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lokinks · 8 hours ago

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"Didn’t realize falling through the floor made you louder, Barnes."

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x Mutant!Female Reader Summary: This is a slow-burn, enemies-to-lovers, tension-packed mission Bucky Barnes and a forcefield-wielding, sharp-tongued mutant Avenger. Constantly clashing in the field, the two are forced to work together on a high-stakes intel retrieval mission that spirals into disaster. When disaster strikes, grudging respect turns into unexpected connection...and maybe something deeper. Word Count: 10k ( need to keep the slow burn going) Warnings/tags: Sharp banter, emotional tension, enemies-to-lovers heat and y/n sarcasm, Avengers team, Avengers tower, Wolverine is the ex but he isnt in the story. A/n: Timeline where Avengers are happy and alive. Tony not having a beef with Bucky bla bla bla. Happy timeline.

``masterlist

“You’re late.”

Bucky’s voice hit your ears the same way gravel would if it spoke.

You didn’t look at him. Just kept strapping the holster to your thigh, your shield generator pulsing faintly on your wrist. “And you’re breathing. Can’t win ‘em all.”

He scoffed, stepping further into the jet hangar, dog tags tucked into the neck of his black tactical shirt like he couldn’t bear the sound of them clinking. “We should have started ten minutes ago. Protocol says we’re supposed to—”

“Do I look like I live by protocol?” you cut in, rising to your full height and facing him with a slow, deliberate lift of your brow. “We both know you love rules more than people.”

His jaw ticked. “I don’t like wasting time.”

“No, you just like wasting oxygen arguing with me.”

You brushed past him on the way to the Quinjet, shoulder knocking into his deliberately. He didn’t move, but he did mutter something under his breath in Russian. You didn’t have to know the words to catch the tone.

The tension between you had always been sharp, like walking barefoot over broken glass. From the moment you joined the team, you and Bucky had clashed—him, all grim silence and precise structure. You, the opposite. Forcefield mutant with a tactical mind but no patience for his tightly wound superiority complex.

You hated the way he acted like you were reckless. Like he was the only one who’d ever seen a battlefield, or made a hard call, or lost something that mattered.

He hated the way you smiled while hurling yourself into danger.

Or maybe he hated that he noticed when you didn’t smile at all.

Inside the jet, Sam was already buckled in, headset on, clearly choosing to stay out of it.

“Play nice, kids,” he said, not looking up from the mission feed.

“No promises,” you and Bucky said at the same time.

The mission was simple—intel retrieval, low-contact, in and out. But you knew the terrain. You knew how things could turn in a heartbeat.

And unfortunately, you also knew the mission was going to pair you and Barnes on point.

Again.

The drop site was a deserted industrial zone just outside of Berlin, cold wind slicing through the holes in the steel frameworks. You landed with a soft thud, generator humming on your wrist.

“Shields up,” Bucky said, already moving beside you.

“Say ‘please.’”

He glanced back with a deadpan expression. “Fine. Please don’t get yourself killed.”

“Aw,” you smirked. “Was that concern, Barnes?”

He grunted. “It’s concern for my own survival. If you die, I get stuck writing the report.”

You rolled your eyes and raised your hand, sending a half-dome of translucent energy ahead as you both entered the compound. The walls glowed faintly under your control, lighting the path forward.

You weren’t reckless. You were controlled. Tactical. Smart. But Bucky never gave you credit for that.

You were about to turn a corner when he stopped short, arm out.

“Tripwire.”

You hadn’t seen it. You deactivated the shield just in time as he reached up, disarming the thin filament with expert ease.

You stepped back, arms crossed. “Fine. One point for you.”

He looked over his shoulder. “Keep a tally. You’ll owe me drinks by the end of this.”

You snorted. “The day I buy you a drink is the day you say something kind to me.”

He held your gaze for a second too long.

And then said, “Your shield work’s clean.”

Your mouth opened, but nothing came out.

“Did you just—?”

“It was an observation.”

“You paid me a compliment.”

“No,” he gritted, brushing past you. “I gave you facts.”

You watched him go, annoyed by the warm twist in your stomach.

You hated him.

Absolutely, totally, irredeemably.

Didn’t you?

The building groaned above you like it remembered ghosts. Metal rusted into flaking teeth. A scent clung to the concrete—gunpowder and rot.

You and Bucky moved in near-perfect sync, despite your mutual aversion to breathing the same air. The mission was too quiet. Intel retrieval missions rarely stayed simple.

“Top floor,” you muttered, scanning the stairwell.

He nodded. “We split?”

“No,” you said immediately.

He raised a brow. “I thought you liked working alone.”

“I like not getting shot in the back because someone got cocky.”

That earned a snort. “You sure you're not projecting?”

You didn’t answer. Just shoved the stairwell door open and advanced, your shield flickering to life across your forearm with a low hum, blue light painting the walls.

The climb was slow. Silent. The kind of silence that carried tension like a wire pulled tight.

“I still think you’re too aggressive with that shield,” he said behind you.

“And I think you’re too afraid of change.”

“That’s not what your training reports say.”

“You read my reports?” You glanced over your shoulder. “Creepy.”

“Steve reads them. I review everything. You’re reckless. Emotional. You could be lethal if you learned to hold back.”

You stopped short at the top of the landing, turning to face him with a heated glare. “Funny. I am lethal. And I’ve lasted this long just fine without the Winter Soldier’s approval.”

His eyes narrowed. “Don’t call me that.”

“Why? Hit a nerve?”

The words left your mouth like venom—but you regretted them the second they landed.

A muscle twitched in his jaw. He didn’t speak. Didn’t defend himself.

Didn’t need to.

You were already suffocating under the guilt.

“Bucky, sorry about that.” you started.

He walked past you.

And you hated the way it made your chest twist. Hated that you’d gone too far. Hated that his silence felt worse than all his insults combined.

You followed him into the top-floor lab, where data servers blinked in the dark. You moved to the nearest terminal, trying to keep the burn behind your ribs down. Just focus. Download the intel. Get out. Apologize later. Or not at all.

But the second your fingers touched the console—

The lights went out.

“EMP,” Bucky said. “Backup plan. They knew we were coming.”

A crash echoed from below. Then gunfire.

A lot of it.

“Whole damn building’s waking up,” you hissed, yanking your hand back. “We need to—”

A second crash, louder—closer—and suddenly the floor cracked beneath your boots.

Bucky lunged.

You both fell.

Metal snapped, dust exploded into your lungs, and the world tilted sideways as you crashed into the lower floor. You landed hard—your shoulder slamming into the debris, pain ringing through your back like a bell.

You tried to move. Couldn’t. Trapped under a slab of ceiling.

Your shield had flickered on just before the second collapse. It held… barely.

You turned your head to find Bucky on his side, blood dripping from a shallow cut at his hairline.

“Barnes!” you shouted.

He coughed, then groaned. “Jesus. You okay?”

“Define okay.”

He looked over, assessing the damage. “Don’t move. Your left side’s pinned.”

“No shit.”

He rolled onto his stomach and crawled toward you through the rubble, muttering curses the whole way.

You hated how relieved you felt seeing him move.

He reached you, fingers brushing your wrist, checking your pulse before you could swat him away.

“Don’t go all Florence Nightingale on me,” you rasped.

“Shut up,” he said, too quietly.

His metal arm worked at the debris, slow but efficient. You winced as pressure shifted on your ribs.

“Okay?” he asked, tone clipped.

“Peachy.”

“I meant what I said upstairs,” he murmured. “You’re good. Better than good. But you don’t have to fight like the world’s trying to kill you.”

You turned your face away. “Sometimes it is.”

That hung between you like smoke—too thick, too real.

He finally got the slab off you, and you hissed as your ribs protested.

He didn’t look at you like you were weak.

He looked at you like he understood.

“Can you stand?” he asked.

“Don’t know. Never tried with a concussion and a bruised ego.”

He smirked—actually smirked—and reached out a hand. You stared at it. Then up at him.

The sarcasm was there in your voice, but the fire behind it was softening. “Is this the part where we bond over trauma and realize we’re not so different after all?”

“No,” he said. “This is the part where I carry your ass if you don’t get moving.”

You took his hand.

His grip was firm—steady—and still calloused in all the places you expected. But the way he held your hand this time wasn’t like he was bracing to yank you off a ledge or drag you out of a firefight.

It was careful.

Like he wasn’t sure if you’d let him.

Your boots scraped over broken plaster as you stood, wincing. Pain bloomed behind your ribs and in your left thigh—deep bruising, maybe a sprain. Nothing you couldn’t walk off.

“You good?” Bucky asked, voice rough but quieter now.

You nodded, though your mouth tightened against the ache. “Good enough to keep complaining.”

A low chuckle rumbled from his chest, and that—that—felt more disarming than anything else. You weren’t used to his laughter. You were used to scowls and biting remarks and the way his eyes always tracked you when he thought you weren’t looking.

But this... this version of Bucky was quieter. Raw-edged. Less guarded. He walked ahead of you, sweeping the path with his metal arm while you limped behind, keeping your shield flickering low along the sides in case of another ambush.

“You shouldn’t have taken that hit for me,” he said suddenly.

You glanced up. “Excuse me?”

“Back there. You threw the shield between me and the blast. You could’ve let me handle it.”

“I did handle it,” you shot back. “Unless you wanted your ribs rearranged.”

“I’ve taken worse.”

“And I’ve saved worse. You’re welcome.”

He stopped mid-step and turned to face you. “That’s not the point.”

You stared at him, arms folded across your chest. “Then enlighten me.”

His jaw worked for a moment. Like he couldn’t quite decide how much to say.

Then: “You’re not bulletproof.”

“Neither are you.”

“But I’ve already died once,” he said.

The words hit like a blow to the gut. You weren’t expecting him to say it. Not like that. Not with so little weight, so much resignation. It left you standing there in the dim light of the collapsed hallway, staring at a man you’d spent months claiming to hate—who had the audacity to say things like that and make it sound logical.

“Don’t,” you whispered.

He blinked. “Don’t what?”

“Don’t talk like your life is some spare part you’re okay throwing away.”

His expression shifted then—barely. Just a small twitch in his brow, a flicker of something behind his eyes.

“I’m not,” he said. “Not anymore.”

You swallowed. “Then don’t act like it.”

The silence thickened, but this time it didn’t feel like tension. It felt like something cracking. Something deeper than the fights. Deeper than the sarcasm and mission reports and snide remarks.

You looked away first.

“Stairs are this way,” you muttered, shifting your shield to light the path.

You could still feel his gaze on your back. Not sharp. Not judgmental. Just… there. Warm and watching.

You made it halfway down before he spoke again.

“You ever wonder why we fight so much?”

You exhaled slowly through your nose. “Besides the fact that you’re intolerable?”

He didn’t take the bait. Just kept walking beside you, voice low. “I think it’s easier to pick each other apart than admit we actually work well together.”

You stopped at the foot of the stairs. “We don’t work well together.”

He tilted his head. “We survived a collapsing building.”

“Barely.”

“We finish each other’s moves in combat.”

“Coincidence.”

“You threw a shield over me like your life depended on it.”

You hesitated.

“…That was instinct,” you said, but your voice had lost its usual edge.

“Exactly,” he murmured.

The silence returned. This time, it was soft.

The exit was up ahead—a breach in the wall, where cold night wind poured in from the outside.

—--

The quinjet thrummed with low vibrations. A constant hum underfoot. Quiet, controlled, and agonizingly tense.

You sat across from Bucky, ribs taped up in the back, blood still drying at your temple. You were exhausted, sore, and worst of all—aware.

Aware of his eyes.

Aware of your own stupid heartbeat that kept picking up every time your gaze flicked over to him, pretending not to.

Bucky sat there like a statue. Unreadable. His jaw was tight. His arm was resting on his knee, but his metal fingers flexed once… twice… like he wanted to break something.

And his eyes?

Locked on you like you were the next mission. And not in a good way.

You gave him a look right back, slouched into your seat with your arms folded tight over your ribs, pretending the pain didn’t stab with every breath.

“What?” you snapped, voice sharp.

He narrowed his eyes. “Just trying to figure out how someone so mouthy made it through after got pinned by concrete and limping.”

“Skill,” you replied dryly. “Or spite. Mostly spite.”

Sam, seated near the front, snorted loud enough to echo.

“Would you two just kiss and get it over with?” he asked, loud enough to make your ears burn.

You threw a crumpled gauze packet at him.

Bucky didn’t laugh—but you saw the corner of his mouth twitch.

The rest of the flight was spent in silence. If you ignored Sam humming a slow, off-key rendition of “Why Can’t We Be Friends” under his breath.

By the time the quinjet touched down at the Tower, your whole body felt like it had been rolled over by a convoy.

As the hatch hissed open, the sun above the landing pad burned bright. Too bright. You squinted against it, dragging yourself to your feet.

You swayed.

Bucky moved forward instantly. One hand wrapped firm around your elbow, the other guiding you with just enough pressure at your back. You tried to shrug him off.

Failed.

“I don’t need help.”

“You’re limping.”

“So are you.”

“Yeah, but I’m not trying to die of pride.”

You opened your mouth to snap something back when the Tower doors opened—and Steve stepped into view, Tony flanking him with a tablet in hand.

Both men stopped in their tracks.

Steve blinked.

Tony looked down, up, and sighed like it physically pained him.

“Let me guess,” Tony said flatly. “One mission. Two near-deaths. A collapsed building. And now you're leaning on each other.”

You glanced at Bucky. Too close. Too steady. Too obvious.

“This isn’t—” you started.

“Don’t explain,” Steve muttered. “I don’t want to know.”

“I do,” Sam chimed in behind you, stepping onto the platform with a grin. “Because I saw the whole flight back and that was some grade-A hate-laced sexual tension.”

You wheeled on him. “Sam.”

“What?” he shrugged. “I’m just saying, if Bucky glared any harder, he would’ve incinerated your face with heat vision.”

“She glared first,” Bucky muttered, looking away.

“Oh my god,” Steve said, dragging a hand down his face.

Tony just started walking toward the elevators. “I’ll have FRIDAY prep the medbay. And maybe the HR department, since this feels like a harassment complaint waiting to happen.”

You tried to walk forward on your own, but the pain flared in your ribs again, pulling a hiss from your teeth. Bucky caught you before you tipped, arm snaking under yours again with that same infuriating efficiency.

“You’re welcome,” he said under his breath.

“I didn’t say thank you.”

“Didn’t expect you to.”

Sam clapped his hands behind you. “God, I love this sitcom. Can’t wait for next week’s episode where they argue over whose fault the explosion was while clearly making heart eyes.”

“Still here,” you muttered as the elevator doors slid open.

“I know,” Sam grinned. “And I’m living for it.”

Steve pinched the bridge of his nose. “I should’ve left you both in Romania.”

“Next time, do,” you said flatly.

Bucky didn’t say anything—but his arm was still under yours.

—

“Three fractured ribs, a bruised lung, and a mild concussion,” Bruce said, eyes flicking over your chart as you sat stubbornly upright on the medbay cot. “So unless you’ve suddenly developed a healing factor like your ex, you’re grounded.”

You grimaced at the mention.

“Don’t say that like it’s my choice.”

Bruce offered a sympathetic half-smile, then turned to Steve. “She’s out for at least two or three weeks. No combat, no sparring, no staircases, if I’m being honest.”

“I hate this,” you muttered.

“Not as much as we do,” came Bucky’s voice from the other bed across the room.

You turned your head just enough to glare.

He looked far too comfortable propped against the pillows, still shirtless beneath the gauze bandages wrapped around his shoulder and side. The bastard had the nerve to smirk like this was all amusing.

“Didn’t realize falling through the floor made you louder, Barnes.” you shot back.

“Didn’t realize getting your ass saved made you ruder.”

You rolled your eyes, and Steve sighed.

“Alright,” he muttered. “Play nice, or I’m asking Nat to babysit the both of you.”

“Please don’t,” you and Bucky said at the same time, deadpan.

Bruce raised a brow but said nothing, excusing himself with a quiet murmur about stress readings and painkillers. Steve followed shortly after, muttering something about paperwork and damage reports. You were left with Bucky. Again.

Silence stretched between you, thick as wet concrete. The medbay lights buzzed above. Outside the glass windows, clouds rolled over the skyline.

“I’m surprised you’re not back on your feet already,” Bucky finally said, tone neutral. “Thought you mutants bounced back faster than this.”

You scoffed. “I’m not Logan. My powers don’t include regenerating half my insides.”

He paused. You caught the flicker in his eye—too fast to place, but too real to miss.

“You still talk to him?” he asked, too casually.

You blinked. “Is that… relevant?”

He shrugged. “Just asking.”

You tilted your head, watching him. “Why?”

He didn’t answer.

Typical.

You swung your legs off the cot, ignoring the twist of pain it caused. The gauze was tight around your ribs. Every breath felt like it was being filtered through a brick wall.

“I hate this,” you muttered again. “Being benched. Sitting still. Doing nothing.”

Bucky scoffed. “Then we’ve got something in common.”

You looked at him, surprised.

He gave you a half-shrug. “I hate downtime. Makes my head too loud.”

You hesitated.

“…Yeah,” you said after a moment, softer. “Same.”

Another silence fell. This one didn’t burn as much. Just sat heavy between you.

Then—

“Hey, Barnes?” you said, glancing at him as you slowly stood, testing your weight.

He lifted an eyebrow.

“You still owe me.”

He snorted. “You think I owe you?”

“You’d be buried under three floors of concrete if I hadn’t shielded us both.”

“You’re exaggerating.”

You raised a brow, pointing at your ribs. “Am I?”

He looked, and his smirk faltered. Just a little.

“…Fine,” he muttered. “What do you want? Dinner? A punch to the face? A handwritten apology?”

You leaned on the edge of the cot, smirking back. “I want you to admit I’m the better fighter.”

He snorted so hard he winced, hand flying to his ribs.

“You’re hilarious,” he grunted through clenched teeth.

You gave him a half-smile. “You didn’t say no.”

He glared.

You turned and hobbled toward the door, slow but steady.

“Try not to miss me too much, Barnes.”

“Not possible,” he muttered under his breath, too quiet for you to hear.

But his eyes followed you until the door closed behind you.

—-

You weren’t dramatic by nature. You didn’t wallow. You didn’t sulk.

But after the fifth day of staying cooped up on your side of the floor—lights dimmed, the curtains drawn, and your ribs still screaming every time you so much as breathed too hard—you were close.

Hydra base extraction or not, fractured ribs were a bitch.

No powers helped. No glowing light from your hands, no tactical shield flare, no boost to stamina. You were mutant, sure—but not the healing kind. Not like Logan. He’d have been fine in six hours, maybe less. You? You winced just turning over in bed.

So you stayed put. You did what you were told, grumbling like a grounded teenager. Left your quarters only when Bruce messaged you for a wrap change or a med scan. You slipped down the hall in silence, hoodie over your head, jaw clenched to keep from groaning out loud.

Bucky passed you in the hallway on day three.

Neither of you said a word. Just glared.

You hated how his eyes dropped immediately to your ribs, like he was checking if you were limping. Like he noticed.

He was bandaged too—shoulder mostly, maybe a bit of his side. You didn’t ask. You didn’t care.

Much.

"Barnes," you’d muttered as you passed, not stopping.

“Limp looks good on you,” he’d replied, too smoothly, not bothering to hide the smirk.

You wanted to punch him. Settled for flipping him off.

The Tower itself had never felt this cold. Your suite was pristine, too clean, like it was mocking you. The couch stayed untouched. The kitchen gathered dust. No training meant no sweat to burn off frustration. No missions meant no adrenaline. No reason to think straight.

Just pain. Bruising. And the echo of a certain super soldier’s smug voice stuck in your head.

By day five, even your ceiling seemed condescending.

You trudged out of bed sometime near dusk, ribs wrapped tight under your oversized hoodie. Every movement tugged the gauze, sent a ripple of discomfort through your side. You’d gotten good at hiding the winces, though. Even when you passed FRIDAY’s cameras.

“Miss,” FRIDAY’s voice piped up politely, “Dr. Banner said your bandage wrap should be changed tonight. Shall I let the med bay know you’re on your way?”

“No,” you muttered. “Just Bruce. Don’t tell the others.”

“As you wish.”

Your fingers hovered over the door pad. A breath in. A wince. Then you stepped into the hallway and made the short, painful trek to the elevator.

That’s when you heard it.

Bucky. Laughing.

Not a full laugh. Just a huff. One of those smug, I heard that kinds of laughs. You turned your head, slowly.

He was leaning against the hallway corner, arms crossed, same faded henley from two days ago. Eyes locked on you like he’d been waiting.

“Out of hiding, are we?”

“Don’t start,” you muttered, continuing past him.

He didn’t follow. Just spoke as you walked.

“You know, I always figured you were tougher than this.”

You stopped. Turned halfway. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Just that I thought you’d be clawing at the walls by now.”

“Oh, I am.”

He grinned.

You hated that grin.

“I’m surprised you care,” you said coolly.

“I don’t,” he replied, instantly.

You nodded once, sharp. “Then stop watching me like you do.”

Silence.

His jaw twitched. You didn’t wait for a comeback. You turned and kept walking.

–

The med bay was quiet when you arrived. Bruce didn’t speak much—just changed your wraps with practiced ease, applied a light numbing salve, and gave you a tired look when you tried to brush off the bruising still blooming over your side.

“You’re healing,” he said. “But slow. Be careful.”

“Always am,” you lied.

You made your way back to your room under the weight of twilight, Tower lights casting sterile white glow down the empty hall.

When you passed the common room, Sam was there, feet on the coffee table, watching something loud on the screen.

He glanced over his shoulder.

“Hey, limpy,” he said cheerfully.

You flipped him off too.

Bucky’s laugh echoed from the kitchen behind him.

You didn’t turn around.

You shut the door to your suite with more force than necessary, kicked off your boots, and collapsed into bed like the ache was finally winning. You pressed your palm to your ribcage, let the faint warmth of your energy flicker beneath your skin—but it didn’t do much. You weren’t Logan. You weren’t indestructible.

But you were stubborn.

—

Mornings in the Tower were sacred. Or at least they used to be.

You used to enjoy them—quiet, easy, before the others filtered in and the world started demanding things from you.

But now?

Now breakfast was just another battleground.

You hobbled into the kitchen, hoodie slung low over your eyes, fingers clutching the hem like it’d hold your cracked ribs together. You were just aiming for some cereal and peace, but the universe hated you—because he was already there.

Bucky Barnes.

Seated at the island bar, black t-shirt too tight across his shoulders, coffee in hand, newspaper like he was someone’s grandpa. Of course.

You paused in the doorway. Considered backing out.

Too late.

He didn’t look up. “You limp louder than you walk. Impressive.”

You rolled your eyes. “And you breathe louder than you think. Guess we both have talents.”

He turned the page of the newspaper with exaggerated slowness. “Didn’t know mutants could catch attitude like a cold.”

“Didn’t know washed-up assassins read the Lifestyle section.”

Bucky raised an eyebrow, sipping his coffee. “Someone’s cranky.”

“Someone’s in my kitchen.”

He smirked. “Our kitchen. And I was here first.”

You gritted your teeth and reached for the cereal. The box was on the top shelf. Naturally.

You stretched, teeth clenched against the flare of pain in your side, fingertips barely brushing the cardboard when—

A metal hand appeared beside yours.

You froze.

Bucky plucked the cereal box off the shelf like it was nothing and held it out to you. Smug. Quietly victorious.

“I got it,” he said mildly.

You didn’t take it right away.

“Waiting for a thank-you?”

He leaned in slightly. “Waiting for you to admit I’m useful.”

You snatched the box from his hand. “I’d rather thank Hydra.”

“Ouch.” He winced with a mock wounded look. “That’s just rude.”

You shuffled over to the counter, pouring yourself a bowl of cereal with unnecessary force. You could feel him watching you. He was always watching you. Like you were some cryptic puzzle he hated but couldn’t stop trying to solve.

You grabbed the milk, only to find it was empty. Bone dry.

You held it up in disbelief. “Seriously?”

Bucky didn’t even look up from his coffee. “Damn. That was me.”

You blinked slowly. “You drank the last of the milk and put it back in the fridge?”

He shrugged. “Thought I’d save you the disappointment of realizing it was gone later.”

You glared at him. “You're actually insufferable.”

“Pretty sure that’s your nickname on the comms.”

You turned your back to him, rummaging through the fridge for anything that wasn’t expired or part of Steve’s health cult. Behind you, the chair creaked as Bucky leaned back.

“You know,” he drawled, “it’s been a week. Still haven’t heard you say you missed me.”

You scoffed. “I haven’t missed the smell of sweat and stubbornness, thanks.”

“I was gonna say you missed my voice,” he said lightly, “but yeah, sure. Go with that.”

You poured orange juice into the cereal just to spite him.

He watched with mild horror. “That’s disgusting.”

“You’re disgusting,” you muttered around a mouthful of citrus cornflakes.

He set his mug down, tapping it thoughtfully. “So that’s what they teach at Xavier’s now? Culinary war crimes?”

You flicked a spoonful of soggy cereal toward his arm. It missed.

He didn’t flinch.

Just smirked.

Sam strolled into the kitchen mid-standoff, blinking at the tension in the room like it was a fog he could slice through with a butter knife.

“Morning,” he said. “Y’all fighting over breakfast or trauma this time?”

“Both,” you and Bucky replied at the same time.

Sam raised his eyebrows. “Cute. Y’all are starting to sync up.”

You and Bucky simultaneously turned to glare at him.

Sam grinned like the chaos gremlin he was, grabbed a banana, and backed out of the kitchen with a low whistle.

As he disappeared, you sighed. “I hate this place.”

“Then go back to bed,” Bucky said, sipping his coffee again. “Preferably before you poison anything else.”

You carried your bowl to the far end of the bar, taking the seat furthest from him like a territory line.

“I hope your coffee tastes like betrayal.”

“I brewed yours too, sweetheart.”

You nearly choked.

You didn’t look up. Didn’t give him the satisfaction.

But you did sip the coffee.

And goddamn it, it was good.

You were halfway through the war crime you called cereal when Clint breezed into the kitchen like he hadn’t slept in days—which he probably hadn’t. His hoodie was inside out, hair doing that mess-on-purpose thing, and he beelined for the stove with the intensity of someone who knew exactly what he wanted: bacon.

“God, something smells like pettiness in here,” he mumbled, pulling a pan out of the cabinet.

“It’s them,” Sam said without looking up, nodding toward you and Bucky from where he now sat with a banana and a smug grin. “They’ve been flirting through violence again.”

“I will throw you out a window,” you muttered.

Clint raised an eyebrow. “Aww, love language. How sweet.”

Bucky groaned and stood to grab more coffee, brushing past you with just enough shoulder to make it feel like an accident.

You hissed at the contact. “You’re not cute.”

“I’m adorable,” he said without missing a beat.

The sound of toast popping broke the tension like a starter pistol.

Natasha Romanoff, in full black silk pajama pants and a cropped tank, stepped into the kitchen holding a butter knife like it was a weapon. “Are we doing this again?” she asked dryly, grabbing the toast and calmly spreading jam like she wasn’t ready to kill both of you for sport.

You didn’t answer.

Neither did Bucky.

Nat glanced between you with a sigh. “This is why I don’t date anymore.”

“You never dated,” Clint piped up from the stove. “You eliminate.”

She tilted her head. “Exactly.”

Thor stormed in next—loud, sunshiny, and shirtless, already cracking open a bottle of Asgardian mead before 9 AM.

“Good morrow, midgardians!” he boomed, grabbing a roast chicken leg from god knows where and chomping down like a Viking fresh from conquest.

You blinked. “Is that from last night?”

“It is breakfast now,” Thor said simply, then raised his drink to you. “You still walk like a wounded deer, Shield Maiden.”

“Thanks, Thor. Love you too.”

Bucky grunted. “She cracked a rib. She’s benched.”

Sam snorted. “More like grounded—too stubborn to let anyone help.”

You stared at your cereal like it personally betrayed you.

Thor chuckled. “Tis admirable. I once fought for four days straight with a broken clavicle and—”

“—no one asked,” Clint cut in, flipping bacon. “Still traumatized by the ‘hammer in the spleen’ story.”

The kitchen filled with a low buzz of overlapping conversation. Nat sipped her tea like she was watching a sitcom. Sam tossed his banana peel into the bin with a dramatic no-look shot. Clint plated bacon. Thor sat on the counter and dripped chicken grease on the floor. And right in the middle of it all, you and Bucky sat on opposite ends of the breakfast bar, silently glowering.

Every time you shifted in your seat, you felt the sharp stab in your ribs. Mutant or not, you weren’t Logan. You didn’t have a healing factor. And your ex-boyfriend (the living, brooding reminder of it) wasn’t here to carry you to the medbay or lift you with one arm like he used to.

No, you had Bucky Barnes.Who was now staring at your cereal again.

“You gonna eat that or keep torturing it?”

You took another aggressive bite. “You want a taste?”

He leaned on his elbows, smirking. “You offering, sweetheart?”

Clint choked on his bacon.

Nat closed her eyes. “I swear to God, if you two kiss in front of me, I will burn this whole kitchen down.”

“I’d let her,” you muttered.

“Same,” Bucky said.

You both glanced at each other.

A beat too long.

Sam made a low whistle. “Tension so thick, even Cap’s shield couldn’t cut it.”

“Speaking of—” Steve entered at last, in full Captain mode, eyes already squinting in disappointment. “Why does it smell like alcohol and chaos?”

“Because you left us unsupervised,” Nat replied dryly.

Steve eyed you, then Bucky. Then the awkward distance between you. Then the way your cereal was swimming in orange juice. He grimaced.

He sighed like a disappointed dad. “...I’m not cleaning up if you kill each other.”

Tony strolled in right behind him, looking too expensive for this crowd. “If you kill each other, please let it be on the balcony. At least give us a dramatic skyline.”

You dropped your spoon.

Bucky gave you a look that said don’t give them anything.

You sighed and slid your bowl away. “I’m going back to bed.”

“Need help walking, limpy?” Bucky asked, standing halfway like he might follow.

“I’d rather crawl.”

You left before anyone could see the small tug at the corner of your mouth.

Before you heard Clint whisper, “Yup, totally in denial.”

And Sam agree, “Biggest will-they-won’t-they since Ross and Rachel.”

—-

After dinner at the Tower.

The kitchen was mostly empty now, the clatter of dinner long gone, replaced with the low hum of the dishwasher and the faint sound of Stark’s playlist echoing somewhere down the hall. Dim under-lighting bathed the room in a gentle glow, shadows cast against the marble counters.

You shuffled in slow, each step a dull reminder that fractured ribs weren’t fixed with sarcasm or pride. You gripped the edge of the counter and let out a slow breath as your shoulder protested.

You hadn't meant to stay this long at the table after dinner. But the banter wore you out. You just wanted quiet now.

You opened the drawer for the painkillers and almost dropped the damn bottle.

“You know, if you waited two more minutes, I would've just brought them to your room.”

You didn’t even need to turn to know who it was. His voice was lower when it was late. Less snark, more gravel.

Bucky leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed, like he’d been standing there the whole time.

“I don’t need a babysitter,” you muttered, shaking two pills into your palm.

He walked in anyway. Quiet footsteps. Calm. Like he didn’t want to startle you.

You didn’t meet his eyes.

He didn’t speak for a moment. Just filled a glass with water, then held it out to you without a word.

You hesitated. Then took it.

The pills were bitter. You didn’t wince.

“You’ve been skipping doses,” he said after a beat.

You placed the empty glass in the sink with care. “You spying on me now?”

“Tony’s got the med logs. Bruce checks them. I hear stuff.” He shrugged. “I’m nosy.”

You gave a dry laugh. “That tracks.”

He moved to the other side of the counter but didn’t sit. Just watched you like you might topple over again. Like he was waiting to catch something you wouldn’t admit to dropping.

“I’m fine,” you said. Too fast.

“You’re limping on your right side.”

You clenched your jaw. “I said I’m—”

“I know what fine looks like.” His voice was gentler now. Less push, more pull. “This ain’t it.”

Silence bloomed between you like a bruise.

The hum of the dishwasher filled it.

You leaned heavier on the counter. Your body throbbed in pulses that made your head buzz. “I’m tired, Barnes.”

He nodded, almost like he expected it.

But he didn’t move.

“Why are you even here?” you asked quietly.

He looked at you for a long moment. You didn’t look up.

Then he said, “You think I’d just let you walk around hurting without checking on you?”

You flinched. Not from pain.

From how much it sounded like someone else you used to know.

He noticed. Of course he did.

You turned your head toward the hallway, already shifting to leave. “I should get back to my floor—”

He stepped in your path—not close, just there.

“I’m not him,” Bucky said softly.

You blinked. “I didn’t say you were.”

“No, but you’re holding me at arm’s length like I might disappear just as fast.”

You swallowed thickly. “I’m not trying to—”

“Then let me help.”

It wasn’t a demand. It was almost… a plea.

He looked at you like you were something breakable. Not in the glass kind of way. In the kind that mattered. The kind someone might miss if it shattered quietly in a corner where no one looked.

The ache in your ribs reminded you to breathe.

“I’m not used to... help.”

“I noticed,” he said, one corner of his mouth twitching.

Your shoulders sagged. “You’re really bad at subtle.”

“You like that about me,” he said, smiling just a little now. “Even if you don’t wanna admit it yet.”

You looked at him. Really looked.

Tired eyes. Restless hands. Steel underneath softness.

You shook your head. “You don’t know what I like.”

But it came out soft.

And you didn’t push him away when he gently placed a hand on your lower back and guided you toward the hallway.

“Come on,” he said. “Let’s get you back to bed before Thor offers you a healing mead and breaks the rest of your ribs.”

You huffed a quiet laugh. “God. Please no.”

He walked beside you in silence after that. Not touching, not talking.

The hall outside the kitchen was dim, the world stilled into half-shadow like it was holding its breath. You didn’t speak as you walked, your footsteps slower than usual, measured by the steady throb in your side and the solid weight of Bucky’s presence beside you.

He kept his pace even with yours.

Didn’t touch you again, but didn’t leave either.

Halfway down the hall, you faltered. Sharp pain bloomed beneath your ribs like something snagged on your breath.

You stopped. Hissed quietly.

And of course, he stopped too.

“Sit,” he said, already guiding you to the long bench against the wall near the elevator. It was rarely used. Probably why he led you there.

You didn’t argue.

Your knees wobbled a little as you sat, head falling back against the cool wall. The chill helped. A little.

Bucky crouched down in front of you without a word. Elbows on his knees, hands loosely clasped. You watched him from under your lashes, sweat sticking at your hairline.

“You could’ve just gone to bed,” you muttered. “This wasn’t your problem.”

“You’re on this team,” he said flatly. “That makes it my problem.”

You scoffed lightly. “You still talk like a soldier.”

He tilted his head, eyes narrowing slightly. “You still act like getting help means you’re weak.”

You opened your mouth to snap something back. Closed it.

He caught that too. You hated that he always noticed the things you didn’t say.

“Painkillers’ll kick in soon,” he said, softer. “Should help.”

You nodded faintly. Jaw tight.

And then he asked, gently, “It always hurt like that? When you’re injured?”

The way he asked—low and careful—told you exactly what he meant.

You stared at him. “You mean being mutant?”

He didn’t flinch, but his jaw tensed.

You breathed in slow. “Not always. Depends what kind of injury. Mutant healing slows it down. Makes it messy.”

“Messy how?”

“Like… you feel better for a few hours. And then your body remembers it’s supposed to still be broken.” You gave a thin smile. “Surprise. Still hurt. Plus, my body is not in my prime years. Healing is slower than before.”

He huffed through his nose. “That sounds like hell.”

You shrugged with your good shoulder. “You learn to live with it.”

He was quiet again. Watching.

And then, “That why you don’t sleep much?”

You stilled.

He tapped his metal fingers against his knee once, twice. “You walk around at night. I hear you.”

You didn’t know what to say to that.

“You’re not the only one who doesn’t sleep,” he added, eyes lowering to his hands. “But most people don’t pace three laps around the atrium and then stand by the window like they’re waiting for something to come back.”

Your throat felt dry.

Bucky looked up, eyes softer than you expected.

“I’m not trying to make this a thing,” he said quietly. “I just… see you.”

And that, somehow, made it worse.

You weren’t used to being seen like that. Not here. Not by someone who’d spent the better part of the last few years barely tolerating your existence.

You licked your lips. “I didn’t ask for backup.”

“No, you didn’t,” he agreed. “You never do.”

That stung.

“I’m not broken.”

“I didn’t say you were.”

Your breath caught in your throat. You hated how much heat suddenly sat behind your eyes. You blamed the meds. Or the pain. Or maybe it was just years of keeping your distance coming back to bite you.

Bucky rose slowly, still watching you. Then he held out a hand.

You frowned. “What?”

“I’ll walk you the rest of the way.”

You hesitated. Then placed your hand in his.

His fingers were warm. Steady. No pressure.

Just presence.

You stood carefully. He didn’t let go until you were fully upright.

The walk back to your quarters was quieter than before, if that was even possible.

He stood by the door, not coming in. Respecting the boundary. But you didn’t go in right away either.

“Thanks,” you said, not quite looking at him.

He nodded. “You need anything, just knock. Or shout. You’re good at that.”

A small laugh escaped you, worn and weak. “Careful, Barnes. That almost sounded like you missed my yelling.”

He gave you a lopsided grin. “Don’t flatter yourself. You’re annoying as hell.”

You smirked. “Takes one to know one.”

He tapped the side of the doorframe once. “Get some sleep, firefly.”

You watched him walk down the hall, shadows swallowing his figure as he disappeared around the corner.

And for the first time in weeks… you didn’t feel like the walls were closing in.

Not yet a confession. Not even close.

But something shifted.

Small. Subtle.

And you felt it.

—-

The next morning

You’d just managed to brush your teeth and tie your hair up—painfully slow with one arm and half your torso refusing to cooperate—when the knock came.

Two short taps. A beat. Then a third, impatient one.

You huffed, already knowing.

