#mcu bucky barnes

[daydreamgoddess14]

I'll do that thing 🔥

Bucky x f!Reader established but secret 🤫

It's too damn hot, the AC is broken, and your boyfriend is a furnace. But there are solutions.

Bucky Masterlist

word count: 1.1k

warnings: pussy slapping, Bucky's vibranium hand, fingering... just a bit of heatwave filth, really. Encouraged by the gif above, darling @sunday-bug ☀️ and my other feral beauties in the gc.

There was sweat in places you couldn't even begin to imagine.

It pooled in the small of your back, in the valley of your breasts, the crook of your elbow, the backs of your knees, behind your ear.

“Engineers said next week,” Bob huffed, flopping down on the floor. Even the marble tiles were hot to the touch.

“I'll be dead by next week,” Lena groaned.

“Think I'm dead now.” You sighed. You shifted an inch to the left, peeling your leg off the one next to you.

The leg moved an inch closer.

You moved another inch away.

When it went to move again, you slapped your palm down hard on their bare leg.

“Ow! Shit!”

“Buck, you're like a furnace. Stop putting your leg against me,” you whined.

“How is every engineer in City busy?” Alexei demanded. “I fix it!”

“No!” Half a dozen voices rang out in unison.

“I'll fix it,” Bucky announced, standing up.

For you, the relief was immediate.

“You?” Ava asked, highly skeptical.

“Me. Fixed Sam's boat. What's an AC unit gonna do?”

“Blow up?” You shrugged.

“Better come with me then, in case it explodes.”

“No way.”

“It'll be cooler in the basement?”

“Deal.”

Across the room, John nudged Ava and wiggled his eyebrows.

“Have fun!”

"Don't do anything I wouldn't do!”

“In this heat?” Lena grimaced. “Disgusting.”

“Fuck you, Walker!” You gave him the middle finger as you followed Bucky out of the room and into the elevator.

“You've gotta stop touching me in front of them,” you said as soon as the doors were closed. “They're gonna know.”

“They already do, babe.” He shrugged.

The basement was cooler, barely.

You found the hopeless AC unit wheezing and whirring. Bucky looked around it, his eyebrows pinched together.

Whatever this was, it hadn't been going on for long. Weeks and months of tense sparring sessions, flirty comments, and open ogling had culminated in him turning up at your door one night and barely putting you down since.

You hopped up to sit on a crate while he ‘worked’. In reality, it was a chance to ogle.

“Can feel you watching me, sweetheart. Something you need?”

“In this heat? Come near me and I'll bite you.”

“Promise?” As he turned to ask the question, he yanked a hose out of the unit.

With a violent hiss, a plume of freezing mist streamed out. “Oh. Shit.” He turned back to the unit.

“Want me to hold anything?” You peered around the unit. While you were distracted, he placed his left palm on the back of your neck.

The vibranium was ice cold against your hot, sticky skin. “Ohh fuck -” you breathed.

“Yeah?” He stepped behind you, replacing his hand with his mouth. His hand, still cold, pulled the neck of your cami down and pinched your quickly pebbling nipple.

Your head fell back onto his shoulder, giving him a perfect view down your body. Your back arched into his touch.

“Still too hot?” He murmured against your neck.

“Mmm, why? You gonna cool me down?”

“Gonna try,” he removed his hand, warmed by your skin, and put it back in the path of the freezing steam.

“S'too hot, Buck,” you insisted, moving out of his hold. Your body was on fire.

“C'mon, I'll do that thing?” He held you tighter, his voice pleading. “Need to touch you, baby.”

The fog hissed, curling around his wrist.

He dragged the cold vibranium fingers back along your collarbone, then lower, tracing the swell of your breast until you gasped. The contrast made your skin pebble under his touch - hot and flushed, meeting ice cold metal.

“That better?” he murmured, voice thick with amusement.

You didn’t answer. Not with words, just a low, breathy moan.

He circled your nipple with the very tips of his fingers, letting the cold settle in, sharp enough to make you shiver - then cupped your breast in full. A soft whimper escaped you, hips twitching as heat pooled low in your belly.

“Still too warm,” he said, almost to himself.

His hand slipped lower. Past your stomach. Down between your thighs.

The first brush of cold fingers against your slick heat made your whole body jolt.

“Fuck,” you hissed, breath catching.

“That’s it,” he murmured, dragging the metal through your folds again - slower this time, letting you feel the contrast between hot and cold.

Then - a sharp, deliberate slap.

It wasn’t hard, just sudden - a stinging smack of cold against the wet heat of your pussy, and your hips bucked instinctively, a broken moan tearing from your throat.

“Jesus,” you gasped, “do that again.”

He chuckled low in your ear. “Told you.”

Another slap, a little firmer this time. The sound of it, sharp and obscene, sent a shockwave straight through your gut. Then his fingers were between your folds, stroking with slow, steady pressure - cool vibranium rubbing where you needed it most.

“You’re soaking,” he growled. “All that heat getting to you?”

“You,” you whispered, grinding into his hand. “It’s you, Bucky, fuck -”

One finger slid inside - impossibly cold, your body clenching around him eagerly, greedy for it. Then another. He moved them in slow, curling thrusts while his thumb circled your clit in soft, frosty sweeps.

His teeth grazed your neck, his right hand held your hip steady while his left had you seeing god.

It was overwhelming. Heat and cold, sharp slaps and gentle strokes - your nerves couldn’t tell which was coming next.

When he smacked you again, right against your clit this time, your whole body jerked, your thighs trembling. He held you up against him, your back slicked with sweat against his broad chest.

“Oh my god,” you whimpered, hips grinding helplessly against him, pressing hard against your ass. “Don’t stop, please -”

“Not planning to, sweetheart.”

His fingers pumped faster, curling with every thrust, the heel of his hand pressing just right. And when he slapped you again, just once more, timed perfectly, it tipped you over the edge.

You came hard, body arching, a cry caught in your throat as everything clenched and broke open.

He held you through it, murmuring something against your neck you couldn’t even hear over the rush of blood in your ears.

“Oh god,” you breathed heavily.

With an obscene pop, he removed his hand from your aching pussy. He brought his digits to your mouth and you licked them clean.

He turned you gently, leaning you against the AC unit, pulled your top back up, and placed the softest kiss to your lips.

He weaved his hand through the freezing steam one more time and placed it between your shoulder blades. The cool relief made you sigh, the memory of his cold touch made your hips jerk against him, still hard.

“You not done, baby?”

Despite the heat, you arched into him, winding your arms around his neck.

“Not even close. Come take a cold shower with me?”

“Shower?” he grinned, gripping your thighs. “Nah, I want to make you sweat harder first.”

[thewillowfletcher]

They really are like this. I spend two years in wakanda with them both during Bucky's recovery. It's captured perfectly.

I do miss Barnes.

doomsday reunions!

[sourpatchys]

Bucky isn’t a jealous guy. He’s not so proud to think you could never find anyone better, but he also knows that if you wanted to leave— you would.

He can be a fighter in the field, but at home— he just doesn’t have that strength.

That doesn’t mean he’s above showboating though. You’re his girl, he’s gotta make sure everyone else is a little envious.

At any formal event, he’s matching his tie to your color scheme, the band of his watch to your jewelry and you better believe he’s single handedly keeping every corsage maker out of debt. No way in hell are you going out there in front of the world without a delicate flower upon your wrist to match whatever handkerchief or flower he’s wearing on his vest pocket that night.

He’s not one for PDA, he likes to keep it personal— though his hand is always wrapped around your waist or clasped with your own. He also gets a big boost to his ego when you link arms with him on walks.

The tab for any dining experience is on him, if you insist on splitting the bill he won’t fight you, but he will get you a gift for the exact price he forwent paying that night— just to prove a point.

No— Bucky isn’t jealous.

He’s stubborn.

If anyone else looks at you, he fully understands. He can’t keep his eyes off of you for even a second, he’s entirely aware of what a catch you are.

That’s not to say he isn’t protective, quite the contrary.

Look, but don’t touch, admire— but don’t speak.

He understands your beauty, and he’s more than willing to let you show it off, but some respect from the onlookers is necessary. He can’t, and won’t, control you or your actions, but he’ll be damned if he doesn’t protect your environment.

A girl like you doesn’t need to be walking around with trash at your feet.

[creepycranberry]

Pinched to Death

Bucky Barnes x Librarian!Reader

Synopsis: Bucky left a couple years ago with a promise to come back, a promise he failed to keep. Now he shows back up, like an apparition in your library and attempts to rebuild a relationship with you before leaving once more. This time, however, he leaves a Bob and a phone number behind.

Warnings: hurt/no comfort, angst, fluff, suggestive comments, cursing, Gilmore girls spoilers (?), not proofread

—————————————————————————

James Buchanan Barnes was possibly the most stupid person on earth. You didn’t want to seem bitter, if it meant so little to him it probably should have meant just as little to you, but the time he decides to grace you with his presence is possibly the worst time he could have chosen.

Not only because you’re pissed at him for leaving but also because you’re pissed at him for pissing off sam and subsequently having to hear about him constantly for the last year and a half.

But now he’s In your library, wearing a black tshirt that strains around his biceps and tactical pants that are sitting low on his hips and lacking the gear that tends to be put into the various compartments.

“Hey, sweetheart.” He smiles when he spots you from the library door, you give him a curt nod and continue checking books back in, putting damaged ones in a seperate pile, “you okay?”

“I get that you’re more muscle than actual brains but you can’t be that oblivious. I refuse to believe it.” You bite and Bucky's face falls, “unless you’re here to return the overdue Brontë you owe me, you can turn right around because it’s almost story time and yelling at you is going to wear out my voice.”

From behind him you hear a low whistle, “Do you need help with something Mr. Walker?”

“I can think of a few things I’d be open to you helping me with.” He quips, leaning against the desk.

“Like your ABC’s?” You blink innocently and he steps back, Bucky bites his bottom lip to avoid laughing, knowing it won’t help him at all right now.

“Listen sweetheart, I didn’t mean to leave things like that and I will make it up to you somehow I prom-“

“What do you want, James?”

“I was just wondering if you could keep Bob company. He’s a great help, and if all else fails just give him something to read and stick him in the corner.” A brown haired man waves nervously at you from behind Bucky, “Sam and I have some stuff to talk about and Bob is kind of just along for the ride so if you could-“

“Fine.”

“Thank you swee-“

“Don’t. Leave soon or I’m changing my mind.”

“Yes ma’am.” He mumbles, ambling out the door, his crew of depressed assassins following him, leaving behind a wet eyed dachshund of a man.

“You know the Dewey decimal system?” You sigh and Bob nods hesitantly, “put these away and then find a book and set yourself up in one of the study rooms, there are sodas and waters in the office, you’re free to grab one of those.”

He takes the cart you hand him and walks away, you grab a children’s book and put on a smile while heading to the colorful rug in the corner of the library.

———————————————————————

Sam just wanted a glass of water, maybe to scroll on his phone on his own couch for a while but instead he’s now looking down at you, splayed across his living room rug.

“Where’s my coffee table?”

“In front of the door.” You smile.

“Why?” Someone knocks on the front door and you giggle, “are you drunk?”

“Just a little.”

“Who’s at my door?”

“Your old-new best friend.” Your face is the picture of drunken betrayal and disgust.

Sam sighs and goes to the door, moving the coffee table out of the way. Bucky walks in, starting towards you, “what the hell?”

“Well hi!” The bright southern lilt in your voice gets stronger when you’re drunk, “if it isn’t my Knight in shining armor!”

“You locked me out?”

“Did I?”

“Very mature, sweetheart.” Bucky grimaces.

“About as mature as ghosting someone, right?”

“What does that even mean?”

“Do you two want a moment alone?” Sam cuts in, “in my house?”

“Oh no, Sammy, we’re just fine here.”

“What are you doing here anyways?” Sam asks you, sitting on his couch. Bucky leans back against the wall by the door.

“Had a date, the guy was kind of a creep so I had him drop me off here so he doesn’t know where my house is. Told him my brother lived here.”

“So you’re mad at me for leaving but you’re already dating again?” Bucky interjects.

“You mean two- three years later?”

Bucky's quiet for a minute, “yeah, congressman, I’m dating again-or trying, at least.” You mumble.

“I’m sorry, sweetheart I just got- life got in the way.”

“Life as in politics? With the government your best friend very explicitly did not trust? That life?”

“You know what-“ Bucky starts towards you but Sam gives Bucky a look that says ‘back off’.

“Or is it the ‘New Avengers’? I thought you said you were done with the whole superhero thing? And even then, you hate John Walker so what the hell are you doing there? You are going directly against everything I thought you were standing for?”

“Things got complicated and John isn’t-“

“Isn’t what? Isn’t that bad?”

“I’m doing my best, sweetheart. Things change overtime and- as you so graciously pointed out- it’s been a lot of time. I’m- things turned out differently and I’ve definitely gone against some of the things I told you but-“

“Your worst sin is that you’ve destroyed and betrayed yourself for nothing.” You quote from your place on the floor and Sam looks up.

“Gogol?” Sam inquires.

“Dostoevsky.” You correct, your eyes fixed on the ceiling, making constellations out of the dark spots.

Sam nods and Bucky sighs in exasperation, “is now really the time to utilize your literature degree?” He spits.

“Is now really the time for you to utilize your boundless powers of assholeness?” You quip and his jaw ticks as his eyes narrow, “oh, so scary.” You mumble, looking back at the ceiling.

Sam bites his lip to try and stop himself from laughing, “so I’m guessing yalls happy reunion didn’t go so well?”

“His friend hit on me.” You sigh, pressing a wrist to your forehead.

“He’s not my friend.” Bucky insists.

“Whatever you say, James. Hear that Sam? The dickwad he left us for isn’t even his friend.” You slur, exhaling for a long time, watching the ceiling spin subtly.

“Easy, girl. We’re being nice to him now.”

“She’s not a dog.”

“I’m not a dog.”

Before sam can open his mouth to apologize you glare at Bucky through wet, alcohol glazed eyes and long eyelashes, “shut up,” Your bottom lip is jutted out in a resigned pout, you turn back to Sam, “you’re being nice to him, I don’t have to follow suit just because you said so.”

“Good point.” Sam nods, leaning his head back against his couch cushions.

At the sight of your lips jutting into a pout and your eyes resigned to drunken bitterness and betrayal, Bucky can’t help but soften slightly, “I’m sorry, sweetheart.”

“You say that a lot.” You sigh, “but you never change anything.” You do one of those shaky sighs that sounds like you’ve just been crying. Buckys a sentence away from getting on his knees and moving the hair out of your face and mumbling sweet apologies and promises against your forehead,

“I’m gonna take that as my sign to head back to bed, you two have fun,” Sam excuses himself and leaves the room.

“Don’t apologize anymore.” You mumble, your eyes shining and honest.

“I won’t, I’m s-“ Bucky sighs, scratching his chin, “this might be harder than I initially thought.”

You giggle and the sound mends something lovely in him, “you’re not all that smart are you?”

“Not when it comes to you apparently.”

Bucky loved how smart you were. He loved that you could quote passages from books and name authors and basically give a dissertation on iconic literary characters and their foils. Or maybe he just liked hearing you talk.

“You left me all alone.”

Your voice is something small, petulant and utterly heartbreaking for Bucky, “I know, my dear. I’m- I know.”

He lays down beside you on the floor, his hand wrapping around your wrist, drawing circles on the thin skin with his thumb, “you haunted me, wholly.” You mumble.

Bucky smiles, you always got verbally romantic when you were sad and drunk, “I haunted you?”

“Completely. You were with me all the time, every day.” Your voice is soft but your fingers are softer as you reach up to trace the line of his eyebrows down to the tip of his nose, over and over.

“I was?”

“Mhm. I killed you so you haunted me.”

“You killed me?” His voice is low and a little rough.

“Uh-huh. You left so I killed you. I just pretend you died. Makes it easier to exist if I pretend you didn’t choose to leave me.” You murmur. Your eyes are heavy and your breathing is more even than it was when you were going to cry.

“So am I undead now?” He inquires, closing his eyes and enjoying the sensation of your hands on him again.

“Mhm. Total zombie.”

“Missing limbs and everything.” He muses, leaning into your touch, mourning it when your hand moves away from his face.

“Just the one.” You mutter, turning over to press your cheek to his shoulder. The organic one.

He wonders for a moment why he ever gave this up, why he ever gave into his impulse to do something more, to change what he could while he could. He would give it all back for you pressed against him as you fell asleep every night.

“Yeah, just the one,” he’s quiet for a moment as he realizes what you were referencing, “that’s wuthering heights right?”

He didn’t realize you were half asleep so when you startle awake again he’s insanely disappointed in himself, “hm? Oh, yeah. How’d you know that?”

“I stole it, remember?”

“Oh yeah, I need that back, James.” You insist and he laughs, “I’m serious!”

He laughs, “I don’t know, I’ve become quite attached to it.”

“If you give it back you can have my first copy from college, with all of my annotations and everything.” You wager and he smiles.

“I think I’d like that.” He grins and you readjust your cheek on his arm, wrapping your arms around it and cuddling with it. Your warmth is something he’s only been able to dream of these last few years.

This time he lets you fall asleep, making sure not to wake you again.

———————————————————————

When you wake up you’re on the couch, your head hurts and someone’s shaking your shoulder.

“Excuse me?”

You wake up to find Bob standing in front of you, “oh, hi Bob.”

“Water?” He hands you a glass and you drink from it gratefully, “Bucky left me with you again today and I thought I’d wake you up because the library is supposed to open in like an hour.”

“Oh shit.” You mutter, “I’ve gotta get home to change” you look at Bob for a minute, “and I suppose you’re coming with.”

“Just happy to be here.”

———————————————————————

“So you know Bucky pretty well, right?” Bob asks, following you with a pile of books that you could not understand how he was lifting, much less balancing.

“You could say that.” You sigh, grabbing a book from the top of the pile and putting it back on the shelf.

“Has he always been like that?”

“Like what?”

“I don’t know- like- I don’t want to say leashed but-“

“Restrained? Yeah. I mean from my understanding he was kind of suave and confident in the 40’s but a ton has changed since then.” You shrug, fixing a few books on the shelf before leading him to the next one.

“He seemed pretty confident approaching you.”

“I think that was more artifice than anything. He’s good at pretending to be something he’s not.” You insist, turning to face Bob fully, maneuvering your head to see him around the books.

“Why do you think that is?” Bob asks you. You think he might be searching for a specific answer, or maybe he’s just trying to prolong the conversation to avoid awkward silence.

“I think it’s the same thing it always is with James, survival instinct.”

Bobs quiet then, considering what you’re saying, “I’m not so sure I agree with that.”

“Why n-“

“Hey, sweetheart.” You hear from across the library and look to see Bucky walking towards you, fast food in hand.

“James. Bob, go put those in the cart.”

“Can’t I just put them up myself?” Bob suggests.

“You promise not to give me issues about this free labor thing?” You sigh.

“Cross my heart.” He says in all seriousness and solemnity.

“Then go ahead, I guess.”

He happily trots away, the mile high pile of books in hand.

“I take it he’s enjoying his time here?” Bucky asks you and you nod.

“I think he’d live here if you’d let him.”

Bucky's eyes fix themselves on the braid you’ve put your hair into, his fingers hold it gently, slipping down to the tail of it, “you could set him up in one of the study rooms with a sleeping bag and a suitcase.” He smiles, “how’s the hangover?”

“It’s great, the fluorescent lights are really helping.” You respond.

