#bucky barnes one shot

[lokinks]

“You wanna repeat that, Barnes?”

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x Mutant!Female Reader Summary: Everyone at the Tower knows you and Bucky are something. mainly because you flirt like it’s a combat sport and share toast like an old married couple. You both deny it. Loudly. Repeatedly. Badly. The team starts a betting pool. Word Count: 4k Warnings/tags: Sharp banter, emotional tension, enemies-to-lovers heat and y/n sarcasm, Avengers team, Avengers tower, betting, kissing implied. A/n: I wrote this last night after posting part 1, don't mind the typo or grammars huhu. i hope this closure make sense.

``masterlist part 1

The Tower’s energy shifted. Not all at once—but in the way seasoned operatives notice the difference between silence and tension. Between coincidence and intent. Between two people who used to argue across the table, and now couldn’t sit more than an arm's length apart without trading looks when they thought no one was watching.

Only everyone was watching.

“You two are being weird,” Clint said one morning, halfway through his eggs, not even bothering to look up from his plate.

You blinked. “We’ve always been weird.”

“Yeah, but now it’s coordinated weird,” Sam chimed in, spooning cereal into his mouth with a knowing look. “You finish each other’s insults.”

“And sandwiches,” Steve added without missing a beat, walking in with a coffee in hand.

“I do not finish his sandwiches,” you said, eyes squinting in offense.

Bucky, across from you, smirked without lifting his gaze from the mission report. “You stole half my panini yesterday.”

“That was charity.”

“Sure it was.”

Natasha breezed in, grabbed a toast from the plate Clint had made, and casually cut the tension like it was her job. “Just tell them you’re dating so they’ll shut up.”

You blinked slowly. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Of course you don’t.” She didn’t even blink.

Thor was the least subtle.

He bellowed with laughter during training when Bucky steadied you after a sparring round. “Ah! The Winter Soldier catches his lady mid-fall—like a scene from the Midgardian romance books!”

You shoved Bucky off you. “Gross.”

Bucky rolled his shoulder. “He wants this to be a bodice ripper.”

Sam choked on water.

Still, you never gave a straight answer.

Whenever someone tried to corner you like Tony, who cornered Bucky in the garage with a smirk and a socket wrench, he just grunted and claimed the thermos war you’d had months ago as the beginning and end of your "connection."

Tony didn’t buy it. “You’re practically her emotional support assassin.”

 “I have knives older than you.” Bucky snipped.

Tony scoffed. “And feelings apparently, shockingly.”

You refused to dignify anything with a confession. It wasn’t out of embarrassment. You just… liked having something just yours. Something not picked apart on the mission board or dissected over lunch. Something not speculated about on comms when you both slipped into a rhythm that only made sense to the two of you.

But you knew they knew.

Especially when, during a debrief, Steve paused mid-sentence to glance between you both as Bucky leaned slightly toward your shoulder while you were scanning intel.

“…Anyway,” Steve muttered, blinking away the mental image, “recon at 0700. Try not to flirt during it.”

“I don’t flirt,” you shot back.

Bucky, straight-faced: “She flirts with grenades. Not me.”

Clint snorted. “Then why did you smile when she stabbed that guy in the thigh?”

“I admire effective technique,” Bucky deadpanned.

“Uh-huh.”

Later that week, you and Bucky passed each other in the hallway. No words. Just the faintest smile. The faintest brush of shoulders. Like gravity didn’t need language to pull you closer.

Nat was standing at the end of the hall, sipping her tea.

“I saw that,” she called after you.

You turned over your shoulder, dry as ever. “Then stop watching.”

“You’re glowing.”

“I’m radioactive.”

“Tell him.”

“I already stabbed him once. That’s enough communication for now.”

Bucky passed her next, nodding politely.

She narrowed her eyes. “You too. Stop playing dumb.”

He just offered that crooked, irritatingly handsome smirk.

“Not playing,” he said.

But Nat rolled her eyes.

They weren’t stupid.

And neither were you.

You just… liked this game. For now. For a little while longer.

Because what you had with him? That was yours. Banter, bruises, affection buried in sarcasm—it was messy, quiet, and unfolding exactly how it needed to.

Even if the entire Tower was already placing bets.

You weren’t holding hands. You weren’t sneaking off into the night. You weren’t kissing in the kitchen while the toast burned. You weren’t doing anything obvious.

But the team knew. God, they knew.

Because no one else exchanged weapons during sparring with the silent care of two people who’d patched each other up a dozen times.

No one else bickered in a tone that made it sound like foreplay.

No one else sat exactly one chair apart on the couch every night—close enough to lean over and whisper something that made the other smirk, but just far enough to keep up the illusion.

It was the kind of intimacy that built itself in-between the cracks. Like moss growing in the corners of a battlefield. Quiet. Resilient. Impossible to ignore.

And everyone had a front-row seat to the slowest emotional car crash on earth.

"How’s your rib?" Steve asked, one morning over coffee.

"Better," you replied, sipping tea, curled up on the common room couch with a blanket Bucky had thrown at you hours ago before leaving for a morning run.

"He still bringing you food?"

You raised a brow. "What food?"

Sam snorted behind his cereal. “The daily toast ritual? We know.”

You shrugged. “Toast is toast.”

“Yeah, and Bucky’s the Winter Soldier, not a housewife,” Sam muttered. “But he makes it for you. Voluntarily.”

"Maybe he’s just soft now,” you said, barely containing your smirk.

"Yeah?" Clint said, walking in mid-convo. "Then explain why he threatened a kid at the deli who forgot your extra pickles last week."

You sipped your tea. “Pickles are serious.”

“Mm-hm,” Nat added, stepping into the room just in time. “And yet, you never threw a knife before he started spending every night on your floor.”

That got a twitch out of your jaw. But you didn’t flinch.

"Coincidence."

Tony wandered through with blueprints, glanced at all of you, and deadpanned: “At this point, just elope. Or don’t. Just stop looking like divorced exes who found closure over post-mission tacos.”

You waved a hand lazily. “We’re not dating.”

"Sure you’re not,” Bruce muttered from the kitchen. “You just match trauma patterns and coffee orders.”

“Bruce,” you warned.

“...and he growls when people talk too long around you.”

You blinked. “He growls at everyone.”

“He didn’t growl at you when you blew up his arm attachment last week.”

“That was an accident.”

“That was a love tap,” Clint sing-songed.

After the chaos died down and everyone drifted out to missions or naps or labs, you found yourself alone in the quiet of the living room, curled up with your book.

You didn’t hear Bucky come in—but you felt the air shift, that familiar quiet hush before he spoke.

“Still playing dumb?”

You tilted your head, looking up at him with an innocent blink. “Me?”

He sat beside you, thigh brushing yours.

“They’re going to start asking for invitations.”

“They’ll never get them.”

“You like keeping this ours?”

You nodded. “I do.”

He smirked. “Good. Me too.”

A pause. Then:

“You’re still soft, though.”

He rolled his eyes. “You’re still a menace.”

You leaned your shoulder into his. He didn’t move away.

Outside, Tony down the hall, groaned loudly and shouted, “I CAN SEE YOU THROUGH THE GLASS WALLS.”

You didn’t even flinch.

You both just smiled.

well past midnight, when the tower had settled into its usual lull of faint humming lights and the occasional sound of F.R.I.D.A.Y.'s gentle reminders. You found yourself shrugging on Bucky's oversized hoodie, half-laughing as he tugged your hand toward the elevator.

“Are we seriously doing this?” you whispered, slipping on your boots with a wince as the zipper snagged a loose thread.

Bucky smirked, already stuffing his wallet into his back pocket. “You said you were craving banana milk and those weird spicy chips. I’m just being a supportive partner.”

“You’re enabling me.”

“I’m also the one risking Steve’s disapproval when he finds out we snuck out past curfew,” he muttered with a wink. “So technically, I’m a hero.”

The streets were quiet—unusually so for the city—but the bodega on 3rd was still glowing bright, the fluorescent sign flickering like it always did. You both ducked inside, ignoring the sleepy-eyed man at the counter who barely looked up from his phone.

You made a beeline for the snack aisle while Bucky grabbed two drinks and a container of those sketchy-looking mini donuts that always tasted better at 1 a.m. When you met at the register, your hands were full of chaos.

“This,” he said, holding up the donuts, “is romance.”

You snorted. “No, this is reckless decision-making disguised as love.”

“Same thing.”

Outside, you ended up on the curb—him sitting with his long legs stretched out, you tucked beside him, sharing chips and trading bites like you weren’t technically enhanced beings breaking tower protocol. Your knees brushed. His fingers lingered over yours. The air was cool but not cold.

“You ever think we’d end up like this?” you asked softly, glancing at him as he chewed on a sour gummy.

He swallowed, smiled slightly. “Didn’t dare to.”

You leaned your head against his shoulder, the city buzzing softly around you.

Yeah. This was reckless. And maybe a little stupid.

But damn, it felt good.

You both were still giggling like sleep-deprived idiots by the time you reached the tower lobby, arms full of snacks and zero shame. The elevator doors dinged open, and instinctively, Bucky threw a quick glance over his shoulder like a raccoon caught red-handed.

“Clint’s not gonna pop out of the ceiling again, right?” you whispered, clutching your bag of chips like contraband.

“I swear to God, if he drops from another vent I’m moving to Wakanda.”

You both paused at your floor—peeked down the hallway. Empty. No movement. Coast clear.

You tiptoed out dramatically while Bucky followed with exaggerated stealth, both of you barely holding in your laughter. Just as you neared your door, you tripped over your own feet trying to shush your giggle fit, and he caught you with one hand over your mouth, the other steadying your waist.

“Shhh! You’re gonna blow our cover.”

“I can’t help it—your serious spy face is killing me.”

Inside your room, the door clicked shut behind you, and you both exhaled in synchronized relief.

“Okay, go brush your teeth. You smell like pickle chips and rebellion,” you teased, grabbing the mini donut container before he could protest.

“Oh please, like you’re not half jalapeño puff and mischief.”

Teeth were brushed, mouths minty and clean again. You slipped back into bed with a dramatic sigh, throwing the blanket over yourself as he flicked off the bathroom light and padded over, hoodie now tossed somewhere across the room.

Bucky slid in beside you, cold feet and all.

“Don’t you dare—”

He nudged his icy toes against your calf anyway.

“You’re a menace.”

“You like it,” he murmured with a grin, already tugging you closer under the covers.

You smacked his arm once for the principle of it, then curled into him, the crinkling sound of chip bags somewhere on the floor.

In the silence that followed—just the sound of your breath slowing and his hand rubbing lazy circles on your back—you thought:

This is trouble. Soft, sneaky, wonderful trouble.

And you weren’t backing out anytime soon.

Next morning, Steve didn’t even bother with a team meeting. Just showed up in the kitchen one morning with a tablet, a duffel bag, and a very Captain-America-ish smirk.

“You’re both up,” he said casually, like it wasn’t a declaration of war.

Bucky blinked at him over his coffee. “Up for what?”

“You’re going.”

You squinted. “Going where?”

Steve dropped the tablet on the counter. The mission brief glared back at you in bold red. Recon and extraction. Minimal contact. Small-scale intel sweep. Nothing major. Nothing explosive.

But just dangerous enough to need two seasoned agents.

Or two agents who needed to be babysat with something they couldn’t mess up by emotionally imploding in the middle of it.

“You’re sending us together?” Bucky said, already suspicious.

“Why?” you added, slowly.

Steve sighed. “Because you’re driving the rest of the team insane.”

“Rude,” you muttered.

He ignored you. “Because you work well together. And you haven’t been on a field mission since your injury.”

“Still rude,” Bucky muttered.

“And because,” Steve continued, narrowing his eyes with that damn authoritative kindness of his, “either you two finally implode and get it over with, or you come back slightly less insufferable to be around.”

You opened your mouth.

“No arguing. Gear up. Jet leaves in thirty.”

—

The jet was quiet, save for the hum of the engine and the slow shuffle of Bucky flipping through the mission brief again. You were across from him, legs stretched out, arms crossed.

“You think he’s punishing us?” you asked, deadpan.

“Absolutely,” Bucky muttered. “This is a setup.”

You grinned faintly. “Bet you twenty bucks Nat’s behind it too.”

He exhaled a laugh. “I’ll double it if Sam tagged along just to spy.”

You glanced toward the closed cockpit. “You think he’s hiding up front?”

“No,” Bucky said. “But I know he bugged our comms.”

You snorted. “I’m not calling you ‘babe’ on comms just to piss him off.”

“Coward.”

You laughed.

—

Landing was smooth. The mission went smoother. It always did with Bucky. You didn’t even have to look at each other sometimes—just fell into step, your rhythm syncing like you'd never taken time off.

Minimal words. Maximum trust.

Old scars, new beginnings.

Same war. New terms.

He covered your blind spots. You covered his exits.

He handed you a second knife without being asked. You slipped it into your boot without comment.

He grunted at a guard. You zapped one behind his back before he even turned.

He looked at you once—really looked—and just said:

“Missed this.”

You didn’t answer. Just tossed him the flash drive and gave a half-smile.

“Let’s go home.”

—

Back on the jet, you sat side by side now. Not quite touching. Not quite not.

You were quiet most of the way.

Until he leaned in and whispered, “Steve’s going to ask questions.”

You hummed. “Let him.”

“And Sam’s going to record everything.”

“He always does.”

“And you’re going to keep playing dumb.”

“Absolutely.”

He chuckled, low and soft, like he couldn’t help it.

Then he shifted just a little closer, shoulder against yours, warm and steady.

You didn’t pull away.

Didn’t joke.

Didn’t hide. Until both of you landed back in the compound.

You didn’t even make it halfway into the debriefing room before the chaos started.

Sam was the first to pipe up, arms crossed, grinning like a man who had just won a jackpot.

“Told you!” he crowed, turning to Nat with all the grace of a showboater. “Look at ‘em. Matching injuries, matching smug faces, matching energy. Pay up.”

Nat rolled her eyes and calmly slipped a twenty from her boot, slapping it into his waiting palm without blinking. “Still doesn’t prove anything. They could’ve just not killed each other for once.”

Clint leaned back in his chair, chewing on a toothpick. “Nah. That was definitely hand-holding vibes.”

You threw your hands up. “It was a recon mission!”

Bucky grunted. “You weren’t even there.”

“That’s why the bet’s legal,” Clint said smugly.

Bruce, from behind his tablet, didn’t look up. “I had ‘slow burn but explosive payoff in approximately two months’ on the calendar pool.”

Tony wheeled in from the other side of the room with a flair only he could manage, holding a dry-erase board with columns labeled Undeniable Sexual Tension and Just Teammates Being Weird. Under UST, he had already scrawled both your names in thick red marker.

“Your denial,” Tony said, tapping the board, “means nothing to science. Or Vegas odds.”

“I didn’t know there was a board,” Bucky said flatly.

“There’s three,” Tony said. “One in the lab, one in the lounge, and one on the fridge. But that one’s magnetic. Very user-friendly.”

You turned to Steve, the last hope of normalcy.

He just rubbed the back of his neck and muttered, “I didn’t bet. But…I mean, you’re not exactly subtle.”

You groaned. Bucky muttered something like “I told you this would happen” under his breath.

“Okay, okay,” you said, pointing a threatening finger at Sam. “For the record, nothing happened.”

Sam raised a brow. “Yet.”

“Nothing’s going to happen,” you added, tone laced with dry warning.

“Oh sure,” he said, deadpan. “You just come back from a romantic two-person stakeout in the woods, eyes all soft, acting like you didn’t just share a thermos of trust and trauma bonding.”

You blinked. “How do you—”

“Steve told me,” he grinned.

“I knew he bugged the comms,” Bucky growled.

Steve raised his hands innocently. “I didn’t! I just… might’ve mentioned the thermos thing.”

Tony gasped like it was the reveal of the century. “The thermos?! Oh it’s real.”

Nat shook her head. “This is embarrassing. For us.”

Bucky leaned over to you, whispering under his breath, “Want to fake a breakup to shut them up?”

You whispered back, “Let’s fake a Vegas elopement and ruin everyone’s bracket.”

He smirked. “Now you’re speaking my language.”

But still—he didn't push.

You didn’t pull.

You let them talk, let them joke, let them laugh and mock and bet and speculate.

It was a rare full-house morning in the Avengers Tower kitchen.

Which, of course, meant absolute chaos.

Clint was trying to make pancakes with three spatulas like he was conducting a symphony. Sam was arguing with Tony about the correct peanut butter-to-toast ratio. Thor had already finished an entire pack of pop-tarts and was now drinking orange juice straight from the carton. Natasha and Steve were quietly observing from the island like zookeepers watching the rest of you fling your enrichment toys.

You were half-asleep at the counter, nursing your coffee like it was your only lifeline to reality. Bucky shuffled in beside you, dropping two slices of toast onto your plate—burnt just the way you liked it, because you were weird—and nudged your elbow wordlessly.

You grunted a thanks. He grunted back.

Steve narrowed his eyes.

“You two always this quiet before 10AM?” he asked, sipping his tea.

You didn’t even look up. “Only when surrounded by this level of domestic violence.”

“That’s breakfast, not violence,” Tony said, flipping a piece of Sam’s peanut butter toast onto the floor by mistake.

“I stand by what I said.”

Then came the slip-up. Bucky—grumbling under his breath about something Clint said—tugged his hoodie sleeves up and dropped into the seat next to yours. He leaned back, eyes barely open, hair still wet from the shower. “I should’ve just stayed in your bed,” he muttered, more to himself than anyone else. “Way warmer than mine.”

Silence. You blinked.

The air stopped.

Tony’s spoon clinked loudly into his cereal bowl. Sam’s eyebrows hit the ceiling. Clint spun slowly, spatulas poised mid-air. Nat didn’t even flinch—but her head tilted like a hawk spotting prey. Steve turned his full body toward Bucky like he just realized gravity wasn’t real.

Bucky’s face froze.

Yours did too. Eyes bulged.

Steve was the first to break it.

“I’m sorry,” he said slowly, setting his mug down, “You wanna repeat that, Barnes?”

Bucky’s mouth opened. Closed. Opened again.

“...That’s not—I didn’t mean—”

Sam was grinning, wicked and victorious. “No no, don’t walk it back now. You said her bed. Warmer. You said that, I heard it. Tony, back me up.”

Tony lifted his mug. “Recorded it.”

Nat finally smiled. “So that’s why you’ve been walking straighter in the mornings.”

You groaned, dropping your forehead to the counter.

Bucky groaned louder, dragging a hand down his face. “I meant her mattress. She has those heat pad things. That’s all.”

“Oh?” Clint quipped. “That’s all she has?”

“Guys—guys,” you finally said, lifting your head, cheeks hot, but your voice sharp. “If one more of you opens your mouth, I will go full mutant and burn the entire toaster.”

They all froze.

You glared. “I’ll do it.”

Bucky muttered under his breath, “Wouldn’t be the first time.”

You kicked him under the table.

Steve looked like he aged ten years. “Okay. Moving on.”

Thor, oblivious and cheerful, held up his orange juice. “I, too, have found Midgardian beds quite comfortable!”

“Great, Thor,” Tony said. “Let’s just all go around the room and talk about whose bed is warmer.”

Sam wiggled his brows. “I already know the answer.”

You and Bucky didn’t say a word.

But your coffee suddenly tasted much warmer than usual.

And from then on, any time someone so much as looked at you both during breakfast, you could feel the smirks.

Because the whole tower knew.

And they were not going to let it go.

—

You slammed the door shut behind you, the click of the lock sharp, angry, and very much intentional.

He barely made it three steps into your room before you whipped around and smacked his arm—not hard enough to hurt, but definitely enough to get the message across.

“You are unbelievable, James Buchanan Barnes.”

He barely flinched. Just stood there in your room like he hadn’t just dropped the biggest slip-up of the century in front of the entire team over dinner.

“My bed is warmer?” you mocked, voice high-pitched and full of theatrical disbelief as you spun around to face him. “You couldn’t just say my apartment’s cold or I like the thermostat on high—no, you had to say my bed is warmer. Like we’ve been sleeping in it together for months. Which we have. But that’s not the point.”

Bucky raised both hands as if to defend himself, but the grin twitching on his lips ruined any chance of you taking him seriously.

“Oh, don’t smile. You think this is funny? Nat didn’t even blink. She just smirked. Like she’s already won the bet.”

“She probably has.”

You smacked his other arm.

“I had my whole routine figured out. Half-flirt, half-snark, zero confirmation. Now I’ve got Tony doing double takes and Sam asking me if your dog tags are on my nightstand.”

“Are they?”

“That’s not the point!”

He was close now. Too close. The room suddenly felt smaller, warmer, like the air shifted just because he was looking at you like that—lazy and fond and wholly unrepentant.

“You’re lucky I don’t kick you out for this,” you muttered, poking at his chest, frustrated more with your own reaction than with him. “You’re lucky I’m nice. You’re lucky—”

He cut you off mid-rant with his mouth.

No warning. No explanation. Just lips on yours—fierce, certain, like he knew you needed something to quiet the storm he started. You grabbed at his shoulders instinctively, half intending to shove him back, but your hands curled instead, anchoring yourself as he kissed the frustration right out of you.

He didn’t rush. He never did. Just eased into it, one hand at your waist, the other at the back of your neck, tilting your head just enough to deepen it. His lips moved over yours, like kissing you was the only language he spoke fluently.

By the time he pulled away, your breath had gone traitorously shallow.

“Still mad?” he asked, voice low and smug and entirely too pleased with himself.

You glared up at him. “I should still be mad.”

“But?”

“But you shut me up too well.”

He grinned. “I’ll try harder next time.”

“Don’t you dare.”

But when he leaned in again—just a brush of lips, teasing and sweet—you didn’t stop him. 

The sunlight was already creeping in through the blinds when you cracked open one eye, groaning softly. Your back was warm—Bucky’s arm slung over your waist, heavy and possessive, the quiet rise and fall of his chest pressed against your spine.

Last night came rushing back in fragments. The flurry of hands. Your muttered whining. His mouth shutting you up. The soft press of his weight against you on the bed as your laughter died between kisses and something tender bloomed slow behind his eyes.

Now, it was quiet. Easy.

He stirred behind you, grumbling something unintelligible into your hair before shifting enough to nuzzle your shoulder.

You didn’t bother rushing. Not this morning.

You both eventually got dressed—your shirt, his hoodie. Shared coffee. Stolen oatbars. But nothing about the slow rhythm you moved in spoke of secrecy. Not anymore.

By the time you both walked into the briefing room…late, of course—Nat and Clint were already seated. Steve stood with his arms crossed near the screen, and Sam…

Sam was grinning like a shark who’d just smelt blood.

“Morning,” you said, brushing past Bucky to slump into the chair beside Wanda, who gave you a look that was just short of smug.

“Nice of you two to join us,” Steve muttered, though there was no real bite in his tone.

Bucky didn’t even try to hide it—he leaned down and pressed a kiss to your cheek right in front of everyone, hand resting a second too long on your shoulder as he settled in beside you.

There was a sharp scoff from Clint. “Wow. No shame.”

“None,” Bucky replied casually, throwing one arm behind your chair.

Across the room, Sam snorted and held out his hand. Tony sighed dramatically and slapped a wad of cash into his palm. “I was rooting for denial until next month.”

“You dream too big, Stark,” Sam said, counting the bills with glee.

Steve groaned, pinching the bridge of his nose. “You do realize this is a mission briefing, right?”

“Yeah,” you said around a yawn, leaning into Bucky’s shoulder. “But someone had to liven it up.”

the end.

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[pleasantlycrazyworld]

Put My Dog Tags Back On

Warnings: NSFW/explicit smut, possessive Bucky, a bit of a breeding kink, dog tag kink, unprotected sex, praise, eye contact kink, soft!dom Bucky

Summary: You wear his tags to sleep because it makes him smile. You didn’t know taking them off would make him snap.

You weren’t trying to be seductive. You weren’t to get a reaction. You were just tired, had just finished brushing your teeth and you had basically floated barefoot back into Bucky’s room, your skin still warm from the shower, hair damp and soft against your shoulders. The borrowed t-shirt you usually wear to bed was in the hamper, leaving you in just a plain black bra and cotton panties.

And his dog tags.

You’d started wearing them one night, joking that if he could mark you with hickeys like a possessive punk, you should get to wear his tags like a soldier’s girl. He hadn’t even laughed just slid them around your neck with that quiet, reverent look like he wanted to worship the ground you walked on.

So you wore them. Always. Because they made his eyes go dark in that very special way.

You were half-asleep as your fingers reached up to unclasp them. And that’s when you heard it.

“No.”

You blinked before slowly turning.

Bucky stood in the doorway. Still in his tactical pants, black shirt damp with sweat, eyes locked on your bare chest more specifically, on his tags in your hand. “You don’t take those off,” he said, stepping forward, voice low and edged with something sharp. “Not when you’re in my bed.”

Your breath caught. “I--I was just-”

“Uh-uh.”

He crossed the room in two long strides and took the tags from your hands, draping them back around your neck with slow, deliberate fingers. They settled cold between your breasts, and you shivered.

“You wear these to bed,” he murmured, leaning in, his mouth brushing your cheek, jaw, neck. “You wear them when you wake up in my arms. You wear them when you go to the store or talk to one of our little team mates. You wear them when I fuck you. You wear them always, sweetheart. You got that?”

The tone if his voice, the way it got deeper, and allowed his Brooklyn accent to thicken made your knees go weak.

“Y-yeah,” you breathed nodding dumbly.

“Good.”

Then he was kissing you, devouring you. His hands gripped your waist as he walked you backward until your knees hit the bed. You dropped with a soft gasp, and he followed, hovering over you like a stormcloud about to burst.

Bucky peeled your panties down your thighs, slow and hungry, and tossed them to the floor. He undressed in pieces each button and buckle undone with purpose until he was bare and hard above you.

“You don’t take off what belongs to me,” he growled, lining himself up. “Not without asking. Not when it marks what's mine.” Then he pushed in, deep and thick and claiming, and your head fell back with a strangled moan.

“Eyes on me, baby.”

You looked up; meeting his gaze. He was already watching you like you were the only thing that existed, his dog tags swaying gently between your chests, clicking softly every time he rocked into you. “Fuck,” he rasped. “You feel like home... Always fucking do.”

His pace was slow, deliberate-- possessive. Like he wasn’t just trying to fuck you, he was imprinting on you. Staking his claim, right down to the bone.

“You like this?” he asked, voice like gravel and honey. “My tags bouncing on your tits, my cock buried so deep you’ll feel it for days?”

“God, Bucky--yes-”

“You’re mine.” His hand slid between you, thumb brushing your clit. “Say it.”

“I’m yours,” you gasped, hips jerking. “Fuck-I’m yours--”

He leaned down, nose brushing yours. “That’s right. My girl. My bed. My tags.”

Your thighs were trembling, back arching, slick sounds echoing in the room as he worked you open, fucked you through it--made you feel it. And the whole time, those damn dog tags stayed cold and heavy against your chest like proof.

“Gonna come for me?” he murmured. “Let me have it, baby. Wanna feel you crumble for me.”

You crumblee with a choked cry, nails digging into his back, your body clamping down around him so tight it nearly knocked the breath out of him. He buried his face into your neck and cursed against your skin. Thrusting into you harder one last time before staying there--grinding deep, grinding in as far as he possibly could as he spilled with a growl and a shudder, fingers bruising your hips.

When it was over, he collapsed on top of you, panting, forehead resting on your shoulder. The room was quiet except for your breaths. And the sound of his dog tags clicking against your skin as your bodies slowly relaxed into one another.

You finally whispered, “You really like those tags, huh?”

He laughed, voice still rough. “Baby, you could be wearin’ a trash bag as long as those are around your damn neck.”

You grinned. “So I shouldn’t take them off?”

He leaned in close, lips brushing your ear.

“Only if you want me to fuck you like that again.”

✨️✨️✨️✨️✨️✨️

Tagging:

@its-in-the-woods

@nomajdetective

@ghost-wolf34

@all-by-myself98

@luannastylinsonlupin

@rockmelikeahurricaneee

@freakyflora

@nishinoyastoes

@zzz000eee

@nubecita040

@awesompawsum

[angclone]

Hi!!!

For your request ask : "You didn’t even give me the chance to stand with you. You just, decided for both of us."

I was thinking Bucky taking a chance in a mission to save the reader. They both have a silent crush on each other. But when the mission goes south, Bucky takes the decision to stay/risks his life to protect the reader/to put reader out of harm's way. Not like, protecting them but really something life endangering : taking a bullet/locking a door so that he can fight and reader can leave. And reader is mad at him (and goes to get him and he gets an earful...) (also happy ending?)

(and thanks for opening request!)

okay, i definitely went rogue with this one. i didn’t even use the dialogue prompt, but i hope you enjoy regardless!

warning! not yet proofread!

send in a request for mads’ birthday drabble celebration!

You can't recall a time you had ever been more angry.

Bucky left you. He changed the time Steve said to meet, told Steve and Sam that you had changed you're mind about joining the mission, and he left you without a word.

So, you're there when the quinjet lands, arms crossed over your chest, jaw tight with tension. And Bucky, recognizing the live wire before he even steps off the jet, tells Steve that he'll catch up for debrief in a minute.

