of all, the new avengers? did he even think of sam when he agreed to this? did he even think of you?

"god, that week without you really messed him up." joaquin mutters under his breath as his hands slide up and down the sides of his face in shock.

you shoot up from the sofa and start pacing back and forth.

you wave a hand out, gesturing fir him to just stop. "shut up, joaquin. please, just... don't say anything."

joaquin lets out a disbelieved sigh before he grabs his phone and leans back. he runs a hand through his hair, "sam, you still there?"

there's a pause, and then sam's voice comes in, low and clipped, every word carrying a simmering anger, "yeah... i'm here."

you try to imagine how this happened— who put him on this team, how he agreed, what they promised him— but every possible scenario just leaves you more confused. he's supposed to be careful, follow protocol, and check in with you.

your mind refuses to accept it.

you almost stomp out of the living room, joaquin watching you with mild panic as you disappear into the hallway. he can hear your feet thudding against the hardwood floor and a bunch of zipping noises, and he sinks into the couch.

"oh shit, sam." he mutters into his phone, voice barely above a whisper, "i think she's gonna do something bad."

"let her." sam deadpans before hanging up.

joaquin looks at his phone like his only saviour had vanished, sam's words killing any courage he had. he swallows hard and calls out your name. the only response he gets is a loud thud, and he's afraid to even think about what you could be doing.

and then you walk out, wearing one of joaquin's hoodies, bag slung around your shoulder, shoes already on, and an unreadable expression on your face. you look like you're about to murder someone.

"where are you going?" he asks, his voice catching as he leans on the edge of the sofa.

suddenly you're stomping towards him, and for a moment, he's afraid you might hit him. instead, you lean over and grab your phone from the coffee table. it lights up as you check flights to nee york.

"to new york." you answer, voice low, "someone has to get some answers, and i don't believe anything de fontaine says."

then you're walking over to the front door, footsteps heavy with adrenaline. but you freeze.

your hand rests on the doorknob when you turn to look at joaquin, who is sitting on the couch with no sense of urgency and a really confused look on his face, like he almost doesn't know if you're serious or not. your eyes narrow as you lower your head, like he should be doing something that he isn't doing.

"you coming or what?" you ask, and it has joaquin nodding frantically as he stumbles up from the couch.

he almost trips over the rug as he speed-walks into his room. sounds similar to what you were making suddenly echo through the house.

you let out a quick sigh as you glance back at your phone. there's no notifications, no missed call, and especially no new messages from bucky. he's probably already signing action figures and foreheads right now and you wouldn't even know it.

you've booked the flights and would be in new york by tonight. tomorrow morning, you and joaquin would be in the heart of the city tracking down your friend. the only thing left to do was to find bucky and figure out what the hell was going on.

the next day, it doesn't take you long to figure out where valentina's placed her newly minted team of so-called heroes.

joaquin sits on the edge of the hotel bed, eyes locked into his laptop as he digs deeper and pulls up details about each member of this 'new avengers' team. his screen glows with dozens of tabs, each one filled with a butt-load of information.

you're sitting at the small desk by the window. you're watching the life below, but you aren't paying attention to it at all. your phone rests heavy in your hand, and with every buzz, your chest leaps in hopes that its bucky. but its not bucky. its never bucky.

you scroll through the news every five minutes trying to catch a glimpse of him, to see if you can read his expression, but each clip and article only reminds you more and more that he's just out there in the city somewhere completely ignoring you and sam.

behind you, joaquin's consistent clicking of his keyboard is starting to get to you. its the only sound in the room apart from your breathing and the muffled streets below, like background noise you can't tune out, and you almost want to throw your phone across the room just to feel something other than this gnawing, restless ache.

"do you want to know about who they are?" joaquin asks, glancing up at you over his laptop screen. he's cautious, like he's not sure if giving you more information will calm you down or set you off.

"i dont care about the team." you deadpan as you stare at nothing in particular, thumbnail in between your teeth, "jus' wanna talk to bucky, not them."

joaquin thinks for a moment, brows furrowed in thought, before he shakes his head and closes his laptop. the sound echoes around the quiet room. he tosses it carelessly onto the bed beside him and leans forwards, elbows on his knees and his eyes locking on you.

"how are we gonna do this?" he asks, and you don't miss the hint of nervous determination in his voice, "what's our game plan?"

the questions hang heavy in the air— because he's not asking if you're going to do this, whether it's smart or if it's safe. he knows you too well for that. the only question is how you're going to do this, how you're going to step into the lions den without getting your throat torn out.

you spin around in the chair, your bottom lip caught in between your teeth.

"we're gonna head to the avengers tower... or the watchtower... or whatever they've started to call it— and just see if bucky's there. if he is, we'll talk to him. if he's not, we'll wait."

joaquin runs his tongue against his teeth, staring at you like you've just suggested robbing a bank. "we just... walk in?"

"yeah, basically. it's not like valentina's fitted motion-sensored turrets onto the tower. that'd be bad for publicity." you shrug, "do you have a plan?"

he ignores your question and flops back onto the bed in exasperation, "so we're just gonna stroll in like a couple of girl scouts selling thin mints.

"if bucky's in there, he'll listen. he always does."

"yeah, but..." joaquin sits up, tongue running along his bottom lip like he's trying to find the right words, but they come out heavy— hesitant. "what if he doesn't? what if he doesn't want to see you?"

the words hit you harder than you expect. for a moment, it feels like the air's been sucked out of the room. it feels like your ribs constrict around your lungs, and that tightness spreads in your body like a disease.

you know deep down that you were thinking the same— what if he had chosen this because of you? because of sam, or because of his work as a congressman? what if he did this without you because he knew you would try to stop him? hearing joaquin ask it had only made the questions more difficult to ignore.

your eyes flicker downwards as you swallow, "then we'll go home."

you know that leaving isn't really an option. not while bucky's out there. even if you didn't go home, a part of you would still be drawn to new york, pulled by the stupid nagging need to see him.

you can see it written all over joaquin's face. the way his jaw tightens, his eyes locked onto yours as you give him the answers to his questions. he's still, like moving might break whatever fragile thread of logic he has left.

"you know, you don't have to come with me, joaquin." you tell him, eyes softening, "i dragged you out here for no good reason."

joaquin frowns for a moment, but then he shrugs like it doesn't really matter what happens if it's with you, "i've already followed you to new york, dude. i'm not gonna ditch you now."

you grin for the first time since you got off of the plane. you stand up and walk over to the bed where your bag lays and sling it over your shoulder. joaquin stands up and stretches.

"you're officially number one on my best friend list." you tell him as you walk towards the door.

joaquin follows close behind you, brows raise in a look of mock horror, "you have a best friends list? who was first before me?"

you hesitate, pulling your hoodie tighter over you. you awkwardly glance at him, "um... bucky.”

"bucky was your best friend?" he freezes in the doorway, the heavy hotel door hitting him in the back of the head. his eyes are wide, "i can't compete with bucky barnes. that's insane."

"well obviously you can, because now you're first." you shrug as you press the down button the elevator, "turns out that ghosting all of your friends and joining a knock-off avengers team automatically knocks you down a few levels. trust me, quin, you don’t want to get demoted.”

“nah, i’ll stay in first place. the perks are too good.”

the elevator dings open. you roll your eyes as you two step inside, but there’s the faintest tug at your chest. something warm breaking through the storm in your body.

your world doesn’t revolve around bucky and it never has. you’ve always had your own orbit, your own centre of gravity. the idea of bucky being out there killed you, sure, but it wasn’t the end of the world. still, that flicker of warmth doesn’t put out the fire in your chest. it just gives you the strength to face it.

the cab ride across the city feels longer than it should. you keep your eyes outside of the way, watching the city and people pass by. you tell yourself it's just to distract yourself, but a small part of you hopes that bucky might just magically materialise on the sidewalk at any given moment.

joaquin tries to crack a few jokes, but you don't really have it in you to laugh. you're too focused on what you'd say to even get in the building. would there be security holding you back? a harsh receptionist who barely gives you a glance?  it doesn't matter right now. you just need to worry about getting there first.

by the time the car pulls up besides the watchtower— tall and sleek and towering— you're wound so tight that it feels like you can't even breathe in your own skin.

the lobby is pristine and shiny, all chrome and glass, with a reception desk that looks like it belongs in a five star hotel. you and joaquin stride up to it like you belong there, and the receptionist barely glances up before she offers a professional and well-practiced smile.

"hi, welcome to the watchtower, home to the new avengers." the receptionist chirps, "do you have an appointment?"

you grip the edge of the counter as you lean in, "no. but we need to speak to sergeant james barnes. it's urgent."

her smile doesn't falter, though you can tell she's been tested before. "oh, i'm afraid that's not possible."

your eye twitches just a smidge, "not possible?"

"no, not without clearance from either valentina de fontaine or mr barnes himself." she recites, voice sweet but firm, "but i'd be more than happy to leave a message."

you almost laugh— a sharp, humourless laugh. a message? as if bucky ever checks his messages or his voicemail.

the doors behind you hiss open.

boots echo against the marble. you glance over your shoulder, irritation ready on your tongue, but the words die in your throat when you see her— yelena belova.

she looks like she just came from the grocery store. she's wearing sweatpants and a hoodie. there's a plastic bag hanging from her wrist, and her hair is shoved under a black baseball cap. in her right hand is a bitten plum.

"welcome back, miss belova." the receptionist calls from her seat.

"hello, michelle." yelena nods.

she doesn't pause as she walks past. she doesn't even glance up to properly greet the receptionist. she takes a messy bite of the plum, a line of juice trailing down the side of her mouth, and then she wipes it with the back of her hand.

you and joaquin trail her with your eyes. the sheer audacity— the casualness of her behaviour, the ease of which she moves, like she belongs here— makes your skin crawl.

did bucky feel like that? like this was his home now?

your pulse skips as yelena continues walking further and further away. she's right there. you think. if you dont say anything now, you wont get another chance. you wont get through to bucky.