“You still mad at me?” He asks gently, moving your braid from your shoulder.

“I-I don’t know. Depends on how fast you’re leaving me this time, I s’pose.” You look up at him through your eyelashes, almost afraid to meet his eyes for the fear that they Will confirm your suspicions.

“We’re leaving tonight. I’m sorry, my dear.” The look in your eyes is almost enough to make him call off all of the plans. When you look at him like that it’s enough to have him cancel missions, pr meetings and start life over here, right here. But that’s not an option for him right now, “but I’ll come back.”

“When? In another three years? I’m not gonna just sit and wait around for you to come back for the rest of my life, James.”

“I’ll come back next month.” He assures you, moving your bangs out of your eyes, “I promise.”

“You promised last time too, James.” You mumble, hand moving up to toy with one of the zipper pockets on his jacket.

“I know, sweetheart, I mean it this time though. Let me prove myself to you,” one of his hands traces your jaw, the other focuses on the center of your forehead, “I’ll be back, and my phone number is on the napkin in the bag, just in case.”

“In case what?” You ask him, savoring the warmth of his rough palm as it settles on the side of your neck.

“In case something goes wrong, or there’s a rat in your kitchen-“

“That was one time.” You grumble and he chuckles low and deep in his chest.

“Or if you uh, if you just miss me.”

“In that case I might be calling you a lot,” his tongue peaks out to wet his bottom lip, a slow smile fixing its way to his face, “so if you’re not totally sure you might want to rescind that offer or else-“

“I’m sure, sweets.” He laughs, “now eat something, I’ll get Bob out of your hair-“

“You can totally leave him here if you want, he’s more helpful than most of the volunteers-“

“I would love to, but-“ he’s quiet for a minute and his brows meet for a second, “actually we were just bringing him along so he wasn’t home alone. I mean if he wants-“

“Really?” You ask.

“Yeah, I just wanted him to feel included because we always leave him behind on missions but he could probably use a change of pace. But he’s a grown man and I’m not like his dad so… gonna have to ask him about that.”

“Okay. Now go, before I don’t let you leave.”

Bucky kissed your forehead, right where his gaze was concentrated and then mumbles against it, “I’ll go talk to him and then I’ll head out. I’ll be back, scouts honor.”

“You’re not a scout.”

“Details, details,” he mutters, smiling easily with his gaze fixated on you, even as he walks backward in the direction Bob went.

———————————————————————

Bob ends up staying with you, more than happy to sit at the check in desk and help. He likes the routine.

He wakes up on the pullout couch in your apartment, makes sure you’re awake, gets ready for work with you, goes to work with you and comes home. He likes going grocery shopping with you, and doing the dishes together after dinner.

He enjoys the domesticity of it, life is slow and quiet here in a way he’s never had the luxury of experiencing it. You liked having a friend, someone constant. He takes walks by himself sometimes, around the neighborhood or downtown.

Bobs walking the first time Bucky calls. You’d texted him once or twice, so that he had your number and to ask about bobs strange habit of finding the smallest enclosed spaces to nap, but other than that you’d not reached out, not wanting to seem needy.

When he calls you you’re lying in bed, waiting for Bob to get back so you can order takeout.

“Sweetheart?”

“Hi, Buck.”

“Hey, baby.” You can hear his smile over the phone.

“What’s up?” You ask, turning over onto your stomach.

“Just wanted to call you. Got home and Bob wasn’t here like normal. Normally he’s done his dishes and he’s on the couch with a book or- sometimes a video game. Got him a laptop last Christmas and I’m pretty sure he exclusively plays games on it.”

“Yeah he has it here, he writes papers.” You clarify.

“Papers? Like essays?”

“Mhm. He writes about his books, sometimes about his games. Studies character foils and literary devices. They’re pretty good actually, You guys should seriously consider helping him get a degree or something.”

“He dropped out of high school, he doesn’t have his diploma.” Bucky informs you.

“Then help him get his GED.” You shrug and Bucky thinks for a minute.

“That’s not a bad idea. Do you think you could talk to him about it? You know more about all of that stuff than any of us do.” Bucky requests.

“I could help him see if that’s something he’d be interested in.”

“Thank you, sweetheart.” His voice is soft and affectionate.

“No problem, Mr. Barnes.”

He’s quiet for a minute, you don’t say anything, knowing to wait for him to get his thoughts together.

“I miss you.” He admits.

“You do?” You ask, grinning wider than you’d ever admit to.

“Mhm. Came home to an empty apartment, an empty bed. Took a shower-“

“That was empty too, I’m guessing?”

You can practically feel his hand smoothing over his face at your stupid joke, “yes, the shower was empty.”

“Good.”

“Good?”

“Mhm. I don’t know if I’d want to recontinue this if you made it a habit to have random people in your shower.” You say and he chuckles.

“Ah. So we’re recontinuing this?” He asks, an unsure shake in his voice, like he’s swallowing around his words.

“Well I- I mean I just assumed because of the phone number and the sweethearts and-“

“No no I was- I was wanting that I was just-“ he clears his throat, “just trying to see what you were thinking.”

“Well I was hoping, but if you’re not-“

“No, I am. I-i definitely am. I missed you.” He rambles and you feel the blush as it comes on.

“I missed you too, James.” You admit, your breath is shaky and your tone hesitant.

“You’re the only one who calls me that.” He points out, voice reverent In the way that he savors the sound of his rarely used first name on your tongue.

“It’s what you told me to call you.” You shrug, pulling a pillow toward you to rest your chin on.

“That’s true. I just- I like it. I like the way it sounds when you say it.”

There’s a pause where his words sink in and you can’t help but smile, “you like how I say it?”

“Yeah, I do. You say it the same way you say Dante or Tolstoy or- what was the one you said the other week? With Sam?”

“Dostoevsky?” You say it slowly, letting every syllable linger in your mouth for longer than necessary.

“Yes, him. You say my name like it- like it suggests I’m something great, like those writers you’ve studied and read the words of.”

“Because you are something great, James.” Your voice is soft and affectionate and laced with a kind of pure love that almost scares him. He’s quiet for a while, not knowing what to do with that. His brain is short circuiting in the most delicious way, “you okay, hon?”

“I’m fine. I’ve just- I forgot what it’s like to have you say things like that to me.”

“Things like what?” You laugh.

“You’re always just so- so honest.” He rasps, like you’ve knocked the air out of him.

You laugh again, “would you rather I lie to you? Tell you that you are the exact opposite of everything you are?”

“No, I just have to get used to it again. I-I like it though.” He admits, his voice soft and hesitant and lovely.

“I’m glad.” You sigh.

“Did you order already?” You hear from the bottom floor of your loft.

“Bobs home, I’ll talk to you later, James.”

“Bye sweetheart.”

Bobs footsteps ascend up the stairs.

“Bye.” You end the call as Bob comes into view, “no i did not order food I was on the phone.”

Bob smiles, falling onto the end of your bed, “was it possibly a metal armed team leader?”

“How’d you know?” You ask, sitting up.

“He called me yesterday to ‘check up on me’.” Bob sighs, stretching his limbs.

“I thought he was on a mission?”

“He called me when he got back to the hotel. But he asked me about you three separate times.” Bob informs you.

“Really? What about?” You attempt to sound nonchalant but Bob isn’t stupid.

“At first he just asked me how you were doing, I said fine. Then he asked me if you got your book back, I said yes. And then he asked me what you ate for dinner. Not ‘what did you have for dinner’ as in what did we have for dinner, he said ‘what did she have for dinner’.” Bob lists, laughing at the last one.

“He’s kind of an idiot, isn’t he?” You smile, biting your thumbnail.

“Very much so. Now, can we get food, I’m starving.”

“Fine, lead the way to the takeout drawer.”

He stands and offers you a hand, helping you up. The both of you head down to order dinner, camping out on the couch until it arrives.

———————————————————————

The next time Bucky calls is the same day and time the next week, you’re sitting on the couch with Bob and watching Gilmore girls. He’s never watched it before and it’s your comfort show so now you’re forcing him to watch it, virtually at gunpoint.

“Do I need to go on a walk?” Bob teases when he sees the name pop up on your phone.

“No, I’ll be right back.”

Bob turns up the TV volume as you walk away, a knowing smile on his face.

“Hi.” You say, settling at your desk chair.

“You took a while to pick up, hiding your boyfriend in the closet?” His voice sounds easy, casual.

“Under the bed actually.”

“Mm, should’ve guessed.” He sighs, “how are you?”

“I’m good, hanging out with Bob.”

“Ah. How many times have you made him watch Casper?”

“None. Instead we are on the third season of Gilmore girls.”

Bucky groans knowingly, you are the only reason he has any idea what that is, “poor guy.”

“I think he’s enjoying it.” You insist.

“Oh great, I’ll be hearing that theme song all the time when he gets back.”

“Are you excited?” You grin.

“I can’t express just how much.” Bucky grouses, “so you’re having fun?”

“I’m having a great time with my new best friend.”

“That was quick. You talk to him about school?” Bucky asks, you hear rustling, like he’s changing.

“Yeah. He was surprisingly open to it. I’m helping him study for the GED test.” Bucky hums at the update, “how did the press conference go?”

“It went… okay.”

“You bombed huh?”

“Alexei was great.” Bucky comments.

“James…”

“Yeah. I’m not good with the cameras and questions.” He admits.

“I know, honey.” You smile. You liked that he was endlessly awkward, you found it endearing.

“How’s work been?”

“The usual. A kid at story time yesterday swallowed a button. I have no idea where he found it but he didn’t choke so that’s, that’s something.” You tell him and he laughs, like he actually finds it funny.

“Kids are interesting.” He shrugs.

“They are,” the both of you stay quiet for a minute, “I really miss you.” You admit, whispering like if anyone else hears he’ll dissipate into thin air.

“I miss you too, my dear. Just a couple more weeks, promise.” He assures you and you make a noise that’s half whine, half audible pout, “what is it?”

“Nothing, I’m just restless. Probably.”

“Restless, huh?” His tone is suggestive enough to make your cheeks burn.

“That’s not what I meant and you know it.” You pout.

“Do I, though?” He asks and you groan in frustration.

“You’re so annoying.”

“Yeah but you miss me.” He’s smiling a big cheesy smile, you can tell. There’s more rustling,

“What the hell are you doing?”

He’s quiet for a second, “nothing, I got distracted talking to you and put my shirt on inside out, so I had to switch the shirt around.”

Now you’re smiling stupidly, “so you started this call shirtless?”

“I just got out of the shower.” He shrugs.

“The shower that was still empty, right?” You clarify and he laughs again.

“Yes, dear.” He says in that way he does when he’s trying to appease you.

“So you started the call shirtless because you couldn’t possibly wait to be fully clothed? You just had to talk to me?” You giggle and if only he could bottle a sound.

“I was trying to be efficient.”

“Mm yeah, super efficient.” You smile, spinning in your chair.

“You’re just picturing me with my shirt off, aren’t you?” He asks.

“So what if I am.” You retort and you see him licking his lips in your mind's eye.

“You make it a habit of picturing me undressed?”

“Only to paint a picture of what’s happening over there.” You assure him and he hums like he’s not so sure.

“I’m sure.” He says like he knows your lying, “I’m sure the only time you ever think to think of me without a shirt on is when I admit I’m not wearing a shirt every single hour of every single day.”

“Precisely.”

“Hey, sweetheart?”

“Yes, sir?”

“You- don’t do that.” He groans.

“Don’t do what?” You feign innocence.

“You know what, you are an incredibly smart girl.”

“You think so?”

“Sweetheart.” He says very seriously.

“Sorry. yes, dear?” You mock him and he chooses to ignore it.

“You’re something great too.” That shuts you up quickly and efficiently, “I just, I was thinking about it all and- and I wanted you to know.”

“I uh- thanks, thank you, James.” You stammer, the both of you sit and stew in the awkward silence, “did um, did you get your book?”

“Oh, yes, yes I did. I’m planning on reading it on this next mission.”

“Won’t you be too busy fighting and… jumping out of planes or whatever?”

“You have no idea what I do on missions do you?” Bucky beams.

“Not really. I thought you did a lot of jumping out of planes, just by how Sam makes it sound.” You shrug.

“I won’t be too busy, promise.” He assures you.

“I expect a full report back the next time you call. Even though you’ve already read the book before.”

“Well what’s that thing they say about you having to read things three times before you fully digest them. Plus I want to see what 19 year old you’s thoughts were about heathcliff.”

“They weren’t good, I could tell you that much.” You promise him.

“Hey- this speech is really sad- and what’s happening with Jess?” You hear a concerned voice from the lower level call to you.

“I think Bob might be having an emotional moment over Rory’s graduation speech- and the state of her and Jess’s relationship.” You inform Bucky.

“I’m never going to be able to escape this show.”

“Goodnight, James.” You laugh.

“Goodnight, my dear.”

———————————————————————

Bob came down with the flu quicker than you’d ever witnessed a fall ever. You supposed it might have something to do with his recovery.

So you were knee deep in medicine schedules and chicken and rice soup when Bucky called you. Same day, same time.

“Hi, hon, just one second okay?” You speak into the phone.

“Sure thing, sweeth-“ you set the phone down, taking the beeping thermometer out of Bobs mouth.

101.6

You smack your lips together, “still a little high, superboy. Go try a steam shower for me real quick, okay?” Bob groans in protest, “it’ll loosen all of the phlegm in your chest, babe.”

Bob sighs heavily and stands, making his way to the bathroom.

You pick the phone back up, “hey, hello, hi. Sorry, I was checking Bobs temp.”

“How’s he faring?” Bucky asks, he’s focused on something, you can just picture him at some hotel desk, pen in hand, tongue tucked between his teeth. It’s quite the visual, especially if you consider that, like last time, he could possibly not be wearing-

Not the time.

“He has a fever of 101 and he sounds like Kermit the frog.” You sigh, pushing your hair away from your face.

“Poor guy.”

“Indeed. He sounds like a buzz saw when he’s sleeping. Which is rare because he can barely breathe through his mouth.” You lean back against the messy couch bed, closing your eyes.

“And I’m guessing that so long as he’s awake, so are you?”

“It seems cruel to leave him to be miserable alone.” You mumble.

“You’re too empathetic for your own good.”

“You’re too lovely for your own good.” You hear him laugh a little and you groan, “I’m exhausted, I’m sorry, ignore anything embarrassing I might say.”

“I don’t think I will, I like you loopy.”

“You like me loose lipped.” You pout.

“Just a little.” He’s quiet for a minute, “everyone in this book is a terrible person.”

You laugh, real and big and bubbly.

“They all suck but the drama is so captivating.” You grin.

“I like your notes though. For a 19 year old you sure seemed very sure of yourself, very… set in your ways.”

“How do you mean?” You inquire, covering your eyes, hiding them in the crook of your elbow.

“If they are made of the same things why can they never be on the same page?” He chuckles.

“It was probably four am when I wrote that, I won’t lie to you. I don’t think much of it will be eloquent or thought provoking.” You smile sleepily.

“Did you like college?”

“Kind of? Had a hard time mentally but I also loved the chance to learn as much as possible. It was challenging but rewarding, fulfilling. Which is why I think Bob will also love it. He’s so smart. A little dopey but brilliant.” You giggle.

“How’s he doing with GED prep?” Bucky asks.

“He’s doing just fine, he has some trouble with memorizing but there isn’t much he doesn’t understand.”

“So he’s doing good?”

“Mhm.” You hum, exhaling slowly through your nose.

“My love?” You feel warm at the new term of endearment, you have to remind yourself to respond.

“Yes, James?”

“Just making sure you weren’t falling asleep on me.”

“I wish I was falling asleep on you. You’re always so warm.” You exhale.

“You need sleep, sweet girl.”

Another new nickname that makes your stomach flip, “I’ll sleep when I’m dead, dearest.”

“If you don’t sleep you might just turn out to be dead.”

“Not yet, hon.”

Another beat of no conversation and then, “my love?”

“I’m awake.”

“I’m sure you are, I’ve got to let you go now.” He informs you and you make a noise of indignant protest, “I know but I’ve gotta get some sleep, I’ve gotta be awake early.”

“Stupid mission.” You grumble.

“I miss you.” He says, either because he means it or to appease you.

“I miss you more.”

“Goodnight, sweet girl.”

“Night, asshole.” He laughs and then the line drops.

“I threw up again, but I did make it to the toilet this time.” Bob reenters the room, falling back onto his bed.

“I’m endlessly proud of you, man.” You say, giving him a thumbs up that makes him laugh, which turns into a cough.

“Go ahead and get some sleep.”

“I don’t want you to be alone.” You open your eyes to look at him.

“I am damn near thirty, I can take care of myself for a few hours while you get some sleep.” He insists and you nod.

“You’re right, no need to baby you, I’m gonna go ahead and get some rest.” You get up and head to bed, “but feel free to wake me up if you need me.”

“Will do.”

———————————————————————

The month feels like it’s been stretched as thin as possible, like dough that passes the window test.

It’s just one more week and then you get him back, and then he’ll prove himself, just like he said, but if he doesn’t? You shouldn’t think about that because he will, he wants to be better you should trust that.

You’re expecting the call, it’s the same day of the week, and the same time, and you’re at the library late. you sent Bob home to study because he kept distracting himself with stuff to do here. So it was just you, and your phone, and the call that just isn’t coming.

You wait all night, you set up a new display for an ‘employees choices’ area, displaying books you and Bob had picked out earlier in the week. Then you go through all of the James Patterson section which you tend to avoid doing because you can’t stand the constant push of content that makes you have to order multiple copies and then rearrange the shelf every fucking month, but you do anyways. And then you clean the study rooms, vacuum the floor and the storytime rug, repair all of the books in the book hospital and by the end of the night you end up asleep, slumped over your desk.

You’re woken up in the morning by Bob who was alarmed that you didn’t come home and laid into you about the danger of being by yourself at night with the door unlocked and how you should have at least texted him and you apologize profusely for fifteen minute straight before he sends you home to shower and change.

You’re still checking your phone every five minutes to the point where you’re starting to piss yourself off.

When you leave for work again you decide to leave your phone at home. You tell yourself it’s because it’ll be too much of a distraction but really you’re just sick of feeling pathetic because you’re once again just a girl waiting by her phone for a call and you can’t stand feeling like this any longer.

And so you go through the entire day still thinking about your phone but trying to ignore it for the most part. When you and Bob get home you check your phone to find nothing, not a missing call or even a text.

So you spend the night on the couch bed with him, watching the fifth season of Gilmore girls over again because Bob just can’t believe Rory would sleep with Dean while he was married.

“You okay?” Bob asks, hand resting behind his head while the other is splayed across his abdomen.

You shrug, blinking at the ceiling, “he didn’t call.”

“He’s probably just busy. He likes you. Really likes you, which is saying something because Bucky does not like people.” Bob tells you, hand reaching over to pat the top of your head, a welcome distraction from the tears collecting at your water line.

“Are you sure?”

“I am. But if I’m wrong I’ll kick his ass.” He suggests to make you laugh and you do.

“I appreciate that but I’m not sure if you could.”

“You’d be surprised, I’ve done it before.” He informs you and you turn to look at him.

“Really?”

“Yeah, I’m stronger than I look.” He shrugs.

“Thanks for that, Bobby.”

“Anytime. God Dean is so stupid.” He gestures to the screen, “it’s totally unfair how he treated Lindsay.”

“I wholeheartedly agree.”

You’ve never really had a lot of friends, outside of Sam and his sister, but you imagine that this is a lot like what having a best friend probably is.