And you had been rehearsing this argument all day, planning exactly what to say to get your point across, but he flashes this sheepish smile as he approaches. Your heart is pounding all over again, fingernails digging into your palms in an attempt to hide the trembling, and your whole argument is thrown out the window — "What the fuck, Barnes?"

His smile drops instantly, and he raises a hand — an attempt to placate you that only makes your blood boil. "Alright," he starts.

"No," you snap, "you're just going to listen for a minute here." And it's the tone of your voice, the heat in your eyes, that keeps Bucky silent. "Joaquin told me everything — you lied to me, you lied to Steve… just to keep me from this mission. I mean, do you really think so little of me?"

Bucky jerks like you've reached out and slapped him. "What?" He asks.

"You do this all the time! So, what is it? You think I'm holding back the team?" you ask, exasperated.

He shakes his head, "I never said that…"

"You don't have to say it," you retort. "You do everything to keep me from missions, so what am I supposed to think? I mean, you must think I'm completely incompetent!"

Bucky drops his duffel to the ground with a loud thud and takes a step forward. His voice is low when he speaks, "You've got it wrong, doll."

"Doll?" you scoff, "Don't patronize me, Bucky."

He steps forward again, and his hands are on your cheeks before you can blink. "I'm not," he says, and there's something a little desperate in the way he says it. "I swear I would never, and I have never thought that you're holding anyone back."

And now, you're just confused, and Bucky wants to rub his thumb over the crease between your brows. You shake your head slightly, but you don't tug away from his hold. "Then why?" you ask, and all of the rage and frustration has completely fled your voice.

"I —," he starts, stumbles, "I don't know how to do this."

Your eyes search his, looking for any hint of what he could possibly be talking about. And you're both silent for so long that you're not sure he is ever going to continue.

And when he does, it's a whisper — a confession spoken quietly for only the two of you to share. "I don't know how to care about someone like this."

Your eyes widen, and you think that you can't have possibly understood what he was trying to say. It didn't make any sense.

"And I'm clearly doing it wrong if you can think that I would ever think so poorly of you," he says. "I think the world of you, and it scares the hell out of me —"

Your soft touch on his wrist silences him, and you can't help but smile a bit. "Barnes…" you mumble, "Are you trying to say this was your convoluted version of protecting me?"

His eyes scan your face, clocking that grin forming, and he smiles softly too. He breathes, "Yeah."

"This conversation is so not over," you point out, but then you're tugging him down by the collar and kissing him breathless.

[iidesxreii]

"Can you move your seat up?" - B. Barnes

╔ Pairing: James 'Bucky' Barnes x Reader

☆ Word Count: 1.4k

☆ Category: Fluff, one-shot, drabble but not really bc it's more than 100 words

☆ Summary: Based off that clip where Sam and Bucky are in the car and Bucky asks Sam to move his seat up BUT add a little bit of a twist.

☆ Content: Bucky and Sam fighting, mentions of smut and other sexual nature, some LIGHT dom/sub scenes

╚ A/N: This is my first time writing for Bucky! Ahhhhh I'm so excited for yall to read this. (If this works out I'll keep writing for him) This clip has been all over my tik tok recently and I at first, had no thought to write this, but then it hit me as I was eating my cup of ramen. I hope you like it! As always let me know if you didn't!

Semi proof-read, not too into detail though so....idk hope it's fine n shi

═══════ ･ ｡ﾟ☆: .☽ . :☆ﾟ｡･ ═══════

You’re sitting in the driver’s seat of the car when Steve gets out. You’ve ultimately been dragged along with your boys to something you didn’t sign up for. Another car is sitting ahead of you, black and very noticeable. A girl gets out, blonde, pretty, dressed in a jacket and some pants. All black of course. You’ve definitely gotten caught up in something you shouldn’t be in.

You hear their voices travel back to the car but you can’t quite hear what is being said. She says something before reaching for the trunk and opening it. Within seconds you see Sam’s Falcon suit and Steve’s shield. You close your eyes and curse the fact that you answered Bucky’s call so eagerly, You should be at home, where you could have deniability. You open your eyes to try to find Bucky’s. Instead you find him glaring at the back of Sam’s head.

“Can you move your seat up?” Bucky is currently staring daggers at Sam and Sam is pretending NOT to feel it. You can tell on his face that he KNOWS he’s aggravating Bucky. He doesn’t care. 

“No.” Comes Sam’s quick response. Sam and Bucky hate each other. You know better than anyone. Anytime Bucky and Sam get into it, Bucky leaves and comes straight to yours. He mentions something about blowing off steam but by the end of it your brain is mush and your body is aching in all the right places. Bucky’s eyes meet yours in the mirror and like clockwork you know what that means. He’s aggravated and Sam’s not helping.

“Sam. Please be nice to Bucky.” You say it in a way that has Sam looking over at you like you grew two heads. His face contorts for a second before he fully turns to you.

“No. Absolutely not, (Y/N/N), I will not.” Sam breaks the silence in the car and you roll your eyes. In all your years of knowing Sam you should’ve seen a fight coming. Especially over Bucky.

“Sam…come on he asked nicely.” You motion towards Bucky and Sam looks his way. Bucky is still scowling at Sam which doesn’t help your case but to each its own. You turn back to the front of the car and see Steve and the girl still talking. Voices still echoing off the walls and back to the car you’re in.

“No. Y- You know what? You’re always taking his side! What’s that all about? Why do you take his side-” Sam starts up a spiel about you and Bucky. And how you always take Bucky’s side (You do, you can’t deny that) and all you can do is listen. You knew why you took his side, why you preferred Bucky to Sam and Steve. Bucky looks at you once more as a way to get you to stop Sam from talking, but when you don't take the commanding hint he takes matters into his own hands.

“Because my dick is always IN-side of her. That’s why she takes my side, Wilson.” Bucky makes sure Sam hears the ‘in’ part. You turn to see his smug little look on his face and Sam, poor Sam, just stares at you. “Mostly after you’ve aggravated me enough to choke the shit out of her and make her cum enough times that her brain is complete mush.”

You turn from Bucky and look at Sam, who now has a face of disgust. You, on the other hand, are clenching your legs together at the thought of what Bucky is mentioning. Your core is drenched and pulsing around nothing with the thought of Bucky doing you that way again. He turns to Bucky and You can see the anger rolling off of him. Sam has always seen you as a little sister, Steve too, but with what he just heard, Sam’s probably thinking of MILLIONS of ways to kill Bucky.

You turn away from both of them and face the front, Sam does the same and Bucky, sweet but surely an asshole, Bucky slides from behind Sam to behind you. You feel his arm drop onto your shoulder and you try your hardest not to look at Sam. Who, out of the corner of his eye, can see Bucky’s vibranium fingers trailing against the skin of your throat. Patronizing him in the worst way possible.

You all watch as Steve leans forward, kisses the girl and then grabs the things out of the trunk. As he’s walking back he notices Bucky’s arm on your shoulder and him planted in the seat behind you. You pop the trunk and he throws the stuff in there. He closes the trunk and goes to get in behind Sam. He sits and clears his throat from the tension in the car.

“We can go now, (Y/N/N).” You nod and reach forward to start the car. You quickly put your seatbelt on and put the car in reverse to get out.

“Did you know Bucky and (Y/N) are…doing things?” Sam starts it off by asking Steve. Steve without missing a beat nods. Bucky on the other hand is still running his fingers along your neck. You are trying your best not to moan as Bucky is silently but surely irritating Sam. He was also letting you know what you were in for the minute you all were back and free from whatever Steve had you all doing. You were about to be used in the exact way he had described a few minutes ago.

“Yeah. Bucky told me the minute it started…you didn’t?” Steve looks over to you and you catch his eye in the mirror. Had Steve also known what Bucky was doing to you? Was Steve also extremely aware of Bucky’s dark dominant side?

“No…and the way I found out was unpleasant.” Sam is back staring at you, you can feel the holes burning into the side of your face. You blink and glance that way. Sam’s eyes are locked onto Bucky’s hand. Almost like he’s trying to will him to stop. But Bucky is petty. Beyond petty.

“You honestly did it to yourself.” His fingers wrap around your throat for a second, he gives you a squeeze before releasing and continuing with the absent minded rubbing. The double entendre does not fall on deaf ears. You are very aware that not only was he talking to Sam, but he was talking to you too. You not taking the command to get Sam to shut up riled Bucky up. Bucky hated when Sam whined and Sam was indeed whining. So you were in for it too. Not that you were complaining at all.

“Hey, Sam…Can you move your seat up a bit?” Steve’s voice cuts through their tension and you let out a breath you didn’t know you had. Bucky, always aware of you, looks over at you before pressing a kiss to the back of your head.

“Yeah, sure cap.” Sam quickly scoots his seat up and Steve sighs in relief. You almost lose it the minute his fingers stop moving.  Your core grows wetter as you know exactly what that means. Bucky’s eyes trail over to Sam and you feel the anger boil through his skin and into yours. Sam was worsening it by the minute. You were going to get put through the headboard at this rate.

“I hate you.” Bucky almost snarls it at him. Sam on the other hand turns to Bucky with a smile on his face and shuffles close. Almost too close. You can feel the anger reverberate off him too.

“I hate you more.” Sam whispers it. In Bucky’s face. And Bucky’s fingers tighten around your throat. You immediately reach a hand up and tap three times on his wrist. A tap out. You were driving for god’s sake. Bucky’s vice grip is gone, arm pulled back into his own space. Away from you. But your body still feels it. The thought of what Bucky was going to do to you is still in effect.

“Clearly.” Bucky says as Sam slides back into his seat with a smile. You look through the rearview and catch a glimpse of Bucky again. This time he’s fuming. Chest rising and falling within seconds of each other. He’s staring your way, no doubt letting you know what he had planned was going to have you walking stupid for the next couple of days.

[wakemeornot]

OMG I LOVE THIS SO MUCH!! This was crazy good. Damnnn. I need my man to act this way always 😭🩷

☁︎ ⋆｡˚ first class ⋆｡ ☁︎ ˚｡

pilot!husband!bucky barnes x wife!reader

Mentions: 18+, grumpy but soft buck, tooth-rotting fluff

Summary: Bucky is the pilot everyone knows. Top of his game, perfect safety record, and no room for nonsense on his flights. He doesn't chat much with the crew—rarely even cracks a smile. He's respected, but also feared. But when you—his wife—is on board, he turns into complete mush.

Word Count: 2.1k main masterlist credit to @adalvsseb for the idea

The tension in the crew lounge was so thick, it felt suffocating.

Two flight attendants hovered near the galley doors, whispering and gossiping like teenagers—as the crew always did to pass the time.

“Captain Barnes seems like he’s in a bad mood today,” one of the flight attendants, Yelena, muttered, glancing toward the cockpit door where Bucky’s silhouette could be seen just faintly.

He had his arms crossed, shoulders tense, and jaw clenched as he stared down at the controls like he always did before his flights.

“When is he not in a bad mood?” the other attendant, Ava, scoffed, patting down her uniform.

They both immediately went silent as the man in question stepped out of the cockpit, his black pilot jacket open to reveal his crisp white shirt, his tie slightly loosened like he had half-assed putting it on.

His cold blue eyes scanned the cabin—sharp and dangerous. 

One of the flight attendants, John, was down the row helping a passenger put their bag up. Poor Walker nearly dropped the luggage when Bucky shot him a judgmental glare, muttering under his breath.

“Incompetent,” Bucky said, shaking his head. “This plane’s never leaving the gate.”

Ava and Yelena gave each other a look—fear and the same desperate thought they didn’t say out loud. 

Please, let this be a short flight. 

But before either of them could retreat, the sound of rolling luggage wheels and soft footsteps on the carpet drifted up the aisle.

Bucky turned his head toward the sound instinctively, and just like that, his entire demeanor shifted before anyone could blink. His shoulders relaxed instantly, arms uncrossing as he turned towards the door.

And there you were—his wife—standing in the frame of the open cabin door, a bag slung over one shoulder, your smile warm and bright despite the early hour. 

“Hi, sweetheart,” your voice came out soft and gentle.

The scariest captain in the fleet nearly tripped over his own feet as he stepped forward to reach you. 

“Hey, doll,” he said just as softly, tilting his head down to press a kiss to your temple, not even caring that the whole crew was staring.

Everyone did a double take, their eyes wide as they watched Bucky brush a strand of hair away from your cheek and tuck it behind your ear. He leaned in, nuzzling his nose against your hair.

“I didn’t know you were on this flight, baby,” he murmured, pressing another kiss to your temple as his arm snaked around your waist. “You missed me that much?”

Bucky didn’t even look back at the open-mouthed crew as he pulled you close against him—like you were a fragile little thing and he only trusted himself to hold you. 

“Of course I did,” you said softly as you nuzzled against him. 

He let out a quiet chuckle, cupping your cheeks in his hands as he looked at you like you were the only person that mattered. He spoke even softer, the crew barely making out the words. Something like “Long morning?” he asked, and you hummed, resting your head briefly on his shoulder despite the sharp line of his crisp uniform.

One of the attendants gasped. 

If someone so much as brushed against Bucky’s shirt, he would have scolded them alive for wrinkling it.

“Did you eat?” Bucky asked, already steering you toward an empty row at the front of first class. “I told you I’d bring you breakfast.”

You waved him off with a sleepy grin. “You did, but I wanted to be with you. Besides, I brought my own snacks.”

He huffed out something that might’ve been a laugh. 

But Captain Barnes? 

Laughing? 

Bucky turned to the nearest flight attendant, his eyes flicking down to the name tag because he couldn’t be bothered to remember the new hire’s name.

“Bob. Could you get my wife some tea? Chamomile, if you’ve got it.”

He didn’t say please, but the polite tone was clear enough to indicate it—because this was Bucky asking. Not ordering.

“Y-yes, Captain,” Bob sprinted to the galley—practically stumbling over his own feet. 

You settled into the seat Bucky guided you to, and he grabbed your bag, stowing it in the overhead bin in one smooth and easy motion.

“You comfortable?” he asked, voice low and soft, like you two were the only people on the plane.

“I’m perfect, James. Go fly your plane,” you chuckled softly, buckling your seatbelt in. 

Bucky chuckled too, bending down as he leaned in closer, feeling your giggle warm against his lips. “Not until you kiss me.”

Somewhere behind him, the co-pilot cleared his throat loudly. “Captain, we do have a schedule…”

Bucky shot him a look that could have crashed the plane on its own. But you just laughed, tugging him closer by his already messed up tie and pressed a quick, soft kiss to his mouth. When you pulled away, Bucky was the one smiling, the faintest shade of pink brushing the tips of his ears.

He stood and turned to the crew, all of whom had suddenly found very interesting things to look at on their clipboards.

“Take care of her,” Bucky announced, voice back to that demanding cold steel.  “She’s the only thing on this plane I care about more than getting you all there safe.”

“Haha,” Bob let out a nervous chuckle and clapped awkwardly. “Captain Barnes—you’re so funny.” 

Yelena leaned in, giving him a warning look. “He’s not joking, Bob.”

Bucky looked back at you one last time, all warmth again. Soft eyes, softer smile as he brushed his knuckles along your jaw. “Call me if you need anything. Anything, babydoll. Okay?”

You gave him a reassuring smile, taking his hand and pressing a chaste kiss to his knuckles. “Go on, Captain. And don’t crash.”

Bucky let out a soft snort and pressed one last kiss to your head before heading back to the cockpit. Once he disappeared behind the door, the cabin came back to life. Boarding announcements echoed overhead, the sounds of carry-ons ruffled through the overhead bins, and passengers settled in for the flight.

⋆｡˚ ☁︎ ˚｡⋆｡˚｡⋆

The crew kept stealing glances at you. 

“Thank God Mrs. Barnes is here,” Ava muttered, peeking her head out to watch you. “Makes our work day so much easier.”

Yelena snorted. “Yeah, right. Captain Barnes will be on our asses, telling us to check on her every five seconds.”

Ava shrugged. “I don’t mind. It keeps the Captain happy,” she added, glancing at you again, “and she’s the nicer Barnes.”

The seat belt sign blinked off, and passengers were already dozing off or flipping through in-flight movies.

Yelena perked up at the sound. She nudged Bob gently in the elbow. “That’s our cue,” she said, nodding her head toward you. “Go check in with her if you want to get on Captain Barnes’ good side.”

Bob stood up straight and nodded eagerly. He slipped down the aisle and stopped by your seat. “Mrs. Barnes?” he asked sheepishly. “Can I get you anything? More tea? A snack?”

You lowered the book you were reading and gave him a soft, easy smile. “I’m okay, thank you, Bob. You’re all taking such good care of me already.”

Bob’s shoulders dropped in relief. “We’re just doing our jobs, ma’am…” 

“You can call me by my first name, you know,” you laughed, warm and gentle. “No one has to ‘ma’am’ me.”

Bob jumped at the sound of Captain Barnes’ muffled voice through the crew interphone. He scrambled to grab the handset hanging by the galley door, nearly dropping it as he pressed it to his ear.

“Bob. Is everything alright up front?” 

“Y-Yes, Captain!”

Bob stammered, voice squeaking a little too loud.

“All good up here. Mrs. Barnes is comfortable and doesn’t need anything right now.”

There was a brief, tense pause on the line. Then Bucky’s voice came low and extremely protective. 

“Good. Keep it that way.” 

Bob swallowed hard, glancing back at you with a nervous smile.

“Of course, Captain. Will do.” 

He carefully placed the handset back in its cradle, then he wiped his clammy hands on his pants. 

Ava peeked around the corner, fighting back a grin.

“Careful, Bob. If she’s not satisfied, he’ll toss you out at 30,000 feet. Here,” she grabbed a tray of snacks, “watch and learn.” 

You barely had time to open your book again before Ava appeared beside you with a warm smile and a tray balanced on her palm.

“Mrs. Barnes,” she smiled warmly, “I know you brought your own, but I also brought you some extra snacks just in case. I didn’t know what you liked, so… I just brought a bit of everything.”

Meanwhile, Yelena was fighting back a chuckle as she and Bob watched at a distance. 

You glanced at the neat rows of crackers, fruit, cookies, and a tiny bowl of mixed nuts. “Oh, Ava, that’s so sweet. You didn’t have to do all that!”

Ava’s eyes darted to the cockpit door and back again. “It’s really no trouble at all,” she said quickly. “If you want anything else, just ring the call button. Or don’t.  We’ll check on you anyway.”

You laughed softly and took a cookie from the tray. “Thank you. You’re all spoiling me.”

Before Ava could answer, a ding rang from the intercom by the galley. Yelena grabbed the handset, pressing it to her ear.

“Flight deck.” 

“Yelena. My wife, how is she?” 

Yelena rolled her eyes, but forced her voice to sound chirpy.

"Yes, Captain. She's fine. She's having a snack right now."

"Perfect. What is she having? Chamo—"

"Yes, Chamomile. She likes the cookies, too. Alright, Captain. Yes, Captain. Goodbye, Captain."

She hung up the phone and turned to Ava with a dramatic sigh. “That’s the third time in an hour. I’m really about to tell him to come check himself if he’s so worried.”

“Does he really call that much?” you asked, half-embarrassed. “I’m sorry if it’s such an inconvenience to you guys—” 

Yelena grinned, shaking her head. “Not at all. The big scary Captain turns into a golden retriever if you’re here. So even though he’s pestering us every ten seconds, it’s actually a good day for the crew.” 

Bob appeared next to you, offering a warm towel in his hands like it was gold. “I brought you a hot towel, Mrs. Barnes,” he said shyly. 

“Oh, Bob, thank you,” you said, taking it and gently pressing it to your face. “You’re all too kind, really.”

Before they could scatter back to work, the intercom crackled again. Yelena snatched the handset before Bob could fumble it again. 

“Captain, again? She’s fine—she’s using the hot towel Bob gave her. Yes, Bob. The new one. He’s doing fine, Captain. Yes, she’s smiling. Okay. Okay. Bye, Captain.”

She slammed the handset back into the cradle and gave you a look. “If he calls one more time, I’m throwing this stupid headset out the window.” 

Ava leaned closer, whispering. “He wants you in the cockpit, you know. If you aren’t in his line of sight, he’ll go crazy.” 

You laughed, trying to hide your grin behind your hand. “Don’t worry, I’ll keep him in line when we land.”

⋆｡˚ ☁︎ ˚｡⋆｡˚｡⋆

The landing was smooth—smoother than usual, according to Yelena, who nudged Ava and whispered, “He only flies this soft when she’s on board.”

Passengers were already filing out, and when you finally reached the front of the plane, your bag slung over your shoulder, Bucky immediately bolted to you and pulled you into him. One big hand cradled the back of your head as he pressed a deep kiss to your lips, a kiss that went on way too long for it to be considered appropriate in a workplace.

Behind him, the flight attendants froze mid-task. Bob nearly dropped a stack of folded blankets. Ava turned away dramatically, pretending to check the overhead bins. Yelena made a gagging sound that she didn’t bother to hide.

Bucky pulled back slightly to brush his nose against yours. “Did they take good care of you, doll?” he murmured, thumb stroking your cheek.

You giggled softly, your hands resting in the front of his uniform shirt.

“They did. They were perfect. Almost as good as you.”

He huffed a quiet laugh against your lips.

“Almost? Don't worry. I'll show you how good I can take care of you tonight,” he leaned in and kissed you again, this time more possessively, his hands cupping your jaw. "You ready to go home, sweetheart?"

At a distance, Bob whispered to Yelena, “Should we… clap or something?”

Yelena elbowed him. “Don’t you dare. Just… get your bag and let's get the hell out of here.”

And as the crew bustled around you, rolling their eyes or pretending not to peek, Bucky pressed one last kiss to your temple, and despite him being exhausted from his long day, he took your bag off your shoulder without asking and slung it over his own. He laced his fingers through yours, ignoring the way the crew pretended to gag behind him.

“Alright, Mrs. Barnes,” he said softly. “Let’s get you home.”

[shadyfestivalperfection]

Bucky: I’m not jealous.

Y/N: You glared at a barista because he asked for my name.

Bucky: He said it too softly.

[knowledgeableknitter]

Emotionally. Physically. Frequently.

A new fic-let. Last weekend, we saw Bucky shut down a man who was after you. Now it's your turn to shut down a woman after your husband.

Pairing: Congressman! Bucky Barnes x you (plus sized/curvy wife! reader)

Word Count: <1000

Summary: You defend your place next to your husband while at a rooftop event. Congressman Barnes likes it.

Trigger Warnings: You shutting down an impudent strumpet.

Author’s Note: This is Part 1. Part 2 is 18+, MDNI, but both can be read as stand alone.

Masterlist

The rooftop terrace glittered beneath soft string lights strung between marble columns, D.C.’s skyline glowing in the distance. Laughter floated through the air like perfume, blending with the clinking of glasses and the muted strains of a string quartet playing something elegant, forgettable.

You didn’t care about any of it.

Your husband stood in front of you, one hand tucked into his pocket, the other resting on your hip, its natural place. His navy suit was custom-fit, tie loosened just slightly, hair pushed back with just enough intentional mess to drive you wild. His focus hadn’t drifted from you all evening.

You were laughing at something he’d murmured under his breath, brushing your fingers against his lapel, your cocktail dress hugging you in all the ways it was designed to.

You had Bucky Barnes’s full attention. That meant everything else faded into the background.

Until she appeared.

Sleek, blonde, and professionally charming, she was one of those “strategic networkers” who made a career of being seen with powerful men and acting like the women next to them didn’t exist. She swept toward Bucky like she had every right, her voice lilting and just a little too loud.

“Oh, Congressman Barnes,” she purred, her hand lightly touching his forearm. “I’ve been dying to catch you tonight.”

You didn’t move. Just blinked, bored, and took another sip of your drink.

Bucky didn’t turn toward her. Didn’t even blink. His eyes stayed locked on you.

That only seemed to embolden her.

She laughed softly. “And here I thought you’d be surrounded. I should’ve gotten to you earlier.”

Still, he said nothing. And still, his gaze stayed on you, jaw tight, lips pressed into the ghost of a smile.

“I imagine it must be hard,” she said, glancing between you with all the subtlety of a blunt knife. “Keeping his attention, I mean. A man like him…” She let the words trail off, suggestive and dripping.

You let the silence hang for just a moment longer, long enough to give her the rope.

Then you stepped forward, slow and easy, slipping your hand over Bucky’s chest as you turned fully toward her. His hand dropped from his pocket to rest gently against the curve of your hip, fingers flexing once, like he was grounding himself.

You smiled, and not warmly.

“He’s taken,” you said softly. “Fully. Emotionally. Physically. Frequently.”

Her lips parted, just slightly.

You didn’t give her the chance to speak.

“You must be used to men who forget what they have. Can’t relate.”

She froze, blinking twice before recovering with a weak laugh. “I didn’t mean—of course, I didn’t mean—”

You tilted your head, still smiling. “Didn’t you?”

Bucky’s fingers slid just slightly along the fabric of your dress, both possessive and devoted. His jaw was tight now with restraint. He still hadn’t looked at her even once. His entire world was wrapped around the sound of your voice and the shape of your silhouette beside him.

The woman excused herself a moment later, muttering something that could’ve been an apology, or just the word “sorry” stuffed into a shoe and dragged out of her mouth like it hurt.

She walked away fast.

You didn’t look after her. You turned back to Bucky and raised your glass, brushing your lips over the rim like nothing had happened.

His eyes were dark, heavy-lidded, and a little stunned. The man was entirely yours.

“You say things like that,” he murmured, voice low and raw, “and expect me to keep my hands to myself?”

You shrugged one shoulder, pretending to sip. “That was me being tactful.”

He leaned in, brushing his lips over your jaw without touching your skin. “My beautiful menace,” he whispered.

You smiled. “You love it.”

His hand tightened briefly at your waist, then settled again, a deep, slow breath pushing through his chest.

“How many more do you think I’ll have to fend off tonight?” you murmured.

He chuckled, low and soft. “Hard to say. You’d think they’d learn.”

You took another sip and tilted your head toward him. “Some people never do.”

“They will eventually,” he said. “Probably once your reputation rivals mine.” 

That earned a real laugh out of you. 

He leaned close, lips brushing your ear. “I like this side of you.”

You arched a brow. “Which one?”

“The one that shuts it all down with one sentence. And then walks away like she didn’t just ruin a woman’s entire fantasy life.”

You smirked. “That wasn’t her fantasy. That was delusion.”

His lips twitched. “Well, it died a quick death.”

He looked at you then like you were the only thing worth worshipping on this rooftop. Not the lights, not the skyline, not the city or his career. Just you.

“So,” he groaned, quiet but wrecked., “how fast do you think can we leave without making a scene?”

You stepped a little closer, lips barely grazing the curve of his jaw. “We could try in ten minutes,” you replied, already walking your fingers down the length of his tie. “I want dessert first.”

His breath caught. Then he exhaled your name like a prayer.

“You are my dessert.”

Part 2 (18+, MDNI)

Tag list: @lovely-seb @calwitch @its-in-the-woods @ficmeiguess @yesiamthatwierd

[barnesonly]

Yearning

bucky barnes x reader

summary: you and bucky have been together for a while now, but haven’t had sex yet—he’s insecure, afraid he forgot how. but one night, things finally happen…

word count: 5,6k

WARNINGS: 18+ explicit content, MDNI. fluff to smut, insecure!bucky, established relationship, curse words, age difference, dirty talk, praise, oral (f receiving), PiV, unprotected sex.

Bucky Barnes is a man out of time, and you’re reminded of it every single day.

Sometimes it’s the obvious things—like how he still squints at his phone as if the apps might leap off the screen and bite him, or how he physically recoils every time you say the word “TikTok.” Sometimes it’s subtler—like the way he insists on walking on the outside of the sidewalk, or how he always opens doors for you without thinking, like muscle memory trained from another era.

And then there are the flowers.

Almost every day, without fail, a small, lovingly picked bouquet appears on your kitchen counter. Sometimes they’re store-bought, sometimes hand-picked from wherever he was that day. Always with a little handwritten note tucked beneath the stems. He never says much about it—just a casual “these made me think of you” and a kiss to your temple. But the habit is so consistent it’s become its own kind of love language.

You’re dating Bucky fucking Barnes and that still feels unreal sometimes.

He’s grumpy. He’s anxious. He has whole decades of trauma stacked inside him like old, worn-out newspapers.

But he also loves you. Deeply. Devotedly. You can see it in the smallest things—the way his hand always finds yours under the table, or how he tenses any time someone looks at you the wrong way. He still doesn’t sleep through the night, but when he does sleep, it’s usually best when you’re wrapped around him.

You’ve been together for a while now. Long enough to fall into a rhythm. Long enough to know what makes him tick, what makes him laugh. Long enough to feel the unspoken ache between you both.

Because there’s one thing you haven’t done yet.

Sex.

You’ve talked about it—briefly, carefully—but Bucky always brushes it off. Not with rejection, but hesitation. You know he wants to… you can feel that he does. But he’s scared. Scared he’s forgotten how. Scared he won’t be good at it anymore. Scared of what might surface, or what might go wrong.

You’d never pressure him. Never.

But god, you want him. Not just the sex—though, yeah, definitely that—but him. His body, his trust, his pleasure. You want him to feel good. You want him to feel wanted.