You opened the door and there he was. James Buchanan Barnes. Ex-assassin. Nightmare in boots. Tower’s quietest pain in the ass. Holding—

“Toast?” you asked flatly, eyeing the stack on a plate balanced in his hand.

He gave a lazy shrug. “Burnt one’s yours.”

You arched a brow. “Thoughtful.”

He smirked and lifted the thermos tucked in the crook of his elbow. “Also brought coffee. Maybe. Could be jet fuel. Didn’t check.”

“Charming.”

“Some say so.”

You stepped back with a dramatic sigh. “What do you want, Barnes?”

“I just told you. Toast. Coffee. Maybe mild harassment.”

“I didn’t ask for—”

He was already stepping in.

“Good thing I’m not good at taking hints.”

You grumbled under your breath and eased yourself onto the edge of your sofa. Ribs still complained with every breath, but at least your head wasn’t spinning anymore. Progress.

Bucky followed, setting the toast on the low coffee table, then handed you the thermos like it was sacred. You took it cautiously, twisting off the lid. The scent of strong, dark roast hit you in the face.

Your eyes narrowed. “This is actually decent.”

He gave a mock-bow. “I know how not to poison people. Mostly.”

You snorted.

He leaned against the wall with crossed arms, watching you sip with that irritating half-grin that said he was definitely waiting for praise.

You didn’t give him the satisfaction. “You hovering?”

“I’m observing.”

“Same thing.”

“Nope. One’s polite. One’s creepy.” He tilted his head. “Guess which one I’m being.”

“Definitely the second.”

He chuckled. “You wound me.”

You raised a brow. “Give me a minute. Still got one good leg.”

That made him laugh, loud and unexpected. It settled weirdly warm in your chest.

“I swear,” he said, shaking his head, “you could be half-dead and still mouthing off.”

“I’m not half-dead,” you muttered, chewing on a bite of toast. “Just fractured. There’s a difference.”

“Oh, forgive me,” he drawled. “Your ex could regenerate in five minutes and you’re sitting here with heat packs and grudge issues.”

You paused mid-chew. Glared.

His grin widened. “What? I’m not wrong.”

“Keep talking and I’ll throw this toast at you.”

“Please. I survived Hydra. I can take a carbohydrate to the face.”

You rolled your eyes but didn’t hide the amused flicker at the corner of your mouth.

He saw it anyway.

Bucky pushed off the wall and walked to your small window, gaze dropping out over the city. He was quiet for a moment. Still.

“You gonna be okay for the next few days?” he asked without looking.

You blinked. “What?”

He glanced back at you. “Just… you know. Tower’s quieter during off-week. Fewer missions. Less people around. Figured I’d check.”

You studied him. “You asking if I need babysitting?”

“Just making sure you don’t get bored and try to bench press Thor’s hammer or something while healing.”

You smirked. “Flattered you think I could.”

His look was dry. “You’d try.”

He wasn’t wrong.

“Yeah,” you said, voice dropping a little. “I’ll be fine. I got books. Music. Pain meds.”

He didn’t move from the window.

You sipped the coffee. “You offering to hang around or something?”

He shrugged, casual. “Just checking in.”

You squinted. “You’re weirdly good at that lately.”

“Don’t get used to it,” he replied. “I still find you irritating.”

You raised your toast like a glass. “Cheers. Mutual feelings.”

But the warmth in your chest was still there. Tucked between caffeine and crackling sarcasm.

He didn’t stay much longer. Said something about needing to meet Sam for recon debrief, which you doubted. But he left the rest of the toast and gave you a look before going that felt like— something.

—-

You weren’t expecting anyone.

You were halfway into considering whether to risk a nap or a shower when another knock came.

Gentler this time. Measured. Familiar.

You opened the door with your good hand and blinked at the sight of Steve Rogers standing there, holding a tray with two plates balanced like some polite 1940s butler. Sandwiches, roasted chicken, and mashed potatoes, the steam still curling gently in the cool hallway air.

“Hey,” he greeted with a soft smile. “Didn’t think you’d want to sit in the mess today.”

You tilted your head. “Is this a pity visit?”

“It’s a ‘don’t let your ribcage kill you before you get real food’ visit,” he countered gently.

You stepped aside. “Come in, Cap.”

He walked in like a breeze, quiet and respectful, setting the tray down on your coffee table with care. No snide remarks, no teasing jabs. Just that solid, grounding energy he always carried—like he could anchor the whole damn building with a look if he wanted.

You eased down on the sofa with a groan, clutching your side out of reflex. Steve silently handed you the plate with the bigger sandwich.

You eyed it. “This looks suspiciously healthy.”

He smirked. “No bacon. But I had them add cheese.”

“Bold move.”

The silence that followed wasn’t awkward. It was… considerate. He didn’t hover or fuss. Just picked at his food slowly, taking the seat across from you and giving you the space to breathe. Your ribs thanked him for it.

“Bucky said you gave him hell this morning,” he said finally, like a question wrapped in a chuckle.

You raised a brow. “That supposed to impress you?”

He grinned. “Not surprised. He likes to act like he doesn’t enjoy the company.”

“He brought toast and coffee.”

Steve's brows lifted. “That’s practically a love letter.”

You groaned. “Don’t start.”

He held up his hands in surrender, still smiling. “Just saying. You bring food, it means something.”

“I’m injured. I think it was just guilt.”

“Sure,” he said slowly. “Let’s go with that.”

You narrowed your eyes. “Why are you really here, Steve?”

He leaned back, sandwich halfway gone. “Because you’re stuck inside with no healing factor and too much pride to ask for help. Because Bucky can’t check on you too often without you both throwing punches with your words. And because I figured you’d actually let me sit here without trying to poison me with sarcasm.”

You swallowed a piece of chicken and squinted. “...That sounded dangerously like a compliment.”

“Maybe,” he said, sipping his water. “You’re not that hard to figure out, you know.”

“Oh really.”

“You lash out when you’re hurting. You shut doors when you’re scared. You overwork, overthink, and pick fights with Bucky because he’s the only one who dishes it back.”

You stared at him.

He shrugged. “Doesn’t take a genius. Just someone paying attention.”

You leaned back carefully, the mash doing its slow magic in your stomach. “You always play therapist when someone’s benched?”

He smiled faintly. “Only the ones who matter.”

Something caught in your throat, but you swallowed it down with water.

He didn’t push. He just finished his sandwich in peace, helped you shift the tray aside when you were done, and then quietly stood.

“You need anything—anything—you call me. Don’t make me send Thor to drag you to medbay.”

You smirked. “He’d enjoy that.”

“He would. Don’t give him the satisfaction.”

You nodded slowly, still not sure how to say thanks without it sounding weird. But he seemed to understand anyway.

Steve paused at the door, glanced back.

“He does care, you know. Even if he sucks at showing it.”

You didn’t answer. Didn’t need to.

The door clicked shut softly behind him.

You sat there, tray still warm beside you, ribs aching a little less, chest full of something you couldn’t quite name.

—

You were brushing your teeth when it happened.

Still in that same oversized hoodie, hair up in a loose knot, face scrubbed clean and the world mercifully quiet—until three knocks came. Not rhythmic this time. Not polite. Just… impatient.

You sighed. “If this is another toast-and-coffee peace offering—”

You opened the door mid-sentence.

And froze.

Bucky stood there. His black T-shirt clung to his chest, his hair slicked back. There was no tray. No sarcastic smirk. No witty jab waiting to launch.

Just eyes locked on you, blue and stormy. And something… heavy sitting behind them.

“Barnes—”

“I can’t do this anymore.”

The words landed like a punch, right between the ribs. Not the fractured ones. The deeper ones.

You blinked. “What the hell are you talking about?”

“This,” he said, motioning vaguely toward you, the door, the narrow air between your bodies. “This back and forth. You picking fights. Me giving it back. You pretending like you hate me just to keep a wall up, when I know damn well that wall’s already cracked.”

You opened your mouth to fire something back—anything—but nothing came out. His voice was hoarse. Unsteady. Not angry. Just… tired.

“You’re not the only one who can’t heal fast, y’know,” he muttered. “Just ‘cause I don’t bleed the way you do doesn’t mean I’m not wrecked underneath. But you—” He ran a hand through his wet hair, exhaling hard. “You make it worse. You make me want things I thought I didn’t get to want anymore.”

You felt your breath catch. Hard.

“I’ve been through too much to keep pretending I don’t care about you,” he added. “And you—you act like you hate me, but then you keep my coffee order in your head, and you cuss at anyone who touches me in a fight, and you stole my sweatshirt last month even though you swear I’m the last person you’d share air with.”

He took a step forward. Your fingers curled on the doorframe.

“So yeah. I care. And I’m done pretending I don’t. I don’t want toast and banter anymore. I want you.”

Silence. Thick and pulsing.

You didn’t speak. Not yet. You weren’t ready. Not because you didn’t feel it, but because the weight of hearing it aloud—raw, no shields, no armor—knocked the wind out of you in a way bullets never could.

“And I know you’ll probably say something mean now to deflect, because that’s what you do,” he added, tone softer now, almost resigned, “but I had to say it. Before I lose my nerve. Before someone else says it better.”

The weight of the words settled between you, raw and uneven, like freshly torn stitches.

Your heart was pounding.

Your ribs protested as you shifted, but you didn’t notice.

For a long second, you just stared.

“…You're a pain in the ass, Barnes.”

His voice was a low rasp. “I know.”

You leaned against the doorframe, eyes sharp but softening at the edges. “You’re serious.”

“I wish I wasn’t,” he muttered, and for once, there was no bite behind it. Just a tired truth. “Would make my life easier.”

You hesitated.

Then you stepped aside, still cradling your ribs, not looking at him.

The door clicked shut behind him with a soft finality.

Bucky stood in the middle of your room like he’d stepped into a war zone without backup—shoulders tight, expression unreadable.

You sat at the edge of the bed, trying to hide how gingerly you moved. It wasn’t the ribs this time—it was everything else. The part of you that wasn’t used to soft landings. The part that only ever learned how to brace for impact.

Bucky stayed standing for a moment. Like he didn’t want to cross a line, even now. Not after what he’d just dropped on you like live wire.

“I meant it,” he said finally, quiet but firm. “Everything I said.”

You looked at him—just looked. No jokes. No snide remarks. Just the subtle squint of disbelief in your eyes, like you were searching for cracks in his voice.

“There’s no angle here,” he added. “No mission, no slip-up, no guilt. Just… me. Telling you something I should’ve said before I realized I cared.”

Silence hung between you.

Then your voice came out lower than you meant, a rasp from something too tender to touch. “Why now?”

He stepped forward—carefully, like you were the injured one (you were), and this was hallowed ground (it was).

“Because I thought I could outrun it,” he said, crouching to your level, arms resting on his knees. “I thought… if I just pushed it down, got through another op, another mission, another fight—it’d stop. But you being benched? You in pain? Me not being able to do anything about it?”

His jaw clenched. His eyes flicked over your wrapped ribs like it physically hurt him to see.

“It gutted me,” he said, voice breaking on the edge of it. “Not because I think you’re fragile. Hell, you’ve always been tougher than me. But because I finally realized—I don’t want a world where I don’t get to check if you’re okay. Don’t get to fight with you. Laugh with you. Know you.”

Your throat tightened.

“I didn’t say anything before,” he said softly, “because I didn’t think I deserved to want something like this. You. Not after everything I’ve done. Not with what I carry.”

You leaned forward without thinking, forearms on your knees, face just a few inches from his. The ache in your ribs flared, but you ignored it.

“You think I’m clean, Barnes?” you said, voice barely above a whisper. “I’m a SHIELD asset with a mutation I don’t even like using half the time. I’ve seen my fair share of ugly. Been it, too.”

He didn’t flinch.

“That’s not what I see,” he said.

“What do you see, then?” you asked.

He didn’t hesitate. “Someone who never backs down. Someone who pushes me to be better even when I want to throttle you. Someone who sees through all the armor I put up and calls me out anyway.”

You exhaled shakily.

The silence felt different now. Heavier—but not suffocating. More like a weight shared.

“…You scare the hell out of me,” you admitted.

“Good,” he said, lips tugging in the smallest smile. “Because you scare the hell out of me, too.”

You huffed. A dry, broken kind of laugh. Then your voice softened. “You’re not saying this just because I’m stuck in bed and can’t run, right?”

“I’d say it if you were mid-air in a knife fight with a Hydra operative.”

“Don’t tempt me.”

He smiled. This time, wider.

Then carefully—like he was handling something fragile, like you were something fragile—he reached out, brushing his fingers over your hand.

“I’ll wait,” he said. “As long as it takes. I’m not going anywhere.”

You didn’t pull away.

Didn’t run.

Didn’t joke.

Just sat there. Breathing in sync with him, your hand in his.

—-

Healing took time. Not just for your ribs, but for the parts no one could wrap in gauze.

Bucky never rushed it.

He didn’t press, didn’t pry. Didn’t follow you around like a lost puppy or change how he moved when you entered a room. He still tossed sarcasm your way during training sessions, still rolled his eyes when you beat him at poker, still had the nerve to call your taste in movies garbage during group movie nights.

Which only made it worse. Or better. You hadn’t figured it out yet.

Because he wasn’t trying to win you over anymore. He already meant what he said. He was just there—quiet, steady, showing up every day, like it didn’t cost him anything.

You kept your distance. For a while.

Not cold, not cruel. Just cautious.

Because this—whatever this was—felt too important to screw up.

You weren’t used to soft. You were used to pressure, to action, to fights that ended bloody. And feelings? Feelings were a whole different battlefield.

But he never flinched when you got sharp.

Never bit back when you kept the walls up.

He let you have space… and stayed within reach.

Weeks passed. Your ribs finally stopped aching. You were cleared for the field again. Your strength returned, your mind steady. And slowly—one dry remark, one casual breakfast, one mission debrief at a time—you let yourself fall back into rhythm.

The banter between you two never stopped.

“Try not to get shot in the same spot next time,” he muttered as you returned from a solo recon op, brushing blood from your sleeve.

You smirked. “Jealous I get more attention from medical than you?”

“Oh, totally,” he deadpanned. “I live to be patched up by overworked med techs.”

“Please. You’d flirt with the heart monitor if it beeped the right way.”

Steve groaned from the corner. “Do you two ever speak like normal people?”

You and Bucky turned toward him in sync.

“What’s the fun in that?” you said together—then immediately pointed at each other in dismay.

“Stop that,” Steve muttered, walking off with a shake of his head.

You looked at Bucky. He looked at you.

Then you both laughed—quiet, but real.

—

It was another late night at the Tower.

Mission briefing in the morning, but everyone was still lounging in the common room, scattered across couches and beanbags. Tony had passed out half a bottle of wine ago. Clint was snoring against the far wall. Sam was arguing with F.R.I.D.A.Y. about the thermostat. Nat was reading, unmoving, with one eye open just in case.

You were next to Bucky.

Close.

Closer than usual.

And this time, you didn’t pull back when your shoulder touched his. When your leg rested against his. When your head dipped slightly toward his warmth.

He didn’t speak. He didn’t even shift.

He just… let it happen.

Your hand found his.

It was casual. Lazy, even. Fingers barely laced.

But he noticed.

You knew he did because he went still for half a beat. Then, slowly, he turned his palm to meet yours fully. Anchoring you there.

His thumb brushed yours once.

Nothing else was said. No glances, no jokes, no pressure.

Just that one small thing.

You exhaled. Long. Soft.

And leaned.

Not just physically. Not just against his side, warm and steady.

You leaned into what it meant.

Into the safety. The choice. The unspoken understanding that had grown and endured between two stubborn people who once couldn’t be in the same room without trying to kill each other.

Now?

You didn’t want to be anywhere else.

Not tonight and what come after. You ready for it.

should i do part 2 where the team found out they are together?

Bucky lovers Taglist:@pipo246 @ilovetaquitosmmmm @lovinqbella @hagiel29 @my-english-degree @imabsolutegarbage @lavbarnes @feynightlight @moonlessnight14 @nancybenson @putbloghere @cherrypieyourface @notsoliteraryavenger @starabellaa-reads @fanfictionecho @leysol @pollito-chicken @sflame15-blog @buckyinmyuniverse @rydbezz @katbarnes024 @differenttyphoonwerewolf @maplesyrizzup @buckysdoll85

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luciemggio · 13 days ago

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In the Flash of a Camera

Pairing: Sebastian Stan x Actress!Reader

Warnings: none

Summary: Actress reader meets Sebastian Stan on a red carpet. They start texting, then dating, sharing quiet moments and deepening feelings — until love unfolds naturally between them.

You’d done so many red carpets that they all started to blur — another flash, another step-and-repeat backdrop, another borrowed couture dress that made you feel like an exhibit in a museum.

But tonight was different. Because tonight, he was there.

Sebastian Stan.

Your publicist had already briefed you: he was attending to support a mutual friend’s film. He wasn’t promoting anything himself, just showing up to watch — low-key, relaxed, and, apparently, freshly single.

You spotted him before the photographers did, standing just off to the side in a classic black suit with a faint shine in the lapels. Hair tousled, hands in pockets, his signature smirk curving his lips as he talked to someone from Variety. He laughed — head thrown back, effortless.

Your publicist nudged your arm.

“Photos next to Sebastian would do wonders for your online engagement. Just saying.”

You raised a brow. “You mean wander over and strategically exist next to him?”

“I mean… if you happen to be in frame, I won’t stop you.”

You rolled your eyes, but as you moved into the next camera area, fate did the work for you. Sebastian turned, and your eyes met — for just a beat — but he held your gaze.

You tilted your head, giving him a warm smile.

He gave you a nod and then — unexpectedly — said something to the photographer.

A minute later, a voice near you said, “Hey — would you mind? One shot with Sebastian and [Y/N] together?”

You glanced at him. “You planned that?”

He chuckled under his breath. “Only a little. Figured I’d rather smile at you than twenty strangers.”

You laughed, stunned at how easy he made it feel. He leaned slightly toward you as the flashes went off.

“Hi,” he said lowly, lips barely moving. “You smell really nice, by the way.”

You turned your face slightly toward him, voice just above a whisper. “That’s not fair. You’re charming and bold?”

“Only when I’m nervous.”

Another flash.

“What are you nervous about, Stan?”

His smile deepened. “That I’ll regret not asking for your number.”

You blinked, your smile rising uncontrollably. “Wow. That was good.”

He shrugged. “I’ve had time to practice.”

You leaned in slightly, as the photographers barked more directions. “You have your phone on you?”

He pulled it out of his pocket and held it up like a guilty kid. “Wouldn’t be caught dead without it.”

You slipped your number in, handed it back. “Text me. Or don’t. But if you don’t, I’ll just assume you’re afraid of me.”

“Oh, I am,” he said, grinning. “But I’m also very stupid. So I’ll text you anyway.”

Later that night, 12:47 AM

Unknown Number:

You were right. I was afraid. But then I remembered I’ve fought Winter Soldiers.

So how bad could texting a gorgeous woman be?

You smirked.

You flatterer. I thought you said you were nervous?

Still am. But this is the fun kind.

And what kind is that?

The kind where you stay up texting a stranger, hoping they’ll become someone important.

You didn’t answer right away. Your heart fluttered a little. He was good. But not performative. It felt honest.

How many other women are you texting right now with that line?

Only you.

And my mom, technically, but she just sent me a meme of a raccoon stealing a donut. So.

You laughed aloud in bed.

Okay. I believe you.

You free this weekend?

Maybe. Why?

Thought I could make you laugh in person too.

The First Date, you wore sunglasses and no makeup, just to test him. See how he’d react to the real version of you — no red carpet, no styling, just coffee and nerves.

He was already waiting outside with a to-go cup in hand, in jeans and a grey hoodie, baseball cap low on his forehead.

You walked up. “Well, look at us. Two celebrities pretending to be normal people.”

He grinned. “Speak for yourself. I’ve always been normal.”

You sat, pulling off your sunglasses. He looked at you a second too long.

“You look… unfairly good.”

“No makeup,” you said, raising your brow. “No filter. Are you scared yet?”

He leaned forward, elbows on the table. “No. Honestly, it’s worse. Now I’m really screwed.”

You laughed.

The conversation flowed — movies, bad press, growing up with immigrant parents, how hard it is to know who your real friends are once you get famous. He told you how he still gets nervous before auditions. You told him how you cry after every wrap day on a set.

“I hate endings,” you admitted. “Even when I know I’ll see people again. It always feels… final.”

He nodded, quietly. “Yeah. I get that. I never say goodbye on the last day. Just a ‘see you later.’”

“That helps?”

“Sometimes.”

You both lingered after your cups were empty. His phone buzzed — a manager reminding him of a fitting. He ignored it.

You touched your straw. “You can go if you need—”

“No,” he interrupted gently. “I want to stay.”

Weeks passed.

Texts turned into calls.

Calls into dinners.

Dinners into weekends.

Weekends into him falling asleep on your couch with his head in your lap while a dumb rom-com played.

He kissed you for the first time on a Tuesday. No big moment. Just standing in your kitchen while you were barefoot, laughing at something stupid he said.

“I’m going to do something, and you can tell me to stop if it’s too soon,” he warned, already leaning in.

You nodded, breathless. “Okay.”

His lips were softer than you expected. Confident, but not demanding. Like he’d been wanting to kiss you for days and was still surprised it was real.

You touched his jaw afterward, thumb brushing his cheek. “You always kiss like that?”

“Only when I really like someone.”

You blinked, still dazed. “Do you?”

His eyes searched yours. “I think I’m starting to.”

One month later, you were both on separate press tours — different continents, different time zones — but you stayed up every night to FaceTime.

One night, you answered in your hotel room with wet hair and pajamas. He was curled up on his couch, hoodie pulled over his face.

“I miss you,” he said, as soon as the screen lit up.

“I miss you too.”

He tilted his phone. “Come back soon?”

“I will.”

“Promise?”

“Cross my heart.”

He smiled, but his voice was quieter. “This feels… different. You feel different.”

You looked at him on the screen, messy and real and yours. “You do too.”

He hesitated. “We’re not rushing, right?”

“No,” you said softly. “But it also doesn’t feel slow. It just feels… right.”

He nodded. Then smiled again. “Okay. So, what happens next?”

You grinned. “Next? You finish your promo tour, I finish mine. We meet in New York. You pick me up at the airport in sweats. We eat pizza. And then… you kiss me again like that.”

He raised a brow. “Like that?”

You leaned into the screen. “Exactly like that.”

#sebastian stan x reader #bucky barnes #sebastian stan x you #bucky barnes x y/n #james bucky buchanan barnes #sebastian stan #sebastian stan fanfiction #bucky barnes fluff #marvel #bucky barnes angst

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that1geek06 · 9 months ago

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"English isn't my-"

Hush now my friend, and let me read the absolute beauty of a fic that you have bestowed this world and humiliated the first English speakers with

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godmadeaterribleerror · 4 days ago

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Don't You Know (You're Something Good)

Main Masterlist - Bucky Masterlist

Read on A03!

Tags: Bucky Barnes/Female Reader, friends to lovers, angst, fluff, love confessions, pining, shameless smut (blowjobs, fingering, p in v sex), no use of y/n, avenger!Reader

Summary: It's impossible to think that you could be worthy of him. That Bucky could ever want you back. But he's patient, and you're far more wrong than you think.

Author's Note: Request from @beatlesfcker6! I went. Insane. Enjoy!

Word Count: 17.7k

Your heart does a double step, whenever you see Bucky.

It started the way all crushes start. He’d been walking around, frowning at something on his phone, then dropped it with the most dramatic sigh in the world. His muscles had flexed, as he’d leaned down to pick it up. He’d glanced around to make sure nobody saw, his eyes had landed on you, and you’d given him a small smile.

He’d smiled back. It had been soft, but all teeth and a little light of amusement in his eyes.

He’d taken a step forwards, your heart had been beating a little too fast, and you’d vanished back into the shadows.

You’d watched him, as he looked around in confusion, trying to figure out where you’d gone. He wouldn’t find you. You’re too good at it.

Fading into the background. Where you didn’t have to be seen.

It’s something you’ve practiced your whole life. You’d call yourself an expert at it, if that didn’t sound more pathetic than anything in the world. People aren’t supposed to notice you. It’s better for your job that they don’t, better for your sleep, better for your brain that can’t stop seem to racing away from you with thoughts that nobody wants to hear.

And you’ve managed to go so, so long without being noticed. Years of flitting between shadows and watching from corners, content in only having the music in your headphones and book in your hands as company.

You see everything. You see Clint stealing Tony’s ice cream out of the fridge, and the subsequent rampage that follows. You see Natasha moving past you in the shadows, giving you a tiny nod but nothing more. Sometimes Peter stares at you, you smile back at him, and his eyes widen as he flushes and walks away.

They all know you’re there. They’ve all tried to talk to you, and you appreciate it, but it never helps the way they think. It only makes your skin feel like it’s being pricked with needles. Makes you wrap your arms around your stomach, hoping the shadows will get longer and save you from being seen.

You’re not make of sunlight and stardust like they are. You can’t command a whole room with a laugh—you don’t even laugh, you snort—and a few charming words that send everyone under a spell. You’re good at the missions, but that’s about it. And even then, it’s less good at them and more useful.

You’ve seen Bucky on about three, larger missions. Wearing a tactical suit, not bothering to keep his hair out of his face, carving through Hydra lines as if he’s just swimming with the tide. You’ve always watched him from the rafters—it’s your job to watch, so that’s not weird—and he’s always ruthless, but today there’s something more.

His jaw is clenched, and when bones snap, he tosses them to the side like they’re nothing but potato sacks.

There’s a cruel heat between your legs, and a misty fantasy of him tossing you around like that. But with more care, and another secret smile like with the phone.

It’s a pointless thought. In a sea of Gods and Heroes, you’re not going to be the one he chooses.

But it doesn’t stop the adoration, slowly starting to take root in your heart. Or the way it blooms when your see him rip a door off its hinges one second, then—as they reach the lab you’d been looking for—pick up a kitten with such tender care, holding in protectively in his hand as he marches around the lab.

“Bucky,” you hear Sam sigh, frowning up from his own lizards. “Just put it in the cages, man-“

“No.” He grunts, glaring down at the kitten. “It’s scared, I’m not putting it a freakin’ cage.”

“You’re acting like we’re not setting them free after-“

“Sam.” Bucky snaps, and Steve sighs from somewhere near the bunnies. “Keep saying stuff, and I’m going to throw the spiders at your face.”

You laugh. You can’t help it.

And Bucky hears it. Steve probably does as well, but he’s used to it. Bucky, though, is whipping his head around with a tight frown—the kitten still tucked so safely into his chest—and your heartbeat is in your ears.

His gaze lands on you, bright blue eyes seeming to pull you apart in a million ways, and his tongue flicks over his lips as you hold his stare.

Then he turns away, and you let out a long, slow breath of relief. You didn’t make it weird, and maybe it aches that he doesn’t want to look at you, but you’re really not expecting more. You’ll be fine. You can go home, maybe get lost in a daydream of that metal hand tracing over your features or his stern, deep voice humming your name, and not have to worry about if Bucky was disgusted by what he saw.

Fuck, what if he was disgusted by what he saw. What if he looked away because he didn’t want to look at you, and your heart is going to keep skipping while he only thinks of you as a weird, ugly, useless-

“Hey.”

It’s in your throat now. Your head whips to the side, and there’s Bucky. Still carrying the kitten, fallen behind Sam and Steve to walk with you.

He’s even more handsome up close. You can feel the heat, radiating off his body. There’s an itch in your fingers to reach out and touch him.

“Hi.” You whisper.

“Hey.” He grins at you, standing a little taller, and you flush.

“You already said that.”

“Uh, yeah. Guess I did.” He shifts the kitten into his metal arm, offering you his hand. “I’m Bucky.”

You stare at him. You don’t want to shake his hand. You’ll fall over.

But it would be rude not to.

You take Bucky’s hand for one quick shake, and it’s immediately a mistake. His hand fits so well in yours, and your swear you could feel little sparks flying up your skin at the contact, and his grip is firm enough you can already imagine it on your hips or thighs or neck or waist-

Bucky clears his throat, pulling away to rub the back of his neck, and you were shaking his hand too long. You made it weird. Even now, you can’t stop staring at him. He’s pretty. Sharp jawline and dark, attractive features, but pretty. There are lines on his brow you’d like to soothe with your fingers.

You don’t think you’re going to get the chance to touch him again, though. And if you do, it won’t be to soothe him, as if you could mean that to him. As if he’d turn to you for comfort.

“Do you have a name?” He asks, giving you an odd look, and at this point you might end up setting yourself on fire.

You tell him, and he stares at you for another second, repeating it back slowly—and it sounds so nice when he says it, and you’d like him to say it a million more times—before nodding, giving you one last grin, and jogging to catch up with Sam and Steve.

It’s odd. You’re trying not to think about it.

But when you glance up, on the Quinjet, he’s looking at you again. He shouldn’t be looking at you. It’s making you feel warm everywhere, and you can feel your heartbeat in your fingers.

You give him another close-lipped, sweet smile, and stare at your hands, hoping that will make this rush stop.

It doesn’t.

Is he still looking at me? You whisper to the shadows, lining the Quinjet walls, and they hum back to your ear.

Yes.

Fuck.

———

It’s as if floodgates are opening. Bucky won’t stop showing up, wherever you look, and it’s going to give you a heart attack.

A heart attack you’ll welcome, as long as it involves Bucky being near you.

Even it won’t really mean anything, when you fall down and nobody bothers to pick you up.

“Hey, creeper.” Tony waves you over one night, after one of his fancy let’s all celebrate how we’re the Avengers parties. “Stop lurking and come talk to us like a person.”

“I, um-“

“I did not spend thousands of dollars on lighting just for you to stand in the corner and talk to shadows the whole night.” Tony gives you another, slightly firmer wave. “Come here.”

You’d really rather not, but it doesn’t seem like you have a choice. It’s not that big a group anyway. Tony and his smug smirk, Steve—sighing and giving you an apologetic look as you shuffle over—Sam, and-

“Have you met Barnes yet?” Tony says, an almost taunting drawl lying under his tone. “He’s like you, but grumpier.”

Bucky scowls, but doesn’t speak. He’s just staring at the glass in his hand, his eyes flicking up to yours every few seconds, and this is something kind of beautiful nightmare. Everyone’s looking at you. You’re supposed to answer, but you’re going to say the wrong thing. There might be a world where you can just stare at Tony and they all give up on trying to talk to you, but then Bucky will think you’re weird.

That might be the worst thing in the world. You can feel your palms sweating from just the idea of Bucky frowning at Steve later, and asking who let the crazy girl join the team. You don’t have Nat’s looks and charm. Don’t have Bruce’s intelligence to pair with your powers. You’re just you, and you got lucky enough that Steve decided you were useful enough for the team.

They’re still all looking at you.

You’re going to throw up.

“I- I have.” You mumble, turning a bracelet on your wrist. “We’ve had a few missions.” You give Bucky another small, nervous smile. It seems to be all you can remember how to do. “Hi.”

“Hey.” He grunts. “You, uh- Hi.”

“You heard how her powers work, Barnes?” Tony drawls, shoving a fancy looking drink into your hands before seeming to materialize a new one for himself.

“No.” Bucky grunts. “You don’t hand out pamphlets, Stark.”

“She’s-“ Tony pauses, frowning at you, and you’d like to sink into the floor forever. “How does it work? Are you a shadow? Or just- One with them. Like the Lorax of darkness.”

“We’ve talked about this, Tony.” You chew on your lower lip, trying to look anywhere but Bucky as you answer. “I’m the Lorax of darkness.”

“So you speak for the shadows?” Sam jumps in, and Steve frowns at him.

“You’ve known her two years, you’ve never asked about the powers?”

“That’s rude, golden boy, I’m not just pokin’ you and asking how you run so freakishly fast-“

“Everyone knows how, Wilson,” Tony cuts in, and maybe if you’re fast, you can sneak away. “It’s very public information.”

Sam rolls his eyes. “Man, don’t tell me about the Smithsonian again-“

“I just think we all contribute to the legacy of the Avengers, and I contribute by making sure everyone knows all our great heroes-“

“What’s a Lorax?”

You start slightly, and Bucky’s suddenly right next to you. Smiling at you—mostly just in his eyes, but still painfully gentle in a way that’s going to make you explode—and muttering right in your ear as Sam and Tony keep arguing.

“It’s a, um- Children’s book?” You can’t look him in the eyes. He’s too pretty, and you haven’t earned that. “It’s about environmental conservation. The Lorax is a character who speaks for the trees.”

Bucky hums. He won’t stop looking at you. “So you… speak for the shadows.”

“Yeah.”

“What do shadows talk about?”

“Anything.” You shrug, watching the ice in your glass clink off the rim. “Gossip, mostly. They’re nosy little bitches.”

Bucky snorts, and you’re smiling. You can’t stop it. You probably look insane, but Bucky laughed for you, and it was a deep, rough sound that’s going to follow you into your dreams.

“What kind of gossip? Anything, uh- Juicy?” He bumps his shoulder with yours, and now you’re giggling.

“Not really. Everyone here is really bad at secrets, so most of what they tell me goes public like, five days later. They mostly just, um-“ You glance up at him, unable to help it, and his eyes are so blue. “They help me. I can fly, in really dark areas.”

“Huh.” He nods slowly, not breaking your gaze. “That how you got on the ceiling?”

“Yeah.”

“Oh.” He coughs, scanning over you so intently it might be searing into your skin. “That’s- Interesting. Are you- Uh- Do you like stuff?”

You frown at him. “Stuff?”

“Music. Or- Books.”

You’re not entirely sure what’s happening. Bucky’s face looks almost red, in the low lighting of the room. You don’t know what stuff you’re supposed to like, and you must be incredibly boring if that’s all he can think to ask.

It’s also quiet. Really quiet.

The fight has ended, and Steve, Tony, and Sam are all just staring at you now, and you’d like to maybe jump off a cliff.

Tony sighs. “God, this is pathetic to watch-“

“Tony-“

“Was it the Hydra animal mission?” Tony pushes on, ignoring Steve’s warning tone. “That you two met on? Were you there when he took the cat? Because I know you took the cat, Barnes, I don’t care how many times you say you found it on the grounds.”

Bucky narrows his eyes, and you tilt your head at Tony.

“What cat?”

“The cat.” He frowns at you. “God, not you too-“

“I don’t remember a cat.” You say, trying to make yourself a little taller than you are. “There were about twenty lizards, a few puppies and rabbits, and a bunch of bugs. Sam swallowed one.”

Sam scowls. “I only swallowed it because Barnes fuckin’ tossed it at my face-“

“He’s going insane.” Bucky shrugs, giving you another unreadable look. “You see everything, right doll? Were there any bugs?”

Oh.

Your heart is trying to beat out of your chest, because doll. He called you doll. And he said it so smooth, with a small twitch of his lips and all his attention. You’re doll. It might just be part of whatever game he’s playing with his friends—that you’ve been pulled into, like a surprise witness—but you’re doll for it, and you’d love to keep that. Even if it’s just a momentary illusion to fuck with Sam and Tony, for a second, you were treasured enough to Bucky to be doll.

“I didn’t see any bugs leave their containers.” You shrug, holding his gaze. “Or any cats.”

Bucky grins at you, and your heart seems to be hitting a rapid pace that’s going to pound right out of your chest. He must be looking at you because there’s something wrong with your face. That’s the only plausible explanation.

But he’s still looking at you, and grinning.

Even as you manage to excuse yourself, and vanish back into the corners of the crowd. You don’t see Bucky for the rest of the night.

But he keeps seeing you.

In the gym, Bucky’s suddenly there whenever you go to try and train. Shirtless and sweaty, metal arm shining and muscles flexing with every movement. You have to leave early five times in a row, because it’s distracting, and you keep imagining your face pressed into his chest as those huge arms wrap around you. During briefings, Bucky’s suddenly across from you all the time, rather than at the front with Steve. He’s probably just trying to avoid Tony—who’s still caught on the cat thing—but it means you can’t look up from your papers without Bucky being there, and your heart doing it’s stupid little kickdrum beat.

He’s in the garden, whenever you try to do your nightly walk. Wandering aimlessly and staring at all the flowers. You’re developing a bad habit of asking the shadows where he is, at any given point during the day, and they’re not being very helpful.

The handsome one is near you again.

You look up from your book, frowning at the air. I didn’t ask-

You should know. They hum. He’s sweet. We like him. You should talk to him.

Where is he?

In the hallway. Pacing.

You sigh, and shake your head, looking back to your book.

They keep bothering you about talking to him. Keep telling you where he is, until almost half your thoughts are dancing around pretend conversations where you do go to him, and you somehow end up making out against the wall. One of his hands on your ass and the other resting gently on your throat, maybe his rough, deep voice humming your name and his body pressed comfortably over yours-

You wander into the kitchen, lost in the daydream, and the shadows didn’t fucking warn you this time.

Bucky’s at the islander counter, cutting up a cucumber at the slowest pace you’ve ever seen.

“Hi.” He grins at you as you walk in, and you freeze in the doorway. “Salad.”

“I-“ You gape at him, your face far too warm. “What?”

“Salad.” He nods to the cucumber. “I’m makin’ one.”

“Why?” You’re blurting again, without thought, and Bucky frowns down at the cutting board.

You’re making it weird.

“I dunno. Steve and Nat wanted one, and I, uh- I said I’d do it. So now I’m doing it.” He shrugs, flipping the knife in his hand, and you feel a little dizzy. “Do you want something else?”

You shake your head. It’s not your salad. It doesn’t really matter what you want. “I’ve got my sandwich,” you mumble, and he frowns.

“Alright. You eat here, I don’t need the whole counter-“

“It’s okay.” You try not to brush past him, on the way to the fridge.

It doesn’t work. Your shoulders bump, and now you’re lightheaded from the rush.

“Thanks.” You give him a tight smile, clinging to your sandwich like it’s a lifeline, then sprint out of the room before you can make it worse.

There must be someone out to get you. Trying to make your heart kick into a high enough overdrive to kill you, or playing a cruel game where Bucky is everywhere, and you don’t get to have him.