———————————————————————

It’s three days past a month and you’ve pretty much completely lost hope.

You’re stuck between white hot anger and paralyzing anxiety. Because he’s a total jackass but what if something happened? What if he’s hurt? Or worse?

But also he’s a douche.

Yelena came to pick up Bob yesterday, he’s gonna come back next month for his GED test but until then it’s just you.

You’re deep cleaning the bathroom when your phone goes off. You ignore it for an hour on principle before you check it.

James: Sunday.

Sunday? It’s Monday. He’s a day late. Or a week early.

Either way you’re tired of caring.

You don’t reply, you let the read receipt do your work for you and you keep cleaning.

———————————————————————

Your apartment and the library have never been so clean, and your body has never been so tired.

You ignore the day of the week, you go grocery shopping and you cook dinner for yourself at four and you eat dinner while watching The Land Before Time. And you fall asleep there on the couch in the middle of Big Fish.

When you wake up the TV is set to the play movie screen and the theme music is playing softly through the speakers. There’s a light knock on the door, and then another one. You check the time on your phone, 7:19.

You stretch and take your time heading towards the door, you unlock it slowly and open the door just a crack , leaning against the frame.

“Can I help you, Bucky?”

“Come on. I know I’m late, just give me a chance to explain before you and Bob crucify me.” He pleads.

“How do you know bob is going to crucify you?” You ask.

“Because he told me so, while I was in the infirmary.”

“The infirmary?” You inquire cautiously.

“I was nothing major, I just got stabbed.”

You open the door fully now, taking him in. There's a bruise on his cheek and a couple cuts on his forearms, “just got stabbed.” You grumble, “come in.”

“Seriously?”

“Well the whole you getting stabbed thing now makes it rude for me to be pissed at you.” You grouse, leading him into the living room and settling back into your spot on the couch.

“Did I interrupt your nap, sweetheart?” Bucky asks you, settling at the edge of the couch.

“No comment.” You lean back, taking him in.

He’s wearing a T-shirt and some jeans that look unfairly good as they sit on his hips. You probably look like shit in an oversized T-shirt with the neck cut off and pajama pants you’ve had since you were in college.

“You feeling okay? Did you catch what Bob got?” He asks you, hand reaching out to clutch your ankle, thumb moving back and forth over the smooth skin.

“I’m fine. It’s a miracle but I never got sick. Why?”

“Nothing, you're just sittin’ so far away.” His voice is low and steady, like he’s accepting something he can’t run away from.

“I don’t want to get too attached.” You clear your throat.

“Sweetheart-“

“I will never be able to have you how I want, I think the both of us should just accept that and move on.” You dismiss him, tucking your legs under you and playing with the hair tie on your wrist.

“But you can, I can- I can give that to you, just let me prove-“

“This is was your last chance Bucky-“

“James. My name is James, you call me James, you always have.” He insists, “i would have been here if i could- if I wasn’t having to heal up I would have-“

“Buc- James, this month has been torture. I can not spend the rest of my life waiting for you to come back to me, worrying that you won’t because of some injury or because you get caught up with something or someone else or- or god forbid, something worse.” You rant and your voice becomes thick with all of the anxiety and resentment you have been feeling for the last week and the years before that.

“I’ll be okay, dear. I know what I’m doing and I’ll come back to you, always.” He promises. He sounds panicked, and a little sad.

“James, I love you.” You whisper and his breath catches, “and I will always be yours but you won’t always be mine. When you leave I stay yours, I stay belonging to you because you are welded to my existence in a way that is irreversible but when you go and you live in the world you live in you are theirs, all of theirs. There are people who look up to you as a symbol of resilience, you are representation for so many people and you don’t even realize it because you are not of the world the way the rest of us are-“

“I don’t understand- I- I love you I belong to you-“ he looks so lost, so panicked, he’s reaching out for you and you let him because you don’t have the strength to push him away when you’re breaking his heart. He pulls you fully into his lap, he holds you there and moves your hair out of your face and searches your eyes for some acceptance of his statement but you won’t give it. Instead your eyes are filled with apologies and a sort of pleading he’s never seen before.

“This is my life James. It is this apartment, and my library, my books and these worlds I force myself into because I’ve never been very good at being a part of the one I was born into. You are saving that world, you are a figure that- that is so much to so many people. You belong where you are. Hero looks good on you, because you are one. You were born one. From being a kid saving Steve from himself to being a soldier to becoming the embodiment of resilience and survival, you have always and will always be a hero and I-“ you blink away tears, holding onto him because he’s holding onto you and you can only hurt him the one way, you were built to offer comfort to him and so that’s what your hands do as they move over muscle and scar tissue, “I have never been anything worth taking note of, I am meant for this small, quiet life and- and nothing more.”

“No- I am meant for you, I’m meant for this- I love you,” hot tears fall from his eyes like they’re abandoning ship, “I am meant to come back to you, I- I am meant to haunt you closely, personally. ‘Don’t leave me here where I have no hope of finding you’,” he paraphrases, “I need to be able to find you.”

He holds you to his chest like he can pack you into his wounds like gauze, like he can make you heal him.

A quiet sob breaks through your chest, you move off of him, resisting the hands that are holding onto you like salvation.

“You should go, James. You need to leave, please.” You cry, wiping tears from your eyes.

“Ple- please don’t make me. Don’t make me leave you, please, I’ll stay, I’ll stay here and I won’t ever go anywhere else.” He pleads, standing just to fall onto his knees before you like a painted depiction of tragedy.

“And that’s why I need you to leave. You’re not meant to stay here, My Dear.” Your voice shakes. You move his bangs away from his face, taking in all of his features like you will never see him again because you are determined not to, not for a long long time.

You lift his head to kiss his trembling lips, tasting the salt that coats them and it makes you break all the more. He kisses you back through quiet whimpers, devouring you like he can keep your lips to himself forever.

“Go, James.” You whisper against him, “I’m still yours, I’ll still be yours.”

He pulls away to look at you, just looking at you for a moment that is worth the lifetime with him you’re giving up.

“And I’ll be yours.” He assures you, “even when I am everyone else’s I will be yours, my dear.”

He gets up then, lifts himself off of his knees and stares at you as you avoid his gaze, willing yourself not to look at him because then you will take it all back.

And you stay there in your place long past the earth shattering moment the lock clicks.

It feels like the loudest sound you’ll ever hear, like a drum that won’t ever stop beating.

[moonlight-sonata99]

Project Red Room

Bucky Barnes x reader

A/n: now before yall have my neck, Cardinal is a fake name. Readers real name will be revealed later on, (that will be your choosing ofc) my fic my rules!!hehe:> enjoy the Prologue you guys. Im really excited to write more!!I proof read this but I spent a whole day of writing so...tmrw it is!!

Prologue

It started with a man, a man was all It took to ruin her life. Well granted he wasn't an ordinary man, he was a man with money, a man who would help the world at any cost.

Enter..her. She was twenty and was in dire need of a mentor, someone who looked to her and told her they were proud of her., and most importantly a drive to help the world.

He was that someone.

He called it Project Red Room,based off The Red Room in Soviet Russia and she was his first official subject.

The good news was that it worked. She worked. But in doing so he doomed himself, She became the perfect widow. But at the cost of his own life.

That was years ago,and Nick Fury somehow had gotten wind of her work, as a vigilante that is. And he took her in and trained her. She was a covert agent, doing the "dirty" work per say, taking out war criminals who committed crimes against humanity. It paid, and she might well get some use out of her training.

Now the only problem was that Nick Fury had gone out on a space mission, and he hadn't returned. Although she did find a hard drive that was labeled 'use against her' the file contained evidence against Valentina de Fontaine. And considering what she was being accused of (and what was being said behind the scenes) She knew exactly what the message was telling her to do.

Mel panted as she did her best to switch tabs on her tablet with a coffee in her hand. Seeing which appointment Valentina had next, with who, what exactly they'll be doing. The usual. Her heels clicked through the halls as she quickened her pace reaching valentines office, and she opened the door. "Okay im back-" she panted as she closed the door "we have a meeting at 2 with the press" mel said putting the cup on the desk and putting the tablet down as she ruffled though her bag.

"Mel, right?" A voice shook her out of her thoughts, as assistants eyes widened and her head darted up to the women on, what usually is valentinas chair. "Uh- where's-" Mel stuttered out her eyes darted around the room. "Valeria?" The woman asked, standing, her fingers fiddling with a pencil as Mel's brow furrowed. "Valentina?" The young woman asked. "Huh, I could've sworn it was valeria." The other women hummed to,

"well! Valentina has been...discharged, from her role." The woman said her gaze away from Mels. "I'll be filling in for her now, so anything thunderbolts-related goes through me." She started as she took the coffee and opened it as Mel started. "Urgh...just black coffee?" The woman asked as Mel nodded.

“God she really was a monster.” The older woman murmured her face scrunched up as Mel examined her, “and you are..?” Mel asked as the woman turned to her again.

“Cardinal” [Reader] Cardinal.”

It was…weird. Mel's thoughts just kept running into the creepiest places and the worst fates for Valentina. Most of all, who was this [Reader] Cardinal? Mel had never even heard of her and yet the women had taken over all aspects of Valentinas old job, and some part of Mel knew that this woman was bad news, so she stayed up at night looking at Bucky's contact. Did he even know about this change? Should she tell him?

“What are you thinking about Mel” [Readers] voice tore her out her thoughts as Mel looked up at her.

“Uh..I was just thinking about the appointments today.” The girl replied, tucking a strand of hair behind her hair as [Reader] hummed looking at files.

“I could imagine…that charity ball thing isn't too far away as well” [Reader] murmured in thought her attention on the file as Mel nodded as it stayed quiet the soft music played in the background.

“Is-” Mel stuttered out, as the older woman's eyes flicked up to her. “Is valentina dead?” She blurted out, eyes wide as [Reader] stared at her, the expression she was holding mel couldn't tell as her heart raced, what if she wasn't supposed to ask questions?what if she ended up dead in a dit-

“I killed her” [Reader] replied, stopping Mels thoughts as her heart completely stopped as [Readers] eyes stayed on her…”just kidding” the older woman smiled as she closed the files. “She's fine” [Reader] replied, chuckling as she walked past the young women Mel just sat there catching her breath

It just added to the list of questions she had about this woman.

She had tuned out the sound of voices a while ago as she stood by the food table looking at the variety of plates there was. [Reader] had already greeted most people that were attending the fundraiser, and hell if she knew if there were more. ‘Damn’ she thought as she plopped a small small tart into her mouth. ‘That's good’ [Reader thought as she grabbed one more and began to make the rounds for the night.

Making small talk, buttering up more investors that sort of stuff. What they spoke about she really could not care, to her their mouths just opened,

And she agreed. 

“Sorry to interrupt,” Mel said softly behind [Reader] to get her attention as the group turned to Mel, “your assistant?” One of the men asked [Reader] as she nodded smiling. “

“Yes, she's quite amazing really” [Reader] nodded as mel smiled and pulled out her clipboard, “we need to do the thing” Mel said urgently as [Reader] smiled at the men “Oh right, the thing. Sorry gentlemen I have business” she said, picking up a glass of champagne and nodding it to them as the men bid her farewell and [Reader] quickly sifted through the crowd as the two walked into a secluded hallway. 

“Thank you” [Reader] sighs out as she hunches down, her hands on her knees, and lifting up her heeled feet, “no biggie” mel smiled at her. It had only been a few weeks, but with attending meetings and rectifying some of the shady things Valentina did it was a stressful few weeks. 

“I'll be fine from here” [Reader] breathed out to mel, “go and enjoy yourself for a bit” she added as mel looked at her and nodded, her brows furrowed. But she didn't question it and disappeared in the crowd. 

After resting a bit, [Reader] leaned back up, her feet feeling a bit more better from the pain that hit every time she walked. “Okay” she breathed out as she stood straight fixing her dress as she walked out, a smile grazing her face as she nodded to people who looked her way. Faces among faces..more faces… until. She stopped for a minute as her gaze set on someone in the distance.

He was just like how he was on television, reserved and serious. His hair was swept back and he wore a black suit.

Bucky Barnes. She had heard and seen so much about him, or rather the winter soldier as Nick called his old self, white wolf, etc… his blue eyes were glued down to the floor as if deep in thought as [Reader] watched him all the stories didn't do him justice. He was handsome, he wasn't clean-shaven, and just the right of hair graced decorated his chin,he was very handsome....she had already said that.

“Mel” [Reader] called out softly, turning back a little but forgot that she had dismissed her. What was he doing here? Oh���right she had been so busy she hadn't even made herself known the new “New Avengers” ....her attention stayed on him. That was until he must've felt the stare because his eyes flicked up to meet hers but before she could even wave or anything, a voice called to her. [Reader] turned to see Sam Wilson as he caught up to him. 

“Ah I was wondering when i'll see you” she breathed out smiling, as sam nodded “its nice to see you too” he chuckled. He knew her position and yet they seemed to be on friendly terms as she placed her hand on her hips. Sam opened his mouth to continue to speak a voice called out his name and the two turned to a man, his hair was combed back and his eyes met hers and she stared at him. He was handsome,  she would give him that.

“Right, sams told me alot about you, i've actually been looking forward to meeting you” she smiled at him as Torres nodded a sense of shyness coming from him. "He has??" Torres breathed out chuckling a fond smile grazing the woman's face

“Oh right I don't think you two have met” Sam started looking at his friend. As the man on his left just stood there for a moment as Sam glanced at him and then back at [reader] who stuck out her hand. "We havent" she started, “[Reader], [Reader] Cardinal.” She smiled as the man shook himself out of his gaze. “Uh-joaquin torres.” he breathed out as a grinned graced sams lips as [reader] looked at Torres. 

“hey..you think she liked me?” Torres asked as they watched her walk away as Sam looked down, chuckling.

The trio spent some hours talking before [Reader] bid farewell as she walked away claiming her feet hurt from standing.

“She's way out of your league.” 

The night was almost over, thankfully as her heels echoed in the empty halls and she sighed looking at the paintings that decorated the walls of random senators, historic events..

“now thats just true man” 

“Boring right?” A voice murmured and her head darted toward it, it was him. But she quickly regained her composure and smiled. 

“Congressmen Barnes” [Reader] Greeted, “we meet at last.” She added as Bucky who had his head turned to the painting turned and met her gaze. He nodded shifting his position. 

“I thought..you couldn't attend this anymore,” she asked gesturing around them “Aren't you too busy leading the New Avengers?” [Reader] asked tilting her head, her eyes examining his features as his attention stayed on her.

“You know why im here” he stated as she turned to him fully. 

“You don't like me” [Reader] noted grinning as she looked down and back up as Bucky's eyes narrowed. “I don't know you.” He replied firmly as she turned back to the painting. “That's fair.” She breathed out with a smile on her face “Is that why you came here?”

“Partly” he sighed, turning back to the painting. “from what I've seen you don't seem like Valentina” he murmured, attention to the painting. Had he been…watching her? [Reader] thought as she glanced at him she pursed her lips holding in a chuckle. “You're right.” She replied, “I'm not like her.” The woman added as she focused on Bucky. Before starting

“ But rest assured,” [Reader] said before holding out her hand, “you're in good hands.” she finished as his blue eyes met hers, and they flickered down to her hands, before closing his lips and reaching out, his hand meeting hers in a firm handshake as Bucky's eyes met hers again.

“Yeah, nice to be working with you

[pome-seed]

Guys I made an availability mistake on a job application for a job I really want 😔 nothing matters, life is over, I’m so stupid.

I’m just gonna write Bucky Barnes fanfiction until I die of being poor and jobless

IM DUMBBBB

[wasteland-writing]

Reblogged purely because this is something our WS does in every goddamn selfie

[marvelstoriesepic]

A Thousand Times Before

Pairing: Avenger!Bucky x Avenger!Reader

Summary: Bucky travels to an alternate universe for the sake of a mission. But he doesn’t expect to come face to face with a version of you that loves him, completely and openly. Back in his own world, he is left with a truth he can’t keep to himself anymore.

Word Count: 16.5k

Warnings: alternate universe; multiverse; so much yearning; identity confusion; emotional distress; guilt; self-worth struggles; unintentional non-consensual kiss (non-violent, due to mistaken identity); angst; heartbreak themes; slight mentions of Bucky’s past; self-preservation; self-doubt; Bucky is a man in love

Author’s Note: This ended up being longer than I intended. Anyway, I’d love to hear what you think! Also, I’ve been toying with the idea of writing an alternate version where the roles are flipped. This time the reader travels to another universe where Bucky and your counterpart are already a couple. Let me know if that’s something you’d be interested in reading too! I hope you enjoy ♡

Divider by @cafekitsune ♡

Masterlist

The air smells of memory.

As though someone took the world he knew, put it through a sieve, and rebuilt it with hands that were almost - but not quite - shaking.

Bucky walks slow, even though his boots echo down a corridor that used to be silent. Used to be. In his world, the east wing of the Avenger’s compound is always cold, sterile, mostly unused. Here, the lights are warmer. Someone’s installed those vintage bulbs. They buzz faintly and flicker around.

There is a plant in the hallway. A real one. He steps past it. Looks down. A ceramic pot painted with little sunflowers. A tiny sticker peeling off the side.

This version of the compound is lived-in.

It’s unnerving.

He hates how it makes him breathe more deeply as though he is listening for something it shouldn’t. How everything is just off. The couch in the lounge is turned at a different angle. The vending machine is missing. There is a lavender-scented candle burning on the coffee table.

He doesn’t trust this. He doesn’t trust any of it.

Not the way the ceiling seems too low or how the hallways echo the wrong sound the longer he walks. The floor beneath his boots is almost the same. But almost is what gets people killed. And he’s not in the business of dying again. Not even here. Not even in a world that’s supposed to be some mirror image of his own.

It smells of lemon disinfectant and something faintly floral as though someone sprayed a bottle of room freshener and hoped no one would notice the rot underneath.

He runs his metal fingers along the wall as he walks, lets the vibranium whir quietly against the plaster. Feels the microscopic grooves in the paint.

In his universe, there is a crack near the main stairwell. Sam swears he didn’t do it. Clint insists he did. Here, it’s perfectly smooth. That bothers him more than it should.

He takes in this slightly different world as though maybe this is all some trick of the multiverse, some clever illusion designed to fool the worn-down man with the metal arm and the hundred-year-old ghosts. But the walls are still painted in the same color - off-white, barely warmed by the overheads. The hallway lights flicker golden. As though someone decided the compound shouldn’t feel like a facility. As though someone decided it should feel like home. His breath still fogs faintly in the colder patches of the corridor.

This could still be his universe somehow.

Even though it isn’t.

And even though he doesn’t want it to be.

He never wanted to be part of the mission.

He said no. Loudly. Repeatedly. With many adjectives and lots of glares. It didn’t matter. Fury said he was the only one who could go. That this universe had some piece of tech - some half-mythical Howard Stark prototype that their Stark never got the chance to build.

Something with the potential to rewrite temporal coordinates with precision. To fix anomalies. Maybe even to bring back the ones they lost.

He sat through the debrief like a man sitting on a bomb. Not moving. Not breathing more than he needed to.

And Bucky noticed, the way he always did, that you never ask quite so many questions during debriefing - unless the mission involves him. And this time, it’s only him. So that meant more questions from you. More concern you didn’t even try to mask.

And it made his heart clench.

You asked how they knew this tech even existed in that timeline.