You’ve started to think he’s almost ready.

You don’t say it aloud. You don’t want to spook him. But there’s a shift in him lately—like maybe he’s starting to believe he deserves this. Deserves you.

Still, you remember the last time you two got close.

It was a quiet night, nothing special. The two of you were curled up on the couch, some half-watched movie playing in the background. You’d ended up in his lap, legs straddling his thighs, your fingers twisted into his hair, your mouths tangled in a kiss that had gone from sweet to hungry in seconds.

He was so warm beneath you, so solid. His hands rested on your waist like he didn’t trust himself to move them, like he was afraid of holding on too tightly. You could feel him, hard through his sweats, pressing up against your center—and the way his breath caught every time you shifted your hips only made you want him more.

You kissed him like he was the last good thing in the world. And he kissed you back like he believed it.

But then—just as your fingers slipped beneath the hem of his shirt, just as he let out this low, needy sound in the back of his throat—he pulled away.

Not all at once. Slowly. Like it hurt him to stop.

“Babe…” he murmured, his forehead resting against yours. His voice was hoarse, his chest rising and falling like he’d just run a mile. “I’m… I’m sorry. I can’t. Not yet.”

You didn’t sigh. Didn’t roll your eyes or pull away. You just cupped his cheek and smiled at him—soft and sure and full of love.

“No worries, Bucky,” you whispered, brushing your thumb across his cheekbone. “You know I love you, right?”

He nodded, and god, the look in his eyes… like he couldn’t understand how someone like you could be so patient. So kind.

You shifted, slowly climbing off his lap, careful not to make it feel like rejection. Just giving him space. You tucked yourself beside him on the couch, your knee still brushing his, your presence still close. You didn’t say anything right away.

He let out a long sigh and dragged a hand down his face. The other stayed loosely resting on his thigh, still balled into a fist like he was holding something back.

“I just…” he started, voice rough. “I’m scared I’ll fuck this up. Or that I’ll hurt you.”

Your heart cracked a little, but you stayed quiet, letting him speak. He rarely did. Not like this.

He leaned his head back against the couch cushion, eyes on the ceiling like he couldn’t bear to look at you. “I used to be such a charmer in the ’40s, y’know? Smooth talker. Confident. I had moves.”

You huffed a tiny laugh, not mocking—just warm. “I believe it.”

He glanced at you then, barely a flicker, and smiled faintly.

“But now?” he said, the smile dropping. “Now I feel like I’ve forgotten how to even… touch someone the right way. Hell, half the time I’m afraid to want anything too much, ‘cause what if I screw it up? What if I mess you up?”

His jaw tensed. You could see the war in his mind, the echo of every cruel thing that’s ever been drilled into him—by Hydra, by time, by the weight of his own past.

You reached over, took his hand, gently pried open his fingers from that tight fist and laced them with yours.

“Bucky,” you said, soft but sure, “you’re not going to hurt me.”

He swallowed hard, eyes still on your joined hands.

“And you’re not gonna mess anything up. Okay? Wanting something doesn’t make you dangerous. It makes you human.”

He didn’t answer right away. You let the silence settle around you both. Not awkward. Just… honest.

“I want to make you feel good,” he finally said, his voice barely above a whisper now. “I want you to feel… Safe. Loved.”

He turned his head toward you. His eyes were glassy, a little overwhelmed, but you could see it—the crack of light breaking through all the fear.

“I do feel loved,” you said quietly. “Every day.”

You squeezed his hand, just once, then let go so you could reach up and cradle his jaw instead—thumb brushing lightly along the edge of his cheekbone.

Then you leaned in and kissed him.

It wasn’t rushed. It wasn’t hungry or needy. It was soft. Steady. Like a quiet promise whispered between two heartbeats. He kissed you back like he was still learning how, but already knew it by heart.

When you pulled back, your foreheads touched, your noses brushing, the air between you thick with unsaid things.

“I love you,” he murmured, like he didn’t even mean to say it aloud. “I don’t think I ever really understood what love felt like until you.”

Your breath caught a little, chest tightening.

He kept going, voice rough and low. “You’ve made my life feel like… a life again. Like I’m not just surviving. I didn’t think I’d get to have this. I didn’t think I deserved to. But then you came along and you just—god, sweetheart, you gave me something I never thought I’d have again.”

You felt yourself melting, your heart a puddle in your chest. His hand came up to rest on your thigh, not to start anything, not to take—it just landed there like he needed to touch you, to feel that you were real.

You leaned your head against his shoulder and sighed dramatically. “Jesus Christ, Barnes. You trying to make me cry?”

A breath of a laugh escaped him.

You tilted your head to grin at him. “You say one more sweet thing and I’m gonna have to marry you and sign up for bridge night at the senior center.”

He huffed a laugh, and that shy little smile of his—god, it destroyed you.

“I mean it,” he said quietly, “even if you joke your way out of it.”

You reached over, cupped his cheek again. “I know you do,” you whispered. “And I love you back, you old fossil.”

He laughed for real that time—head tilted back, the kind of laugh that cracked through all the walls he’d built. And it made you smile so big your cheeks ached.

That memory still sits warm in your chest—etched there like sunlight caught in glass.

You think about it sometimes. The weight of him beneath you, the kiss that lingered on your lips for hours after, the way his voice cracked when he told you what you meant to him. How you called him a fossil to hide the way your heart was splitting open inside your ribcage.

And now?

Now you’re in the kitchen with him, barefoot and sleepy-eyed on a Sunday morning. The radio’s playing something soft and old—something he probably heard first on vinyl. You’re standing at the stove, flipping pancakes while he hovers beside you, clearly pretending not to be watching them like a hawk.

He’s wearing a T-shirt that’s faded to hell and a pair of sweats low on his hips. You’ve got one of his flannels buttoned over your pajamas. The sleeves are way too long. He tried to roll them up for you earlier but got distracted kissing your shoulder halfway through.

Domestic bliss, Barnes-style.

You pass him the next pancake on the stack and bump his hip with yours.

“You’re lucky I love you,” you say. “Because these pancakes are borderline tragic.”

“They’re not tragic,” he replies, grinning as he takes a bite. “They’re… rustic.”

You give him a look.

He shrugs, chewing. “I like ‘em a little burnt. Adds character.”

You snort and turn back to the pan.

There’s a pause—quiet but easy—until his voice breaks it again. Low. Soft.

“I wanna marry you one day, you know?”

The spatula freezes in your hand.

You blink, heart skipping, and glance over your shoulder at him.

He’s looking at you like he’s thinking about saying it again, just to make sure you heard him right. His eyes are clear. Calm. No panic. No second-guessing. Just… love. Simple and steady.

“I mean it,” he says. “I don’t know when. I’m not gonna rush it. But I do. I think about it all the time.”

You stare at him for a second, and then your lips stretch into the stupidest, softest smile.

You turn back to the stove and flip the pancake onto the plate.

“Well, good,” you say. “Because if you didn’t marry me, I’d have to haunt you for eternity. Like, aggressively. I’d knock shit off your shelves.”

He chuckles behind you, then steps closer, wrapping his arms around your waist from behind. His lips brush your temple.

“You already haunt me,” he murmurs. “Just… in a really nice way.”

His arms stay wrapped around you for a long moment after he says it—forehead resting against the side of your head, his body warm against your back. The scent of syrup and coffee hangs in the air, but all you can feel is him.

„I think I’m ready, doll.” He continues, firmly and with determination in his voice.

You set the spatula down gently, not because you’re finished cooking but because suddenly—this is more important.

You turn in his arms, hands slipping up his chest, feeling the slow, steady beat of his heart under your palms. His eyes meet yours. They’re soft. Honest. A little nervous. But not afraid.

“You know we don’t have to,” you say, voice quiet. “Not today. Not ever, if you’re not ready. I love you exactly like this.”

His hands come up to cradle your face—gentle, almost reverent. His thumb traces your cheek.

“I know,” he says, and there’s a flicker of something in his eyes. That old ache, the one that never quite leaves. But it’s softer now. “But I want to.”

Your breath catches.

“I’ve been scared for a long time,” he admits. “Scared that I’d mess this up, or hurt you, or—hell, that I wouldn’t remember how to be with someone like that. But the truth is… I think I just didn’t believe I deserved that kind of love.”

You swallow, eyes stinging.

“And now?” you whisper.

“Now I do,” he says. “Because of you.”

He leans in and kisses you then—slow, deep, tender. No hesitation. No trembling hands. Just Bucky. All of him.

When he pulls back, you’re already smiling, breathless and dazed.

“God,” you murmur, forehead pressed to his, “you say stuff like that and I get why girls in the 40s were all over you.”

He grins, a little crooked. “Yeah, well… guess I’ve still got it.”

“Barely,” you tease. “You made a grunting noise getting off the couch last night.”

He groans. “Why would you bring that up now?”

“Because I love you,” you say sweetly.

He’s laughing when he kisses you again—and this time, his hands wander a little. One settles at your lower back, pulling you closer. The other slides into your hair, gentle but firm.

The kiss deepens, lazy but loaded, and it starts to hum between you—want. Warm and steady and mutual.

His lips trail to your jaw, barely there kisses—soft, unhurried.

But then he pauses, nose brushing your cheek. His voice is low, warm, still a little breathless from the kiss. “Let me take you out tonight, huh?”

You blink, pulling back slightly to look at him. “Yeah?”

He nods. “Someplace nice. Fancy. White tablecloths, cloth napkins, the whole deal. I’ll put on that stupid tie you like, even if it’s choking me the whole night.”

Your heart squeezes.

“Bucky…”

He brushes a strand of hair behind your ear, thumb trailing down your jaw. His gaze is steady now, sure. “I wanna do this right,” he murmurs. “You’re my girl. A lady. You should be treated like one.”

God, you’re melting.

You’re not sure if it’s the way he says it—like it’s the most obvious thing in the world—or the way he’s looking at you, like he’s already undressing you in his mind but still wants to kiss your hand first and open every damn door along the way.

“Okay,” you whisper, your smile blooming full and wide. “Yeah. I’d love that.”

His grin is all boyish charm now—relieved, excited, maybe even a little smug. “Yeah?”

“Yeah,” you say, looping your arms around his neck. “Only if I get to wear something ridiculous and make you all flustered.”

His brows lift, amused. “Doll, you could show up in a trash bag and I’d still forget how to breathe.”

You laugh, full and bright, leaning in to press a kiss to his cheek. He catches you before you pull away, stealing another kiss—this one slower, deeper. Like he’s already thinking about later. About what this night could be.

You pull back just enough to whisper, “You’re gonna spoil me, Bucky Barnes.”

His lips curve as he presses his forehead to yours.

“That’s the plan, sweetheart.”

———

The restaurant is dimly lit and elegant, all low murmurs and soft clinks of silverware. Candlelight dances on the white tablecloth between you, casting gold on Bucky’s jaw—strong, clean-shaven, way too handsome for a man who claims he “doesn’t clean up well.”

He does. He really, really does.

That tie he promised to wear? Yeah, it’s perfectly knotted, navy blue to match his eyes. And the sleeves of his button-up? Rolled just enough to show a hint of his forearms.

And Bucky?

Bucky’s a goner.

He’s been staring at you since you walked into the room. Like, actually speechless. The moment you stepped out of the bedroom tonight in your dress—tight in all the right places, maybe a little backless, maybe with a slit high enough to kill a man—he made a sound. A tiny, quiet, reverent “fuck” that he probably didn’t mean to say out loud.

You’d just smiled and said, “Told you I’d make you flustered.”

Now, over an hour into dinner, he still hasn’t recovered.

“You cold, doll?” he asks, already sliding his hand across the table toward yours.

You shake your head. “Nope. Perfectly warm.”

He nods, but his hand doesn’t go back to his wine glass. It lingers, then slowly drifts down… under the table.

And then you feel it—his palm resting gently on your bare thigh. Not groping. Not demanding. Just there. Warm. Intentional.

Your eyes flick to him, and he’s sipping his drink like he didn’t just set your entire bloodstream on fire.

“You know,” you murmur, leaning slightly over your plate, “this is a very respectable restaurant, Sergeant Barnes.”

He doesn’t flinch. Just gives you a slow, easy smile. Then leans in slightly, voice a notch lower now—just for you.

„I told you, I used to be a charmer.” He shrugs.

His thumb strokes slow circles against your skin, just above your knee now. It’s not obscene. Not yet. But it’s loaded. And the heat in his eyes tells you everything—he’s ready.

Maybe not to take you home and rip your clothes off (well… maybe that too), but to have you. Finally. Properly. To show you how much he wants you in every possible way.

And god, you’ve never felt so desired. Or so fucking loved.

———

The ride home is quiet.

Not tense. Not awkward. Just… charged. The kind of silence that hums under your skin, thick with everything that didn’t need to be said at dinner. Your hand rests on his thigh, his knuckles grazing your knee as he drives, and the whole way back you can feel his gaze flicking to you at every red light.

When he parks in front of your building, he kills the engine and just sits there a second. One hand on the steering wheel. The other finding yours.

He doesn’t say anything—he just looks at you.

And you nod.

Yeah. You’re ready, too.

Inside, everything is soft.

You kick off your shoes. He hangs up his coat. His tie is already loosened, and there’s a flush to his cheeks that’s not from the wine—it’s from you.

He steps toward you slowly, like he’s afraid if he rushes, you’ll vanish.

But you don’t. You stay right there.

And when his hands come up to rest gently on your waist, you melt into him without hesitation.

His voice is low, quiet. “You sure?”

You nod again, reaching up to cup his face. “I’m sure.”

He exhales, almost like relief. Like he’s been holding his breath for months and finally—finally—he can let go.

Then he kisses you.

God, it’s different now. It’s not frantic or messy. It’s not lust without thought.

It’s slow. Deep. He kisses you like he’s mapping your mouth, relearning how to love someone through touch. His hands stay respectful, still at your waist, not drifting, not rushing. Just there.

You kiss him back, soft and patient, running your fingers through his hair. He shudders when you tug gently—just enough to pull a little sound from him, something low in his chest that makes your knees wobble.

He pulls back, barely, and rests his forehead against yours.

“I’ve wanted this for so long,” he murmurs.

“I know,” you whisper. “Me too.”

His hands finally move then—one gliding up your back, the other brushing along your jaw. His metal fingers are warm from your skin, and when they graze your cheek, you lean into them like instinct.

“I wanna take my time,” he says, voice hoarse now. “Wanna make you feel good. Wanna make sure you know how much I—how much you mean to me.”

Your heart stutters.

“You do,” you whisper. “You already do.”

But you let him show you anyway.

He leans down, kisses your neck—slow and reverent—and then he starts walking you backward, one step at a time, toward the bedroom.

Your back hits the edge of the bed and Bucky pauses there, standing in front of you, breathing a little harder than he should be for someone who’s only kissed you.

But it’s not nerves anymore. Not fear. It’s want.

“C’mere,” you whisper, your fingers curling into the front of his shirt.

He steps in closer. Between your knees now. His hands find your thighs again, thumbs brushing along the fabric of your dress as if he’s still memorizing the shape of you.

He eases you back onto the bed like you’re made of glass—slow, steady, never breaking eye contact. His body follows, covering yours without pressing you down, one arm braced beside your head, the other tracing the line of your hip with reverence.

He kisses you again, slower than before. Softer. Less lips, more mouths—open and warm and lingering. You part your legs to cradle him, and the sigh that falls from his lips ghosts across your cheek like a prayer.

His skin is hot against yours. Muscle and scar and heat. You run your hands down his back, memorizing every dip, every edge. He shivers at your touch, exhales into your mouth like he’s trying not to fall apart just from being this close.

His fingers reach up to your shoulder, brushing the strap of your dress aside, and he looks at you like he’s asking for permission without even saying a word.

You nod once.

So he slips the strap down. Then the other. His touch is featherlight—almost hesitant—but his hands don’t tremble this time.

“You’re so beautiful,” he murmurs, voice barely more than a breath.

Your chest rises with the compliment. It’s not the first time he’s said it—but something about this moment… the way his eyes are locked on you, the way he swallows hard like he’s overwhelmed just seeing you… it hits different.

He tugs your dress down slowly, letting it fall to your waist, then lower, until you’re sitting there in nothing but your bra and panties. The air between you shifts—warmer now, heavier.

His hands brush your arms, your waist, your hips—everywhere but the places you want them most. But you let him go at his pace. You want him to feel in control.

“Can I…” he starts, fingers ghosting over your bra strap, “…take this off?”

You nod again. “Yeah. Please.”

So he does. Gently. Carefully. Like he’s unwrapping something precious.

When your bra falls away, his breath catches.

“Jesus,” he whispers, eyes roaming your chest like he’s never seen anything so perfect.

When he undresses you fully, he does it slowly, dragging fabric down your legs with both hands, his metal fingers brushing over your skin with a tenderness that almost makes you ache.

You lift your hands to the hem of his shirt. “Your turn, Sergeant.”

He huffs a breath, a little grin twitching at the corner of his mouth. “Yes, ma’am.”

You pull his shirt over his head, revealing the planes of his chest, the lines of scars, the metal arm, the years carved into him. You trace your fingers over the dog tags that still hang around his neck.

His skin is hot against yours. Muscle and scar and heat. You run your hands down his back, memorizing every dip, every edge. He shivers at your touch, exhales into your mouth like he’s trying not to fall apart just from being this close. His dog tags clink as they fall between you, cold against your bare skin.

He kisses you again, and this time when he settles between your thighs, you feel him fully—heavy and hard, pressing against you.

He settles there like he belongs there—shoulders broad between your thighs, hands gentle on your hips as he lowers himself, eyes never leaving yours.

Then he speaks—low, reverent.

“Let me taste you first, sweetheart. Make you feel good.”

And god, you don’t even have the breath to respond. You just nod, breath hitching, thighs already trembling beneath his touch.

He kisses the inside of your knee first. Then the other. Trails his lips upward, slow, soft, maddening. You can feel the warmth of his breath long before his mouth finds you—feel it ghost over your skin, spreading goosebumps down your spine.

His hands stay firm on your thighs, holding you open, holding you still. But his touch is tender, steady. There’s nothing rushed in the way he moves. Like he’s unwrapping something sacred.

And when his mouth finally finds you—lips parting, tongue tasting—

You gasp.

Quiet, breathy, uncontrollable. Your fingers twist in the sheets, one hand reaching instinctively for him. He groans against you when you thread your fingers into his hair, and the sound of it vibrates straight through you.

He’s slow at first. Careful. Testing. Tasting.

Learning you.

But he’s good at learning.

He watches you, listens to your breath, the way your body reacts—what makes your hips jerk, what makes your thighs tighten around his shoulders. His tongue strokes long and slow, then soft flicks, and when he hears the change in your breathing—there, that’s what makes your voice break—he stays right there.

He moans again, deeper this time, and the way he grips your hips tightens just slightly. Like he can’t take it. Like he’s the one unraveling just from the way you taste, the way you sound.

The dog tags still hang from his neck, cool against your skin. His hair’s messy from your fingers, jaw flexing as he works, as he buries his face deeper into you like a man starved.

And all you can do is feel.

The rise of pleasure. The way it blooms low and hot and thick in your belly. The burn of it, the ache. Every stroke of his tongue makes it worse. Makes it better.

Your thighs begin to tremble. Your back arches.

And still, he doesn’t stop.

He devours you.

Not greedily. Worshipfully.

Like he’s not just tasting you—he’s loving you with his mouth. Showing you just how deeply he means it.

And when you finally come—soft and shaking, moaning into your hand, thighs trembling around his head—he stays with you. Rides it out. Holds you through it.

He only pulls away when your body begins to relax beneath him, when your hand goes soft in his hair, when your breath evens out in his ears.

Then he rises slowly, kisses your inner thigh once more, then your stomach, your ribs, your chest.

He kisses you like he’s grounding you.

And when he finally reaches your lips again, he just hovers there, noses brushing.

You smile.

He smiles back—soft, flushed, eyes dark with affection and want.

And then, finally, finally, he settles between your legs again—not to taste you this time, but to be with you. To love you. Completely.

His mouth brushes yours—soft, almost shy. But the hand that cups your face? That’s steady. Grounded. He strokes your cheek with his thumb like he’s feeling it all through his fingertips.

Your legs wrap around his hips without thinking.

And when his hips settle against yours, when you feel the hard press of him, your breath hitches all over again.

He groans quietly—deep in his throat. The sound of it is raw. Barely controlled.

You reach between you, fingertips ghosting over his length. He shudders—actually shudders—and buries his face in your neck like he’s ashamed of how badly he wants this. Wants you.

You guide him to you.

And he pauses. Just for a second.

His forehead presses to yours and his voice, when it finally breaks the silence, is low and hoarse.

“…You okay?”

You nod. Whisper, “Yes.”

When Bucky sinks into you, it’s slow—but the depth? It knocks the air from your lungs.

He presses in all the way, until you feel him everywhere, and he stays there for a second—deep, thick, pulsing inside you while his breath stutters against your mouth.

Your mouth parts. His name catches in your throat. The stretch is deep and full and perfect, and for a moment, all either of you can do is feel.

He stills at the bottom, buried inside you completely. His eyes flutter shut, jaw clenched, like he’s trying not to lose it already.

Then he pulls back just a a little.

You moan into his shoulder. Fingers gripping the sheets. He groans, too—but it’s quiet, choked, like it costs him to keep this slow.

You’re soaked. Warm and clenching around him. And he groans when you tighten, like the feel of you is almost too much.

“Fuck,” he breathes, voice shaking. “You feel… baby, you feel so good.”

His hips roll—smooth and deliberate—and you arch beneath him with a soft moan. He starts to move then, slow but filthy, every thrust long and deep, like he wants to stay inside you as long as he can.

His hand grips your thigh, pulling it higher around his waist. The shift makes his next thrust hit deeper—you gasp, and Bucky curses low into your neck.

“Shit, that’s it,” he groans. “That’s my girl. Just like that.”

The sounds between you are quiet but thick—breath and skin and need. The soft slap of his hips against yours. The low whimper you didn’t mean to let out when he hits that spot just right.

Your nails scrape his back, your heels press into him, needing more—more of his heat, his weight, the drag of him pulling out and sliding right back in, making you stretch and flutter and lose your rhythm

He makes you feel it—every thrust, every stroke, every trembling inhale.

You wrap your legs tighter around him, tilt your hips up, chasing the friction, and his rhythm stutters.

He’s panting now, buried in your chest, hips moving in slow, punishing strokes that leave you trembling.

Every sound you make—every whimper, gasp, broken moan—he drinks it in like it’s what keeps him going.

His hand finds yours above your head. He laces your fingers together. Holds you there.

Grounds himself in you.

“You’re takin’ me so fuckin’ good, sweetheart,” he mutters, voice all grit and heat, “so tight around me, fuck—feels like I’m gonna lose my fuckin’ mind.”

You can’t even speak.

Just nod. Moan. Cling to him.

Your body is burning, slick and hot and aching for release again, and he knows. He feels the way you tighten, the way you start chasing his thrusts, hips rolling up against him.

His pace stutters. Picks up. Just a little. Just enough.

“Gonna cum for me?” he pants, his lips at your jaw, his hand slipping between your bodies to rub tight, messy circles over your clit. “Yeah? Gonna fall apart on my cock, baby?”

You cry out—soft and desperate—and he loves it. Groans low, grinding into you just right, fucking you through it as your walls flutter and clench, dragging him toward the edge with you.

“You’re so perfect,” he rasps, right against your ear, hips snapping a little harder now. “So fuckin’ perfect, holy shit—”

You’re spiraling again, thighs shaking, breath hitching—

And then you break.

Your whole body arches off the bed as you cum around him, gasping his name, your nails digging into his back.

He chokes on a moan and buries himself deep.

And follows you with a shudder that rocks through him—his hips stalling, cock twitching inside you as he spills with a low, broken growl.

“Fuck—oh my god, baby—”

He holds you tight through it. Hand in your hair. Face in your neck. Heart pounding against yours.

You’re still tangled up in each other, the sheets barely covering you, your head tucked beneath Bucky’s chin as you catch your breath.

Everything’s warm. His skin, his breath, the way his arms hold you like you’re something he earned.

You shift a little, snuggle closer. “Seriously, James?” you mutter, voice muffled against his chest. “You’re so fucking good. I can’t believe you were actually insecure you forgot how to have sex.”

He lets out a groan—somewhere between bashful and bashful-aggressive.

“Doll…”

“No, like—seriously.” You sit up just enough to look at him, eyes wide and dramatic now. “That was insane. Like, are you sure you haven’t been practicing with a pillow or something while I wasn’t around?”

“Absolutely not,” he mutters, one hand dragging over his face. His ears are pink. “Jesus Christ.”

You grin. He’s blushing. This gorgeous, 110-year-old supersoldier with arms the size of your thighs and a tongue that just rewired your soul is blushing.

“I mean, the way you—” You gesture vaguely at your lower half. “You knew exactly what to do.”

He looks like he might implode.

“Maybe it’s muscle memory,” he mumbles, avoiding your eyes. “Maybe I just got lucky.”

“Oh, baby,” you say, all fond and exasperated. You crawl back on top of him, straddling his stomach, hands on his flushed chest. “That wasn’t luck. That was talent.”

He groans again, letting his head fall back on the pillow—but his hands settle instinctively on your hips, keeping you there like he doesn’t actually want you to stop.

“Don’t do this to me,” he pleads, but you can see the smile twitching at the corner of his mouth.

“I’m genuinely impressed, Bucky,” you say, mock-serious now. “Like, maybe you should’ve been cocky about it.”

He shoots you a look. “I can’t tell If this is your way of mocking me or you really mean it.”

You giggle—hard. Collapse onto his chest and wrap your arms around his middle while he sighs dramatically.

But he’s smiling.

You nuzzle your face into his neck and soften, voice low now, honest.

“You were amazing,” you whisper. “Like… beyond. You didn’t just make me feel good, Buck. You made me feel loved.”

That gets him quiet.

One hand slips up your back. His metal one curls protectively around your waist. He kisses your temple like he can’t help it.

“Only ever wanted to make you feel that,” he murmurs.

And now you’re blushing.

You both lie there a while—grinning, tangled, all warm limbs and wandering fingers.

“…So, round two?” you say sweetly.

He barks a laugh, grabs you around the waist, and rolls you beneath him.

“Bet.”

⋆⁺₊✧ MASTERLIST

tags: @iamthatonefangirl @thatsbucknasty @buckytakethewheel @buckybarneswife125

[lokinks]

"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 part 2

“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?

part 2

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

dm me if you want your tags removed

[salty-tang]

Masquerade and Masked Charades

Congressman!Bucky Barnes x Congresswoman!Reader

Summary: everyone go send KatieScarlet1108 some love for this delicious idea: A White House gala. No dates. Just one slow dance under the chandeliers - you in black, him in white tie, and the kind of silence that says everything. The interns are not subtle about it and Derek and Mike would like a refund.

Warnings/ tags: jealous bucky, ambiguous if relationship is established or not, original characters galore, extremely romantically charged dancing

Word count: 5.9k - i locked in too hard for what must have been just a drabble request LOL

off the record masterpost || AO3 || congressman bucky masterpost

You don’t arrive together, of course not.

It’s Mills’ first time working a White House gala, and she’s already sweating in her dress (long, navy blue, rented), stationed just beyond the press barricade with a clipboard she’s been told not to let go of under any circumstances. The interns have been deputized to assist with guest intake and press guidance – not commentary, as Derek has warned – but Mills is doing all three anyway.

The press isn’t allowed inside tonight. Rare, by West Wing standards, so they’re all clustered along the North Portico entrance in a cordoned line with their cameras up, flashes sharp, voices sharper.

A black car pulls up.

“That’s Barnes, right?” someone yells as light bulbs go off pre-emptively.

“No date?” someone else calls out.

“What about –?”

“He’s never brought a date to these kinds of things.”

Bucky steps out with the crisp precision of someone who hates being photographed but knows how to hold still for it. He’s a black-and-white photograph come to life – evening tails, white waistcoat, crisp wing-collar shirt. The bow tie is starched and exact, shoes perfectly polished to an obsidian shine.

His mask is already in place. Snow-white lacquer, sleek and angular, covering the upper half of his face. Sharp cheekbones and subtle ears at the temple. A white wolf.

He clears the checkpoint in under ten seconds. Doesn’t look at the press. Doesn’t look at anyone. But just before he disappears through the doorway, he glances back once, sharply, towards the driveway.

“Is he looking for her?” Devon says.

“Don’t,” Mills warns.

Devon just looks up and makes the sign of the cross.

The second car pulls up three minutes later. The press settles, just a little.

You step out alone.

And for a moment, the silence holds.

Then the flashbulbs crack it wide open. The noise is instant – shutters fire like machine guns and the reporters scream for your attention, barely held back by the barricade.

Your gown is black. Not a safe, basic black. Power black; Valentino. You step out like you’re arriving to accept a crown; mask tucked loosely into your clutch, chin lifted just slightly for the cameras.

You nod once in Mills’ direction, and she flinches, gripping the clipboard like it might anchor her to the pavement. Somewhere to her left, Devon audibly gasps.

It’s so loud Mills almost misses the way the hush ripples through the crowd – not gone, just buried beneath the noise. The way time tilts slightly when you lift straighten your spine and the press lights catch the angle of your shoulder.