“There’s another Tony-mandated press event.” Natasha smiles at you a few days after the kitchen incident, and you stare at her with wide eyes. “You want to go shopping with me? For an outfit?”

“I, um- I have clothing already-“

“Yes, but this is an excuse to get more.” She takes your hand, giving you a well-designed, sweet smile. “It will just be you, me, and Wanda. Easy. We’ll spend all of Starks money and go home.”

You swallow, and there isn’t really a choice here. Saying no to Natasha is the most terrifying thing to do in the world, and you’re going to spend the whole time staring at the mirror—trying to will your body into a different shape with your mind—but at least you can maybe walk away with something more flattering, using Wanda and Nat’s fashion skills. It won’t be horrible. Just a long, tiring afternoon with free food.

So you give him. And Nat gives you a squeeze of your arm and a smile you don’t understand, before starting to drag you out of the common room.

“Wait, now?”

“The event is in a month.” She shrugs, stopping in front of one of Tony’s fancy cars. “But I have a mission, then you have a mission, then we all have things. We have to go now, if we don’t want to be running around like idiots in the morning.”

There’s some logic to that, but something about this feels off. Maybe it’s that Nat lets you pick the music on the drive, or her finger keeps tapping on the wheel. Her phone keeps buzzing, but it’s face down, and it would be rude for you to look at the screen.

She didn’t wait for Wanda to join you.

And when you pull up to the curb, in front of the store, your eyes narrow on the street in front of you. That’s Sam’s truck.

“Nat,” you mutter, the shadows in the car starting to grow longer as you take long, slow breaths. It’s fine. You’re going to be fine.

“Hm?”

You shoot her a glare. “You said it was just us.”

“And Wanda.” She shrugs, turning off the car. “I said Wanda, too.”

“Then why-“

“Because I lied.” She doesn’t sound very fucking guilty about it, and the shadows are starting to move over your thighs, trying to shield you from view.

They’re going to see you. Everyone’s going to see you, and think things about you that you don’t want to see on their faces, and if Sam’s here, that means Bucky’s here.

He can’t see you. You won’t be able to think or speak clearly as long as you know Bucky might be looking at you. And it’s not like he’s never seen you wearing formal clothing before, but this is different. This is intimate, with all your friends, trying things on to see how you look.

You just won’t go to the party at all. Tony can yell at you all he wants, you don’t want to see Bucky staring at you, silently judging how you look in a too-tight dress, being too much of a gentleman to tell you that you should stick to baggier pants and shirts-

“Hey.” Nat takes your hand, her voice impossibly firm. “Breathe. I didn’t want to lie, but you wouldn’t have come otherwise-“

“But you could go without me- I’ll just stay in the car-“

“No. I want you to hang out with us.” She sighs. “We all want you to. If you hate it, I’ll let you punch Sam.”

You blink at her. “Sam?”

“Yeah. I’ll hold him, you punch. We can do that even if you have fun.” She raises her brows. “Alright? Because you either come into the store and eat all the free shrimp, or I make everyone take rotating shifts to keep you company. Like a dog.”

“Or I could sit in the car alone-“

“You can sit in the shop alone. With free shrimp.” She sighs, holding your gaze. “Please.”

That makes the shadows retreat, if only out of shock. Nat doesn’t say please for almost anything, let alone to beg for something. Something as stupid as you, going shopping with her.

“Oh- Okay.” You sigh. “Fine. You win.”

“Good.” Nat lets out a slow breath. “Let’s go, we’re like ten minutes late. Steve’s going to start trying to get me to buy a watch again.”

Steve. Steve is here.

Which means Bucky’s probably here as well.

And everyone falls silent, when you and Nat walk up to them. You’re trying to stay behind Her, but it doesn’t seem to be working. Sam says your name with a grin, clapping a very rigid Bucky on the shoulder, and you’d like to go back to the car now.

“You made it,” Wanda smiles at you, and you try to return it, but you see yourself in the mirror, and you look insane. “Come, I’ve been looking for things you will like.”

She almost drags you away, before the rest of them can see anything, and suddenly you’re behind a curtain and everything is quiet.

You take a loud, stuttering breath, and Wanda sighs.

“I am sorry.” She hums, turning a dress on a hanger. “I told them this was a bad idea.”

You frown at her. “What?”

“You know of my powers.” She murmurs. “I try not to invade, but- You are very loud. In here.” She taps her head, and you flush.

She knows. Of course she knows. She can see into your mind, see how you’re just some vermin among gods, and you’re pining for something on a mountain when you’re barely even good enough for the dirt-

“That is not true. You are not vermin.” She frowns at you, and you wrap your arms around your gut.

“Can you- I know you can’t help it, but-“

“My apologies.” Wanda sighs, looking back to the dress. “But he does not know. And I will not tell. I just thought you might want to not be there.”

“I didn’t.” You mumble, pressing your back against the wall. “Thank you.”

She shrugs, looking back to the dress, and you want to ask it. You don’t want the answer, but it’s still itching at your tongue, and at least you’ll be able to give up-

“I do not know.” Wanda says suddenly, pulling the dress off the rack. “I am not part of their circle, I am only here because Natasha thought it would lure you.”

“Oh-“

“And Bucky’s mind is…” She trails off, shaking her head slightly. “Guarded. He does not let any thoughts slip where I can hear them. But if you are asking my opinion, as a friend.” She gives you a small smile. “I think you are beautiful, and sweet. And he is not blind. He tries to speak to you. That is more than others.”

More than others.

You can take more than others. Beautiful, you don’t believe, because you’ve never believed it. When people call you that, it’s a trick or a lie. They want something, or they’re trying to cheer you up, and it doesn’t count.

But if Bucky talks to you more than others, there’s at least a shot, no matter how blind. You could be his friend, and nothing more. You could be a ghost he likes to talk to more than the skeletons under his bed. There when he needs it. Trying to touch him, but simply not capable of it.

And you’re going to hold onto it under you’ve strangled it.

“Hey-“ The curtain swings open, Natasha grinning at you from the other side. “Did you try on Wanda’s dresses?”

“Not yet-“

“We’ll come back.�� She grabs your arm pulling you out of the dressing room. “If you don’t like what I found for you. Which you will.”

You glance back at Wanda, and she smiles at you before you vanish.

And Nat found you a lot of dresses. You ask the shadows—while she’s letting you change—and they say she’s got twenty more in a closet somewhere. And you don’t really have an opinion of any of them, but Natasha has about a thousand. Apparently, you look hot in all of them, but she’s looking for the one that dazzles.

“What does dazzles mean.” You mutter, fidgeting with the skirt, and she sighs.

“You’ll know when we find it.” She shrugs. “Try on the pink one.”

You do. And then the blue one. Then the lace one. Then the other pink one. And none of them—according to Natasha—dazzle.

But this one.

This one is nice.

The others felt too tight, or too frilly, or too itchy. But this one doesn’t make you want to shrink into yourself, or maybe peel off your skin and see if there’s someone better underneath. It’s just nice. Feels good.

And when you walk out, Natasha grins at you, sitting up a little taller.

“This.” She takes both of your hands, squeezing them tight. “This is dazzles. Let’s go.”

“Go?” You stumble back, shaking your head. “Can I- The dress-“

“It looks great! I want to show off what we did-“

“Natasha.” You swallow, your arms going back around your stomach at your breathing picks up. “Please. I don’t want to.”

She frowns, crossing her arms over her chest and scanning you up and down. “Why?”

You shrug. “I think you know.”

You have no fucking idea if she knows. But whatever she thinks she knows is going to get you out of this.

And it does. Nat sighs, glances down at her phone, then back to you.

“Okays. I’m- I didn’t mean to make it. This.” She waves around the room, then at you, and it’s the closest you’ll get to an apology.

You’ll take it. “It’s okay. Just- I can’t.”

“Yeah, I know.” She pauses. “Do you want to get the lunch I promised you? Just us?”

“And Wanda.” You add quickly, and her lips twitch.

“Sure. You guys meet me out front, and I’ll tell the boys they can fit Bucky for a suit by themselves.”

You nod, rubbing your sides and trying not to think about Bucky in a suit. Strong. Ripping through the seams of it and cleaned up so nice, you want to see how fast he can get dirty again.

But you can’t. There’s a shot, and if Bucky sees you like this—wearing a dress that you have no right to, panicking and trying to shrink into yourself—you’ll miss.

All you have to do is be his friend.

And that can’t be that hard. He keeps showing up everywhere, his face even on Natasha’s screen as he tries to call during your sorry for making you have a panic attack lunch.

“Are you guys close?” You ask, poking your straw around the glass and Nat frowns at you.

“Me and who?”

“Barnes.” You can’t sound bitter about it. That’s insane. “He’s calling you.”

“Oh, Bucky just wants an update on some work I’m doing for him.” She waves her fry casually through the air. “Wanda’s worked with him more.”

“He is wary of me.” Wanda shrugs. “But I am new, and he trusts me enough to not look very hard for a weapon, when I enter a room.”

You frown. “He does that?”

“Yeah.” Nat shrugs. “Old Red Room training.”

“Oh. I’ve- Never noticed that.”

“I know you haven’t.” Nat smirks at you, and before you can ask what the fuck that means, she’s talking again. “What do you think of him?”

“Of-“

“Barnes.”

You stare at her, and you’d like to go back about ten minutes and never start this conversation. That was a really fucking stupid move for you to make. Now they’re both looking at you, and you’re painfully aware of the flush on your face and way that your hair and how, if Bucky walked in now, he wouldn’t even spare you a glance-

Wanda clears her throat, giving you a gentle look.

Too loud.

You’re being too loud, and not answering the question for way too long.

“I like him.” You mumble, focusing your gaze on Nat’s nails. They’re red. Shiny. Yours are just kind of there. “He’s nice.”

Nat nods slowly, and that seems to be the end of Bucky talk. The conversation moves to a TV show you’ve all watched, and you might be out of the woods.

But Bucky is everywhere.

And all his friends suddenly seem very interested in hanging out with you.

“Did you do anything interesting last night?” Steve asks you in the kitchen, and you’d nearly choked on your yogurt.

“Not really.” You whisper, starting at a little bit of granola, trying to drown itself.

You understood the feeling.

“I went for a walk. Looked at the gardens. Watch some TV.” You gave Steve a tight smile. “Did you do anything?”

“Yeah, Buck and I started measuring out his apartment, we’re trying to find what furniture he’ll want.” Steve’s tone turns soft, and your hands curl on your spoon. That wasn’t a good sign. “Do you want to come with us? I think you and Bucky would be friends-“

“No!” You sit up too tall, your words a little too loud, and Steve blinks. “It’s- I mean, you might be right, and Bucky is great, but I- I’ve got three reports to write and- Yeah. Have fun!”

You almost run from the kitchen. You know you were talking too fast, and Bucky is more than great, but you can’t fucking go shopping with them. Not again. You’ll say something or do something or just stand in the wrong corner, and they’ll never want to speak to you again.

But that doesn’t stop anyone from trying to get you to do something. Getting lunch. Watching a movie. Sam just corning you and talking about flowers for fifteen, very strange and long minutes.

You’re not sure what’s going on. Nothing’s different than it was before, when they left you to your shadows and gave you tight smiles in the halls. But now Natasha’s sitting next to you in briefings, and Sam keeps grinning at you, and Bucky-

He’s not looking at you at all. He’s staring at his hands, braced on the table, and shooting Sam a glare every few seconds.

He’s only tried to talk to you a few times, in the past few weeks.

And both times won’t stop playing on loop in your brain.

“What’s your favorite book?” He’d materialized behind you in the gardens, and you’d nearly jumped out of your skin.

Your heart has still done its stupid little flutter, and it’s had kicked into a high beat when Bucky had steadied you, swearing under his breath.

“Shit- Sorry, doll, you alright-“

“I like books.” You’d said, your hand splayed on his chest—he was warm, and strong, and you’d had to yank yourself away like you’d been burned—and voice far too breathy to be normal.

“I know, uh-“ He’d cleared his throat. “What books?”

“Books.” You might have been about to explode. “About dragons.”

You’d run, after that. And then the second time as well, when he’d told you that you were paired together on the mission.

“Sorry,” he’d said, giving you a grimacing smile before turning away.

Sorry.

He’d been sorry. That you were paired together.

And you couldn’t figure out why. It’s not even that hard a mission.

“I’d rather this be in and out, guys.” Steve says, in his captain stance at the front of the room. “We’re in teams of two, which means you should all be retrieving one thing. Sam and I will have two, but I’m the Captain-“

“Oh, he’s the Captain.” Tony drawls, and Steve sighs, pinching the bridge of his nose.

“You can take the double duty if you want, Tony.” Nat hums, legs on the table. “Wilson just drew the short stick.”

Sam frowns. “I wanted to go to safe house three, but- Oof.”

Nat had elbowed Sam right in the gut, and before anyone could keep talking, Steve was clearing his throat.

“No trades. I made the teams like this for a reason-“

“Sounds like the reason is Wilson losing a bet-“

“-And we’re going to stick to them.” Steve looks around the table, pointedly ignoring Tony’s comment. “We’ve got back up on standby, in case any of us bite of more than we can chew. Ready?”

There’s a grumble of acknowledgment, and everyone starts to stand up and make their way to the Quinjets. There are seven safe houses overall, so you’ll have to take separate flights to get to each one.

Which means you’re flying with Bucky.

Who still won’t really look you in the eye.

He gives you a tight smile as he climbs into the ship, but it doesn’t really reach his eyes. Then he’s punching in the coordinates with the force of a man who really doesn’t want to be in the same area as you for long, and sitting down without a word.

You’re staring at your hands, trying to figure out if it’s dark enough outside for you to jump, and just fly by yourself to the safe house. Bucky clearly doesn’t want to be here with you—you can’t blame him, you wouldn’t either—and the silence is a little too heavy over your chest. You don’t want to listen to music he might not, or try and talk to him, then say the wrong thing. Quinjets have game functions, but you might suggest you play the wrong game. And when you glance up at Bucky, he’s still not looking at you.

Playing a game would require looking at you. And he doesn’t seem to want to do that at all.

And now that you’ve looked at him, you can’t look away.

He’s pretty. So pretty. Hair falling slightly in his face, but softer looking than when he arrived at the compound. His tactical suit is perfectly fitted to his body, his gloved hand covering the cover of his book, and his brow pinched slightly as he reads.

He brought a book. That’s smart. You should’ve thought of that, but you didn’t, because you’re a fucking idiot-

Bucky shifts slightly, and you can see the cover over the book.

“I love that book.” You blurt, and Bucky looks up at you with an unreadable expression. “It’s- Really good.”

You’re going to jump out of the plane whether you can fly or not. Bucky’s staring between you and the book, and why isn’t it dark, there aren’t enough shadows to hide-

“It is good.” He says, and you blink. He’s talking to you. “I like it. Steve recommended it to me-“

“I recommended it to Steve.” You’re talking so fast, and Bucky’s lip twitches slightly.

“Yeah, doll. I know.”

“Oh. Cool.” You look back to your hands, picking at your nails, and the few shadows that had curled over your hands are starting to retreat. You can do this. You can talk to him and not make it weird, you can be his friend, you just have to say something-

“Sam told me this thing lets you play Uno.” Bucky cuts through your thoughts, and you look back up at him with wide eye. “I don’t know what that means, but it’s supposed to be a good thing.”

“It’s a game.” You mumble. “Do you- Want to play it?”

Bucky nods, setting the book aside, and you try to make your shaking breath as quiet as possible. It’s just a game. He’s not proposing.

But your heart won’t stop doing to flutter. And when Bucky grins at you, Tony’s very important mission game closet opening up from the wall, it’s nearly beating out of your chest again.

He’s helping, though. Bucky’s mostly just letting you take the lead, listening to you explain with a firm attention that burns into your, but doesn’t hurt, and smiling with bright eyes at your every attempted joke.

“So I just gotta run out of cards.” He mutters, scanning over the deal in his hand, and you nod.

“Yep. And I, um- I get competitive. So.” You swallow, staring down at your own cards. “Please don’t get mad at me if I call you a cunt.”

Bucky snorts, and it’s like something’s glowing in your chest. “I think we can get around that, doll. Who goes first?”

“You.” It’s a whisper, but he called you doll again.

And he won’t stop doing it. Talking to you. Looking at you. Grinning at you.

Something is happening where Bucky is talking to you like you’re not a burden, and you can’t tell if it’s a trick or dream, but fuck you don’t want it to be.

“Do you have a favorite animal?” He asks, and you shake your head.

“I like all of them. I tried to talk Tony into having, a, um- Zoo.” You flush slightly, playing your card. “He said that wasn’t possible or reasonable, but I could have a cat.”

Bucky hums, making his own play. “He likes you.”

You huff softly. “No, he doesn’t-“

“He likes you as much as Tony can like anyone.” Bucky shrugs. “You wanna see what Tony hatin’ someone looks like? Look at me.”

“He doesn’t hate you-“

“Yeah, he does. He didn’t say I could have a cat.” Bucky pauses. “Never thanked you for that, did I?”

“For what?”

“The cat thing.” It’s his move, but he’s not playing. He’s just looking at you, so fucking softly. “Meant a lot. You didn’t even know me.”

“Yeah, but-“ I might be in love with you, just a fraction, but more than enough to make me insane. “It’s whatever. She seems happy in your room. Healthy.”

“She is.” Bucky sits up a little taller. “How-“

“The shadows.” You shrug, poking him with your foot. “Your play, Buck.”

He stares at you for another long second, and you could swear his ears had turned a little pink by the time he looks back to his cards.

“So, uh-“ He coughs, looking intently between his hand and the pile. “Those shadows of yours. They just- Tell you anything they’re seein’?”

“Anything they think I should know about.” You shrug, making your own play. “I- um- I’m going to tell you something.” You glance up at him, chewing on your lower lip. “But please don’t tell the others.”

“Won’t say a thing.” He nods sharply, leaning further over the table. “Something wrong-“

“No, I just-“ You sigh. You shouldn’t tell him.

But you want to. You want him to like you. Trust you. Just keep looking at you like this.

“When I first moved into the compound.” You mumble, playing your card. “The shadows weren’t used to having me around people. And what they thought I should know what… everything.” You give him a tight smile. “I know a lot. About everyone. Very fast.”

Bucky frowns. “A lot-“

“Vision does have a synthazoid dick. And he and Wanda have been together longer than people think.”

Bucky stares at you, and he’s definitely red now. “Ah.”

“They don’t do that anymore.” You say quickly, watching him play his own card. “I promise. I trained them out of it fast, now they know what’s important and what’s private, they just decided that the cat was important, but anything else you do with, um- Anyone is- I wouldn’t know-“

“Breathe.” Bucky grunts, and you take a loud, deep inhale. “It’s alright, doll. I believe you. And I, uh-“ He frowns at the air, not meeting your eyes. “I don’t got anyone. Like that.”

“Oh. Okay.”

Bucky nods sharply, making his next play, before saying, “Alpine.”

You stare at him. “What?”

“That’s her name. The cat.” He sighs. “And she’s doin’ good. Thanks to you, lying to Tony.”

“Don’t worry about it.” You shrug, and you’re down to two cards now. “It’s really easy to lie to Tony.”

Bucky’s lips twitch. “You wanna meet her?”

“Yes, please.” You say it before you can over think it, and Bucky grins at you.

Wide, and real, and sort of world ending. You’re not sure if you’ve ever seen his grin grin, and it’s beautiful. Bright and toothy and filled with a quiet kind of light that would be really easy to get lost in.

You’re already lost in it.

You don’t kind of love him. You do. Just one stupid, full conversation, and it’s slamming into you without relent. More than just a crush. More than just an idolization of the strong, handsome man who loves animals.

It’s fluttering in your heart and spreading into the tips of your fingers. Warm and buzzing and comfortable.

And there are so many ways for you to say it. That it’s how every single thing you’re telling him, he’s nodding like it’s something to be memorized. How you’ve seen him block food he knows Steve likes from being taken by Clint, or the fact that once you saw him smell some flower in the garden. It could be how he’s dry but not cruel, and firm but not harsh, or maybe just the fact that he’s the kind of man who’d carry that kitten out of a lab like it was more important than the world.

But really it’s just this.

You’d like to see Bucky smile forever.

“Uno.” He places down a plus four with a slightly smug grin, and your eyes widen.

“You cunt.” You breathe out, still sort of under a spell, and Bucky laughs.

And that’s beautiful, as well.

You’re a goner. Just friends might be more than you can handle, and still so far from enough.

But as Bucky offers you his hand to get up, you’ll manage. He’s everywhere anyway. A least this way, he might keep grinning at you, touching you, and it will be more than anyone else.

Friends.

You can do friends.

———

The mission went well.

For you and Bucky.

You’d been in and out. Joking about almost nothing as you walked together through the safe house, your shadows alerting you of traps and Bucky always within reaching distance in case they missed one.

They did. Just a single tripwire that you stumbled over, and Bucky yanked you back from. His arm wrapped around your waist as he tugged you right into his chest, and spikes shot up from the floor.

“It’s like the Goonies.” Bucky had muttered, and you’d frowned.

“Not really, it’s more-“ You’d looked back at him with wide eyes. “You watched the Goonies?”

“Sam made me.” He’d frowned. “It was kind of fucked up.”

You’d hummed, then suddenly realized that Bucky was still holding onto you. Keeping you pressed against him, and you could feel his muscles flexing around you, rest your hand on his forearm, his lips barely inches away from yours-

He’d licked them.

And it was a habit you’d seen him do countless times, but it was different up close. You could see the pink of his tongue and wet of his spit, and you wanted to surge up and taste him-

You’d shoved away from each other at the exact same time. And as you’d stumbled a little too far back, Bucky had caught your hand and pulled you upright.

He’d held your hand for a long second after, a gloved thumb running over your knuckles.

Neither of you spoke about it. And when you’d retrieved your data, you’d just gone right back to the Quinjet, no disaster but how you could still feel the phantom of Bucky’s hand in yours.

Everyone else wasn’t as lucky.

You stepped into the hanger to find a lot of shouting, and a few drawn weapons. Apparently almost everyone else had fucked up somehow, and you were missing half the data you’d needed because of it.

“Just skip the debrief.” Steve had muttered, watching the rest of the team wearily. “You guys can take the afternoon, just get your post-report done before the end of the month.”

Bucky had decided to stay and help Steve, but you didn’t think you could handle being in the middle of this. Someone might yell at you, then you’ll start crying, and nobody will ever look you in the eyes again. But before you can get out of the hanger, Bucky’s calling your name. Grabbing your wrist and giving you a small grin, his thumb doing the thing again.

It’s like being struck by lightning.

“Uh- Good work.” He coughs, letting go of your wrist and drawing up to his full height.

You’d like to climb him.

You’re lucky he’s touching you at all.

“Do you wanna meet tomorrow? Do our report?”

You nod, trying to keep your voice as steady as possible. “Yes- I- That sounds good.”

Bucky nods, gives you another grin, then jogs back away, leaving you swaying slightly as you try to get a fucking grip. Friends hang out with each other. People who have mission reports to do also hang out with each other.

But he asked you.

And you don’t meet tomorrow. Or the day after that. The aftermath of the mission is being felt through the whole compound, and the week is crawling by, and Bucky’s always busy.

Or he’s not.

You lie flat on your back in your room, staring at the ceiling and taking deep breaths, trying to keep everything from spiraling. He’s just busy. Everyone’s busy. He didn’t realize that you’re not worth his time or attention, that he shouldn’t even be thinking about looking at you, that you can just do the reports slightly, and he regrets speaking to you ever, at all-

The handsome one wants you to know he is free now.

You frown, sitting up slightly. He wants me to know?

He turned off all the lights in his room. He is talking to the walls. He looks insane, but he is very instant we tell you he is free.

Free of what?

He did not tell us that.

You sigh, running a hand through your hair, and push off the mattress. Bucky doesn’t hate you. He was just busy, like you thought. And he wants you to know he’s free in his room.

Which doesn’t mean anything. It’s just a room.

Bucky’s room.

That you’re walking to, and you didn’t choose an outfit, and he’s going to take one look at you and kick you out into the hall-

The door opens before you can even knock, or turn around and run away. Bucky grins at you from the other side, and he’s not kicking you out.

He’s just smiling.

And you can do this.

“Sorry, I, uh- I heard you. Walking down the hall.” He steps to the side, glancing past you carefully. “You should get in before Alpine starts yelling.”

You nod, scrambling inside, and Bucky’s apartment is nice. It’s not cluttered, but not bare, and the kitten—now much larger—is blinking at you slowly from his bed.

He has a bed.

And you knew he had a bed, but it’s different to see it. To know that he sleeps there, and might have had other, better women in it. That he’d touched them with that metal hand, and they’d shivered, and those full lips had trailed down their bodies-

“Sorry it’s empty.” He’s frowning around the room at your side, and you have no fucking clue when he appeared next to you, but he’s there now. “I just started usin’ furniture again.”

“No, it’s nice.” You glance at Alpine. “Can I-“

“Sure. She’ll like you.”

Bucky says that like it’s a fact. As if there’s no chance at all that Alpine will lean back, when you offer her your hand.

And she doesn’t.

But you don’t understand why he has so much faith in that.

“Is this the stuff you got with Steve?” You ask, scratching Alpine’s ears as she starts to purr, and he frowns.

“Yeah, uh- It is. How’d you know about that?”

“Steve invited me.” You shrug, giving him an apologetic smile. “I was busy, sorry.”

“’S fine.” He mutters, still frowning and shooting a glare at the door. “Sorry. About him.”

Sorry.

“Why?” You ask before you can think better of it, and Bucky lets out a long, slow breath.

“I know you’re not-“ He’s still glowering at the door. You might be missing something. “Me.”

You blink at him. “Huh?”

He shakes his head, looking down to the floor. “I know you’re not- I know you don’t like being- It’s not you-“

“Bucky-“

“I’m sorry if they’ve been makin’ you uncomfortable.” His voice raises slightly, and you’ve missed something. He looks distressed, but you’re not even sure what’s happening.

“Who?”

“Natasha.” He mutters, and Alpine stretches, jumping off the bed to go rub at his ankles. Bucky sighs, kneeling to pet her as he continues. “Steve. Sam. They were tryin’ to, uh- They like making friends. And I told them to back off, but even Steve- Never mind. Sorry.”

You still feel sort of lost. You know they were trying to be your friend. You don’t understand why, but you also can’t begin to understand how any of that is Bucky’s fault.

“It’s okay.” You say anyway, because he looks so sad. Staring at Alpine with a deep frown, a sort of weight seeming to make his shoulders hunch and head bow.

It’s aching, to watch him like that.

You just want to make it better.

“I didn’t mind, Buck.” You let out a soft laugh. “I sort of feel bad for them. Trying to like me is hard.”

Bucky’s gaze shoots up to yours, and there’s something in his gaze that’s blinding. Firm and unyielding, driving right into you and making you stand a little taller.

“No, it’s not.” His tone is almost strict, and you blink at him.

“Wha-“

“Liking you isn’t hard.” He looks back down to Alpine, letting out another slow breath as his tone drops. “It’s actually pretty damn easy.”

“Oh.”

You sound like an idiot. He’s wrong, you know he’s wrong, but for some reason you can’t really prove it to yourself. Bucky isn’t the type to lie, just to make you feel better. You’ve heard him call Sam a bird-assed-feather-dick for messing with the Quinjet controls, and refuse to apologize after. But he’d apologized to you. And he’d said that like it was real. Like it was something critical for you to know.

And you don’t know what to do with that.

It’s making you glow again. And you want to say something back, like how not everything is Bucky’s fault, but you can’t find the words without sounding like you’re insane. They all end with I love you, so I’d never be uncomfortable as long as I was next to you. And you can’t say that. I’ll make it weird. And there’s no way he’ll feel it back, so you’ll just be losing whatever fragile thing you’re building here.

Where Bucky’s letting you into his room. Letting you pet his cat.

Letting you further into his life.

“You wanna go get lunch?” Bucky asks suddenly. “We can eat, then do the report. If you want- We don’t gotta-“

“I’d like that.” You whisper, and Bucky grins at you again. “Where do you wanna go?”

“Wherever you’d like.” He shrugs, pushing to his feet. “Long as you think it’s good, I trust you.”

You wrinkle your nose at him. “What if I take you to eat snail.”

“Then I’ll eat a snail, doll.” He drawls, and you’re dizzy again. “C’mon. We can talk about dragons books.”

———

Bucky isn’t just appearing everywhere anymore. He is everywhere.

But mostly because you’re seeking him out, and he’s doing the same for you.

You’re friends. Real friends. And after you managed to swing the only success on the mission, you’re paired together for everything.

He eats lunch with you. Tells you about what he’s reading, in exchange for your own recommendations. Sits next to you on the Quinjet, lets you hold Alpine, and sometimes even joins you on walks. Sometimes he’ll help you spar, and you get to see him shirtless. Sweating and focused and strong and big, and when he grins at you, it’s a miracle you don’t fall to your knees.

He’s been talking to you more than anyone else at all, lately. You’ll be making dinner with him in the kitchen, and Tony will let out a low whistle as he walks past you. If you’re on a mission, Sam will grumble that he’s third wheeling, even though you’re the one that probably shouldn’t be here.

Everyone can probably see it. How Bucky shouldn’t be wasting his time being your friend, when he could be doing so much more, with something better.

But he’s not bored of you yet.

And you don’t hate yourself enough to give him the push to finally put it together. That you’re not worth this at all.

He’s been floating awkwardly around the common room for about twenty minutes, while you’re watching a movie with Wanda.

“Buck?” You call over your shoulder, and he freezes, a panicked expression on his face. You’d think you caught him doing something bad. “Do you want to join us?”

“I, uh-“

“It is fine.” Wanda hums, not looking away from the screen. “Sit. You are pacing like an animal.”

Bucky clears his throat, and shuffles over to your side.

His arm goes around your shoulder, and you give him a small grin.

Out of the corner, you can see Wanda’s pointed look. And you don’t want to hear it. You know you love him, that doesn’t mean he loves you. You’d rather keep thinking he doesn’t. It’ll make it easier when he leaves.

And you’re already hearing enough of it, from everyone else.

Because you’re going to kill Tony.

His mandated press event was a charity thing. You’re all supposed to walk around in groups, answering questions and getting people to like you enough that they’ll donate money. And that would’ve been fine. You’re paired with Bucky again, and you could stand in the corner for five hours, watching Steve trying to accomplish more and more insane dares from Sam and Nat.

But Tony, with his endless pit of money and brigade of assistants, can’t seem to properly book a hotel.

You got the email with your room number on it last week. You took the bus to the city, because you’d rather eat glass than ride a motorcycle, there will probably be paparazzi if you take the Quinjet, and people don’t tend to recognize you anyway. Not the way they point and giggle about the others. You don’t even really have a code name, you’re just the shadow one.

It’s part of the job. It makes it easier to go out in public.

It makes it harder to look in the mirror, because maybe you’re just not recognizable. And this is going to be a long weekend anyway—with cameras and smiling and people asking impossibly invasive questions the whole time—so when you get to the hotel, you’ve already exhausted yourself.

There’s a reception, before all the actual things happening tonight. Nobody will want you there anyway, and an hour without anyone looking at you sounds amazing.

So you check in under the Stark party, get your key, and go straight to your room.

It should be your room.

But when you open your door, Bucky’s on the other side.

He says your name with a wide grin. “I was gonna go look for-“

“How’d you get in my room?” You glance around, seeing his suitcase resting on the floor, his suit laid out on the bed.

Bucky frowns. “This is my room.”

You stare at him for a second, before scrambling for your phone. This would be a really fucked up joke for Tony to play on you. And you really fucking wish you could put it past him, but you can’t.

“No, look-“ You show him your email. “406. That’s my name-“

“I know, just-“ He sighs, rubbing his jaw with a frown. “It’s also my room.”

No.

You can’t share a room with him. You’ll do something stupid, or he’ll see you sleeping and realize that he should never look at you again, and the room is starting to blur and spin and-

“Hey.” Bucky takes your face between his hands, lowering his voice. “I’m sorry, sweetheart, I’ll go fix this, I can crash with Steve-“

“No- no, it’s-“ You shake your head, grabbing at his wrists. “It’s- This is your room, I’ll go to Wanda-“

“Or we can share.”

You blink at Bucky, and he’s coming into focus so fast it’s almost dizzying.

Share. The room. Bed. With Bucky.

“I can sleep on the floor,” he adds quickly, and you can’t tell if that’s better or worse. “You just don’t have to go with Wanda. For me. Again, I’m fine with Steve-“

“It’s- It’s okay.” You give him a weak smile, your head still spinning. “We can take it up with Tony. If you want.”

Bucky raises his brows. “Do you want?”

“No.” You breathe, and friends share rooms. He won’t even be sleeping on the bed with you, so it doesn’t mean anything. You’ll be fine. “We can share.”

He nods slowly, giving you a small frown. “Are you sure? You did…” He trails off, rubbing his beard with a frown. “Freak out.”

“I just-“ I want you. Love you. Can’t do this and be normal. “I wasn’t expecting it. I’m good.”

Something flashes over Bucky’s face, but he doesn’t push it further. “Alright. We’ve got like, an hour ‘till we gotta go down there and play dancing monkeys. You wanna- They’ve got movies.”

He points to the hotel TV, and you can’t stop your small smile.

He still wants you around. You’ve intruded—even if it’s Tony’s fault—but he’s not just being a gentleman.

You get to sit next to him, and watch a movie until duty calls. And it feels too natural. Bucky’s knee bumping yours, his thigh pressed against you as if it’s nothing. Heat starts to sweep through your body at the contact, and it’s not helped by how you can smell him.

He must have showered before you arrived, because his hair is still slightly damp, and the evergreen smell of shampoo it’s smothering your every sense. When you lean a little to the side you can feel the heat from his body.

His arm is stretched over your shoulders again, and when you lean back your head is on his bicep.

You can’t really focus on the movie anymore. The only thoughts in your head are a constant loop of fantasy. Bucky’s arms, wrapping around you fully as he pulls you into his lap. His smooth voice in your ear, humming your name and lower words as he uses metal fingers against your pussy, and you flush and whine and beg, but he drinks it with kisses and calls you good girl-

“You okay?”

You blink out of your daydream, and Bucky’s frowning at you. Your thighs are pressed too tight together, and you’re far too wound up, and if you moved just an inch forward, you’d be resting your chin right on his shoulder.

It hits you fast. How this is the position of people who love each other. Bucky’s fingers lightly grazing your upper arm, your bodies close but never close enough, your legs having at somehow hooked over his.

You don’t want to run from it. Then you’ll have to explain why, and you won’t be able to do that. It’s another conversation that will have to end in I love you.

So you settle for soft words, and waiting for Bucky to move.

He’s the one who’s lowering himself down for you to touch. You’re not strong enough to catch or chase him if he decides to go back up.

“Yeah.” You breathe, your gaze seemingly locked onto his. “We should probably start getting ready.”

Bucky glances down at his watch, then back to you, expression still unreadable. “You know you can tell me if somethin’ is up, right? I’ll cover for you, with Stark.”

“I know.” You give him a small smile, and you feel like you’re glowing again.

He would.

And somehow, you don’t doubt that for a second.

“I’m okay, Bucky. I just-“ You look down at your hands. “Natasha has my dress.”

“Ah, right.” He unwinds himself from your side, giving you a sheepish smile. “I’ll see you down there?”

You can’t help but return it. Not when it’s Bucky smiling at you, and his smiles are something so priceless and rare. “You will.”

It takes a lot of effort to run out of the room. To walk down the hall to Natasha with a sort of dazed, dopey smile, thinking about his body next to yours. You’d barely been able to handle that—as beautiful and priceless as it was—and you’ll have to go back, when this is done. You can use the gala as a way to practice being around Bucky, for when you have to sleep with him on the floor.

Your current game plan is wrap yourself in shadows to make sure he doesn’t see you. It’s for his own sake, as no one would possible want to see you. You’d like him to, though. If Bucky wanted to see you, there’s not a world where you’d be able to say no to him. Even if he spent the whole time spitting on you, you’d still be honored he just paid you the thought of being unworthy.

But you believe him, when he says he’d cover you. He’s touching you on purpose. Seeking you out. Offering to share the room.

And when you trail after Nat, into the ballroom, he is looking at you.

It feels raw. Bare. Uncomfortable, in a strange way you’d like to chase. Bucky’s looking at you, and it’s tingling all over your skin, but him looking away now feels like the worst thing in the world.

Normally, you’d worry that there’s something wrong with you. An expression or bit of grime or lingering shadow on your arm, because it tends to make people uncomfortable. Maybe just a feature that’s wrong, some part of you that you’ll never be able to fix.

But this room is so well-lit, all your shadows have to linger on the walls and in the corners. And Natasha did your makeup, hair, and chose your outfit.

It’s the one from the dress shop. And you’d rolled your eyes as she pulled it out, to which she’d sighed and braced a hand on her hip.

“Just take it.”

“Nat-“

“Did you like wearing it?”

You’d sucked your tongue between your teeth. “Yes, but-“

“That’s all we need. You like it.”

“People might not want to see me in it-“

“Don’t be insane and incorrect. You’re too smart for that.” She’d shoved the dress into your hands with a pointed look. “Fuck what other people think. Wear it.”

And you don’t think you can fuck what other people think. All you know is their secrets and judgmental stares. All you’ve ever know is how to take it as gospel.

But Bucky is looking at you, wearing the dress that’s supposed to be dazzling.

And you feel like something holy.

“Ma’am.” He offers you his hand, and you’re not sure how Nat got you to stand fully in front of him, but there’s a chance that was just you. That you went to him like a star, falling into a black hole.

You’ll let him consume you, as long as he keeps looking at you like this. Like you’re something he’d want to devour.

“Are you ready to dance?”

You stare at him, giving a weak shake of your head. “I- I thought we just had to take photos-“

“We do.” He’s doing the thumb thing again. Your knees feel weak. “Sorry, doll- I meant like the monkeys, from earlier-“

“Oh.” You take a shaking breath, giving him a weak smile. “Okay.”

Natasha clears her throat. “Earlier?”

“We were talking.” Bucky grunts, shooting her an odd glare, and she just grins.