You asked why Tony couldn’t just build it himself to which the man gave you a look.

You asked what would happen if Bucky saw someone he knew. If he saw himself.

You asked what exactly Bucky was going to walk into and what was expected of him.

You asked how much they even knew about this universe.

Steve had exhaled, hands braced against the briefing room table, blue eyes clouded. “We don’t know much,” he admitted. “This universe is close to ours in structure, but details are limited. No major historical deviations. No sign of HYDRA still in power. No active wars. Just small shifts. Choices made differently.”

Bucky had watched your face tighten as if the lack of data itself was a warning.

“SHIELD had a file on it, but nothing concrete,” Steve went on. “Stark’s readings say it’s stable - no time fractures, no reality collapses. Just another version of what we know.”

Bucky had listened, fingers flexing against his metal wrist. Close to theirs, but not the same. And he wonders, not for the first or last time, what choices this other world made for him.

The mission is simple. Locate the prototype. Extract it. Avoid unnecessary contact with variants. And get the hell back before anything breaks - him, the people, the timeline.

Bucky stopped listening entirely after receiving all the information he needed.

He only registered you shifting beside him, and it was the tiniest movement, but he noticed. You always get fidgety when something bothers you. He wanted to say something, reassure you, but he didn’t truly know if he even got this.

He knew you were worried. Knew you were angry. The kind that made your eyes too quiet and your hands too still. The kind that made Bucky feel like he was walking through a house where all the lights had been turned off, but every door was open.

When Dr. Steven Strange opened that portal, you stood in the corner of the room, watching him and giving him that guarded look that said you better come back whole. He couldn’t meet your eyes for too long.

And when the world rippled and bent, and the air shimmered as though it might break, and he stepped forward like a man walking into the sun with his eyes closed, he thought of you.

The stairs groan beneath his boots, familiar but not.

Same wood. Same color. But smoother. As though someone took the time to sand down the scars.

In his universe, the fifth step has a chip where Steve dropped a dumbbell. Everyone tripped on it at least once. Here, it is whole. Perfect. No history at all.

That’s what gets him. The lack of damage. As though this place hasn’t lived the same kind of life.

He reaches the second floor and hesitates.

The hallway is dim. Only the lights overhead are on, flickering just slightly. He hates the buzzing. It’s like something alive and trapped.

He turns left.

Your room is down this hall.

Or - your room in his universe is down this hall. He shouldn’t assume anything. Things are wrong here. Tilted just a few degrees off center. The kind of wrong you don’t see until it’s already unmade you.

But his feet are already moving.

It’s not like he’s planning to go in.

He just wants to look. Maybe see how different this version of you really is. Maybe see how different he is, through your eyes.

He reaches your door at the end of the corridor. It’s cracked open. That’s weird. You usually always have it shut.

Your voice isn’t behind it. You’re not laughing, humming, ranting about something. There is only quiet.

He steps closer.

The doorframe is covered in tiny indentations. Not scratches - these are deliberate. Someone’s been marking height on the trim. Two sets of lines. One lower than the other. Two sets of initials scrawled in black ink. Yours. And his.

He knows it’s yours. Because he knows your height. Like a number carved into his bones.

He’s memorized the space you take up in a room. Not just how tall you are, but the way your presence fills the air.

He knows where your head would rest if you stood beside him. Knows it would reach just beneath his chin. Knows the sound your footsteps make when you enter a room, and how the air shifts when you’re near.

He has painted you in his mind a thousand times before.

Eyes open, eyes closed.

In dreams, in silence.

In the echo of a laugh you left behind on a Tuesday.

He’s mapped you in the kitchen. Measured, in his mind, which cabinets you can stand beneath without hitting your head. Which shelves you can’t reach so he can be there, quietly, to help. So he can hand you that mug you always squint up at, the one you pretend you don’t need.

He knows how your arm swings when you walk.

Knows the rhythm of your stride. Knows your pace.

And sometimes, not often enough to be suspicious, he lets his hand brush yours.

Lets his fingers catch a hint of your warmth.

It’s not an accident.

It never is.

He carries you like a story he hasn’t told yet.

And he is aching, aching, aching to write you down.

Bucky stares at the markings like they might reach out and touch him.

He brushes his fingers against one. The ink smudges slightly under the metal pad of his thumb. Fresh.

He doesn’t understand.

Why would he-?

No. It has to be a coincidence. Just a prank. A weird joke. Someone else with your handwriting, maybe. Another version of him. One who doesn’t carry his past like a loaded gun. Or it’s just some odd inside joke he never got to know about in his own universe.

Bucky moves to step back, but his eyes catch on something else.

To the right of the door, hanging crookedly, is a small, square canvas. Acrylic. Textured.

It’s a painting. He knows it immediately. Your style.

He’s seen you paint a thousand times in silence, your jaw clenched, music too loud in your headphones. You always say you paint when you can’t say something out loud. When the words get stuck in your chest and rot.

This painting is familiar. A half-sky. A steel arm. Fingers open, reaching toward a red string that trails off the edge of the frame.

He knows what it means. He knows you.

But the painting doesn’t belong here. Not like this. It’s intimate. Meant for someone who understands the weight in your throat when you speak through colors.

Someone like him.

His stomach twists.

Maybe it is him.

He doesn’t like that thought. Doesn’t like how it makes his heart trip over itself.

He takes a step into the room because his brain told him to and his body didn’t want to argue. And he stops breathing.

Because you're not there.

But the room is.

The room is here.

And that’s almost worse.

It’s too familiar.

Not identical, not exact, but similar enough to tear him wide open.

The walls are a different color. Now necessarily lights. But just not how he remembers it. The books on the shelf are in new places, different spines, rearranged lives.

But the couch is the same shape, the same worn-out comfort.

The window still drinks in the light the same way - slanted, soft, forgiving.

And there’s a sweater messily folded on your dresser.

A book, face-down on the cushion like someone meant to come back to it.

Like you were just here.

Like maybe, if he stays long enough, you’ll walk back into the frame of this almost-life.

He doesn’t touch anything.

He’s afraid to.

Because this version of the world remembers you.

The shape of your existence lives here - in shadows and coffee rings, in the faint scent of something sweet and floral and you.

He walks the room like an intruder in someone else’s dream, eyes cataloguing the differences, chasing the sameness.

He notices that the cabinet doors hang slightly crooked in the same way.

And for just a moment he swears he hears your voice in the next room.

But it’s only silence, mocking him.

He wants to sit.

He wants to stay.

Wants to believe that if he closes his eyes, you’ll be beside him again.

He knows it isn’t true.

This isn’t his world.

This isn’t his home.

And this isn’t his you.

But the ache doesn’t care about reality.

The ache believes in the melodic sound of your laughter and the empty seat beside him.

There’s a coat draped over the back of a chair.

His coat.

Not one like it.

His.

The leather’s too worn in the same places. The collar stretched where he grips it with his right hand. There’s even the tear near the cuff that you stitched together with dark red thread, muttering that you weren’t a tailor but you’d seen enough war movies to fake it.

He steps inside without meaning to.

The room smells like you.

It’s your scent - soft, unassuming, threaded through with something sweet. Like worn pages and old tea and maybe vanilla.

It’s the same smell that clings to your hoodie when you get closer to each other on cold stakeouts to warm the other. The same one that lingers on your gloves when you pass him something, and he holds them a moment too long just to feel the warmth you left behind.

There’s a mug on the nightstand with faded text that reads I make bad decisions and coffee.

He bought that for you. In his world. As a joke.

You still used it until the handle cracked, and then you glued it back together and kept using it anyway.

He reaches out for it.

Stops.

His hand is shaking.

Bucky turns slowly. And sees the photo.

It’s not framed. Just pinned to a corkboard on the far wall, beneath torn paper scraps and to-do lists written in your handwriting.

It’s the two of you.

He recognizes the background - Coney Island. A bench by the boardwalk. Sunlight in your hair. His arm around your shoulder. His face not looking at the camera, but at you.

You’re laughing. And he looks-

He looks in love.

Like he has everything he ever wanted.

His breath hitches.

He steps back.

Back again.

Like distance might undo the gravity of what he just saw.

His ears are ringing.

None of this makes sense. Not fully.

He is stepping into a space he should not recognize but does.

The walls are a little brighter than in his world. Pale blue. Like the sky on cold days. There’s a candle on the windowsill—burned low and forgotten. Its wax has dripped onto a saucer, hardened into a small, messy sculpture. The bed is half-made. A throw blanket in a tangled heap at the foot of it. He recognizes that blanket. You two fought over it last movie night and then ended up sharing it.

There’s another book lying face-down, this time on the mattress. A knife on the nightstand. A half-written grocery list in your handwriting with his name scrawled at the bottom next to coffee and razor blades and more apples.

He stares at the list too long. At his own name like it sits in the wrong place. Like it’s foreign and familiar all at once.

His heart makes a quiet, traitorous sound in his chest.

He shouldn’t be here.

This isn’t his room. It’s not his place. Not his world. He’s just a shadow slipping through someone else’s life.

The longer he stays, the more it feels like the walls are leaning in.

He has a job.

A mission.

A very, very clear objective and a limited window to complete it in. That’s the only reason he’s here. The only reason he agreed to this whole ridiculous plan.

He doesn’t belong to this life.

He doesn’t belong to you.

Not like this.

Especially not like this.

He steps back. Slow. Controlled. As if the room might lurch and pull him in again, keep him held tight inside the heat of it. The scent of lavender on your pillow. A half-drunk mug of something still faintly warm on the desk. A soft blanket, folded neatly over the back of the couch by the window. Woven wool, pale grey, fraying just at the corners. In his world, that blanket lives in the rec room. He draped it over your slumbering body a few times already after you fell asleep somewhere between the second and third act.

The room creaks as though it knows he’s not supposed to be here.

So he leaves.

Each footfall measured like a soldier retreating from a line of fire. Not because of danger.

Because of what it could mean.

He closes the door behind him. Doesn’t let it latch.

He is leaving your room because he has to.

Because he’s still Bucky Barnes, and he still has something to do with his hands that isn’t letting them hover uselessly over photographs he never shot, or standing in the middle of a space that smells like your skin and wondering how long it would take before he forgot this wasn’t real. Or wasn’t his.

The hallway is still and dim. It breathes around him, too familiar and too wrong all at once. Different lungs, but the same bone structure.

His boots scruff over the same tile. The grooves on the walls are the same, the small imperfections in the paint still visible where someone - Clint, maybe - banged a cart too hard against the corner and then tried to cover it up with exactly the wrong shade of touch-up.

There’s a duffle bag sitting outside the laundry chute with a name tag stitched in crooked red thread: WILSON. Of course. Even this Sam never takes his stuff all the way in.

And there is a vending machine. It stands in the wrong corner, but it too has a post-it note stuck to it - out of order, again, thanks Tony - with a penknife stabbed through it, just like Natasha used to do when the machine ate her protein bar credits.

These things shouldn’t exist here. But they do.

Everything feels so carefully replicated, as though this universe is a reflection cast on rippling water - almost right, except where it wavers.

The picture frames are all straight here. No one’s taped up drawings on the elevator doors. But the dent in the wall by the training room door is still there - Tony left it during a particularly aggressive dodgeball game. And the pillow on the corner of the couch is still upside down. Steve never fixes it.

Someone’s sweatshirt is slung over the railing. Sam’s. Same one he wore for three weeks straight after the Lagos op. It still smells like burned rubber and that weird detergent Sam insists is “eco-friendly but manly.”

The common room has a blanket folded over the arm of the couch.

It’s yours.

You always fold it the same way. Two halves, then thirds, then smoothed flat.

The corners of his mouth twitch. Not a smile. Just muscle memory of one.

He walks slower now. Like he’s afraid he’ll wake something up.

He turns down the south hall, toward the kitchen.

He tells himself it’s for the layout. That he’s retracing steps, building a map in his head, keeping sharp like they trained him to. But really it’s you. It’s always you. He knows you’re here, somewhere, and if he turns the wrong corner too fast he might see you in a way he isn’t ready for. Or worse - see you in a way he’ll never forget.

His hand curls into a fist. Flesh and metal both.

The light changes first.

The kitchen here is bigger. Airier. The windows seem to stretch wider than they should, the frame redone in something softer than steel. Someone left the lights low, warm glimmers buzzing faintly above, full of melancholy chords.

And then he freezes. Everything in him turns to stone.

He stops breathing.

Because there are you.

Standing with your back to him.

You are in fuzzy socks, standing at the counter, shoulders relaxed, a pot simmering on the stove, and a sway in your movements that hit him so hard his throat tightens. You shift your weight slightly, hip against the edge of the counter, your hand rising to tuck your hair behind your ear.

The way the light hits you from behind is exactly the same.

You are moving through a rhythm you don’t know he’s watching.

You’re cooking something - he doesn’t know what, can’t smell it through the barrier of this aching distance - but it all is so heartbreakingly familiar. The tilt of your head as you read the label. The absent little sway in your hips as you stir something in the pan.

It’s domestic.

Effortlessly soft.

The kind of moment he’s never had, but has imagined a thousand times before.

His body goes very still. Maybe if he moves, the moment might shatter.

But it cleaves him open.

Because you move the same.

You move the way you do in his world - as though every room bends slowly toward you. As though you don’t know how much of your soul you leave behind in your trail. As though the air makes space for you because it wants to. Because it has to.

He watches.

Rooted to the floor.

This is doing something brutal to him. Seeing you here like this, in this soft golden kitchen that smells like tomatoes and thyme and something slow-cooked with patience and love, tucked into his shirt as though it doesn’t tear his heart apart.

You’re not just wearing it to steal warmth or tease him, the way you’ve done before in his world - tugging on his hoodie after a long mission, smirking when he raises an eyebrow, pretending it was an accident. You always returned it too quickly. Always laughed too loudly when he was too nonchalant about it. Always looked away too fast.

But here. Here you wear it as though you truly mean to.

Here you stir sauce in his shirt and sway slightly to a song you don’t know you’re humming and taste the spoon as though this is just another Saturday. Here, the shirt is not a stolen thing.

The hem skims your thighs. The collar is stretched slightly. The cotton even moves in your rhythm. His name is ghosted into the shape of you, etched along your silhouette. It’s almost too much. It’s absolutely too much.

Your movements are familiar in the way only time can make a person. And God, you move the same way. The same way. Like the version of you he left behind an hour ago. Fluid. Quiet. Self-contained. You hum under your breath, just barely.

He feels it like a bruise forming under his ribs.

His hand curls at his side. Metal fingers flex.

You don’t see him.

He’s not ready for you to. He knows he shouldn’t let you see him.

Not here. Not like this. Not when you’re standing in a kitchen that looks like the one you always complained was too small, in a shirt that is his - or the other Bucky’s - cooking with your whole body curled in that same subtle tension like you’re thinking about something else entirely.

And for one breathless second, he forgets.

He forgets this isn’t his kitchen.

That this isn’t his world.

That the you standing there isn’t the one who left a hair tie on his wrist last Wednesday.

That you’re not the one who laughed at him for not knowing how to use your espresso machine but then proceeded to teach him with that sweet voice of yours he doesn’t mind drowning in.

But God, he wants to walk across the room. Wants to slide his arms around your waist. Rest his chin on your shoulder. Breathe in your scent and feel your heartbeat under his hands.

Because he’s seen you like this before.

In his own kitchen, in his own universe.

Not often. Just enough to be dangerous.

You, in fuzzy socks. You, humming softly. You, squinting into a pot like it might confess its secrets.
You, looking over your shoulder and catching him staring.

Smirking. Amused. But with a warmth in your eyes.

And now, he just watches.

This version of you doesn’t turn around. Doesn’t feel him standing there, made of want and memory and too much tenderness for a heart that was never meant to carry this much.

He grips the doorframe.

Tries to swallow the pain.

Because this is what he’s always wanted, but it isn’t his.

And it won’t be.

But he can’t stop looking.

He knows he should move. Now.

He’s not supposed to linger.

Not supposed to look.

Not supposed to feel.

He’s a shadow in this world, a breath not meant to be heard. A presence designed to pass unnoticed.

But you-

God.

You are gravity and he is weak against it.

You are the glitch in every rule, the exception in every universe.

And he can’t help it.

He looks.

He stays.

Because there is no version of reality where he walks past you untouched.

You are the only thing in this place that hasn’t changed.

The only thing that feels right.

And that’s the worst part.

Because you feel like home.

And you’re not his.

You might never be.

But he stands there, selfish and still, pretending the silence could make him invisible. Pretending this version of you isn’t real. That your shape, your voice, your hands wouldn’t undo him in ways the war never could.

You reach for the spice rack, standing on your toes just a little, the hem of the oversized shirt lifting slightly. His name is written in the way the fabric hangs off your frame. It’s branded into this whole place.

He watches you like a man watches fire from the other side of glass - warmed, lit, and ruined all at once. You move like morning through him - and he, all dusk and dust, knows he is never meant to touch such light.

You wear that shirt on your shoulders as though it is normal for you. As though you want it to be there.

Bucky watches it stretch across the curves of a body he’s only ever worshiped in dreams.

You still feel like you, he thinks and the thought is so sudden and so violent that he has to step back - just a fraction of an inch, just enough to pretend he didn’t feel it, just enough to pretend it doesn’t mean something.

He doesn’t understand how this version of you still reads like poetry he’s already memorized.

He backs away, so slowly, he wonders if time might forgive him for the moment. For his hesitation to leave.

For the way, he just stands there and watches you as though you are the last good thing in the world.

As though you are the world. His world.

You turn, slow, stirring spoon still in hand. You haven’t seen him yet. You’re focused, brow furrowed just slightly, lower lip caught between your teeth, and he knows he should get the hell away from here.

But he is frozen in place. His muscles aren’t working.

He sees the angle of your cheek, the line of your neck, the quick twitch of your nose as though you’ve caught a scent you know too well.

And then you look up.

You see him.

Bucky’s mind is running on empty cells.

Your whole face changes. Clouds lifting. Sun rising. Your smile is instant. As though seeing him is something your body wants to do.

Everything in you brightens. As though the sun cracked open inside your chest. Your whole body jolts. Just a fraction. In surprise, delight. As though seeing him is something that rearranges the air in your lungs and makes it easier to breathe.

He is not prepared for the way you breathe his name.

“Buck-” your voice is thick with shock and joy and something lighter than either. “You’re back.”

He doesn’t move. Can’t.

The word back rattles in his ears. Echoes. Feels like a lie made of gold. He is not back. He is not yours. Not in this life. Not in this room. Not in the way you somehow seem to think he is.

You don’t give him time to speak. You don’t give him space to even think.

Because you’re already closing the distance between you, fast and sure-footed, and he has just enough sense left in him to realize he should say something, before you launch yourself into his chest, arms flung wide, a soft gasp of excitement still spilling from your mouth.

You collide with him hard and certain and unapologetic, and your arms wind around his neck as though they’ve done this a thousand times. So easy with him. Knowing the shape of him.

He stiffens. Every muscle in his body locks up, heart ricocheting against his ribs. He chokes on his breath.

He’s too overwhelmed with this situation to hug you back. His arms stay frozen at his side. His fingers twitch, trying to reach for you but remembering they shouldn’t.

You’re warm. You’re so warm.

You smell like that candle on your windowsill. Like a version of comfort he hasn’t earned.

“Why didn’t you tell me you were back?” you murmur, voice muffled as you bury yourself into the crook of his neck, full of a joy so honest it makes his entire ribcage squeeze the life out of him. “I thought you were still stuck over there. I was starting to get worried. Were you trying to surprise me? Because you definitely surprised me.”