"yelena?" her name falls from your mouth quicker than you can catch it, sharp and cutting through the tower lobby.

joaquin glances at you like you've just poked a sleeping bear.

yelena slows mid-bite, her head tilting like a cat that's just heard something interesting. she doesnt turn right away. she knows you're there, she just doesn't want to give you the satisfaction of her full attention. finally, with ease, she turns on her heel and faces you.

her eyes flick over you and then over joaquin, quick and assessing. she takes another casual bite of the plum. her mouth quirks, but just slightly.

"hello." yelena says, her voice flat like you're the last person she wants to see but the first person she's willing to acknowledge.

"uh, hi." you manage, suddenly aware how reckless and spontaneous calling her name was, "we'd like to talk to bucky."

"so?" yelena chews slowly. when she swallows, she licks the juice from her thumb. "many people want to talk to bucky. he's... popular."

"no, we're not..." you awkwardly trail off, "we're not fans."

the word fans tickles you funny. you do feel like a fan. you traveled across the country for him and now you're at his workplace asking for him. you don't blame yelena for thinking otherwise.

joaquin, merciful as ever, jumps in to save you. "we're his coworkers. and his friends." he adds quickly like that'll buy you any credibility. then, like he has no sense of privacy, he vaguely gestures to you, "and you know... maybe a little more than friends?"

you elbow him.

yelena pokes her tongue against the inside of her cheek. she narrows her eyes like she doesn't believe you, "hmmm, no. i dont think so."

you frown, crossing your arms, "well, is he here?"

"maybe. i dont know." she shrugs, but now she's turning around and heading back towards the elevator.

"i just need to talk to him." you step forwards, pushing the words out with the last bit of patience you have. "if there's any chance you could... call him down or just let him know that his friends are here, we'd really appreciate it."

yelena turns around, waving her plum in the air like it'll help her grasp your urge to see bucky, "why should i? i dont know you."

you step forwards again, a test of how far you can push your luck, "i left bucky alone in washington while he was working at the white house. i left him for not even one week, and then last night, i see him on the news standing beside valentina de fontaine."

"... and john walker." joaquin adds like it'll help.

"the point is..." you continue, "we want answers— answers that don't come from the news outlets or from valentina."

yelena watches you, the corner of her eyes narrowing slightly as she tilts her head. it's clear that she's deciding whether or not your persistence is worth indulging or if you're just gonna be another inconvenience in her already stressful day.

"everyone has a problem with walker, dont they?" she murmurs, but it's more of a rhetorical than an actual question.

yelena glances at michelle the receptionist, who's trying her hardest to act like she's not listening to every world. then she looks back at the elevator thats waiting patiently for her. then she looks back at you and joaquin.

"you guys are funny." she huffs out a breath. she looks you up and down again, but this time, she's observing you more than critiquing you, "okay, come up. you can talk to barnes."

you feel your chest tighten as a wave of relief washes over you, but you try not to let it show. joaquin lets out a quiet whistle and plants a hand on your shoulder, giving you a squeeze that says 'i knew you could do it'.

the receptionist rises from her chair and leans over the desk, watching as yelena leads you and joaquin towards the elevator, "but... miss belova—"

"michelle, val said to make myself at home. what kind of home is it if i don't invite people over? think of it as... a housewarming party." yelena curls her lip in amusement at her own wording, then mutters, "hmm, yeah. a housewarming party."

that shuts the receptionist up.

yelena presses the elevator button, the soft ding signalling its readiness. she gestures for you and joaquin to step inside and you do. yelena steps in after you, her back turned towards you. the metal doors shut in front of you with a metallic thrum, enclosing the three of you in the enclosed space.

the elevator hums quietly as it shoots you up one level every five seconds. you and joaquin exchange subtle glances made of half-amusement and half dont-say-anything-stupid-or-she-will-turn-on-us. you even have to elbow joaquin because you can see a dumb comment forming in his brain.

yelena seems less than fazed. she reaches down and pulls a plum from the grocery bag hanging around her wrist. she glances back at you two, holding it out as an offer. "plum?"

"i'm good." joaquin declines, and you shake your head.

yelena shrugs like she expected as such, and sinks her teeth into the skin of the fruit with a loud bite. "suit yourselves." she hums as she chews.

the elevator comes to a halt. you gaze up at the floor number— 60. the doors slide open into a vast living space, fitted with a large television, several long couches, a kitchen area, and then a hallway which you assume leads to the team's private quarters. it smells faintly of coffee and something metallic— blood, maybe?

the space feels lived-in yet controlled, a strange warmth of warmth hitting you as you step out of the elevator doors. youre sure joaquin can feel it too.

yelena steps forward confidently like she's been living there for years. she silently gestures to the living room area, urging you to make yourselves comfortable while she heads to the kitchen and places her bag down. she leans casually against the kitchen counter, another plum in hand, scanning the space as if she's seeing how you'd react.

you and joaquin exchange quick looks. they're almost imperceptible, more-so gauging the others reaction.

the common reaction is it's fucking huge.

you sit down on the sofa and joaquin follows you. the moment your butt touches the fabric, you sink into it. its probably the softest, most inviting couch you've ever had the privilege of sitting on. you instinctively reach out to press your hand against the couch, and joaquin goes beyond and leans back.

"oh, wow." joaquin whispers as he runs his hand along the armrest, "i think this thing just changed my life. how much do you think it cost?"

"too much." you mutter, "we could probably sell your car and still wouldn't be able to afford a single cushion."

the room feels too big. too unreal. too polished. too avengers. you let yourself melt into it, glancing at all of the fancy things that linger around the room that are probably used in all luxury homes.

in a way, you feel like this is exactly the type of place where bucky belongs. he deserves all of this after everything he's been through. he deserves to feel comfort after going out and saving people. he deserves better than the scraps that life had given him— deserves better than what you can give him.

is it selfish of you for wanting to take bucky away from this? to take him back home to nevada with you, and sam, and joaquin? to trade polished marble and skyscrapers for suburban houses and late night takeout? because a part of you can't help but want that— want him— in your world, with you and only you.

you push the thought down.

yelena pushes herself off of the counter and crosses the room. she's not wearing her hat or eating plums anymore, but a handful of grapes sit in the palm of her hand. she drops onto the armchair opposite of you and joaquin.

"apparently it's tuscan leather." she tosses a grape into her mouth and gestures to the sofa, "very exclusive. many cows died so you can sit comfortably, so don't waste it."

you blink, caught halfway through pressing your palm into the cushion. guilt prickles through you, and you retract your hand back into your lap with haste. beside you, joaquin sits up immediately, abandoning the perfect indentation he had made in the couch. he leans forwards and clears his throat.

yelena smirks, clearly amused, and bites into another grape.

"so—" she starts, leaning forwards with her elbows digging into her knees, "you're friends of sam wilson, aren't you?"

you and joaquin exchange a quick glance, the kind that says should we just tell her everything?

"we are." joaquin replies cautiously, like he's unsure if the information would have negative consequences, "does bucky talk about him?"

yelena shrugs a bit before she leans back in her chair, "he doesn't like talking about it, but whenever walker brings sam up, he gets... weird. they're a bit like an old married couple.”

"an old married couple?" you echo, a small smile tugging at your lips.

"yeah." yelena shrugs again like its obvious, "i can tell they were close. probably bickered and argued all the time, but beneath all of that? loyalty, i guess. they stick together even when they drive each other insane."

it's strange seeing bucky through other peoples eyes, but there's a warmth that grows in your chest. it's comforting.

"i've never seen bucky like that with anyone." joaquin leans back into the sofa again, fingers interlocked as he murmurs. then he tilts his head towards you and raises a brow, "except maybe you."

your chest tightens at joaquin's words, a small, guilty pit forming in the bottom of your stomach as you shift uncomfortably on the sofa.

"what's the deal with you and him?"

"we're just friends." you nod, but you aren't fooling anyone, "we worked together for a two years during missions and then i became his assistant for all of the congress stuff. so really, we're more of just—" you swallow, "just coworkers."

"hmmm." yelena hums. you can almost pinpoint the exact moment she pieces something together. "were you, by any chance, going on a date with bucky, say... one week ago?"

you freeze mid-breath. your lips part, but the words die on your tongue. you try to think of an answer— an answer that doesn't make it seem like you've been dating bucky fucking barnes under everyone's noses for the past couple of weeks. you force an awkward laugh.

you can already feel joaquin's eyes boring into the side of your head and you know he isn't gonna let you hear the end of it.

and how did yelena belova know about the date. how. how. how—

"it, uh— it's..." you bring up a clammy hand to the back of your neck, pinching the skin like it'll help you feel better. your lips tighten into an awkward smile, "it's a long... it's a long story."

yelena gives you a look like she knows better.

before you can start explaining, you're interrupted by the soft ding  of the elevator. it throws you off. your head snaps towards the doors like you're expecting a nuke to shoot out of it and blow you all up into pieces.

but it doesn't. the doors slide open, and you're sure you're about to chew your tongue clean off from how hard you're trying not to blurt out everything all at once.

it's bucky. it's him.

he steps out, every bit of him commanding attention without even trying. he looks like he'd just come from the gym— his shirt clinging tightly against his chest, sleeves rolled up to the middle of his biceps, hair tussled back and damp with sweat, and the faint scent of him drifts over towards you.

you freeze, your mouth running dry.

he looks good— so deliciously good— but you decide you hate him right now. you hate how he decides to make his grand entrance right when you're at your worst, and you especially hate how he looks like that while doing it.

and almost like a red string of fate ties you two together, your eyes are the first ones he locks onto. he looks like he's just seen a ghost. time seems to slow as he processes your presence, his confusion giving way to a flicker of recognition, and something deep within you stirs.

you're angry. you're enraged. you want to throw something at him. you want to hit him. you want to yell in his face until your throat is red and raw. you just want him to listen to how hurt you are— but he's looking right at you like you're the only thing in the entire world that mattered.