Mills isn’t religious, but she’s suddenly, viscerally sure she should be on her knees.

And as you ascend the steps, mask slipping into place at the entrance –

Inside the East Room, under chandeliers strung like constellations –

Bucky turns towards the commotion and stops breathing entirely.

***

Bucky watches as you step into the ballroom without theatrics, without pretense. Just in that open-back pleated faille gown that swallows light and holds its shape like a threat. A threat to his sanity.

The front is clean-lined, almost austere with its thin straps, square neckline, and no sparkle. But the back – god help him – the back is bare. Open from neck to waist, silk falls behind you like a drawn curtain.

Your mask is gunmetal satin, sculpted and exact. It rises in a sweep at the edges, delicate but intentional, embossed with scales that shimmer like they're alive under chandelier light. Two small golden horns curl back from the brow. Frilled whiskers fan from the cheekbones in matching gold. A dragon – elegant, precise, unmistakable.

Of course you did, and of course it fits. Not just power, but presence. You don’t demand the room, you own it.

He’s seen you command a room before. In hearings. On the floor. In security briefings where men three decades your senior tried to speak over you and failed.

But not like this.

Not with the chandeliers burning gold. Not in that gown – all architecture and intent – with your back bared like a dare and your mask catching the light like you planned for his destruction. He doesn’t know what he was expecting. Something sharp, maybe. Controlled. Political.

But this –

This is myth made flesh.

You move through the ballroom like the music bends around you, like gravity gave up trying to hold you down to this mortal earth. And Bucky – soldier, weapon, congressman, survivor – forgets every rank and title he’s ever held.

He can’t look away. He doesn’t even try.

Bucky, standing still in a sea of motion, realizes with perfect, devastating clarity that he is fucked.

Absolutely, irreparably, fucked.

***

Mills doesn’t remember walking into the ballroom. She floats, clutching her clipboard for emotional support, trailing Devon, Jenna, and Micah as they’re gently herded toward the staff section – a half-circle of small tables discreetly tucked near the rear column, far enough from the dais to discourage conversation, close enough to witness everything.

The intern’s sea creatures bit is holding, just barely. Devon’s crab still gleams offensively reddish gold under the chandeliers. Mills keeps brushing jellyfish tendrils out of her face while Micah’s anglerfish hook hovers like a threat above one brow. And Jenna – unbothered as ever – hasn’t removed her octopus mask once, despite most of her view being obstructed by one thick stylised tentacle.

Dinner is plated in five courses, each more intimidating than the last.

Jenna stares at the plate before her. “I’ve taken three bites and still don’t know what it is.”

Devon is trying to get his phone to focus on the avocado rosettes without triggering the Secret Service detail hovering near the floral arrangements.

Across the room, you are seated near the Secretary of State. Bucky’s placed four seats down – close enough to hear you speak, not close enough to be spoken to.

And he says nothing. Absolutely nothing. Not through the amuse-bouche, not through the salad. Just chews, methodically, like it’s the only thing anchoring him to this reality.

“He’s malfunctioning,” Devon says.

“He’s coping,” Jenna corrects.

“He’s suffering,” Micah concludes. “It’s beautiful.”

You, meanwhile, look completely unbothered. You’re laughing with the German ambassador behind the rim of your wine glass, embossed scales of your mask glinting gold under the light. Your shoulders, all smooth skin and sharp bone, barely covered by the thinnest straps, catch the light like sculpture.

Bucky watches, entranced. He has to physically drag his gaze back at his plate before he forgets how forks work.

Mills has spent more time watching you and Bucky than savouring the meal before her. It’s a shame, given that pile of caviar could pay for a semester’s worth of new textbooks.

The strings swell, and the low hush of conversation gives way to woodwinds. There’s no announcement; just a shift in tempo, a hush across the room, and the sudden knowledge that the dancing is about to begin.

Across the room, Bucky stands.

And the interns put down their forks as one.

“He’s going to ask her,” Jenna breathes.

“He wouldn’t dare,” says Devon.

“He’s going to sin,” Micah mutters, already typing something into an observation document.

Mills closes her eyes. “Don’t be desperate,” she whispers. “Please don’t be desperate.”

*

Waitstaff begin clearing the central floor and dim the lights just slightly in that golden, storybook way that says now, we dance.

Mills sets her wine glass down, heart thudding.

You’re standing near one of the mirrored columns now, surrounded by a loose cluster of staffers, diplomats, and foreign attachés. Nothing too formal. Just the kind of circle that gathers when someone important stands still long enough.

Bucky’s standing just beside you – close enough to be part of the conversation, not so close that it’s obvious.

But the pull is unmistakable.

He says something low – the usual dry, quiet, comment that’s only ever meant for you – and the corners of your wine-red lips twitch upwards, just slightly. It’s nothing, and also not nothing at the same time.

“Oh my god,” Jenna breathes.

“They’re talking,” Micah confirms. “No – they’ve got to be flirting.”

“They’re practically married,” Devon cackles. “Someone stop them.”

“I think he’s going to ask her.” Mills murmurs, eyes wide. “They’re going to dance.”

He is. Mills can see it – Bucky turning toward you more fully now, his hand shifting at his side as if preparing to offer it. He’s not smiling, but something in his expression has uncoiled, like he’s letting himself want.

And then –

“Congresswoman.”

The interloper is smooth and inoffensive. Senator Kincaid of Vermont: gentlemanly, aged, polished – the kind of man you know to respect and never to trust. He’s already extending a hand.

You look at it with calculation in your eyes. You knew he would ask you first, and you also know who he’d hand you off to.

But then, you glance back at Bucky.

It’s not long, just a flick of your eyes across the space between you. He’s close enough to see your hesitation but not close enough to stop it. His posture doesn’t falter, but his hand stills, and the flicker of softness in his face disappears like it was never there.

Then, you plaster a smile on your face – composed, diplomatic – and place your hand lightly into Kincaid’s, and let him lead you toward the floor.

Bucky doesn’t move. He certainly doesn’t blink.

He just tells himself it’s fine. Harmless, even. There are no stakes with Vermont.

So why does it feel like someone just opened a file on him and stamped it Denied?

***

Now strategically repositioned (read: hiding in the crowd to avoid being drafted onto the floor), the interns watch in quiet awe as the first wave of couples step into motion. Strings swell. Skirts flare out dramatically, catching golden light like they were made for it as the dancers waltz across the polished floor beneath chandeliers that burn like the sun.

Mills can’t look away.

"Why is the Congresswoman," Jenna hisses, "dancing with Senator Kincaid?"

Micah’s anglerfish hook bobs with the slightest shake of his head. "Didn’t he try to tank Barnes’ veterans amendment last spring?"

"Never mind him," Devon practically yells. "Since when could she waltz?"

Mills ignores the commentary in favour of tracks your movement toward the centre of the floor.

You fall into step without hesitation. Kincaid leads – or so he thinks – but it’s clear to everyone else that you’re the one in control of the tempo. You’re not dancing with Kincaid so much as through him. He says something, and you tilt your head ever so slightly, lips parting in a polite smile. He beams and puffs his chest, and Mills watches you let him believe that you’re not just using him to line up your next move.

Yes, Mills knows (intellectually, contractually, emotionally) that you’re a powerhouse, a woman built for the long game, all sharp lines and glass-cutting strategy. She’s seen you fillet men alive in hearings without raising your voice.

But watching you now – in a gown that moves like smoke, mask gleaming under the chandeliers, poised in Senator Kincaid’s arms like you didn’t just architect five layers of diplomatic theatre –

She short-circuits.

Because apparently you can also dance and smile like you mean it. You turn soft power into choreography, and look like that doing it?

It’s obscene. It’s divine. It’s also deeply, deeply, unfair.

The folds of your skirt catch just enough to flare at the ankle. Your mask doesn’t slip, and neither does your smile.

“She’s playing nice,” Jenna mutters, like it’s a sin.

“Strategic nice,” Devon corrects grimly. “Bet you anything she’s softening him up to stop tanking Barnes’ bills.”

You move like you’ve done this before – like Kincaid isn’t leading, just orbiting. The ballroom bends around you.

And Bucky, watching from across the floor, feels it hit all at once – he’s jealous. It’s not tactical, or protective, certainly not rooted in politics or optics or outcomes. Just raw, irrational want. It claws at him – not because you’re smiling at Kincaid, but because you’re not looking at him. Because your hand is resting on someone else’s shoulder like it belongs there.

This is new.

This is dangerous.

And he doesn’t know how to hide it.

Mills stays quiet, not with the way Bucky is staring at you like he’s just realized he’s in love and also five seconds too late.

She just watches your hand rest lightly on Kincaid’s shoulder and thinks, god help the man if he mistakes that for affection.

Micah makes a small noise. “Speaking of Barnes…”

Sure enough, Bucky is dancing too now – though Mills is almost positive he wasn’t supposed to be. Just three minutes ago, he was half a step from offering you his hand. Now he’s been intercepted, or possibly conscripted, into partnering with the daughter of a prominent Chinese businessman.

She’s elegant in that generational-wealth way that lets you go from Ivy League seminar to state dinner without changing shoes. Her long black hair moves like silk when she turns. Her big doe eyes do not. And if Mills remembers the briefing packet correctly, this heiress thinks most Americans are uncultured.

But apparently Bucky is the exception. She’s gazing at him like she’s stumbled into the start of her own forbidden love fantasy.

Mills winces.

Poor girl.

Because Bucky Barnes – stunning in his white tie, sharp as a knife’s edge – hasn’t looked at her once. His gaze is fixed, pointed and unblinking, on you.

More specifically, on Kincaid’s hand, which has settled with entitled familiarity at the small of your very bare back.

Bucky doesn’t miss a step. He spins her out, catches her with clean precision, but it’s so obvious to anyone paying attention that he’s just marking time until it’s you.

The sigh that escapes Mills is involuntary. Technically, she should be mildly distressed that her two most romantically unhinged role models are dancing with other people.

But standing here watching the floor glitter with motion and myth, with mask and strategy, with you and Bucky moving in perfectly mismatched orbits?

She can’t hate it.

***

The final notes of the opening waltz taper off, and Bucky guides his partner into one last turn, enough to signal the end. She curtsies, he nods, and she beams up at him, clearly expecting a kiss on the hand – or possibly an invitation to elope. He offers a perfectly bland smile instead, looking for his escape.

He’s barely two steps towards the edge of the floor when movement across the ballroom stops him cold.

You’re no longer dancing with Kincaid.

Because Kincaid, in a final act of betrayal that Bucky will absolutely remember for the rest of his days, has handed you off.

Not to the fringe of the floor, nor back to your seat. He does not walk you back to your people like a gentleman with good breeding might.

No, Kincaid steers you toward a tall man in full ceremonial PLA dress. White gloves, tiger-striped mask. He looks like he could be a war hero from a recruitment ad, or he could headline a C-pop stadium tour.

And you let him, precisely because this is what you wanted – not Kincaid, but the man behind him, the one with the real influence. The General doesn’t ask, he receives.

Nods are exchanged. And just like that, with all the elegance of a practiced manoeuvre, you’re deposited into the guest of honour’s arms.

Devon makes a wounded sound. “This is what happens when our foreign policy team doesn’t include idols.”

Mills eyes go wide. “I don’t blame her. I’d defect.”

“Who –” Jenna starts, eyes narrowing.

Micah already has the briefing packet pulled up on his phone. “General Zhou Yuhan. PLA. Defense Attache to the Chinese Embassy and Special Advisor to the Chinese delegation.” He scrolls past an impressive list of career achievements. “Undergrad at Tsinghua – engineering. Then Oxford for a master’s in international relations. Hertford College, mid-2000s…which would’ve overlapped with –”

The tentacles of Mills’ mask float around her dramatically as she sighs again. “Oh no.”

“Oh yes,” Micah mutters. “He looks like he writes in fountain pen. In cursive. And gets invited to talk on panels.”

Mills can only gawk at the way the General bows – shallow, perfectly timed – and takes your hand like it’s been done before.

And you laugh.

Not the committee laugh. Not the press briefing laugh.

Mills has never heard this laugh before.

Across the room by the dessert table where he’s taken refuge, Bucky’s expression doesn’t change. But his grip on the edge of his glass is just a shade too tight.

“Is he okay?” Mills murmurs.

“He’s going to break something,” Micah replies.

“Like the Geneva Convention?”

Then – because there is something too familiar in the way Zhou draws you closer, whispering something no one else can hear – Mills makes a reckless decision.

“We’re going in,” she declares, already grabbing Jenna by the wrist and tugging her toward the floor.

“What? Why? What does that mean –”

“Follow my lead.”

“Absolutely not –”

“Smile and look like you love foreign relations!”

And just like that, an octopus and a jellyfish slide onto the edge of the dance floor, weaving into the outer waltz pattern like they belong there, both wildly out of their depth. It’s not graceful, it’s not well, but it is somehow enough.

Mills is leading. Jenna is panicking.

“This is espionage.” Jenna hisses.

“This is initiative,” Mills corrects, craning her neck toward you and Zhou. “We need to know if he’s a threat.”

“To what? Office morale?”

“National security.”

“I’m filing a complaint.”

“File it with State.”

They draw closer, edging through the perimeter of the dance. The air feels warmer near you; heavier too, like the whole ballroom is quietly listening. General Zhou dips you again, fluid and unhurried, and draws you back in just close enough to speak.

Neither intern dares to breathe too loud, lest they alert you to their presence.

***

You’ve danced with diplomats before. This is different.

General Zhou’s touch is precise – gloved, formal, never improper. Every movement is measured. Every glance, intentional. He leads like he’s balancing a ledger.

“Fancy seeing you here,” you murmur as he spins you like it’s a winter formal in 2006.

Zhou smiles, just faintly. You both know this isn’t about charm, or the shared educational history. It’s about intel – the kind you trade in motion.

He leads you into a half-turn. You follow with ease.

But then – the turn, a slow dip, and candlelight at your back – you feel it. Not the music, not Zhou’s hand at your waist.

Him.

You keep your expression steady. When Zhou says something about your Oxford days, you offer a polite smile – and glance, briefly, across the room.

You don’t have to look to know where Bucky is. The weight of his stare settles between your shoulder blades, burning and freezing all at once. It’s not jealousy, not exactly. It’s scrutiny, memory, and something he’s still finding the words for.

“You’re not listening,” Zhou says. The words are teasing, but there’s a hefty weight to them.

“On the contrary,” you parry, “I’m listening to exactly what I need to.”

Zhou’s smile doesn’t falter. But the air shifts – the silence between you is no longer nostalgic.

“You and Congressman Barnes work closely,” Zhou says at last, smooth as lacquer.

“We share a subcommittee,” you reply, light as champagne. “Capitol Hill isn’t that large.”

He inclines his head, just enough. “We’ve been following his proposed oversight reforms.”

You don’t blink. “Then you’ll know they’re still in committee.”

“We do. They’re... ambitious.” A pause. “And ambition rarely happens alone.”

You smile, thin and deliberate. “Coordination is part of the job.”

“Even when it draws attention?” he asks mildly.

“Especially then.”

He leads you into another turn. It’s flawless. So is the message: We’re watching.

And yours, just as calm: So am I.

***

Bucky has stationed himself at the dessert table.

Not for the sweets. For the vantage point, and because the music is just loud enough here to mask an emotional crisis happening in real time.

Derek appears like a conjured spell – bourbon in hand, mask plain black with silver filigree, the picture of brooding Capitol composure. Mike isn’t far behind, more subdued in navy and charcoal. His mask is geometric and elegant.

“If you’re going to lurk,” Derek says without looking up from his drink, “try not to do it next to the petit fours. You’re terrifying the staff.”

Bucky’s frown is answer enough.

“The Congresswoman is in fine form tonight,” remarks a man behind them, hidden behind a feathered mask. He plucks a champagne-soaked berry from the tray like he’s earned it. “Her talents are really quite... endless.”

Bucky drags his eyes away – from you, from the general – to glare at the one who’d spoken. Early fourties, maybe. Good suit. Full head of hair. A smile that reveals a perfect row of white teeth and an intention to make a move.

“If I could dance,” his friend quips, watching you twirl, “I’d be next in line.”

“Well, didn’t she eviscerate you in hearings last month?” Feathers snorts. “I don’t think she’d want to dance with an idiot who submitted the wrong version of his own amendment.”

Bucky exhales slowly through his nose – some therapist recommended calming technique – and tries to keep it together. But it’s taking more than it should, because they’re talking like you’re just something impressive to win. They don’t truly understand the woman behind the mask, how hard you’ve fought to stand where you are today. They don’t understand the way that you care – that your loyalty isn’t loud, but sacred and scarce.

And certainly, they don’t understand that you’d ever look at them the way you look at him.

Bucky continues to stand in silence, brooding with such intensity it feels like the marble might crack beneath his feet.

Mike and Derek hover at either side, looking less like senior staffers and more like two men deeply regretting every career choice that’s led to running emotional containment for an ex-assassin in love.

It’s been five full minutes of silent implosion. Of watching. Of not moving an inch. Both Mike and Derek look like they very much would like this to end.

Zhou leads you through yet another turn – poised, distant, and terrifyingly good at your job. Bucky continues to track your every move with his eyes.

The silence stretches. Then flattens. Then wilts.

Mike breaks it first, with practiced neutrality. “She does look,” he says, “a touch less guarded than usual.”

Derek hums like he’s considering something a bit nefarious. “They overlapped at Oxford. One year. Same college, I think.”

Bucky doesn’t blink.

“Shared nostalgia always makes diplomacy easier,” Derek continues, tone sharpened to something just this side of bait. “Though I imagine that’s not what’s bothering you.”

No response.

Mike pops a chocolate truffle into his mouth, watching the floor like it’s a chessboard. “You do know you’re allowed to cut in, right?”

Still nothing.

Derek exhales, long-suffering. “If you’re not going to do anything, then let the Congresswoman conduct her affairs as she sees fit. The murder stare is not helping her.”

“…Affairs?” Bucky finally says, repeating the word like it has teeth.

Mike sighs. “You really think this is just about alumni reunions?”

Derek raises a brow behind his mask. “Why else would she be dancing with someone whose government has ghost-vetoed War Powers reform for three consecutive cycles? She’s trying to keep your bill alive, Barnes. Try not to die of jealousy before she’s finished.”

Bucky’s jaw ticks hard.

One last glance confirms what he already knows – your spine is straight, your smile diplomatic but nowhere near real, and you’re dancing too close to a man whose uniform gleams like a threat.

He doesn’t remember deciding.

One moment, he’s watching Zhou’s hand hover a breath too close to your bare back. Watching you nod with that exacting grace that conceals exhaustion, calculation, and a loyalty he’s never deserved but keeps finding anyway.

And the next -he’s moving.

Not fast.

Deliberate.

Like a man walking toward something he doesn’t quite have the right to claim, but can no longer stomach watching from afar.

The crowd parts without realizing. Not because they see him – but because something in the air shifts when he walks. Like tension clearing, like stormfronts breaking. His posture; impeccable. His expression; unchanging.

But every step says mine.

Mike exhales. “And there he goes.”

Derek watches him go. “Godspeed, General.”

***

It’s impossible not to notice Bucky Barnes when he decides to close the distance. His days of storming are long behind him, but every line in his body makes it clear – don’t get in his way.

You don’t flinch, of course you don’t, but something in your gaze softens enough for him to catch it. Not fear, not welcome. Just a message, quiet and specific: seen.

Zhou turns just slightly as Bucky approaches, his hand still light at your back, his voice stills mid-sentence.

“General,” Bucky says, calm in the way storms are before they break. “Mind if I steal her?”

It’s not a question.

Zhou looks amused, as if he’s watching a theory confirm itself in real time. “Of course not.”

You glance between them once. Just once.

Then you step back, letting Zhou’s hand fall from your back, and you look at Bucky then, really look.

Not the way you do across a hearing room, not the way you do when you’re calling him out on a policy dodge or catching him in a strategic deflection. No – this kind of look is reserved for flickering candlelight, for marble floors and chandeliers and violins softening the air. This is the kind of look you can only get away with once.

And he’s looking back.

Like he knows exactly how dangerous this is, and he really doesn’t care.

Without another word, your hands find his.

“This is reckless,” you murmur as he pulls you into step.

Bucky holds you like he’s afraid you’ll slip through his fingers. His right hand – warm and human – rests at the small of your back. The other – cool, grounding – clasps yours with ease. You remember what Derek said once, dry as dust: Of course he knows how to dance. Men like him were trained to lead.

You don’t dance, not at first. The both of you just stand there, swaying in place while the music bleeds into another instrumental.

He watches your face for hesitation, for signs of regret, for anything that might tell him he overstepped.

“You didn’t have to do that for me,” he says, voice low.

You glance up, expression steady. “I know.” A beat. “But I wanted to.””

You settle into the rhythm – two slow steps, then a quick-quick. The music’s unhurried, old-fashioned, designed to carry rather than command. A foxtrot – polished and polite, with a whisper of swing underneath.

“I barely know this one,” you murmur.

Bucky’s hand steadies at the small of your back, precise. “Good,” he says. “Then I get to surprise you.”

You glance up, narrowing your eyes, but you lean into his touch. “I know just enough to keep from embarrassing myself.”

He grins, low and shameless. “Then we’re already ahead of Congress.”

It earns him a laugh – quiet and real – and you let the moment linger between the two of you.

The music takes you into another slow step, and he follows through like he was born knowing how.

He leads with the quiet confidence of a man who’s done this before, not to show off, but because he likes the feeling of someone choosing to move with him. Every shift of weight is smooth and deliberate. He waits for your rhythm before guiding it – like he knows it’s not his alone.

“You’re not bad at this,” you say, softly.

His mouth lifts. “It wasn’t always politics and body counts.”

“Do you miss it?” you ask, voice low. “Dancing?”

He nods once. “Back then. There was a church basement in Brooklyn – Big band and girls in their borrowed heels. I liked it.” A pause. “There aren’t many places left where no one expects me to be dangerous.”

The silence that follows isn’t empty. It’s full and heavy with what you both understand but won’t say, not here, and not now.

He spins you, slow and sure. His hand leaves yours only long enough to find your waist, fingers splaying against silk and warm skin like he’s afraid to leave a mark, and doing it anyway.

When you come back into his chest, you’re closer than before. A deliberate narrowing. The music hasn’t changed tempo, but your pulse has.

You don’t pull away.

“I liked who I was when I danced.” He confesses.

You don’t say me too.

You don’t say I think I’m meeting him now.

Instead, your hand slides from his shoulder to rest lightly at the base of his neck.

“I like you now,” is what you say.

He smiles. Not a smirk, not a mask. A real one, slow and stunned, like your words just rewired something in him.

For a moment, it’s as if the weight he’s carried – the war, the years, the names he no longer answers to – lifts clean off his shoulders.

Just for a breath.

Just for this.

Something in his face changes. Not the sharp lines or the soldier’s stillness, but the part underneath – the part that had forgotten how it felt like to be seen.

And you’re looking at him like you see it now. All of it.

The music drifts toward its final notes, but neither of you move.

Bucky’s gaze traces your face like he’s trying to memorize the moment in real time. And then –

“You are…” he begins, but trails off.

You tilt your head, just that bit cheeky. “Dangerous?”

That huff of breath, that almost laugh that always does something to your heartbeat. “Beautiful.”

He doesn’t say it to be flirtatious or performative. Bucky utters it low like a truth that he hadn’t meant to say aloud, but doesn’t regret it either. Especially not when you look at him like that.

You forget where you are – the chandeliers, the foreign dignitaries, the interns probably making deals with god in exchange for footage of this dance – none of it matters.

It’s just him. His voice, his weight at your back, and the terrifying, impossible realization that you don’t want the song to end.

You breathe him in, all warm leather and smoke and something steadier underneath. Something that feels like home.

And then –

The final lift of the strings. The gentle sigh of the piano. Time, returning.

But not yet.

There’s one last turn, one last indulgence.

Bucky guides you through it with devastating ease – that vibranium hand steadying yours, the other holding your back, pulling you just close enough before spinning you out again, slow and sharp, until your dress fans around your legs like spilled ink and withheld desire.

It would take nothing, nothing, to lean in and end this the way everyone in the room expects.

But he doesn’t.

And neither do you.

The song doesn’t end. Not really.

And even now, he knows – he’ll carry it for weeks.

***

Mills has never been delusional about Washington. She knows how things work here – how people choose ambition over affection, how compromises get passed off as conviction. But watching them now, framed by chandeliers and rumour, she feels something she’s tried not to name for months.

Hope.

Not the flashy, campaign-trail kind. Not even the policy-wonk kind with charts and rider clauses.

The real kind. The dangerous kind.

The kind you only get when two people – flawed, impossible, extraordinary – choose each other anyway. Silently, stubbornly, without needing the world’s permission.

Beside her, Jenna doesn’t say a word. She just squeezes Mills’ hand – not for comfort, not even surprise. Just quiet confirmation, palm pressed against hers as they shift clumsily through the next turn.

Mills exhales, barely. Her grip tightens once in return. They keep moving not quite on tempo, not quite off – skirts brushing, heels glancing marble. But their eyes stay fixed.

She doesn’t reach for her phone. Doesn’t speak. She just lets the moment settle, heavy and golden, and holds it close.

And for the first time in months, something holds her back.

off the record masterpost || AO3 || congressman bucky masterpost

[daydreamgoddess14]

*squealing* Sunny, this was adorable!!

They are both such cute idiots!!

Ava was excellent too 🥰🥰🥰🥰

love love love!!!

Petals & Pizza

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x Florist!Reader

Word Count: 2.4k

Content: fluff, the reader gives Bucky a (playful) hard time

Synopsis: You always make sure Bucky has the best bouquets for his first dates. What happens when one bails on him?

A/N: dividers from @saradika-graphics ; thanks to @buckybarnes82 for inadvertently giving me inspo for this piece hehe 🤭

The bell above the shop door chimes and you look up from the arrangement you’re working on to see his familiar face.

“A dozen red?” You ask confidently, reaching for the craft paper roll under the desk. 

He shakes his head. “Not tonight. Apparently she’s ‘not a roses gal’ according to her profile.”

You hum and nod your head. “Interesting, okay. Did she mention what she does like? Or favorite colors?”

“Asking her favorite color before the third date? How scandalous,” he jokes and your knees buckle at his laugh. You swallow and pull yourself together, flashing him a smile at his quip.

“I just got a bunch of dahlias in,” you offer, pointing to the two five-gallon buckets on the floor by you. He looks them over and nods to himself.

“Those are nice. Would you like those on a first date?” He asks, picking up a stem and bringing it to his nose. 

“Sure… I mean, I’d just be happy to get flowers honestly,” you say before cringing internally at how sad that sounded. His eyes dart to your left hand quickly, not noticing a ring. 

“Let’s do the dahlias,” he agrees. “Baker’s dozen, if you don’t mind.” He pulls out his wallet as you wrap the bouquet carefully for him and tie it in twine. 

“You like them?” You ask, twirling the flowers around.

“They look great as usual,” he says with a soft smile as he pays. You hand him the bouquet, but before he leaves he pulls one dahlia out and offers it to you. “Thank you for always helping me. These first dates are intimidating, and honestly the bouquets give me something to do with my hands.” A light blush paints his cheeks and you sniff out a laugh. 

“Well, don’t be intimidated. You always bring flowers. That’s a rarity these days. And thank you,” you say, twirling the stem in your hand. “Go get ‘em tiger!”

He chuckles and waves as he exits your shop. 

“Oh, fuck, I like him,” you say loudly enough for your best friend and co-owner of Petal to the Metal, Ava, to hear. She walks around the corner from the back work station and rolls her eyes.

“You are so not smooth,” she jokes, poking you in the ribs. "We need to work on your game, girl."

You shrug and shift your attention back to the arrangement in front of you, popping in sprigs of baby's breath.

"Maybe he needs to work on his game, too," Ava adds. "How many first dates does this make now for your mystery man?"

"He's not a complete mystery," you reply, holding up the receipt with 'J.B. Barnes' at the bottom. "Mr. Barnes, but I still don't have his first name. And I think this is first date number six…"

"Six?!" Ava exclaims.

"This month," you tack on with a lopsided frown.

"Oh, there's gotta be something wrong with him," Ava says with a nonchalant wave of her hand. "Six different women? In one month? And he looks like that? What, does he have a micro penis?"

You close your eyes and pinch the bridge of your nose, not wanting to picture him hooking up with some chick.

"I'm sure there's nothing wrong with him," you spout. "Maybe it's the women he's dating. Who knows? And can we not theorize about his penis, please?"

Ava huffs out a laugh. "Like you've never thought about it."

You roll your eyes and throw a peony at her. "Get back to work, perv!"

A week later, he's back, but you don't hear him enter because you're unloading a truck of greenery in the stockroom.

"Another week, another first date?" Ava asks from behind the front desk. His brow furrows and he looks around the shop for you. "She's in the back. Let me grab her."

Ava shouts your name without looking away from the man. "Your favorite customer is here!"

You pull out an AirPod, swearing you heard Ava's voice, and yell back. "What?!"

"Mystery man needs another bouquet!" She yells unashamedly, and you feel your stomach drop. You fluff your hair and take a deep breath before walking out to the front of the shop.