Bucky can’t speak. He can’t do a single thing and that’s absolutely pathetic. He wants to say something clever or distant or safe, but his mouth is a graveyard and the words are bones. He’s not sure he even remembers how to use them anymore.

Your breath fans across his collarbone, your nose brushing his jaw, and it’s too much.

The feeling of you against him is unbearable. You fit. Of course, you do. His body knows you, even if his brain is screaming that this is wrong, that this is not the life he is living, that this version of you is not his to touch.

But you don’t know that. You don’t hesitate. Your hands slide up his back. One of them tangles in the hair at the nape of his neck. The other rests against the curve of his shoulder. His flesh shoulder.

He feels like glass. Like a single breath could rip him to shreds.

You pull back just enough to look at him.

There is something tender in your eyes. Something known. Something that sees him without flinching. You’re beaming. And he is blinded.

You’re looking at him as though he’s something you loved for years and known down to the marrow.

And then, so quickly, so confidently - you kiss him.

Bucky freezes.

All the air leaves his lungs.

His heart stutters in his chest.

Your lips meet his as though the air between you has gravity, as though you have done this before, soft and sure, knowing how he likes it. You kiss him as though you’ve kissed him a thousand times and a thousand more.

Bucky is a rigid wall, thunderstruck.

But he doesn’t stop you.

He should. He knows he should. The second your hands touched his face, he should have stepped back. Should have told you the truth. Should have warned you that this isn’t him. Not the right one. That the man you think you’re kissing is a ghost wearing someone else’s memories.

But he doesn’t. He lets you. For a heartbreaking moment. Lets his mouth press to yours for the span of a beat and a half. Lets the warmth of you crack the ice he’s been carrying in his chest for too long.

Your lips are warm, soft, sweet, tasting of honey and cinnamon and nostalgia and the imaged version of a dream he’s buried too deep to name, one he’s never dared to reach for but still lingers in his bones. Bucky doesn’t know if he’s breathing or if that became something irrelevant.

He lets you press into him as though the whole world hasn’t changed, as though this you is not a stranger wearing your skin, your voice, your tenderness. And for a second, a small and selfish, shattering second, he melts.

His muscles go slack and his eyes fall closed and the universe falls into place. Your lips on his feel like relief, like the end of war, like something he didn’t earn. He lets himself sink into it, into you.

You kiss him as though you know him. As though you know the hollow places and where they go. As though your body is working off muscle memory forged from love he was never around long enough to deserve.

Your hands are on his face and you’re kissing him as though this means something and he wants to pull away, he does, but not for one split-second. He folds like wax in flames, pliant and helpless under your affection.

His heart stutters - skips, crashes, burns.

Your body is pressing forward as though it’s coming home.

His mouth moves with yours, slow and stunned and melted, like a man learning to breathe in a language he doesn’t speak.

This is what he has imagined. This is what has haunted the spaces behind his eyes when he lets his guard down. He has imagined this. Wondered what your breath would taste like when it caught between your mouths, how your fingers would feel fisted in his hair, how it might feel to be wanted by you - openly, without hesitation, without shame.

But then you whisper against his mouth, soft and breathless and full of joy.

“God, I missed you.”

And everything collapses.

The words strike like ice water down his spine. It’s like being shot. He grows tense again. His eyes snap open. His mind catches up to his heart. The sweetness goes sour in his mouth. The warmth becomes poison under his skin. Because it isn’t real. This isn’t real.

You’re not his.

Not his to kiss. Not his to miss him. Not his to touch him with that bright look in your eyes as though he is part of your story.

You think he’s your Bucky. The one who - as Bucky would imagine - kissed you on every hallway in this place, whenever he could. The one who knows which side of the bed you sleep on. The one who earned your trust, your touch, your history.

And so he breaks the sky.

He pulls away - rips himself out of paradise with shaking hands and a jaw clenched so tight it might snap. The breath that leaves him is ragged, torn.

Every muscle in his body is tight. This is not your kiss. Not yours to give or his to take. Not when you don’t know. Not when you think he’s someone else.

And even though it’s you - your warmth, your voice, your heartbeat fluttering against his chest - it’s not the version of you he’s imagined this with.

And it’s not right.

The guilt punches him all at once, shame and grief and confusion he’s never quite learned to survive. He recoils - not even fully on purpose - but instinct, instinct that tells him he has stolen something you didn’t offer him.

He’s just a stranger behind familiar eyes.

You freeze. Blink at him. Confused. Concerned.

Your smile falters. Disappears.

His chest heaves once, twice, too fast, not able to breathe properly with your taste still caught in his mouth. His hands curl into fists at his side, trying to remember what they are for.

And then he sees it - your worry folding into something smaller, something more ashamed.

And it murders him in slow motion, one heartbeat at a time.

Your hands drop away from his face and flutter against your lips for the smallest second as though maybe you’re the one who crossed a line.

And he watches, helpless, as the light behind your eyes dims.

You take a tiny step back, shoulders inching inwards as though you’re suddenly unsure of yourself.

And then your eyes widen, and the guilt spills out of you now, sharp and immediate.

“Buck, I-” you start, your voice soft and hesitant. “I’m sorry. That was… I shouldn’t have just- I didn’t mean to- God, you probably needed a second to just settle, and I-” you trail off and take another step back as though you think you hurt him.

Your face crumples, not dramatically, not completely. But enough to look a little wounded. Vulnerable in that way you only let him see when no one else is around. Even here. Even in this life that isn’t his.

It’s killing him.

That pain in your eyes. The sheen of doubt and confusion that he put there.

You wrap your arms around yourself, retreating inward, your expression far too close to shame.

His chest caves as though something vital just got torn out, and his body hasn’t caught up yet.

Because even if you are not his - you are you. And hurting you, even by accident, even like this, feels like peeling the skin of his ribs.

He feels it in the hollow beneath his ribs, a wound that won’t stop bleeding.

“No!” he forces out quickly, voice low and rough and all wrong. “Hey- no, no, you didn’t- You weren’t- I’m not-”

But he doesn’t know what to say.

He wants to tell you it’s okay, that you didn’t do anything wrong, that it’s him, it’s all him, it’s always him, it’s never you.

He wants to scream that his bones are made of want, that his blood sings only your name, that he is drowning in everything you don’t know you’ve given him.

But none of this is simple. None of it is clean.

And all he does is stand there.

Breath shaking.

Heart breaking.

Hands curled so tightly to keep from reaching.

Because you didn’t give this kiss to him, not knowing who he was. You gave it to the man you think he is. The man you trust.

And he accepted it anyway. Let it happen. For just a split second, but still, he let himself have it.

He feels sick.

And now you look like you’re folding in on yourself, and all he wants in the world is to pull you close and undo every second of pain.

“I just got excited,” you say timidly, even softer now, eyes dropping to the kitchen counter. “I missed you and I didn’t- I thought you’d- Never mind. I’m sorry.”

You’re already turning away, trying to tuck the moment back into yourself, trying to pretend it didn’t just break the air between you. As though you haven’t just handed him a piece of your heart and watched him flinch from it.

And Bucky feels like the worst kind of monster.

Because it’s not your fault. This version of you, who somehow but clearly loves him, who thought she was greeting the man who has kissed her a thousand times and more. Who thought this was welcome. Who probably counted down the days until he walked through that door.

He knows because he does the same thing although his you and him aren’t even a thing.

Because in his world, you’re his friend. Just that. A friend with soft eyes and sharper wit, someone who argues about popcorn toppings and sings loudly in the kitchen when you know he needs some cheering up. You’ve patched him up after missions. You’ve watched old movies with him in silence, both of you staring too long at the screen and not long enough at each other. You’ve fallen asleep on his shoulder. You’ve tucked his hair behind his ear when it stuck to his cheek after a nightmare. You’ve told him - more than once - that you’re here for him.

But you’ve never kissed him.

You’ve never touched him as though you owned the moment.

You’ve never stood in his clothes and cooked dinner for the version of him who let himself be yours.

And god, he wants to hate this version of himself. This man who found the courage to step forward when he only hovered on the edge. Who earned the right to be held by his dream girl like a homecoming.

And now you are ashamed. Now you are hurt.

Because he couldn’t be the right Bucky.

He steps forward, frantic, needing, desperate to fix it, to say something, anything that would wipe that hurt look off your face.

“No- no, hey,” he rasps, voice frayed. His hands are hovering. He wants to touch you. He wants to hold your face in his palms and make this better. “It’s not your fault. It’s not you. I just… I mean, I didn’t think-” He knows he’s not making this better at all right now.

He sighs, mouth open but language failing him, and he scrubs a hand over his jaw as though he can erase the hesitation you saw there.

You search his face, your eyes too deep.

A trembling nod.

“Okay,” you say. “I just thought- I don’t know what I thought. I was just really happy to see you. But I should’ve given you a moment.”

And there it is.

The softness.

The part of you he has always tried to guard. The one he’d go back to Hydra to protect. The one that makes his chest ache and his hands shake at his sides.

He wants to tell you everything. The truth. The mission. That he’s not the man you think he is.

He almost does.

But his throat is choked up.

“I’m sorry,” you whisper, and that only breaks him in a new way.

Because you think you did something wrong.

“No,” he starts again, firmer this time, softer too. “You don’t need to apologize, sweetheart. I-” he hesitates, and you see it. “I missed you, too.”

He screwed up. Completely.

You bite your lip, unsure. Your eyes flick down to your shirt. His shirt. Not really his shirt. But Bucky’s shirt. You tug at the hem as though it suddenly doesn’t belong to you anymore.

And Bucky knows that this moment will haunt him long after he leaves this world. Long after he goes back to the version of you who wears his hoodies just to tease, who touches him only in passing, who is his friend despite him wishing for you to greet him the same way this you greets her Bucky. For the rest of his life.

You look at him as though he’s a wound.

As though he’s something tender and broken and half-open, and not in the way that frightens you but in the way that makes you reach for the first aid kit. As though you’ve seen the blood already, and you are not afraid to get your hands dirty to make him whole again.

Your voice turns softer now. Maybe trying not to shake the walls around him. Like you’ve already seen him flinch once and you’re afraid of making it happen again. He can hear the thread of caution in your throat, stretched thin with concern.

“Buck,” you say, slow, quiet. “Are you okay?” you ask and it’s not just a question. It’s a doorway. A key turned in a lock he hasn’t let anyone touch. You’re peering through the walls he built up as though you have done it before. Maybe you know all his hiding places. Maybe you’ve kissed every scar on his soul and memorized the way his silences mean different things.

But not this version of him.

Not here. Not now.

And it does something sharp to him.

Because he’s not okay. He is a thousand feet below the surface, lungs full of water and salt and regret. He is standing in a version of his life that is too soft for the callouses on his hands, and you are looking at him as if he means something to you, as if he still matters even after he’s flinched from your kiss, after he’s stood there in a borrowed skin, giving nothing in return.

He wants to say yes. Wants to lie because it would be kinder. Because maybe it would make your forehead smooth out and your mouth curl back up and your shoulders drop from where they’ve crept up near your ears. But the words catch in his throat. He can’t swallow them. He can’t spit them out.

You step closer, slowly now, more careful than before, and the guilt rises more than ever.

“Do you need anything?” you ask, as though you’ve asked him this a thousand times before. “Water? Food? A shower? A-” you falter, “- a second to breathe?”

Your eyes are so gentle he could cry. You’re hurting and you’re still soft with him, still reaching across this invisible crack in the earth, still offering care with both hands like it won’t burn you if he doesn’t take it.

He doesn’t deserve this.

He doesn’t deserve you.

Not when he’s not the man who earned the right to walk through that door and be met with your affection like sunlight. Not when you looked at him like a miracle and he gave you nothing back but a statue.

His hands remain in fists. His chest is too tight. Too small. His own skin is too loud.

“I’m fine,” he answers. Too fast. Too clipped. He regrets it instantly.

Your face drops a little, enough for him to feel it all over again. Another weight, another reminder that he is ruining something delicate, something not meant for him.

“Oh,” you murmur, nodding too quickly, stepping back as though your warmth was a mistake. “Okay.”

And there it is.

That thing he can’t stand.

That thing you do - both of you, all versions of you - when you feel shut out. That pull inward, that retreat behind your own ribs, as though maybe you’d overstepped, and now you need to fold yourself small enough not to take up space.

It crushes him.

Because he made you feel that way.

He made you feel as though you’re making it worse by caring.

He swallows hard, sorrow burning down his throat.

He doesn’t deserve your tenderness. He doesn’t deserve your care. He doesn’t deserve the way you’re moving again, back to the counter, shoulders tense. You’re trying to give him space and comfort in the same breath and it hurts to watch.

You stir something in the pan. Wipe your hands off a towel that looks as though it’s been used too many times. Domestic. Familiar. This life is familiar, too much so, and he is standing in the middle of it like a trespasser.

“I’m almost done here,” you note sweetly, glancing back at him with that look - gentle and worried and wounded. “If you do want something.”

You say it as though you’ve fed him before. As though he likes your cooking. As though this is something you fall into easily, the kitchen your common ground, your voice echoing off the same cabinets.

Bucky can feel his heart cave in.

You’re still looking at him like that. As though he’s someone you’d give your last spoonful of soup to. As though he isn’t just standing there like a coward with your kiss still on his mouth and your concern sitting in the hollow of his chest.

Even when he pulled away, even when he didn’t say a damn word, you didn’t get angry. You didn’t accuse him of anything. You just worried. And you’re still here. Still cooking. Still offering pieces of yourself like they’re nothing when they mean everything.

It makes him feel like a thief.

Because he’s not your Bucky. And he doesn’t know what yours did to earn you, but he can’t possibly live up to it.

His guilt is a creature now - gnawing and breathing heavy in his chest, pacing in circles behind his ribs. He feels it crawling through him, scraping at the back of his throat, making it hard to speak, hard to swallow. You are being careful with him, and all he can think about is how he should have stopped the kiss the second you leaned in.

You wouldn’t have kissed him if you knew who he really was.

And still, he wants to say yes.

Wants to sit at the kitchen table as though he belongs. Wants to take the plate you’d hand him and eat every last bite and listen to your stories and pretend just for a moment that this is his.

But it’s not.

It’s yours.

And it’s his job to leave it untouched.

“I’m good,” he lies, voice a gravel-dragged croak.

You pause, spoon in hand, frowning softly.

He hates that look.

That little line between your brows. The tilt of your head. Maybe you know he’s not telling the truth but don’t want to press. Maybe you’d rather hold the silence in your hands than make him bleed more words than he has.

“Okay,” you say again, quiet but still open, still gentle. “Just let me know if that changes.”

And you turn back to your pan, shoulders remaining to stay curled in. Like a window closing just enough to keep the cold out.

And Bucky just stands there.

Mouth dry. Hands shaking. Jaw tight. Chest full of something that feels like grief and guilt and anguish all tangled up in barbed wire.

And you’re cooking for a man who doesn’t exist in your world.

And the worst part - the part that scrapes down the back of his throat - is that he wishes he could deserve you.

He wishes this was real.

He wishes it were him.

He wishes it more than he’s wished for anything in his life since he lost it.

Since he became something else, since he forgot his own name, since his hands were turned against the world, against himself. Since all he’s done is survive.

He watches you like a man starving for sunlight. Terrified it might disappear if he blinks too long.

The way your shoulders move as you stir. The curl of your fingers around the wooden spoon. The tuck of hair behind your ear. The shift of your weight from one foot to the other.

He watches you move like he’s memorizing. As though this is the last time he’ll see you in motion. Like your movements are things he can bottle and carry with him, tucked deep into some pocket where the world can’t steal it. Where time can’t take it. Where even regret has no reach.

Your fingers fuss over something inconsequential now. Adjusting the position of a mug that didn’t need to be moved, opening a drawer, and then closing it again. You’re pretending not to look at him but he sees the way your eyes keep falling over, the way you keep folding and unfolding yourself. You’re waiting. Giving him the space he didn’t ask for and that he doesn’t actually want but knows he should take. Giving him something kinder than he’s ever learned to give himself.

And you are so familiar. You’re the same here. Even in this place that’s slightly sideways and tinted in colors, he doesn’t recognize. You move the same. You speak the same. You care the same way.

Even if your kindness isn’t meant for him.

Even if your kiss was meant for a version of him he doesn’t even understand.

Because this Bucky - the one you seem to love here - he must have done something right. He must have looked at you one day and not looked away. He must have let himself have you. He must have been brave enough to reach for you with both hands and hold on.

Bucky doesn’t know how to be that man.

He wants to be.

But he doesn’t know how.

Not in his own world. Not where he loves you from afar and pretends that’s protection. Where he swallows the way you laugh like it’s medicine and doesn’t let it show on his face. Where he listens to your questions in briefings - always you, always asking the most, as though you know people better than they know themselves - and he lets the sound of your voice guide him through the fog in his head like a rope he can follow back home.

But he never says anything. Never answers unless he has to. Never tells you how often he thinks about you, about your hands and your hair and your smell and the way your eyes find his in a crowd like a lighthouse built just for him.

Because what would he even say?

Hey, I can’t sleep unless I replay the way you laughed when Sam dropped popcorn all over the floor last month. I still have the napkin you folded into a crane at that terrible diner. I know the shape of your handwriting better than my own.

And what would you say to that?

Would you smile?

Would you run?

He doesn’t know. He’ll never know. Because he never asked. Because he never tried.

But this Bucky did.

And now this is the price.

Standing in the compound’s kitchen that smells of roasted garlic and too many things he’s never had. Watching you move around as though this is all so very familiar to you.

He wonders if you’d greet him like this every day if he were yours. If you were his.

If you’d light up like that every time like he was coming come and not just showing up, arms open, voice warm, like there was no place he could be safer than here with you.

If you’d wear his shirts as though they are yours because of what he means to you, not because they are soft or convenient or too clean not to steal.

He aches with the idea of it.

He wants this.

He wants you.

And not just in the sharp pain that lives under his ribs. Not just in the sleepless nights and the imagined conversations. Not just in the way he stares too long when you’re laughing or how he makes excuses to sit beside you on the couch.

He wants this.

You, warm and open and lit up from the inside. You, the way you could be if you saw him like this. If you let yourself. If he ever earned the right for you to let yourself.

But he hasn’t. He knows that.

He’s just your friend. The one you trust with your coffee order and your spare key and the heavy things you don’t want to talk about until 2 am. The one you steal clothes from, but always give them back because they don’t actually belong to you. The one you fall asleep beside during late movies without worrying about what it means because it doesn’t mean anything. Not to you.

Not like it means to him.

And still, he always watches. From doorways. From shadowed corners of rooms that dim the moment you leave them. Not to possess you - but because to look away would be a small death he cannot bear.

You laugh, and he holds the sound like contraband. You glance past him, and he lets it wound him sweetly. He’ll love you like that forever - at a distance, in silence, in awe. A man carved hollow by devotion, wearing his yearning like a prayer no god will answer.

And this version of you belongs to someone.

Even if it’s just a different version of him, it’s not him. Not this one. Not the one still lost in the burden of everything he’s done. The one who still wonders if the blood on his hands will ever wash off. The one who doesn’t know how to be soft.

He doesn’t know what the other Bucky did to deserve this version of you. Doesn’t know how he got so lucky. Doesn’t know what he offered you, what words he spoke when you were doubting yourself, afraid of being too much.