"wh—" he stammers. sweat clings to his hair and forehead, but it does nothing to mask the sheer confusion on his face. "what are you doing here?"

you rise from the sofa, your body tense and coiled like a spring. you're walking towards him before you even realise it, arms crossed against your chest like if you hold yourself tight enough, the hurt won't seek out.

"what do you mean what am i doing here? what are you doing here, buck?" you ask, just quiet enough for bucky to hear, your voice laced with frustration and pent up anger. he can almost hear the days you've spent worrying about him trickle out of each word. "

bucky swallows. his eyes dart between you and joaquin, who's quietly watching from the sofa and positioned like he's ready to intervene at any moment. his jaw tightens, and for a second, he's trying to remember what version of reality he's in.

confusion clouds his expression, but deep down there's something else that blooms— recognition, the fierce, quiet joy that you're really here in front of him. his heart stammers in his chest as he tries to figure out how this is even possible. how are you here?

bucky hesitates for a split moment, his hand hovering an inch from your arm before he reaches down. he grips your upper arm as gently as he can, and before you can protest, he's dragging you out of the living room, towards the hallway. your chest thrums, your nerves screaming both 'stay with him' and 'get the hell out of there'.

yelena watches this happen like it's confirmed all of her suspicious, "oh... this is the girl."

joaquin twists around on the sofa, his eyebrow twitching with a mix of curiosity and confusion at the nickname. "the girl?"

"yeah! he thinks about her all the time. we thought it might have been the issues with sam wilson, but this makes much more sense." yelena hums, a playful grin playing at her mouth as she begins to gesture to her face, "he does that weird scrunchy expression with his eyebrows and his nose...and sometimes it is actually quite annoying when you're just trying to go about your day."

even from across the room, you can feel the weight of yelena and joaquin's observation pressing into you and bucky. the thought that yelena's seeing exactly what you've been trying not to admit and what bucky might not say out loud makes you feel exposed.

bucky's chest rises and falls unevenly. his eyes search yours, memorising the way your brows furrow, and the way you chew on the inside of your lip when you're angry, the tense line of your jaw, the way your hands are folded against your chest like a shield. every detail about you is seared into him, and every second he takes to speak feels like a poor apology for all the times he wasn't there.

you're looking up at him for the first time in a while. he's still unmistakably bucky. he looks the same, just a little sweaty. his stubble is trimmed and his hair is just a touch longer than the last time he'd asked you to give him a trim. it's all still so painfully him.

your eyes land on his cheek. there's a gash that you hadn't noticed until now. its scabbed over, but it looks sore. your chest tightens, "bucky, you're hurt—"

almost instinctively, you reach up to touch the skin on his cheekbone, but bucky flinches. he flinches. its the slightest twitch, but it's enough to make you freeze.

you almost want to scoff, but you don't. you can only stare at him, caught somewhere in between disbelief and the ache of missing him so much more than you'd care to admit, even if he's standing right in front of you.

"what is this, barnes? are you..." you gesture vaguely to him, trying to come up with some half-assed answer yourself, "are you... rebelling against us? like, seriously, i don't understand."

he swallows, his eyes darting down the hall before falling on you again, "i'm not... rebelling—" he trails off, the words stuck in his throat.

"then what is this?" you whisper, "i have all day. i'm not going anywhere. just... explain it to me. i need to hear it from you— not from de fontaine, or this new team youre on—" you press a finger against his chest, "i want to hear it from you."

your eyes hold his. unrelenting. demanding honesty. demanding him. and for a moment, all of the chaos and confusion narrows down to this— him, you, and the truth he's been holding back.

but the words are dying in his throat, caught and strangled until they fall back into his chest. "i can't." he breathes, the words jagged.

"for gods sakes, barnes, it's me." you lull your head back in frustration, the words almost breaking as they leave you, "i'm not sam or joaquin— it's me."

the emphasis hangs between you, thick and raw, like you've just carved your chest open and laid it bare in front of him. you're not demanding answers anymore. you're just asking him to remember who you are to him. who you've always been.

bucky looks like he's going to shatter. "it's not that simple." he says, his voice so low that its almost swallows by the quiet of the hallway, "but i can't... i can't go back."

the words slice through you like glass. a feeling all too familiar washes over you like a horrible wave of deja vu, like watching something you thought was solid suddenly crumble to pieces in your hands. there's an awful aching in your chest. its the same ache you felt when he had cancelled your date, and the same ache you felt when he had shut you out with no explanation.

"so, what? that's it? youre just—" you bite your tongue, choking down the sting of your own words. "you're just... abandoning us? abandoning me?"

he hates the way that word slips from your mouth. abandoning. its laced with your old hurt, that raw, unhealed wound you had confessed to him in the quiet of a nevada night, where you had told him how it felt to be left before. it drags him straight back there— to the curb on a silent road, to the way your eyes shimmered with soft unshed tears, to the way you hugged your knees to your chest like you were holding yourself together.

he remembers how his chest aches then. he remembers how he swore he wouldn't ditch you, that he swore silently, with every fibre of his being, that he wouldn't make you feel like that again. and now, hearing that same word directed at him, it feels like he's already broken that promise.

it takes everything in him not to pull your hands from your chests and just hold them. his fingers twitch at his side, every nerve in his body screaming at him to just touch you— but he doesn't. he cant. he doesn't trust himself to, not when he's already destroyed you this much.

so instead his hand hangs there uselessly like a piece of meat, brushing against his thigh, wanting to hold you, to comfort you. to not be the reason your eyes look the way they do right now.

you turn your head. you don't want to look at him anymore, and you don't want him to see you like this.

"you're not coming home?" you murmur with a soft sniffle. your voice comes out thin, and you hate the way it trembles. you rub a hand against your forehead, trying to pull yourself together.

"no." bucky's voice is quite. firm— final.

you nod. its all you can really do.

you slip past bucky like he's a stubborn wall and tread back into the main living space again. you lean down and grab the strap of your bag, pulling it over your head with a sharp tug.

"let's go, joaquin." you murmur, zipping your bag shut almost aggressively, trying to lock away more than just your things.

joaquin wastes no time in following right behind you, his voice tinged with soft concern, head tilted downwards to read you better, "hey, you okay?"

"yeah, 'm fine. let's just—"

like the universe decided to make your life infinitely harder, the elevator pings again. the doors shoot open like a cannon blast, and the rest of the team spills into the room.

they file out of the elevator, all sweaty and dripping with the scent of hard work after whatever hellish training or gym exercises theyd just survived. their presence fills the room with a kimd of chaotic energy that just makes you wish the floor would swallow you whole.

they all stop in their tracks after they see you— you, joaquin, yelena, and bucky— and for a split second, the large room feels impossibly small. too many bodies, too much heat, and too much tension.

ava glances at yelena and waves an awkward finger between you and joaquin, "whoooo are they?"

john stops mid-step, eyes narrowing in on you and joaquin, his jaw tightening like he had just caught a bad smell, "what the hell are they doing here?”

you cant even bark a reply before bucky steps forwards, a hand extended like he's clearing the way for you and joaquin, but you don't ignore the way he slots himself in between you and john, "they were just leaving"

"we were?" you raise a brow at him, your voice tight. you ignore the fact that you had just told joaquin that you were in fact leaving. now a part of you wants to stay just to spite bucky.

"you were." he repeats, calm and firm, like he's not planning on arguing on it anymore.

you glance over bucky's shoulder. john's looking down at you like you, that familiar mix of suspicious and annoyance in his eyes. you know that if bucky wasn't there acting as a human shield, he'd would probably take the opportunity to get all up in your face.

you and walker didn't have a good history. after all, you had played a pretty big part in his downfall at the government-issue captain america.

"who even let them in here?" he snaps, his voice tinged with disbelief— almost whiny— like the idea of them invading his new space is utter crap. he's not necessarily angry, just annoyed.

"get your panties out of your ass, walker." yelena strides towards you and throws her arms around both of your shoulders, pulling you tightly into her sides. "i did. they're my friends."

"... we are?" joaquin whispers.

yelena hums in agreement. she introduces the both of you, but the entire time, there's a little mischievous smile on her face, like she's up to something that only she knows the full extent of.

the team just accepts it. they dont really care. ava heads straight to the fridge, raising it like she hasn't eaten in days. john grumbles something under his breath and heads straight down the hallway and into his room. but alexei waltzes towards you and joaquin, a big goofy grin on his face as he claps his hands together.

"you two like waffles?" he asks, looking between you, "i make you waffles. trust me, i make them very good. very strong, very delicious."

you blink at him, caught off guard by the sudden shift in energy. five minutes ago you were about to ball your eyes out. two minutes ago you were being stared down at by the less awesome captain america. now a soviet super soldier is making you pancakes.

he even gets joaquin to start shaking the pancake mix and scolds him for not having stronger muscles like he does. its honestly a bit jarring.

but you feel your attention drifting. you lean idly on the counter, eyes set on alexei cheering joaquin on, but in the corner of your eye, you can see bucky on the sofa, sitting on the same spot you had kept warm only moments ago.

he looks almost frozen in thought, like he's holding himself together just for you. you can tell that he glances up at you every so often, but he never makes an attempt at anything more.

"you listen to the smashing pumpkins?"

you turn your head, eyebrows knitting together in confusion. standing just behind you is a… guy.

he doesnt look nearly as sweaty as the rest of the team, if not at all. he's wearing sweats and a sweater, and his hair is strung across his neck and forehead like he's been sitting in a windy spot. he’s quiet— unassuming— but there’s a softness to him that instantly draws you in. you almost wonder if he had just accidentally walked into the building. he's cute.

he awkwardly gestures to the small sliver of your shirt, which peeks out ever-so-slightly of your zipped up jacket. he had recognised the band design from the mere colour of the print.

“you, uh… that is a smashing pumpkins shirt, right?” his voice is quiet, hesitant, but he’s leaning in like he’s almost sure of it.

you blink, a little thrown. “yeah… how’d you recognise that?”