"Hi," you say, slightly too high pitched to be casual. "Ava, there's some stuff in the back that needs unpacking. You mind?"

She smirks and skips off, leaving you alone with him.

"Well, I can see why you usually man the front. She's a bit abrasive," he says with a chuckle.

"Yeah, she's the metal and I'm the petal," you say, shaking your head at your cheesy joke. "Anyway! What do you need tonight? Roses? More dahlias? We just got some gorgeous anemones in."

He clears his throat and extends his hand to you. "I'm Bucky, by the way."

You shake his hand and look at him quizzically. "Nice to put a name to your face." You give him yours before glancing down at your name tag. "But you probably already knew that. So, flowers?"

He smiles at you sweetly. "Dealer's choice? I'm not feeling hopeful about this one. The one I got dahlias for stood me up, so they're sitting in a beer glass on my kitchen table."

"You got stood up? That's awful. I'm sorry," you say, genuinely upset for him.

"It's alright. Just wasn't meant to be," he says with a shrug.

"Do you ever get tired of the apps?" You ask as you pick out your favorite stems and build him a bouquet. "The texting? It's kind of exhausting, don't you think?"

He nods solemnly. "It is exhausting, but my therapist said I have to put myself out there, so that's what I'm doing."

You smile at that. "So, who's the lucky lady tonight?"

Bucky blushes at you assuming his date is lucky. "Her name is Jill. She's a nurse. That's all I know, really. So, it sounds like you've tried your hand with the online dating shtick. It work out for ya?"

You laugh and shake your head. "Not so far."

"Not so far," he repeats with a nod, watching your deft hands put together the flowers. His phone pings and he checks it. His face falls and he puts it back in his pocket.

"She bail on you?" You ask, feeling guilty about the hopefulness in your voice.

"Y-yeah. She did. But, hey, keep making that arrangement. I'll put it somewhere in my apartment. It'll brighten up the place." He swallows, trying not to show the disappointment on his face.

"It's okay. You don't have to buy this just because I started making it. It's pretty. Someone else will swoop in a buy it," you tell him.

"It is pretty. And I want to buy it. You're good at your job," he says.

Suddenly, Ava comes charging around the corner and looks between the two of you.

"Did you make reservations somewhere?" She asks Bucky pointedly.

"Uh, yeah, why?" He asks, putting his hands in his pockets.

"Are you blind, sir?"

"I'm sorry?" He asks, eyes flitting between you and Ava.

"She's single. You're single. I bet it's too late to cancel the reservation. She's gorgeous, wouldn't you agree? And I know she thinks you're fine shit, so take her out," Ava suggests with confidence.

You feel like you could throw up. Bucky's eyes go wide.

"Ava, you can't just-" you start, but he cuts you off.

"Do you want to go out with me tonight?"

Your eyes snap to his. He looks serious.

"Um…" you start, not sure how you feel about the impromptu invitation.

"You don't have to say yes," he assures you. "I know you're working and all."

"I can cover for her. We close in an hour anyway," Ava chimes in with a smug smile.

"Ava, I love you, but can you get lost for two seconds?" You ask with an edge. She holds her hands up in surrender and moonwalks back to the stockroom.

"Don't feel obligated-" he starts.

"I don't," you say. "I'm just not sure I want to be a backup date."

"Whoa, you're not. I promise. I just… I didn't know you were single," he says sheepishly, raking a hand through his dark hair.

"You never asked," you add, ribbing him a bit.

"You make me nervous, okay?"

"I make you nervous? Is that a joke, Bucky?"

He scoffs. "Definitely not! Come out with me?"

"Okay," you agree. "But you're buying me these flowers!"

"Already planned on it, remember?" He says, handing you his card. You swipe it and untie your apron, glad that you wore a cute sundress today.

"Is this okay for the restaurant we're going to?" You ask, gesturing to your dress.

Bucky looks you up and down before swallowing and nodding his head. "That's perfect. You look pretty."

"Thanks," you say with a shy smile. "Let me tell Ava I'm leaving and then we can go."

You walk to the stockroom and can't hide your grin. "Get out of here, kid," she teases, flicking water at you.

Bucky leads you out of your shop and opens the car door. He's not showing off, you realize. It's like a habit for him. You slide into the passenger seat and try not to squeal in excitement.

He drives you across town to the new pizza joint. "Have you been here yet?"

"No. Have you?" You ask.

"Nope, but I've heard it's good."

He gets out and opens the car door for you again before leading you into the crowded restaurant.

"Barnes for 2," he tells the host.

"Right this way, sir," the young man says as he escorts you both to your corner table. "Your server will be right with you."

Bucky thanks him and pulls your chair out for you.

You sit down and smirk. "So, you're clearly a gentleman. You make reservations. You bring flowers. You open car doors. What's the problem?"

He inhales and raises his eyebrows. "Wow, we're just diving right into the nitty gritty, huh?"

"I'm not getting any younger. Do you have a secret family? Do you not know how to do your own laundry? Do you hate Taylor Swift? Give me your red flags,” you say, tracing the gingham pattern on the tablecloth.

He chuckles. "Well, let's see. No secret family. No living family, actually. I know how to separate my delicates and my towels. I'm no Swiftie, but I enjoy a few songs when I hear them on the radio. That one about karma is fun. Red flags… hmm. I'm 110 years old with a questionable history."

You giggle. "So you're into younger women?"

He rolls his eyes. "I tried picking up some grannies at Bridge, but they were all hung up on Gerald the janitor. What's a guy to do?"

Your waiter comes over at that moment and takes your drink orders. Bucky orders a beer as you peruse the menu.

"What's your most popular wine?" You ask the waiter.

He points to be a cabernet.

"And what's your backup if you're out of that one?"

"We have that one, though," the waiter insists.

"I know, but if your shipment bailed on you, which one would you suggest next? Your second best?"

The waiter looks at you with confusion and points to a pinot. Bucky rolls his eyes playfully, catching on to your little game.

"I'll have that, please," you tell the waiter and he walks off to grab your drinks.

"You're not second best, you know," Bucky starts.

"You sure about that?"

"I never asked you out because I figured someone as sweet and beautiful as you was spoken for," he admits shyly.

"Well thank you, but I'm not… spoken for," you clarify.

"Do you want to be?"

You blush at his forward question. "Maybe."

Your drinks arrive and you take a sip of your wine.

"How is it?" Bucky asks.

You hum. "Tastes like a runner-up."

He can't help but shake his head and laugh at your bit. You order two small pizzas, one pepperoni and one sausage, and relax back into your chair. He's handsome, especially when he's laughing, and you can't help but stare at him.

"What are you doing?" He asks with a smirk as he takes a drink of beer.

"Honestly, I'm just wondering why the hell you're still single," you admit, swirling your wine around the glass.

"Some women are repulsed by the arm. Some think I come on too strong with the flowers, but I can't in good conscience show up to a date without flowers. Some think I'm too quiet. Some think it's weird that I was born before their great grandparents. Some women don't like how slow I want to take things… physically speaking. It's a plethora of things. I just haven't met my Goldilocks yet. Why are you single, really?"

You clear your throat and sit up straighter. "Honest answer?"

"Please," he says with a warm smile.

"I refuse to settle. I know there's someone out there that will give me butterflies and be a gentleman without having to be asked. He'll notice the little things and commit them to memory. He'll watch my silly reality TV shows with me without complaining. He'll let me yap about the romance books I read and listen to the songs I send him. And he'll buy me flowers."

Bucky nods, really listening to you. Your pizza arrives and he cuts you a slice.

"That all sounds more than reasonable," he assures you with a smile. "It sounds like we're just dating the wrong people."

You take a bite of pepperoni. It's perfect.

"You're telling me," you say through a mouthful of cheese and Bucky laughs.

"So that's your red flag," he teases. "You talk with your mouth full."

You widen your eyes and swallow. "I'm sorry!"

He throws his head back in a laugh. "Don't be sorry. It's funny. Besides, no one's perfect, but you were toeing the line before that." He winks slyly.

"You're charming," you blurt out.

"And you're adorable," he replies. He pulls out his phone and opens up the main screen.

"Ah, so your red flag is getting on your phone during a date?" You ask, crossing your arms across your chest in annoyance.

"I just have to do something really quick," he mutters, focusing on the phone screen.

You huff, but he just smiles and holds his phone up as all the app icons dance on the screen. His finger hovers over the delete button on his dating app before he presses it.

"What are you doing?" You ask, feeling your stomach fill with butterflies - big ones.

"Getting rid of that. I don't think I'll need it after tonight."

You feel bold and nod your head. "Yeah, I don't think you will either."

The End.

[buckyseternaldoll]

eighteen hours.

Pairing: Avenger!Bucky x Avenger!Reader

Summary: Weeks apart on separate missions leave you and Bucky Barnes aching, desperate, and one heartbeat away from unraveling. The reunion? Eighteen hours of pure, breathless release.

Disclaimer: 18+ (mdni!), explicit smut content, p in v, multiple rounds, overstimulation, edging, mutual desperation, shower sex, window sex, kitchen counter sex, use of restraints (soft), masturbation mention, lingerie tease, squirting (f), super soldier stamina, mild teasing from tb* members

It started like any other assignment.

A sharp morning. Polished boots. Steel chairs arranged around the Watchtower’s mission table. The kind of day where even the light felt clinical—too white, too bright, too final.

Valentina entered with a clipboard in hand and that usual glint in her eye, the one that said she already knew something you didn’t want to hear.

“Barnes, Yelena, Alexei, Bob—Bucharest first. Bogotá by week three. Rotating safehouses. No crossovers.”

You stiffened.

“Walker, Ava, and…”

She looked straight at you.

“You—Algeria. Then east through Istanbul. Targets on the move. You’re expected to stay mobile and out of range.”

The silence afterward said everything.

That pause before your name wasn’t a slip.

It was surgical.

Across the table, Bucky’s jaw tensed. He didn’t look at you, but his shoulders rolled tight. His metal hand flexed once, resting flat on the table like he was physically grounding himself.

This wasn’t routine.

This was designed.

The room shifted. Teams gathered their gear. Orders confirmed.

But neither of you moved.

Bucky brushed your fingers beneath the table—the kind of small, hidden touch that wasn’t meant to say goodbye. It was a promise.

We’ll find each other.

However we can.

—

Packing was mechanical.

Weapons, suits, coordinates, clearances.

Everyone was buzzing around the hangar level, focused on countdowns and jet fuel. But Bucky caught your wrist with a glance that made your breath hitch—then gently steered you down a side corridor.

He didn’t stop until you ducked into a quiet auxiliary room—once used for archive storage, now mostly forgotten. The lights were dim. A narrow bench ran along the wall. A few old mission files sat boxed in the corner.

He shut the door behind you.

“Just for a minute,” he said, voice low. “Just wanna be where you are.”

You barely nodded before he pulled you into his chest. He held you like he needed it—not tight or desperate, but complete. His warmth poured into you as you buried your face into the space between his neck and shoulder.

You ended up straddling his lap on the bench, both of you half-armored, half-undressed—hands roaming like you were trying to memorize every line, every scar, every breath.

“I hate this,” you muttered into his neck.

“I know.” His voice was steady. Anchoring. “But we’ll be okay.”

His mouth found the slope of your shoulder. Then your collarbone. Then lower—teeth grazing before lips closed around your skin and sucked.

You gasped—part surprise, part pure heat.

“Bucky—”

“Gonna leave a few. Let ‘em wonder how many more are where they can’t see.”

He left another. And another. The bruises bloomed warm beneath your skin—high enough that your tactical suit wouldn’t cover all of them.

When he pulled back to look at you, his pupils were blown wide, lips kiss-bitten and breath ragged.

“You’re mine,” he murmured. “Even if they split us across the damn planet.”

You ran your hands up under his shirt, nails scratching lightly across his ribs—grounding yourself in the solidity of him.

“You’ll text me when you can?”

“Every chance I get.”

“Even if it’s just one word?”

“Even if it’s just a photo.”

You smirked. “Of what?”

He grinned, leaning back like he had all the time in the world—even though you both knew better.

“I’m waiting for boob pics, love. Minimum one per timezone.”

You laughed into his neck and kissed his jaw, soft and smiling.

“You’re such a menace.”

“You love it.”

“Unfortunately.”

When the comm finally buzzed for final departure prep, you lingered another moment, forehead pressed to his.

“We’re good?”

“Always.”

And then you slipped out—his warmth still clinging to your skin, and his hickeys hidden beneath your collar like the loudest secret in the world.

—

The first few days weren’t unbearable.

Busy hours blurred the worst of it—briefings, drone recon, field scans. The kind of missions that demanded your hands stay full and your focus sharp. You told yourself it helped. That staying in motion kept the ache at bay.

But the nights were something else entirely.

By the third night, sleep wouldn’t come. The cot beneath you was too narrow, too cold. You rolled over instinctively and reached for the other side—empty. Your palm flattened against the mattress like it could summon him there.

It didn’t.

You’d already stripped out of your tactical suit, skin flushed from a lukewarm shower and a restlessness that refused to settle. The mirror over the sink caught your reflection just as the last of the sun dipped beneath the window—warm dusk light casting gold across your damp collarbone, your bare shoulder.

You grabbed your comm. Lifted your phone.

Pulled down your undershirt just enough to let the neckline dip low—sweat clinging to the curve of your breasts, a faint bruise from his mouth peeking out beneath the edge of the fabric.

The angle was deliberate.

Head tilted back. Lips parted. Not a full reveal. But it said everything.

Still thinking about the way your hands fit around my waist.

Bet you’d wreck me if you were here.

You hit send before you could talk yourself out of it.

—

His reply came six hours later. No text. Just an image.

The lighting was shit—whatever rooftop he was on barely lit by the glow of city spill—but it didn’t matter.

He was shirtless.

Dog tags heavy and low over his chest.

Hair a little messier than usual, as if he’d just run a hand through it before taking the shot.

But the part that made your thighs press together?

His sweatpants.

Slung low. Way too low. Obscene, really—the waistband clinging just above the vee of his hips, and beneath it? A thick, unmistakable bulge pressing upward. Not subtle. Not suggestive.

Hard. Veined. Heavy. Angry.

Like he’d taken the photo mid-thought, right before palming himself. Like maybe he had.

Your name was probably still on his tongue when he snapped it.

You sucked in a breath, cheeks hot, and held the screen to your chest like it could warm the parts of you he was supposed to be touching.

This was manageable, you told yourself.

Just teasing. Just playing.

It would pass.

—

It got worse.

What started as playful—just a little edge, a little fun—turned into something raw. Unbearable. Every picture, every breathy message only twisted the knife deeper.

Bucky cracked first.

The signal finally held long enough for him to send a voice note.

You were mid-gear check when it came through, tucked into a corner of the safehouse with your earbuds in.

“Woke up with my hand around my cock,” he rasped, voice low, wrecked. “Thought it was you at first. Swear to God, I could feel you there. Your breath on my neck, your legs wrapped around me. Then I realized I was alone again.”

A pause. A harsh exhale.

“And fuck, baby… I nearly lost it.”

You played it three times.

Nearly dropped your comm on the third.

—

You didn’t just tease back. You retaliated.

The next photo was a mirror shot—deliberately filthy. You stood in the dim light of your bunk, chest bare, your breasts fully visible this time, no shame. One hand was sunk into your panties, fingers clearly pressing against the soaked fabric. The other held your phone steady, angled to catch the full view: your messy hair, parted lips, heavy-lidded eyes, and the slick glint of sweat on your chest. No caption. Just raw hunger in pixels.

This help you sleep tonight? Or should I take more?

He didn’t respond immediately. But when he did, it was short.

You’re not playing fair.

My cock’s been hard since sunrise. Haven’t touched it. Saving every second of this for you.

You sent a quick clip later—just a few seconds long. You didn’t even speak in it.

Just six seconds. The camera angled low—your hand slipping beneath the blanket between your thighs. No real view, just the movement. The blanket shifted slightly with every circle you traced over your clit. Soft moans escaped—broken, breathy, like you were trying to stay quiet. Then a whimper—his name, trembling from your lips. No skin shown. No climax caught. Just the sound and the hint and the promise of you falling apart.

Bucky watched it on repeat like it was the only thing keeping him alive.

—

Then came Ava.

You’d crashed hard that night—exhausted, sweaty, and stripped down to just your lingerie. The maroon lace set he liked. The same one he’d picked out. It had become a habit—wearing it when you missed him. A reminder. A tether.

Ava had been reviewing footage by the window for perimeter movement when she caught it.

The camera was focused outward. But the mic had picked up your sleep sounds in the background.

She wasn’t trying to be cruel when she played it back.

She just raised an eyebrow and pressed play—a grin tugging at her lips as the soft moans filled the air. You were murmuring his name. Restless. Breathless. Like you were dreaming of him—no, feeling him.

“Mmh… Bucky—please… inside me… deeper—oh god… please—”

Your voice cracked on the last word, a sharp gasp like you were right on the edge.

You could’ve died.

“Jesus,” Ava had laughed, not unkind. “Want me to send it to him? Y’know, for motivation?”

You didn’t answer fast enough. She already hit send.

—

He didn’t laugh.

He didn’t even text back. Just disappeared for a few hours.

Locked himself in the bathroom of the Bogotá safehouse, palms braced on the sink, sweat dripping from his temple to his jaw. The floor was cold. His cock throbbed painfully in the tight grip of his tactical jeans, already slick with precum from the sound of your voice in his ear—played over and over again like a goddamn drug.

He groaned low, forehead resting against the mirror as he finally undid his fly—reached in and freed himself with a hissed curse.

Hard. Angry. Red at the tip and twitching. His hand flexed uselessly beside him, trembling from restraint.

He closed his eyes and whispered, “Fuck, baby… what are you doing to me…”

But he didn’t stroke.

Didn’t move.

Didn’t dare.

Not without your hands.

Not without your thighs tight around his hips.

Not without your voice whispering that he could let go.

So he tucked himself away again—biting down hard on the side of his fist until it bruised, his pulse roaring like a storm.

Later, when the signal held again, he finally texted:

This was supposed to help.

All these videos. These fucking pictures.

It’s making everything worse, doll.

I need you so bad, I swear I’m gonna lose my mind.

—

He stopped sleeping properly.

The circles under his eyes were darker now, sharp enough to draw questions if anyone had the nerve. His mouth was constantly pressed into a tight, agitated line. The usual post-mission calm he carried—that calculated, steady presence of command—was cracking.

Every time he sat down to write up route plans, his hands twitched. His left hand—the metal one—wouldn’t stop flexing. Clenching. Releasing. Like he was trying to ground himself in anything that wasn’t your voice moaning his name.

The last time he tried to issue orders midbriefing, he nearly snapped a comm tablet in half.

“Safehouse Delta’s too close to the highway,” he muttered, pinching the bridge of his nose. “We’ll reroute south. Four klicks. We’ll—”

He trailed off.

Everyone stared at the map table, then at Bucky—who was clearly no longer looking at anything but the wall. Or rather, through it.

His jaw clenched again. He tried to redirect.

“We’ll send Bob first to—”

But Bob was already looking sideways at him.

“You gonna pass out?”

“No.”

“You look like your brain’s buffering.”

“I said I’m fine.”

But his voice had cracked. Just slightly.

Yelena leaned back in her seat with a dramatic sigh, chewing on the end of a protein bar like this was better than Netflix.

“Alright,” she announced loudly, “I’m just gonna say what everyone else is thinking.”

Bucky didn’t even turn his head.

She kept going.

“You’re clearly about three days from spontaneously combusting from blue balls. You’ve been staring at walls, misreading maps, and grinding your teeth like it’s a fetish. Which—respectfully—gross.”

Alexei smothered a laugh. Bob coughed loudly into his fist.

“You need to jerk off or jump off a building,” Yelena finished, deadpan. “Pick one.”

Bucky finally looked up.

His eyes were bloodshot. His voice was tight when he replied.

“I’m not jerking off.”

That shut them up.

Yelena blinked. “…Okay. That’s not where I thought that was going.”

“I’m saving it. All of it.” His hand twitched again. “She deserves every goddamn second of it.”

A pause. The silence stretched—not awkward, just charged.

Even Alexei nodded solemnly, as if that was the only acceptable answer.

Yelena rolled her eyes but muttered, “Romantic. Disgusting. Continue suffering, I guess.”

—

Later that night, Bucky paced the rooftop alone. Fingers twitching. Breath uneven.

He pulled up your last photo again.

Your hand between your thighs. Lips parted. That little text below it:

I’d spread for you right here on this cot if you were with me.

He groaned into his palm.

Pressed the heel of his hand against the painful bulge in his pants.

Didn’t move. Didn’t stroke. Just gritted his teeth and endured.

“You better be ready for what I’m gonna do to you,” he muttered into the dark.

—

It was just after 7:00PM when the jet touched down.

The sky above the Watchtower was bruised in golds and fading gray, clouds curling low like dusk had rolled in too early. Your shoulders ached. Muscles stiff from too many hours strapped in gear, too many days sleeping with one eye open.

Your boots hit the floor with more weight than usual—the kind that didn’t come from exhaustion alone. It was something else. Something thick in your chest, pressing behind your ribs.

Inside the compound, it was unusually quiet.

Operatives passed by in pairs. Brief nods. No chatter.

Ava veered off toward medical, threw a wink over her shoulder, and mouthed, “Go get your man.”

You didn’t smile. Not yet.

Not until your fingers brushed the key panel of your shared room, and the door clicked open beneath your touch.

Something shifted the moment you stepped inside.

The air smelled like candle wax, clean linens, and something warmer underneath—musk and sandalwood, with a trace of vanilla. The room glowed gold in low light. Flickering candles burned on the desk, by the bed, and one small one beside the bathroom mirror.

It was quiet. But not empty.

He was there.

And the second he saw you, his face lit up.

“Hey,” Bucky breathed, already halfway to his feet. His voice was low but clear, as if speaking pulled breath right back into his lungs. “You’re home.”

That ache—the one locked in your chest—snapped clean open.

You dropped your duffel just as he reached you, arms wrapping tight around your waist, your cheek pressed against his collarbone. He smelled like soap and steel and something distinctly him—warm skin, freshly showered, a hint of cologne that clung to his shirt.

He didn’t devour you. Didn’t grope, didn’t rush.

He just held you.

One arm around your back, the other cradling the back of your head. His lips brushed the top of your hair.

You clung back like it might hold you together.

His hand ran slowly down your spine. You could feel the control in it—the way his chest rose hard against yours, like he was barely keeping the rest of him contained.

“I changed the sheets,” he murmured softly. “Lit a few candles. Put your shampoo out. Thought maybe you’d want a hot shower first.”

Your heart cracked, melted, rebuilt itself.

You nodded against him, cheek brushing the curve of his neck.

“You remembered.”

“Of course I did.” His smile touched his voice, even as his hand lingered low on your back. “You always say you wanna feel clean before we get dirty.”

That earned a small laugh from you—quiet, but real.

He pulled back just enough to look at you, cupping your cheek in one hand. His thumb brushed gently beneath your eye, like he was checking you for damage.

“I missed you,” he said. “Like breathing stopped.”

You kissed him, soft and slow—lips barely parting, just enough to feel the warmth of him beneath the quiet.

“Missed you more.”

He didn’t rush you when you stepped out of your gear. Just watched with quiet reverence, helping peel the layers off your shoulders and arms. He kissed your shoulder once—right over the old bruise he left weeks ago—and whispered:

“I’ve been thinking about this moment for 36 days. But I’m not rushing it. Not until you’re ready.”

Then he took your hand, kissed the inside of your wrist, and nodded toward the bathroom.

“Go on. I’ll be right here.”

—

You hadn’t even closed the door behind you.

The steam was already thick, curling from the shower where hot water slammed against tile. You peeled your clothes off slowly, shaking the last of the travel dust from your skin, limbs heavy from the mission—but your chest felt lighter. He was here. You were home.

You stepped into the spray and let it hit you.

Heat flooded your shoulders. Rolled down your spine.

The ache you’d ignored for weeks cracked wide open across your bones.

You arched slightly under the pressure of the water, fingers dragging slowly down your stomach. Your thighs pressed together at the memory of his voice—his lips on your neck, his hands gripping your hips like they belonged there.

You knelt briefly to grab a bottle you knocked over. Bent forward. Stretched.

And then—

“Mmh…”

Just a sound. A breath.

But it came from somewhere deep—unconscious, raw, and aching. It slipped from your throat like his name was caught beneath it.

The floor creaked.

You turned, startled—and everything inside you tightened.

He was there.

Bucky Barnes. Standing in the doorway of the bathroom like something ancient and carved from firelight. His chest rose fast, hard, like he’d sprinted across the room. Hair damp with sweat, not water. Shoulders tight. Fists clenched at his sides.

And he was naked.

Completely.

You hadn’t even heard him undress. But there he stood—broad, solid, his cock achingly hard and already slick with precum, flushed dark and twitching with every strained breath he took.

His eyes drank you in.

Steam wrapped around his body, clinging to every line of him. You watched his jaw twitch, chest heave. His cock twitched again—another thick drop of precum beading at the tip.

“Baby…”

His voice cracked. A breath. A prayer. Hoarse and wrecked.

“Please…”

“Please stop torturing me.”

But he didn’t move. Not yet.

Like he was waiting for your permission—even now, even while unraveling at the seams.

You reached for him.

One hand. Simple. Open. You pressed your palm to the center of his chest—felt the hammering heartbeat beneath it, the way his breath hitched.

He whimpered.

The sound broke from his lips like it had been fighting its way out for days. He stepped forward, cupped your waist, then your jaw, thumb trembling against your cheek.

“You’re real,” he whispered. “Fuck—you’re here.”

You smiled softly. Nodded.

He stepped into the shower with you—no hesitation this time.

The water soaked him instantly, but he didn’t care. He was already soaked in you. The scent. The need.

His hands were everywhere. One warm, the other metal, both reverent. They dragged up your spine, gripped your hips, held your face like it was holy.

“Missed you,” he rasped between frantic kisses.

“Missed your mouth. Your voice. Your thighs. The way you sound when I’m inside you—fuck, baby, I’ve been dying.”

Your back hit the tile with a dull thud. His body pressed into yours, all solid heat and desperation.

His cock bumped against your stomach—hot, heavy, leaking.

He gasped. “Touch me… please, just—let me feel you.”

You did more than touch.

Your hand curled around the base of him, felt him throb in your palm. He swore low against your neck, forehead pressing to yours as his hands skimmed lower, between your thighs.

“Jesus, sweetheart—”

His fingers slid through the slick between your legs.

“You’re soaked…”

He groaned. Slid two fingers inside you.

You gasped, walls clenching hard around the intrusion.

“Fuck,” he hissed. “Tight… tighter than I remember. You really waited for me?”

You bit his jaw. “I didn’t even let myself finish, Bucky. You ruined me.”

That was all it took.

He gripped your thighs, lifted you off the ground like you weighed nothing, and pinned you to the shower wall. You wrapped your legs around his waist, arms around his neck.

“Hold on to me,” he breathed. “That’s it… Good girl.”

He lined himself up. Slick head pressed against your entrance. And then—

He sank in.

One thrust. Deep. Full.

You both cried out—voices echoing in the tile and steam.

The stretch. The heat. The sudden, perfect fullness.

He fucked into you with short, desperate thrusts—buried all the way, hips snapping with precision. You met him every time, nails clawing his back, gasping against his mouth.

Your orgasm ripped through you without warning—sharp, wet, loud.

“James, I—I’m coming!”

“I’ve got you. Let go. Soak me, baby.”

You did. You clenched so hard around him he almost collapsed.

He followed seconds after—buried deep, groaning your name as he came hard inside you, hips jerking, forehead pressed to your shoulder. His body trembled with the force of it. He held you there, still wrapped around him, his cock twitching inside your pulsing heat.

“You’re mine,” he whispered. “Not letting you out of this room for days.”

You kissed him through the fog, smiling against his lips.

“Good. I’m not going anywhere.”

—

Your legs were still shaking when he carried you out of the bathroom.

No towel. No words. Just the heat of his arms around you, the steady thump of his heart against your ribs, and the way the air between you still crackled like static. You smelled like him. He smelled like you. It wasn’t over. It had only begun.

He laid you on the bed like something sacred.

Candles glowed around the room, casting golden halos over damp sheets and flushed skin. The maroon lace slip sat untouched where he’d left it—delicate, sheer, wicked.

You reached for it with trembling fingers.

But Bucky caught your wrist gently. “Let me,” he said.

His voice was lower now. Hoarse. Reverent.

He lifted the slip over your head slowly, letting the lace fall like a whisper down your body. It hugged your hips, clung to your breasts just enough to tease—translucent and sinful. His lips brushed your spine as he adjusted the straps, hands shaking.

“I thought about this every night,” he murmured, lips brushing your shoulder.

“Fantasized about it. About you, straddling me in this. Had to lie there with my fists clenched, cock aching, just—breathing through it. Didn’t touch myself. Not once.”

His voice cracked. “Didn’t want to waste a single drop that wasn’t for you.”

You whimpered.

He hovered above you now—fully naked, flushed, his cock already hard again. Veined and glistening, twitching with the pulse of how badly he needed to be inside you.

But he didn’t rush.