He’s not sure if he even knows this Bucky. It sounds weird as fuck. But maybe he doesn’t. Because it seems impossible to Bucky that this guy actually managed to get his girl. To get you.

Though he sure as hell would start a fight if the other him ever took this for granted. If he ever walked through this kitchen distracted or tired or in a bad mood and missed the way you smile when you think he’s not looking. If he ever left you waiting too long.

Bucky thinks he’d kill to have what that punk has.

And he hates himself for that.

But he can’t help but watch you, and it feels like the axis of something turning. Like time folding in on itself to offer him one brief, borrowed breath of what could have been.

It feels like being kissed by a future he lost, and forgiven by a present he never dared to ask for.

Because he knows that if you knew his thoughts, if you knew what he is feeling right now, you’d feel betrayed. You’d feel wronged. Because this wasn’t yours to give and it wasn’t his to want and now you’re both tangled in something made of shadows and parallel paths that should never have crossed.

But you’re here. And he’s here. And the moment still smells of cinnamon and citrus and something sweet, like safety, like you.

And he can’t stop wanting.

He wants it so badly he feels like a child in his chest. Like a boy in Brooklyn again, heart too big, hands too empty. Wanting something too beautiful for his fingers. Afraid to touch it in case he ruins it.

He wants this kitchen, this quiet, this life. He wants to be the Bucky who you wrap your arms around without thinking. Without hesitation. The one you miss. The one you think about. The one you care about so deeply. The one you kiss without asking because of course he wants you to.

He wants to be the one you light up for.

He wants it so bad it hurts.

But you are too soft for the ruin of his hands. Too bright for the rooms he lives in. You drink from fountains he was never invited to approach, speak in tones that his rusted soul cannot mimic.

And this is gutting him. To know the shape of your intimate kindness, the tilt of your adoring smile, the poetry of your presence - yet remain nothing more than a silent apostle to your orbit.

And maybe that’s why he finally moves. Why he tears himself away, footfalls too loud in the silence, heart thudding wildly in his chest.

He can’t stay here, not with you standing in the soft yellow light looking like everything he’s ever tried not to need.

He clears his throat, tries to make his voice sound normal, even though nothing about him feels human right now.

Your eyes lift to his. Wary. Still warm. Still worried. Still too much.

“I should, uh,” he mutters, nodding toward the hallway. “I’ve gotta take a shower.”

He bites his lip in frustration at himself.

Your lip twitches. Tugs down ever so slightly. It splits him open.

“Okay,” you say, quiet. There is disappointment in your tone, you weren’t able to overshadow. “You’ll tell me if you need anything?”

He nods too fast. Too tight. “Yeah.”

And then he leaves.

Because if he doesn’t, he’s going to do something worse than kiss you back.

He’s going to beg.

And he knows he has already taken too much.

And he needs to turn away.

Because he has something to do.

Because this world isn’t his. And he wasn’t sent here to collect the storyline he’s too afraid to build on his own.

He’s here for a mission.

He wasn’t sent here to linger in your doorway and let his bones dissolve into longing.

He walks away with you still behind him. He feels your gaze on his skin and with every step, it’s like he’s leaving something behind he’ll never quite be able to touch again.

He almost turns around.

Almost says your name.

Almost asks what this Bucky did - how he said it first, how he reached for you, what it took.

But he doesn’t.

Because he doesn’t get to ask.

So he keeps walking, heart in his throat, your taste still on his lips, and the echo of your smile carved into his spine like something sacred he was never meant to keep.

****

“Did you run into anyone while you were there?”

Steve’s question comes as casually as a bomb dropped from the sky.

Voices rise and fall in the conference room - wooden chairs squeaking under shifting weight, pens clicking, someone’s fingers drumming absently on the table.

The room is too bright. The lights overhead white and clinical, burning a little too harshly through his eyes and down into the back of his skull.

The air smells like ozone and burnt coffee. The kind that’s been sitting in the pot too long, scorched at the edges.

Bucky sits at the far end. Back against the chair but not relaxed, never relaxed, spine too straight, jaw too tight, metal fingers tapping once against the glass of his water before he clenches his hand and stills it.

And he knew this was coming.

Knew from the moment Strange opened that cursed slit in the fabric of the universe and Bucky stepped through like he was boarding a train to nowhere. Knew the second he saw your face - your face, but not yours - that this would catch up with him. That this would unravel under fluorescent lights and scrutiny.

Every muscle in his body coiled tighter. A reflex. A learned thing. His mouth is already dry.

The table is crowded with Avengers, coffee cups clinking, files half-open and untouched because no one is really looking at the paper.

The prototype sits in the center of the table, carefully sealed inside one of Tony’s vacuum-shielded cases. A long-forgotten Howard Stark fever dream, something meant to bend energy fields into weaponized gravity. Or something. It doesn’t matter.

They have it. He got it.

But that’s not what anyone is talking about right now.

Not when Sam is already side-eyeing him. Not when Doctor Strange is seated in his dark robes like the warning label on a grenade, fingertips tented, waiting. Not when you’re sitting two chairs down - his version of you - and you’re watching him with that same knitted expression you always wear when something doesn’t sit right.

“Bucky,” Strange says, voice low and still too loud. “I need to know. Did you encounter anyone significant while you were there? Interacting with alternate selves is risky. Prolonged exposure can ripple. If you spoke to someone who knows you-”

“I know the damn rules,” Bucky mutters, sharper than he meant to, and instantly hates the way your brows lift at the sound of it.

He rubs a hand across the back of his neck. Tries to breathe. His body is still holding something that didn’t belong to him. Your smile. Your voice. The feel of your lips, pressed to his like they had every right to be there. Like you knew him.

He can’t stop thinking about you.

He doesn’t want to talk about it.

He dreads talking about it.

“There was someone,” he says, and the room quiets.

You sit a little straighter. Sam leans forward. Even Clint lowers his cup.

He can feel you watching him.

You, his version of you, sitting across the table with your arms crossed and your head tilted just enough to catch the shadows under his eyes. The real you. The only important you. And it’s so difficult to just look at you because he swears there’s a phantom echo still lingering in his chest. Of another you. Of another kitchen full of light.

“Who?” Strange asks.

Bucky exhales slowly, eyes fixed on the table. The grain of it. The scratch just under his knuckle. He imagines digging his fingers into it, splinters biting through skin, anything to ground himself.

“You,” He meets your eyes when he finally says it, and it feels like swallowing gravel. “I saw her.”

You blink.

“You ran into Y/n?” Sam asks, something like a smirk in his voice.

Bucky nods once. It feels like rust grinding his neck.

He can’t look up anymore. Can’t look at you.

He doesn’t need to look to know your breath has caught. He can feel it in the air. The absence of it. Like the moment before thunder.

He pushes through.

“She was there. She saw me.” His jaw clenches, his fists curl under the table.

Bruce exhales, pushing up his glasses. “That’s not ideal.”

Tony makes a sharp noise in his throat.

“Did you talk to her?” Strange inquiries, voice tighter now, more urgent. And Bucky has to refrain himself from wincing.

He sees you shifting in your seat in his peripheral vision.

“Yeah,” he sighs, quieter now. “We, uh- we talked.”

Silence.

Strange’s eyes are boring through him. “How close did you get?”

Sam leans forward. Bucky doesn’t look at him.

You’re staring at him now. Open. Quiet. You haven’t said a word. Your silence feels worse than anything else.

“I don’t think that matters-” Bucky starts, but Strange interrupts.

“It matters exactly. If she saw you, if you talked, if you touched, if anything that could destabilize your emotional tether occurred-”

Bucky laughs, but it’s hollow, breathless. Rotten. “What the hell is an emotional tether?”

“It’s you,” Strange answers simply. “And her. On a metaphysical level. The same person in different timelines can act as anchors. Or explosives.”

“Jesus,” Bucky mumbles, dragging a hand down his face.

His palms won’t stop sweating.

He hasn’t felt this kind of sick since HYDRA used to strap wires to his temples and ask him how many fingers they’d need to break before he forgot his own name.

The conference room is too still. Too sharp. His chair feels wrong under him, too stiff, too narrow. The soft, predictable sound of conversation from earlier has dropped into something tighter. Focused. Hunting.

He doesn’t want to lie. Not about you. Not when you touched him like that. Not when you said his name like that. Not when it almost felt like it could be true.

So he swallows hard and pushes words through his locked jaw.

“She hugged me.”

A pause.

He doesn’t look at anyone. Just the table. That one dent from Steve’s shield. The scratch Clint made with a fork because he talks with his hands. A small, folded paper crane tucked under your fingers. He doesn’t know where you’ve got that from but your fingers are bending the wings back and forth. He doesn’t think you even realize you’re doing it.

“She hugged you?” Sam repeats, brow raised. “Like… greeted you?”

Bucky nods slowly, heart thudding in his ears. “Something like that.” He can feel your gaze like heat pressed against the side of his face and it almost burns to meet it, so he doesn’t.

“What happened before that?” Steve wants to know, eyes narrowing.

“I-” Bucky starts, and then stops, scrubs a hand over his mouth. “I walked into the kitchen. She was cooking something. Then she saw me. She thought I- he- was back. From something. A mission. I don’t know the details.”

“And she hugged you,” Steve adds.

“Yeah,” Bucky sighs.

He doesn’t mean to look at you, but he does. For a second.

And you’re watching him with something unreadable in your eyes. Something still. As though you are trying to understand.

“And you just let her?” Sam presses, not unkind, but relentless in the way only Sam can be. “You didn’t say anything?”

“What do you think I should have said?”

“Well, I don’t know, man-“

“Did I say anything? Or… she?”

It’s your voice.

And it makes his stomach flip.

His eyes snap to you. But you’re not looking at him directly. You look at the edge of his shoulder. The hinge of his jaw. The tension written across his face.

He shifts in his chair. “You- She asked why I hadn’t told her I was coming back. Thought I was surprising her.” His hands are pressed flat against his thighs as though he can keep himself from shaking if he stays grounded.

“And?” Steve asks, too gently.

“She kissed me,” Bucky manages finally, and the room stiffens around him like a held breath. His voice is almost flat now. Hollowed-out. Maybe he’s trying to bleed the memory dry so it stops spreading in his chest.

There is a momentary lapse of silence that feels like someone dropped something delicate and no one wants to be the first to point it out.

Clint exhales slowly, muttering something under it. Sam leans back in his chair, maybe trying to decide if this is funny or devastating. Steve just blinks.

And you go completely still. Not a twitch of movement. Not even your fingers on the paper crane.

“She kissed you?” Natasha says, brows high.

Bucky exhales. Nods.

“What kind of kiss?” Sam blurts, leaning forward again. “A welcome-home kiss? Or a- like a real kiss?”

Steve sighs exasperated.

“No, I mean- we gotta know. This matters.”

His hand is aching. Flesh thumb pressing hard against the knuckle. “It was- not friendly.”

And the room really freezes. Stunned.

Until Sam lets out this sharp, incredulous sort of whistle, and Clint groans, dragging a hand down his face.

You glance down at your lap, jaw clenched, breath held so still it barely moves your chest. And it twists something in Bucky’s stomach, the way you sit there trying to disappear. He’s not sure who it hurts more - you, hearing this, or him, saying it. There is shame curling behind his ears. Shame and something like grief. And it’s all turned inward.

Sam’s eyes narrow. “So she kissed you thinking you were the other Bucky.”

Bucky doesn’t answer. He’s trying to keep still. Trying not to flinch. Trying not to look left. Trying not to look right. Trying not to look at you.

Because he feels the air around you shift like the press of a coming storm. It’s not anger. He knows that heat, and this isn’t it. It’s just quiet and tight and uncomfortable. A subtle withdrawal as though you’ve stepped behind some invisible wall only he can see.

And he hates it.

Bruce clears his throat carefully. “That implies a romantic connection. At least in her mind. Probably in his, too.”

Tony makes a face. “So we’re saying that Barnes and our girl are a thing in that universe.”

“Looks like it,” Natasha muses, eyes sliding toward you.

“Holy shit,” Clint remarks unhelpfully.

They say it so easily. As though this is nothing. As though this doesn’t wreck something fundamental in Bucky’s ribcage.

And suddenly everyone is quiet. Even the noise of the lights seem muted. It’s hot and awkward and strangely intimate.

Bucky stares down at his hands. They look like someone else’s. He can still feel your touch on them. Still feel the heat of your mouth against his. The softness. The way your lips pressed with such intention.

He says nothing.

He feels terrible.

Because a part of him still wants it.

Still aches with it.

Not the kiss. Not the accident.

The life.

That version of himself who gets to love you out loud. Who gets to be yours in daylight, in kitchens, in the moments that don’t demand heroism but just presence. That version of him that doesn’t have to swallow the way your voice makes something flutter in his chest like a broken-winged butterfly. The one who can kiss you because you already know him. Trust him. Want him. Miss him.

He wants that version to exist so badly.

And it makes him feel like a monster.

You’re sitting just far enough to be untouchable, just close enough that he can feel the space between you aching like a wound.

You are you. You are right there. And you don’t even know that in another universe, you loved him so much you ran into his arms without hesitation.

The light from the high windows drips in thin streaks across the long table, catching on Bucky’s knuckles, the tightness of his body.

There’s a long pause.

Then Tony exhales. “Well, that confirms it. Barnes is getting some in another universe.”

“Tony,” Natasha warns lowly.

Tony holds his hands up in mock innocence, but Strange interrupts them, turning to Bucky with a roll of his eyes. His cloak rustles.

“Did you tell her anything?” His voice is edged. “Did she suspect something?”

Bucky doesn’t answer immediately. He shifts in his seat. His back is too straight, and still, and his hands are bracing for something.

“No,” he relents. His voice is raw and rough like gravel pulled from the bottom of a riverbed. “I didn’t tell her anything.”

Strange’s eyes narrow. “Nothing?”

Bucky shakes his head. “Nothing.”

Strange tilts his head slightly. His expression is unreadable. Calculating. “Her behavior. Did she seem disoriented? Odd? Suspicious? I assume you know Y/n well enough to tell if she’s acting off.”

The lump in his throat settles as though it lives there.

“She was hurt,” he admits, and the words punch out of him. “I froze up. She thought she’d done something wrong. But she didn’t suspect anything.”

Across from him, you shift. A small movement. But he feels it in his bones. He looks up. Meets your eyes.

You’re watching him as though you’re trying to learn something about yourself from inside of him.

He swallows hard.

“I didn’t tell her anything,” he says again, and it’s not for Strange this time. It’s for you. “I didn’t compromise anything. I was careful.”

“You were compromised,” Strange says, not unkindly, but without sympathy. “Emotionally. Whether you said something or not.”

Bucky doesn’t argue.

Because yes. He was. He is. He doesn’t even know how to be anything else anymore. His chest still echoes with the memory of your laugh - not your laugh, but close enough to trick him. His arms still remember the shape of your body, the way you buried yourself into him. As though you’d been there a thousand times before and would be a thousand times again.

He wonders what that other you is doing now. If you are still standing in the kitchen, perhaps waiting for him. Still hurt. Still confused. Still so worried.

He wonders what that Bucky is doing now. If he’s back. If he’s home. If you’re in his arms, asking what took him so long. If he knows what he has. If he’s grateful. If he deserves you.

And he wonders too, if you - the you here, right across from him now, quiet and tense and real - will ever look at him that way.

Your eyes are on his and it seems as though you want to say something, as though maybe you’ve been wanting to say something for a while now.

He doesn’t hear the others anymore.

They’re voices in a room, sounds in space, language and logic pressing against the outside of a window he’s no longer looking through.

Because your eyes are on him and they are too open, too careful.

And, unfortunately for him, this is where the hope begins.

Small. Thin. Stupid.

Because there is a version out there who loved him already. Who ran to him as though he was safety and home and joy all wrapped in one reckless heart and it had been so easy for her. Natural, even. Like a reflex. Like a need.

And he has to think that if she could, then maybe you could too.

Maybe - if he just keeps showing up, if he keeps giving you pieces of himself even when it’s terrifying, even when he thinks he has nothing worth offering - maybe you’ll see something in him that you’ll want to keep.

Maybe he’s not beyond that.

Maybe he’s not on the edge of the world after all.

His heart stumbles inside him, a sharp jolt under his ribs, and he realizes too late that his breathing has gone shallow. His palm is sweating. His chest is aching in a way that is not just pain, but hunger, longing, desperate weightless wonder.

Strange is talking. Something about dimensional instability and neural resonance and all that science talk - but Bucky is no longer a soldier at a briefing.

He’s a man staring across a room at the person who has made his worst days survivable, and he’s remembering how it felt to see you in his shirt in a different kitchen, how you stood there with your back to him waiting for him to wrap his arms around you, how your lips tasted like things he should never know but can’t ever forget.

You shift again. Your knee knocks lightly against the leg of the table as you tuck your foot beneath you. And your hair falls forward, soft and a little tangled from the wind that always sneaks through the compound’s side doors. Your lips part, as though maybe you’re going to say something in front of everyone, and he braces for it, all of him going still like a wolf spotting something too delicate to touch.

But you don’t.

You break eye contact and tuck your hair behind your ear as though you caught yourself doing something you shouldn’t.

But Bucky doesn’t stop hoping.

Because he watched you do exactly that in a very different universe. Such a small gesture but it means so much to him.

Because yes, maybe he is not the Bucky she thought she kissed.

He’s not the Bucky who wakes up with you tangled in his sheets.

He’s not the Bucky who lets himself believe he could be loved without earning it first.

But maybe he could become that man.

Maybe if he tries hard enough, he too can get the girl.

Maybe if he works at this more than anything else that matters, you’ll love him too. Not just in some alternate world, but here.

In this one.

In your voice, when you say his name.

In your laugh, when he says something without meaning too.

In your eyes, when you don’t look away.

And he knows he would do anything to earn that.

He would do anything to be enough for you in the only universe that matters.

His fingers twitch. His shoulders square slowly, almost unconsciously, as though some decision has clicked into place without needing permission.

The room is still full. Voices layered over voices like shadows that haven’t realized the sun moved. Chairs creak beneath shifting bodies, Sam’s laughter breaking loose and grating on Bucky’s nerves.

The idiot is grinning, leaning back in his chair as though this whole situation is the best thing to happen this week. “Alternate-universe you is in a relationship, Barnes. What do we think about that, huh?”

“Sounds like he’s living the dream,” Clint mutters, giving Bucky a jab to the arm. “You finally got the girl, Barnes. Took a whole damn reality shift but you got there.”

Someone chuckles. Tony, maybe. Or even Steve. He can’t tell anymore. He can’t hear much over the buzz in his ears, over the sound of his own heart pounding behind his ribs.

“Hell, maybe all our multiverse selves are having better luck,” Sam remarks, amused.

Clint chuckles. “Ah, Barnes just grew a pair.”

“Well, that’s kind of a big deal, isn’t it?” Natasha, calm as ever, lifts one elegant eyebrow.

“Alternate-universe Barnes has game,” Sam says delighted.

“Lucky bastard,” Clint mutters under his breath.

They mean well. They always mean well. This is how they show they care. With ribbing and teeth-bared grins, with shoulders nudged, and things they don’t say louder than the ones they do. It’s how they keep their own wounds in check. How they keep from bleeding all over the carpet.

But Bucky isn’t laughing. He isn’t smiling. His lip twitches but only with frustration at his teammates.

He notices your stillness. The lines around your mouth have gone soft and tight all at once. Your hands are folded too carefully in your lap and your gaze is pinned to the table.

With every mention - every offhand comment, every teasing jab - he can see it.