"i used to listen to them when i was younger. i was a pretty big fan." he tells you, almost like the memory is very fond to him, "i had all of their cds… even their box sets.”

"really? my friend and i snuck into their concert back in nevada when we were... what, 16? we almost got caught, but it was totally worth it."

his eyes widen, a small grin spreading across his face. “that sounds… badass.”

you’re slightly amazed. none of them had come and tossed him down the elevator shaft yet, so it was safe to assume he was apart of the team. you just wondered what his thing was— puppy eyes? a charming smile? good music taste? you didnt know, and frankly, you didn’t want to find out.

"sorry, what was your name?" you tilt your head to the side, an amused smile plastered on your face like he’s some newly discovered species.

his eyebrows raise just the slightest bit, "oh, i'm— i'm bob."

you introduce yourself.

"um, are you... coming to the gala tonight?" he hesitates, like he’s not sure how to put it or how you’ll interpret it. like he’s testing the waters.

"the... gala?" you echo.

"yeah, val's holding it for the media or whatever. says it'll bring a ton of positive attention to us now that we're... established. you should... um... come. you and your friend, i mean.”

you pause as you think about the offer. a gala isn’t really your scene, but maybe its a chance— a chance to figure out why bucky’s here, to maybe get him to open up. if he shuts you down again… well, at least bob can keep you preoccupied for a little while.

you can’t help the tug of your eyes as they land on bucky. he isn’t looking at you. he’s staring straight ahead, stuff and tense like he’s holding back something. and even from here, you can see the weight he’s carrying behind his eyes.

you meet bob’s expectant eyes and nod. “yeah, we’ll be there.”

bob huffs a small breath, nodding far too much for someone who’s trying to be casual. he mutters a small ‘cool, awesome.’ under his breath before he’s waddling away.

turning away, you let your attention drift back to the scent of waffles, and the sound of mundane chaos from the team, and to the the quiet steadiness of the room itself.

maybe tonight, bucky would talk. maybe not. but right now, you’ll just exist in the space between frustration, longing, and hope. you hope that the heaviness behind bucky’s eyes contains all of the answers to your questions, and you hope that he’ll let you in enough to finally understand.

🏷️ this is for all of the sexy beautiufl people that wanted to be tagged in part two. this one's for all my babygirls i see your comments ladies and they make me smile im lurking and i'm stalking when you least expect it -my king shemar moore

@opheliabbarnes @tessiepoopy @spacexdragonfigdonut @leleynsversion @keira-kaz2y5 @princessgriffin1998 @m3l0nnn @americanadolls @floruilaa @bananaminn @adalvsseb @ornemagicwand @wasa-bby @bamitzzsam @bad-wolf1991 @holholliday @iwritejustforfun @sleepysongbirdsings @biaswreckedbybuckybarnes @yujyujj

date published: 20th of august 2025

[slutforsr]

forever is a feeling

white wolf!bucky x reader

prompt: "you always make things feel a little less heavy" from this post

word count: 10.2k

warnings/tags: 18+ mdni, smut, unprotected p in v, oral (f&m receiving), enhanced!reader with healing and calming powers, references to trauma, minor angst, minor injury, talk of bucky’s recovery and deprogramming, mention of alcohol, mutual pining, slow burn-ish, reader is afab, no use of y/n, fluff, friends to lovers, slightly proofread but excuse any errors i’ll fix them later :)

author's note: started this months ago and then got distracted by other wips. figured i would finally finish it up! first time writing for white wolf/wakanda bucky is long overdue. this bucky era has a special place in my heart.

big big thank you to @starsoverbrooklyn for all of her encouragement with this 🫶🏻

my masterlist 🖤

Sundays had grown to be a day of familiar comfort and routine.

No matter what happens on the other six days of the week, you always rest a little easier at night when you remind yourself that Sunday is coming.

Sundays aren’t the only day that you see him. In fact, you see him almost every day. You see him on weekdays when you help with his sessions with Shuri, and you see him on Saturdays when you step out of the front door of your cottage that sits at the edge of the woods, less than a quarter mile from his hut directly across the field. But those days are filled with obligations - countless hours spent attempting to undo everything Hydra put inside his head, and just as many hours spent tending to all of the crops and livestock.

But on Sundays, his posture is a little less tense. He breathes a little easier. His smiles reach his eyes. Sundays are the one day that you insist that he forget all of his responsibilities, even for just a little while. You always make enough breakfast for the both of you, and take it over to his hut in the hand-woven basket that you bought at the market in the heart of Wakanda when you had first arrived here at Steve’s request, over half a year ago.

After eating until you’re both stuffed, you help him pull his hair into the partial up-do that he’d grown fond of. When you first started helping him with this, you could always tell - no matter how hard he tried to hide it - that he felt discouraged at being unable to do such a mundane task on his own. It wasn’t until maybe the dozenth time that he fully relaxed, nearly going limp when you brushed your fingers through his long locks so that you could free it of tangles before pulling part of it into a low ponytail. You noticed the way his shoulders slouched in a way that they hadn’t before, indicating that he was at ease. You smiled to yourself, secretly wishing that you could continue the ministrations without coming across as too forward.

“Might ask you to do that for me even after I get a new arm,” he sighed when you finished securing the small elastic tie around his hair.

Then, you refill the picnic basket with supplies from around his hut, depending on what the plan for the day is. On days with milder temperatures, this includes a book for you and a journal and pen for him. The two of you will go on a short walk to a nearby clearing, where there’s a giant willow tree with plenty of shade. You read, and he journals, as Shuri suggests to help with memory retention and emotional processing. On hotter days, you’ll pack drinking water, a couple of towels, and sunscreen (because yes, super-soldiers can get sunburns - a lesson that Bucky had learned the hard way), and trek to the base of a small waterfall in the woods that no one seems to know about except the two of you.

No matter what the day’s agenda is, the basket always gets loaded with a plethora of snacks. Various berries and cheeses, some fresh baked bread from the market with preserves for dipping, and a couple different cured meats. When you’d first referred to the spread as a charcuterie board, Bucky looked at you as if you had grown a third eye.

“Was charcuterie not a thing back in your day?” You teased, taking a bite of a giant strawberry.

“I think you’re forgetting that ‘my day’ was The Great Depression,” he snorted. “If it wasn’t peanut butter or potatoes, it wasn’t on the menu.”

You wish you could say that today feels anything like Sundays typically do. There’s a heaviness that weighs on your shoulders today; a growing sense of dread at knowing you’re going to be leaving this place that has become a sanctuary to you. At knowing that you’re going to be leaving him - even if it is just for a few days.

You should be use to it at this point. This isn’t the first time that Steve has called to let you know that him, Sam and Natasha need your help with some mission in a faraway country. It’s been over a month since you had returned to Wakanda from the last mission you’d helped with, so you knew it was only a matter of time before Steve reached out again. You weren’t surprised when T’Challa showed up at your cottage yesterday morning to tell you that Steve had been in communication with him to let him know that they would soon be on their way to Wakanda to pick you up.

Today. Sunday.

Not surprised, but still disappointed. You feel guilty to even admit it. As glad as you are to see your friends, you’ve grown to hate leaving more and more each time.

You worry for Bucky when you’re away - to the point that it makes you sick to your stomach, sometimes. But you know that he’s safe here, so you go. You wouldn’t be able to live with yourself if something happened to Steve, Sam, or Nat and you weren’t there to help them because you couldn’t bear to be away from Bucky long enough to go with them.

But that doesn’t mean that you don’t miss him every minute that you’re away, or that you don’t long to be back in your small cottage, or beneath the willow tree, or leisurely strolling through the town’s market, or swimming in the lagoon below the waterfall with him.

He's quiet. He had gradually grown to be comfortable around you over the last half year, opening up and becoming more talkative as you spent more time together. But today feels heavy. He might not bluntly say it, but you can always tell that he dreads you leaving as much as you do.

“I could stay, you know,” you offer quietly as you dry the last of the dishes from dinner with a hand towel. You’re usually the one who does the cooking for your shared meals, since your cottage’s kitchen is slightly more equipped than Bucky’s hut, but tonight, he had offered to cook for you for a change. “I don’t have to go this time.”

You stand in front of his small sink, staring out of a window that has the perfect view of the lake by his hut. The sun had started to set, making the water appear to dance in hues of red and orange.

“That’s true,” he agrees with a sigh. “You don’t have to go. Steve can’t make you.” You hear him rise from where he’d been sitting at the small dining table in the middle of his hut. His feet shuffle against the ground, closing the small amount of distance between you. He leans against the edge of the counter, standing just inches from you.

“But he wouldn’t ask you to go if it wasn’t important. So you probably should.” His voice is gentle yet firm, though you swear you can hear a hint of reluctance slip through. As if, just maybe, he's trying to convince himself as much as he’s trying to convince you.

“He asked me to be here, too,” you point out. You finally break your stare on the sunset, shifting your gaze to him. You find that he’s already looking at you, an indecipherable expression on his face.

“And I’d much rather be here.”

Much rather be here with you, you almost say, but bite your tongue on the last two words. You hope that, by this point, it goes without saying.

There’s something that always holds you back from being too direct with him. You chalk it up to not wanting to put pressure on him to respond in any particular way. The last thing you want to do is potentially cause him any kind of emotional turmoil when he’s in the thick of healing.

The side of his pinky finger brushes against yours where your hands rest on the edge of the countertop. It’s a feather-light touch; barely there. You can’t even tell if it was intentional, but it still sends a chill up your arm despite the humidity inside the small hut.

“I know you would,” he says with a soft smile that doesn’t quite reach his eyes. “I’d rather you be here, too. But you’ll be back in a few days, and we’ll go to our waterfall.”

Our.

“Swimming? On a Wednesday?” You ask in mock disbelief, trying to brush off the way your heart just skipped a beat.

“Swimming on a Wednesday,” he promises. “As long as you make it back to me in one piece.”