Didn’t even move until you cupped his jaw and pulled him down into a kiss.

Mouths met softly, then harder.

Tongues sliding slow.

His body sinking into yours, heat to heat, heartbeat to heartbeat.

You grabbed the back of his neck and whispered against his lips, “Come here. Let me ruin you.”

He groaned, deep in his throat, and you flipped him onto his back, straddling his hips with shaking thighs. The lace slip rode up your thighs, leaving nothing in the way when his cock pressed hot and heavy against your dripping heat.

“Fuck, baby,” he gasped. “You’re soaked through.”

You leaned down, your breasts brushing his chest, and ground your hips against his length. “You did this,” you whispered. “With every text. Every picture. Every breath.”

He was gone. Let you take full control.

You gathered the hem of the lace slip, just enough to bare yourself to him, and guided him in—sinking down slowly, inch by agonizing inch, until he was buried to the hilt.

Both of you moaned, raw and open, mouths slack with need.

“Jesus Christ,” he groaned, head thrown back, fists clenched in the sheets.

“Still so tight, baby. Still fucking perfect.”

You started to move—slow at first, grinding your hips in deep, lazy circles that dragged the tip of his cock right against your most sensitive spot. His hands clamped hard on your thighs, trying to keep his control, but you didn’t make it easy.

“You gonna come again just from riding me?” he asked, breathless.

You nodded. “Already close.”

He groaned, slipping one hand between your bodies to rub firm, precise circles over your clit.

“There you go… let me feel you. Let go for me.”

And you did.

Your second orgasm hit like a goddamn wave—crashing through your spine, stealing your breath, squeezing around his cock so tight he choked on a moan.

He didn’t last much longer.

You kept grinding, whispering filth into his ear—how full he made you feel, how wrecked you were for him, how you still weren’t done.

That tipped him.

He came hard with a strangled moan, cock pulsing deep inside you, hips jerking as he flooded you for the second time. His arms locked around your waist as he gasped into the crook of your neck, trembling from the force of it.

You stayed like that, slumped against his chest, bodies stuck together with sweat and slick and heat.

“You alright?” he asked, voice scratchy.

“I’m feral,” you whispered back. “And I’m not finished.”

He chuckled, still panting. “Good. ‘Cause I’m not tapping out anytime soon.”

—

Later.

The wine sat untouched on the desk.

The lace slip lay discarded in a crumpled pile on the floor.

The candles had burned halfway down, wax pooling thick at the base.

And you?

You were flushed. Sweaty. Trembling.

Knees sinking into the mattress as you straddled his thighs once more, this time with your back to him—hips hovering, your whole body tingling.

He leaned against the headboard, sweat shining on his chest, watching you like a man possessed.

“You sure?” he rasped, voice ragged and frayed.

You didn’t answer.

You just reached back, gripped his cock at the base, and lowered yourself onto him slowly—inch by inch until he was buried to the hilt inside you.

Both of you moaned. Loud.

Deep.

Almost pained.

Your hands braced against his shins behind you for leverage, thighs spread wide as you rode him hard—your ass slapping against his hips, slick and flushed with every bounce.

“Oh, fuck—”

His hands gripped your waist like he was anchoring himself.

“Jesus, sweetheart—you’re still so fuckin’ tight…”

You started to move—slow, heavy grinds, rolling your hips like you needed every inch of him rooted inside you. Bucky gasped behind you, his hands traveling from your hips to your thighs to your breasts, groping, squeezing, completely feral.

“You ride me like it’s the only thing keeping you alive,” he growled.

“Look at that ass—fuck, I can see it bounce every time you fucking slam down.”

You moaned—head tilted back, chest rising and falling—sweat glistening between your breasts.

And then—his fingers slid between your thighs from behind. Two of them, circling your clit with ruthless precision.

“I wanna feel you come again, baby. Let me feel you fucking gush on my cock.”

Your thighs trembled. Muscles locked. Your core started to spasm.

“Bucky, I—I think I—fuck, I’m gonna—”

“Do it. Come on, baby. You’re dripping, you’re so fucking close—let it happen.”

You broke with a cry.

Legs shaking. Hands digging into his thighs.

Your pussy clamped down hard, and then it hit—

You squirted.

Hard.

Hot wetness sprayed between your thighs, down over his cock, soaking the sheets. Bucky let out a strangled moan, clutching your waist like he was going to lose his mind.

“Goddamn—fuck, look at you. You’re gonna make a fucking mess, aren’t you, baby?”

He didn’t stop.

He snapped his hips up into you, relentless now—grinding deep as your soaked cunt fluttered around him, so overstimulated your vision blurred.

“Still want more?” he panted, thrusting up again, angling perfectly.

“I can feel how much you need it. So greedy for me—so fucking full of my cum, and still not satisfied.”

You couldn’t answer. You just moaned, nodding wildly, nails dragging down his thighs, thighs shaking uncontrollably.

“That’s it,” he whispered, his breath hot on your shoulder as he leaned forward, one hand now wrapped tight around your throat.

“You gonna come for me again? Gonna make a mess on my cock one more time?”

“Yes—James, please—”

And you did.

A second wave slammed into you.

You screamed, back arching, body locking as you squirted again—wetter this time, gushing down over his balls, onto the sheets, soaking everything beneath you.

Bucky lost it.

“Shitshitshit— I’m coming—fuck, baby—I’m—”

He grunted, jerking up into you with three final brutal thrusts as his cock pulsed deep inside you, filling you again, so hot you felt it flood your walls.

You collapsed forward onto the mattress, his arms catching you just before you slumped completely. He held you tight from behind, your body still twitching, both of you covered in sweat, slick, and release.

“Holy fuck,” he breathed, voice dazed, completely gone.

“You just… soaked me, baby.”

You half-laughed, half-whimpered. “I couldn’t help it. You broke me.”

“Good,” he growled, kissing your neck. “You can break me next.”

—

You should’ve been done.

You should’ve been shaking, satisfied, breathless from three rounds and nothing left to give.

But you weren’t.

The ache still lived in your bones.

The emptiness still throbbed between your legs.

And when Bucky’s lips brushed your temple—slow, tender, trembling—you felt it in him too.

He needed more.

You both did.

The sheets beneath you were damp. Your thighs were slick. Your chest rose with every sharp breath, nipples flushed and sensitive, body still twitching from your last orgasm. And still… the hunger hadn’t dulled.

“You okay?” he whispered against your throat.

“No,” you rasped, voice cracking.

“I need you again. Right fucking now.”

Bucky exhaled a shaky breath. His cock twitched against your thigh—already stiffening again.

“Jesus, doll… you’re insatiable.”

He kissed your jaw. “You’re gonna be the death of me.”

Then he shifted—slow but deliberate—and suddenly, your wrists were gathered above your head. You gasped at the motion, but his grip was careful, tender. He reached for the discarded shirt at the foot of the bed and looped it around your wrists—soft, warm, not tight.

“Just wanna keep you here,” he murmured, kissing your palms one at a time.

“Let me take care of you.”

Your stomach fluttered. Your thighs clenched.

And when he dropped between your legs, your breath hitched so hard your back arched off the bed.

“James—”

“Shhh,” he purred, brushing his stubble along the inside of your thigh.

“Gonna keep you right here, sweetheart. Gonna make you come until your body forgets what rest feels like.”

His tongue dragged through your folds—slow, warm, filthy.

The first flick over your clit sent your hips off the bed—but he was already holding you down, fingers firm, spreading you open like he was fucking home.

“You’re so fucking wet,” he growled into your cunt, voice rough with disbelief.

“Jesus, baby, you taste like both of us… fuck. You’re perfect.”

He devoured you.

Long, slow licks that lapped up his own cum still leaking from you. Wet, obscene noises filled the room—every slurp, every moan against your pussy like it was the only thing that ever mattered.

You whined. Cried out. Legs trembling.

His mouth worked faster, tongue flicking your clit with maddening precision—soft then hard, gentle then firm, always changing, always knowing exactly how to ruin you.

“Bucky—fuck—baby I—”

Your voice broke.

Your hips bucked.

You were so close again, already, already—

He pulled back.

“Not yet,” he rasped, lips wet and eyes dark.

“Not until you beg for it.”

You sobbed—from the overstimulation, from the ache, from how badly you needed to fall apart.

“Please—please, baby, I can’t—just let me—let me come, please—!”

That broke him.

He groaned, deep and guttural, and latched onto your clit with his mouth wide and relentless—tongue flat, dragging fast and rough, his fingers digging bruises into your thighs.

You exploded.

A scream ripped from your throat as your orgasm hit like a strike of lightning—your whole body shook, fists clenched, toes curled, thighs trembling. You gasped so hard your ribs ached. The headboard thudded behind you.

“Good girl,” he murmured, voice soaked in reverence.

“One more, baby. Just one more for me.”

You didn’t even get to respond.

Didn’t even breathe.

Because his tongue never stopped.

He kept sucking—soft at first, then harder—until another wave curled sharp behind your ribs. You sobbed his name, pulled at the binds, tried to run but couldn’t move.

You came again.

Harder.

Legs seizing, slick gushing between your thighs, soaking his face, your body curling from the sheer force of it.

He kissed your trembling thighs through the aftershocks.

Pressed his forehead to your belly.

“You okay?” he whispered.

“I don’t even know where I am,” you panted.

“And I think I like it.”

—

Later—

Maybe thirty minutes.

Maybe five.

Time had stopped meaning anything.

It warped, curled, bled together beneath the hum of overstimulation and breathless ache.

You lay curled on your side, one leg bent, sheets tangled around your calves. Sweat cooled on your skin in sticky rivulets. Your breathing had started to even out, but your body still pulsed from the inside—too full, too stretched, too tender to be still.

And then—

The mattress dipped behind you.

You felt his warmth before you felt his hands.

He slid in close—chest to your back, thighs pressed to yours, breath curling against your neck.

His lips brushed your shoulder.

“Still want me?” he asked, voice soft as fog.

You answered with a sigh. Reached back without looking, your palm wrapping around the hard length of him, thick and hot and already twitching against your fingers.

“Always.”

You rocked your hips back, slotting yourself perfectly into him.

He kissed your spine.

Tucked his face into the crook of your neck, and whispered like a man undone.

“I’ll never stop wanting you.”

One hand lifted your top leg, just slightly—fingers gliding over your thigh. His other arm wrapped low around your waist. You felt the weight of him, the warm press of his tip teasing at your entrance—slow, so fucking slow—until he finally pushed inside.

“Jesus Christ,” he gasped, as if the heat of you had burned him.

“You’re still tight. Still fluttering around me.”

You whimpered.

He thrust deep.

Steady. Gentle.

Every movement an unspoken prayer.

No rhythm. No pace. Just a rolling, molten motion—his cock dragging deep and slow, slick with everything you’d already shared, stroking right against the spot that still trembled.

“I could live here,” he breathed. “I want to live here.”

Your hand gripped his forearm where it wrapped across your middle. He pulled you back against him with every gentle thrust, grounding you in the heat of his body, his breath stuttering where it ghosted along your neck.

“You’re so good to me,” he murmured. “So fucking good.”

“Still feels like a dream,” you whispered.

“Then don’t wake up. Just… stay right here. Let me have you like this.”

Your eyes fluttered shut. Tears stung, soft and sudden. It wasn’t pain—it was too much pleasure. Too much love. The way he moved inside you like your body was a temple. Like every inch of you was his.

“Tell me you’re mine again,” he whispered, voice breaking.

You choked on a moan.

“I’m yours, James. Always.”

You came first—slow and quiet. A gentle quake that rippled from your core outward, your body trembling against him as your inner walls clamped down tight. You gasped softly, a sob in your throat, your hands fisting in the sheets.

“That’s it,” he murmured, kissing your shoulder.

“Let go, doll. Let me feel you.”

He wasn’t far behind.

He buried himself deep, groaning low into your hair, his whole body taut as his release surged inside you again—slow and warm, his cock pulsing deep as he held still, hips locked to yours.

You lay there, body slack and soft, his cock still inside you.

He didn’t move. Didn’t pull away.

His fingers traced lazy shapes on your belly, his lips pressing soft, almost absent kisses to your damp shoulder, your neck, your cheekbone.

“You okay?” he asked eventually, voice quiet.

You nodded.

“I think I’m in love with you again.”

He smiled against your skin. “Good. I never stopped.”

—

Your body was trembling again.

Not with the sharp, writhing spasms of climax—but the deeper, low-grade tremor of exhaustion.

The kind that came after too many orgasms and too little rest.

Muscles fluttering, breath short, limbs weak. You felt boneless and heavy, like your body had melted halfway into the mattress.

And yet—

Your core still throbbed.

Your nipples still ached.

Your cunt still ached for him.

He noticed. Of course he did.

Bucky sat back on his heels beside you, eyes trailing over your form with something like worship—something like worry.

His hand reached out slowly. Brushed your sweat-slicked hair off your forehead. Pressed a soft kiss there.

“Hey,” he murmured, voice gentling. “You with me, sweetheart?”

You nodded once, eyes glassy. Your throat was too dry to speak right away.

“Breathe for me. C’mon.”

His thumb stroked your cheek.

“You look wrecked.”

“I am…”

Your voice came out hoarse.

“I’m so tired.”

That broke his heart a little—you could see it in the way his brows creased. His jaw clenched like he was trying to talk himself down from his own feral hunger.

“Then let’s stop, okay?” he offered softly. “Let me clean you up, hold you for a bit. You need rest.”

But your hand was already moving.

Shaky, slow—but determined.

You reached between his legs and wrapped your fingers around the base of his cock.

Still hard.

Still thick and flushed and leaking at the tip like he’d never finished.

His breath caught.

“Baby—”

“Don’t stop,” you whispered, tears suddenly springing to your lashes.

“Please, don’t stop. I need you.”

He looked stricken.

“I don’t wanna hurt you,” he murmured. “I don’t wanna take too much.”

“Then be gentle,” you gasped, stroking him slowly.

“But don’t pull away. I need more. I want you again. I want you.”

His restraint cracked like glass.

With a low, ragged sound, Bucky leaned down to kiss you—soft, shaky, like a prayer being answered. He whispered against your lips.

“Tell me when to stop, baby. Or I won’t.”

You nodded.

Wrapped your arms around his neck.

Pulled him into you.

He guided your legs open with reverent hands—watching your face the entire time, watching for any flinch or hesitation. You were sensitive. Sore. Spent.

But not done.

“I love you,” he said quietly, kissing the inside of your thigh.

“So much it hurts.”

You barely had breath left to answer.

“Then have me,” you whispered. “Take what’s already yours.”

His cock slid into you slow—so slow—inch by inch, the stretch deep and aching, but your body welcomed him like he’d never left.

He moaned into your throat.

“Fuck, baby… still so tight. I can feel your pulse around me.”

He moved gently. Just the slow grind of his hips, the full drag of his cock over soaked, sensitive walls. His hand slid under your back, pulling you flush to his chest.

“You tell me when to stop. You hear me?”

“Don’t stop,” you whimpered. “Just keep giving me all of you.”

And so he did.

With every thrust, he kissed you. With every shift of his hips, he whispered your name. His fingers stroked your side, your hip, your waist—every inch of skin he could reach. You shook beneath him, moaning soft and high each time he bottomed out.

“You’re incredible,” he rasped. “You’re still taking me like it’s the first time. My perfect girl.”

Your orgasm crept in like fog, soft and wet and overwhelming.

You came with a shuddered cry, barely able to hold him, but your body squeezed around him tight—fluttering, spasming, claiming him all over again.

“That's my girl,” he whispered, voice shaking. “So fucking good for me.”

And then he followed—hips stuttering, forehead pressed to yours as he groaned your name like a benediction. His cock throbbed deep inside, spilling more warmth into the mess already flooding between your legs.

He collapsed next to you, immediately pulling you into his arms. Your body was trembling. His thumb stroked your cheek.

“No more unless you ask,” he murmured against your hair.

“I’ll only give you what you want.”

—

The sky was beginning to lighten.

A dusky indigo bled into grey, softening the skyline behind the Watchtower’s windows. But inside the room, time was a blur of candlelight, heat, and the thick, dizzying scent of sweat and sex.

You couldn’t remember the last time you’d fully caught your breath.

Your whole body felt glass-thin. Shivering. Sensitive. The sheets clung to your skin with sweat, and your legs barely worked. But the ache was still there. Nestled low. Pulsing. It didn’t fade.

Bucky’s palm slid over your thigh—soft, slow, as if testing your response.

His voice came a moment later, raspy and hesitant. “Sweetheart… we can stop. You need rest. I can wait.”

But you turned to him, eyes half-lidded, lips parted. Your fingers found his, laced through them.

“I want more,” you whispered. “Please… take me there.”

He exhaled like you’d just saved his life.

Guiding you gently toward the windows—your legs shaky, but moving—he kissed your shoulder and whispered, “I’ll be gentle. Just let me see you.”

The whole room swam around you, golden in candlelight and glimmering sweat.

The skyline stretched before you. Towering buildings, distant lights. No eyes. Just your reflection—flushed, ruined, hair damp and tangled across your shoulders.

“Fuck,” Bucky exhaled when he saw you.

“Look at yourself, baby. Look what I’ve done to you.”

You braced your palms against the cool glass, breasts pressing to it as your body arched. The contrast of heat and chill made you gasp. Bucky moved in behind you, spreading your thighs with his knee. One hand on your hip. The other wrapped around his cock, dragging the head through your soaked folds.

“Still dripping,” he muttered. “Even now. Jesus, you never stop, do you?”

“I need it,” you whispered. “Still need you.”

He didn’t make you wait.

Not this time.

He slid into you with one deep, brutal thrust—your bodies colliding with a smack so loud it echoed off the glass. Your moan fogged the window instantly, your hands flattening harder against it.

“Bucky—fuck—”

He set a hard rhythm, pulling your hips back to meet every thrust, the wet sound of your bodies filling the room. You could barely stand, legs shaking, forehead pressed to the glass.

“That’s it. Just like that,” he groaned. “So fucking perfect like this. My girl. My pussy.”

His hand slid around your throat—not squeezing, just holding, grounding. His mouth hovered by your ear.

“You were made for me,” he said. “Fucking built for this.”

“Harder,” you begged. “Please—please don’t stop.”

“Look at your reflection,” he rasped. “Look how good you look. Look how you’re taking me.”

You opened your eyes—and the sight of yourself, cock-stuffed, sweat-slick, wild-eyed, flushed and wrecked against the window, nearly sent you over the edge.

He thrust harder. Faster. Your thighs trembled violently.

“Gonna come,” you sobbed. “Can’t—Bucky—I can’t hold it—”

“Then don’t,” he growled. “Come for me, baby. Come with the whole fucking city watching.”

You shattered.

Legs giving out.

A scream ripped from your throat as your orgasm slammed through you like lightning. Your vision blurred. Your body buckled. Bucky caught you before you hit the ground—arm locking around your waist as he kept moving, groaning into your neck.

“Fuck—fuck—gonna fill you again—”

His hips snapped hard, once, twice—and then he came with a guttural sound, spilling inside you with a heat that pushed out around the edges. His head dropped to your shoulder, body shuddering as he emptied himself again.

You stood there for a long time—pressed to the glass, panting, twitching. Your hands limp against the windowpane. Bucky held you like you were breakable.

“You okay?” he whispered.

You nodded faintly.

“Good. ‘Cause we’re not done.”

—

The sun was climbing now.

Pale gold spilled across the Watchtower skyline, casting long streaks of light onto the floor like it was forgiving the sins you were still committing.

Your whole body ached—but not in the way that begged for rest.

It was a deep, needy pulse. Faint, but still there. A hunger that wouldn’t let go.

You stumbled barefoot into the kitchenette, still bare, still slick between your thighs, wearing nothing but Bucky’s hickeys. Your hair was tangled. Your lips were swollen. Your legs trembled with every step.

Your hand landed on a protein bar. You peeled it open with shaking fingers and leaned on the counter for support.

“You better be looking for food,” you said over your shoulder, breathless and hoarse.

You heard the footsteps.

But they didn’t head for the fridge.

Bucky’s body pressed into you from behind—solid, burning hot, and still hard. He slid one arm around your waist, the other reaching up to gently move your hair aside so he could press a kiss to your neck.

“I am hungry,” he rasped, his voice low and feral.

“Just not for that.”

“Bucky,” you groaned, half-laughing, half-destroyed. “I can’t even feel my legs—”

“Good,” he whispered. “You don’t need ‘em.”

Before you could blink, he bent you over the kitchen island.

Your palms slapped down on the cold countertop, and you gasped as your bare nipples brushed the smooth marble.

You didn’t even get the chance to speak.

He lined himself up and pushed in fast—no prep, no warning, just the slick glide of his cock stretching you open again, sliding back into your wrecked body like it was home.

“Fuck, Bucky—!”

“Still so wet,” he growled behind you.

“Still squeezing me like you want more.”

His hands slid to your hips, gripping tight, pulling you back against him with every hard thrust.

This wasn’t slow.

This wasn’t tender.

It was filthy, frantic, barely-in-control fucking. Not because he didn’t care—but because he still needed you that badly.

The sound of skin slapping echoed in the tiny space. The sticky squelch of your soaked cunt taking him again and again filled the air. Your moans bounced off stainless steel and tiled walls.

You dropped your head onto your forearm.

“We… already did this—eight times,” you whimpered.

“I know,” he growled, fucking into you deeper.

“And you’re still fuckin’ perfect. Still taking it all.”

“You’re gonna kill me—”

“Then what a fucking way to go, sweetheart.”

He slid a hand around your front, fingers seeking out your clit, stroking with maddening precision. The way he touched you was still worshipful—even in this chaos.

Your whole body clenched.

“You want one more?” he asked, voice thick, rough, hungry.

“You got one more in you for me, doll?”

“Yes—yes—please—just one more—!”

You came hard. Your scream was ragged, echoing through the kitchen, and your knees nearly gave out from the force of it. The overstimulation blurred your vision with white-hot static, but your body still took every inch of him.

Bucky groaned deep and low, hips jerking as he spilled inside you one last time—his cock pulsing, his chest pressed to your back as he moaned your name like a blessing.

He didn’t sag against you. Didn’t drop.

He stayed upright, body still buzzing, cock still twitching inside you. You could feel him—full, ready again. You were the one shaking. Not him.

“Jesus Christ,” you whispered. “You’re still hard.”

“Told you,” he murmured, breath warm against your ear.

“I could do this for days.”

“James…”

He slid his arms around your waist from behind and pulled you upright, holding you there with his cock still buried deep.

“I’ll stop if you need me to,” he whispered.

“Just say the word.”

You leaned your head back against his shoulder, heart thudding weakly.

“…I think my soul already came twice.”

Bucky laughed softly. Kissed the crown of your head.

“Rest, baby. I’ll still be here when you wake up. Hard as a fucking rock.”

—

You didn’t know what time it was when you finally woke.

Only that the light outside was warmer. Honey-gold, slipping through the windows in slow streaks. The world felt distant. Blurry. But the weight behind you wasn’t.

Bucky’s arm was still around your waist, his chest pressed along your back. Warm. Steady. His breath ghosted over the back of your neck in a soft, familiar rhythm.

Your body ached in the best ways—sore thighs, puffy lips, bruised hips—but it was the ache in your chest that hummed the loudest.

You blinked. Shifted slowly.

He stirred.

“Hey,” he murmured, voice still sleep-rough.

“You okay?”

You turned to face him—carefully, slowly—and found his eyes already open, watching you.

“Mhm. Everything hurts,” you whispered. “In a good way.”

Bucky smiled. Just a little. One of those soft, private smiles he saved for no one but you.

“Told you I’d wreck you.”

“You did. Multiple times.”

He chuckled, then leaned forward to kiss you.

No tongue. No hunger. Just warmth. Lips brushing yours with slow reverence, like he was re-learning your taste now that the storm had passed.

You melted into it.

Pressed your forehead to his.

His fingers traced lazy lines across your spine, slow and aimless.

“Missed this,” he whispered. “Missed you.”

You whispered it back. Quiet. Honest.

Then let the silence settle over you both for a while—safe, sacred, slow.

Eventually, after a second nap and a shower where no one tried to fuck anyone against the tiles (God bless you), you both managed to drag yourselves into clothes and make your way toward the common area.

Bucky wore a black tee and gray sweatpants that left absolutely nothing to the imagination. You were in a loose hoodie and biker shorts—though judging by the soreness between your thighs, sitting might be a challenge.

His arm was around your waist the whole walk.

Your legs still wobbled slightly, and he adjusted his pace to match yours. Not a word about it. Just his warm palm pressing steady against your hipbone like a grounding wire.

—

The squad was already gathered around the Watchtower’s long dining table.

It was pasta night.

Yelena sat at the end, spooning pesto onto her plate with war-like intensity. Ava nursed a glass of wine. Bob looked half-asleep. Alexei was double-fisting garlic bread.

John Walker looked up the moment you stepped into view.

“Oh look,” he said dryly. “It lives.”

You flipped him off without stopping.

“Someone got their back blown out,” Ava added sweetly, raising her glass.

“We heard everything,” Alexei boomed. “Whole floor shook.”

“I had to wear my noise-canceling headphones,” Bob mumbled, half amused, half scarred.

Yelena didn’t even look up from her plate.

“I placed eight rounds in the pool. I win. Pay up, losers.”

You covered your face with your hands.

Bucky didn’t blink.

Just leaned in close, mouth brushing your ear, voice low and smug.

“We could’ve made it nine.”

You choked on your wine, burst out laughing, and slapped his chest as he grinned like the devil himself.

And when his hand slipped onto your thigh under the table—warm, firm, possessive—you didn’t move it.

You just smiled.

And yeah…

You weren’t done.

💜 @iamthatonefangirl @sonja-blayde

[marvelstoriesepic]

Weakness

Pairing: Avenger!Bucky x Avenger!Reader

Summary: You use Bucky’s only weakness to your advantage until it bites you in the ass.

Word Count: 7.2k

Warnings: feigning injuries; a sprained ankle; bruises; hiding injuries; combat fighting training; sparring sessions; mutual pining; Bucky being a doting sweetheart; Bucky being smug; Bucky being worried

Author’s Notes: This idea has been sitting in my drafts as a rough outline for months lol and I finally got the inspiration to make something out of it. I hope you will enjoy this! ♡

Masterlist

You love sparring with Bucky.

Maybe because you love the man.

But there is so much more to that, honestly.

You have basically sparred with anyone out of the team.

Steve is methodical. Always a teacher, always Captain. He calls out corrections in a way he does orders, his patience long-practiced. His strikes are accurate, economical, as if he calculates the exact amount of force necessary to bring you down and delivers it precisely, nothing wasted. But you always know he is holding back. He does not say it but you feel it in the way he controls every movement, never quite giving you the full weight of his strength. You learn from him, but there is always a ceiling to what he will allow you to take from the fight.

Natasha is sharp. She doesn’t coach you, doesn’t slow down, doesn’t hold back. She fights you like she fights anyone. You feel the sting of a bruise blooming before you even realize she struck you. And yet, when you get a hit in, when you shift fast enough to slip past her guard, her smirk is quicksilver - pleased, challenging, like she has just discovered something worth sinking her teeth into.

Wanda fights like she plays. Some days, she keeps her powers at bay, working only with what her body allows, light on her feet, swaying rather than striking. But she is not used to this. Not using her powers in a fight. So most of the time, she teases, powers tugging at your wrist mid-swing, a flicker of scarlett at the edge of your vision before she is suddenly behind you.

Sam is solid. He fights with his whole body, never wasting energy on anything that doesn’t serve his goal. He takes up space, keeps you on the defenses, his moves seamless. But he is generous too, throwing you a verbal lifeline mid-fight - “too slow, come on,” - challenging you in encouraging you. And when you get him down, he grins, bright and wide, like he wants you to win.

Clint fights like someone who doesn’t need to win, just needs to keep moving. He is slippery, dodging rather than blocking, grinning rather than growling. He makes a game of it, laughing at your frustration, forcing you to loosen up, to adapt, to try something unorthodox. He doesn’t spar to overpower. He spars to frustrate, to outlast, to make you think three steps ahead.

But Bucky.

Bucky watches you. Always. Even when he isn’t facing you directly, even when he’s standing in the shadows at the edge of the gym, you have his attention. It is something you have learned to steady yourself beneath. Because it never really seems to waver.

He is mindful. Of your form. Of your tells. Of how far he can push you. He does not go easy on you. Despite the obvious differences in height and weight and him being a super soldier. But he fights you like an opponent worth fighting. He fights you like himself. Precise. Controlled. Thoughtful. When he corrects you, it is not instruction, just a simple adjustment with the brush of his metal fingers nudging your wrist into a better angle, a small nod when you adapt.

And when you take him down - when you surprise him, when you shift your weight at the last moment and send him to the mat - there is that laugh breaking out. He is not stunned at the way you overpowered him. Not disbelieving. He merely laughs. A short burst of warmth, rare and genuine, something boyish in the way it escapes.

You live for that laugh.

Because Bucky knows your competence. He does not gift you victories because he knows you don’t need them in the first place. He expects you to win. He knows you can. And will. He does not say it outright, but you learned to read the subtle body language in the years of knowing him - the glimmer of something pleased in his eyes, the upturn at the corner of his mouth.