“Alright. Have fun, you two. Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do.”

You don’t know what that means, or why it makes Bucky tense, but then Natasha’s vanished back into the crowd.

Bucky’s hand is on your lower back. You don’t know when it got there.

There’s no world where you make him move.

“You wanna go get some food?”

You blink up at him, and he looks like a god. Handsome and cleaned up so well, jawline sharp and slightly clenched, and you don’t know what you’re supposed to be able to say to him. How you’re supposed to be next to him the whole night, when you’re you.

But his eyes soften, when they land on yours.

And there might be a world where you can make that enough.

“Or.” He says softly, rubbing a firm circle on your back that tugs you slightly closer to his side. “Do you wanna go hide in a corner while I get you food.”

“That.” You mumble, still unable to look away. “Please.”

Bucky grins at you, and guides you over to a quieter part of the ballroom, pausing before he turns away.

“Food’s right up there.” He nods into the crown, and you swallow. “Just, uh- Call. Or come find me. If you need anything.”

Anything.

If you need anything.

Bucky’s willing to get you it, as long as you ask.

And you don’t even have to. He comes back with a plate of your favorite food, and stands with you for almost the whole night. It takes a second for you to adjust to the people and the noise, but he lets you. Watches you the whole time, like you’re something worth looking at. Like there aren’t women far more worthy than you are, out in the crowd and waiting for his attention.

The attention that you’re getting. All of it.

He’s positioned in front of you, to block you from most people’s view. He keeps talking to you, as if anything you have to say is more interesting than the rest of the night.

“Who do you think it gonna fuck up first?” He says, scanning around the room at the rest of the Avengers, and you hum.

“Nat.”

Bucky grunts, but doesn’t show his immediate reaction. “Yeah? Why’s that?”

“Insider information.” You shrug. “I’m not allowed to tell you.”

“Ah.” He clicks his tongue. “You cheatin’, doll?”

“No, I’m committing a felony.”

Bucky snorts. “That’s worse-“

“Is it? Steve would commit a felony. But he wouldn’t cheat. So suck my dick.”

You give him a smug grin, and Bucky bursts out laughing. There’s not a second to doubt yourself, because he’s just laughing. A loud, full laugh that echoes a little as he grins at you, and you don’t think anything could feel better than this. Your heart is in your throat and fingertips. You don’t want it to go back down.

“That’s a good one.” He grins at you, and your cheeks are starting to hurt from grinning back. “I’m gonna start usin’ that on him, he’s earned it.”

“Can you cite me, when you say it?”

“Every time.” He bumps your shoulder, and you giggle. High and sweet and still a little dizzy, as Bucky steadies you with a hand on your wrist and another chuckle.

“Thanks.”

“Like I told you,” he shrugs, still grinning. “Anything.”

Anything. “And I don’t even have to like, pay you back?”

“Nah.” He waves you off, still grinning. “I’d ask you to dance, but you’d hate it.”

You swallow. “We can dance, if you want-“

“I don’t want if you don’t.” He shrugs, and he’s saying it like it’s so fucking simple. “We can dance later. When there aren’t people for you to worry about.”

People.

He doesn’t want you to worry about people.

And he doesn’t leave your side for the rest of his night. His hand rarely strays from your lower back. When there’s a desert table opened up, he makes you walk to it with him, but his body seems shrouded over yours to guard you from unwanted eyes.

Which are any of them but Bucky. He can look at you as long as he wants, if he’s going to keep doing it like that. And when he gets a little bit of chocolate on his nose, you somehow find it deep in your gut—or maybe just some sort of instinct to touch him—to swipe your thumb over it, and eat it yourself.

Bucky jaw clenches slightly at that, but before you can dive down into thinking about it—until it’s ripped to shreds and nothing but sheer panic—he chuckles, and switches your glass.

“Yours is gettin’ empty.” He says, as if that explains it, and you don’t have the power to question it. You just smile at him, and feel your heart when he smiles back.

When the crowd starts to die down, you’re still smiling. There’s no overwhelming dread or panic that you did something wrong. There’s just Bucky, nodding a goodnight to Steve and guiding you back to your room.

Your room.

The room you’re sharing with Bucky. Who hasn’t moved from your side all night, and who you could’ve sworn keeps stealing glances at your breasts and figure.

You must be losing your mind, is the conclusion of the night. There’s no world where Bucky looks at you like that. He’s your friend, and your love for him is like the moon loving the earth. Impossible for you not to do, but never manageable. You could never have him. You’re just you, and he’s gravitational and Bucky.

But he got you ice cream, while you were showering. And he turns red, when you shuffle out of the room in your towel, having forgotten your clothing.

“This is, uh- You.” He holds it back, his eyes locked somewhere over your head. “Another movie, too. I’d watch it with you.”

“Okay.” You set the ice cream down on the bedside table, and he won’t look at you now. In the towel. So maybe he doesn’t want you.

He seems to want you when you’re back on the bed, wearing clothing. His arm goes back over your shoulder, and this time both your legs are over his lap. But then the movie ends, and he’s moving onto the floor without looking back.

And you’re both supposed to just fall asleep. But you can’t. Every thought keeps spinning around Bucky, on the floor. He shouldn’t have to be on the floor. The room could’ve been his to begin with. He deserves the bed more than you do. You know it’s big for him to be sleeping in a bed at all, and you don’t want to take that away from him just because he’s trying to be nice.

He’s grunting slightly, just loud enough for you to hear. It sends a rush between your thighs, and your fingers curl in the sheets.

This is a horrible idea.

You’re going to do it anyway.

“You can sleep on the bed.”

There’s a beat of silence, long enough that you’re not sure he heard you, then Bucky clears his throat.

“Floor’s fine. Comfortable.”

You sigh, pushing up to frown at him in the dark.

He doesn’t have a shirt on. Just bare, broad chest, and shining eyes on yours.

Your heart does the flutter again. You push through.

“It’s a floor, Buck.”

“Pretty damn good one. I’ve slept on worse.”

“Fine.” You shrug, holding his gaze. “Then I’ll sleep on it with you.”

Bucky sighs. “Doll, you don’t wanna do that-“

“Why?” You raise your brows, leaning over until your chin is right on the edge of the mattress. “You said it was comfortable.”

Bucky’s eyes narrow as he scans over your face, and he lets out a slow, steady breath. “You’re not gonna drop this.”

“No. I’m not. It’s your bed-“

“Yours too.” He grunts, pushing to his feet. “It’s not all about me, sweetheart.”

You could argue with that. But you’ve already pushed it tonight. And you’re going to need everything else you’ve got to get through this. To have Bucky sleep next to you, and keep yourself together.

Neither of you are speaking. The mattress dips, as he climbs into bed at your side. And it’s not a small mattress, but Bucky isn’t a small guy. You can feel the heat from his body again, you can smell him.

You’re not going to be able to sleep.

Your heart is past fluttering. It’s kicked into overdrive, and you can feel it in your throat. You shouldn’t be sharing his bed. Even casually, this isn’t a place you belong. You’re going to whisper that you love him in the dead of night, and he’ll never look at you again. You’re going to try and touch him in his sleep, and he’s going to hate you. You should have just crashed with Wanda, you should’ve never come at all, you should’ve known better than to try and be his friend because you’re not even deserving of that, of his proximity, of anyone looking at you like Bucky’s daring to, and what if that was the dream and you’re going to wake up alone, the only thing you deserve to be is alone-

“You alright?” Bucky’s voice cuts through the dark after what seems like hours. “Your heart is beating really fast.”

“My-“

“Super soldier hearing.” He mutters, and you flush.

That’s bad. That’s horrible. You didn’t even need to do anything to fuck it up, your body just betrayed you-

Bucky mutters your name, and you wrap your arms around your body, trying to sink into the mattress.

“I’m okay.” You whisper. “Sorry.”

“Don’t apologize.” You can hear the frown in his voice, and it just makes you feel rotten. You’re making him feel bad. “I know you worry, sweetheart, I’m not gonna take it bad if you want me back on the floor-“

“No!” You almost shout, your hand flying to your neck, trying to force your breaths back under control. The shadows are wrapping back over your body. You might become nothing at all, and it would be better than this. “I- It’s just- You don’t have to worry about it, Bucky-“

“I want to worry about it.”

The world falters. His voice is firm, and he’s rolled on top of you to stare at you. Watch you shrink into yourself with such intent it seems to be cruelly holding you from vanishing, making you suspended in your own darkness as he scans over your open, panicked feature. It’s like a broken video loop. Everything too slow, then too fast, too loud then starting over dead quiet. Bucky’s still staring at you. It’s still hard to breathe.

And time doesn’t start again until Bucky so carefully takes your hand, and moves it away from your neck.

“I want you to let me worry about you,” he mutters your name, tangling his fingers with yours. “I’m already doin’ it anyway.”

You stare at him, your voice weak in your own ears. “What?"

“Shit- I- All I do is think about you,” he mutters your name, sounding almost pained by it. “Been like that for months, and it’s not going away. I think about what you like and how sweet you are, but how you got a pretty smart mouth. I think about how you look like the sunset and stars and all the oceans. I think about how you got me talkin’ to walls and reading dragon books, just cause I want to see you a little longer. I think about how I was yours before you even spoke to be, cause I looked at the walls and ceilings and kept thinkin’ I was seeing an angel. Then you were real. And good. And I liked you so much- I- Fuck-“ He bows his head, cutting himself off, and he can’t just stop there.

“Bucky.” You plead, squeezing his hand. “Please.”

“Fuck-“ He groans. “Don’t say that, baby.”

“But-“

“I don’t want to break you.” He mutters, eyes squeezed shut as he presses his brow to yours. “You’re so good, you’re the best thing I’ve had- Ever. But you always get nervous, when I’m in the room. But I couldn’t stop starin’ at you, or trying to- Shit, I wanted your attention so bad. Couldn’t stop thinking about that, either. How I wanted you more than- anything, but I didn’t want to talk to you and love you and make you cry. But Steve and Nat and Sam wouldn’t stop pushin’ it, and they- I’m not trying to make this weird-“

“It’s not.” You say quickly, and his eyes dart open. “Please- I- Please.”

You’re not sure what you’re begging for.

But Bucky seems to.

And he gives it to you, without a question.

“I love you.” He mutters your name, and your heart isn’t in one piece. It’s shimmering, beautiful, burning confetti, dancing through your body. “Loved you a while. Would like to love you for a while.”

A while.

You can take a while.

“I- I love you too.” You don’t know how you manage to get it out, but the way Bucky tenses above you, the way he looks at you like you’re made of stars—hair still wet, mascara still a little wet on your cheeks, wearing nothing but a sleep shirt and old sweatpants—makes it more than worth it.

“Really?” He says it like he can’t believe it, and you nod.

“Yeah. Can-“ You swallow. “Can you kiss me?”

Bucky’s nostrils flare, and his thumb traces over your lip. Almost trying to memorize it, map it, study it with an adoration on his face that might set you ablaze. Then he lowers himself down, and his lips ghost over yours.

You shiver from it, your hand shooting into his soft hair.

And Bucky groans, before letting whatever tension—whatever leash—in his body snap, and slamming his lips over yours.

It only takes a second for you to be swept away in him. In the taste of the chocolate desert you’d shared, just under the mint of his breath. He kisses you as if he’s been waiting for it, as if every bruise of his lips against yours isn’t close to enough, every soft moan he starts to pull from your throat a song he’s never going to get sick of. Every bump of his nose with yours just makes him kiss you harder, and every time he traces his tongue over you, it’s as if he’s certain you’re going to vanish into nothing the next moment.

But you don’t.

You couldn’t if you tried.

All your thoughts start to fade from a rush of panic into just Bucky. The way you’re melting into his lead, when his hand tangles in your head and gently tugs it back, deepening the angle of the kiss. Your mouth falls fully open when he pulls your lower lip between his teeth, and loud, desperate sound escaping you, and Bucky chuckles, pushing his tongue fully into your mouth.

You might be shining, just under something as simple as a kiss. But he does it so well. It’s as if he’s been kissing you for years, studying to know how to shift you below him so your fingers can curl comfortably on his chest, so his teeth can bump against yours before he traces his tongue over them, and sucks your own into his mouth with a groan. His hand has started to move from your hair down to your neck, gently grabbing it and tipping it further back, before his kisses start to wander. Sloppy and open mouthed, claiming over your cheeks, down your jaw, the onto a soft spot at the base of your throat that makes you squeak.

“Bucky.” You gasp, fingers threading through his hair, every desperate tug only seeming to make him more dedicated to abusing and worshipping that spot. “Oh- Please-“

“You know what you’re begging for, doll?” He murmurs against your skin, slowly kissing his way back up until you’re staring into hooded, gleaming blue eyes. “Cause I’m not doin’ anything you don’t beg me for. And we got a lot to talk about, so this,” he kisses you again, rough and fast and breathless within seconds. “Can wait until morning.”

You don’t want to wait until morning. He said he loved you. He can’t say that, then make you wait, and maybe he just wanted you to calm down and never loved you at all-

“Hey.” Bucky’s hand slides back over your throat, moving your head back until you’re forced to meet his gaze. “Breathe.”

“I- I am-“ You sniff, your eyes already feeling the ache of growing tears, and Bucky sighs.

“Can I ask you something, sweetheart?”

You nod weakly, and he scans over your features slowly before he speaks.

“You believe me?”

“Be- Believe you?”

“That I love you.” He mutters. “If you’re being honest-“

“I do.” You say quickly, and his lips twitch down.

“Your heart is still beating fast.”

“That’s not- I-“ You close your eyes, shaking your head. “I just, I’m-“

You spread your legs beneath him, praying his nose will do the rest of the work for you, and when you peek, it seems to have worked.

Bucky so tense above you, you’re worried his going to snap. His hand is rubbing slowly on your waist, like the movement is the only thing keeping him from losing it, and his attention is so wholly focused on you, it might make you explode into starlight.

“You don’t have to.” You mumble, tracing your fingers over the panes of his chest. “I- I know love and attraction aren’t always the same-“

“You think I’m not attracted to you?” He sounds offended, and when you look up, he’s glaring at you. “Jesus- You got any idea how many times I’ve fucked my hand just thinkin’ about you. How many cold showers I’ve had to take just cause you looked at me?”

You swallow, throat bobbing, and Bucky groans, dropping his brow to yours.

“You’re perfect, doll. Every single fuckin’ thing about you is so perfect, sometimes I’m worried you’re not real.”

“I’m real.” You mumble, and he lets out a low, throaty laugh.

“I got that now.” He opens his eyes, examining you for a long, almost terrifying second as his hand glides back to your throat. “I’m gonna make you feel good, baby. Okay?”

You don’t how you manage to remember to speak. “Oh- Okay.”

“Thank you, doll.” Bucky leans down, speaking right over your lips. “You gotta do somethin’ for me, though.”

It’s more of a bobblehead motion than a nod, but you’re lost in some kind of whirlpool of feelings and Bucky’s hand, trailing touches over your midriff, so it’s the best you can do.

Your back arches, as his fingers dip under your shorts, dancing lightly over your inner thigh, and Bucky groans.

He’s not moving anymore. Still touching you, but not taking it further, and maybe you ruined it-

Bucky growls your name, and you let out a high, tiny noise from just the rumble in his chest. “Stop thinking.”

You blink at him dumbly, your mouth opening to respond with something about how you’re trying—you’re really trying but it’s all you know—but the words die in your throat.

Bucky slides two, cold metal fingers between the lips of your pussy, and you gape up at him in a silent moan.

“There you go.” He mutters, kissing you wet and hot as his palm presses then rolls against your clit. “Good girl.”

Your eyes flutter, arms flying around his neck in a desperate attempt to anchor yourself, and Bucky groans.

“God, you’re wet-“ One finger teases over your entrance, and your squeak falls into another moan as he presses his tongue on the roof of your mouth, hand on your neck drifting to cup your face. “Slow down, baby, I told you I’m takin’ care of you. You just gotta take it. Can you take it?”

You make a soft noise, and Bucky sighs, fingers starting to rub faster up and down your aching pussy.

“Can you take it.” He repeats, a little firmer, and you gasp.

“I- I can take it-“

“Thank you, doll.” He grins down at you, and before you can work out what you’re supposed to say back, you’re gone again.

Bucky rips off your shorts—the sudden, cool air sending a shudder through your body—before landing a firm slap on your pussy. You take a sharp breath, your nails digging into his shoulder, and Bucky pauses, raising his brows.

“That-“

“Again.” You breathe out, tipping your head back as his thumb finds your clit, rolling small circles. “Bucky- Do that again-“

“Yes, ma’am.” He grins, nipping at your lower lip, and you almost fly out of your skin as he lands second one, fire starting to bloom in your abdomen.

“Mm-“ You tug at his hair, trying to drag his lips back down to yours. “More-“

He indulges you, this one making you almost fly off the mattress, but before you can keep begging, two fingers push into your entrance, and any thought but Bucky is pushed from your head. The cold of the metal is jarring, but only for a second. The next one it’s only adding to the stimulation, making your eyes roll back as your hand flies to his wrist, trying to hold him inside.

“You loved that, didn’t you.” He mutters, and you nod feverishly, mind numbed by Bucky’s fingers crooking slightly, rubbing against a sensitive spot deep inside you.

“Bucky-“

“Dirty girl,” he teases, sucking on your upper lip until your mouth is hanging open once more. “So pretty, ruined from barely anything.”

His hand starts to move, your hand on his wrist flying up to cover your mouth as his fingers drag inside of you, and a lewd whimper building in your throat.

“Hey.” He grunts, yanking your hand away with a firm glare. “None of that. I wanna hear you. Listen you scream my name.”

The pace of his fingers pick up, scissoring and twisting inside of you, and you start to grind onto him, chasing any more bit of friction to make it enough.

“Oh, you need my cock, don’t you baby.” He’s teasing again, but it only makes you burn a little brighter. There’s something soft and starved under it, and it just makes you grind faster. “Fingers aren’t enough for you, you deserve to be gripping my dick this tight,” his jaw clenches as he presses in deeper, rubbing against the deepest neediest stop inside of you, and you gasp a sound that’s supposed to be his name. “Shit, sweetheart, just-“

He rises up suddenly, hand moving away, and you barely get a chance to whine before he’s pulling you slightly up off the mattress, holding you so tenderly as he helps you out of your shirt. He kisses over yours shoulders as he works, then lays you back down with a deep, gentle kiss as slaps your pussy again, using your silent scream to shove his tongue fully down your throat.

Metal fingers slide back inside of you, and you’re already right on the edge. Then Bucky starts to move, pumping slowly and teasing your clit with his thumb, and your eyes flutter shut to try and keep up with the sensations.

But then his mouth moves from yours. Slowly kisses down your chest, biting and sucking a million tiny marks over your breasts, before taking one nipple and rolling it with his tongue. His thumb presses, finding a rhythm to match his mouth perfectly, and your orgasm crashes through you in a second. It makes the world go white and your finger yank at Bucky’s hair mindlessly as you shake below him. He groans around you, switching to the other nipple as you slowly float down, his fingers slowly fucking you through it through it, until you’re panting and dizzy in his arms.

He’s not done with you. You don’t need to ask to know that. It’s written all over his face as he over you, trapping your gaze on his as he takes his fingers from your cunt, and presses them slowly into your mouth.

You suck on them without a thought, swiping your tongue over the pads of metal fingers and moaning around him as you taste yourself, and finally feel the outline of his cock, hard and pressed to your inner thigh.

“You taste good, baby?” He asks, sounding almost staved, and you make a needy sound in an agreement. “Shit, you look so fuckin’ perfect- Hold on-“

He pulls away, and you whine, batting your lashes up at him in a silent plea.

Bucky—somehow—understands exactly what you mean. “I’ll fuck you, baby.” He mutters, swiping a little bit of drool gently off your cheek. “Just gotta taste you first. Think I’ll lose my mind if I don’t. That okay?”

You’d have to be insane for it not to be. You spread your legs in invitation, and he chuckles, flesh hand landing on your inner thigh to drawl slow circles with his thumb.

“Needy girl.” He mutters, something like awe lying under his voice. “Don’t know how I got so fuckin’ lucky.”

There isn’t anything left in you to protest that idea. You’re the lucky one, and the world would probably agree, but something tells you Bucky wouldn’t care to hear it.

He smirks at you, as he starts to trail hot, hungry kisses down your body, his hand slowly but firmly pushing your thigh a little wider open so he can settle between them. A hot breath ghosts over your clit as Bucky drags those same two fingers through your cunt, spreading the mess of your arousal around with an almost predatory focus.

“Smell so good.” He mutters, and it seems to be mostly to himself. “Can I kiss it, doll? Please?”

He’s begging. Looking up at you with a hopeful expression, his fingers starting to roll around your clit as he waits for your answer, and you’d have to be insane to say no.

“Yes.” You breathe out, your hands drifting over his jaw, and he leans into your touch with another grin.

“Thank you,” he says your name, pinching your clit before sliding his arm over your abdomen, fully pinning you to the mattress. “Let me hear you.”

It’s a pointless request.

You don’t think you could stop yourself from screaming, as Bucky dives into your pussy and starts to devour you with such a fervor, you’d think he was tending to an alter. The first mangled, desperate sound—meant to be his name—is ripped from your body as his tongue starts to swipe up and down your cunt, before pushing inside of you and starting to fuck you without relent. His nose press against your clit as you yank at his hair, the moan from his chest vibrating against you and making you arch off the bed.

“Bucky- Bucky-“ You’re repeating it over and over, like a fruitless prayer, not sure if you need him to stop before you come apart again, or have him keep going until you’re lost in him forever.

He presses a soft, taunting kiss over your clit before going back to the harsh, unforgiving tongue fucking, and it’s the latter. You need this forever. Bucky’s tongue twisting in your pussy before moving back up to flick over your clit, making you try to arch off the bed as he works you into a frenzy. His beard scratching and tickling against your overly sensitive skin, just driving you high and higher as he keeps to you still to do his work. His deep noises of pleasure, and the creak of the bed below you as he starts to rut into it.

He’s getting off on this. On tasting you and letting you grind onto his face, on every yank of his hair and weak sound of pleasure that escapes your chest. When you glance down, he’s tipped his head up to watch you writhe above him, and it just makes you squeeze around his tongue.

Bucky groans, his mouth moving to fully latch around your clit, the hand on your inner thigh shoving three fingers into your cunt without warning. Filling you up and pressing firmly inside of you as Bucky starts to suck on your clit like it’s candy, and you fall apart once more. Toes curling and legs latching around Bucky’s head, suffocating him between your thighs as your nails dig into his scalp and you scream his name in a hoarse, breathy sound. You’re falling and falling over the edge, over and over until you’re craning your neck to meet Bucky’s eyes, and he doesn’t stop his attack on your clit until you’re panting, overstimulated, trying to wiggle away from him with no avail.

“It’s okay, baby.” He murmurs, dragging your legs apart and pressing one last kiss over your clit, before looking up at you with a grin. “Doin’ so good for me. Just one last thing, sweet girl. You still want more?”

You gape at him, because it’s an insane question. Of course you want his cock. You’re a mess of nothing but sweat and cum, and you’re boneless and wrecked, but you don’t think you’ll be satiated until he’s inside of you. Until all the lingering, darker thoughts of maybe he doesn’t mean it are—at least temporality—driven from your mind.

“I need words,” he mutters your name, pressing a soft kiss to the tip of your nose, and it spurs your voice in a second.

“Yes.” You breathe out, fingers curling on Bucky’s beard. It’s still shining with your own arousal. You sort of never want him to clean it off. “Fuck me, Bucky. Please.”

He groans, diving down for a deep, sloppy and unmeasured kiss, before wrapping his arm firmly around your back and cradling you to his chest. Bucky rolls you both over, keeping you pinned like a koala to his chest as he rips off his own pants.

“Want to see you,” he says lowly, kissing your cheek, and when you twist slightly, you can see his cock. Rock hard, long and thick, being stroked slowly in his flesh hand as he holds your gaze.

“Bucky.” You breathe out, starting to rub your bare pussy up and down his abdomen, eyes fluttering at the friction. “I want it you bad, please-“

“You got me, doll.” He mutters, slowly starting to pry you off his chest, picking you up as if you weigh nothing. “C’mon. Told you I’m gonna take care of my girl.”

If you were nothing but putty before, you certainly are now. His girl. You’re Bucky’s girl. And a high, happy sound leaves you, right as he lifts up your hips and slowly starts to pull you down on his cock.

You can’t think anything but good. It feels so fucking good, and better every second as Bucky drives deeper and deeper, pressing and rubbing against every single electric, hungry spot inside your pussy. He’s watching you with that awe again, his grip on you tight enough to leave a bruise as his tongue flicks over his lips, and you can’t stop yourself from clenching around him.

Bucky hisses, tipping his head back and squeezing his eyes shut, and he shakes his head. “Fuck- Doll, you need to relax-“

“Sorry.” You whisper, and he sighs, looking at you under hooded eyes.

“Don’t be sorry, sweet girl.” He rubs soothing circles on your thighs, finally letting you sink fully onto him, the tip of his cock bumping deeper inside of you than you’ve ever felt before. “I just want this to last. And if you, Shit-“ He groans, one hand gliding up to roll over your nipple. “You feel so fuckin’ good, babydoll, you have no idea.”

You just blink at him, lost in a heated, foggy daze of Bucky, and plant your hands firmly on his chest.

He’s being a gentleman again. Giving you time to adjust.

But if he doesn’t fuck you, you’re going to start crying.

You roll your hips above him, and Bucky groans.

“You ready?”

You nod, repeating the movement, and his hands fly back to your hips, trapping you on his cock. You whine, trying to squirm above him, and Bucky lets out a low, deep laugh.

“Need it that bad, babydoll?”

You glare at him, digging your nails into his chest, and he hums.

“Think you’re gonna take it. Keep bein’ so good for me.”

Another nod, and Bucky grins up at you.

“Alright, pretty girl.” He ruts his hips up, and you almost topple off of him. “Let’s clear that smart brain.”

Bucky slams up, holding you steady around him, and you’re barely anything but a ragdoll. A boneless mess above him, scratching at his chest as he fucks up into you, his cock dragging in and out, setting off every nerve in your body and somehow not letting it be enough. You can feel him everywhere, in the punching pace of his cock jerking up into you, in his possessive hold on your body and he rolls and grinds you against him, his every moan he lets out that rolls through your body and sweeps you into fire, and his gaze.

His attention.

His eyes are barely leaving yours, only for long, wired and hot seconds where he rakes up and down your figure. You tits bouncing as you ride him, your skin shining with sweat as he drags you up into a third orgasm, every muscles in your body aching and sore, but still trying to chase more. You scratch as his chest and whine, and he angles you slightly forward, letting your clit drag against his abs once more. The metal hand even snakes between your bodies to flick at it, and you flutter around him, back arching and drool almost certainly falling from your lips.

But Bucky is a drool-worthy sight, below you. Handsome and almost as wrecked as you are, groaning louder and louder every time your skin slaps against his, eyes blown out with lust as he drags your up and down his cock, his movements starting to lose their careful control the longer you go. He seems to be past words himself, only groaning your name and slurring words of praise you can hardly understand, but get the idea of.

You’re being good for him. He loves you.

And just the thought makes you start to spasm around him, his cold fingers on your clit sending you toppling over the edge for the third time, everything in the world only color and light at you fall higher than you’ve ever been before.

But Bucky doesn’t stop.

His flesh hand wraps around your neck as the metal one hooks around your waist, and he crashes up into you with such force it almost drives you out of your mind. He’s kissing you desperately, rough and almost violent, as he hips piston up into your cunt. And your mouth seems to be permanently open, letting him take and take and take, his tongue dominating yours and pulling sounds you didn’t know you could make from deep in your body.

There’s a new heat in your core. One you’ve never even felt before, and it’s about to snap.

Bucky slams himself home with a loud moan of your name, his cum hot and painting your cunt and thighs, dribbling down between your bodies as he fucks you through it like an animal, and you fall apart. Something wet gushes out of your cunt and your head falls back, only caught by Bucky’s hand on your neck, pulling you back up into a messy, mindless kiss.

You’re shaking, when he finally pulls away, pressing a kiss to your nose.

“Good?” He asks softly, and you nod, forcing the strength to wrap your arms around his chest.

Bucky hums, combing his finger through your hair, and you melt fully into his embrace.

“You did so good, baby.” He mutters, and you hold him tighter. “Love you.”

Bucky rolls over, burying his face in your shoulder and taking a long, slow breath as you weave your fingers through his hair. He tries to move. To clean you up. But you cling to his shoulders and shake your head, too lost in his warmth to leave this bubble yet. Soon you’ll have to start working out how much he meant it, and you don’t want this moment to ever fade or break-

“Don’t do that to yourself, doll.”

You freeze. “I-“

“I know you’re tryin’ to find a reason this is gonna end. Or why you’re not the person who deserves this. But you’re dead wrong.”

“Bucky.” You whisper, something stinging behind your eyes. “I wasn’t-“

“You were.” He mutters, kissing a soft spot under your ear. “You do it all the time, sweetheart. Never said anything cause I didn’t wanna spook you off or whatever, but-“ He sighs, pushing up on his forearms to scan over your face. “I’ll stand in as many corners as you want. I like ‘em, long as you’re there. And we can keep sparring around dusk cause there’s no one there to watch, and eating dinner ‘round midnight so it’s just us, but the moment you decided you want something else, I’ll be right there with you.”

“With me?” You stare up at him, unable to stop yourself from leaning into his hand as he traces his hand over your features. “But- I’m-“

“Don’t say not worth it.” He grunts, his words stern enough that your mouth snaps closed. “You’re worth it to me. Shit, you’re the most beautiful thing I’ve ever fuckin’ seen, and I don’t really care how long it takes you to see that. Long as I get to keep watching you smile, talk, lose yourself in whatever you do cause you care, so damn much, I’ll be good.”

“But, I- I’m not-“ You shake your head, a tear sliding down your cheek that Bucky wipes away. “I’m not that, Bucky, I’m not beautiful-“

“Yeah, you are.” He kisses you softly, and you let out another breathless, torn sound. “I told you, doll. I loved you the moment I saw you. Only loved you more every time that smart mouth opened up. And I’m gonna stick around ‘till you understand that, even if it takes a million years.”

“A million?” You sniff, clinging to his wrists as his brow drops to yours. “That’s- It’s a while-“

“I know.” He gives you a million. “But I waited a while just to meet you. I can wait damn near forever if I get to have you.”

“Get to?” You mumble, and he nods.

“Get to.” Another soft kiss is pressed to your lips. “It’s a privilege to know you, doll. Let alone get to have you.”

He’s looking at you like he’d part the sea and rip through worlds in your name, and he gets to have you.

And something about how it’s Bucky makes you believe him. Not fully. It takes more than those words for you to be able to shed all that loathing grime from under your skin.

But something deep in your chest, right next to the flutter of your hear, feels clean. And it’s shining brighter and brighter, the longer Bucky looks at you.

So you’ll let that take you over. Let Bucky have you.

You’ll see where it takes you.

And with how Bucky’s looking at you, it might be somewhere really, really good.

End Note: Bucky Barnes giving me a hug would fix me I fear.

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dearwalker · 3 months ago

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Bucky Barnes in Thunderbolts* New Avengers’ end credit scene (2025)

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daxisyzz · 4 months ago

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Marked What's Mine

Pairings: husband!bucky barnes × wife!reader

Summary: You can hold your own—always have. But that doesn’t stop your husband from going full Winter Soldier mode when he sees someone laid a hand on you.

Warnings: Language, injuries, soft-but-intense husband!Bucky, protective behavior, possessiveness, comfort, fluff, violence mentioned (not graphic), "who did this to you?", lots of banter.

Word count: 1.3k+

A/n: this fic is from my poll where husband au and who did this to u prompt won. I will do the enemies to lovers in my next fic. Thank you for reading <3.

Divider credits: @saradika

Night- 1:47 AM

You turned the front doorknob with all the delicacy of a trained assassin—which, to be fair, you were.

No sound. Good.

You stepped inside, sliding your shoes off silently and tiptoeing like the floorboards might narc on you. You could practically hear your heartbeat in your ears.

He’d be asleep. He had to be.

You could get to the bathroom, clean up, hide the worst of it. He didn’t have to know. You didn’t want him to worry, to spiral. Not again.

You made it three steps down the hallway.

Then— “Don’t move.”

Shit.

His voice cut through the silence, low and lethal. It came from the living room.

You closed your eyes. "Hi, honey. I'm home."

A light flipped on.

Bucky stood by the couch, arms crossed, half in shadow. The sight of him—barefoot, hoodie loose over his broad chest, hair tousled from waiting up—would’ve been comforting, if not for the look in his eyes.

His gaze traveled from your face to your arms, your ribs, where blood had started to seep through your shirt.

He didn’t say a word.

You tried to play it off. “Before you say anything, it looks worse than it is—”

His voice dropped to a whisper.

“Who did this to you?”

You exhaled slowly. “Buck—”

“Don’t. Just…” His jaw clenched. “Stay right there.”

“Bucky, it’s fine. I dodn’t even need stitches—”

“You’re bleeding.” His voice trembled with something dangerous. “You’re limping. You snuck into your own damn house like a thief because you knew I’d lose it if I saw you like this. And guess what? You were right.”

He was in front of you in three long strides.

His hands—warm, shaking—came up to cup your face, careful to avoid the bruises.

“You weren’t supposed to see me like this,” you whispered. “You’d only worry.”

“I worry when you’re five minutes late for lunch. You think this is gonna lessen that?”

“I’m not made of glass—”

“You’re made of everything I live for.”

Your breath caught.

He scanned your injuries with haunted eyes. “Who did this?”

“It’s not important.”

“It is to me.”

You sighed. “I didn’t want you to spiral. Last time you saw me with a busted lip, you threatened to drown a guy in the Hudson.”

“I should’ve.”

“Bucky—”

“Tell me his name.”

You met his eyes. “If I do, you’ll find him.”

He didn’t deny it.

“And if I don’t?” you added.

“I’ll find him anyway.”

You groaned. “You are the most dramatic man I’ve ever met.”

He lifted you into his arms like it was nothing—like you didn’t have two working legs—and carried you down the hall.

“I’m intense,” he corrected. “Not dramatic.”

“You literally brooded in the dark waiting for me to get home.”

“You really thought I wouldn’t notice? Like my wife could come home hurt and I wouldn’t feel it in my chest?”

You let out a weak laugh. “God, you’re annoying.”

“You married me, doll. That’s on you.”

Twenty Minutes Later...

You sat on the bathroom counter while Bucky dabbed antiseptic over the cuts along your ribs, his brows furrowed like each mark physically hurt him more than it hurt you.

He hadn’t stopped touching you.

Even now, his thumb rubbed soft circles into your thigh as he worked.

“Doesn’t even sting,” you said.

“That’s not the point,” he muttered, placing another bandage carefully. “You came home bleeding. You flinched when you took your shirt off. You snuck in.”

“I didn’t want to see your sad little kicked puppy face,” you teased.

He glared. “You’re lucky I love you.”

“No, you’re lucky I love you. You’re high maintenance.”

“Says the woman who took on a six-foot mercenary solo and got cracked in the jaw for it.”

You raised an eyebrow. “You think I didn’t win?”

He paused. “Wait. You won?”

“Cracked three of his ribs and made him cry.”

He stared.

Then—slowly—he grinned.

“That’s my girl.”

You tried not to bask in it, but you totally basked in it.

Still, he wasn’t done.

As he finished wrapping the final gauze, he stood between your legs and stared at you like you held gravity in your hands.“I breathe for you,” he said, voice barely a whisper. “That’s it. That’s the only reason I get up in the morning.”

Your throat went tight. “Bucky—”

“You come home hurt, and it feels like the world’s off its axis. I can’t think. Can’t function. You’re not fragile, babe. You’re the strongest person I know. But the thought of losing you? I’d lose everything.”

God.

You buried your face in his chest, arms tight around him.

“I’m sorry,” you whispered. “I didn’t mean to scare you.”

“Too late. You did. You always do.”

You looked up. “You’re a menace, you know that?”

“You love it.”

“Unfortunately.”

He grinned and kissed your forehead.

Next Day – 2:00 PM

You woke up to an empty bed and a note on the pillow:

Had to step out. Be back soon. Don’t move too much or I’ll find out and carry you around like a baby until you learn your lesson. I love you more than oxygen.

—B <3

You rolled your eyes.

And sighed.

And smiled.

He came back at sunset. Calm. Too calm.

You didn’t even have to ask.

“You found him, didn’t you?”

He dropped his jacket. “Yeah.”

“And?”

“He’s not gonna be walking straight for a while.”

“Bucky…”

“And probably won’t be talking much either.”

You stared at him.

“He’ll live. Probably,” Bucky said with a shrug. “I was nice. For the first ten seconds.”

“Jesus—”

“He laid a hand on you. You really think I wasn’t gonna rearrange his face?”

You huffed, arms crossed, but you were secretly touched. And maybe a little turned on.

“You are so dramatic.”

“No. Dramatic is you sneaking past your literal super soldier husband with blood dripping down your shirt.”

“Fine,” you muttered, walking toward him. “You win.”

He caught you easily, arms pulling you in.

“I always win, doll,” he murmured, kissing your bruised temple. “Especially when it comes to you.”

The Next Morning – 9:07 AM

Sunlight filtered lazily through the curtains, painting golden stripes over the bed where you were curled up like a cat. One leg over the sheet. A little sore. A little achy. But warm.

Bucky stirred beside you, his metal arm slung protectively over your waist.

“You awake?” you mumbled.

“Was watching you breathe,” he rasped, voice still sleep-rough. “You twitch your nose when you’re dreaming.”

“You’re creepy.”

“You married me, sweetheart. This is your fault.”

You snorted, rolling to face him, wincing a little. He was already awake, already watching you with that look. Like you were sacred. Untouchable. His.

“You hurting?” he asked immediately, shifting to sit up. “Need painkillers? Water? I can carry you to the bath—”

“Bucky.”

He blinked.

“I’m okay. It’s just a bruise, not a broken limb. Stop hovering.”