You move your hand not even a quarter of an inch, so that your pinky overlaps his. You long to grab his hand in yours completely, but physical touch isn’t something that happens very often between the two of you outside of his sessions with Shuri. When he gets overwhelmed and anxious, you’re always there to take his hand in yours and exert waves of calming energy to help ground him.

You know how his hand feels in yours - but not outside the walls of Shuri’s lab. Not when no one else is around. You don’t know how it feels to hold his hand, simply because you want to hold his hand.

He doesn’t pull away. You wonder if he’s thinking of taking your hand in his, too.

You clear your throat, realizing that you’re just staring at him. You look away, glancing back to the sun that has nearly set beyond the horizon.

“Thank you again for dinner,” you tell him, pulling your hand away from his as you take a small, reluctant step towards the door. “I should go finish packing. Steve will be here to get me any time now—”

Before you can finish your sentence, he pulls you into him, wrapping his arm around the back of your neck. You’re momentarily stunned, going completely still. When you’ve processed that he’s hugging you for the first time, you melt into the embrace. You wrap your arms around his midsection, reveling in the feeling of his chest against yours.

“Please be safe,” he murmurs into your hair. “Promise me.”

As much as you hate to pull away, you do so enough to look up at him. You nod, blinking rapidly to fight back the threat of tears. “I promise.”

••••••

“I brought you a fresh bag of peas.”

You crack open your eye that doesn’t have a lukewarm bag of sweet peas placed over it. Natasha peers down at you, another bag of frozen peas clutched in her hand. You’d been holding the current bag to your swollen eye for the last few hours, not even caring about the fact that it’s now room temperature and no longer helping the pain that radiates from your temple.

“Which one of you has a thing for peas?” You sit up with a groan, your body stiff from the aftermath of a fight with a cartel member in Colombia and several nights of sleeping on the jet. You accept the ice cold bag from her, bringing it up to your injured eye in place of the melted one. “What’s wrong with regular ice packs?”

“Peas are rich in fiber and antioxidants and they function as perfectly good ice packs,” Sam retorts over his shoulder from where he sits in the pilot seat of the jet. “We don’t exactly have a lot of freezer space here. We can’t be too picky.”

You both ignore him as Natasha takes a seat beside you. She has a small gash along her cheekbone, but she’s otherwise unscathed. You had offered to heal the laceration for her, but she had insisted she was fine and didn’t want you to use any of your energy on such a minor cut. You had already used your powers to heal Sam’s fractured fibula, and you had a possible concussion to worry about - which, unfortunately, your powers cannot help. You can only heal other people, not yourself.

“How’re you feeling?” She asks for the fourth time in the last two hours.

You give her the same answer as the first three times. “Like I was hit in the face with a piece of steel rebar. How do I look?” You remove the bag of peas from your eye, revealing your engorged brow bone for emphasis.

She doesn’t try to hide her grimace. “Like you were hit in the face with a piece of steel rebar.”

You huff a laugh, once again covering the knot next to your eye with the makeshift ice pack. “I’m okay,” you sigh. “I'll probably have this tumor on my forehead for a few days, but I'll live.”

“You better,” she smirks, a mischievous glint appearing in her eyes. She leans in close to you, lowering her voice so that the two men sitting in the jet’s cockpit can’t overhear. “Or I know someone who will never let me, Sam, or Steve hear the end of it. Matter of fact, we’ll still never hear the end of it, even with you sustaining only minor injuries.”

You furrow your brows at her, the movement causing you to flinch slightly. “What are you going on about?”

You might be sleep-deprived and possibly concussed, but you’re not a complete idiot - as soon as the words leave her mouth, Bucky's face flashes through your mind. You’re sure that she’s referring to him, but why she’d say that with such an…amused expression is beyond you.

“Steve stopped by Bucky’s hut when we first got to Wakanda a few days ago,” she begins to explain. Her expression softens as her smirk fades. Your stomach suddenly feels like a ball of nerves at the thought of what she might say next. You lower the bag of frozen vegetables from your eye, no longer caring about the swelling as you stare at her in anticipation.

“He worries about you when you're not there,” she hums after a pregnant pause. “There was a moment that I thought he was going to ask Steve to tell you to stay. I didn't say anything at first because I didn't want to distract you from what we needed to do in Colombia, but…you’ve been distracted, anyway.”

You avert her gaze, choosing to stare down at your boots instead. She isn’t wrong - you have been distracted. Even more so than usual, and the plump knot next to your eyebrow proves it. You had hoped you were doing a better job at hiding it, but Natasha is trained to read people like open books, so it doesn’t come as much of a surprise that she was able to deduce that even though you’ve been physically present, your mind has been thousands of miles away - back in your own little slice of heaven: a valley in eastern Africa with a one-armed, blue-eyed super soldier.

“I suppose I have been,” you breathe. Normally, you’d probably try to deny it. You’ve never attempted to verbalize your feelings for Bucky to anyone - there’s a part of your brain that tells you saying it out loud makes it real. And it being real scares you.

Maybe it’s just the head injury and lack of sleep, or maybe it’s what Natasha just revealed to you about Steve’s visit with Bucky prior to the mission, but you find it hard to hold back those feelings right now.

“I worry about him, too. He’s made a lot of improvement, but I can’t help but worry about him when I’m not there. It gets worse every time I have to leave. I worry about how his sessions with Shuri are going and if he’s needed me, I worry about if he’s been having nightmares, I worry about if he’s needed help putting his hair up…” You trail off, shaking your head at your rambling.

Nat doesn’t try to interject with any thoughts or opinions. She watches you with a look of sympathy, letting you know that it’s okay to say whatever you need to say.

You shrug. “And I just…miss him.” Your voice quivers, but there’s an immediate sense of relief that washes over you as soon as the words leave your mouth. It felt good to say it so plainly.

You just miss him.

“If you miss him, you should tell him,” she says softly as she places her hand over yours and gives it a comforting squeeze. “If I had to take a guess, I would say that he's missing you just as much.”

“Maybe,” you agree. “I’d like to think so. But I don’t want to put anything on him that he isn’t ready for. Emotionally speaking, that is.”

She’s silent for a moment, contemplating your words.

“He’s his own person with free will again,” she reminds you delicately. “He can decide what he is or isn’t ready for. I think you should give him the opportunity to do so.”

You suddenly get the feeling that she’s isn’t referring to just telling him that you’ve missed him.

“We land in Wakanda in five!” Steve yells from the cockpit. A fresh wave of relief - mixed with some nervousness, and some excitement - comes over you.

You take an easier breath knowing that you’ll soon be back in the place - and with the person - that feels like home to you.

••••••

The first shower after returning home from a mission is what you imagine heaven feels like.

Sure, the shower stall in your cottage is quite possibly the smallest one you’ve ever seen, and the water pressure is underwhelming, but after days of taking whore’s baths with baby wipes on the jet, it feels luxurious.

Still, there’s a part of you that wishes you were washing off in the cool, blue water beneath the waterfall right now - like you and Bucky had talked about before you left. Unfortunately, you had returned home from Colombia later than expected this evening.

The sun was already sinking when the jet touched down in Wakanda. By the time you unpacked, night had settled over the valley. You’re sure Bucky has had another long, draining day - hours in the fields in the intense heat, followed by the mental strain of a deprogramming session with Shuri. As much as you long to see him, you tell yourself it can wait until morning. He’s probably already asleep.

So you take your time in the shower, standing under the weak stream until it runs cold. Afterwards, you dress in only a loose fitting t-shirt and a pair of underwear. It’s your typical bedtime attire - though your cottage has power, there’s no central heat and air. Even with the fan on full blast, nights are exceptionally warm this time of year.

You’re bringing water to a boil for a cup of tea before bed when a knock at your door startles you. Three quick, sharp raps.

There’s only one person it could possibly be. No one else ever comes to your cottage, especially not at this hour.

“Hey,” you greet as you open the door. “We got back later than expected or I would have—”

“What happened to your eye?” He interjects.

Truthfully, you’d already forgotten about the injury. The swelling has already started to go down, and the pain is now nothing more than a dull throb. You felt confident that your face would be back to normal by tomorrow morning, but he notices the unusual lump by your temple as soon as the door swings open.

He steps through the doorway, not waiting for an invitation to come inside. “Who did that to you?”

“Oh,” you breathe, shaking your head. You take a few steps backwards, into your cottage. He closes the door behind him. “Don’t even worry about it. I got clipped by a piece of steel rebar that a cartel member chucked at me.” You laugh awkwardly, trying to play it off.

His hand comes up, thumb brushing the high point of your cheekbone, careful to avoid the injury. He inspects it closely, his gaze sharper than his tone.

While he does, you take him in - the tired slouch in his shoulders, the shadows under his eyes, hair slightly greasy like it hasn’t been washed in a few days.

“Did you get this checked out?” His voice is tight, the concern sitting heavy in it.

“I promise I’m fine, Buck,” you say gently. “It already looks much better than it did a few hours ago. It’s nothing that a little ice and ibuprofen can’t help.”

He exhales through his nose, and reluctantly drops his hand from your face. Behind you, the tea kettle begins to hiss as the water reaches a boil.

“Tea?” You ask, hoping he’ll be content enough with your response. “It’s rooibos. I was just making myself a cup before bed.”

He looks like he wants to press the subject further, but he doesn’t. Instead, he gives you a slight nod and forced smile as he takes a seat at your dining room table. He waits in silence as you pour the hot water into two mugs. Then, knowing he likes a splash of milk in his, you grab the carton from your fridge before placing his cup on the table in front of him.

You pull out the chair directly across from him and start to sit down when you notice his gaze - a brief flicker downwards before settling back on your face. You follow it and it dawns on you that you aren’t wearing pants.

Your cheeks warm at the realization. “I’ll be right back,” you mumble before dashing in the direction of your bedroom to throw on the first pair of lounge pants that you can find.

He has seen you in less than a t-shirt many times. Every time the two of you go to the waterfall, or when you take a dip in the lake in front of his hut to cool off during the day, you wear a swimsuit or sometimes a sports bra and athletic shorts. Your skin is more covered now than in those instances, but there’s something about being behind closed doors that makes it feel more…intimate.