And when he helps you up - fingers gently curling around your wrist to pull you to your feet - he lingers just a little too long.

So yes, you love sparring with Bucky.

Basically, on the first day as an Avenger it was drilled into you that knowing your enemy is everything - know what you are up against, who you are fighting, how they move, what makes them weak.

You are good at this. At observing. You know how to study people, how to pick out patterns, how to find the smallest crack in an otherwise impenetrable wall and press until it splits wide open.

Still, Bucky Barnes is not an easy person to read.

But perhaps it was just a little too much fun figuring out what exactly his weaknesses are.

He doesn’t have many. His body is conditioned for war, his mind sharpened, his instincts too honed to give much away. If he has vulnerabilities, they are subtle. Nearly imperceptible to anyone who isn’t looking closely enough.

But you have been looking closely. For the better part of a year.

And then, about five months ago, something clicked.

Bucky Barnes does have a weakness.

A glaring one, in fact.

One so obvious you nearly laughed out loud when you finally pieced it together.

It’s you.

You are his weakness.

Bucky is a creature of routines.

The kind that keep him grounded in a world that still feels like shifting sand beneath his feet. And somehow, you have become part of them.

You don’t remember when it started, exactly. But you know that when you stumble into the kitchen in the morning, still half-asleep, Bucky is already there. Always. Sometimes with coffee already poured for you, sometimes just sitting at the counter like he’s lost, waiting like he’s been expecting something. You.

You tested it, once. You woke up later than usual, wanting to see if he still lingered. And sure enough, when you finally stepped into the kitchen, he was there, nursing a long-gone cup of coffee that was somehow still halfway filled, gaze fixed on the entryway even before you entered. Like he hadn’t been planning on leaving until he saw you. It’s when he loosened his grip on the poor mug. Flexing his fingers, as if he was close to shattering it.

Bucky is not a fan of crowded spaces.

He likes corners, walls at his back, exits in view. He keeps a respectable distance from most people, moving on silent feet, always aware of what’s around him.

Except when it comes to you.

You began to notice that in the common room. How he lets you sit closer than he does with anyone else, how he doesn’t shift away when his knee bumps his. How, when you walk side by side, he moves to make space for you without thinking. How he stops standing near the door when you are in a room, like some unconscious part of him doesn’t feel the need to watch his six when you are there.

And then there are the small things.

The way his arm comes up instinctively when you reach past him for something, like he is preparing to steady you or get it down for you if it is something you can’t reach. The way he steps in front of you if something startled him, body moving before anything else.

Little things. Automatic things.

And the most endearing part is, that he genuinely does not seem like he knows he is doing all that.

Bucky is strategic on missions.

He follows the plan without a hitch, keeps his cool and executes flawlessly.

Until you are in danger.

Then he gets frantic. He even tends to snap at Steve. He gets tighter, sharper, more lethal. It seems like instinct.

Just last month, you got cut along your thigh that you managed to patch up before the mission was even completely over. But Bucky was stoic and brooding. Frown on his face the whole time. He saw the blood, saw the way you had a limp in your step and something utterly cold settled in his eyes.

Sam later mentioned to you with a weird wiggle of his eyebrow that the man whose knife slashed you never had the chance to land another hit on anyone.

You started testing him in small ways. Seeing if he moves when you move. If he adjusts his strategy to keep you in his line of sight. If he listens to your voice above all others in a debriefing, even when Steve is talking.

And he does. Every time.

Bucky got mad at Clint once because he ate the last donut that was meant for you. Clint was genuinely terrified. He even went out to get you new ones.

Bucky picks up stuff from the common room he knows belong to you and takes it to your room.

Just yesterday, there was a book on your nightstand. One you had mentioned offhand in conversation weeks ago, something you said you wanted to read someday. And you know for a fact that Bucky got dragged into the city by Sam and Steve the day before.

After years as an Avenger, you learn to fool people.

You know how to smile when you need to, how to shake things off, how to deal with missions gone wrong or people unsaved.

But you can’t fool Bucky.

He just knows when something is off. He notices the way your voice shifts, the way your shoulders carry tension differently. You don’t have to say anything. He just knows.

And he never pushes. He lingers. He makes himself available. He sits beside you in silence when you don’t feel like talking. He glares at everyone who wants something unnecessary from you in times like those.

And then he would just go, come on, let’s go do something.

It is basically just watching a movie or cooking a dinner or baking cookies, but everything is more fun with him, and soon enough your smile touches your eyes again.

Bucky does not share.

He does not share his food. He does not share his belongings.

But he does with you.

When you are out and freezing, he shrugs off his jacket and tosses it over your shoulders without a word.

He lets you take fries off his plate and lets you drink from his cup, much to Sam’s surprise and disgruntlement.

Bucky does not talk about his nightmares.

Not to anyone.

But on certain nights, when sleep refuses to hold him and his mind is drowning in things long past but never gone, he finds you.

You were in the common room when it first started. Months ago. Nursing a mug of tea, when he wandered in, looking lost and exhausted.

With a single glance at him, you nodded to the couch, shifting over to make space, and he came sitting down without a word.

He let you talk. He even seemed to relish it. Intertwining his hands at his front and laying his head back against the backside of the couch, closing his eyes and listening to your mocked aggravation at the fact that Sam left a half-eaten sandwich on the counter again.

He stayed until the sun crept in through the windows, slight snoring making you smile.

It happened again. And then again.

After a while, you started recognizing the signs when his nightmares are getting worse again. The way he drifts into whatever room you are in and stays locked in his own when you are gone on a mission or out with the girls. How he leans against the doorway for a second longer than necessary before stepping inside, like he is debating whether he has the right to be there.

Sometimes, he’d pretend he’s just passing through. He would linger in the kitchen, hands wrapped around a cup of coffee he doesn’t drink while you are having your conversation with Wanda and Natasha.

One night, he even came to your room. Knocking and standing there with his hands fidgeting at his sides, eyes shamefully lowered, looking so much like a puppy in search of some love.

He didn’t pretend. He didn’t offer excuses. He just stood there and you saw it in his eyes.

You took him in your arms and then you took him in.

First, he sat down on the floor beside your bed, back against the wall, knees drawn up like he was trying to take up as little space as possible. He didn’t say anything for a long time. You just sat beside him on the ground, laying your head on his shoulder.

Eventually, his breathing evened out, head falling onto yours.

He would fall asleep like that. Until you managed to get him to lie down in your bed beside you. He usually sleeps like a baby when he’s with you.

You are not stupid. Neither are you naive. You have always been good at reading people, at knowing them, at watching them, and deciphering the things they do not say.

And you know what this might mean.

You certainly know what it means to you.

The way your pulse picks up when Bucky walks into a room so casually because you are there. The way your stomach flutters when his gaze lingers on you. The way your chest gets so unbearably full when he does all those smallest things for you.

But you think you also might know what it means to him. He seeks you out for everything, on instinct or not. Smiling seems to come so easily to him when he is with you. You are the only person he lets into his personal space - the only person he doesn’t startle away from when it comes to accidentally touching.

But Bucky Barnes is not a man who allows himself to want things easily.

So, you will not force yourself upon him. You will not push. You will not demand. You will not take what he does not freely offer.

Because you understand that he does not fear pain, or war, or perhaps even death.

But he fears something real, something good, something that cannot be fought off with fists or buried beneath old ghosts.

Because he does not think it is something he deserves yet.

But you are willing to wait. Until he is ready. Until he is sure. Until he knows that this is what he wants.

And if he never is, if he never comes to you with certainty in his hands, if he never crosses the space between you - then you will wait anyway.

Because for him, you would wait forever.

****

“Alright, sweetheart. Let’s see what you’ve got.”

There’s a smug grin on his face as he’s circling you.

And you know why it is there.

Because you are currently three losses deep into a losing streak against Bucky. And that just won’t do. You need a win.

You move first, closing the distance fast, testing his defenses. He blocks. A quick jab - he dodges. A feint - he doesn’t bite.

He knows your patterns, how you move, how you think. But you know him, too.

You go low, aiming for his legs, but he anticipates and shifts out of reach. “Getting predictable there, doll,” he drawls, smirking.

Yeah, you’re gonna wipe that off.

Rolling your eyes, you adjust. A punch goes up that isn’t meant to land, just to see how he reacts. He blocks high, but his balance shifts and there is a brief opening. A second and you are too late.

You strike fast, sweeping low again, and this time, you actually catch him. Not enough to take him down, but a start.

Bucky huffs, rolling his neck. “Not good enough, but better,” he teases, smirk still in place.

“Oh, fuck off,” you laugh, lunging again.

He meets you halfway, and for a moment, it’s just movement - sharp and fast and fluid, but you keep your balance. You duck, weave, block.

You land a hit, but it barely fazes him. He grabs your wrist, twisting - flipping you, but you are prepared, rolling and springing back up.

“That all you got?”

“Come find out.”

He laughs brightly before going in for attack. You block his strike, twisting out of reach.

It’s definitely not all you got.

He is not expecting you to cheat.

Not that you call it cheating anyway.

You decide that it’s time to take advantage of that weakness of his.

After all, it has worked before. And it will work again.

Bucky feints left. You dodge, pivot, but let your foot catch just so against the mat to send you off balance. The stumble isn’t exaggerated - it doesn’t need to be. You land on your side, letting out a sharp breath as if this is not exactly what you were expecting, and grab your ankle, wincing.

Bucky stops immediately. Just like always. It’s the first time you feign your ankle getting hurt but he reacts all the same.

His shift is instant. His whole body tenses. Taking a step toward you with his brows furrowed tightly, he scans you like he’s already running through every possible way to help you. Carrying you to the medical wing, for example.

“Shit, doll. You okay?” His voice is softer now. Concerned. So genuinely worried, you might actually feel bad.

He crouches without hesitation, without a thought, eyes so intensely fixed on you. And that smug grin is as predicted wiped cleanly off his face.

“Lemme see-”

He reaches out to you but that is when you strike.

You twist up, leg sweeping out and knocking his feet from under him. His surprised noise is so satisfying as he goes down, flat on his back, sprawled across the mat.

Silence.

“You have got to be kidding me,” Bucky groans loudly.

You are kneeling beside him, grinning, chest heaving. “Kinda needed that win, Barnes. No bad feelings, yeah?”

Bucky just stares at the ceiling for a long moment, one hand scrubbing down his face. He exhales sharply, muttering something under his breath, something that sounds suspiciously like every goddam time.

The last time you used your little trick on him, you had sold a jab against your side, staggering back and exhaling sharply as if he hit some sensitive point. He froze instantly, eyes wide. And you spun him into a flawless takedown.

The time before that it was your shoulder. All you needed was a slight grimace in fake pain and his whole demeanor changed in an instant. His hands went up slightly, a step in your direction and that was your opening to duck under his arm, and bring him down with a precise twist.

Yeah, alright, people might believe that that technique is a little mean and it certainly wouldn’t help you at all in the open field, but Clint did tell you to try something unorthodox.

You stretch, still smirking, and tilt your head at him. “You know, you’d think after falling for this multiple times, you’d have learned by now.”

Bucky’s head rolls to the side and he glares at you. Not in anger, not even close. Just that specific kind of exasperation that you have come to learn is something only you get to see from him.

He huffs. “Should’ve known you’d pull this shit again.”

“Should have. And here I thought I am predictable.”

He gives you a flat, unimpressed look.

“Can’t believe I was worried.”

“Aww, you were?” you say sarcastically, lightly. Almost in a sly sing-song voice, because is is always worried. That’s the whole point of this.

Another hand drags down his face, but there is a smile tugging at the corners of his mouth.

****

You exhale deeply, rolling your shoulders, as you make your way down to the gym.

Your muscles are stiff. Everything aches in that dull, stubborn way that promises it will get worse before it gets better.

The bruises that paint your ribs throb with your pulse. You remember the sharp, biting crack when you hit the ground.

It was a mission for Steve, Nat, and you, though you definitely could have used some backup.

You feel terrible.

And you hadn’t told Bucky any of that when you came home yesterday, sometime late.

Instead, you sent him a quick I’m fine. Training tomorrow? and buried yourself in sleep before he could pry. You know how he gets, after all. How his worry manifests, his eyes linger and his mouth tightens when you brush him off. You did not have the energy for it last night. And you don’t have it now. He does not have to know what hits you have taken due to your own recklessness. You already got a lecture from Cap. Don’t need it from his best friend.

So you show up. Because, if you don’t, he will know something is wrong.

Bucky is already waiting for you, standing loose and ready on the mat. His eyes snap up the moment you enter, scanning you the way he always does. Checking.

You ignore his gaze.

“Ready to get your ass kicked?” you say, tossing your water bottle onto the bench, forcing something light into your voice.

He smirks, arms crossed. “That what’s gonna happen?”

You step onto the mat, careful not to wince, careful to keep your breath even despite the sharpness pulling at your ribs. “Don’t sound so doubtful, Barnes. I’ll let you eat the mat.”

He snorts, tilting his head. “I sure like to see you try.”

He raises his hands, shifting into a stance, watching you closely. Too closely. There is something probing in his gaze today.

“How’d the mission go? Steve mentioned you guys ran into some-”

You don’t give him time to finish - time to think.

You move, fast, hoping to catch him off guard.

He sidesteps, but you strike again.

And immediately regret it.

Your ribs scream. Punishing. Your breath stutters, but you grit your teeth and keep going, keep pushing forward and attacking because if you pause, he will most definitely notice.

It goes on for perhaps a minute and you think you might actually be able to bite away the pain your whole body is consumed with, but then you stumble.

It’s a half-second of hesitation, a misstep that normally wouldn’t happen. But it causes you to trip away a few steps. Sharp pain courses through your ribs and a hand instinctively shoots up to your side. A hiss slips past your lips. Loud enough for him to hear.

But instead of reacting the way he always does - immediately stopping, immediately reaching - he just huffs amused, shaking his head.

“Bad time for trying that trick again, sweetheart. Shoulda known better.” There is that smugness in his tone.

His voice is light, teasing. His eyes are sharp, watching.

You grit your teeth, saying nothing.

He thinks you’re faking.

Which - fine. You have done this a few times. But now, with every movement grinding against the ache in your ribs, you wish he would just stop you.

Because it’s getting harder to hide.

It’s getting harder to see.

Bucky seems confused for a second when you don’t react to him at all, but doesn’t have time to act on it as you are going in for the next hit.

And Bucky dodges you too easily like he doesn’t even need to try. You swing again, slower than you should be, weaker than you should be - and he sidesteps, frowning.

“Tryin’ a new strategy?” he asks, but his voice is careful. His eyes are assessing.

You don’t answer. You can’t. You just go again, ignoring the way your body protests, ignoring the way you are moving wrong like you are just a second behind yourself. You hope maybe muscle memory will carry you through.

It doesn’t seem like it.

Bucky stopped throwing punches himself, only staying in defense mode and he won’t stop fucking looking at you.

And then you pivot too fast - twist wrong.

White-hot pain flares through your side so fiercely, it rips the breath from your lungs. A harsh, unsteady sound falls out. You can’t catch it. You stagger, grip tightening into fists, trying to push through.

But Bucky’s expression now definitely shifted. Amusement gone. Smugness gone. His face is hard.

You ignore that and try to go in for the next hit, but Bucky steps in fast, too fast for you to counter in your state, hooking an arm around you, pressing your back against his chest. He doesn’t throw you - he could, easily, he would - but he just halts your movement, stopping you clean in your tracks.

The pain spikes again and you gasp sharply. Your knees nearly buckle and Bucky’s grip on you tightens.

His hands are firm around you. Steady. But his breathing is not. It’s fast, strained, the muscles in his arms locking as he keeps you upright.

“What the hell happened?” His voice is so low, so serious. There is an edge to it, teetering on loosing control.

“It’s not a big deal,” you grit out.

“Bullshit.” Now he sounds harsh.

But his fingers still press so gently into your side, checking you out.

You whimper, flinching.

And Bucky freezes.

“Shit.” He shifts his grip, an arm around your waist, moving you to face him and still trying to support you without making it worse. His heartbeat is fast. You can feel it. Even in his hands on you.

He grabs the hem of your shirt and lifts it enough to see your torso. A breath hitches. It’s not yours.

The bruises are bad. Worse than they were yesterday. Dark and sprawling across your ribs, blooming in ugly purples and reds. You feel the shift in him, the way his whole body goes still.

You watch his tense features in discomfort. His eyes are turbulent, filled with a wildness stemming from something dark that writhes beneath his skin and causes his hands to shake against you. A tremor passes his jaw.

He curses under his breath.

“You didn’t tell me.” His voice drags low.

“I didn’t think it was that bad.”

He lets out a deep and rumbling sigh. Trying to compose himself. “It is bad, Y/n! How come you thought it’s a good idea to train like this, huh?”

He meets your eyes. There is a sternness in his expression. His eyes are heavy.

“I didn’t want you to worry.”

Bucky lets out a humorless breath. Closes his eyes for a moment until he takes a breath in again.

“I was already worried, doll. I always am. You know that, no?” he speaks solemnly. “You think not telling me makes this better?”

You open your mouth, then close it.

He shakes his head, exhaling profoundly through his nose. His grip tightens, but not enough to hurt you. He holds you carefully.

You take in a deep breath. “I- I don’t know. I guess I just didn’t wanna talk about it. I’m sorry, Bucky.”

His jaw is clenched and he bites his bottom lip, staring at the bruises littering your skin for a moment with eyes so dark they make you shiver.

“How did that happen? Who did this?”

You scoff half-heartedly. “Got a little messy. Pretty sure that guy’s not doing that well either.” You aim to get even the tiniest bits of amusement out of him but he might have gotten even more grim.

His touch is slow, a careful sweep of his finger across your skin, studying you for reactions.

He opens his mouth. Something on his tongue he wants to get out, but he hesitates. He swallows. Waits a few seconds. His voice is a rasp. “Don’t do that again.”

“Getting hurt on missions is kind of a normal occurrence, Buck. Not much I can do about that-”

“No, I mean-” he interrupts, voice quieter. “Don’t hide it again. Not from me. I- Just please.”

There is something in his tone that makes you stare for a while longer.

Then, you nod. Just once. But you mean it.

****

It took weeks for you to properly heal.

But finally, earlier today, you got the clearance of Dr. Cho - and Bucky, because he somehow told himself he has a say in that kind of thing - to step onto the mat again and resume training.

There is still a phantom pain in your ribs but it’s locked somewhere in the back of your mind.

But Bucky still would not stop fucking looking at you.

And it never is in a casual way. Bucky always watches you like he is waiting for something. Like his body is ready to move before his mind even has to tell it to. Like he is memorizing you, making sure nothing slips past him.

He is currently standing in front of you on the mat, rolling his shoulders, the stretch of muscle under his shirt shifting with the movement. The tension in his frame hasn’t faded, no matter how much you’ve reassured him. His fingers flex, then curl into loose fists.

Then his eyes find yours.

“Alright,” he says, voice low and edged with something firm, something not up for debate. “Don’t ever pull that shit on me again. You’re good enough as it is. No need for all that, yeah?” There is something heavy in his tone. “I'll even let you win this time if you need it so badly, doll,” he adds with a hint of humor that his voice lacked earlier, bouncing right back into your easy friendship.

You huff out a laugh and stretch your arms over your head, feeling the pull of muscles that have gone a little too long without use. “Trust me Bucky, I’ve learned my lesson.” Your voice is rather light, but it carries an edge as well.

Bucky’s jaw ticks.

There is something like guilt crossing his eyes for a second. Gone as fast as it came but you catch it. His lips are pressed together tightly and he seems to hold back an uncomfortable cough.

You’ve talked about this already. Plenty, in the weeks of your recovery. You told him you wouldn’t have believed him either after the many times you feigned injury during matches. That if anything, it was your own stubbornness that got you hurt and not him.

He only agreed with the stubborn part but he stopped bringing it up.

Still, you see he hasn’t let it go.

He carries too much guilt as it is. You don’t want him to carry more. So, you definitely won’t question his weakness during fights again. It was kind of funny, though, at least you’ll hold onto that.

You roll out your shoulders, shaking off the stiffness, then take your stance. “C’mon Barnes. You gonna fight me or just stand there looking pretty?”

His mouth twitches, a ghost of a smirk, maybe even a ghost of pink at the tip of his ears, but his eyes stay sharp.

He steps in, closing the space, moving with the same impossible control he always does.

You block his first strike, but it shakes through you. The force of it reminds you just how much power he’s holding back.

His eyes snap to your face. He doesn’t stop watching.

Studying.

Testing how you move, how much strain you can handle.

You feel yourself get into it again. The movement, the impact, the swiftness. The gym is filled with the sounds of breaths and footwork against the mat.

Bucky tests you, pushes you.

And you give as good as you get.

Your body remembers even if it’s been weeks. Your muscles adjust, wake up in a way they haven’t in too long. You move on instinct, dodging, striking, thinking, even pulling a move that you copied from Nat. One that Bucky didn’t see coming.

And it honestly looks pretty good for you, until your foot catches.

It’s nothing at first, a simple shift in weight, an uneven pivot that causes your balance to tip slightly off center. But a dizziness suddenly overcomes you and it’s too late to catch you. Your ankle twists, your knees buckle and the floor comes rushing up to you.

You hit the mat hard, landing awkwardly on your side, the jolt of pain snapping through your ankle up your whole leg, sharp enough for you to wince.

Shit.

You suck in a breath, already dreading what this looks like, what Bucky must be thinking. The timing couldn’t be worse. After everything - after the fights weeks ago, after the conversations, after the promise you just made to never feign getting hurt again - what else would he think?

But before you can lift your head, before you can force out some half-hearted quip, Bucky is already there.

Not hesitating. Not wary.

Rushing. Fast and frantic.

He’s at your side, crouching so fast his knees nearly hit the mat.

And you find yourself blinking at him stunned.

You expected him to pause. To hesitate. Maybe even get angry - to assume, even for a second, that you are feigning again, that you had just promised him not to pull that anymore but here you are.

But there is none of that.

Only the same panic from every other time you’ve dropped yourself to the ground on purpose. But this time it is real. There just was no way for him to know that. He still reacts the same.

“Where does it hurt, doll? Talk to me.”

His voice is calm, but his face is tight. His brows are drawn together, tension lining his mouth. The breaths he lets out are just a little too measured.

You blink at him, still baffled at the way with how fast he was there, how fast his reaction was.

“Just my leg,” you say, exhaling slowly. “It’s nothing. I just got dizzy and fell.”

That makes him frown, deeper than before. His hand moves so gently as he lifts the fabric of your training pants to get a look, taking your calve into his other hand. The touch sends a pulse of pain through you but you manage not to let it show on your face. You’ve had worse. You’re an Avenger, after all.

But Bucky’s jaw clenches so tightly at the sight of the swollen bone and the deepening flush of color on your ankle as if it is serious.

“Might have sprained it,” he mutters gruffly, and the displeasure in his voice is so clear.

“Think I’ll live, Buck,” you quip lightly and shift, trying to stand up but his hand doesn’t let up on your leg and he presses just lightly against your shoulders to make you sit back down.

“You still feelin’ dizzy?” he asks, basically ignoring what you said, voice dipping lower. His gaze locks onto yours. Intense.

You shake your head, trying to show him how casual this whole thing is but his eyes won’t stop searching you and it makes your stomach churn.

“I’m fine, Buck.”

His eyes don’t move. He doesn’t let go.

“Why did you even believe me?” You voice it light, but there is something cautious underlining it, you can’t shake. “Could’ve faked again.”

Bucky rakes a hand through his hair with a long breath. He averts his eyes.

“Saw you go down,” he says with a shrug that seems just a little too exaggeratedly indifferent. “S’ enough for my head to go straight to hell.”

That’s certainly not something you expected him to say and you are stunned once again. But you can’t help the way your belly does some delightful flips.

“And you promised me you wouldn’t,” he adds, shoulders straightening, like he is trying to shift your attention from the words he said before. From the admission he made.

“I’m really not going to do it again,” you promise again. But you won’t forget his words.

“I know, sweetheart,” he says sweetly, certainly, but the tension of your current situation lingers.

His touch on you is so damn careful, checking and rechecking, making you tell him what and how something hurts and you almost laugh out loud at his fussing.

“Buck, it’s not like I broke it,” you point out, a laugh in your voice. “I can still-”

“You’re not gonna walk around on that.”

You lift your brow at him, at his tone, an amused smile on your face but he just stares back. Without the smiling part.

Then he sighs, scrubbing a hand over his face before standing to his full height, adjusting his stance before crouching slightly again.

“Alright, come on.”

You blink but his hands already settle, one beneath your legs, the other bracing your back, and you barely have time to react before he is lifting you, arms locking as he pulls you against his chest with an ease you could only dream of.

“Bucky-”

“Not a word,” he warns with a grunt.

You sigh, letting your head fall back against his shoulder. “You’re ridiculous.”

“Don’t care.”

****

A sprained ankle takes anywhere from two to six weeks to heal properly, depending on the severity. You’ve had a few sprained ankles in your career already, so you would know.

But yours sits on the longer end of that spectrum and it frustrates you to no end because what the fuck. You were just done healing and now you got to do it all again.

The first week, Bucky barely lets you breathe without hovering close. He is always there, catching you if you wobble because you are too damn stubborn and rather hop around the compound than use a clutch. Because that would make it too easy, wouldn’t it?

The second week you get snappish. Tony makes sure to leave the room when you enter, Sam gets defensive, Natasha just smirks what frustrates you even more, Vision is a fucking robot only answering in a robotic voice way that drives you up the wall when he gives you a list of stores around New York that sell kettle fries but you only wanted to know where they are in the compounds kitchen. And Bucky endures every tiny bit of it, only that he is entirely unmoved by your attitude. At one point you just taped your ankle and tried to go down to the gym but Bucky stopped you before you could reach the elevator. He already stood there, brow quirked, arms crossed, unimpressed but amused.

By the third week, he sat next to you during team training, watching, studying. You criticized movements, talked about strategies, and laughed at Sam when Nat made him faceplant onto the mat.

Then the fourth week rolled in and you could finally put weight on your foot without wincing. For you, that meant you were good to go train again. But not for Bucky. So that meant another week of waiting.

But now you are back on the mat. Fucking again.

And you promise yourself, you will not fall this time. Not on purpose, not by accident.

Bucky stands across from you, arms loose at his sides, weight balanced, watching as you roll your shoulders and move through your warm-up.

“Got any last words before I kick your ass, Barnes?”

His mouth twitches. That half-smirk, something smug but fond, something that flies through his blue eyes like a spark.

“I dunno, sweetheart. Wouldn’t wanna land you on the sidelines again.”

You scoff, rolling your eyes.

“Bite me, Barnes.”

The moment you move, he matches it.

His reflexes are quicker than yours - always have been, always will be - but your advantage is that you know that. You know him. His patterns, the way he shifts his weight, the way his left shoulder always tenses a fraction of a second before he throws a punch. You don’t need to match his strength to win. You just need to read him.

The first strike comes low, an attempt to test your footing, but you pivot fast, avoiding the sweep of his leg with a practiced step-back. You counter with a jab - not meant to hit, just to distract - but he reads it immediately, catches your wrist, yanks you forward.

You twist, using the momentum, your free hand shooting up - Bucky dodges, barely, but you are already adjusting, using your own imbalance to push into him.

His hands are always steady, whether he’s attacking or defending. He uses his strength not to hurt you, but to push you, to remind you that you can take it.

And you do.

Blow for blow, counter for counter.

You refrain from looking at his face because he looks distractingly hot with his hair falling into his eyes and all, whipping around with his movements.

The moment his weight shifts forward, you are already countering. Stepping out of reach just as his arm sweeps for your waist. Your breath comes sharp as you turn and aim a well-placed jab that he sidesteps.

Bucky’s eyes gleam. Thrilled.

“Not bad,” he calls, already throwing another feint.

“Not trying to be”, you fire back, ducking, moving with him like it’s a dance. Like your bodies know this better than your minds do.

You push - he counters. You feint - he laughs, quick and breathy. You strike - he blocks.

Fuck, you missed this.

But then, he shifts.

And something changes.

It’s in his stance. The way he adjusts - not a mistake, but a decision. And in the half-second, before you react, before you catch on, you realize you don’t know what he is planning.

Your body is moving, a reaction before thought, but he is quicker - and you only feel him wind his arm around your waist, spin you around, and crash his lips against yours.

You stagger, letting out a surprised grunt against his mouth, caught completely fucking blindsided, because - what?

His mouth is firm, demanding - and it sears straight through your skin, your ribs, right into your bones, into your pulse, because Bucky Barnes is kissing you.

It’s not soft.

Not hesitant.

Not careful.

It’s everything it shouldn’t be in the middle of a fight.

It’s so unexpected that you don’t even notice the moment your back hits the mat. Don’t notice the way he takes you down like it’s nothing, like it’s unpredictable, because you weren’t ready.

You didn’t see it coming.

By the time you blink, by the time your brain catches up, he is already above you. Hovering.

His weight is balanced, both arms braced on either side of your head, and he is looking at you like he just won the fucking lottery.

Smirking. So damn smug.

Because Bucky finally found out your weakness. And he used it to his advantage.

Because what else could it be than him?

“You cheated,” you breathe out. Where has all the air gone?