“I’m not hovering.”

“You’re three seconds from spoon-feeding me cereal.”

“…Is that an option?”

You groaned and buried your face in his chest.

“You’re insufferable.”

He chuckled, warm and smug, tucking you tighter under his chin. You stayed like that for a while. Tangled limbs. Warm sheets. His fingers trailing soft patterns on your back like he couldn’t stand not touching you.

“Don’t do that again,” he whispered finally.

You didn’t pretend to not hear it. “Okay.”

“I know you’re strong. I know you can take care of yourself. But if something happens to you—I stop breathing. You get that?”

You swallowed hard. “I get it.”

“I love you so much it makes me a little insane.”

“Only a little?”

“I toned it down for your sake.”

You giggled. “You’re cute when you’re crazy.”

“Good. Because you’re stuck with me.”

You looked up, brushed the hair from his forehead, kissed him slow.

“I wouldn’t have it any other way.”

#bucky barnes #bucky barnes x reader #bucky barnes imagine #bucky barnes fluff #james buchanan barnes #bucky barnes x you #sebastian stan x reader #bucky x reader #marvel fanfiction #bucky barnes fanfiction #who did this to you #protective husband #husband!bucky #avengers fanfiction #avengers

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buckysleftbicep · 2 months ago

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who did this to you? 𐙚 b.b

pairing: new avenger!bucky barnes x abused!fem!reader

warnings: mentions of abuse, domestic violence (not committed by bucky!) mentions of trauma, themes of fear and recovery (please read the warnings)

summary: bucky notices the bruises before you ever say a word. as the truth unravels, he steps in—not just to protect you, he makes sure you're never hurt again.

word count: 5.3k (i went a little overboard)

author's note: i have been wanting to write this for quite a while, and i'm glad i did. enjoy my loves, your feedback and thoughts are always appreciated!

It started small.

A shift in the way you smiled—no longer bright and easy, but tight-lipped and fleeting, like you were trying to convince yourself it still came naturally. A hesitation in your laughter, once the sweetest sound in the Watchtower’s echoing corridors, now muffled, forced, or absent altogether.

The others chalked it up to stress. Missions have been tense lately. The team didn’t exactly operate in peacetime.

But Bucky…Bucky saw more.

You were the team’s secretary. The one constant in a whirlwind of chaos. Efficient, organised, always one step ahead of everyone else. You had memorised every operative’s dietary needs before the kitchen staff had.

You knew how to read between lines of mission reports, handle fallouts with the media, and you were the only person Yelena trusted to refill her coffee exactly right. Your desk, tucked near the central hub, was where people came to decompress, vent, even smile.

You made things work. You made the team work.

You were the light that steadied them all.

But lately… that light had gone out.

Bucky noticed first. He always did. Watching people wasn’t just habit—it was an instinct. A soldier’s reflex, sharpened by a lifetime of reading danger in the twitch of a hand or the flicker of a glance.

He noticed how your shoulders curled inward like you were trying to disappear into yourself, or how your arms folded across your stomach, elbows tucked in tight as if they were armour.

You flinched when anyone passed too closely behind your chair. You stopped walking through the halls with your usual spring—started hugging the walls, choosing longer routes that avoided high-traffic zones.

When Yelena clapped a hand to your shoulder in greeting, a simple, affectionate gesture—your entire body jolted like you’d been hit. Not just startled.

Terrified.

The room had gone quiet at that moment. Even Alexei paused, a half-eaten sandwich frozen in his hand. Ava had gone still beside the mission board, her eyes narrowing slightly.

You recovered too quickly. Smiled too fast. “Sorry, nerves,” you’d said, brushing it off, grabbing the nearest file and practically sprinting from the room. But Bucky had already seen too much.

And then the bruises.

They started subtly. Shadows beneath the cuff of your blouse that could be passed off as bad sleep, maybe a knock against a desk corner.

You were clumsy sometimes—everyone knew that. A walking hurricane in heels, Yelena liked to tease. You once tripped over your own shoelaces in front of Val, and no one had let you live it down for a week.

But these weren’t accidents.

There was a splotch of purple just visible beneath your collarbone, dark and irregular. Faint, yellowing fingerprints on your wrist that looked like they were trying to fade, but kept stubbornly coming back.

A raw, angry mark that peeked out from your hairline one morning, like someone had gripped your jaw too hard—someone tall enough, big enough to loom over you, strong enough to leave a handprint in their wake.

Bucky saw that one when you bent down to pick up a report you’d dropped. Your blouse’s collar dipped slightly, just enough to reveal a line of bruising that trailed from your neck toward your shoulder like a hand had wrapped around you and squeezed.

His hand clenched into a fist on instinct.

He didn’t say anything right away. He knew better. But he watched. Quietly, intensely. Not just because he cared, but because something inside him roared with the need to protect you, something deep and territorial and dangerous.

The same thing that made him stare holes into the security cameras when you left the compound for lunch, or that made him scan every incoming message with a new, sharpened edge.

He began checking your schedule.

Not overtly. Just… looking. Noting when you left the compound. Who signed you out. When you came back, and what your face looked like afterward.

You used to return from errands with little smiles and tiny stories—“The deli guy gave me an extra pickle today,” or “Some lady on the street said I had pretty earrings.” But lately, you came back quieter. Shoulders tighter. And you always avoided his eyes.

One afternoon, he asked you if you were okay.

You smiled—again, that damn smile. So polite, so practiced.

“Yeah. Just tired. Thanks for asking Bucky”

But being tired didn’t leave marks on someone’s throat.

And when you walked away, Bucky watched you disappear down the hallway and felt something cold curl in his gut. Something he hadn’t felt in years.

He knew pain. He’d lived it. Breathed it. Worn it like a second skin. But there was something worse about watching you endure it.

Something far more dangerous.

And whoever had hurt you?

They’d just reminded him exactly what he was willing to protect.

Still, Bucky didn’t act rashly. He waited. Watched. Gathered more than just bruises and broken glances. He needed to be sure—of what you were dealing with, of who was doing this to you, of how to approach without sending you further into yourself.

The wrong move could make you shut down entirely. He knew trauma didn’t unravel with questions—it needed patience.

Stillness. Safety.

So he waited until the Watchtower cleared out for the evening.

The others had trickled out one by one—Yelena dragging Alexei into a sparring match he didn’t ask for, Ava and John disappearing into the training room, Val locked in her office for a late-night debrief.

The corridors fell quiet, fluorescent lights humming low overhead. Bucky lingered near your office, watching the shadows stretch along the floor, the door slightly ajar with the warm glow of your desk lamp spilling out into the hall.

You were still there. Of course you were.

You always stay late now.

“Hey,” he said softly, stepping into your office once the others had gone.

You didn’t jump—but he saw the way your shoulders stiffened. How your fingers paused on the keyboard, curling slightly as if preparing for something.

Your eyes stayed locked on the screen for a moment too long, and when you did glance up, they were wide and glassy with that familiar, haunted look.

The one he recognised too well.

The one he used to see in the mirror.

“Can I talk to you?” His voice stayed quiet, gentle—like coaxing a wounded animal out of hiding. He stood just inside the door, hands in the pockets of his black jacket, posture non-threatening but steady. He wouldn’t crowd you. He wouldn’t touch you. But the one thing he wouldn’t do is walk away.

You swallowed, throat tight, and gave a small nod.

“Sure.”

But the word was fragile. Like it had been stitched together with effort.

He crossed the room slowly, pulling the door shut behind him—not all the way, just enough to give the illusion of privacy without making you feel trapped. Then he moved to the chair across from your desk and sat, leaving space between you. Letting you decide what came next.

You glanced back at your screen, like you were searching for a reason to stay distracted. Like if you just kept typing, none of this would be real. But your hands didn’t move.

He waited a beat, then spoke, low and careful. “I’ve been noticing some things.”

You didn’t answer.

“I don’t mean to scare you,” he added. “I just… I’m worried about you doll”

Your shoulders tensed again. That flinch. That tell. He saw it before you could mask it. And when your arms folded across your stomach, hiding your bruised wrist, he knew.

You were protecting yourself from more than just a conversation.

“I know something’s going on,” he said. “And I don’t need the details if you’re not ready. But I need you to know that… you don’t have to do this alone.”

Still, silence. But your eyes were starting to shine, tears gathering at the corners as you stared down at your keyboard like it held all the answers.

“You’ve been flinching at every touch,” he went on, his voice nearly breaking. “You don’t smile anymore. You avoid everyone like they’re gonna hurt you. And those bruises—”

“Don’t.” Your voice cracked as the word came out, sharp and desperate.

Bucky’s breath caught. But he didn’t move. “Okay,” he said immediately. “I won’t push. I swear.”

The silence that followed was thick—trembling between confession and collapse.

And then your lip quivered. You shook your head once. “I didn’t mean for anyone to notice,” you whispered, voice so soft it almost didn’t reach him.

“I thought I could handle it.”

Bucky leaned forward, slowly, carefully. “You shouldn’t have to handle it.”

Your chin trembled. “I didn’t want to be a burden. Everyone’s got their shit. Missions. Scars. Who wants to hear about the secretary who made the mistake of falling for the wrong guy?”

His jaw clenched so tightly he thought he might crack a molar. “Who did this to you?”

You didn’t answer.

But your silence was answer enough.

His tone darkened, low and steady like steel cooled in ice. “Tell me who put their hands on you.”

You shook your head again, fast this time, panic blooming across your features. “Bucky—don’t. Please. It’ll just make it worse.”

He stood up, jaw rigid, fists clenched at his sides. The chair scraped quietly behind him, but he didn’t move toward you. Didn’t crowd. Just stood there, vibrating with barely contained rage.

But it wasn’t at you.

“I would never let anyone hurt you again,” he said, his voice rough now, fighting to stay gentle. “But you have to let me help.”

Your eyes met his cerulean irises then. And something inside you cracked.

Because he didn’t look at you with pity.

He looked at you like you mattered. Like your pain mattered. Like he saw you—really saw you—and it didn’t make him walk away.

And something about the way he said it, like a lifeline broke you.

You told him everything.

From the first time it happened, when your ex shoved you against a wall during an argument over a text message. To the second time, when he slapped you so hard your lip split open. The cycle became normal. You had started covering up bruises like second nature, lying to your friends, flinching at shadows.

Two nights ago, he’d come home drunk, angry. He dragged you by your hair into the bedroom, wrapped a hand too tight around your neck, and left purple thumbprints beneath your jaw.

You had to call in sick the next day. Told Val it was the flu. She didn’t question it.

Tears streamed silently down your cheeks, but Bucky never looked away. His face was tight with rage, his jaw clenched so hard you thought he might break a tooth. His metal hand had curled into a fist again, knuckles whitening where they met synthetic plating.

“I'm gonna kill him,” he said, barely above a whisper.

“No,” you croaked, your hand reaching to grip his wrist. “Just… just get me out of there.”

“You don’t have to ask,” he said.

He helped you out of the office, holding your arm with such care, like you might shatter if he used too much strength. He led you to his motorcycle, the matte black vehicle parked beside the Watchtower’s bay doors.

You hesitated. “I don’t—”

He handed you his helmet and said, “You’re safe with me.”

And you believed him.

The wind was sharp against your face, your arms clinging around his waist as he drove through the dusky streets toward your apartment. Your heart thundered the entire ride—not from fear of falling, but from the feeling of escape.

At your place, you let Bucky in and stood frozen in the doorway. Your keys shaking in your hands.

“Tell me what you need,” he said.

You walked numbly toward your bedroom and began pulling a small duffel from the closet. Bucky followed, surveying the apartment with quiet calculation.

The broken picture frame on the floor. The hole punched in the hallway drywall. The cracked phone screen beside your bed.

You gathered clothes, toiletries, your journal, a worn copy of Pride and Prejudice. Bucky packed in silence, folding your shirts neatly, rolling your socks with care.

When you turned to get your toothbrush, your hands were trembling too badly to hold it.

“I can’t…” you whispered, finally falling apart.

Bucky was there in an instant, arms wrapping around you, pulling you into the solid warmth of his chest.

“It’s over,” he murmured into your hair. “You’re not going back there. I won’t let you.”

You sobbed into his shoulder, your body wracked with grief and relief all at once. For the first time in years, you believed it.

You were leaving.

Bucky had decided to take you to his apartment, given how late it was—and how you didn’t want the rest of the team knowing about any of this. You couldn’t bear their questions or the way they might look at you differently if they knew the truth. What you needed right now wasn’t a spotlight—it was safety.

And Bucky, somehow, had understood that without you ever having to say a word.

Tucked away in a quiet corner of Brooklyn, it felt like a sanctuary: minimalistic but lived-in, with dark wood furniture, shelves lined with old books, framed black-and-white photos, a few of them being Steve's, and soft lighting that bathed the space in warm, golden hues.

There were blankets folded over the back of his couch, plants that looked surprisingly healthy, and a record player in the corner with a small stack of vinyls beside it. The scent of sandalwood lingered in the air—warm, masculine, grounding.

“Bathroom’s through there,” Bucky said gently, “and the guest room’s yours for as long as you want it.”

You nodded, wiping your face with your sleeve.

He handed you a folded pile of clothes—one of his blue Henley shirts and a pair of grey boxer briefs that would sit loosely on your frame.

“You can sleep in these,” he said. “I’ll set up fresh towels, and if you need anything—anything—you come get me.”

You changed in the bathroom, staring at yourself in the mirror. The bruises on your neck looked even more vibrant in the soft light. You touched them lightly, then pulled Bucky’s shirt over your head. It was warm from his hands, and it smelled like cedar and something unmistakably him.

You sank into the bed that night with clean sheets, the window cracked open just enough to let in the cool night air. Bucky’s home felt quiet in a way yours never had. Not silent from tension—but peaceful. The kind of quiet that comes with safety.

You curled into the soft mattress, wrapped in a blanket that smelled faintly like him, and for the first time in two years, you slept without fear.

Safe. Protected. Free.

You woke up with a gasp.

The remnants of the nightmare clung to you like cobwebs—suffocating and sticky. Flashes of fists in the dark. That voice slithering in your ear, venomous and cruel. The oppressive weight on your chest, the cold dread of being trapped with no way out.

Your heart thundered, breath tearing in and out of your lungs like you were still running, still being chased. Your skin was damp with sweat, your hands shaking uncontrollably as you pushed the covers away and bolted upright in bed.

The room swam around you—familiar and unfamiliar all at once. Dimly lit by the glow of a streetlamp outside, walls painted in shadow. The silence rang too loud.

You couldn’t stay.

Before you even registered the movement, your bare feet found the cool hardwood floor, each step down the hallway echoing softly. You didn’t knock. You didn’t need to.

Bucky’s door was cracked open.

He was awake. Sitting at the edge of his bed, elbows braced on his knees, his metal hand cradling the back of his neck like it ached. He looked like he hadn’t slept at all. The soft light from the city cast silver lines across the sharp angles of his face, tracing the tension in his jaw, the furrow of his brow.

Your voice trembled, more breath than sound. “I had a nightmare.”

His head snapped up immediately, eyes locking onto yours. The shift was instant—soldier to protector. In two strides, he was in front of you.

“Hey,” he murmured, voice low and soothing. “You’re okay. I’m right here.”

His hands came to your shoulders—not forceful, just present. Anchoring. His touch was warm and steady, and it sent a tremor through you that wasn’t from fear this time, but release. Like your body finally allowed itself to feel how shaken you were.

Your lip quivered. “Can I stay?”

He nodded before you even finished the question. “Always.”

You didn’t hesitate. The bed welcomed you like a long-lost memory—soft sheets, a comforting dip in the mattress, the faint scent of his soap clinging to the pillow.

You curled into the center of it, small and tentative, feeling like a ghost of yourself. Like you might disappear if the shadows swallowed you up again.

Bucky moved with care. He didn’t rush. He pulled the blanket up over your trembling frame, tucking it gently around your shoulders. Then he slid into the bed behind you, close but not suffocating, the heat of him already beginning to thaw something frozen inside you.

His arm hovered behind you for a moment. He didn’t assume. Didn’t take. Just waited.

When you shifted ever so slightly—just enough for your back to press lightly against his chest, his arm came around you. A quiet, protective barrier. His metal fingers splayed carefully against your stomach, grounding you in the here and now.

You exhaled a shaky breath, your eyes slipping shut for the first time all night. The tension in your body began to unwind, thread by thread. His scent, clean and faintly earthy filled your nose, mingling with the sound of his heartbeat against your spine and the steady rhythm of his breathing.

And then he whispered it, his voice barely brushing your ear, soft and sure and steady.

“I’ve got you.”

The words sank into your skin like warmth, like truth. No promises he couldn’t keep. No hollow reassurances. Just a vow, solid and unspoken, in the way he held you like you were something worth protecting.

You blinked slowly, a tear slipping free and soaking silently into the pillow.

For the first time in as long as you could remember, you believed it.

You were safe.

Not because the nightmares were gone—but because Bucky was here when they came.

The morning sun filtered gently through the blinds of Bucky’s apartment, casting warm strips of gold across the hardwood floors.

For the first time in over a year, you hadn’t woken up with your heart pounding in fear. No yelling, no slamming doors. Just the subtle hum of city life beyond the window, and the distant sizzle of bacon in a skillet.

You padded out of the bedroom in Bucky’s oversized shirt and boxers, clutching the sleeves around your palms. The faint scent of him lingered in the fabric—cedar-wood, leather, and something warm, like late summer.

Bucky stood by the stove, his hair damp from a quick shower, grey T-shirt clinging to the breadth of his shoulders. When he heard your footsteps, he turned slightly and gave you a soft smile.

“Hey, sweetheart” he murmured, voice low and scratchy from sleep. “Hope you’re hungry.”

You nodded, grateful, eyes stinging. It was in the little things—the way he slid a cup of coffee toward you without asking how you liked it, because he already remembered.

Later that day, the team found out.

Yelena had noticed first. She cornered Bucky in the Watchtower’s armoury after morning briefings. “What’s going on with (y/n)?” she demanded, arms crossed, eyes sharp. “She barely said five words. She jumped when Alexei dropped his water bottle. I know bruises when I see them.”

Bucky hesitated, jaw tightening. But when Yelena added, softer this time, “I care about her too,” he gave her the truth.

Word spread in a ripple. Quiet, but powerful. By the end of the day, the team was different.

It started with your phone. You were sorting through mission reports in the comms room when it buzzed beside you, and you flinched hard enough to drop a pen because without looking, you already knew who it was. Him.

John, usually, cocky caught the look on your face and immediately picked the phone up himself.

“Give me your passcode,” he said steadily.

You hesitated. “Why?”

“Because if this asshole’s still texting you, I’m blocking him. And if he’s tracking you, we’re disabling it right now.”

You blinked at him, lip trembling. John just held your gaze, patient. Protective.

“Okay,” you whispered.

Ten minutes later, your ex was blocked. His number, email—gone. John handed the phone back like it weighed nothing, but you knew it had been a thousand-pound chain.

Bob, quiet and sweet, began programming something on the side—a digital firewall. One you didn't even ask for, but he gave it to you anyway.

“If he tries anything online, you’ll be notified. But he won’t get through. I made sure of it.”

You could’ve cried.

Ava began walking with you more often. No words. Just always there—on your way to the labs, when you stopped by the kitchen, even when you headed out to grab lunch across the street.

“I know what it’s like,” she said one day while the two of you sat on a park bench eating sandwiches. “To feel hunted.”

You looked at her, stunned. Her face was unreadable, but her hand brushed yours for a moment, just enough to remind you that you weren’t alone.

Then there was Alexei. Loud, boisterous, intimidating. He walked into the common area one afternoon with three grocery bags in hand and plopped them dramatically onto the table.

“You like those little orange cracker fish?” he boomed showing you the goldfish crackers he had gotten. “I bought five bags. And some juice. Juice is important.”

You stared at him, stunned.

“I don’t—”

“Shush little one,” he said, winking. “You part of us. Thunderbolts always feed Thunderbolts.”

Your laugh broke out before you could stop it. It felt foreign. Strange.

But real.

Alexei beamed like he’d won a medal.

Slowly but surely, the team wrapped you in something new. Something stronger than fear. Stronger than pain.

When you needed to go to the mall for more clothes—things that weren’t tainted with memories—Yelena and Bob went with you.

Yelena stuck close to your side, pretending to be indifferent but always scanning the crowd. Bob carried all the bags with a goofy grin. He even helped pick out a new hoodie. It was soft and warm and maroon.

“You should feel safe in your skin,” Yelena said simply, handing you a matching beanie. “Even if you’re still growing into it.”

Back at the Watchtower, life began to feel... lighter.

You started laughing again. At Alexei's terrible jokes, at Yelena’s savage sarcasm, at Bob’s quiet mutterings when tech didn’t work. Even John, in all his arrogance, could make you smile.

There was a movie night every Friday now and Bucky always sat next to you, sometimes with a pillow between you both to give space, other times with his shoulder a solid warmth at your side. You’d found yourself leaning into him more. Not because you had to. But because it felt right.

And he never pushed. Never demanded. Just let you exist next to him. Sometimes he’d hand you a blanket without saying a word. Sometimes he’d offer half his popcorn. Sometimes, his fingers would brush yours, warm and careful, and linger just a second longer than necessary.

You slept more. Ate more. Laughed more.

One day, Ava caught you humming in the hallway, arms full of supplies. She stopped in her tracks.

“What?” you asked.

“You’re glowing,” she said quietly.

You blinked. “I—I am?”

She gave a rare, small smile. “Like someone who remembers what sunlight feels like.”

One night, after Yelena dropped you off, you returned to the apartment Bucky always insisted was open to you. You let yourself in with the spare key. It was late, and he was half-asleep on the couch with a book in his lap. He stirred when you closed the door.

“You okay sweetheart?” he mumbled.

“Yeah,” you said.

He nodded, eyes drifting shut again.

You sat beside him, curling your legs up, and rested your head against his shoulder.

He didn’t move. Didn’t ask. Just reached for the blanket draped over the armrest and pulled it gently over you both.

It was the safest you’d ever felt.

It had started out as a good night.

One of those rare moments where the city lights felt warm rather than harsh, where laughter didn’t feel like something you had to fake.

The team had dragged you out—gently, persistently, lovingly.

“C’mon,” Yelena had said, slinging her arm over your shoulder. “Burgers, milkshakes, greasy fries. We deserve it. You deserve it.”

You hesitated. It had been a while since you went to any public diner. Too many memories. Too many shadows. Too much risk of seeing him.

But tonight? You nodded. Just once. Just enough.

The diner was loud with neon buzz and the clatter of plates, the kind of classic joint with red booths and checkered floors. Bucky slid into the booth beside you while Yelena and John sat across. Bob and Ava took the seats at the edge, Alexei immediately requesting the biggest burger they had.

Jokes flew easily. John was ranting about ketchup crimes. Yelena argued that mayonnaise was the superior condiment. Bob kept trying to order fries but the waitress only seemed to hear Alexei’s booming voice.

You were laughing. Honest, soft laughter that made your chest ache.

Then the door jingled. And just like that, the warmth bled from the room. Laughter dimmed. The sizzle of the grill and clatter of dishes became distant, muffled by the sudden roar of blood in your ears.

Bucky stilled beside you.

Your ex stood in the doorway, flanked by two men you didn’t recognise—thick-necked, sneering types with clenched fists and hooded eyes. But it was him you saw. Him, with that awful smirk, like nothing had changed.

Like he still owned the air you breathed.

Bucky noticed the way your body tensed, your fingers gripping the edge of the table. “Hey—”

Your ex’s eyes landed on you, and he stepped forward, raising his voice.

“Well, look who it is. Didn’t think you’d crawl this far downtown. Guess word spreads when you’re spreading your legs for every man in New York now, huh?”

The sound of the booth creaking was the only warning before Bucky stood.

Yelena’s fork clattered onto her plate.

John was on his feet in seconds, positioning himself directly between you and your ex.

“Take that back,” Bucky growled.

Your ex only sneered, moving closer. “What, you gonna fight me in front of your new playgroup? Cute. Didn’t think the Winter Soldier was into charity cases.”

You flinched.

Bucky didn’t.

“I know what you did to her,” Bucky said, low and lethal.

Your ex chuckled, but there was unease in his posture now. “What? You mean the bruises? Bitch liked it rough. Don’t tell me you haven’t noticed.”

Yelena stood up behind John, her face carved in steel. “The next time you touch her,” she said flatly, “will be the last time you have hands.”

Your ex stepped forward as if to challenge, but John didn’t move an inch. “Try it,” he warned. “Give me a reason.”

You saw it—the twitch in your ex’s jaw, the way he coiled his fist. He swung at Bucky.

But Bucky didn’t just dodge. He caught the punch mid-air.

With his metal hand.

The crunch of bone was audible and a gasp ran through the diner.

Before anyone could react, Bucky gripped your ex by the front of his jacket, lifting him clean off the floor. The metal arm locked around his throat with frightening precision. The air stilled. Your ex's feet dangled.

“If you ever look at her again,” Bucky snarled, voice sharp and shaking with rage, “if you so much as breathe in her goddamn direction—I will rip your spine out and hang it from the Watchtower gates.”

His voice didn’t rise. It didn’t need to. It was full of restrained fury. Of violence barely held back. His eyes had darkened, steel-gray and burning.

Your ex gurgled, his hands clawing at Bucky’s grip.

“Do you understand me?”

A choked nod.

Bucky dropped him like trash.

Alexei stepped forward then, looming over the two henchmen. “You want to try luck?” he asked them casually. “I haven’t punch anything in weeks.”

The men looked at each other, then down at your ex, now coughing on the floor. They backed away.

“You’re not worth it,” one muttered, and the other practically dragged your ex toward the exit.

Your heart was thundering. Your breath short.

Bob slipped into the seat beside you. Ava stood near the door, eyes scanning the street for any lingering threat.

Bucky turned to you, jaw tight, shoulders still trembling with adrenaline. But when he looked at you, his expression softened immediately.

He crouched in front of you, hands open. “You okay?”

You nodded shakily, tears welling.

Yelena handed you a napkin. “He’s gone,” she said quietly. “He’s never coming near you again.”

John was still standing like a human shield, arms crossed.

And Bucky... Bucky cupped your cheek with his hand. It was warm, comforting, his thumb brushing away the tear that escaped.

“He doesn’t get to touch you. Not now. Not ever again.”

You leaned into him, trembling.

“I was so scared,” you whispered, barely audible.

Bucky pressed his forehead to yours. “I know, sweetheart. But it’s over. He can’t hurt you anymore. Not while I’m breathing.”

And for a moment, even in the shattered remains of what should have been a peaceful night, you were wrapped in a shield stronger than steel.

You had them.

You had him.

You were safe.

You didn’t speak on the way home.

No one made you.

Bucky drove, one hand on the wheel, the other occasionally brushing against your thigh—anchoring, grounding. The rest of the team took a second vehicle, giving you space. After what happened, you needed it.

You stared out the window, watching the neon blur into streaks of yellow and red, feeling like you were floating somewhere outside yourself. Somewhere between fear and relief.

The silence between you and Bucky wasn’t heavy—it was steady. Like the calm after a storm. Like quiet waves still curling back from the shore.

When he parked outside the compound, he turned to you slowly.

“Do you want to be alone?”

You shook your head.

He didn’t ask again. Just took your hand gently, led you through the compound, through the hallways, up the stairs. When you reached your room, he hesitated at the door.

“Can I stay?”

You nodded.

Inside, the room felt untouched by the chaos of earlier. Soft lamplight, a rumpled blanket on your bed. Familiar, safe.

You kicked your shoes off and sat on the edge of the bed, fingers twisting in your lap. Bucky crouched in front of you again, like at the diner, his hands resting on your knees.

“You’re not weak for being scared,” he said. “You know that, right?”

Your throat tightened. You nodded.

“But he’s never going to get to you again. I won’t let him. None of us will.”

You looked at him. The way his eyes held yours, soft but strong. The way his presence wrapped around you like armor. The way his touch was always careful, like you were something breakable but worth protecting.

And then you whispered, “I don’t know how to stop being afraid.”

Bucky leaned forward. Pressed his forehead gently to yours.

“You don’t have to. Not right away. But you’re not alone anymore. We’ll fight it together.”

You closed your eyes.

And when he climbed into bed beside you, when his arms wrapped around you and pulled you against the steady thump of his heart, you believed him.

Not because the fear was gone.

But because for the first time in so long, you weren’t carrying it alone.

He pressed a kiss to your temple. Whispered something you didn’t catch—but it didn’t matter.

It sounded like safety.

It felt like home.

a/n: this fic is one i hold close, because i have experienced abuse/dv in my previous relationship, and i had no idea how to leave, and writing this helped, a lot. i do hope that every person that is trapped in this cycle will find their bucky—someone who makes them feel safe and loved. i am grateful i found mine. if you're a victim or know someone who is struggling, please don't be afraid to seek for help. i promise it does get better once you leave. (google dv helpline, your country's hotline should appear)

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navybrat817 · 2 days ago

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Off the Beaten Path AU

Pairing: Shifter!Bucky Barnes x Shifter!Female Reader

AU Summary: Bucky is a wolf shifter who may have met his match in you, a fox shifter. He falls quickly and wants you to be his mate. Will you accept, or will you try to run?

AU Warnings: Shifters, flirting, tension, background character death, mention of blood, slight possessive behavior, world building, Bucky Barnes (he's a warning, okay?), eventual smut, more warnings to come.

A/N: I adore Wolfie and Little Red! I hope you lovelies enjoy this AU! Divider by the talented @saradika-graphics . Please follow @navybrat817-sideblog for new fics and notifications. Comments, reblogs, feedback are loved and appreciated!

One-Shots, Ficlets, and Headcanons

The Animal Within

The Pull of Gravity

A Crown of Flowers

Asks and Nonsense Ramblings

Where should their first time be?

Do they celebrate Christmas?

Love and thanks for reading. ❤️

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brunchable · 9 months ago

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𝙄 𝘿𝙤𝙣'𝙩 𝙒𝙖𝙣𝙩 𝙔𝙤𝙪 𝙇𝙞𝙠𝙚 𝙖 𝘽𝙚𝙨𝙩 𝙁𝙧𝙞𝙚𝙣𝙙 [ 2 ]

Pairings: Bucky Barnes x f!Reader Themes: Friends to Lovers. SMUT: Touch Hungry Bucky, Kiss Hungry Bucky, Bucky just not getting enough of you, fingering, cunnilingus, Oral [M&F], unprotected piv, creampie. Just PURE making love, no kinks. Summary: It's only been a few hours since you've become official and Bucky want to show you just how much you mean to him. A/N: 2 of 2. And I must say. . . JAYSUS. BON APETITIDDIES.

Part One

You were stiff. You were sore. Your arm was asleep. And you felt fucking fantastic.

Maybe in the movies people woke up entwined in each other's arms after a night of spirited lovemaking, but for you, reality was much more awkward. Your head had somehow become wedged behind Bucky’s shoulder, and both his legs were about to slide off the couch altogether. You untangled yourself as best you could, looking down at him as you moved his limbs out of the way.

Bucky was sleeping peacefully, his dark lashes lying flat against the skin beneath his eyes. They fluttered slightly as you pulled free of him, and he stirred.

"Five more minutes," he mumbled, and turned over so he was facing the back of the couch, still caught in mid-slide towards the floor.

You tried not to laugh. God, he was adorable.

You sat up, arching your back to stretch out the sore muscles. Then your breath caught. What time was it? Holy hell, I’m going to be late.

You stood up quickly, and was seized by an ache between your legs so unfamiliar that you nearly sat back down again. Holy crap. It had been way too long. You almost felt like a virgin again. You rose again shakily, noticing that your whole groin felt sore, and so did your hips—probably from throwing your legs up around his waist. God, what a wanton hussy you were, you thought happily.

You went quietly towards the bathroom, checking the clock on the stove as you walked by. It was nearly eight-thirty. Crap. You were supposed to be at work by nine, or nine-thirty at the latest. you'd have to make the shower a quick one.

You stood under the hot water, letting it pour over your sore muscles. You washed out your hair, lathered up your body and massaged your sore hips as random images from last night invaded your thoughts. Even now you weren't entirely convinced it hadn't all been a dream. Has it really happened? The soreness was real enough. And so were the images flashing through your mind.

Bucky’s body on yours, looming over you, holding your wrists, kissing you with abandon. Taking each breast in his mouth, teasing you with his fingers. Sliding into you, tilting your back and thrusting deeper, faster, harder.

Suddenly a blurry figure appeared on the other side of the glass door. The door slid open and he stood there, looking disheveled from sleep but adorably sexy. And naked, too.

"Hi," he said, a seductive smile curving his lips. His eyes traveled down your naked body, pausing at your breasts and then sliding down to the between your legs where rivulets of water coursed and ran together.

You flushed at the frank inspection but willed yourself not to try to hide from him. You shifted your weight, jutting your hip out provocatively and smiled.

His eyes returned to yours, desire glinting in them. "May I join you?"

You pushed the door back and invited him in. Bucky stepped in and crowded you, not unpleasantly, until your back was up against the tiles. He braced his hands on the wall behind you, and let the water flow over him as he leaned down and kissed you.

You opened to him and kissed him back, winding your hands around his waist and sliding them down his ass, squeezing appreciatively. He smiled into the kiss, enjoying your wandering hands, then pushed forward so your bodies were pressed together, the water slick and warm between you.

"So," he murmured in your ear, his voice barely a whisper above the sound of the water. "So much for that idea."

"What idea was that?" you whispered back, kissing his ear.

"The idea that we could ever be just friends," he said, catching your jaw with his lips as you turned your head. He covered your neck with slow, lingering kisses, trailing his mouth down your and cupping your breast with his hand.

"Oh, I don't know, I think it's a great idea so far," you said coquettishly. "Besides," you joked. "I do this with all my male friends."

He mocked a scowl at you, and gave you that smile that had always melted you. "Well, that's going to have to stop. You're mine now."

He kissed you slowly, his tongue tangling with yours as he teased and tasted, enjoying your mouth.

You kissed him back, licking and tasting and enjoying him until you felt rather than heard a hum of desire, of pure carnal lust, vibrating through him. He was growing hard against your belly, his cock pressing against you urgently.

He lowered his head further and took your nipple into his mouth, licking the soft nub until it grew hard beneath his tongue. Pleasure shot through you, and he turned to lavish the same attention on your other breast. You writhed against the cold tiles at your back, arching into him and sinking your fingers into his hair to hold him to you. He smiled as you moaned with pleasure, and laughed softly when he took your nipple between his teeth and made you suck in a sharp breath.

His cock was as hard as it had been a few hours ago, and it surged in your hand as he took your breasts. You gathered some suds into your palm and grasped him again, feeling the iron-hardness of him beneath the silky skin. You began to stroke, gliding fast and smooth, and he groaned from the pleasure of it, collapsing against you and kissing you between his soft, low sounds of pleasure and need.

You kept stroking and teasing, gliding over him in a steady rhythm, and felt yourself growing warm and slick at how hard he was beneath your fingers. You loved that you were doing that to him, making him want you so much. He groaned, his breath jagged and shallow. He tried to kiss you through his mounting pleasure but he had to break off to breathe, to lose himself in the sensation.

"God, baby," he groaned, squeezing his eyes shut. "So good."

You tried not to focus on him calling you baby, knowing it was only his arousal talking. You focused instead on the intense pleasure that was making him say it. You continued stroking him, changing your hand position so that you pulled up with each stroke, teasingly pulling his skin up over the head each time and sinking down to the base, pleasuring every inch of him. Your other hand cupped his balls and caressed him, gently rolling him around in your fingers as he tensed and surged and seemed to fight against you, against the unbearable pleasure you were causing him.

After a few torturous moments he stopped your hand, his breathing so fast and ragged that he could hardly speak.

“You—don't want—this to end too soon, do you?” he warned, kissing you in between breaths. “Because, my God, you could make me come in seconds if you wanted to.”

“That might be fun,” you said, kissing the edges of his mouth, licking at his lips and his tongue when he opened his mouth to you again.

“For me, yes,” he breathed, breaking away from you. “But I'm not nearly finished with you yet.”

He slipped his hand into your hair and held your head, kissing you with such raw passion, such naked need that you felt a surge of warmth flood between your legs in spite of the cooling effects of the water. He had wrung a soul-shattering orgasm out of you just a few hours ago and yet here you were again, eager for him again. Wanton hussy indeed.

"Do you remember that night, two years ago?" he asked, his voice low and deep. "At the party, when I played that song on the guitar for you, and you asked whether it hurt my fingers to play the steel strings?"

He was watching his own fingers trail over your breasts, over your tightened nipple, down past your navel, as the water trickled over you both.

"Mmm hmmm," you murmured, your eyes closed, lost in the sensation of the water coursing down your body and his hand moving over you.

“And you touched my fingertips…”

Of course you remembered; you'd run your fingers over the roughened pads of his fingertips, and had watched in delight as he'd twitched a little, and then trembled, just a little, at your touch. You'd kept your touch feather-light and soft, drifting over his fingertips and down his fingers a little, feeling the shiver of heightened awareness in your own hands.

Maybe you'd been a little too suggestive, a little too lingering, whispering-touching those parts of him that were supposedly hardened against such sensations—but you'd been unable to stop yourself. His hands had been warm and strong and eminently male, and when he'd stiffened and held his breath, as if willing himself not to react to your seductive touch, you'd felt that shiver of awareness deepen into an intense desire.

Such a seemingly innocent touch, just a friend examining the time-worn calluses of a guitar player's fingertips. . .and yet in that moment, even amongst their friends, even with the music playing loud and the laughter soaring above it, you'd felt like it had been just the two of you in that room, touching each other intentionally for the very first time, your hand tentatively reaching out for his, and his reaching to meet your half way.

“You drove me wild.” he said, leaning to kiss your neck. “I got so hard, I was afraid to move. And after that, I kept thinking of all the things I wanted to do to you with these fingers.” He slipped his hand between your legs and caressed your folds, parting them gently and sliding inside you. “Like this, for instance.”

You moaned and leaned your head against his shoulder, letting him touch you wherever he wanted. His fingers explored you, caressed you, possessed you, expertly as though they, too, knew you were his.