The way your shoulders stuck in closer to themselves. The way your breath grows quiet and shallow. The way you can’t seem to look at him anymore.

He swallows around it, the sharpness in his throat, but it doesn’t go down.

Everyone else seems to think this is a strange, mildly awkward, maybe slightly endearing detail in a weird mission story.

But Bucky feels sick.

Because he’s seen it on your face. The way the information about the kiss struck you like a misfired bullet. A shadow in your eyes, the small breath that caught in your throat, the way you shifted your legs like you needed to move, to run, to put distance between yourself and what you heard.

God.

He’s such a fool.

A lovesick idiot.

Because he let that brightness curl in his chest. The hope that even though you have every right to feel nothing at all, even though he’s spent so long training himself not to want this, not to wish for things he can’t have - he truly thought that if there was a version of you that looked at him that way, that reached for him without fear, then maybe this version, this you - maybe there was something possible here too.

But now he is watching it close again. Watching you feeling uncomfortable, retreating into yourself, folding inward like the paper crane you left behind. And he knows the fault lines are his. That even his silence can crack things apart.

When the meeting finally breaks - Strange dismissing everyone with a calm nod and a list of inter-dimensional protocols Bucky doesn’t hear - you stand before anyone else. Quiet. Not hurried. Just deliberate.

As though you’ve made a decision.

You don’t look at him. Not once. Just gather your notes and your coffee and the sweater you left draped over the back of the chair.

And you leave.

No goodbye. No glance back. Not even that half-smile you offer when the day has left you tired and the silence between you feels soft instead of loud.

Bucky is on his feet before he realizes it. He ignores Sam calling after him, something about needing to finish signing off the tech. Doesn’t respond to Steve’s “Buck?” Doesn’t glance at Strange, who’s looking at him as though he already knows where this is headed.

All Bucky sees is the hallway.

You, disappearing around the corner, just a whisper of your hair and the sound of your boots against the polished floor. And all he can think is no.

Not like this.

He walks fast, with his pulse in his mouth and panic blooming in his chest.

You’re so graceful even when you’re upset, even when your body is stiff with tension. You carry yourself with that strength that’s always pulled him in, and he hates that he knows it. Hates that he can read you this well, because it means he knows you’re hurting.

He walks fast enough to catch up, to not give himself time to think about it too much. His hands are cold again. The way they get when he’s unsure. When something matters more than he knows how to handle.

“Hey,” he calls out, and his voice comes out too soft. Almost hoarse. “Wait- can you- can we talk?”

You stop. Slow, reluctant. As if the last thing you want to do is this but some piece of you can’t help it.

You don’t turn around at first. You’re breathing hard. He can see your shoulders rise and fall too quickly, your jaw tight, your arms folded across your chest as though you are trying to keep yourself together.

You turn.

And it’s worse than he thought.

Because your eyes are shiny and your expression is made of glass and restraint and you’re biting the inside of your cheek in that way you do when you want to pretend something didn’t bother you.

He hates this. Hates that he did this to you, even accidentally.

But god, you still are beautiful in a way that feels like gravity. Like the ache in his chest could drag the stars down to meet you.

You watch him as though trying not to give too much away.

“Can we talk?” He repeats, breath catching somewhere between hope and despair.

You shrug, not cold, not angry. Just tired. “If you want.”

He steps closer. Not too close. Careful. Always careful with you.

“I know it probably sounded bad in there,” he says, voice rough. “I didn’t want it to come out like that. Like I was… caught up in something.”

“You don’t have to explain yourself, Bucky,” you say quickly, voice too neutral. “You didn’t know. I get it.”

But he wants to explain. Wants to lay it out, piece by bloody piece. Wants you to understand that for a minute there, he forgot how to breathe because of how you looked at him. That he hasn’t stopped thinking about it since.

“I didn’t tell you- I mean, tell her,” he blurts, breathless. “I didn’t tell her who I was. Or where I came from. I didn’t say anything.”

You blink at him. “Okay.”

“She thought I was him. I- I didn’t say anything because I- I wasn’t supposed to engage and I wasn’t planning to. I swear I wasn’t planning to.”

You say nothing. Just stare at him with that sweetly confused expression.

Bucky steps closer. He’s aching, head to toe, something brittle in his chest like cracked glass.

“You kissed me,” he continues, and you bite your lip, looking away, “but I didn’t- I froze. It felt wrong. And when you said you missed me, I panicked. It felt like I was stealing something. From you. From you both.”

He stops. Swallows.

And there it is again. That dangerous spark. That sharp, flickering thing that’s lived inside him ever since he saw that other version of you, ever since your arms wrapped around his neck and your mouth pressed to his and your voice filled his chest with something whole.

He wishes for a version of that hope here, too.

But not if it means breaking you to find it.

You’re watching him with something unreadable in your eyes. He can’t tell if it’s pain or disappointment or confusion or all of it. He just knows it’s tearing him apart.

“I know it wasn’t me she kissed,” he goes on, quiet, every word dragging out of him as if it doesn’t want to be spoken. “And I know it wasn’t you, either. But it made me think that maybe-” He breaks off, exhales. “I know it’s not fair to say it, but-”

“Then don’t.” Your voice is soft when it comes.

And he flinches as though you touched a nerve.

But your face isn’t cruel. It’s sad. Honest. Tired in the way people get when they’re holding too many emotions all at once.

“I’m not her,” you clarify, but there is something fractured in the way you say it, like the words are paper-thin and barely holding shape. “I’m not whatever version of me you saw, whoever she is to you, that’s not me.”

“I know,” he croaks out. Bucky steps closer, just once. Not touching. Not yet. He doesn’t dare.

“No, I don’t think you do.” Your arms unfold slowly, but not in surrender. You gesture at yourself, the smallest movement, but there is steel in it. “She looks like me,” you go on. Your voice is tight. Bitter. It’s not like you. Not how he knows you - the warmth, the patience, the fire and calm and kindness all mixed together. “She sounds like me. But she’s not. She’s not me, Buck.”

And then you turn as if you’re about to go. As though you can’t stand another second of standing still in front of him.

“No- don’t,” he pleads, and before he can stop himself, he reaches. His hand finds your wrist, not tight, not rough, just enough to stop you. “Please.”

You pause again, with an exhale that is sharp and hurt and too loud in the hallway.

He is closer now. Close enough to see how tight you press your mouth together to keep it from trembling. The twitch of pain in your brow, the soft crease between your eyes he knows only shows up when you’re trying really hard not to cry.

Guilt and desperation roll through him, thorough, like a tide pulling everything warm away. It unspools him from the inside.

“What?” There is no weight behind your words. Your voice is worn. Defeated.

Bucks swallows. His voice feels like rust trying to be rain.

“She hugged me. Said she missed me. She kissed me like she’d done it a thousand times before.” His voice is shaking, even if he’s trying not to let it.

“And I didn’t stop her. Not for a second,” he goes on, quiet. “I should’ve. I should’ve pulled away sooner, but I-”

You pull your arm back, but he doesn’t let go.

“Why are you telling me this?” you question him, voice breaking in the middle. “What am I supposed to do with that, Bucky? Be happy for some other version of me?”

There is so much pain in your eyes, so much confusion and hurt and jealousy and heartbreak and it cuts him right through the heart. He feels it bleeding into his organs.

He closes his eyes, forgets how to breathe for a moment.

“I didn’t stop her,” he says lowly, slowly, “because, for a second, it felt like you.”

The silence between you is thick enough to drown in.

Your lips part, but no sound comes out.

“For a second, it felt like something I’ll never have,” he confesses, barely audible now. “And I was selfish. I let it happen. Because it wasn’t just a kiss to me.”

You don’t speak. You don’t move. Your chin trembles.

You look at him as though you want to say something but can’t trust yourself to do it.

“I’ve been trying to bury it,” he admits, voice strained. “This thing in my chest. This want. It’s been there for a long time. And I kept thinking- if I just waited long enough, maybe it would go away. Maybe you’d never have to know. But I saw what it looked like when I had it. When I had you. Even if it wasn’t really you. And I- I didn’t want to come back here and pretend I didn’t feel it anymore.”

You don’t move. Just stand there. Staring at him as if you don’t know what to do with the version of the world he is handing you.

“I’m not asking for anything,” he adds quickly, voice thick and gravelly. “Not expecting anything. I just- I couldn’t let you walk away thinking it didn’t mean anything. Because it did. But not because of that other you.”

Bucky loosens his hold on your wrist the way someone lays a weapon down.

Slowly. Gently. Like an offering. Giving you a choice. A chance to run. A way out, if that’s what you need.

His fingers brush fabric as he lets go, every inch of skin unthreading from yours just another stitch in the fabric holding him together.

He steps back. Not far, but enough. Giving you the room to run if you want to. Because he would never cage you. Not you. Not the girl he’s tried so hard not to need and failed so spectacularly at not loving.

The cold creeps in like a punishment.

He swallows, breath shallow, heart trying to climb out of his chest. He doesn’t look away.

“It meant something,” he breathes, and the words are low but steady, dragged out of some buried part of him where he’s kept the truth folded up too long. “It meant something because I love you.”

The words hang there. Open. Unarmored. His voice doesn’t shake but he feels the quake underneath it. He is already bracing for the ruin of it, for the way your silence might cut him down. It’s too much. He’s too much. Too much and too late and he’s saying it anyway, because what else can he do now, what else is left to do but burn with it.

“I love you. You. Only you,” he repeats, and this time it’s quieter, as if speaking it softer might hurt less if you break him.

He is bracing for your silence. For the recoil. For the slow turning of your back and the slam of a door, he won’t ever be allowed to knock on again.

But you don’t run.

You just stare at him.

Wide glassy eyes, lips parted, your whole face carved out of disbelief. Your chest rises with shallow, trembling breaths, and for a second, it’s like the hallway has no oxygen at all. Just the two of you standing in a vacuum made of shattered timing and aching things laid bare.

You look like someone trying to decide if the ground beneath you is real. If you are dreaming.

And Bucky is not breathing.

Doesn’t know how he will ever take in a breath again.

Then you move.

Fast. Sharp. Certain.

You close the distance between you with a speed that knocks his soul out of him, and before he can even process the intention behind the storm in your eyes, your hands are in his collar and your mouth is on his.

It’s not gentle.

It’s not careful.

You crash into him as though gravity has finally won. As though your body has been held back for too long and now it’s surging forward with years of restraint snapped at the root.

It hits him like an impact. Like a whole damn earthquake disguised as your mouth on his.

He makes a noise - somewhere between shock and surrender - and for the barest second, he is frozen.

He’s still.

Because this is you.

You.

One breathless, startled second he forgets everything - his name, the room, the hallway, the mission, the multiverse - and then he’s moving.

He melts.

His arms are around you in a heartbeat, tight, desperate, finding your waist, your back, the edge of your jaw, greedy and trembling and too careful all at once. He pulls you in, tighter, tighter, one hand threading into your hair, the other locking around your waist.

And then he is kissing you back with everything he has, with everything he’s been holding back, with every version of himself that ever wanted to belong.

He is kissing you back as though he’ll never get the chance again.

His whole body folds into yours, heart slamming into his ribs, mouth pressing against yours, like a question he’s been dying to ask. He kisses you like an apology, like a promise, like he’s been holding his breath for a century and only just remembered how to exhale.

It’s not a careful kiss.

It’s years of aching packed into the space between your lips. It’s soft lips and a metal palm and your nails digging in his jacket and his thumb shaking against your jaw. It’s a kiss that tastes of every unsaid word, every sleepless night, every time he looked at you and wondered what it would feel like to have you.

The second your tongue touches his lower lip, a low and tortured sound rips from somewhere deep in his chest. He answers you with open-mouthed hunger, tilts his head just enough to draw you in deeper, slants his mouth over yours as though he’s living out every dream in which he’s imagined this before.

He feels the warmth of your lips and the way you lean into him, the way you give yourself over completely, and he pulls you even closer, as though he’s trying to kiss every version of you that exists in every universe just to get back to this one. You. Here. Now.

His tongue brushes yours and everything goes tight inside him - his stomach flips, his spine arches ever so slightly, his body not knowing whether to hold steady or fall apart entirely.

Your lips are sweet and urgent and you make a sound - quiet, somewhere between a sigh and a gasp - and it knocks the air in his lungs every which way.

His mouth moves faster when your fingers curl into him tighter and tug him closer, dragging him under. His metal fingers are splayed over the small of your back, and his flesh fingers are tangling at the nape of your neck, holding you still as his tongue licks into your mouth, gentle but full of everything he’s feeling.

He moans softly into you, doesn’t even realize it’s happening until he feels the sound buzz against your lips. His pulse is pounding in his ears. His knees feel untrustworthy. There is heat spreading through his chest, through his limbs, and he wants to live in this moment forever, suspended in the place where you chose him.

When you finally pull back, your lips are swollen, flushed. He presses his forehead to yours just enough to breathe, but not enough to let you go. Never that.

His hands are on your face. His thumbs brush under your eyes. His breath shudders out against your lips.

When he opens his eyes, slowly, he is met with yours. Glistening and wide and so full of feeling it almost floors him.

He stares at you as though he’s seeing the sun rise for the first time.

“I love you too,” you breathe against him.

Bucky shivers.

It lands like a heartbeat he forgot to hope for.

Pleasure surges through his veins, straight to his heart. His eyes fall shut, lost in it.

And something in him tells him he will hear this at least a thousand times, maybe even more, if he’s lucky.

“I loved her not for the way she danced with my angels, but for the way the sound of her name could silence my demons.”

- Christopher Poindexter

[sebssoulmate]

Alexei: what’s your plan?

Bucky:

[jbbmylove]

Which was more culturally significant? The renaissance or Bucky wearing Henleys?

[daydreamgoddess14]

Slow Burn 🔥

Bucky x f!Reader

Allll the tropes - you can never have too much cake, friends! There's only one bed, injured on a mission, friends to lovers...

I am still under the influence of a heatwave 🫣 I also now appear to be writing sex acts I've never written before. It's like an unofficial mini-series 😂

Bucky Masterlist

Word Count: 2k

Warnings: face-sitting, oral (f receiving).

Alexei was going to pay for this. You weren't sure how just yet, but you'd think of something. Some suitable punishment for accidentally giving you enough explosive to level a whole building rather than just get you in the door.

You dug through your bag until your fingers closed around what you needed. An ancient tub of moisturiser. Picked up in a gas station more than a year ago, a totally unknown brand - probably banned from sale in the US. Probably not containing even a milligram of aloe.

Luckily it still smelled cool and fresh, still looked usable. Behind you, the bathroom door opened.

“How's the shower?”

“About as good as you'd expect.” Bucky grimaced.

You spun around with a wide grin just as he pulled his t-shirt over his head. Your grin disappeared, taking your bravado with it.

“There was me hoping for a huge walk-in with one of those rainfall things,” you muttered.

“Afraid not. I wouldn't even touch anything if I were you.”

Your expression must have said it all because he followed up awfully quickly, “I just mean, like, the walls, not yourse-”

His low voice petered off, the tips of his ears went pink.

“Well, yeah. Obviously,” you scoffed, filling the awkward silence.

The whole place was gross.

You hadn’t planned on a motel.

It was just a quick job - plant the charges, blow the door.

Instead, half the bunker went up in flames.

The burn on your shoulder said enough.

Bucky had dragged you clear of the fire, complaining the whole way to the motel about you not wearing your suit.

“If I’d been wearing my suit, I’d be peeling melted polyester off my skin right now,” you snapped.

He didn’t say another word.

Not until you got to the motel and found, befitting your terrible luck, one full-size bed. Not even a queen.

You passed him as you headed for the bathroom, and you could swear his eyes flicked to your shoulder, just for a second.

You closed the door firmly behind you.

You were friends. Kind of.

There was no need for this to be so… awkward.

You showered fast, following his advice and keeping your hands to yourself, and in the short time you'd been gone, he'd found the spare blanket and lay it on the floor.

“You can't sleep there,” you said before you were even fully back in the room. “It's disgusting. There's probably roaches.”

He didn’t look up. “I’ve slept on worse.”

You hesitated.

“The bed’s not that big,” you muttered. “Just don’t, like, spread out.”

He eyed the bed, then your shoulder.

“You should take that side. You’ll roll onto it otherwise.”

You arched a brow. “Since when are you the burn expert?”

“Since I carried your crispy ass out of a fire.”

You choked on a laugh. “My crispy ass? That’s what we’re calling it?”

He didn’t answer. Just stared at you for a second too long, then said, “get in the bed.”

You opened your mouth to argue, then shut it.

You took the side he pointed to and climbed in first, turning onto your side. He followed a second later, back to you, a careful few inches of air between your bodies.

The silence was too quiet. Too full.

He exhaled slowly. “I didn’t mean don’t touch yourself earlier.”

You sniggered in the dark.

“Goodnight, Bucky.”

He didn’t reply.

You lay still, hyper-aware of his presence a few inches behind you. His warmth. The shift of the mattress every time he moved.

Eventually, his breathing evened out.

Yours didn’t.

You didn’t know when you drifted off. Only that when you stirred again, it was still dark - just the faintest sliver of morning pushing at the curtains.

You didn’t move, you kept your breathing steady, even as you felt the bed shift slightly behind you.

His arm reached across you, slowly and carefully, for something on the nightstand. He was trying not to wake you. A soft scrape of something plastic. A quiet lid twisting open.

Then the slow slide of your top strap down your arm.

The cream felt cool. Soothing on your angry skin. His fingers worked it into your skin, gentler than they had any right to be.

He was being careful. Methodical.

But he lingered.

His thumb dragged lightly just below the edge of the injury. Too low to be part of the job. Too light to be innocent.

You kept your eyes closed, imagining his hands moving further down. It was all you could do to keep your breath steady, let alone your hips.

And then, as if you weren't already in pieces, you felt him blow lightly over the burn. Your skin cooled and tingled and you couldn't help the sigh of relief that fell from your mouth.

Even to your own ear, it sounded like a broken moan of pleasure.

You clamped your mouth shut, eyes pinching closed with embarrassment.

His hand froze.

You could feel the way his body went still behind you.

“Don’t do that,” he said, voice low. Strained.

You didn't move. “Do what?”

“Make that sound.”

You could’ve died.

He drew in a slow breath, his fingers still resting lightly on your shoulder.

“I thought you were asleep.”

“I was.” You paused. “But then you started touching me.”

“I shouldn’t have,” he said softly.

“Shouldn't you?”

You rolled onto your back to look at him, the burn smarting against the rough bedsheets.

“I’ve thought about it,” you admitted quietly.

“Fuck. Me too.”

“So,” you said finally, but trailing off into nothing.

“So if you don’t stop looking at me like that, I’m gonna kiss you.”

You snorted, “no you're not -”

He dipped down quickly and caught your mouth with his.

You gasped, surprised by his boldness, and felt him go still above you. Before he had time to doubt himself, you wrapped your arms around his shoulders to pull him down onto you.

He resisted, just a little, and pulled back.

“Your burn,” he muttered against your mouth.

“‘s fine.” You leaned up to kiss him again, but he twisted away from you.

“Not like this,” he said roughly. Then, after a breath, “c’mere.”

He shifted, rolling to his back, hands guiding your hips as he pulled you with him.

You could feel how hard he was beneath you, the restraint in every movement.

“You sure?” you whispered.

He huffed a laugh, one hand skimming your thigh.

“Sweetheart, I’ve been sure since Berlin.”