When you return, he’s still sitting there, the mug clutched in his hand, his gaze following you as you move back into the kitchen.

“You okay?” You ask in hopes of breaking the tension that lingers in the air as you take a seat across from him. “You look a little tired.”

His eyes flicker away from you, settling on the drink in his hand. He lifts his shoulders in a small shrug. “Long day. I was in the lab with Shuri for the first half of the day, and then worked in the fields until sundown.”

You can’t shake the feeling that there’s something he’s holding back. He looks like he had a long day, yes, but something tells you that there’s more to it than that. You cock a brow, waiting for him to continue.

“And I didn’t sleep very well while you were gone.”

“Because of nightmares?” You ask softly.

He shakes his head once. “I’m used to those. I just worry about you when you’re not here.”

The admission takes you off guard. It’s not said as a confession meant to guilt trip you for going away - it’s just the truth, simple as that.

You glance down at your own mug, your fingers tightening around the ceramic. “I don’t sleep well when I’m gone, either,” you admit. Your voice is barely above a whisper. “Even when the days are long and exhausting. It’s like something is missing.”

“That’s why I came over tonight,” he murmurs. “Didn’t want to wait until morning to see you.”

Your throat suddenly feels dry, and your face warm. You take a sip of the drink in your hands, just to give yourself something to do while you try to formulate a coherent response. When you sit the mug back down, your legs shift beneath the table, accidentally brushing against his.

Neither of you move away.

“You missed me, then?” Your tone is light and teasing enough for him to deflect if he doesn’t want to give an honest answer - but you secretly hope he does.

The corner of his mouth twitches into a half smile. “Yeah. I did.”

It’s not a joke, nor deflection. Just another simple truth.

You look down at your tea to keep yourself from smiling too big. “Well, I’m back now. Are you still willing to take a day off to go to the waterfall tomorrow?”

He clears his throat, then sits up a bit straighter. “About that…” he starts with a breathy laugh. “I’ll have the next few days off. From sessions with Shuri, anyway. She thinks I’m ready to see if the deprogramming has been successful. We plan to test my trigger words this weekend.”

You’re taken aback. It’s obvious by the way your eyes bulge in surprise. Of all the things to come home to, you didn’t expect this news.

This is what he’s been working towards for over half a year. At first, it felt so far away. You know there have been many times that he doubted he would ever get to this point. You’ve felt it from him - the anxiety and skepticism surrounding his ability to overcome what Hydra had forced inside his brain.

But you’ve also felt his hope. His yearning and determination to have complete control of his mind and body again. And because of that, you never doubted that he’d get here.

“That’s incredible, Bucky,” you tell him earnestly. “How do you feel about it, though?”

You want to give him the opportunity to verbalize his thoughts, but you already know the answer. Your leg still rests against his beneath the table, the touch bridging just enough of a physical connection between you so that you can feel it - he’s scared. Terrified.

He shrugs again, shaking his head. “I don’t know if I’m ready. But then again, I don’t know if I’ll ever feel ready.”

Under the table, you nudge your knee against his, sending a quiet pulse of calming reassurance through him. The knot in his chest loosens just enough for you to feel him relax.

“You don’t have to go through it alone,” you murmur. “I’ll be there to help however I can. However you need me to.”

His eyes flick up to yours, and for a moment the lines in his face ease. He doesn’t say thank you, but the gratitude is there - in the way his shoulders lose some of their tension, and the way his leg stays pressed to yours.

The two of you stay like that for a while, sipping tea in companionable silence until both mugs are empty. You relish the feeling of being back in his presence, and think about how glad you are that he decided to knock on your door tonight - you know that you’ll sleep better tonight than you have in days now, too.

••••••

When morning comes, the air is heavy with the scent of wet earth and the low, muted light of an overcast sky that promises rain. Still, when Bucky shows up at your door with a packed bag, neither of you think about canceling your plans to venture to the waterfall.

He seems to be in better spirits than last night. His blue eyes shine a bit brighter and he appears well rested. He adjusts a bag slung across his shoulder - presumably holding towels, water and some snacks.

“You ready?” He asks, glancing over you with a smile that reaches his eyes.

“I’ve been ready,” you chirp, brushing past him to exit your cottage. You woke up too early this morning, thanks to both the humid air in your bedroom and the anticipation of spending the day with him. Beneath your tank top and shorts, you already have on your swimsuit.

“So sorry to keep you waiting,” he snorts, the faintest hint of a Brooklyn drawl making an appearance in his voice. It’s rare, but it gives you a fuzzy feeling every time it happens. Like underneath all of the decades of trauma, the charming boy from Brooklyn is still there.

Though the trail to the waterfall is narrow, you still manage to walk side by side, your left arm nudging his right every now and then. By the time you’re able to hear the rushing of the water, you both have sweat-slicked skin due to the high humidity.

“Do you think we’ll get rained out?” You ask, pulling your tank top over your head when you reach the edge of the water. You glance up at the sky, which has turned several shades darker during the walk to the waterfall.

Bucky maneuvers his own t-shirt over his head. His muscles are taut and skin is tan from hours of manual labor under the summer sun. It’s a sight you should be used to at this point, considering how often you see him shed his shirt for a dip in the lake following a long, hot day of working in the fields.

Yet you aren’t used to it. You doubt you ever will be.

“Most likely,” he shrugs, stepping into the pool of water. “Oh well. We’ll be wet, anyway.”

With his back turned to you, you shimmy out of your shorts as he wades deeper into the basin. By the time you dip your feet in, he’s already waist deep.

Despite the muggy weather, the water is surprisingly chilly - more so than usual. You hiss as goosebumps erupt across your skin, but you don’t stop until the water reaches your shoulders and your feet struggle to touch the sandy ground at the bottom of the plunge pool. Soon, you’re closer to the base of the waterfall than Bucky, who still stands stomach deep a few feet behind you.

You hear him snort behind you. You glance over your shoulder to find him watching you with a smirk on his face.

“What is it, White Wolf?” You hum. “Scared of a little cold water?”

That earns you a different look - part challenge, part warning - and then he’s wading after you, the water swaying around him. By the time he reaches you, you’ve splashed him twice.

“You’re asking for trouble,” he says, his voice low in a way that makes your stomach flutter.

“You’ll have to catch me first,” you fire back as he playfully lunges at you.

You’re laughing when his hand closes around your wrist beneath the surface. His skin is a warm contrast to the cold water. He reels you in with slow, unhurried strength until you’re chest to chest, your toes brushing against his beneath the water.

He lets go of your wrist, moving his hand to the small of your back to pull you even closer. Through his touch, his emotions hit you all at once. There’s tension, yes, but beneath that there’s something softer. Warmer. A flicker of hesitation mixed with longing.

“Caught you,” he murmurs.

Suddenly, Natasha’s voice echoes in your mind. He can decide what he is or isn’t ready for. I think you should give him the opportunity to do so.

Your eyes find his. You can feel the way they search yours, just waiting for a signal. You tilt your head slightly, not closing the space but not stepping back either, letting him see that you won’t pull away.

“You did,” you hum softly. “What are you gonna do now?”

He stares at you for a moment, something akin to mischief in his eyes. Then, he makes the first move. His nose brushes against yours before his lips finds yours in a kiss that’s slow yet sure. Miles above you, the sky breaks and the first cool drops of rain collide against your skin.

Neither of you seem to even notice it. The roar of the waterfall drowns out the rest of the world, leaving only the pittering of rain and the subtle hitch of his breath when your hand comes to cup the side of his neck.

His hand stays firm at the small of your back, pulling you closer until there’s no space left between you. You wrap your legs around his waist, supported only by him as you float in the water. His tongue sweeps along the swell of your bottom lip and you part your mouth, just enough to let him in. Every little movement is slow and deliberate, like he’s trying to commit the feel and flavor of you to his memory.

A low rumble rolls through the air, so faint at first you barely notice it over the rush of the falls. But then a harsh clap of thunder cracks overhead, so sudden and sharp it makes you both flinch.

Bucky pulls back just far enough for your foreheads to rest together, his breath brushing your lips in short, steady exhales. The rain has picked up, falling harder now, crashing against the water’s surface in countless ripples.

You’ve thought of how his lips would feel against yours more times than you can possibly count. Now that you know how it feels to kiss him, you don’t want to stop. You can feel it from him - he doesn’t want to, either.

But you have time. Time for more days like this - spent kissing beneath the waterfall. And once the coming days are behind you, you have every intention of spending your days doing just that.

You’re the one who breaks the silence. “We should probably head back,” you murmur, even though part of you aches to stay here and close the space between you again.

A small pang of disappointment jolts through him, but beneath that, there’s understanding. He nods, and gives you a small smile.

“You’re probably right,” he sighs. He drops his hand from your back and brings it to your temple. He then grazes his thumb along the still slightly elevated knot beside your eye. It no longer hurts, and looks significantly better than it did yesterday, but is still faintly visible.

“You already got hit in the face with a piece of steel rebar this week. The last thing I need is for you to get struck by lightning, too.”

••••••

You’re restless.

Tonight, the air in your cottage is uncomfortably warm and the crickets outside chirp far too loudly. The light from the full moon pours in through the cracks of your curtains, making the small room annoyingly bright. You aren’t sure what time it is, but you’ve been tossing and turning for hours without a wink of sleep.

At the forefront of your thoughts is two distinct things: Bucky’s upcoming deprogramming trial, and the feeling of his lips on yours.

The first thought gnaws at you, nauseating and unrelenting. If the deprogramming proves to be unsuccessful, you dread the aftermath. The mere possibility that it could result in him being triggered into the Winter Soldier is enough to make your skin clammy and heart rate skyrocket. You’d do everything in your power to help him, of course. Okoye, Ayo, and the rest of the Dora Milaje would, too. You’re confident enough that, together, you would be able to prevent him from hurting himself or anyone else.