“I just had to touch you,” you breathed against him. “And believe me, this is what I was thinking about too.”

“You stopped me last night,” he murmured, dragging his mouth along your neck. “I wanted to feel you come for me. To finish what you started that night.”

You groaned at the sound of his voice, so low and sexual, so heated with his own desire.

“Let me feel you come for me, baby,” he whispered into your ear, licking your earlobe. “Please.”

He gripped your hip and lifted you up against the wall slightly, positioning you so he could slide his fingers deep inside you. He held you firmly around the waist, bracing you against the wall, and thrust into you gently, with first one finger, then two, sliding deeper and deeper each time, stretching you, mimicking the size and power of his cock. His thumb played over your clit, sending shocks of pleasure through you as he pressed his forehead to yours and gazed down into your eyes. You gasped and cried out from the overwhelming pleasure of it even as you squirmed beneath his fingers and ached for more.

He braced you against his thigh and pressed against you while his arm steadied you from behind, holding you completely in his grasp. Bucky had such a way of holding you, letting you know that you were going nowhere, making sure you had no desire to be anywhere but in his arms. You felt safe, and secure, and above all, worshiped.

Bucky bent down and kissed you, sliding his fingers into your with a wild, sensuous rhythm that matched the increasing speed of his thumb as it stroked and rubbed and swirled around your aching clit. His hand was so strong, his fingers curving inside you to caress you, to find that super-sensitive inner spot even as he plunged and drove and took. With his thumb circling your clit in a relentless rhythm and his fingers deep inside you, stretching you, claiming you, you felt completely owned by him, by the hand that possessed every inch of you.

His tongue slipped into your mouth, matching the rhythm of his fingers, swirling, tasting, mutely revealing that he had had another fantasy, too. The thought of his mouth on you, his tongue tasting you, torturing you, swirling over your clit as you writhed beneath it made you go weak in the knees.

Bucky broke away from the kiss and began trailing kisses down your neck, your breasts, lowering himself to his knees in front of you while bracing your hips against the tiles with his strong hands.

"Did I mention what it did to me the first time your tongue touched mine?" he whispered devilishly.

He looked up at you so intently, his beautiful blue eyes blazing as the water streamed over his shoulder and down the contours of his chest. You gazed down at him, and for the second time this morning questioned whether all this could actually be happening. This gorgeous, virile man gripping you, kneeling before you, gazing at you like you were the most beautiful woman he had ever seen. It couldn't be real, could it?

Then he lowered his lips to your and you knew it was.

Sensation tore through your touch, so delicately gentle at first, and you arched against the wall with a startled cry. You reached down and gripped his shoulder, steadying yourself on one foot as he brought you to your leg up slowly, gently and eased it over his shoulder. The sight of it alone nearly made you come. He moved so languidly, so sensuously, positioning you better so he could enjoy your all the more.

He closed his mouth over your clit and kissed it luxuriously, his lips moving as though he were kissing your mouth. His tongue swirled over you in large, sensuous circles and he groaned against you, tightening his grip on your hip as you moaned against the sudden overwhelming pleasure of it. The tip of his tongue darted out to flick against your rapidly as he looked up at you again, watching your pleasure, his eyes smiling at you as if he knew precisely how good he was making you feel. Then he fell on you again, his tongue roaming over you, tasting you, luxuriating in your folds and dipping to lap at your entrance.

“Oh my, g-god. Bucky—”

You bucked against him and cried out as his tongue slipped into your and pulsed there, gently, savouring you. Your hand sank into his wet hair and as you gripped his head, you were rewarded with a muted chuckle and a more intense forward surge of his tongue inside you. He liked the moans he wrought from you. He liked being able to make your cry out and seize him, your head thrown back in agonizing pleasure.

And fuck did you like it, too.

"Oh God," you breathed, your heart thundering in your chest. "My God, that feels so good..."

He withdrew from your and slid his tongue up to torture your aching clit, and just when you began to miss the feel of him inside your he gently pushed his fingers into your again and began to thrust.

Pleasure soared through you and you cried out even louder, and the leg draped over his shoulder began to tremble. His tongue circled your clit again, deliciously slowly, as his fingers slid into you over and over again, a sensual, primitive rhythm that made you want to grind your hips against the pleasure.

“I'm coming,” you whispered urgently. “You're going to make me come…”

His fingers thrust deeper and faster and he began to lick you so quickly, with such a throaty groan of pleasure that you felt your orgasm rise, terrifyingly fast and sharp, making you cry out in increasing, panting breaths until you shattered, coming violently around his fingers and that sensuous, irresistible tongue. You shuddered with an aching cry and trembled from the spasms he sent rippling through you. Your body curled forward as you gripped him tighter, your fingers pulling on his hair from the pressure.

He removed your leg from his shoulder gently as you continued to shudder, feeling aftershocks of pleasure shiver through you. He got to his feet and helped you stand, pressing himself against your and nuzzling your neck.

“Holy shit,” you whispered, your voice shaking. your whole body shaking. “That was incredible.”

“That...was just the prelude,” he whispered, kissing you. “I haven't even started pleasuring you yet.”

God, he was going to kill you. Death by orgasm, you thought happily. What a way to go.

He leaned to turn off the water, but he stilled his hand. He looked back at you with a questioning expression, and then understood. You pulled him back towards yourself and he went willingly, stepping back under the stream of water, kissing you deeply, his hands roaming greedily over your body.

You weren't done with him. He had made you feel like a goddess, worshiped, cherished, adored.

You broke off the kiss and began trailing your lips down his neck, his collarbone and chest, enjoying the warmth of the water trickling past your mouth. His chest muscles tensed as you kissed them, and as you moved your lips slowly down his abdomen you felt his whole body go rigid with anticipation. You sank to your knees in the tub and brushed kisses along his navel, his hip bones, and he put his hands on your shoulders to steady himself. Water coursed over both of you, and you delighted in it, closing your eyes against the spray.

“Baby,” Bucky said softly, barely audible above the water.

You opened your eyes and looked up at him. He was about to say something but you smiled and glanced away, focusing instead on the head of his cock, hard and urgent in front of you. He was thick and beautiful, and still as hard, maybe even harder, than he had been when you'd teased him with your hands.

“I want to taste you,” you said playfully. “All of you.”

You leaned forward and gently licked the swollen tip of his cock. He inhaled sharply, his whole body tensing, and you smiled up at him, letting him know this was for your pleasure as much as for his. You swirl your tongue around the head, taking it into your mouth and suckling gently, teasing it. The skin was soft and smooth, stretched deliciously tight from the hardness of his erection.

You let your tongue play over it, dipping into the opening, making him moan. You drifted your tongue along the ridge, and down to the sensitive skin just beneath the head, licking and tasting, nipping and kissing.

You looked up at him, and his dark eyes were wild with desire. You smiled, and ran your tongue up and down the length of him, ending at the head and flicking at it delicately, teasingly. He moaned softly, his breathing starting to grow rapid. You rose up slightly to take the whole length of him into your mouth and sucked him, long and hard.

He let out a gasp and braced himself against the wall with one hand, his other hand gripping your shoulder.

“Oh fuck—Baby...”

You slid your mouth over his shaft, deeper, deeper, and slid back up the length of him. Your hands came around and gripped his ass, pulling him towards you. He staggered forward slightly as you took him into your mouth again, luxuriously taking in his entire length, sucking, licking, tasting as you went. The sensation of him in your mouth was almost as overwhelming as his first entrance into your body had been, so unfamiliar but so right at the same time.

You caressed his balls with one hand as you played your tongue over his cock. He groaned, his breathing jagged now, his cock harder than ever. His hand moved from your shoulder to sink into your wet hair, and he gripped your head with barely restrained urgency. Gently he guided your head closer to him as you sucked. You lowered yourself onto him and slowly sucked your way back up, your mouth gripping him, your cheeks hollowing, as your tongue slid over him with each pass.

His hips began to move as he started to match your rhythm, thrusting into you, meeting your mouth. Bucky gripped your head more firmly and held your head still, driving into you gently.

You let your hand fall and you sat back on your haunches, enjoying the feeling of him sliding in and out of your mouth, controlling his own pleasure, taking what he wanted, and what you were so willing to give. Yet you could tell he was holding back, wanting to thrust harder and faster but restraining himself and settling for a smoother, slower pace.

For you. Bucky was holding back for your sake. This passionate, soulful, virile man was holding back his own pleasure because he wanted to be gentle with you.

The very thought of it excited you, and you increased your own rhythm, encouraging him, moaning with pleasure as he drove into you. You sucked harder, faster, turning your gaze up to him with an urgent plea in your eyes. Faster. Deeper. Now, my love.

And he understood.

Bucky groaned, and stepped forward. His hand clenched in your hair and he began to move, faster and harder, plunging deeper, holding your head as he thrust into your mouth with urgent, rhythmic strokes. He slid in and out of your mouth as if through warm honey, and you felt and heard his pleasure mounting with every ratcheted breath and every desperate moan that escaped his lips.

His eyes watched your with rapt adoration and abject lust, and you could tell that the sight of your taking him fully into your mouth, of your sucking him with pure, greedy abandon and complete acceptance, was pushing him closer to the edge as much as the intense pleasure of your tongue on his cock was. Or more.

He tensed as his rhythm grew faster, his breathing harder, until you felt him tighten and strain so much that you felt certain he was going to spill himself into your mouth. But at the last moment he cried out and pulled back, his cock slipping out of your mouth quickly. He stood still, breathless, his eyes closed as if willing his orgasm to retreat. Water sliced down his neck and chest, and finally he let out a slow, jagged moan of a breath and opened his eyes. He looked down at you wildly, and reached for you,helping you to your feet.

“Jesus,” he said breathlessly, staring at you as he tried to catch his breath. “I can't...I can't believe how goddamn good that felt. You brought me so close, so fast, I almost couldn't stop it.”

“Why did you?” you asked, running your finger along his jaw. “I wanted to feel you come for me.”

He groaned against you, his hands roaming over your body. “I told you, I'm not nearly done with you yet.”

He kissed you hungrily, his cock surging against your violently as your bodies met. you could feel him moving against you, his cock rubbing against you,and you knew how badly he wanted to be inside you again.

As badly as you wanted him inside you again.

He stepped back, his breath still ragged, and pressed his forehead to yours as he closed his eyes and tried to breathe.

“You're not done yet, huh?” you teased gently, letting your fingers sink into his wet hair as you kissed his neck.

“Not nearly.”

“But I have to go to work. Maybe if I'm lucky you'll be here when I get home?”

“I'm not going anywhere.”

He reached to turn off the water and stepped out of the shower, turning to help your step over the wall of the tub. You threw your robe on and cinched the belt as he dried off and wrapped the towel around his waist. You caught him grinning at you, and it was so clear what he was thinking that it made your laugh.

“What?” you demanded, squeezing the excess water out of your hair with a hand towel. “What are you smiling at?”

Bucky wetted his lips with his tongue, “Fuck it. You're just going to have to be late for work. Come here…”

“Hey!” your eyes widened playfully, jumping away from him. “Are you trying to kill me? Stop!”

Bucky untied your robe and you yelped, trying to slap his hands away. He just kept advancing on you, grinning devilishly. You turned and scampered away from him with a squeal of delight.

He followed behind, still grasping for the robe. You shrieked and laughed and ran towards the bedroom, and he followed, catching up to you and pushing you onto the bed with a resounding crack of the bed frame.

You laughed as he tumbled on top of you, but he silenced you with his mouth, kissing you hungrily as he impatiently pushed your robe aside. His breath was ragged as he nudged your legs apart with his knee, his need too great for the slow, sensual lovemaking of last night. He held his cock against your entrance and smoothly thrusts into you and moaned against your mouth, and you wrapped your legs around him to draw him deeper.

He plunged into you, covering your body and your mouth with the same hungry possession. You were still so warm and wet, so exquisitely ready for him that he filled you easily, driving you relentlessly as he tasted your tongue, your lips, your neck, and groaned from the pleasure your body was giving him.

You tensed around him and he moaned breathlessly, a throaty, male sound of pure ecstasy. He pounded into you, falling into a steady rhythm born of raw, primitive need. Your body tightened around him with every thrust, and waves of pleasure rippled through you, building in intensity up to an almost unbearable pressure, a delicious heat that made you moan into his mouth as he kissed you.

He rose up, his arms braced beside you, to look down as he stroked and withdrew and breathed out his pleasure while his eyes glowed pure heat. He grabbed your rear, tilting one hip up towards him, entering you on such an angle that a new kaleidoscope of pleasure bloomed throughout you. He gripped you possessively, driving you deeper and faster and harder. His eyes burned, glowing like obsidian, hot and wild and almost frenzied with desire.

“Baby,” he groaned, his eyes pinning you, claiming you, as though he were branding you with your heat.

You're mine...

Your first time together had only been hours ago, but it was as if you had been lovers for years...every fluid flexing of his hips against you hit just the right spot, every deep, powerful thrust of his cock stretched your pussy with a familiar, almost expected surge of pleasure.

“Yes—oh god yes, Bucky—fuck me,” you breathed.

Two simple words and suddenly he was on the edge...buried so deep inside you, thrusting, plunging, your breasts pressed against his chest, the pleasure roaring through his body.

Suddenly he wanted to take you, hard. He wanted to fuck you with abandon, the eyes-closed, head-back, moaning-out-loud kind of sexual abandon that he had so rarely experienced in his life, but which was crashing through his body and mind right now.

He wanted this woman...he wanted to own you, to take you, to claim your body as his....he wanted to fuck you until he'd emptied his balls into you, feeling your pussy clenching and spasming in orgasm around his cock as he came, as you came, as you came together.

He withdrew from you quickly, barely able to catch his breath, and, as if you could read his thoughts, you turned onto your stomach just as his trembling hands guided your hips over. Your hair spilled over your bare back and your ass curved out so seductively it was all he could do not to cum right there, all over your smooth skin. But his cock knew what it wanted, and he pulled you forward to slide into the heaven of your pussy, so wet and tight and swollen for him.

He cried out when he took your again, his cock parting your folds and filling you so completely. The feel of him stretching you, the crest of his head pressing against your from this new angle...you felt a tremor of pleasure ripple through you and knew you were close, as close as he was. When he leaned over you and began to kiss your shoulders you shuddered, and when he began to thrust you buried your face in the pillow and moaned.

Your moans of pleasure filled the room and he squeezed his eyes shut, willing himself to last, begging his aching cock not to explode just yet. . .this pace, these quick short strokes as his hips slapped against your ass, your body moving with his every thrust. . .It was almost too much to bear. Bucky buried his faced in your sweet-smelling hair and let his cock plunge as it would, faster and faster, making him shake, making him breathless, making him feel like nothing but a desperate cock as he fucked you.

And fucked you. And fucked you, as you had begged him to...

You could only whimper now, lost to the pleasure of his man taking you like this, fucking you so wildly, almost savagely. The pleasure he was taking from your body, his moans and groans and the growls of pleasure you could feel against your back and in the warm breath at your ear. . . it was pure, primal lust.

You felt worshiped beneath him, as if every thrust of his hungry cock was a tribute to you, every growl and sharp breath an oath. He was fucking you, mindlessly, and yet every part of him was attuned to you, touching you, adoring you.

As his pace grew even faster, his thrusts shallower, you could sense he was about to come, and you felt your muscles tighten around him to heighten his pleasure and hers. His thrusts were so powerful that you felt the orgasm rising in you and you closed your eyes, lifting your head back so he could slide his hand into your hair, gently holding your neck and kissing your jaw with breathy, open-mouthed kisses.

“Oh, God Bucky...I'm coming,” you moaned. “I'm coming.”

“Yes...cum for me baby....cum on my cock.”

“Cum with me....please....I want you to cum inside me, please....please....”

And he could withstand it no more.

Pleasure detonated through him as his orgasm spasmed throughout his body, wracking him with wave after wave of euphoric release. He cried out your name as he thrust and bucked against your flesh, driving his cock deeper and deeper as he came and came and came. It felt like he would never stop cumming, and when he felt your orgasm tear through your pussy and clench his cock in waves, he thought he might black out from the sheer ecstasy of it.

You slammed back against him as the first spurts of cum began to fill you, and felt your ravaged pussy begin to spasm again and again, milking his cock, pulling his cum deeper into you, flooding you with ripples of pleasure. You moaned and writhed, riding the crest of one orgasm only to feel a second one begin to climb and then crash over you. Breathless, almost sobbing from the pleasure, you let him hold you as he continued to pound into you, draining his balls into you at his will, lost in the utter bliss of a man taking a woman in the most primal way.

When he could bear it no longer, when his exquisitely sensitive cock throbbed within you and the pleasure bordered on pain, he stilled, finally, and shuddered. Sharp spasms of pleasure shot through him as his cock surged one last time within you, his aching balls emptying every last ounce of come. Bucky was almost lightheaded, his chest heaving, sweat glazing his skin as he withdrew his hand from your hair and ran it down the center of your back, needing to touch you, needing to feel your heated skin. You were breathless too, your back moving beneath his hand as you lay your head down and tried to catch your breath.

You felt him withdraw from you, and your pussy rebelled, clenching to keep him there, as if pleading with him not to go. Bucky groaned softly against your ear as he pulled out and fell on the bed beside you, his arms surrounding you and pulling your back against him. You fit perfectly together, and every muscle in your body relaxed as you snuggled into him and breathed out a contented sigh. You felt his lips on the shell of your ear, kissing softly, felt his slowing breath against your skin as his soft sounds of contentment and pleasure hummed in his throat.

This is heaven, you thought. Pure heaven. your pussy twitched and tingled as you felt his warm come beginning to slip down your inner thighs. His strong arms surrounded you, his soft lips murmured and whispered and kissed, his spent cock nestled against the curve of your ass.

“There was something I wanted to tell you, remember?” he murmurs, his words brushing warmly against your skin as he kisses a path down to your shoulder. “Last night… something I wanted to say to you. Something I wanted you to know.”

You shift slightly, turning to look at him, your heart pounding as you search his eyes, barely able to breathe.

“Tell me,” you whisper, your voice almost a plea.

His gaze softens, an unmistakable warmth filling his expression as he tucks a strand of hair behind your ear, his fingers lingering on your cheek.

“I love you.”

The words settle between you, simple but perfect, like they were always meant to be there. Your heart feels like it’s soaring, every nerve in your body alive with the thrill of it, of finally hearing what you’d been aching to hear.

You break into a smile, biting your lip, feeling giddy and light, and without a second thought, you lean forward, kissing him softly, your hand finding his as you whisper back, “I love you too.”

And as he pulls you closer, his arms wrapping around you with a tenderness that feels like home, you realize that, for the first time, everything feels right.

tags: @cereal6666 @thatesqcrush @cl7ire @bighappypiels @mostlymarvelgirl

@winchestert101 @winterslove1917 @hzdhrtss @mcira @elvenrin

@xunquish-blog @meetmeattheapt

15K notes · View notes

nyletac · 2 months ago

Text

Toxic Heat

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x Agent! Female! Reader

Summary: While waiting for the extraction team after a successful mission, Bucky leaves you and runs into a greenhouse room in the mission building with strange plants. Accidentally breathing in the gas from the plants he returns to you, but something is off.

Warnings/Tags: 18+, Smut, Cursing, Fingering, Rough Sex, Edging, Enemies to lovers, Hormone inducing plant, Vaginal sex, Multiple orgasms, Aftercare, Super Intense (my god this is so dirty.)

Word Count: 6.4k

The mission had been straightforward at first: infiltrate the abandoned research outpost, gather intel, and get out before anyone noticed.

But when the team’s extraction was delayed, you and Bucky found yourselves trapped inside the building’s dusty corridors, waiting for backup.

After the constant, usual bickering and insults, he left and you heard his footsteps retreat down the hall as he scouted ahead, his metal arm clanking softly with each step. You stayed close to the cracked wall, nervously fingering the strap of your gear. Wishing there were windows to bring in any source of light throughout the creepy dim building.

Suddenly, Bucky’s footsteps stopped. Silence swallowed the hallway. Slight worry grew over you, as you take a look down the hallway, however, no sight or sound of him to be found.

When you finally heard footsteps again, you quickly peaked your head past the doorway down the hallway. Seeing Bucky approach, his movements were slower, heavier. His dark eyes held something unreadable — a flicker of distraction mixed with a strange heat.

You noticed the sweat beading at his temple, the way his breath came a little too fast, a little too shallow.

“Bucky?” Your voice curious, concern knitting your brows.

He didn’t answer immediately. Instead, he leaned against the doorway, jaw clenched tight, hand pressing over his mouth as if trying to catch his breath.

Your heart pounded. You couldn’t just stand there.

Carefully, you took a few steps closer, eyes scanning his face for any sign of injury or distress. “Are you hurt? You don’t look well.”

Your fingers hovered uncertainly near his arm before gently laying it on the flushed skin.

The contact made him flinch, a sharp intake of breath escaping his lips, and his whole body tensed under your touch.

He looked at you, confusion clouding his dark eyes before darting his eyes away. “I… I don’t know what’s happening,” he admitted quietly, voice strained. “I can’t… focus.”

You bit your lip, cheeks burning with a mix of worry and something else you couldn’t name.

Despite your hesitation, your fingers lingered, tracing the line of his jaw slowly.

His heavy breathing filled the tight space between you.

He wasn’t the bold, direct, and frankly asshole of a man you’d expected to come back— he was confused, vulnerable in a way that made your heart ache.

And yet, beneath that confusion simmered something primal, waiting to break free.

You swallowed hard, fighting the urge to pull back as Bucky’s gaze locked with yours—dark, confused, and somehow raw in a way you’d never seen before. His chest rose and fell rapidly, breath hitching like he was struggling to steady it.

“Do you need to sit down?” you offered softly, voice barely above a whisper. You hated how your own hands trembled, but you couldn’t just leave him like this.

Bucky shook his head slowly, jaw still tight. “No,” he said, voice rough, “I just… need a moment.”

You edged closer, feeling the warmth radiating off his body, the subtle tremor running through his muscles. Your fingers brushed again against his skin—this time along the softer flesh of the inside of his wrist, inspecting his seemingly pulsing veins.

He flinched again, that sharp intake of breath turning deeper, ragged. His eyes fluttered closed for a second, turning his face away from you as if trying to contain something he didn’t understand.

“Bucky…” Your voice softened, uncertainty threading through every word. “What’s going on?”

He opened his eyes, dark pools swirling with confusion and frustration. “I don’t know,” he said roughly, voice breaking just slightly. “I feel… wrong. Hot. Like I’m… burning up from the inside.”

You bit your lip, heart clenching. The man who is feared, who’s a deadly super soldier, was now trembling under your touch, vulnerable and raw.

Without thinking, your hand moved to rest flat against his chest, feeling the rapid thud of his heartbeat beneath your palm.

His breathing hitched, eyes darkening as if the simple contact overwhelmed him. “Don’t…” he growled out, voice hoarse.

The room seemed to shrink around you both, heavy with unspoken tension. You wanted to pull away, to respect his boundaries, but your body betrayed you—drawn to him like a moth to flame.

“Bucky,” you whispered, “I’m here. I’m not going anywhere.”

Your palm pressed against his chest, trying to calm the wild thumping of his heart. Bucky’s breath was ragged, uneven, like he was barely holding himself together. His dark eyes flicked toward you, filled with confusion—and something raw, unfiltered.

He growled softly, a frustrated sound. “I ran into some kind of room in the west wing with a bunch of plants. They were releasing some kind of gas. I don’t know what it’s doing to me, but—” He cut himself off, jaw tightening. “—it’s making me feel things. Things I don’t like.”

You raised an eyebrow, and try to lighten the mood. “Oh great. Just what I needed: Barnes, the grumpy tin man, suddenly turned into a hot mess.” You say softly, rolling your eyes with a slight smile

He scowled but didn’t deny it. “Keep it up, and I might just knock that smug smile off your face.”

“Yeah, yeah. Not like this you won’t” you teased, voice light despite the tension.

Bucky took a deep, shuddering breath. “Don’t tempt me. Besides, this isn’t a joke. I don’t know how to control it, and I don’t want you getting involved.”

You stepped closer, still wary but unable to look away. “Since when did you care what I think?”

His eyes darkened, and he took a half-step towards the other side of the room, like you might be contagious. “Since this gas has me all messed up and I’m not sure I’m still me.” He growls out

You bit your lip, trying not to let your cheeks betray how much the sight of him like this was affecting you.

“Look,” he said, voice low and rough, “I understand that we’re partnered up for this mission, but—” His voice cracked slightly, “right now… I need you to just stay out of it. Or maybe just don’t make it worse.”

You raised your hands in mock surrender. “Fine. But only because I’m curious what’ll happen next.” Not sliding in the tid-bit that you’re still extremely worried for him no matter how aggravating he may be or how many times he’s insulted you back at the avengers tower.

Bucky’s glare was sharp, but something softer flickered beneath it before he turned away, trying to hide the vulnerability that scared him.

Bucky’s back was stiff as a board as he leaned against an abandoned table in the room, jaw clenched tight, but the rapid rise and fall of his chest gave him away. The gas wasn’t just messing with his head—it was twisting something deeper, something primal he clearly didn’t want to admit.

Without a word, he suddenly stepped closer, the heat radiating off him intense and raw. His dark eyes locked onto yours with a sharpness that made your breath catch.

Then, almost abruptly, his hand reached out and grabbed your wrist—his grip firm but not cruel.

His voice came low and rough, like gravel scraping over steel. “You don’t get it. This gas… it’s messing with me. Making me feel things I shouldn’t.”

You blinked, caught off guard, heart pounding.

He swallowed hard, eyes darkening as if fighting to hold himself back. “I don’t want you involved. Hell, I don’t want anyone involved. Especially not you.”

You stepped back slightly, wary but steady. “Just cut deeper why don’t you.” You say dripping with sarcasm.

Bucky’s jaw tightened even more. Standing in silence very clearly thinking something through despite the haze he’s under. “I feel like I’m starting to lose control—and you’re the one thing that’s driving me crazy.”

His breath hitched. “I don’t want this. I don’t want to want you.”

Your cheeks flushed but you didn’t pull away.

He hesitated for a moment, then leaned in just enough for you to feel his breath on your skin.

“Don’t make me lose it,” he warned, voice rough and low.

The closeness of his face, feeling the hotness of his breath fanning over your skin, the tone of his voice. You can’t help but to begin breathing heavily. Despite you and Bucky’s mockery, insults, and arguing, you can’t help but be affected by how he’s acting towards you right now. Your eyes scan over him as you fail to resist the squeezing of your thighs and the feeling of molten heat pool in your stomach.

You notice his nostrils flare and his eyes close, inhaling deeply as he lets out a low groan. His eyes open and burned into yours, fierce and unyielding, but underneath there was a raw vulnerability that made your chest tighten. He walks closer towards you, making you back up until your back hits the cold concrete wall. The tension between you wasn’t just the usual snark or competition anymore—it was something sharper, hotter, dangerous.

Bucky closed the last few inches and pressed his palm flat against the wall beside your head, trapping you gently but firmly. His metal fingers brushed lightly against your temple, and a flicker of something desperate crossed his face.

“You don’t know what this is doing to me,” he muttered, voice thick with frustration and something darker. “I’m not… me right now. And I don’t want to hurt you.”

You swallowed hard, nerves sparking but your gaze steady. “You won’t.”

He swallowed again, chest rising and falling faster now, like every breath was a fight.

Then, almost reluctantly, his hand found yours—fingers curling around yours, cool against your skin but firm, possessive.

“I’m warning you,” he breathed, his voice dropping lower, “if you let me, I might not going to be able stop.”

His gaze flicked down to your lips, then back up, heavy with unspoken promises and desperate need.

You felt your heart hammer in your chest, caught between fear and the undeniable pull drawing you closer to him.

Bucky’s grip tightened around your fingers, a low growl rumbling deep in his throat. His dark eyes searched your face like he was looking for permission—and maybe begging for it too, though his pride wouldn’t let him say so.

“I don’t want this,” he snarled softly, voice rough and raw, “but I’m losing the fight.”

His breath hitched, hot and ragged against your skin. The heat radiating off him was suffocating—an almost tangible force pulling you closer, burning away the space between.

You wanted to pull back, wanted to remind him that you weren’t sure what this was either, that this was the opposite of professional, opposite of what you two were—but something in his expression held you fast, unsteady and trembling.

His metal hand slid from your fingers to your wrist, then higher, tracing the delicate skin of your forearm. Every inch was electric under his touch, like you were both alive on a knife’s edge.

“Tell me to stop,” he whispered hoarsely, voice thick with frustration, “and I will. But if you don’t…”

He closed the distance suddenly, lips brushing a harsh, breathless kiss against yours—rough and demanding, like he was trying to ground himself through the contact.

Your breath caught, shyness warred with a fierce, blooming heat deep inside you.

Bucky’s hands framed your face, thumbs brushing over your cheekbones as if trying to memorize every line, every trembling breath.

“I’m scared,” he admitted, voice low and vulnerable beneath the roughness. “Scared I won’t be able to pull back.” You feel him physically trying to restrain himself from pulling himself closer to you.

You swallowed, heart pounding louder than your thoughts.

“No,” you whispered, voice soft but sure. “Don’t pull back.”

His lips instantly found yours, crashing into your lips, with a wild insatiable hunger. There was no gentleness in it, just raw need and the taste of restraint shattering. He gripped your waist, his hands big and calloused, roughly pulling you flush against his body like he needed you to stay anchored to the ground.

You gasped into him, the sound catching in your throat as you felt the heat of him—every line of muscle, every tremble in his body that betrayed how hard he was fighting to stay in control.

“I shouldn’t want this,” he growled, voice rough against your lips, “not with you… not like this.”

But his hands didn’t stop. One slid up under your shirt, skimming over your ribs, fingertips dragging goosebumps in their wake. His touch was desperate, reverent, like he needed to memorize your body just to keep from coming undone.

“I didn’t even like you,” he muttered hoarsely, forehead resting against yours, breath ragged. “You always ran your mouth, always got under my skin…”

Your hands clutched at the front of his tactical shirt, heart pounding against your ribs. “You didn’t like me?” you managed, breathless.

“I hated how much I noticed you,” he growled. “How I couldn’t stop watching the way you moved… how you looked at me like you saw past the metal and my history.”

You whimpered as his fingers slipped beneath your waistband, teasing the skin just above your underwear. His touch wasn’t tentative—it was firm, claiming. Possessive. But there was a tremble in it, like he wasn’t sure if he was about to worship you or ruin you.

“Tell me to stop,” he whispered again, voice cracking with restraint. “Please.”

But you couldn’t. All you could do was look up at him, seeing him, pieces of hair falling in his face, his dark eyes staring into yours and let out a soft needy whine.

That was all he needed.

His mouth moved to your neck, kissing and biting, the sting softened by the heat of his tongue. His hand slid into your pants, cupping you firmly. The gasp that tore from your throat only made him press closer, lips brushing your ear.

“Fuck, you’re warm,” he groaned. “So soft…”

His fingers dipped lower, teasing over your folds, dragging a moan from you that made his grip falter—like your voice alone was a match to dry gasoline.

“You’re gonna ruin me,” he muttered, pressing his forehead to your shoulder as his fingers slipped inside you, slow but thick and deep. “Don’t even know if this is the gas anymore… or just you.”

You could barely breathe, body melting into his as he thrust his fingers slow and deep, watching your every reaction like he was starving for it. He was so careful despite the desperation coiled in his muscles—his touches growing rougher, but still holding back that last thread of restraint.

His fingers, curling just enough to make your knees shake. You gasped, a tremor running through your thighs as you clutched at the front of his suit, but Bucky didn’t rush—not yet.

He growled under his breath, forehead still pressed to your shoulder, lips ghosting against your skin as his fingers dragged slick and steady inside you.

“Goddamn…” he breathed, voice broken with awe and frustration. “You’re driving me out of my fucking mind.”

You whimpered, your breath shallow. “Bucky…”

His name made him shudder.

He pulled his hand away too soon, and you let out a small sound of protest. Bucky met your eyes then—completely unguarded. His pupils were blown wide, his lips slightly parted, sweat shining along his jaw.

“Don’t look at me like that,” he muttered. “I’m hanging on by a thread.”

You weren’t sure if that was a plead, command or a threat.

Then, you could feel the thick bulge of him straining against his pants, grinding against your soaked core through the fabric of your clothes.

“Feel that?” he rasped into your ear, rutting against you. “That’s what you’re doing to me. And I haven’t even gotten inside you yet.”

Your breath caught. His words lit a fire in your belly, made your thighs clench, made you ache.

His hand slipped down again, running two fingers over your clit.

“Fuck. You’re soaking.”

The curse slipped through his teeth like a prayer as your eyes roll back at the heavenly friction of his hand.

You whine once more as he brought his fingers up and stared at them—coated in your wetness—then met your eyes again as he sucked them slowly into his mouth.

Your legs nearly gave out. “Bucky…” you mutter.

“I’m not gonna fuck you yet,” he said, voice rough and tight like it hurt to say it. “Not until you’re begging for it.”

You whined, hips rolling instinctively toward him, chasing friction.

“Oh, you like that?” he murmured darkly, hand sliding between you again, rubbing slow, heavy circles over your clit. “The mouthy little agent who never shuts up… can’t even form a sentence now.”

You were panting, your body hypersensitive to every stroke, every drag of his rough voice.

“I want to ruin that attitude,” he growled. “Make you forget how to talk. Make you cry.”

His fingers dipped inside you again, thrusting slow and deep, each stroke deliberate and angled just right. You clenched around him, a soft cry leaving your lips, and he chuckled low and sharp in your ear.

“There it is,” he whispered. “That’s what I wanted. So fucking tight around my fingers already.”

His metal hand slid up your shirt, palming your breast through your bra, thumb flicking across your nipple with just enough pressure to make your back arch. “You gonna fall apart just from this?” he taunted, voice husky. “We haven’t even started yet.”

“Bucky—” you gasped.

“No,” he cut in, hot breath against your neck. “Not yet. You don’t get to come until I say.”

Your head hit the wall behind you with a soft thud, pleasure cresting inside you—too much, too slow, not enough.

Bucky’s mouth moved to your jaw, your throat, licking and biting as his fingers fucked you slow, precise, dragging you closer to the edge and pulling you back again and again.

“You think I don’t see the way you look at me?” he whispered. “Like you hate me. But underneath it? You wanted this. You wanted me.”

Your moan betrayed you.

He grinned against your throat, then sank his teeth into the delicate skin there—not enough to hurt, just enough to make you gasp. His hand never stopped moving, never gave you what you needed all the way. He was relentless, teasing, every inch of him vibrating with tension and barely held control.

“I could keep you like this for hours,” he muttered. “Desperate. Soaking wet. Shaking.”

He dragged his fingers out of you and pressed them between your lips.

“Taste how sweet you are,” he said roughly. “And tell me you don’t want me.”

Your mouth opened before you could stop yourself, and the taste of your own need sent heat rushing straight to your core.

Bucky growled. “Fuck, that’s it. That’s what I wanted.”

He pushed his hips into yours again, the thick, throbbing heat of him pressing right against your clit through the fabric.

“You ready?” he asked darkly. “Because once I’m inside you, I’m not stopping.”

You were trembling beneath him, body pinned to the wall, soaked and aching. Every nerve ending buzzed under the weight of his mouth, his hands, his voice—dragging you to the edge, over and over, without mercy.

And still… he hadn’t taken you.

Until now.

Bucky’s jaw flexed like he was still trying to fight it—but the look in his eyes told you he was past the point of no return.

“I told myself I wouldn’t,” he growled, lips ghosting over yours. “Told myself I could ride it out. Wait for backup. Do the right thing.”

He leaned in, pressing his forehead to yours, his hips grinding against you in a slow, punishing circle. You felt him—thick, hard, straining inside the confines of his pants—and your breath hitched.

“But I can’t fucking think straight,” he whispered, almost like it hurt. “Not when you’re this wet. This soft. Looking at me like you’d let me break you open.”

You didn’t say a word. You couldn’t. The air was thick with your shared breath, hot and humid, and your voice had long since abandoned you.

He slid your pants down, low enough for you to shimmy and step out of them. He reached down, undid his belt with shaking hands, and freed himself—thick and heavy and flushed, the head already leaking. The sight of it made your thighs clench instinctively.

Bucky groaned at the sight of you. “Fuck, look at you. So shy all the time, but now…” he leaned towards you, grabbed your thigh and wrapped it around his waist. He pushed your soaked underwear to the side, lined himself up and paused, metal hand gripping your thigh, holding you open, holding you still.

“Last chance,” he rasped. “You want me?”

You look up at him with pleading eyes and a whine, “please, Bucky….”

That was all it took.

He thrust forward in one deep, brutal stroke,

burying himself inside you to the hilt. You cried out, nails digging into his arms as your body stretched to take him.

“Shit,” he gritted through clenched teeth, eyes screwed shut. “So fucking tight. You feel—God—you feel unreal.”

He held still for a beat, shaking from the effort not to lose it too fast. But you clenched around him, and he groaned low in his throat, head falling to your shoulder.

Then he started to move.

Each thrust was deep, rough, and controlled—but just barely. He was shaking with it, like he couldn’t believe how good it felt, like every time he slammed into you it pulled a piece of him loose.

“You like it rough, sweetheart?” he growled against your ear.

But you were already gone—moaning, head back against the wall, gasping as your body met his rhythm instinctively. You give a messy nod.

“Yeah,�� Bucky snarled, gripping your ass and lifting you a little higher so he could drive in deeper, your leg not wrapped around his waist barely touching the ground. “You take me so fucking good.”

The sound of skin slapping echoed off the walls, the wet slick of your arousal making each brutal thrust louder, messier.

“You think I don’t see you?” he grunted, voice ragged. “Always biting your lip around me, looking away. Playing innocent. But you’re not.”

His pace picked up, hips slamming into yours harder now, deeper. “You want this. You’ve always wanted this.”

“Bucky—” you whimpered, voice cracking.

“Say it,” he growled. “Say you want me.”

“I want you,” you gasped, clinging to him.