You sank into his kiss, half sprawled on top of him, your hands buried in his hair, his mouth hot and hungry against yours.

There was a quiet urgency in the way he kissed you - like he’d been holding back for months and now didn’t know how to stop.

The kiss deepened, his hands everywhere and yet careful to avoid hurting you. When you finally pulled back, both of you were breathing hard.

He looked at you, really looked at you. His voice dropped.

“How’s is it?”

“Better than in my head,” you smirked. He rolled his eyes and gestured to your shoulder. “It’s fine. It's nothing.”

His fingers brushed down your arm gently. “I want this to be good for you. Easy.”

You raised an eyebrow, your smile widening. “Are you saying I’m lazy?”

“No,” he said, leaning in, his mouth just by your ear. “I’m saying I want you above me. Comfortable.”

He lay back slowly, still watching you.

“Sit on my face.”

It wasn’t a question.

You blinked, heat licking up your neck - and not from the burn. “Bucky, I -”

“You don’t have to move. You don’t have to do anything.” His voice dropped, a smirk tugging at his lips. “Let me make you fall apart.”

“This isn’t exactly how I pictured our first time,” you laughed nervously, trying to reach for another kiss.

“No?” he grinned, pulling out of your reach. “Because I’ve definitely pictured it. Just relax, I've got you.”

His hand trailed down your thigh to the back of your knee, pulling your leg further over him. You shifted, your knees bracketing his hips, and sat up, peeling off your thin cami.

His eyes drank you in, dark and focused, but he didn’t reach for you.

“I could just stay right here,” you teased, rolling your hips against him. “Ohh, fuck -” you sighed. “Please, Bucky.”

His hands skimmed up your thighs, slow and steady. “Then lose the rest for me, sweetheart.”

You bit your lip, wriggling out of your underwear as his grip tightened, guiding you higher up his chest.

You hesitated again, your breath shallow and heart pounding. His eyes were locked on yours - not teasing, just openly wanting.

“I’ve never…” you started, then couldn't finish.

“I know,” he said gently. “That’s why I want you to.”

He didn’t rush you. He just waited with all his quiet intensity focused entirely on you.

You moved up his chest slowly, his hands steady on your thighs, guiding. When you reached him, hovering just above his mouth, he looked up at you like you were something sacred.

“This is ridiculous,” you muttered.

He lay back expectantly. “Not even a little. I knew you'd look perfect up there. Come here, sweetheart,” he murmured. “Let me take care of you.”

He hooked his hands around your thighs and pulled you down. You reached out to grip the thin wooden headboard to steady yourself.

As his broad tongue dragged a long, slow stripe through your pussy, your thighs clamped around his head, half in shock, half instinct.

“What if I fucking suffocate you?” You asked, horrified.

He rolled his eyes, and in them, you knew he was grinning into you.

“Do your worst, baby,” he said, muffled against you. His voice sent vibrations through your body, he held you a little tighter.

His tongue worked you open with a pressure that had you throwing your head back. By the time he swept it over your clit, your hands had given up clinging to the headboard for dear life, and were palming your breasts, rolling your nipples between your thumb and index finger.

“God, Bucky -” you rolled your hips, willing yourself to look at him.

He reached one hand up to cover yours, you swapped them so that yours covered his, kneading your soft curves.

He moaned into you, the sound enough to make you grind down against his tongue.

You reached behind and wrapped a hand around his thick cock, weeping and aching. He fucked up into your fist, each thrust in time with the flick of his tongue inside you.

When his lips closed around your swollen clit and sucked, your legs shook and your vision went white, his name tumbling from your mouth.

Your grip on his cock tightened as you writhed against his mouth.

Hot, sticky ropes of cum painted your back, your ass - he came hard in your hand, roaring into your cunt.

“Holy fuck,” you breathed, shifting back on unsteady knees.

He pressed a wet kiss to your inner thigh, making you tremble again.

Still catching your breath, you lifted your hand - slick with his release - and brought your fingers to your lips. Bucky groaned low in his chest, watching as you licked the taste of him from your skin with deliberate, languid strokes.

“Jesus,” he muttered, eyes blazing.

He surged up suddenly, sitting against the headboard and dragging you down with him, hands firm at your hips. You slid easily down the broad plane of his chest, letting your legs fall to either side of his thighs until you were straddling him again, skin sticking to skin.

His mouth found yours in a messy kiss, all hunger, no restraint - tasting himself on your tongue.

You rocked your hips without thinking, still pulsing around the aftershocks, still needing.

“Bucky…” you breathed against his jaw, your voice raw. “I want more.”

His hand slid up your spine and he blew lightly over the warm skin on your shoulder. “Yeah?”

You nodded, pressing your lips to his cheek. “I want to feel you. All of you.”

He stilled, grip tightening just slightly.

“What’s that, sweetheart?” he asked, low in your ear. “Gonna need you to say it again.”

You smiled against his skin, grinding your hips against the hard line of him. “Please. I need you inside me. Want you to fill me up.”

A rough sound left his throat.

“God,” he muttered. “Thought you’d never ask.”

When he finally pushed inside you, you knew you’d never need to ask again.

[enthyrea]

she gets it from her dads

[benzobucky]

OH MY GOD??????

THEY WERE GATEKEEPING IT FOR 10 YEARS

[ghostly-lee]

Someone mentioned Bucky and Alpine so I had to do it 🤌🏼 ( maybe it's not animation but I like it)

-For sure she licked his hair-

For the first time in a while I drew more realistic cat ( more, not full realistic lol)

Background is kinda random but I rarely plan anything 😭

[ilovolderman]

Game Night

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x reader

Summary: It’s game night, and Sam is being extra suspicious about your secret relationship with Bucky.

Word Count: 2.6k

Warnings: humor, fluff, secret dating, uno

A/N: this can be read as a standalone even though it's part of a series called "You Said What". it doesn't necessarily follow a specific order, but if you want to check out the other parts, here they are: part 1, part 2, part 3, part 4, part 5, part 6, part 7, part 8, part 9, part 10 thanks for reading, i hope you like it :)

It was a Monday, and Sam Wilson was once again spiraling.

Not because he had a particularly bad day or because a rogue pigeon had decided his sandwich was a target. No, Sam’s mental breakdown was much more subtle, much more insidious.

It was because of the vibe.

The vibe was off.

At first, it was innocent. Steve had invited everyone over for "a quiet evening," which meant they were playing board games and pretending they weren't all secretly trying to outsmart each other with complex strategies and alliances.

But it wasn’t the games that were bothering Sam.

It was you and Bucky, like always.

You and Bucky entered the living room at the same time. He was holding a bag of fries like it was an offering, and you had a look on your face like you were trying to keep from laughing at a private joke. It wasn’t obvious to anyone else, but Sam’s gut tightened. He'd been through this before.

He had a sixth sense for this kind of thing.

A totally normal looking Bucky waved at Sam, but there was something about the way he did it—too casual, too... loaded. You smiled as you sat down on the couch, and Bucky followed.

Then, the thing happened.

You both reached for the same side of the couch at the same time. And you didn’t immediately pull away like people usually do when they're not on the verge of launching into some kind of... well, whatever this was.

You just... stayed there.

Sam squinted, his eyes narrowing like he was a detective trying to crack an impossible case. This was the moment. The moment when his suspicions shifted from theory to solid fact.

Sam wasn’t sure who made the first move, but suddenly—without explanation—Bucky’s arm was draped over the back of the couch like it was the most natural thing in the world.

A few moments passed.

Still no words.

Just an... unsettling silence as you both stared ahead at the game unfolding in front of you.

Sam looked from you, to Bucky, then back to you. His fingers twitched. The notepad was in his lap, but he hadn’t written a single thing down yet. How was he supposed to document what was happening?

It was... too subtle.

He turned to Steve. “Are they—?”

Steve, blissfully unaware, was deep into his Monopoly strategy. “Hmm?”

“Do you notice anything... off about them?” Sam asked, nodding toward the couch.

Steve glanced over and blinked. “What? They’re sitting next to each other?”

Sam clenched his jaw. “It’s the way they’re sitting. They’re... too comfortable. Like they’re already sharing the same DNA. You see that?”

Steve squinted for a moment, then shrugged. “I think you’re reading too much into it.”

Sam was about to respond when Tony strolled into the room, “What’s this about reading into things?” he asked casually, taking a seat next to Steve.

“They’re being weird,” Sam muttered, pointing to the couch.

Tony leaned back, raising an eyebrow. “Oh, you mean how they’re subtly acting like they’ve been married for thirty years, without the commitment?”

Sam’s eye twitched.

Tony grinned at the chaos unfolding in Sam’s mind. “Don’t overthink it, Sammy. Some people just get comfortable with each other.” He took a sip from his glass.

Meanwhile, you and Bucky were still sitting there, but now you were exchanging an absurdly synchronized look.

You both looked at each other like you were reading a secret book written in a language only the two of you could understand. The silence was thick enough to slice with a knife.

Then—just as Sam felt his sanity slip away completely—you both laughed. At nothing.

A soft, almost eerie laugh, like you were in on some joke only the two of you got.

Tony, who was now practically snickering, leaned over and whispered to Steve, “We should’ve put money on it. Sam’s on the edge, and he’s about to combust.”

Sam stood up abruptly, looking at the pair on the couch, then back at Steve, his eyes wide with the fury of a thousand unanswered questions. “That’s it. I’m gonna ask them directly.”

“Oh, no,” Steve said, shaking his head in mock sympathy. “You really don’t want to.”

But Sam was too far gone. His mind was locked in a war with his instincts. He marched over to the couch, put his hands on his hips, and shot you and Bucky an unrelenting stare.

Bucky didn’t even look at Sam, he was handing you the fries, leaning toward you. You smiled at Bucky like he was the best thing since sliced bread, and Sam felt his soul physically leave his body.

This was it. This was the moment that proved it.

"You two are literally a walking romcom," Sam spat out in a low voice, too quietly for anyone to hear except you and Bucky. "I see it. The fries. The eye contact. It’s like... like... a plot."

You smirked. “What’s your deal, Sam? I’m just getting some fries. Everyone loves fries.”

Bucky nodded, biting his lip in an attempt to stifle his grin. “Yeah, Sam. What’s your deal?”

Sam narrowed his eyes. “You guys. Are you really gonna sit there and keep telling me you’re just friends?”

Both of you paused. The air felt like it shifted, like it thickened, as if the universe was waiting for the punchline. Sam’s pulse quickened.

And then, in perfect unison, both of you said:

“We’re friends.”

Sam stared at you both, utterly dumbfounded.

“Friends?” he whispered in horror. “With... this?”

You both blinked at him innocently.

“Of course,” you said.

“We’re just good pals,” Bucky added, just barely holding in a laugh.

 “I—I can’t,” Sam muttered, trying to make sense of the absolute absurdity unfolding before him.

Bucky slapped a hand on Sam’s shoulder, like the world’s least convincing therapist. “You’ll get there, Sam. You just have to let go and stop thinking so hard about it.”

Sam made a strangled noise that could’ve been a scream or the noise of a man who had just realized he was doomed. He glanced at Peter, who was giving him a look of pure, unfiltered sympathy.

“Is this some kind of test?” Sam asked, his voice rising. “Am I being pranked? Are you two secretly married? Or, like... I don’t know, are you... trying to get a rise out of me?”

Bucky leaned forward slightly. “No, Sam. We’re just casually enjoying life... together.”

“Together,” Sam repeated, clutching his head dramatically. “I’m going to be sick.”

And then, just to make sure he was completely defeated, you reached over, casually brushing your hand against Bucky’s arm before giving him a tiny, affectionate squeeze.

Sam blinked. His notebook hit the floor with a dramatic thud.

“I knew it.” he gasped, and then, as if the universe had somehow heard him, he heard Natasha’s voice from across the room, still half-asleep:

“Sam, you’re being ridiculous. Just let them enjoy the vibes.”

Sam’s soul left his body.

Meanwhile, you and Bucky exchanged yet another impossibly synchronized glance.

Tony, still grinning, patted Sam on the back. “Don’t worry. One day you’ll look back on this and laugh. Just not today.”

And with that, Sam grabbed his coat, shook his head, and walked out the door.

Meanwhile, Bucky reached over, snagged the last of the fries, and handed them to you. “You think he’s buying it?”

You shrugged. “Nah, I think we’ve got him exactly where we want him.”

Bucky smirked. “Good. Let’s mess with him some more tomorrow.”

The room was quiet now. The chaos had died down. Steve had gone to clean up the kitchen, Tony had retreated to a mysterious project involving lasers, and Natasha was now fully asleep, curled up with a blanket over her face on the armchair.

That left just you and Bucky, still curled on the couch — the battlefield of your dramatic emotional warfare against Sam.

You reached over to the coffee table and grabbed the deck of Uno cards you’d swiped earlier. You looked at Bucky with a mischievous little glint in your eye.

“Wanna play?”

He grinned, tilting his head. “I thought we already emotionally destroyed a man tonight. Isn’t that enough chaos for one evening?”

You started shuffling the deck, your fingers moving deftly. “Just one game. Come on. I promise not to make you cry.”

“Oh, please,” Bucky said, grabbing a throw pillow and tossing it at you. “You’re only confident because you’ve been cheating.”

You gasped, mock-offended. “I do not cheat! I win with style.”

“Sure,” Bucky said, lounging comfortably as he took the cards you dealt him. “Style, manipulation, same thing.”

The game started quietly, the soft rustle of cards filling the silence. You both sat cross-legged on the couch, knees bumping occasionally. The warm, low lamp cast a golden hue over everything, and the mood had shifted from chaos to... something soft. Comfortable.

Halfway through the game, you narrowed your eyes. “You’re letting me win.”

Bucky paused mid-draw. “What?”

You pointed at his hand. “You had a +4 and a Reverse like, four rounds ago. You haven’t played either.”

He blinked, all innocent puppy eyes. “What are you talking about? Maybe I just forgot.”

You squinted harder. “James Buchanan Barnes. Do not lie to me.”

He chuckled, then leaned forward, lowering his voice like it was a secret. “Fine. Maybe I’m letting you win a little. You get this cute little proud look when you think you’ve cornered me. It’s adorable.”

Your face flushed, and you tossed your card at him. “That’s cheating in a different way.”

“It’s strategic emotional warfare,” Bucky replied smoothly, grinning as he finally laid down a card. “I’m adapting to modern combat.”

You crossed your arms, but a smile tugged at your lips. “Well, stop it. I want a fair game.”

He nodded solemnly, eyes twinkling. “Understood. No mercy.”

You resumed playing, and this time he was relentless—Reverse, Skip, Draw Two. You shrieked in betrayal as your carefully constructed hand crumbled.

“This is what happens when you ask for a fair game,” Bucky said, laughing.

“I take it back!” you shouted, laughing as you threw your hands up. “Bring back the gentle sabotage!”

Bucky leaned over, gathering the cards again, but this time he didn’t start a new game. He looked at you, expression softening.

“Hey,” he said, voice quieter now. “Being here with you… it just makes everything else fade out..”

You tilted your head, suddenly serious. “Yeah?”

“Yeah.” He reached over and brushed a piece of lint off your sleeve. “Feels like home. Like peace.”

Your heart melted a little, the kind of soft ache that came when you realized you were exactly where you were supposed to be. You shifted closer, your legs pressed gently against his, and rested your head on his shoulder.

He didn’t move for a moment—then his arm wrapped around you, pulling you just a little closer, like muscle memory.

“Uno?” you whispered.

“Only if I get to win this time,” he whispered back.

You smiled into his shoulder. “We’ll see.”

And in the warm, quiet room, surrounded by discarded fries and chaos-shaped memories, the two of you played on.

“Uno,” you announced, placing your second-to-last card down with a triumphant grin.

Bucky stared at you in betrayal. “You said we were being nice this round!”

You shrugged, biting back a laugh. “I was nice. I could’ve skipped you again. You should be thanking me.”

He shook his head in disbelief, a smirk tugging at his lips. “You’re lucky you’re cute.”

You blinked. “Excuse me?”

“Hmm?” he asked, all wide-eyed innocence as he picked up a card from the draw pile.

You squinted at him. “Say it again.”

He leaned in, his voice low and smooth like velvet. “You heard me.”

Your heart fluttered. Stupidly. Ridiculously. And yet, you couldn’t stop the shy smile that spread across your face. You rolled your eyes and tried to keep your cool, placing your final card down with a flourish.

“Game,” you declared smugly.

Bucky groaned and dropped his hand. “Unbelievable. First you destroy Sam’s psyche, now you destroy my winning streak.”

“I’m on fire tonight,” you said, laughing.

“Yeah,” he murmured, eyes softening as he looked at you. “You really are.”

There was a pause—just long enough to feel like something was shifting again. Not in a chaotic, Sam-spiral kind of way. In the way the air gets thicker when something good is about to happen.

He leaned forward, slow and certain.

You met him halfway.

The kiss was soft. Unhurried. His hand cupped your cheek gently, thumb brushing along your skin like he’d been waiting forever for the right moment and wanted to savor it now that it was here. You melted into it, your fingers curling into the sleeve of his henley.

When you finally pulled away, your forehead rested against his, and you both just... stayed there.

No words. No teasing. Just you and him and the warm hum of everything unspoken.

You yawned a moment later, trying (and failing) to hide it behind your hand.

Bucky chuckled, pressing a tiny kiss to your temple. “Okay, game champ. Time for bed.”

“I’m not tired,” you said, already half-asleep against his shoulder.

“You just yawned into my clavicle.”

“Coincidence,” you mumbled, snuggling closer.

He smiled, shifting so you were tucked more comfortably into his side. He grabbed the discarded throw blanket and wrapped it around both of you.

“You’re staying right here,” he said softly, voice barely above a whisper.

You made a sleepy little noise of agreement, already drifting.

And as the last of the game night chaos faded into silence, Bucky pressed one more kiss to your hair, rested his cheek against your head, and held you close.

Neither of you moved for a long, long time.

Hours later, the room was wrapped in a sleepy kind of silence, warm and golden under the dim light.

You and Bucky were curled up on the couch, tangled beneath a blanket, both long since surrendered to sleep. Your head was tucked against his chest, his arm securely around you like he wasn’t planning on letting go anytime soon. His metal fingers rested gently against your side, thumb unconsciously tracing small, soothing circles.

It was peaceful.

Quiet.

Almost.

From the armchair in the corner, Natasha Romanoff slowly opened one eye.

She didn’t move. Didn’t speak.

Just... observed.

Because of course she’d heard everything. The kiss. The whispers. The “you’re lucky you’re cute.” The affectionate laughter. The unmistakable sound of two people falling completely, irrevocably into something more.

A slow, knowing smile tugged at the edge of her mouth.

She watched as Bucky instinctively pulled you closer in his sleep, like even unconscious, he wasn’t letting you drift far. You murmured something incoherent and nuzzled into him, and he murmured something back that sounded suspiciously like your name and definitely like trouble.

Natasha shook her head slightly, amusement flickering across her face.

“You two are the worst,” she whispered to herself, barely audible over the sound of the heater kicking on. “Hopeless.”

But her voice was warm. Fond.

She leaned back into her chair, pulled her blanket tighter around her, and closed her eyes again—smiling like she’d just watched the final twist in a very long-running, extremely satisfying spy mission.

She wasn’t going to tell.

Not yet.

After all, what fun would it be if she ruined the secret when she could just enjoy watching the rest of the team slowly unravel trying to figure it out?

She’d wait.

She could keep a secret.

For now.

next part

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[thesixthhuntingdog]