But it’s not the threat of physical violence that plagues you tonight. It’s the thought of how an unsuccessful trial would affect his mental health. How it could possibly undo months of effort and reset so much of the progress he’s made, all in a matter of minutes.

That, and how retraumatizing it would be for him to once again experience the loss of his bodily autonomy and his memories - even for such a temporary amount of time.

But when your thoughts start to spiral, you think back to yesterday morning. To how it felt to be entangled with him in the water - your legs around his waist, his hand caressing your back. The feeling of his lips moving in synchronicity with yours as raindrops cascaded down your faces, a cool contrast to the heat of his skin.

The memory of his touch, taste, and scent are far from being unpleasant or unwelcome thoughts - but they are thoughts that keep you awake, nonetheless.

You roll onto your back and stare up at the shadows that dance across your ceiling in the moonlight, exhaling in defeat at your inability to fall asleep.

Maybe some fresh, nighttime air would help calm your mind.

You don’t bother putting on shoes before stepping outside. As soon as you open the front door, the night breeze feels like a balm against your clammy skin. You start to sit down on your front porch step when the faint orange-red glow of a small fire catches your attention.

Even from across the field, you can tell he’s looking at you. He sits in a wooden chair in front of his hut, a few feet away from the campfire. The firelight dances across his features, highlighting the amused smirk on his face. He raises his hand, offering you a gentle wave.

It’s a simple gesture. An innocent acknowledgement of your presence. But you can’t deny the inexplicable pull to walk across the pasture and join him when his gaze continues to linger on you.

You’re both awake at this hour. Why not be awake together?

Before you can talk yourself out of it, you step off of your porch, putting one foot in front of the other as you walk towards him. As you get closer, his smirk shifts to something softer.

You come to a stop when you’re standing right in front of the fire. You glance around, looking for something to perch on, but don’t see anything other than the chair that he occupies.

“Come here,” he murmurs, his voice low, roughened by the late hour. He shifts slightly, his single arm resting across the armrest as though waiting for you.

Your brows lift, a flicker of hesitation crossing your face. “There’s only one chair.”

His gaze holds yours, unwavering, the corner of his mouth twitching with the hint of a smile. “I know.”

You hover in place for a moment, the grass brushing against your bare ankles, heart thudding louder than the crickets. “You sure?” you ask softly, almost testing him.

He tips his chin toward his lap, his voice a gentle command. “Yeah. Sit.”

You draw in a breath, hesitating only a heartbeat longer before stepping closer. The chair creaks as you ease yourself down into his lap, careful at first, your hands brushing against his shoulders for balance. He’s solid beneath you, and warm to the touch from his time sitting beside the fire.

His arm comes around your waist instinctively, pulling you against him. Even with only one arm, his hold is firm and steady, keeping you pressed close.

For a moment, neither of you speak. The night hums around you. The fire pops, and his blue eyes watch you from so near that the flames shine across his irises. You can feel the rise and fall of his chest under your palm.

He’s anxious. You can feel it radiate off of him in waves. You don’t have to ask. One touch of his skin and you know that he’s awake this late for reasons similar to you.

You bring your hand to his chin, cupping his jaw in your palm. His eyes flutter shut at the touch, before you even release the slightest bit of calming energy. When you do, his frame relaxes beneath you.

“Thank you,” he whispers, nuzzling the scruff of his beard against your palm. “You always make things feel a little less heavy.”

“Less heavy?” You hum, moving a stray hair away from his face and tucking it behind his ear for him. “Even when I’m sitting in your lap?”

He opens his eyes, looking up at you again. “Especially when you’re sitting in my lap.”

You can’t help but smile at his words. You stay like that for a long moment - your hand against his cheek, his arm curled tight around your waist - before you let your fingers fall, brushing against the collar of his shirt. He looks away from you, his eyes settling on a glowing ember in the dwindling fire in front of you. A sudden jolt of nerves overcomes him once more.

“What’s wrong?” You murmur.

“Would you…” He clears his throat, his voice low and unsure. “Would you want to stay with me tonight?”

The question takes you by surprise. In all of the months that you’ve lived so close, you’ve never stayed the night with one another. There had been many instances where he’d had nightmares in the middle of the night - you’d hear the yelling from across the field and come over just long enough to check on him and help calm him down to sleep. But you always returned back to your place.

This is brand new territory. It’s a simple request but it carries weight. Weight that has little to do with physical closeness and a lot to do with the fact that he trusts you enough to want you with him during such a vulnerable time.

“Of course,” you answer, and you mean it with every fiber of your being. “Of course I’ll stay.” You brush your thumb across his cheekbone, coaxing him to meet your eyes again.

The faintest hint of a smile ghosts across his lips, shy and uncertain, and the sight alone makes your heart buzz. You can’t help but to lean in, closing the distance to press your mouth to his.

It’s soft, and slow, and warms you more than the fire beside you. You want nothing more than to melt into him as your lips move against his, but you know that now isn’t the time to let things escalate.

It’s late. Tomorrow is a big day for him, and he needs to go into it with a clear head.

“We should probably try to get some sleep,” you whisper when you pull away. He nods, though he doesn’t loosen his hold on your waist until you start to stand up.

The inside of his hut is familiar, but the energy is different tonight. Tonight it feels quieter. Softer. Expectant. The dim glow of the fire outside seeps faintly through the window, painting the small space in muted gold shadows.

His cot is small - narrow and worn, with the blanket at the foot folded neatly like it hasn’t been used in weeks. He sits down first, leaning back on his elbow. When you climb in beside him, the mattress dips beneath your weight, and suddenly the space feels impossibly small - but not in a way that’s suffocating. In a way that’s comforting.

You curl into his side without thinking. His single arm comes around you, tugging you closer until your cheek rests against the solid plane of his chest. His skin is warm, even through the fabric of his shirt.

“Comfy?” he murmurs at last, his tone gruff but softened by exhaustion.

“Mhm.” You smile against him, eyes fluttering shut. “I think your bed is my new favorite place.”

He huffs a quiet laugh, almost disbelieving. His fingers brush absently over your shoulder, a touch so gentle you know he’s barely aware he’s doing it. “You’re terrible at lying.”

“I’m not lying.” You tilt your head enough to catch his gaze. “I feel safe here. With you.”

The words settle over him. He swallows thickly. When he speaks again his voice is quieter than before. “Haven’t had anyone say that to me in a…very long time.”

You reach for his hand where it rests against your side, lacing your fingers through his. “It’s true.”

He hums in response. You feel it, deep in his chest. A sound of contentment.

“Goodnight,” he whispers.

You press your lips lightly against his chest, right over his heart. “Goodnight, Bucky.”

Within minutes, his breathing evens, steady and calm. At peace against him, sleep finally finds you, too.

••••••

The air is cool when night falls, heavy with the scent of damp earth from an afternoon rainstorm. The Dora Milaje stand silent along the perimeter, their spears grounded but still accessible at a moment’s notice.

You keep to the sidelines, your hands clasped in front of you, heart pounding loud enough that you’re sure someone hears it. You ache to be closer, but you think it best to give him some space right now. He knows you’re close by, and that you aren’t going anywhere. The way you had squeezed his hand before reluctantly dropping it only moments ago told him as much.

Ayo steps forward, her voice calm and void of any emotion. “Are you ready, James?”

He gives one curt nod in confirmation, though the tension in his posture gives away his apprehension. He’s sitting on the ground, his form rigid as though already bracing himself for this to go disastrously wrong.

Ayo speaks the first word in Russian, but you have them memorized well enough to know exactly what she’s saying. It rings through the silence like a stone dropped into water.

Longing.

You see the twitch in his shoulders, the sharp rise of his chest as he inhales. He waits for it - for the familiar darkness to crawl up his spine, for his mind to become something that isn’t his own. But nothing happens.

Rusted.

He clenches his fist. His teeth grind together. Still, nothing. His breathing quickens, but it’s from anticipation rather than loss of control.

“It’s not gonna work,” he grunts and you feel your heart break a little. You take an involuntary step forward before stopping yourself. Ayo continues.

Seventeen. Daybreak. Furnace.

One by one, the words come. You hold your breath after every syllable, your pulse racing a little faster with each word.

His eyes flick up to Ayo’s, wide and glassy. He opens his mouth, but no sound comes out. His whole frame trembles now, not with the Soldier’s emergence but with the mounting storm of relief and disbelief.

Tears brim in his eyes. He shakes his head minutely, as though trying to convince himself this is real.

Finally, the last word falls.

Freight car.

Silence follows. You could hear a twig snap from within the woods around you. Bucky lets out a sound then, ragged and low, a sob that erupts from the depths of his chest. His tears spill freely, unstoppable, his whole body wracked with them.

Ayo lowers her chin, her voice firm but gentle. “You are free.”

He drags in a shuddering breath, tears wet on his cheeks, and the first word he speaks is your name. It’s broken on his lips, barely more than a whisper, but it shoots straight through you. You’re moving before you can think, crossing the distance between you and dropping to your knees in front of him.

His glossy eyes find yours. When you reach out, cupping his face, he doesn’t hesitate - he collapses forward, burying his face in your chest, his one arm wrapping around you.

He’s sobbing against you but you don’t flinch. You let him break, let him unravel, knowing this is his first true taste of freedom in over half a century. Your own eyes well up with tears as you hold him close.

“You did it,” you say through the tears. “You did it, Bucky.”

At some point, Ayo and the rest of the Dora Milaje wordlessly retreat into the night, leaving you and him alone by the firelight. You continue to hold him, rubbing comforting circles on his back, until his sobs cease and he pulls back to look up at you.

“Thank you,” he says, voice breaking. “For.. all of it. For being here. For staying.”

You shake your head, gentle but firm. “You don’t have to thank me, Bucky. I wouldn’t want to be anywhere else.”

His expressions softens and you catch a glimpse of the boy he was before all of the trauma. It’s unguarded - something he hasn’t been in a very long time, but now can be.