He cursed viciously, his control unraveling at the sound of your voice.

“Fuck—I’m not gonna last—” he bit out, slamming in deeper with each thrust. “You feel too good—too tight—I’ve never—”

He cut himself off with a broken groan, his lips crashing against yours in a searing kiss, swallowing your moans as he fucked you harder, rougher. Your body was shaking, teetering right at the edge, and he could feel it.

“Come for me,” he commanded, voice thick and guttural. “Now.”

And with one last, brutal thrust—he hit the spot that sent you spiraling.

You shattered around him, crying out, trembling as your climax tore through you, soaking him. Bucky followed instantly with a strangled groan, burying himself deep as he came hard, hips jerking, forehead pressed to yours as he gasped your name like a lifeline.

His hips slowed, but only slightly—just enough to ride out his own release as you trembled around him, body slack and twitching in his hold. But he didn’t pull out. He didn’t ease away. He stayed inside you, panting against your neck, every muscle still coiled tight like a predator that hadn’t fed nearly enough.

You whimpered softly as his cock throbbed still-hard inside you, impossibly thick, sensitive—but not softening. Not even a little.

“…You’re still hard,” you breathed, dazed.

Bucky’s shoulders shook with a low, humorless laugh. He dragged his mouth up your throat, tongue catching on the sweat at your collarbone before he murmured, “I know.”

His voice was darker now—gravel scraping over flame—and when he pulled his head back to look at you, his pupils were still blown wide, black swallowing the blue.

“That plant,” he said, panting, “it did something. I don’t feel normal, I—” He gritted his teeth and rolled his hips forward again, slow and grinding.

You moaned, sharp and overstimulated, but it only made him groan. “Still not enough.”

He pulled out just a few inches, dragging his cock against your soaked, sensitive walls—then slammed back in with a low, wrecked sound.

Your body jolted, pleasure colliding with sensitivity, making you gasp. “Bucky—”

“Can’t stop,” he growled. “Can’t. You feel too good. I need more.”

He hooked your other leg up around his waist, spreading you open and lifting you slightly off the ground. The shift in angle drove him deeper, the stretch unbearable, the pressure mounting again despite how recently you'd come. You were already growing slick around him again, your body betraying your mind as it begged for more.

“I should hate you for this,” he whispered against your lips. “You make me insane.”

“Then hate me,” you whispered back, breathless.

He snarled—and then snapped.

His mouth crashed to yours, biting and claiming, tongue dragging over your lips before plunging deep. At the same time, he started to fuck you again—harder than before, frantic and relentless, each thrust punching a moan out of you.

You had no defense anymore. No sharp quips, no witty retorts—just Bucky, inside you, growling your name like a curse and a prayer all at once.

“Gonna keep you like this,” he panted, lips brushing your ear. “Stuffed full of me. Until you can’t walk straight. Until everyone on comms knows what I did to you.”

His words hit you like lightning, heat pooling fast and hard in your gut again.

“You want that?” he murmured, nipping your earlobe. “Want me to ruin you until all you can say is my name?”

You couldn’t speak. You could only cry out, moaning shamelessly as he started slamming into you again—rough, wild, deep. His grip bruised your thighs, his mouth never left your skin, and every thrust sent stars behind your eyes.

“You’re mine right now,” he gritted, pounding into you. “Just mine.”

Your second orgasm hit harder—sharper—your body seizing around him with a cry that echoed through the empty hall. You were pulsing around him, milking him, but this time, Bucky didn’t come.

He just groaned and kept going.

His breath was ragged now, like he was in pain from holding back.

“I’m not done,” he choked out, pressing your back tighter to the wall. “Not until I’ve wrung every fucking sound out of you.”

Then he pulled out, slowly, deliberately—and spun you around.

Your hands hit the wall just in time to catch yourself as he dragged your underwear the rest of the way off. You whimper at the cold concrete pushing against your soft chest. His hands gripped your hips, pulling your ass back toward him—and without pause, he shoved himself back in from behind with a deep, wrecked growl.

You gasped, moaning at the new angle, at how deep he felt this way.

His hand came around to your front again, fingers finding your swollen clit, rubbing in messy circles.

“You’re taking me so fucking well,” he snarled. “Like you were made for me.”

The words made you clench, and he hissed through his teeth, hips stuttering.

“Say it,” he barked. “Tell me you want more.”

“More—” you choked, hands scrambling for purchase against the wall. “Bucky—God—more—”

He slammed into you even harder, punishing now, wrecked with need.

“Good girl,” he growled, voice low.

Your hands braced against the wall, fingers splayed, trying to ground yourself—but Bucky gave you no reprieve.

His thrusts were brutal now, paced with a rhythm that shook through your entire body. Each snap of his hips pushed a cry from your lips, every inch of him stretching you open all over again, slick from your last two orgasms and still somehow burning for more.

You were soaked. Raw. Quivering.

And he was insatiable.

Behind you, Bucky was panting like a man possessed. His forehead dropped to your shoulder for a second, teeth grazing your sweat-slicked skin as his grip on your hips tightened, fingers digging in deep enough to bruise.

“Fucking hell,” he growled, voice wrecked. “I can feel you squeezing me—like you’re trying to pull me deeper.”

You moaned, unable to answer. You weren’t sure there were words anymore—just sensation.

Heat. Pressure. Him.

He slammed into you harder, and your knees buckled, but he caught you—one arm locking around your waist, dragging you up against his chest. Moaning, feeling your body pressed flushed against his. His other hand was still between your legs, fingers working your clit with ruthless precision, flicking and circling until your legs were trembling, your cries coming faster.

“Gonna come again,” he rasped in your ear. “I can feel it. You’re so close, baby. Give it to me.”

His metal hand gripped your throat—slightly tight, just enough to tilt your head, to control you—and he sank his teeth into the curve of your neck as he fucked you harder, faster.

You cried out, your body tipping toward the edge again with dizzying speed, your back arching at the intense pleasure.

“Say it,” he ordered through gritted teeth. “Say you want to come on my cock.”

“Please—Bucky—want it—fuck—I want it, I want it—”

“That’s it,” he hissed. “God, that’s it—gonna make you come so fucking hard—”

You clenched around him, your whole body going taut—and then snapped.

Your climax tore through you like fire, a scream ripping from your throat as your pussy spasmed around him, pulsing, slick, drenching him.

Bucky groaned like it broke him, thrusting deep one last time before he came with a roar—slamming into you to the hilt, cock twitching as he spilled inside, hot and thick, filling you to overflowing.

He held you tight, shuddering, mouth pressed to your shoulder as he rode it out—still pulsing, still deep inside you.

For a moment, everything was quiet—just your panting, the wet sounds of your bodies, and his heart hammering against your back.

Then he finally spoke—voice low, hoarse, almost reverent.

“…Still hate me, sweetheart?”

You let out a breathless, broken laugh against the wall.

“Only when you’re not fucking me like that.”

Bucky chuckled darkly, nuzzling your neck, still buried inside you. “Then I guess I’ll have to keep doing it.”

Bucky’s breathing was still ragged behind you, his broad chest rising and falling against your back. His arms stayed wrapped around your waist, firm but gentle now, as if afraid you’d slip away if he let go.

You both stayed like that for a long moment—pressed together, skin flushed and slick with sweat, the heavy sound of your breathing the only thing filling the silence.

Then, slowly, he eased out of you, hissing softly at the overstimulation. You whimpered, sensitive and sore and still trembling, and he caught you as your knees buckled, guiding you gently to the floor.

The moment your back hit the cold wall, you shivered.

“Shit,” Bucky muttered, voice thick and gravelly. “You okay?”

You looked up at him, lips parted, dazed. “I think so…”

He crouched in front of you, one knee bent, eyes scanning your face—not with lust now, but something softer. Something real. His pupils weren’t as blown out anymore. The sharp edge of heat in them was starting to fade.

And for the first time since all this started, you realized… the gas was wearing off.

You could see it in his body—the subtle way his muscles unclenched, the way his breathing evened, like his senses were slowly coming back under control.

“…Bucky,” you murmured, still catching your breath, “what was that stuff?”

He exhaled hard, dragging a hand back through his damp hair.

“Like I said earlier, there was a room. Down the hall. Some kind of overgrown greenhouse or lab, I don’t know.” His voice was quieter now, more grounded. “I barely stepped inside before I started sweating. My head got light, and then everything started to burn. My skin, my blood… my cock.”

You flushed, throat bobbing as your eyes flicked down between you.

He noticed. His jaw tightened.

“I didn’t know what was happening,” he added, guilt creeping into his tone. “Didn’t understand why I was reacting like that until I saw you again and I just—”

He broke off, shaking his head like he was angry at himself.

“I’m sorry,” he said, finally. “I shouldn’t’ve touched you. Not like that. Not when I wasn’t thinking straight.”

But you reached out and curled your fingers around his vibranium wrist, grounding him.

“You didn’t force me,” you said softly. “I wanted it. All of it.”

His eyes met yours—sharp, guarded, like he was still waiting for the punchline.

“You sure?” he asked. Not a tease. Just a whisper of vulnerability cracking through the armor.

You gave a breathless laugh, nodding. “Yeah. Pretty sure the three orgasms confirm that.”

That pulled a small, crooked smirk from him—but it didn’t last. His gaze drifted back to where your bare thighs were still spread, slick and flushed, your pants still tangled around one ankle. You were raw, used, full of him.

And still… somehow… the tension wasn’t gone.

“You didn’t hate it,” he murmured, like he was testing the waters.

“No,” you admitted. “And… maybe I don’t hate you as much as I pretend to.”

That surprised him.

He tilted his head, lips parting like he had something to say—but instead, he leaned forward, slowly, giving you the chance to stop him.

You didn’t.

His lips brushed yours, soft this time. Nothing like the devouring heat from earlier. Just a quiet, aching thing. A kiss that said we’re not done—but maybe not just in a physical way.

You kissed him back, fingers curling into his jacket. And when he finally pulled away, his forehead leaned against yours, breath warm across your face.

“I’ll get you cleaned up,” he murmured, voice husky again, but this time with gentleness rather than hunger.

You nodded, legs still shaky. “Yeah. I… don’t think I can stand yet.”

That made him chuckle, low and rough.

“You won’t be walking straight for a while.”

You smacked his chest weakly, and he grinned. It was the first time you’d ever really seen him smile—not that tight, sarcastic twist, but something real.

And just like that… something had shifted.

The lines that used to keep you on opposite sides of every room were gone—burned away by sweat, heat, and the way his hands had held you like he was afraid of losing something he didn’t know he wanted.

As he helped you pull your clothes back on, slow and careful, your fingers brushed. You didn’t pull away.

Neither did he.

⊹ ︶⏝⭒ ⊹ ⭒⏝︶ ⊹

By the time the extraction team touched down, the gas was well out of Bucky’s system—but the aftermath lingered on both of you like a second skin.

He still walked close to you. His arm still brushed yours whenever the hallway narrowed. His jacket, slung loosely around your shoulders, smelled like him—warm leather and sweat and something darker, primal, something you’d felt grinding deep inside you less than an hour ago.

Neither of you had said much since.

Not because there wasn’t anything to say—but because the weight of everything that had happened still hummed like a live wire between you.

And when the door to the building finally slammed open and Sam’s voice came over the comms—dry, impatient, and absolutely oblivious—you nearly jumped.

“There you two are,” he said, stepping into view in full gear, eyes flicking from you to Bucky. “Took your sweet time, huh? We were about to call it and let you rot in there.”

Bucky didn’t flinch. He just grunted. “We managed.”

Sam looked at the both of you suspiciously.

Your hair was a mess. Your pants were definitely on inside out, despite your frantic fumbling earlier. Bucky’s shirt clung to him with dried sweat, and his belt was still hanging open under his tactical vest.

And when Sam’s eyes narrowed and slid down to the distinct bite mark blooming just beneath your collarbone, visible even beneath the edge of Bucky’s jacket—

He froze.

Blinked.

And looked back at Bucky. Slowly.

“…Did you fight each other?”

You opened your mouth, panic rising in your throat.

But Bucky—smug bastard—beat you to it.

“Doesn’t matter,” he said coolly, leading the way past Sam without missing a beat. “I won.”

Sam gawked after him. “You won what? An STD?!”

You groaned and followed quickly, cheeks flaming. “Shut up, Wilson.”

“You shut up!” Sam called after you. “I’m gonna have to Lysol the entire jet, aren’t I?!”

Bucky didn’t even blink as he climbed aboard.

You shot him a glare as you slid into the seat across from him, keeping your arms crossed even though his jacket still hung around your shoulders like some ridiculous trophy.

The second Sam stepped in behind you, eyeing the both of you like a disgruntled parent, you tried to school your expression into something neutral.

You failed.

Bucky smirked.

“So,” Sam said, dropping into the pilot’s chair with a sigh. “Either of you wanna tell me why your vitals were going crazy on the monitors for thirty minutes straight?”

“Must’ve been a glitch,” Bucky replied smoothly.

Sam turned, staring at him.

You were biting your lip. Hard.

“A glitch,” Sam repeated flatly.

Bucky shrugged, unbothered. “Must’ve been the plant gas. Messed with my sensors.”

“Oh, I bet it did,” Sam muttered, spinning back to the controls. “God, I’m too old for this.”

The Quinjet engines flared to life.

You glanced at Bucky. He was watching you from under his lashes, jaw tight, one corner of his mouth twitching upward like he was this close to smiling.

You leaned closer, voice just low enough that Sam wouldn’t hear.

“You’re really proud of yourself, aren’t you?”

Bucky’s smile turned wicked.

“You’re the one still wearing my jacket, sweetheart.”

You flushed—and hated how much it thrilled you.

As the jet lifted into the sky, the tension didn’t fade.

It simply shifted.

No longer the tension of enemies circling each other like knives waiting to clash—but the quieter, heavier kind. The kind that simmers under the surface, waiting to boil over again the second you're alone.

And something told you…

This wasn’t over.

Not even close.

#bucky barnes #james bucky buchanan barnes #bucky x reader #bucky x you #bucky fanfic #bucky x y/n #bucky x female reader #winter soldier #winter solider x reader #winter solider fanfiction #winter solider x y/n #winter solider imagine #sebastian stan #sebastian stan x reader #smut #bucky barnes x reader #bucky barnes x you #bucky barnes x y/n #bucky barnes x female reader

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daddyjackfrost · 2 months ago

Text

Lost in The Wild ; B. Barnes

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x Avengers!F!Reader

Synopsis: It was supposed to be an easy mission. In and out. But then communication went out. The intel became useless. The weather turned horrific. Bucky lost his gun. And then, you.

Warnings: Fluff, slow-burn, friends to lovers, horrible weather, blood, injuries, yearning, cursing, Ft. Sam, Steve, and Natasha, SMUT, p in v, oral (f rec.), kissing, praise, MDNI, unprotected sex, brief crying, they’re so in love your honor, down!bad bucky, lmk if I missed any! WC: 12.9k

A/N: First ever Bucky post! It’s been years since I’ve written on this account so have mercy on me. Thank you to all the wonderful writers on here that are so talented and inspiring. As for timeline… I don’t know. Canon? What canon? Comments & Reblogs are appreciated!

The rain had been coming down in sheets for hours. Not the kind that offered relief or clarity—no, this was brutal, heavy rain, the kind that blurred the edges of the world and made the earth itself hostile. It was the kind that soaked you to the bone, made every step a battle, and turned even the most solid ground into something slippery, a trap waiting to swallow you whole.

The terrain had started off rocky, already a pain in the ass. Sharp crags jutted out from the hillsides like broken bones. Narrow passes that barely fit a single person had suddenly become rivers of slick mud and falling debris. Visibility was horrible and comms were patchy at best, and then they were gone entirely—just static and silence, the kind that settled into your chest and made it difficult to think straight.

Bucky’s boots sank with every step, the mud sucking greedily at the soles, threatening to pull him under. His jaw was clenched tight, his vibranium arm flexing and twitching as adrenaline surged through him. He was briefly glad that he had cut his hair and didn’t have to worry about strands on his face. A small feat, but a significant one. The cold bit through his tactical gear, but he barely felt it. All he could focus on was the silence in his ear.

Your voice, gone.

One second, you were right behind him—mud on your face, grinning like an idiot, breathless and half-laughing about the total bullshit of intel you both had been fed. He had grunted and told you to stay close.

Then, the world cracked open.

A landslide tore through the ridge, and before he could grab you, before he could warn you—before he could even think–you were gone in a roar of earth and stone and rain.

He screamed your name. Loud, desperate. Absolutely no care as to who may have heard. He screamed once more, the rain slapping harshly against his skin.

There had been nothing. No response. Just the sound of the storm ripping the world apart.

Now, he was moving blind and completely alone. Mud covered his hands, smeared across his cheek, soaked into his skin and clothes. His rifle had been torn from him earlier and his sidearm was somewhere in a ravine miles back, lost in the chaos. All he had now was a combat knife and fear—chewing through his chest at an incomprehensible rate.

In the distance, he could hear the screams of the Hydra agents. Some had been swept away when you had been and the others were trying to hold on, trying to find him and survive. He silently prayed that another landslide, something horrific, would wipe them out.

He knew that the bunker had been emptied. He stumbled upon it when he began looking for you and had been tempted to go in, try and get some help. But he needed to find you, first. He had turned around and hadn’t looked back.

He tripped over a root, hit the ground hard, and didn’t even flinch. Just pushed himself back up, spit blood, and kept moving. He had to find you.

He had to find you.

“Fuck,” he muttered, voice rough and low, throat raw.

“Focus. Come on.”

Every snapped twig, every distant sound—he turned to it like a live wire. He felt like an animal, something manic, as he listened for any sound of you. Hope and terror felt the same now as his heart beat too fast. He was distantly aware that his hands were shaking, and not from the cold.

You were out there somewhere. For a split second, he let his mind wander. You could have been crushed—dead.

No. No, he couldn’t think like that. He blinked once, harshly, before shoving all those horrible thoughts to the back of his mind, where he kept all the bad.

You were smart. Deadly. He knew that. He knew you were better than most people–most soldiers–he’d ever worked with. But even the best had limits and you were human. Flesh, bleeding, breakable.

He squeezed his eyes shut. You had looked so small as you disappeared into the landslide. He couldn’t get the picture out of his mind, of the way your eyes had briefly widened and your lips had parted. His tortuous mind wondered if you would have called out for him.

It didn’t matter, he decided. He hadn’t acted fast enough, hadn’t caught you. He didn’t even realize he was whispering your name again until it broke in his throat.

“Where the fuck are you?”

Lightning cracked across the sky, illuminating the twisted trees and gnarled terrain. He whipped his head around, trying to look for anything, then, he caught the shimmer of something. He wasn’t sure if it was metal or blood but he moved fast. Slipped once, hard, landed on his knees again but didn’t stop. His hands clawed through the mud, his breathing loud and ragged.

Then—there. In the shadow of a fallen tree, half-covered in mud and leaves and blood, was you.

Your body was twisted awkwardly, like you’d been thrown by the force of the slide. One arm cradled to your chest. Cuts littered your face, lips split, blood soaking into your torn-up gear. There was a deep gash along your side—too deep—and your eyes were half-lidded, fluttering like you were waiting to let go.

Bucky tore through the mud, pulled and stretched his torn muscles and dropped beside you with a choked breath. His hands hovered over your body, not touching yet. Not sure where it was safe. Not sure if he could bear to feel how cold you were.

His fingers twitched, and he bit down roughly on his bottom lip to prevent the wounded sound that almost left his throat at the sight of you. Your eyes fluttered once more before gently shutting. “Hey—hey, no,” he whispered, voice hoarse. “Don’t you fucking dare. Open your eyes, doll.”

His warm breath brushed against your cheek and your lips twitched, a shallow breath escaping. You willed your eyes to open, even if it was just for a moment.

“Barnes…”

He nearly collapsed from the sound of your voice. It was quiet, weaker than he’d ever heard it or wanted too, but it was there.

Relief hit him like a truck and he moved closer to you, but it didn’t fix anything. You were still bleeding, still barely breathing. He could feel the tremble in your body as your fingers brushed against his sleeve like you were checking if he was real. He pressed his arm closer to you, finding brief comfort in the way you squeezed his skin.

It was the first time he had felt warmth in the last three hours.

“Alright, I got you,” he whispered, lips trembling from the cold. “I’ve got you now, okay?” His voice was low, rough, tight with something he couldn’t name. “You’re gonna be fine, Y/n. Just—just stay with me, yeah?’

You tried your best to nod but everything felt too heavy and you were too weak so you simply hummed and he almost choked at the sound. He pushed the tree off of you, murmuring softly when you groaned in pain.

“I know, I know, just a second, doll.”

He breathed in deeply before he crouched down and scooped you up, carefully, like you’d shatter if he breathed wrong. His arms and body were solid beneath you like he hadn’t suffered similarly, like he wasn’t injured. You hissed in pain but your arms naturally curled weakly around his neck. At the moment, you trusted him more than anything. More than the pain, than your own body.

Bucky held his breath and kept his eyes ahead, knowing that if he made eye contact with you like this, all broken and bleeding in his arms, he’d crumble. He tightened his grip on your body when your eyes shut and pressed his chin into your hair.

“Open ‘em, doll,” he muttered. “Come on. Please.”

You tried, but your head felt heavy so you dug your fingernails into his neck instead. His hold on you tightened even further as he ran, rain striking down, harshly and unforgiving. The temperature was dropping rapidly and he knew he had to get you somewhere dry, somewhere he could take a look at all your injuries.

By some miracle, and he would later pray about it, he found shelter not far from the ridge–a cave. He remembered seeing it during the initial scope of the terrain, during the mission brief. You had joked about it, something stupid about him retreating into the cave for a nap. He laughed—or, he thinks he did. He wished he had.

He’d kill a man to hear your laugh right now.

The cave was barely more than a dent in the mountain—narrow and damp, carved into the rock like the earth itself had given up trying to stay solid. The wind howled outside, slicing through the trees and screaming through the cracks in the stone. Rain still battered the world, relentless in its fall.

He had to crawl to get inside with you in his arms.

The stone scraped his knees, his elbows. His back ached from how he curled around your body to shield you from the worst of it. He didn’t stop, barely felt it. All he saw was the blood soaking through your clothes. You were shivering, lips blue, breathing unevenly. A faint wheeze escaped with each breath, and even in sleep, your brows were pinched in pain.

Once he was deep enough, he laid you gently on the stone floor. Bucky knelt beside you, soaked through, hands shaking. His face was drawn tight, teeth clenched so hard his jaw clicked. Rain still dripped from the ends of his hair, trailing down his neck, his face, soaking into his torn shirt. His fingers were red and brown, a deep maroon that he had painted with before.

He blinked down at your unmoving body and clenched his fists. He could barely think straight with his heart beating out of his chest so he breathed in deeply and flipped the switch, the one he hadn’t used in years. The one that turned him into a machine. That buried softness and kindness and everything he didn’t deserve to feel beneath layers of instinct and orders and purpose.

He was a soldier. You needed a soldier. You needed him to be smart, tactful.

He peeled his jacket off and wrung the water out, laying it beside you. He scooped your unconscious body gently and laid you down on his jacket. He cut away the arms with shaking fingers and wrapped them around your side, trying to stop the bleeding.

He looked through his field kit, whatever was left of it, to find something, anything, that he could use to put some part of you back together. He used the wipes to clean the blood and dirt off your face, sanitized your cuts as best as he could before he plastered on the bandaids. His fingers pressed against your skin, once, twice, and then he pulled away like you had burned him.

He pulled his belt free and used it to tighten the splint he’d carved for your arm out of his remaining gear. He moved with precision, detachment—like you were just another asset, but his hands trembled when they brushed your cheek and he hated it. Hated how you made him feel even when you were barely conscious, when he was trying inexplicably hard not too.

“Come on, Y/n,” he breathed out. “Open your eyes.” He curled his hands into your body, trying to stop the tremors. He’s not sure he’d be reacting like this if it were anyone else. He doesn’t even want to entertain the thought, because the conclusion is one he can’t face. You’re his partner, his teammate. You laughed at his terrible jokes sometimes. Shared your food with him when he forgot to eat. You always waited until he got on the jet before calling it in, like you had to make sure he wouldn’t get left behind.

You weren’t his, weren’t anything. He shouldn’t be shaking like this, blinking rapidly like if he focused real hard, this battered version of you would be replaced by the you he knew. But he knew your laugh. The sound of your footsteps. The way your eyes sometimes lingered on him when you thought he wasn’t looking. You mattered to him, which was so much worse.

And now you were bleeding out in a cave that stank of moss and wet rot, and he couldn’t even fucking stop shaking. He didn’t have the right materials or any way to contact Steve or Sam. He felt useless, which is just another thing he hated about himself at the moment.

He stood up slowly, recognizing the familiar aches in his body, already mapping the bruises and new scars he knew littered his body. He had to get a fire started, had to get you and himself warm, so he scanned the area for a completely dry place before he dropped to his knees, fumbling through his kit. The cotton lining of his gloves—dry enough. He tore it out with his teeth, rolling it into a crude nest with shaking hands. He shoved it beneath a wedge of dry bark he’d peeled from the heartwood of a split branch, praying the core was dry enough to catch.

The first strike of flint against steel sparked nothing. The second—nothing. He swore, then coughed, the sound raw. His hands were still trembling.

Third strike. A spark jumped.

It kissed the cotton and died.

He closed his eyes. Again.

Fourth strike. Fifth.

A breath. A tremble. A single ember caught—barely a glow, a flicker like a dying star. He hunkered over it, shielding it from the damp air with his body, and blew—gently, desperately, his breath ragged. The ember pulsed. It grew.

It flared.

Tiny flames licked the shredded cotton, then the bark.

Heat.

He nearly sagged with relief as the fire cracked to life, light dancing against the slick cave walls. His hands hovered over it, aching, blistered with cold. He gave himself a moment, a single moment to enjoy the heat before he crawled to you and gently pulled you closer to the fire, close, but not too close. He didn’t want to risk it.

His fingers moved over your temple, gently checking the wound there. You flinched and Bucky almost sighed in pained relief. At least you weren’t unconscious. Just sleeping. He could deal with that. His fingers scraped gently against ripped skin and you flinched again, a broken sound leaving your throat.

He froze before his thumb brushed your eyebrow. He blinked once at the action before he snapped at himself, standing up so fast he smacked his shoulder against the cave ceiling. Pain rippled through his back and he lurched forward, clutching his left arm.

He fell to his knees, coughing. The sound echoed and for a moment, it truly felt like his own personal hell. He looked down and grimaced at the blood. He had yet to take a moment and analyze his own injuries, but he knew there was no point. Whatever it was, he’d survive, and you…you may not. He had to focus on you.

He wiped his mouth and stripped off what was left of his shirt, wet and freezing, and crouched beside you again, lifting your body into his lap to wrap his arms around you. Your temperature was dropping and there had been pregnant pauses where you had stopped shivering.

He didn’t like what that may mean.

You were limp against him, your face tucked under his chin, breath fanning across his throat. He could feel every line of you—every bruise, every tremble. He murmured a soft apology when his arm accidentally grazed the gash in your side. The fire’s orange hues danced across your skin and he watched carefully, momentarily awed.

You were alive, he had to remember that. He was rocking back and forth like he had forgotten.

“I didn’t mean to lose you,” he whispered, barely audible over the raging storm outside. “I should have kept you in front of me. Watched your back, instead of you watching mine.”

His hold on you tightened and he released a small breath when you pressed your nose into his throat. “I could have grabbed you, kept you from falling…”

His voice cracked and he pressed his mouth to the top of your head, breathing you in like a man starved. All he could do now was wait, wait for your body temperature to rise, wait for you to wake up.

He hated waiting.

The cave was wet, and water dripped steadily from the ceiling into the puddles forming near the entrance. The air smelled like steel and earth and his knees ached from the cold rock floor, his back stiff from how tightly he held you.

All he could do was ignore all the feelings that threatened to crawl through his chest by thinking about next steps. When you were awake, able to move, he knew that getting in contact with Steve or Sam was going to be difficult, but it needed to be done.

Briefly, his mind flashed to the bunker. Hydra had kept it a secret but SHIELD had found out, as it sometimes did. It should have been an easy mission, in-and-out, but as reachable as everything sometimes seemed, the weather had always been untameable, with a mind of its own.

Still, while they had prepared for it, no one had expected it to get this bad. Even now, the storm raged wildly outside. The sound of it was both anxiety-inducing and welcomed, background noise he hadn’t asked for but didn’t mind.

While your breathing slowly evened out, he pressed you closer to his body and angled you closer to the fire and shut his eyes.

You woke to the sound of breathing.

Not yours—his. Measured. Steady. Like he was forcing every inhale calmly, despite its aggression.

Your head was on his shoulder. His hand was on your thigh, warm and still. The cave was still cold and dark but the fire offered welcome heat and glow. Everything inside you ached—bones and skin all stiff and frozen, some cracked and some bruised.

You stirred slightly, a soft movement of your chin. Bucky felt it, he had listened closely as your breathing changed and your muscles shifted.

“Bucky…” Your throat was hoarse, lips dry. You were still pressed against him, his hands warm and solid, holding you together.

He didn’t answer at first. Just a small movement of his shoulder.

Then he exhaled hard. “We’re moving.”

The softness from before—his trembling hands, the whisper of your name, that broken honesty in his words and body—was gone. Replaced by that rigid, sharp-jawed version of him you’d only seen in combat or when he was forced to engage with strangers. He wasn’t looking at you, just staring toward the mouth of the cave like the storm may break in at any second.

You slowly nodded, your nose brushing against the skin of his throat. His throat bobbed before his hold on you loosened just a fraction.

“I can walk,” you rasped, words muffled as you tried to sit up.

Instantly, Bucky’s arms around you tightened. “No, you can’t.”

You tried again, “I can—”

“You can’t.” His voice cut like a blade, a little throaty and gruff. “Your ribs are unstable. Your shoulder’s fucked, and the gash on your side will rip open any second. You’re not getting back up.” He exhaled. “I’m not risking it.”

Instead of answering right away, you slowly wiggled your fingers and toes, trying to get feeling back in them. After a moment, you lifted your head off his shoulder and groaned in pain, wincing when your unused muscles moaned in pain.

“Hey, fuck,” Bucky’s exterior slipped for a second and he looked panicked, one hand on your good shoulder and the other on your arm, trying to offer some support. “Be careful.” He helped you slip off his lap, hand on your back—warm, solid, pulsing.

Once you were sitting up straight, Bucky leaned back on his heels, one hand subtly reached out towards you in case you needed him.

You swallowed hard and blinked away the exhaustion in your eyes. “Where are we going?”

“I’ve got a plan.” His tone was clipped, controlled. Every word chosen to shut you down before you could argue. You could tell by his stiff shoulders and the way he refused to look at you that he wasn't to be reasoned with right now.

Still, you had to try. “Bucky, look at me.”

He froze, kept his eyes on the floor. For a second, you thought he’d listen. You just needed to see him. Needed to hear everything his eyes had to say. Instead, he shook his head.

Bucky stood, already pulling his remaining gear together—knives, makeshift medkit, the remnants of his utility belt. He moved like a machine, like he’d mapped the next twenty steps and was already living in them.

You watched him carefully, watched his body and the stretch of his muscles. By his movements alone, you knew he had injured his leg a bit, perhaps a sprain. His ribs hurt, probably bruised. He hadn’t cleaned himself up, not like he had you. There was still mud and blood on his face but it did little to hide his exhaustion, the frustration that had etched into his skin.

Remnants of his soft whispers, his delicate touch still danced across your skin and you locked them away, kept them close to your heart as you came to terms with this version of him. You wanted him to look at you.

He rolled his shoulders once, picked up his jacket, now warm, and slipped it on before he knelt in front of you.

“This is gonna hurt.” His arms slid under your knees and shoulders, lifting you like it was nothing. But you could see the strain on his muscles. “Try not to pass out.” He slowly maneuvered you until you were draped across his back, legs and arms locked around him to the best of your ability.

You gritted your teeth, breath catching as pain stabbed down your side and back. You didn’t fight him—couldn’t, because his body was warm and solid against yours, still slightly soaked through, even trembling slightly beneath the weight of everything he wasn’t saying.

You wanted to thank him, wanted to tell him to take a moment for himself, knowing he must have spent hours just taking care of you, but you also knew better. Knew that you both had to get out of this storm.

You pressed your face into his neck as he bent to crawl out the cave. His knees and hands scraped against the rough, cold floor and you winced for him. He said nothing as his hold on your waist tightened and he stepped out into the storm.

The cold slapped you both in the face. The wind cut sideways through the trees. The rain had turned the world into a mess of slick rock and rotting leaves and ankle-deep mud. Bucky moved like he had done this a hundred times, like he had spent hours analyzing the terrain and perfected where to step.

You didn’t speak as he carried you down the ridge, every muscle in his body tense with focus. He didn’t look at you once, even when you had hissed in pain. His jaw was locked, veins tight in his neck, eyes scanning every inch of his surroundings. The rain and mixture of leaves slapped against his face. Instinctively, you wiped his cheek clean.

You didn’t recognize the path he was taking. It wasn’t toward the evac point—not unless he’d circled back, which didn’t make sense in this terrain or weather. You stretched your neck, trying not to pay attention to the coldness that seeped into your bones. His fingers tightened under your thighs.

“Where are we going?” You asked, lips brushing against his ear.

He hesitated for just a second. “The bunker.”

You lifted your head weakly, eyes wide. “The Hydra bunker?”

“There’s a comms room. Secure line. I can tap into SHIELD frequencies. Get a ping out.”

He really had thought about this. You frowned, the thought of Bucky holding you in that cave, his mind running rampant as he kept you alive, circled in your mind.

“But it’s full of—”

“It’s empty,” he said, with certainty that chilled you. “I already scoped it. Before I found you.”

“You—” You blinked, once, twice, and then leaned your head over his shoulder, trying to understand him. “What?”

“I saw it when I was looking for you. It was empty. I was going to go call and wait for help, but I turned around.”

You stared at him. Logically, you knew that made sense. If he had called for help, maybe neither of you would be in this situation. But, a small, twisted part of you frowned.

“You were going to leave me,” you whispered, even though you knew it wasn’t true. He had just said that he turned around and he did find you. But he could have taken longer, or not come to find you at all if he had been ordered not to.

Bucky finally turned his head and met your eye. And, there it was—something breaking loose in his face, just for a second, like the very thought you just had, had been eating away at him. “I was going to get help. But I knew I had to find you. So, I did.”

You looked away, chest tight, heart fluttering with something unexplainable.

He didn’t speak again.

It took an hour to reach the edge of the treeline. An hour of silence, mud, and Bucky’s unyielding grip around your trembling body. Every step he took was a choice, to not panic, not spiral, not let himself fall into the noise that threatened to tear his mind and heart apart.

He needed to stay sharp and diligent. You were depending on him.

So, when he saw the crumbling silhouette of the Hydra compound through the trees—half-collapsed, rotting into the ground—he didn’t hesitate, just kept walking.

“We’re close,” he muttered, and set you down gently behind a fallen log, hidden beneath wet pine boughs. His hand gripped your thigh and his finger curled under your chin, tilting your head so you could meet his eyes.

“Stay here. No matter what.”

“Bucky—”

He dropped his hand and pulled his knife from his side holster, checking the edge. “One of them might still be in there. I’ll handle it.” He pointed the knife at the ground. “Do not try and help me.”

You sighed. “You don’t have to—”

“I do.” His voice was rough now. Not angry, but final. An edge to it that resembled the very sharpness of the blade in his hand. “I’ll come back for you.”

He looked at you one more time. Let his eyes meet yours for a moment before they travel the length of your body, pausing at your side.

Then he was gone.

The forest swallowed him whole.

You waited, every breath sharp in your chest. You were drenched, hair sticking to skin. Rain pattered softly on the leaves above you. Your hands trembled in your lap. You hated the way your body felt like a prison—useless, aching, broken. Hated that you couldn’t follow him.

You had been through worse, had survived so much worse. You could have helped him, could have stood on your own if you really had to.

Bucky made it so you didn’t have to. You didn’t know how you felt about that, about him.

Fifteen minutes passed. Then twenty. Or, so you guessed.

Then, you heard it. A single, muffled thud. A body. There had been someone in there.

But then came nothing else. Just silence.

The underbrush shifted and he reappeared, soaked and stone-faced, blood drying on his knife and on his neck. You didn’t ask, didn’t have to. He was breathing more heavily, slowly, and you knew his injuries had worsened.

He was a super soldier, but he wasn’t immortal.

Bucky knelt beside you, eyes meeting yours briefly before scanning the sky through the trees. “I got through. Signal’s weak, but I managed to reach Steve. They’re getting the jet in the air.”

You reached out, fingers grazing his wrist. He didn’t look at you and didn’t pull away either. Your fingers wrapped around the hilt of the knife and you slowly pried it from his hands, tossing it beside you.

“You’re going to be okay,” he said softly. It was so quiet, like you weren’t meant to hear it.

He barely acknowledged what he said and you decided that he didn’t know he had said it, pretended like the words didn’t make you freeze, remind you of him in the cave, feeling and talking to you like he had already lost you.

You sat shoulder-to-shoulder as you both waited for the quinjet.

The warmth of your bodies pressed together reminded you strangely of home.

The extraction was supposed to feel like relief.

But to Bucky, it felt like exposure—too loud, too bright, too late.

The quinjet split the sky open with its roar, cutting through the clouds like a blade. Trees bent under the force of the rotors. Wind tore through the clearing. And all Bucky could do was hold onto you tighter, shielding your body from the chaos and branches like his own didn’t matter.

Sam was the first down the ramp. Steve right behind him. Both armed, both scanning for threats.

Bucky didn’t speak at first, just waited until Sam looked over at him, then stood up, his leg pressed against your back for stability.

“She’s critical,” he yelled, voice flat. “Bruised ribs, busted shoulder, hypothermic, and infection risk.” You looked at him, eyes wide. “She’s lost too much blood.”

Steve’s eyes flicked over both of you—your limp body, Bucky’s slashed and bloodied arm, the bruises blooming across both of your cheeks. He didn’t ask questions, just nodded. “Let’s move.”