“You kinda started it, sweetheart.” Bucky grins so wide, so proud, so happy. He pants above you. His eyes are shining.

And then he ducks down again.

He kisses you once more.

Slower, this time. Deeper. With something that lingers, something that presses into you as his hand slides along your jaw, something that feels like it has been waiting far too long for this exact moment.

And you don’t fight it.

Because it seems, you no longer have to wait for Bucky Barnes.

“You’ll know… not just in the way they look at you, but in how they’re not looking anywhere else.”

- butterflies rising

[late-to-the-party-81]

😳

Take It, Baby

Summary: Bucky was just too big and he was desperate for just one more

Warnings: Size kink, filthy talk, overstimulation, soft dom with a filthy mouth Bucky, praising and possession themes. Reader is AFAB.

♡♡♡♡♡♡♡

“God, look at you,” Bucky groaned, voice like gravel in your ear, deep and filthy. “Tryin’ so hard to take my cock, baby. So fuckin’ tight around me. So full.”

You whimpered, thighs trembling on either side of his hips. He was so deep, and it still wasn’t all of him. You could feel the heft of him inside you—stretching you open inch by devastating inch, your pussy clenching around the thick girth of him like you’d never get used to it.

“I can’t-” you could barely breathe, face flushed, mouth open as you clung to his shoulders. “Bucky, you’re too big–fuck—”

“Yes, you can,” he growled, dark and soothing at once. “You are. Look at that greedy little pussy takin’ me, baby. So desperate for it.” His metal hand cupped your jaw, tilting your face down to focus on where his cock was splitting you open. “You’re squeezin’ me so tight I can barely fuckin’ move. Feels like you're suffocating my cock.”

He rocked his hips just enough to push in another inch and you gasped, your eyes rolling back as your nails dug into his skin. He was buried almost to the hilt now, only a breath away from bottoming out—and you swore you could feel him in your stomach.

“That’s it, pretty girl,” he purred, brushing his lips against your ear. “Almost there. Gonna split you open real slow so you feel every fuckin’ inch. You love it, don’t you? Love sittin’ on this cock like it’s made for you.” You moaned, the sound shameless and wrecked.

“Say it,” he rasped. “Tell me who this pussy belongs to.”

“You,” you gasped. “Fuck, Bucky—it’s yours—always yours—”

“That’s my girl,” he hissed. “Keep sayin’ it. You want the rest? You want all of me?”

You nodded frantically, tears in your eyes from how good the pressure was. “Then take it.” His hands gripped your hips and slammed you down the last inch with a sharp snap of his hips that knocked the air from your lungs. “Oh fuck—” you cried, your whole body shuddering. “There it is,” he groaned, his head dropping back. “You feel that, baby? Feel me balls deep inside this pretty little cunt?”

You screamed, clenching around him hard enough to make him choke on a groan, and he laughed–dark, wrecked, breathless.

“Shit—you’re so fuckin’ tight. So wet. Drippin�� all over me. Fucking christ you're dripping down my thighs baby, so fucking messy for me. My sweet pussy’s just beggin’ to be used, huh?”

“Please,” you gasped, rutting against him, desperate for more friction, more anything.

“You beg so fuckin’ pretty,” he murmured. “Alright, baby—hold on.”

He started moving. Slow, filthy thrusts that dragged every thick inch of him along your fluttering walls, his cock stretching you open again and again, hitting so deep you were seeing stars. 

“Can feel you milkin’ me, fuck—your pussy knows who it belongs to,” he gritted, voice barely holding together. “You want me to fill you up, huh? Make you even more of a mess?”

“Yes-yes, Bucky-please–”

“That’s right,” he snarled, thrusts picking up, his cock pounding into you now, wet and obscene. “Gonna fuck you stupid on this cock, sweetheart. Gonna fill you so full you won’t be able to think about anything else. You won’t walk right for days. Just gonna lie there all fucked-out and dripping.”

The way he growled it in your ear had your orgasm ripping through you before you could even beg, your walls fluttering and clenching hard around him. You screamed his name, your body shuddering violently in his lap.“That’s it,” he grunted, thrusts stuttering as he chased his own high. “Fuck-gonna–ah-fuckin’ take it, baby–take all my cum–ah shit!”

He came hard, cock twitching deep inside you as he groaned against your shoulder, holding you down on him while you both trembled and breathed through the aftershocks. You were still whimpering, hips twitching in his lap, overstimulated but buzzing, drunk on the stretch and the heat of him pulsing inside you.

Bucky kissed the side of your neck, lips tender now. “Still with me, sweetheart?” he whispered. You hummed softly in response. “That’s it. You did so good for me.” You nodded, dazed and boneless, slumping into him with a ruined little smile. “Fuck,” he murmured, holding you tight. “You really are made for me.”

You were limp in his lap, still full of him, dazed and slick and barely breathing right. Your thighs twitched around his hips. Your cheek rested on his chest, and Bucky stroked your back with one hand while the other cradled the back of your head, murmuring quiet praise like a balm.

“That’s it, baby. You were perfect. Took all of me like a good girl,” he whispered, lips brushing your temple. “So fuckin’ proud of you.” You mumbled something weak, dreamy, nearly nonverbal. All you could feel was the sticky heat between your legs, the slow softening of his cock inside you, the throb of being so full. You thought it was over. You thought you’d be wrapped in a blanket, cleaned up, and kissed to sleep.

But then Bucky shifted.

You blinked, weakly clinging to him as he lifted you in his arms. Easily. Effortlessly. Like you weighed nothing at all. “Bucky?” you asked, voice hoarse. He looked down at you with that dangerous little half-smile—the one that never meant anything innocent.

“You think I’m done with you, sweetheart?” he asked, voice low, syrupy, teasing. “Nah. You were so fuckin’ good for me, lettin’ me stretch you out like that. Gotta reward you, don’t I?”

“Bucky–” you whimpered, squirming in his arms. Your pussy was aching, soaked, overstimulated from the orgasm he’d just wrung out of you with his cock. “I–I don’t think I can-”

“Yeah, you can,” he said, kissing your cheek. “You’re gonna take everything I give you, baby. Gonna lie there like my sweet little meal and let me eat this pussy ‘til you’re cryin’.”

You shuddered.

He laid you down on the bed with so much care you almost forgot what he just said–until he dropped to his knees at the edge and dragged you down with firm hands, hooking your legs over his shoulders like he owned you.

“Look at this fuckin’ mess,” he groaned, spreading you open with his thumbs, staring at the creamy slick dripping from your spent cunt. “So wet. So fucked out. Still twitchin’ for me.”

“Bucky, I’m–sensitive-”

“Oh I know, baby.” He leaned in, breath warm on your soaked folds. “Gonna take it slow. Real nice and slow darlin'.”

And then his mouth was on you. Hot, soft licks that made you sob, back arching as your fingers scrambled for the sheets. He was relentless. Lapping up every drop of his cum spilling out of you, tongue curling right against your clit like he already knew exactly how to undo you all over again. “You taste like us,” he growled into your pussy. “So fuckin’ sweet. Gonna lick this pretty cunt ‘til you’re beggin’ me to stop.”

Your thighs clenched around his head; he just growled and shoved them apart again with a bruising grip. “Keep those legs open for me, baby. Lemme ruin you properly.”

You whimpered his name, tears brimming at the corners of your eyes as his tongue flicked and sucked and fucked you open like he was starving. Every pass of his tongue over your clit made your stomach twist, your hips jerk, your whole body try to crawl away from the pleasure. But he just grabbed you by the hips and dragged you right back onto his face. “Don’t run from me,” he murmured, voice muffled. “You wanted it, remember? Said you needed me. Said you wanted everything I could give ya. So be my good girl and take it babe. ”

Your second orgasm crashed down hard–almost too hard. You cried out, thighs shaking violently around his head, your fingers fisting the sheets as your body convulsed with it.

But he didn’t stop.

Not even when you sobbed his name. Not even when your legs kicked weakly. Not even when the tears slipped free. “Shhh,” he murmured, breath warm and teasing as he finally slowed his licks. “You’re okay. Just let it happen, baby. Let me make you feel good.”

Your voice was barely coherent through the wrecked gasps.

“Too much–Bucky–it’s too much-”

He kissed your inner thigh, tongue dragging softly up your folds like an apology and a promise all at once.

“I know, baby,” he said gently. “Just one more. One more for me... just-- just need one more baby please. ”

He looked up at you, eyes completely glazed over as he begged, then his mouth was back on you—merciless.

♡♡♡♡♡♡♡

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[buckysleftbicep]

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)

[inkdrinkerworld]

Courting

Synopsis: Bucky is a man from a different time. It shows when you start ‘going steady’ and honestly, you love it. Alternatively; Bucky uses 40’s dating etiquette to woo you, and surprises you with a modern turn of phrase.

cw: it’s set in a vague timeline where it’s just before cabnw but also during fatws so no thunderbolts spoilers! Bucky is a FLIRT, reader is a little shy, anxiety representation, lots of casual getting to know you, going on a date flirting, Bucky’s serious about reader tho!

word count: 4.4k

Bucky Barnes prides himself on being able to court a woman. He really does. He knows all the rules, knows all the things to say, and it doesn’t hurt that he can flirt his way through any conversation.

You and Bucky met at the Smithsonian when Bucky was missing Steve a little too much and popped in just to get a glimpse of his best friend again.

You were by the Isaiah Bradley display, reading through before murmuring under your breath, “Those poor men.”

Bucky hadn’t meant to eavesdrop like that, but there was so much concern in your voice and he had to say something lest you think they all suffered — looking back, maybe he wasn’t the best person to break that news to you.

“We didn’t all suffer so bad.”

You had gasped when you noticed him, hand to your chest. “You’re Bucky Barnes,” you weigh your words before adding, “Steve’s best friend.”

That alone had won him over. You didn’t bring up the Winter Soldier, or that Bucky was as traumatised as super soldiers went. Just that he was Steve’s best friend.

“Yeah,” he nodded, “This your first time at the Smithsonian?”

You shake your head, a little heat flushing up your cheeks. “I come every couple of weeks, to see if they have any new stuff to add to your plaques. It’s kinda messed up what they did to all of you.”

Bucky smiles, shaking his head. It is messed up, he knows that. All the super soldiers besides John Walker know how messed up it was. “We came out alright, made it to the 21st century after all.”

You tilt your head to the side, “I guess that’s true.”

Bucky’s eyes light up. “Made it this far to meet pretty girls too.”

Your cheeks flame and Bucky chuckles, you chat a bit more before he gives you his number.

It takes you two days to text him. You’d been overthinking it, if you should or shouldn’t. In the end, if he ignored you at least you’d have tried.

It turns out Bucky didn’t give you his number just to be polite, because he answered your text immediately.

The first time he had used his courting experience was when he’d made it a point to establish the fact that he wanted to take you out every second Friday of the month.

He had it in his head that the effort had to be shown and then followed through the entire time and after two days, he was determined to show you that he was serious.

‘I’m free every other Friday, if that’s good with you doll.’

You had responded four minutes later after looking at your phone in shock and a little bit of bewilderment, when was the last time a man was so forward but not in a pushy way?

‘It’s perfect as long as work doesn’t bleed into my weekends’

From there Bucky had planned three of the dates meticulously, going over places and ideas in his head until he’d settled on the best three according to himself.

The first date was at a new diner near his apartment, one that Sam said did really good milkshakes and Bucky hadn’t been able to let the idea go.

“It’s nothing too fancy, but Sam said it’s a good spot.”

You’d worn a pretty skirt and blouse, and Bucky had worn a grey henley and jeans.

“You look gorgeous,” Bucky was full of compliments as you’d learn as the afternoon went on. He dished them out easily and most of the time you pretended not to hear him because he had a sort of pleased look on his face every time you stammered to keep the conversation going, and that in itself had in your stomach in knots.

He even brought you a bouquet of red tulips which had sat beside you on the sticky diner table all day.

“Oh they have milkshakes!” You say excitedly when you catch a server walking past.

Bucky’s heart sores. God bless the forties for making that a thing.

“Wanna try one?”

You look up at him, eyes brimming with hopefulness, “Will we do the cheesy sharing from the same cup?”

Bucky leans back in the booth seat, blue eyes boring into you. “And the same straw if you really want to, doll.”

He’s so fucking smooth, because you can’t do anything but nod now that his gaze is fixed on you.

Deciding what milkshake had taken nearly five minutes, back and forth between what was a classic flavor and why strawberry was definitely not good (Bucky was very offended) and then settling on a Shamrock Shake even though St. Patrick’s day had long passed.

Sharing the milkshake sitting across from each other was more intimate than you had expected it to be, (you hadn’t ended up using one straw but just the eye contact was enough to fluster you). Bucky walked you to your car after paying for dinner, very offended that you tried to pay half of the bill, and opened the door for you. When you had gotten in, he leant a little into your space, “Did you have a good time, doll?”

Your heart pounds. You had a great time, Bucky was easy to be around, even with your shyness.

“I did, thank you Bucky. Did you?”

He smiled, “Don’t see how I couldn’t with you as company.” In your sputtering for an answer Bucky’s heart beat a little faster, you were the cutest thing ever.

“Any opposition to a gala for our next date?”

You raise your eyebrows. “I’m not the biggest fan of crowds but I don’t see why it couldn’t be fun. Is it for the new Captain America thing?”

Bucky smiles, “I’ll text you the details. Drive safe, doll.”

The gala was fun even if a little anxiety inducing when you note the number of people there.

Bucky’s good though, he doesn’t give you a moment alone to feel that anxiety or have anyone come up to you to ask you a million questions.

It’s a veteran gala and Bucky didn’t want to go through that alone because he was getting another medal post Thanos; not that he really wanted it.

That night, as you sat beside him at one of the tables, it was hard to ignore the feel of his hand grasping your ankle and stroking it.

His palm is warm against your skin but you can feel the twitch in his fingers.

“We can leave early if you really don’t want to get it, Bucky.”

He turns to you with a smile, his cheeks a little warm when you meet his eyes. “No, I can handle it, doll.”

You tut, shaking your head. “Yeah but you look like you’re gonna pass out waiting for them to call your name.”

He rolls his eyes, “I do not.” He can actually feel the acid churning in his stomach.

In the end, the ‘medal’ is Bucky partially funding a veteran support group in honor of his friend Sam Wilson, who’s the new Captain America, and Steve Rogers. He much prefers that sort of medal.

It was only after Bucky had gotten you home from the gala that you noticed the slip of paper in your clutch.

It had the name of the diner you and Bucky had gone to a week and a half ago, but on the backside of the paper was his semi messy scrawl.

You looked gorgeous tonight. Purple’s definitely your colour, doll. I know it’s only the second date, but you’re all I think about most days. I wanna see you again, but I know tonight was a lot with all those people. Sleep well, doll. Dream of me if you’d like.

Yours,

James.

That had made you smile so hard your cheeks ached. He signed it with his actual name, not the cute nickname he got so many years ago, his real, government name and that was not something that went unnoticed by you.

Immediately you changed his name in your phone to James with a little heart next to it.

You’re not really sure you’re sold on Bucky’s affections towards you, till the third date when Bucky pulls up to your apartment with another bouquet of flowers, peonies this time in pretty pinks and soft yellows.

“Bucky, these are gorgeous!” You had rushed back into your house to add them to the vase with the other flowers he had dropped off for you on your doorstep last week.

You can hear him chuckling in your doorway as you flit about.

“Was there any traffic?” you asked over the sound of your tap filling the vase.

“Not too much, but it is lunchtime on a Saturday.”

You had mentioned to Bucky a little bit ago that there was a perfect spot in the park near your house for a picnic now that New York had finally warmed up, and the next text you had received was Bucky asking if you had any nut allergies.

It wasn’t your usual date day, but Bucky had pleaded and begged just a little (although he really hadn’t had to), and had even sent you a photo of the most gorgeous picnic blanket and you were agreeing faster than anything.

“I’m ready to go now.” Seeing Bucky there leaning in the archway of your kitchen makes you feel so many things that you can’t help it when you lean up and kiss just under his jaw before walking towards your door after snagging your picnic basket from on the counter.

“Coming, Bucky?”

He only shakes his head, some of his hair falling into his eyes as he follows behind you. You swear you hear him mutter, “Not a shy thing at all,” but you don’t say anything because your nerve has worn off and you actually can’t believe you really kissed his cheek.

Bucky hadn’t spared an expense on your picnic. He had gotten peaches, plums, two different cheeses, apples, grapes (black ones; your favourite) and even a bottle of sparkling wine.

You had brought sandwiches and salt and vinegar potato chips (those became Bucky’s new favourites), a sketchbook and your camera.

“Were picnics something you did a lot?” you ask Bucky as he makes you a plate - crackers, cheese, some of the fruit and half the sandwich you packets.

Bucky squints at you as he slices a wedge of the plum free from the stone. “If it was, would you be jealous, doll?”

You shake your head, some of the peach juice dribbling down your wrist. Bucky’s quick but gentle as he thumbs it away and presses his thumb to his lips. You’re so grateful that his hands aren’t on you to feel how fast your pulse hammers.

“I’m just curious what the dating customs of the 40’s looked like.” It’s a miracle your voice remains even.

Bucky nods like he doesn’t really believe you. “I think I went on one, but there was never really a good time for more.”

You wince, you had forgotten that he’d gotten drafted.

Your reaction makes Bucky laugh, “I’m glad I get to find out if I really like them now though. There’s a lot more to enjoy about picnics now without all the smog.”

His teeth snap through the wedge of the plum before he continues, “I can see my date better, which feels like an incredible plus.”

Damn Bucky’s flirting.

You spend all evening at the park, and it’s so fun because Bucky poses for some of your pictures and then takes some of you and when you pose for a few together and Bucky stares at you there’s a sort of stillness that overcomes you.

His eyes bore into yours, the blue of them stopping you where your finger is poised over the button to snap the photo.

“Take the photo doll,” he whispers, his lips hovering near yours as he reaches up and presses your finger down just before leaning all the way in, pressing your lips together.

Bucky’s quick to take the camera from your hand after, setting it on the blanket and cupping your cheek to deepen the kiss.

It’s not too long, but it’s more than a peck and when he pulls away you can barely open your eyes.

“Was that okay?” Bucky whispers, the hand still cupping your face warm where it rests.

“Where did you learn to kiss like that?” his laugh rocks you as you press your forehead into his shoulder. “I don’t think you were really frozen in ice all that time, James Barnes.”

Bucky cups the back of your head as his laughs die down. “Whatever you want to believe, honey.”

Bucky gets to your house just after sunset, and you let him walk you to your front door. You don’t really want the date to end, but you’re tired and you have to imagine so is he.

“I had a really nice evening, Bucky.”

He smiles, a hand on your lower back as he stands in front of you. “So did I,” you turn to open the door but he stops you.

“I’ve gotta go out of town for a little bit, so we’re gonna have to rain check next Friday’s date.”

You hold onto the sleeve of his Henley before he can step back, “Is everything alright?”

Bucky nods, “Yeah just some stuff I have to deal with.”

“Winter soldier stuff?” You nearly whisper the words, not wanting to upset Bucky. He only nods with a soft smile. “Be careful okay?”

“You don’t want to be my nurse if I get hurt, doll? That’s harsh.”

You laugh, shaking your head at him. “I just don’t want you to get hurt.”

Bucky’s chest aches at your care for him. It’s been a long while since he’s been given that kind of affection.

“I’ll be careful, doll.”

“Good.”

Bucky leans in and presses a kiss just at the corner of your mouth, “Goodnight doll, lock your doors.” He reminds you like you’re not a woman in New York City, but it still makes you smile and your chest goes a little gooey.

Bucky doesn’t move from your doorstep till he hears your locks click into place.

-

Bucky’s been gone for a week and a half already and you can’t help but miss him.

You’ve been chatting back and forth and you’ve even started sending him songs to listen to. He’s got a very limited list of favourites that you’ve made it your mission to resolve.

You find another note in your handbag when you decided against texting Bucky and cleaned your cupboards instead.

It was in your bag from the picnic date, and you smiled when you noticed his handwriting on another receipt from the grocery where he got the cheese.

I hope you find this when I’m gone and you’re missing me; I know you are, doll, it’s okay.

I miss you too and I haven’t left yet.

When I get back I’ll make it up to you, I swear. Maybe we’ll go somewhere quiet again? Or I saw they’re reopening one of those antique places with all those retro trinkets; I could show what I used to have at home. Show you what I prefer now.

Keep locking your doors, honey. I should send you new flowers, the old ones will be dead soon.

Yours,

James.

Bucky’s very good at these, these little notes that leave you smiling and giddy like a fool.

You pull out your phone, you have to text him now.

I got your note. What was your favourite ‘trinket’?

Bucky answers only three minutes later.

My sister used to have a silver jewellery box that I had the pleasure of filling every month.

You smile at that, he’s always been a provider it seems.

Another chime comes from your phone.

We also had a gramophone that played the clearest music I’ve ever heard.

You roll your eyes.

You’re such an old man.

I’m not offended, doll. A pretty girl I’m seeing told me recently I’m not old at all.

Even miles away he’s got you grinning like an idiot with a racing pulse.

You can’t say anything to that and your thoughts take you to what a perfect gentleman he’s been to you. Bucky opens your doors, drives you home and waits till you get into your house before driving off. You think you might be falling for him, and rapidly.

He’s still gone by Monday and you’re missing him hard, only for the girls you work with to giggle before coming to find you.

“These were dropped for you,” they hand you a huge bouquet of red and white tube roses and a card.

It’s not Bucky’s handwriting but it’s from him,

Sorry I’m still not back, doll. I should just be gone for another day. Don’t miss me too much, yeah? I need a few kisses when I get back to make up for all this time away. I listened to that song you recommended, it was good. How do I make a playlist?

Yours,

James.

The note had you blushing and extremely flustered. Your coworkers noticed it immediately.

“Are you two going steady?”

You regret telling them who you’d been going out with. When they leave, you’re stuck with the realisation of how different Bucky is to the men you’ve dated before.

It’s a small thing, but you hardly think any of them got you flowers as consistently as he does, and you don’t think you’ve ever received such thoughtful bouquets.

You called Bucky when you got home, happy to hear his voice.

“Thank you for the flowers, Bucky.”

“You’re welcome, doll.”

You have the bouquet from today on your bedside table and smile when you spot it after changing into your pajamas.

“You caused quite a scene when they got delivered.”

You can hear the amusement in his words. “Oh yeah?”

“Yeah, the girls I work with brought them to me. They were very impressed by the size of the bouquet, Barnes.”

“I’m just concerned about what you think of me.” Was his answer and after that you couldn’t get a full sentence out of you.

He’s so open with his feelings towards you it’s scary, it makes your heart race but you also know he’s not just saying it. He means it and that makes you fall just a little more for Bucky.

“You’re sweet.” Is all you can manage, your face heated with a blush.

“Sam and I are finishing this up tonight, so I should be able to see you when we get back.”

You don’t know if you’re reading into his words, but Bucky sounds relieved at the prospect of seeing you soon.

“Isn’t it going to be a day’s long flight?”

“And I can see you right after I land, honey. So long as it’s not midnight or while you’re gonna be sleeping.”

Bucky Barnes isn’t good for your heart with the way he just wholly shows you how much he wants to spend time with you.

“Do you still need help with your playlist?”

He huffs, “Sam showed me. He’s not a good teacher though, was snippy the whole time; you’d think he’d remember I was in ice.”

You laugh, “I’ll show you when you get back, babe.”

Bucky doesn’t say anything about the pet name, but for the rest of the phone call he doesn’t respond unless you use it.

It’s two days before he’s back and Bucky drives straight over to see you.

He’s at your door a few hours after you get home from work, and when you open the door to see him, he’s there with a single rose in his hand and a tired smile on his face.

“Is it possible you got prettier while I was gone?” He leans against your doorway.

“You look dead on your feet, Bucky. Come inside.” you lead him to your sofa, watching him move with heavy but careful steps all the way through your living room.

Bucky’s movements are measured, not a single action wasted as he takes off his boots and socks and detaches his metal arm.

“I really missed you,” he sighs as he lays on your sofa, eyes shut as he takes a long breath.

“I really missed you too,” you brush back some hair from his face. “You could’ve gone home to sleep first, you know?”

Bucky opens his eyes and it takes great effort to do so, the whites of his eyes shot through with streaks of intense red.

“I wanted to see you,” he yawns. “But you’ve trapped me into laying on your sofa.”

You laugh, your fingers still knotted in his hair. “You can take a nap Bucky, or you can sleep the night here. I’m not really excited by the idea of you driving back tired.”

“I won’t doll,” he shuts his eyes again, the feel of your fingers on his scalp lulling him into a peacefulness he’s missed. “Tell me what you got up to while I was gone. I know you weren’t just counting down the days till I got back.”

You roll your eyes as you recount the last two weeks of your life, Bucky’s not even awake to hear what you did on the second day of him being gone.

You cover him up with your throw blanket and dim the lights of your living room. You make the playlist for him while he sleeps, putting all the songs you’ve sent him on the memory stick so he can leave with it.

Bucky doesn’t spend the night, but as he’s leaving he holds your cheek, “I didn’t come with an ulterior motive, just to see you. If you want, we can go have dinner tomorrow. I have something I want to ask you, doll.”

“That’s ominous,” you’re a little nervous by that phrase. No one likes being told that someone has ‘something to ask them’ in a day. There’s anxiety crawling up your chest before Bucky kisses your lips.

“It’s a good question baby, don’t overthink it. I’ll pick you up at seven.”

You grab the memory stick off the table before you could forget, “Here, I put all the songs I’ve sent on here.” Bucky kisses you again.

“You’re an angel,” you steal a kiss before he pulls away. “Lock your doors.”

“Sir yes sir.”

You hear him laugh all the way to his car.

Despite Bucky’s well meaning, ‘Don’t overthink it.’ That’s all you did when you woke up and started sifting through dresses to wear.

You’re ready at six and that makes you even more anxious. There’s too much time to do nothing but sit and overthink it.

You’re working yourself up to outright calling Bucky when there’s a knock at your door.

A quick peek at the clock on your stove let’s you know you’ve been overthinking it for forty five minutes.

When you open the door, Bucky’s standing in front of you in a pretty blue shirt that makes his eyes pop, and black dress pants.

He’s not got flowers this time, but he is holding a box of what you think are chocolates.

“Oh my god,” he breathes as he takes you in. You’re in a pretty pale purple dress, white heels and your hair is down in loose curls. You hadn’t gone for heavy makeup but just enough where there’s purple glitter on your eyelids and your lips are a deep red.

“You look handsome.” You say as you fight the blush creeping up your chest at the way Bucky’ stares at you.

“You look,” he trails off like he really can’t find the right words. “Breathtaking.”

You feel as though the blush explodes in your chest and heats your entire face.

Bucky hands you the box of chocolates, “They’re all dark chocolate.” You smile as you take it; that’s another thing Bucky’s remembered you like.

“Do I get to know where we’re going?”

You ask as you slip the chocolates into your purse and shut your door.

Bucky smiles as he watches you lock your door before turning to him. Immediately he links his hand with yours.

“We’re going for dinner somewhere nice,” the entire ride to the car Bucky has you talking. About the last book you read, work, if you think about him every night before bed (the last one was just to make you laugh, but the truth is you do.)

“What about you Bucky? Do you think about me before bed?”

You ask as he parks and he turns to you.

“Oh yeah,” that’s all he says before coming out of the car to open your door. “Think about you more than I think about anything else, doll.”

You manage to hold back your question just before dessert, “Can you please ask me? I’m freaking out and I think my heart might explode from the anxiety.”

There’s a laugh that bubbles from you and Bucky tuts.

“Honey,” you press a hand to your chest. Your anxiety really is at an all time high. You have so many questions rattling around your head that Bucky could want to ask you and you may throw up the lovely pasta you just had if he doesn’t ask you soon.

He leans across the table and holds onto your wrist, feeling the erratic beat of your pulse.

“I’ve been torturing you, haven’t I doll?”

You nod as you try to calm your racing heart.

“I didn’t mean to,” Bucky’s thumb strokes short lines across your wrist. “I had it all set up to come with dessert but I’ll put you out of your misery.”

“Thanks,” you mutter and he smiles.

“I know we’re only going steady,” that gets a smile out of you. He really is an old man, “but I wanted to ask you if I could be yours? Saying boyfriend makes me feel older so I won’t say it.”

You laugh, letting your head fall on his hand where it holds yours.

“Not the other way around?” You ask and Bucky huffs.

“You’re not property, honey.”

You look up with a smile and Bucky’s smile gets a little brighter. “Yeah you can be mine.”

“C’mere,” he tilts your chin a little higher and kisses you; slow and just long enough for it not to be a full make out. “You really missed out on the whole cheesecake with chocolate drizzle writing.”

He says as he pulls away and you laugh.

“Oh, are they not bringing it anymore?”

Bucky shakes his head, mischief in his eyes. “After you just latched onto me in the middle of their establishment? I don’t know, doll.”

“You’re ridiculous.” They still bring the cheesecake and Bucky feeds you the first bite, and like the flirt and menace he is, he gets a little just to the corner of your mouth.

“Let me get it for you,” and steals another kiss, ‘cleaning it off.’

Bucky Barnes really knows how to court a woman.