“Come on.” You smile, nodding your head in the direction of the path back home. “Let’s go celebrate.”

••••••

You aren’t quite sure if it qualifies as a celebration, but it’s the best you could do on such short notice.

Earlier today, before even knowing how his deprogramming trial would go, you baked him a cake. A strawberry cake, made with fresh picked strawberries - his favorite fruit.

The rest of the supplies you already had on hand: a large quilt to lay on, two glasses, and a bottle of sparkling wine that you had bought at the market last week. It crosses your mind that the super soldier serum may not even allow him to feel the effects of the wine, but it pairs nicely with the fruity cake so you pack it into the picnic basket, anyway.

“I didn’t know you could bake,” Bucky says with an amused smirk when you pull the small Tupperware of pink cake out of the basket.

“I don’t claim to be a professional, by any means,” you snort. Next, you pour some of the light colored wine into each of the glasses and pass one to him. “But it turned out pretty good, if I do say so myself.”

“Not a professional, huh?” He grins at you for a second longer before forking a bite of the cake into his mouth. He chews for a second, his eyes closing as he savors the flavor. Then, he nods in appreciation as he goes for a second bite. “Could have fooled me.”

You laugh, your cheeks warming at the praise. You dig into your own slice, and the two of you eat and sip on wine in comfortable silence beneath the night sky. It’s dark, save for the stars above you and the campfire that burns next to his hut a few yards away. When he swallows the last bite of his cake, he clears his throat. You turn your head to look at him, but he’s looking up at the sky.

“I’ve been thinking…” he starts, his voice unsteady. “Steve asked you to do this. To be here. To help me through this.” He twirls the stem of the now empty wine glass between his thumb and forefinger. “And you have. You fulfilled your promise to him. So.. where do you go from here?”

You blink, taken aback. That was the last thing you were expecting to come from his mouth. “Where do I…go from here?” You ask dumbly.

He turns his head to meet your gaze, his expression uncertain. He clears his throat again, almost like he regrets speaking, and his thumb rubs anxiously over the rim of his glass. The light of the fire flickers across his face, catching on the sharp line of his jaw as it twitches, like he’s trying his hardest to get the words out.

“Yeah,” he says, quieter this time. “I just wasn’t sure what your plans are…going forward. If you’re going to go with Steve and Natasha now, or…” He trails off with a shrug. “Or if you’re going to stay.”

You can’t help but think that his voice sounds almost hopeful towards the end. You shake your head, still taken off guard by the unexpected question. Truthfully, you hadn’t given much as to what comes next for you. Since you got here, you’ve just been taking it day by day. You never expected for the two of you to grow as close as you have. You never expected to dread being away from him for even a day. You never expected for Wakanda to feel like home.

But it does. Because of him.

“What do you want me to do?” You ask him delicately.

He opens his mouth, but no words come out. By the look on his face, he knows exactly what he wants to say, but just can’t bring himself to say it.

“I want you to do what makes you happy,” he says after another moment of loaded silence, his voice only a notch above a whisper. “Whatever that is.”

Your stomach flutters at his words, but it isn’t with fear or worry. Your heart feels like it might burst because you know exactly what the answer to his question is.

And it’s sitting right beside you.

“Whatever makes me happy?” You echo softly. You lean in a little closer. “You want to know what makes me happy?”

His brows knit together, a hint of uncertainty appearing across his features, and then he nods.

Instead of answering, you set your glass aside, shifting closer until the quilt rustles beneath you. Your hand finds his, prying the empty glass gently from his grip and setting it down beside yours. Then, you bring your hand to the side of his face, your gaze unwavering from his.

“You make me happy, Bucky,” you murmur. “Being here with you makes me happy. I’m not going anywhere. Not without you.”

He’s the one who closes the remaining distance between you. It’s tentative at first, slow and hesitant. But when your lips begin to move with his, his hand comes up to cradle the back of your neck, pulling you closer and deepening the kiss until you’re both light-headed for reasons completely unrelated to the wine.

When you finally break away, your foreheads rest together, his nose still brushing against yours. His voice is hoarse when he speaks. “Are you sure that’s what you want?”

“I’ve never been more sure of anything,” you whisper back. Then, with a quick glance in the direction of your cottage, you work up the courage to let your next words slip out.

“It’s getting late,” you say softly. “It’s been a long day.” You pause, a sudden bundle of nerves settling in the pit of your stomach before you continue. “Do you want to stay at my place tonight?”

His breath hitches. His hand is still at the back of your neck, fingers twitching against your skin like he can’t quite bring himself to let go. “I do,” he hums, a soft smile tugging at the corners of his lips.

Hand in hand, you cross the quiet stretch of grass in between his place and yours. When you reach your front door, he’s behind you, his breath warm at your ear.

The door shuts behind you with a soft click, and the cottage suddenly feels even smaller than it usually does, the air charged with electricity. His lips find yours again, urgent this time, and you let yourself melt into it, threading your fingers into his hair.

But then you pull back, just enough to look at him. His chest rises and falls heavily, his hand trembling slightly where it grips your hip.

You can feel it - his longing and desire. But you can’t continue without reminding him of what he has now - choice.

“Bucky,” you murmur, your palms cupping his face, steadying him. “We don’t have to do this tonight. We can stop right here, if you want. We can just go to sleep.”

Immediately, he’s shaking his head. His gaze burns into yours. “For the first time in…God, I don’t even know how long, I get to make my own choices. And this is what I choose.”

Your heart clenches, the weight of his words settling over you. “Then let me take care of you,” you whisper against his lips.

He exhales shakily, nodding.

You guide him back toward the bed, pushing gently at his chest until he sits. His eyes follow you, pupils blown wide, as you climb onto the mattress with him. Your hands skim over his shoulders and chest, the tension in his muscles seemingly vanishing with your touch. You straddle him, easing him back until he’s lying flat, his head sinking into the pillow.

You kiss him slow, teasing, then trail your lips down his throat, savoring the way his breath hitches. His hand comes up to your waist, tentative, like he’s still not sure he’s allowed to touch you. You guide it higher, pressing his palm against your chest.

“Touch me,” you murmur. “As much as you want.”

The sound he makes is half-groan, half-sigh, and it goes straight to your core. He lets you undress him piece by piece, eyes fixed on you the whole time like he’s afraid if he looks away you’ll vanish.

By the time he’s bare-chested beneath you, you pause just to look at him. You smooth your palms over him slowly, deliberately, like you’re memorizing him.

“You’re beautiful,” you whisper.

He shakes his head, a disbelieving huff of a laugh escaping him, but the pink blush that blooms across his cheeks betrays how much it means.

You lean down, pressing a trail of kisses down his chest and stomach. He shifts under you, eyes following every movement. When you reach the waistband of his pants, you glance up at him. “Is this okay?”

“Yeah,” he rasps, voice breaking. “Yeah, it’s more than okay.”

You ease him free, fingers brushing against the length of him, and he groans, his head tipping back against the pillow. He’s already hard, already leaking, and the sight of him laid out before you makes your pulse race.

You straddle his thighs, one hand wrapping around the base of him as you lower your mouth over the head. The sound that tears from his chest is raw and guttural. His hips twitch before he forces them still, like he doesn’t want to risk pushing too much on you.

You take him deeper, slowly, savoring the weight of him on your tongue. His hand fists the sheets beside him, knuckles white, before finally reaching for you. He rests his palm lightly against the back of your head, not guiding, just grounding himself in the sensation of your mouth on him.

“God,” he groans, his voice ragged. “Feels so good. Don’t - don’t stop.”

You don’t. You work him steadily, your hand stroking in rhythm with your mouth, your tongue circling the head each time you draw back. His chest heaves, his muscles tense, and when you glance up, the sight of his jaw tight, his eyes dark and locked on you, nearly undoes you.

When he starts to shake, when the words coming from his lips dissolve into broken pleas, you finally pull back, wiping your mouth with the back of your hand. You crawl back up his body until you’re straddling his chest.

His eyes widen, his lips part, and the hunger that breaks across his face tells you he understands exactly what you want next.

“Is this okay?” you ask one more time, your voice low, teasing.

“God, yes,” he growls, his arm locking around your thigh to pull you closer. “Let me take care of you now.”

And then his mouth is on you, hot and desperate. His tongue sweeps over you and your head falls back, a cry spilling from your lips as you rock against him. He moans into you, the vibration making your whole body tremble. His eyes are closed, brows furrowed in concentration like he wants nothing more in the world than to pull every little whimper and whine that he can from you.

You ride his face, grinding down against his mouth until your thighs quake and your breath breaks into ragged sobs of pleasure. When you finally pull back, trembling, his lips are slick and his chest is heaving. You kiss him hard, tasting yourself on his tongue, before easing yourself backwards once more. He grips your hip, his knuckles white with the effort of holding on, as you sink down onto him.

You take your time, rolling your hips, finding a rhythm that has you both moaning. His hand digs into your waist, urging you to move faster, harder, but you keep control - leaning over him, pressing your palms to his chest to pin him down when he tries to thrust up into you.

“Let me,” you whisper against his lips. “I’ve got you.”

His response is a choked, desperate, “Please.”

You ride him until you’re both undone, him coming just seconds after you, and then you collapse onto his chest, breathless and shaking.

He wraps his arm around you immediately, pulling you tight against him, his lips pressing over and over into your hair like he can’t stop. For a long moment, the only sound is your heavy breathing and the steady beating of his heart under your ear.

“Just wait until I get my new arm,” he says breathlessly, breaking the silence. “Then I can love you how I really want to.”

You can’t help but laugh at that. This is a side of him that you could easily get used to - carefree, teasing, unguarded.

“Two arms, one arm, no arms…” you breathe, nuzzling your face against the bare, sweat-slicked skin of his chest, “You love me just fine. I’m lucky to have you. As you are.”

He hums into your hair. “Guess that makes us both pretty damn lucky, then.”

thank you so much for reading 💖 comments and reblogs are always appreciated! dividers by @/strangergraphics