A medic stepped forward with a stretcher. Bucky stepped in front of them like a wall. “Be careful.” You almost smiled. The medic—young, wide-eyed—nodded quickly. You slipped your hand into his and fingers curled around your hand.

Bucky helped you onto the stretcher, murmured something soft when you winced in pain. He didn’t let go of your hand until they forced him to.

Sam and Steve watched closely as Bucky followed right beside the stretcher, matching their steps, never more than an inch away. His jaw was locked, eyes burning. You reached out for him again and he took your hand in his.

You turned to the medic and pulled Bucky closer. “He’s injured,” you rushed out. “Badly. His leg, ribs, and arms.” Bucky tried cutting you off but you squeezed his hand. “Shut up, Barnes.”

The medic stared at you both and you blinked slowly. “Treat him, okay? Don’t listen to him. Listen to me.” You smiled softly, trying to ease the tension between the poor, young medic’s shoulders. “Talk to Steve if he complains.”

“Y/n,” Bucky muttered, “I’m fine.”

The quinjet lifted, slicing up through the trees.

You passed out again before they hit altitude.

The world returned slowly.

A dull ache in your side, your chest. The sterile scent of disinfectant. The rhythmic beep of a heart monitor.

And then, warmth.

A heavy hand around yours. Thumb brushing back and forth in a pattern you could feel in your bones, something soft and ingrained.

You recognized the weight, the press of skin. You blinked, the ceiling fuzzy above you, mouth dry.

“Buck?”

His head snapped up from where it had been resting on his forearm. His eyes were bloodshot. His stubble had grown into something darker, rougher. His hair was a mess, and he looked like he hadn’t slept in centuries.

You tried to smile, muscles groaning after minimal use.

“You look like shit.”

For half a second, something cracked—his face shifted like he was going to laugh, maybe even cry. His eyes widened and his lips wobbled. But then he shut it down, wiped the emotion clear.

Slid the mask back into place.

He sat upright, hand still enclosed around yours. “You’re awake. Good.” He kept his voice smooth, monotone. It was killing him, pretending to be indifferent, but he couldn’t express the relief he was feeling. He hadn’t heard your voice in so long, hadn’t seen that smile.

You frowned, eyebrows furrowing. It hurt a bit and you faintly recalled soft fingers brushing against your forehead. “Don’t do that,” you whispered, clearing your throat.

Bucky blinked before he brought a paper cup filled with water to your lips. “I’m fine.”

Eagerly, you pulled the straw into your mouth and sucked, letting the water wash away the dryness. You finished all the water and wiped your chin. “I didn’t ask if you were fine.”

His jaw flexed. He looked away. Hand still around yours, thumb still tracing patterns into your skin.

You tightened your grip on his hand and his eyes met yours briefly before he looked at the monitors as if he couldn’t describe your charts with his eyes closed.

“Thank you,” you said, quietly, a small smile on your lips.

It was silent for a moment, something that could have stretched into something uncomfortable, but then he bowed his head and broke—his shoulders shaking just slightly, his hand gripping yours like he was trying to ground himself.

He didn’t cry, not really. But you could feel it—the sheer weight of everything he hadn’t let himself feel, the weight of your life on him, the heaviness of his guilt.

You stayed silent, held his hand tightly as your thumb drew circles on his skin. You had your own guilt; the weight of what you could have done, how you should have been more diligent, reached out for him, fought for yourself harder and made it to him, been less of a burden.

But this wasn’t about you. This was about him, and how he tried his best, his very hardest to keep you alive. How you made him confront his feelings for the first time, with the threat of loss looming behind him.

“I thought I lost you,” he admitted, hoarsely. “I—fuck. I couldn’t think. I couldn’t breathe. I’ve never been that scared in my life. Not during Hydra, not even when I came back.”

You stared at him, heart tight and eyes shiny. You weren’t usually an emotional person, but these were unusual circumstances. When you had been swept away, as you were thrown around and bruised, all you could think about was him; how he’s your best friend and you never told him, how all you wanted was for him to be more, someone you could love and hold.

“I would never have made it,” he said, eyes bright, “If anything happened to you.”

Your eyes stung and your heart beat faster, the monitor beeped in warning. Neither of you noticed.

You breathed his name and he leaned closer, the heat of his body caressing yours. You brought your joined hands to your lips and kissed the back of his hand, slow and soft, eyes on him.

His breath caught like you’d hit him with a bullet, his entire body stilling. His lips parted in wonder and his eyes widened slowly.

“I’m okay,” you smiled. “Nothing happened. You made sure of that. I’m okay.” You needed him to know, needed him to understand that you wouldn’t have made it if anything happened to him, that you were grateful to him.

Before he could answer, the door slid open and Dr. Bates stepped in, tablet in hand, coat wrinkled like she hadn’t taken it off for weeks.

Her eyes fell on you, Bucky, then your joined hands. She smiled, just a little. “Sorry to interrupt.” Bucky straightened up but didn’t let go of your hand. You turned towards her. “I’m glad you’re awake, Y/n. It’s good to have you back.”

You smiled at her, glancing at the tablet in her hand.

“Thanks, Doc.”

“You’ve been under for two weeks,” she started gently, coming to the edge of your bed. Your eyes widened in surprise and you glanced at Bucky, who stared at you, unblinking.

“We had to keep you sedated—” she explained, “your body was in rough shape when you came in. Ribs deeply bruised, bordering on contusions. Your right shoulder was nearly dislocated, and you had early-stage sepsis. If you hadn’t been found when you were—” she paused, glancing at Bucky—“you wouldn’t have made it.”

You turned your head slowly towards him, lips pulling into a frown.

He looked away.

“You’re lucky,” the doctor continued. “He kept you alive long enough for us to stabilize you. Field-treated half of your injuries himself. Not exactly regulation, but…” she smiled, gently, “it worked.”

You gave Bucky’s hand the faintest squeeze. “So…Am I cleared to go?”

Dr. Bates hesitated, then nodded. “As long as you don’t overdo it. No combat. No gym. No carrying anything heavier than a coffee cup. You’ll need regular check ups—especially to monitor your lungs and immune response. And, you shouldn’t be alone.”

Before you could speak, Bucky’s voice—clear, rough—cut in.

“I’ll be with her.”

The words were simple, but the way he said them—calm, final, almost soft—settled something in your chest and made warmth swim through your body.

Dr. Bates blinked, almost like she’d expected a fight. Then she nodded again. “Good. Then I’ll start the discharge paperwork.”

She turned and left, and the door hissed closed behind her.

Silence fell again, heavy, but not uncomfortable.

You stayed quiet for a beat, still absorbing it all. The ache in your ribs had settled into something manageable, but another kind of ache twisted low in your chest, one you couldn’t ignore.

You turned your head slightly on the pillow, eyes slowly growing heavier. “What about you?”

Bucky looked up from where he was still gripping your hand, a blanket of something softer, something resembling relief had been draped over his shoulders.

“What?”

“Are you okay?” you asked, voice soft. “Your leg…and your arm. Your ribs. You were limping when—when you carried me.”

His brows pinched together like you’d just reminded him of something he’d forgotten and you briefly panicked. Bucky would refuse to get medical attention if it meant he had to leave you, you knew he would. It was just who he was. You loved him so much.

Abruptly, you blinked—eyes wide for a second before you schooled them. You had never let yourself think it, much less admit it so openly.

“I’m fine,” he replied, quickly, trying to brush it under the rug.

You narrowed your eyes and swallowed the lump in your throat. “Don’t give me the bullshit brush-off, Bucky. What did they say?”

Before he could dodge the question again, the door slid open and Dr. Bates reappeared, a different tablet in her hands.

“Something wrong?” She asked, glancing between you.

You nodded gently towards Bucky. “Can you tell me the truth? About him. Did he let you take a look?”

Bucky gave a little sigh, leaning back in the chair. And yet, even then, he didn’t let go of your hand. You briefly wondered if he knew he was still holding it, but the weight of it, the way it felt like his lifeline, made you aware that he did.

Dr. Bates didn’t even hesitate, like she had expected this sooner. “He came in with three fractured ribs, a torn ligament in his left leg, and deep lacerations on his arm. Didn’t want to be checked and told us to prioritize you.” She sounded almost fond.

You blinked at him slowly and he looked away, mouth twisting into a hard line. He didn’t want you to know these things, didn’t think they were relevant. He had half a mind to remind the doctor of patient confidentiality, but then he lifted his eyes and the genuine concern on your face, in the tremble of your fingers, kept him quiet.

She continued, tapping her screen. “The serum accelerated his healing, of course. Most of it was resolved within days. He’s been medically cleared since the first week.” She paused, then added, almost like an afterthought, “He also requested a bed next to yours. Just in case.”

Your heart flipped and your ears felt warm. He was so obvious in his care, it dripped and leaked out of him no matter how hard he tried to keep it locked up and it was so beyond endearing, you almost burst into tears.

Bucky still wouldn’t meet your eyes.

“He said—” she glanced at him, a small curve in her lips “—and I quote, ‘I’ll only sleep if I can hear her breathing.”

Heat bloomed in your cheeks and you blinked hard, trying not to let it show too much but your heart rate had picked up and it was obvious on the monitor. “Oh.”

Dr. Bates softened, just a little. She leaned in, like she was about to tell you a secret. “He hasn’t left your side since the quinjet. If that tells you anything.”

With that, she set the tablet down on the edge of your bed. “Just sign whenever you’re ready and press the red button. It’ll only take an hour or so to get you discharged.” She smiled at you and then turned and left again, door shutting gently behind her.

Silence, familiar, settled between you, thick and humming.

You finally looked at him, a smile on your lips. “You’re an idiot.” It’s all you could stay, your heart on fire and chest bubbling with affection and love.

His mouth twitched and for a second, he looked younger. “Takes one to know one.” It was stupid, something he would have said to Sam, but your eyes were bright and his attention was divided.

You reached up slowly, hand trembling, and brushed your fingers across his knuckles. He didn’t usually let you touch him this easily. It was riveting, freeing. “You should’ve told me.”

“I didn’t want you worrying about me,” he muttered. “Not when you were fighting for your life.”

You stared at him for a long moment. Then, softly, replied. “I’m not fighting anymore.”

He stared at you, deep blue eyes reminding you of the ocean, of the storm you both had survived.

“I’m not fighting anymore so you can stop worrying.” You smiled at him, sweet and soft. “I know you think that it’s your fault but it isn’t. You found me, saved me.”

Bucky cleared his throat and clenched his jaw. He didn’t need you telling him not to worry because it wouldn’t change anything. Wouldn’t change the fact that he stayed awake at night and hovered in the hallways, slipping into your room to make sure you were breathing, keeping an eye on your vitals.

“Bucky,” you said, voice thicker and full of steel. He sighed and slowly nodded. He was many things, filled with guilt, but he wasn’t immune to you, to your wants and needs. And what you needed was him to be honest, to listen.

“I hear you, doll,” he sighed, quietly. “I’m glad you’re okay.” He squeezed your hand once and almost pulled away but your grip tightened and you smiled.

As if you knew what he meant, could see the depth of his care. Like he hadn’t folded and crushed the love he had for you and shoved it in the deepest parts of him, trying to keep it hidden. It was unravelling, fast and without permission.

The door slid open quietly.

Natasha stepped in first, concern in her eyes but a small grin tugging at her lips at the sight before her.

Steve followed behind her. Sam too. They all looked tired, but relieved. The doctor had alerted them when you had woken up an hour ago, wanting to give you time to adjust.

They looked at you and Bucky—still close, your hand in his, his chair pulled right up against your bed—sleeping. Your head rested on the pillow and Bucky’s on his arm.

They didn’t say anything. Couldn’t, really. While they had been in and out of your room, sending flowers and asking for updates, Bucky hadn’t moved. He had only complied with getting medical help because it had been your last demand before passing out. He had stayed by your side for two weeks, unwavering.

Steve hadn’t seen him sleep. Bucky had refused any drugs that may have knocked him out and every time Steve came to check on him, he was up. Usually watching you. This was the first time either of them had seen him at peace, and it was with his hand around yours.

“They’re sweet,” Natasha whispered, her smile growing. She had known, of course she did. She saw the way you both looked at each other when the other wasn’t looking.

“Yeah,” Sam agreed. “About time, too. I almost owed Clint $50.”

Steve frowned, eyes drifting to Sam. “You bet on them?”

Sam shrugged and quietly laid down the flowers he had gotten you on the already full table. “It was Tony’s idea.”

Dr. Bates entered last, holding a juice box. “Oh, visitors.”

“Sorry, Doc,” Steve apologized, moving to the side.

“No worries, Mr. Rogers.” She set the juice box down on the table beside you. You needed the sugar before getting on your feet.

Before Steve or anyone could respond, Bucky shifted and his eyes flew open. His spine snapped up and he blinked at the people in the room, a frown on his lips. He glanced at your sleeping face and momentarily, his eyes softened.

“Shut up,” he grumbled. “She’s sleeping.”

“Hey, you,” Sam cooed, wiggling his eyebrows.

Before Bucky could growl in annoyance, you stretched your arms and yawned, your hand slipping out of his.

“I’m awake.” Then, “Don’t provoke him, Sam.”

Natasha snorted and you opened your eyes, smiling at the people standing in front of you. Sam rolled his eyes before he moved closer and ruffled your hair, his eyes softening.

“Hey, Y/n.” He picked up the juice box and poked the straw through it, handing it to you. “Glad you’re not dead. Don’t do that again.”

You smiled in thanks and squeezed his hand. “Thanks, Sam. Don’t plan on it.”

Steve and Natasha moved closer too, soft smiles and softer words. They asked you how you were feeling, if you needed anything. Bucky stayed beside you, his fingers twitching, now that your hand wasn’t in his. He rubbed the sleep out of his eyes and leaned back in his chair, head falling back.

He hadn’t slept properly in days. Figures that he’d find a moment of peace beside you.

As you spoke to Natasha, your hand searched for his. You were okay, the pain was dull and the trauma wasn’t at the forefront. But, you still needed his comfort—no, wanted it.

Bucky felt your fingers brush against his and, like it was the most natural thing in the world, he captured your hand in his. His heart fluttered when you squeezed and he looked away. He was in deep.

Dr. Bates cleared her throat and smiled sheepishly when the conversations died out. “Sorry to interrupt, but you’re cleared to go.”

You sat up, eyes wide. “Really?” Steve’s lips quirked upwards at the excitement in your voice. Bucky felt his heart settle at the sound, at the way you had managed to light the room in a soft glow.

The doctor nodded. “All the paperwork is done. I’ve prescribed you some painkillers you can take, as well.”

You sighed in relief and turned to Bucky, eyes bright. You were glowing and he felt like a moth with the way he leaned in.

“Thank you, Dr. Bates. Truly.”

She smiled at you before glancing at Bucky. “Of course, Agent. Take care. I hope I don’t see any of you soon.” With that, she turned and left.

Natasha grinned at you and Bucky before she stepped back. “I’ll get your clothes, Y/n.”

You smiled at her gratefully as she slipped out of the room. Steve and Sam stood by your bed and you looked up at them. “So, what’d I miss?”

Sam clapped his hands together, instantly filling you in on all of the drama you had missed. Steve laughed quietly at his antics and Bucky snorted, the tension in his shoulders slowly fading and a real, genuine ghost of a smile on his lips.

The elevator ride to your floor was quiet.

Not in a cold, distant kind of way—but in the way people are quiet when there’s too much to say and not enough breath to say it. You moved slowly, one foot in front of the other, careful of your ribs and side. Bucky walked beside you, close enough to feel the heat of him, one hand a steady weight at your lower back.

The metal was cold against your thin sweater, but there was still something soft about it. The way he stayed beside you, rubbed his thumb up and down your skin, absentmindedly.

You could feel him watching you.

Not like before. Not scanning like a soldier. Just…watching. Like a man trying to memorize every detail before it’s gone. He was desperate, soaking in all your warmth and all the time he got with you. You could feel it, his earnesty.

Your floor was dim when you entered—peaceful, untouched since the mission. But, not entirely untouched. A folded hoodie on the couch. Your plants watered. A fresh pair of pajamas neatly laid across your bed, one you couldn’t see but knew was there.

You turned to look at him, brows raised and a hint of a knowing smile dancing on your lips.

Bucky’s jaw ticked. For a second, he looked embarrassed, like he’d been caught with his hand in the cookie jar. “I, uh, came by a few times. Brought you fresh stuff. Didn’t want your plants dying while you were—” He cleared his throat. “—while you were healing.”

Your insides felt all warm and gooey. He was making it so difficult to stay indifferent, to keep all your feelings and wants and needs hidden, like they weren’t about to bleed out of you.

You took a step closer to him.

“Thank you.”

His eyes flicked to yours, then away, like he couldn’t quite take the weight of your gratitude. He rubbed a hand over the back of his neck, a rare and endearing nervous habit, eyes scanning your space like it was unfamiliar now. Like he didn’t belong, even though he fit here so perfectly.

You saw it clearly, the way he moved. The way his boots thudded soft against your rug. The way his broad body filled your kitchen doorway. He belonged here, in your space. With you. Not just for now, not suddenly. But always.

You ached for it, for him.

Bucky hesitated near the door, shoulders stiff.

“I’ll head out, let you settle in. Just…yell if you need anything. I’ll be around.”

You knew what that meant. It meant he would wander, hover. He’d be in the shadows, waiting and anxious. He had this habit, when he was worried. You first learned about it when Steve was injured on a mission they both went on. He never said it, but Bucky wanted to be there for Steven in case he wanted anything.

You had run into Bucky late in the night. Steve had missed dinner so you were checking on him, making sure he was pushing fluids, when Bucky’s large frame obscured your path.

Sometimes, and he’d never admit it, but when Bucky had nightmares about you, or anyone else on the team, he’d often seek them out at night. Just a moment, outside the door. All he needed was to hear you breathing, make sure you were okay.

That the Winter Soldier had not gotten to you.

“Stay,” you said softly. “Have a cup of coffee with me.”

He blinked, his hands dropping. “I—yeah. Sure.”

You padded into the kitchen slowly, feeling him trail behind. He sat on the stool at the island while you made two cups. His eyes were heavy on you the whole time, tracing every moment. He watched you carefully as you brewed fresh coffee, getting both of your favourite cups from the cupboard. As you waited, you glanced back at him and to your surprise, he smiled at you; soft, crooked, and quick, but attractive and warm all the same.

He loved you like this. In your space, as you carried yourself with no expectations. When he was new to the tower, years ago, he often found peace in just watching you to the most mundane tasks. It brought him a sense of calm, normalcy. How you moved with grace, carried yourself like you didn’t have skeletons in your closet.

It made him have hope. Like he could one day be okay, or a semblance of it.

When you turned to hand him the mug, his fingers brushed yours, a quiet jolt of warmth passing between you.

“You okay?”

He was quiet, eyes drifting across your face before he nodded. “Yeah. I am now.”

You sat beside him on the stool, legs barely touching, cups between you on the counter. The coffee was simple—black for him, creamy for you—but it felt like a ritual. Something sacred. You couldn’t remember the last time you had shared a mug with anyone else.

“Are you going on your run tomorrow?” Your voice was quiet, like you couldn’t dare to disturb the peace.

Bucky hummed, drinking slowly. “Maybe. Why?” He raised an eyebrow at you, concern creeping in. “Do you need something? Tell me, I’ll get it.”

You laughed, soft and breathy. “No, no. I was just wondering.”

His shoulders sagged and the edge of his lip curled up. “I’ll tell you if I go.” He paused. “I’ll run past that bookstore you like. Get you something so you won’t be bored.”

Your grip on your mug tightened and you lifted your gaze to meet his, warm and heavy. “You don’t have to.” He didn’t like small spaces and you weren’t even sure if he liked the bookstore, even though he always came with you, even when you didn’t ask.

“I know,” he replied, meaning something else. He set the mug down. “That was good. Thanks.”

You thought he might stay. That maybe, just maybe, he’d slide a little closer.

Instead, he stood.

“I should let you rest—”

“Bucky.”

He stopped. In his tracks, and breathing.

You stood too, slow and careful. You stepped towards him, giving him the chance to step back. He didn’t. Just stood still, frozen, like if he didn’t move, this dream might never turn to a nightmare.

You said his name again, like a prayer. He was almost undone. He should have stepped back, should have done something, but he couldn’t. He didn’t want to. He needed this, needed you.

Your fingers curled into his shirt, tugging him towards you. He stumbled slightly, caught off guard—but his hands went to your waist without hesitation.

You kissed him.

It wasn’t soft. It wasn’t tentative. It was desperate, full of years of tension—your lips crashed onto his, hands fisting his Henley. He kissed you back just as hard, like he’d been starving. He swallowed your gasp of surprise and kissed you ferociously, pressing his chest against yours, hand cupping your cheek.

You wrapped your arms around his neck and kissed him messily, teeth against teeth. He pulled you unbelievably close, flush against him. He was wrapped around you, or you around him. He slipped his tongue into your mouth and you moaned, your hands sliding up his solid chest and into his hair.

When you pulled back, your chest was heaving, lips plump and bruised, face flushed. Your eyes fluttered open and you almost whimpered at the sight of him, hair tousled, lips plump. He looked completely undone, absolutely perfect.

“Stay,” you whispered, borderline begging. “Please, Buck. I want you. You belong here—with me.”

He kept his eyes closed for a moment longer before the deep blue swept you away. His forehead dropped to yours, nose brushing against your cheek.

“You don’t know what you’re asking,” he rasped, breathless.

“I do.” You pressed your forehead harder against his, kissed the edge of his mouth. “I do.”

You kissed him again. This time, it was slower, sweeter. Your hands moved to cup his jaw, your lips soft against his. He melted into it, groaning low in his throat. HIs hands trembled against your waist. He pressed a sure, hard kiss to your jaw before he pulled away, breathing heavily, gasping.

“Fuck, doll—fuck.” His arms pushed you into him further, his hand cupping your cheek, thumb brushing the skin under your eye. “Are you okay? Does anything hurt?” He glanced down at your side before lifting his eyes. “Are you breathing alright?”

You exhaled through your nose, a quiet laugh. So caring, so obvious in his love. You don’t know how you never saw it before. How it wasn’t painfully obvious to you. He was filled with love, all you had to do was let him feel it.

Gingerly, you moved the hand on your waist to your side, slid it up to your abdomen. Then, up to your heart. It was beating incredibly fast, you wondered if he could hear it. His breath hitched and his eyes flickered to yours.

“I’ve never been better.”

He looked like he was a second from losing his mind. His throat bobbed and he tilted his chin.

“You sure?”

You sighed and fisted his shirt again. Nothing but pure honesty and desire and love in your eyes.

“Just kiss me, Bucky.”

He pressed his thumb into your skin, his pulse in his fingertips. He looked at you again, really looked, trying to search for the answers. You couldn’t tell what he was looking for so you stood still, smiled at him widely.

Whatever it was, he found it.

Bucky surged forward and captured your lips again, his heart beating rapidly against your chest as his arms circled your waist. In a rush of confidence, Bucky slipped his tongue into your mouth, trached the crevices of your teeth and gums before sucking your tongue, guiding your hips into his. You clawed at his back, guiding him blindly through your apartment. His hands never stopped touching—your sides, your arms, your face, reverent and shaking.

You barely made it to your bedroom.

He laid you gently on the bed, like you were something fragile and breakable—but his body trembled with restraint. He hovered over you, breathing hard, his eyes almost black.

“We don’t have to,” he whispered. “We don’t have to do anything. You’re still hurt.”

“I want to,” you whispered back. “I need to feel you. All of you. You’ll take care of me, I know you will.”

He kissed you again, tender and slow. Took his time exploring your mouth. Then, he kissed the edge of your lips, licked and kissed down your throat, nibbling and sucking. His hands brushed against your warm skin, your cheeks and neck and then slipped beneath your sweater. You lifted your arms carefully, letting him peel it off, revealing faintly bruised skin and healing ribs.

He stared for a beat, his expression softening, endearing, filled with affection. You had never really cared about your appearance, but his attention, the heat of his eyes, made you feel wanted.

“Fuck,” he murmured, his fingers ghosting over your scars. “You’re beautiful.”

His lips immediately reattached to your neck, kissing down to your collarbone and your head fell back, trying to pry yourself open for him. “Beautiful,” he whispered against your skin, “So fucking pretty.”

You smiled, pulling his shirt up. He let you strip him bare. His chest was covered in scars, blemishes, burns, healing wounds.

You traced them with your fingers, touch as light as a feather. The lamp beside your bedside cast a low amber glow across the room and painted his skin in warm gold. He looked godly, absolutely stunning above you.

He had one forearm braced by your head, the other cradled your cheek. He watched you as you watched him, anxiety swimming in his eyes. He couldn’t remember the last time anyone had touched him this gently.

“Y/n,” he whispered, begging. You smiled at him and tilted your chin up, kissing a scar on his shoulder. He kissed you softly and your hands found home in his hair, fingers sliding through the thick, soft strands, tugging gently just to feel him melt. He made a sound in his chest, low and aching, and deepened the kiss, tongue flicking gently against yours.

His body—muscles, scars, and heat—pressed closely against yours. You could feel it, though, he was holding back. Whether it was because you were injured or he was afraid, you didn’t know. You wanted all of him, his strength and roughness.

He pressed a soft kiss to your forehead before he pulled back, eyes glassy and softer than you’d ever seen them. “This what you want?” His voice cracked a little. “Am I what you want?”

You touched his cheek, feeling the rough edge of stubble and the quiet vulnerability just under his skin. “I want you, Bucky.” He held his breath. “I want the man who waters my plants and dusts my shelves. The man who carried me through a forest and saved my life. The man who learned how to play different card games for me, the one who learned how to make tea the way my mother used to.”

He blinked, lips parting slightly. “Y/n…”

“I notice everything,” you said, voice trembling. “How you always walk on the outside of the sidewalk. How you breathe deeper when you’re trying to stay calm. How you always make sure you’re between me and danger. Regardless of what it is.”

He let out a soft, stunned breath. His hand slid from your cheek, down to your shoulder, then your waist, clutching like he needed to anchor himself.

“I didn’t realize…” His voice cracked and he bit his bottom lip. “Didn’t realize you watched me so closely.” He watched you closely, knew all of your habits and quirks. He hadn’t realized you were watching him just as closely.

“I always have,” you murmured, as if you hadn’t just turned his world upside down.

Something cracked open in him then.

He kissed you hard—like the dam had broken, like every piece of love he’d locked away had finally burst free. His mouth moved with aching reverence across your lips, your jaw, your throat. He kissed down your collarbone, your shoulder.

He pulled back only to help you undress completely. His hands were so gently—touching, peeling away fabric like it was sacred. He unhooked your bra and dropped it somewhere behind him, pausing when you were completely bare beneath him, worshipping.

“You really are the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen, doll.”

You reached for him in return, pulled at the waistbands of his jeans. He let you, watched with a gaze so soft it made your chest ache. When he was finally bare, you ran your hands over his ribs, his thighs. He shivered under your touch, leaning into it.

He kissed down your body, pressed wet, open-mouthed kisses to the skin between your breasts, licking and sucking, swallowing the taste of your sweet sweat, memorizing it. You were a mess above him, head thrown back and eyes sewn shut, incoherent mumbles and whimpers leaving your lips as you pulled and scraped his hair and the nape of his neck. Your entire body felt like it was on fire.

Under a trance, Bucky pressed a soft kiss on one of your breasts, his fingers brushed the nipple of the other. He kitten-licked your swollen, aching bud before he latched on, circling his tongue as if he could have convinced your body to submit to him completely.

His other hand pinched and squeezed your other nipple, before he released your swollen and wet nipple with a pop, not even breathing as he latched onto the other one. All of your senses were going crazy, overwhelmed to the point of hysteria and tears.

He pushed himself up, rested his forehead against yours as both of your chests heaved. You leaned forward and pressed a swift kiss to his swollen lips, licking his bottom lip. You both breathed in the other, bodies sweaty.

“I’d kill for you,” Bucky admitted in a rush, hoarse. You blinked at him, trying to catch your breath.

“What?”

“I would,” he said. “For you. I think I have, already. But you have to know. I’d kill anyone for hurting you.”

You heard what he was saying—really saying. It was a clear day. His devotion. He was panting, sweat collecting on his forehead. He pressed a soft kiss to your nose.

“I know,” you answered. “I love you, Bucky.”

His arm trembled but he caught himself. He stared down at you for a second before his entire face softened. He brushed his cheek against yours, lips and breath warm, tickling. “I love you, Y/n.” It was soft, like it was still a secret, but it took your breath away all the same.

He went back to kissing you.

Everywhere.

He took his time, dragging his mouth across your stomach, your hips, your thighs, murmuring soft praises into your skin. He kissed along the edges of your scars like they were maps that led him home.

When he finally kissed between your legs, it was with awe.

“Let me taste you,” he begged, voice gravelly.

You nodded, breath catching as he settled between your thighs. He shifted downwards and pressed his nose against your cunt, holding down your hips as your legs twitched. You cried out and pulled at his hair but he was adamant, ignoring the pain and pushed your legs further apart.

You squirmed under him as he stared at your cunt before blowing warm air on it, finding your agony adorable. You knew though, that he’d notice if you were in pain before you did.

He spread your legs even further before he kissed your pussy softly. “Fucking pretty pussy,” he praised. His tongue was slow, teasing, reverent—licking up through your folds, curling just right against your clit. His hands held your hips, thumbs stroking circles into your skin as he worshipped you like you were holy.

“Bucky,” you whispered. “Please.”

“I know, doll,” he nodded, his nose brushed against your slick folds. You grinded your hips against him, trying to get some sort of relief. “You taste like heaven,” he groaned. He licked a harsh stripe of your core. Pressed his face closer to your cunt as his tongue pushed in and out of your sopping hole, licking and sucking as if you were his last meal.

He traced his name, his devotion, into your gummy walls, his nose pressed against your clit. You moaned out a broken, gagged version of his name and arched your back as his nose dug further into your clit, rubbed it until he’s sure you’re all he’ll smell for weeks.

His hand pressed against your cheek and you clutched his hand, brought his metal fingers to your lips and sucked. He groaned into your cunt and the vibrations had you seeing stars.

He curled the tip of his tongue upwards and you almost screamed, tears fell down your cheeks at the pleasure.

“Yes, yes,” you chanted, words muffled by his fingers.

Lifting his eyes, Bucky hummed at the sight of your pleasure, the way tears prettily fell down your cheeks, and lifted his fingers from your tongue. Before he could bring his hand back towards him, you grabbed it and settled it on your chest. His wet, dripping fingers pinched your nipples, teasing the sensitive skin.

“Bucky,” you panted, hips arching. “I’m close, please, baby.”

Despite everything inside him telling him to keep going, he pulled up, releasing your clit with a messy pop. He kissed your folds and cooed as you cried out, licking you clean. “I know, Y/n, I know.” He kissed your inner thigh. “But if you’re gonna cum, I want it to be around my cock, pretty girl.”

You stopped breathing. “Bucky…Oh my gosh.” He kissed up your body, licking the wetness from his lips, grinned like he’d never truly lived before. He hovered above you again and you cupped his face.

“You’re insane,” you laughed, giddy.

“I really like you, doll.” Bucky was grinning, and although his eyes burned into yours, you couldn’t tell if he was speaking to you or your pussy.

You laughed and curled your fingers around his dog tags, pulling him close. “I need you,” you whispered. He pressed his forehead to yours, breath ragged. He kissed you softly before pressing a soft kiss to your jaw.

“I’ll be gentle,” he promised. “I’ll go slow.” He pinched your chin between his thumb and forefinger, lifted your head. He looked between your eyes, trying to find any hesitation before he glanced down at your lips.

Pinching your chin between his thumb and forefinger, Bucky lifted your head, his gaze almost scoldering. He looked between your eyes, trying to find any hesitation, before he glanced down at your lips.

“You’ll tell me if it hurts, right?” Bucky needed you to know that you were safe with him. “I’m serious, Y/n.”

“I know, Bucky.” You traced one of his dog tags. “It won’t. I trust you.”

He wrapped one of his hands around his hard, leaking cock and slid up and down once. “I’ll make it feel good, doll.” Your pussy fluttered at his words and he could feel it against his legs. He almost, almost, lost it right there and then, instead, he brushed the back of his hand against your cheek, looking as sinful as ever.

Slowly, he pushed himself in.

The satisfying tightening and burn of his veins against your gummy walls made you both moan in unison, your body lit up as he sunk in completely, the base of his cock hit your core. The stretch felt amazing, so good, and all you could do was tuck your face into the crook of his neck, biting back a sob.

“Fuck,” he groaned out, knuckles white with how hard he gripped your skin. “Fuck, so fucking tight and warm.” You pressed a soft kiss to his neck and he jerked his hips upwards, filled you to the brim, his tip reached parts of you no one ever had.

When you licked a long stripe of his neck, sucked his adam’s apple until it was red, he collapsed on top of you, his cock leaking in your pussy, veins pulsing.

You welcomed the weight of his body. He felt so warm; so real, so yours, you could feel the weight of his muscles against yours, the weight crushed the lingering loneliness that had crept into your bones over the years.

You wrapped your arms around his body, scratched his back and pulled at his hair as you littered his throat and jaw with kisses.

Desperation clawed at Bucky and his thrusts became erratic as he pushed your body flush against him, forcing your hips to match his bruising pace as more slick poured from your legs and onto the sheets, your needy moans mixed with his broken ones.

“Close–I’m, oh,” you stuttered out, eyes closing when Bucky’s fingers grazed your clit, his own eyes shut for a second when your walls squeezed him impossibly tight as he pressed his fingers against your clit. He could feel it, the dizzying feeling of euphoria building in his chest, the way it was running through his veins. He could tell you felt it too by your breathing, the way your pussy wept for him.

Stars danced around in your vision and he knew his own vision mirrored yours, the tightness in his core was almost unbearable and he tipped his head forward and pressed his lips against yours, smiling briefly when your hold on him tightened. “Go ahead, doll. Cum for me. Cum all over my cock,” his voice was sweet, borderline crazed.

You fell limp in his arms when he thrusted into you once, twice, right against your cervix, and you had come undone for him, release washed over you, body weak as your legs shook under his. His hands were all over your body, caressed your skin to comfort you as your body convulsed for him.

His lips littered soft kisses to any skin he could reach, and when your walls tightened completely, coating his cock in your cum, he softly cried out your name as warm ropes of his cum filled you to the brim.

You could barely blink, senses still overwhelmed as he kept kissing you, kept cumming, filling you up so well, until you could almost taste him. Quiet praises filled with love and encouragement were whispered against your skin as he remained buried up to the hilt in you, his hips still pushing his cum into you, almost as if he had no control over himself.

Your entire body was shaking and he wrapped his arms tightly around you, rubbed your back gently until your whimpers turned into heavy breathing, until all you could mumble was some variation of his name. He forced his hips to still, forced himself to breathe deeply.

“I love you, Y/n,” he said, devout. “You mean so much to me. I’ll protect you, always.”

Bodies sticky and sweaty, he ran his hands up and down your back, nails grazed your skin to ground you. He was sure he was still cumming but if he could distract you, keep your attention on anything other than your overly stimulated, stuffed pussy, he’d do so.

“That’s it, doll,” he cooed lovingly, kissed the shell of your ear. “I got you.” He smiled when he felt you nod in the crook of his neck. “Did so well for me, pretty girl.” You simply hummed in response, unable to form any sentences at the moment. Bucky rested his cheek against your head, fought the urge to grind his hips against yours.

You breathed in Bucky’s scent slowly, head safely tucked in the crook of his neck. The way he held you now, so soft, so lovingly, had your heart settling. You could barely feel your legs, moaning lightly when his cock twitched inside you. Wrapped around his body, you pressed an open mouthed kiss to his neck, sucked softly when he tilted his head to give you more access.

Your fingers tugged at the hair at the nape of his neck and he shuddered. You could have fallen asleep right there and then, with his cock stuffed safely in your pussy, sticky wetness fusing your both together.

Slowly, Buckley lifted himself off your body and you both hissed. He brushed your hair out of your face. You stared at him and his legs wobbled at the look in your eyes. You brought a hand up to his face and traced the length of his eyebrow, brushed your fingers down his nose, and along his cheek.

“Pretty,” you mumbled, and he leaned forward and kissed you softly.

It was different, slower, more intimate as he cupped your cheek and tilted his head, lips plush against yours. You moaned into his mouth at the intimacy of it; the way his cock was still buried inside you, the way your mixed juices still leaked out of you, the gentle caress of his hand as he whispered loving praises into your mouth.

Gently, Bucky pulled out of your sopping cunt, biting back a groan. He shifted his weight and maneuvered your body until you were laying in his arms, your back pressed against his chest. He knew he had much to clean up, but your eyes fluttered shut occasionally so he put it off, knowing you needed him more.

He ran his hands along your arms and then your shoulders, pressing into your skin occasionally to remind you that he was right behind you. You snuggled into him, back pressed flush against his chest and he wrapped an arm around your waist.

“Let me run you a bath,” he whispered, pressed a kiss to your head.

You shook your head and waved him off. “Maybe later. I can’t feel any part of my body.”

Bucky laughed, but he lifted himself a bit, looked down at you. “Do you need anything? Medicine? Water? Does anything hurt?”

You snorted and slowly shifted, chest pressed to his. You wedged your leg between his, ignored the stickiness that coated you. “Only you could fuck me like this and be this worried after. Just hold me, Buck.”

He smiled at the fucked-out look on your face, pride bubbling in his chest before his eyes skirted to the scars on your skin. He kissed your cheek and slowly pulled himself away from you and out of bed.

“I’m going to grab you a glass of water and clean you up. I’ll be right back, doll.”

You hummed and squeezed his bicep. “Okay, baby.”

By the time he came back, you had fallen asleep. He placed the glass of water on your side and sat beside your sleeping body. His hand hovered before he cupped your cheek. “I don’t think I could survive ever losing you, Y/n.”

"I love you," he whispered, the words flowing out easily.

Maybe it had always been easy, with you.

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