darling2411

[darling2411]

GOD BLESS YOU FOR THIS ABSOLUTE MASTERPIECE

manchild.

pairing. bucky barnes x fem!reader mcu timeline. tfatws. synopsis. bucky can't help but wonder why they always come running to you,, or your living fossil of a roommate disapproves of your taste in men and its totally not because he wants a taste of you. warnings. smut ( pwp, service dom!bucky, unprotected piv, oral sex - f receiving, clothed sex for like a sec, fingering, creampie, tummy bulge, dirty talk, dry humping, possessiveness, dumbification, praise, temperature play, food play, nipple play, pussy pronouns, hair pulling - m receiving, multiple orgasms, consent kink, implied competency kink and cum eating, bucky barnes begs agenda 2025™, both bucky and reader spend the whole fic towing the fine line between horny and pervy ), no use of y/n, angst, fluff, frenemies to lovers, roommate!bucky, cocky+flirty!bucky, also guard dog!bucky ( if that even makes sense ) ( it doesn't ), jealousy, pining, so much bickering, attachment issues, miscommunication bc these two combined have the emotional intelligence of a chihuahua, bucky's hobby is baking bc i said so. reader inclusivity. bucky can pick the reader up ( but he's literally a super soldier so 🧍‍♂️ ), one mention of bucky trying to grab the reader's hair, reader has a nut allergy and does not speak russian ( neither do i, so please forgive the very small amount of google translated russian ) word count. 16.3k hyde’s input. god bless sabrina for saving the summer again. also don't let this flop, it's my birthday tomorrow and i'm not above crying over poorly-received erotica ( i'm joking ) ( no i'm not )

Bucky Barnes is not someone you’d call a friend.

He’s more of a nuisance, really. A fossil, dropped off at your door by one Sam Wilson with a simple request: “Can he crash here for a few days?”

That was four months ago, and Bucky’s still living on your couch.

Which is exactly where he’s sat right now, head buried in a book you barely even remember owning. The pages, so full of neglect, give him hassle as he tries to turn them, catching on one another and refusing to be pried apart by vibranium fingers.

“How do I look?” You ask as you step out from your bedroom, hands fastening an earring into your right ear.

Unfazed by your appearance, he doesn’t bother glancing up from his book as he sardonically replies, “With your eyes, like the rest of us.”

You contemplate plucking one of your heels off and throwing it at his head. Knowing your luck, it will fly right past him and smash your coffee table into pieces. Just like your roommate, it’s vintage. Unlike your roommate, you willingly brought it into your home.

“Ha. Ha.” Rounding the couch, you swat his feet off the table before snapping his book closed. “Now if you’re done playing comedian, would you answer the fucking question?”

“That’s your generation's problem, you know? You swear more than you breathe.”

“Better than waging a world war every few years.”

“Considering the current state of the world, I wouldn’t rest too comfortably on that one,” Bucky rises from his seat and squeezes past you, irritatingly close in a way that makes sure you feel each defined muscle in his chest as it brushes against your shoulder. “Anyway, you look fine, as always.”

“I look fine?” You parrot his words and follow his footsteps over to the kitchen. “Careful Barnes, don’t get too excited, it’s not healthy for a senior citizen’s heart.”

“You know what I mean,” a heavy sigh slips out the soldier’s mouth as he busies himself filling the kettle, glancing back at you from over his shoulder as he continues speaking. “I don’t understand why you worry so much about all of… this.” He gestures at you, water splashing off the tips of his fingers.

“God forbid a woman cares about looking good on a date,” you’re becoming annoyingly aware of the pout on your lips and try your best to correct it, whilst prying open the fridge door and fishing out a bottle of beer. “Gee if only it were still the 40s, then I could slap some mercury on my lips and hit the town with a man ready to buy me off my daddy for the cheap, cheap price of two goats!”

The frustration within you only rises as you struggle with the bottle’s cap, the skin of your hand pinching as you put all your force behind removing it. Since when are twist-tops so damn hard to twist off?

Bucky’s by the kettle, pouring boiling hot water into a mug he’s wrongfully claimed as his and looking irritatingly fine surrounded by steam — which has your mind trailing back to a few weeks ago: an early morning, exiting your bedroom to find your lodger stepping out the bathroom with nothing but a towel around his waist and the remnant dew of a steaming hot shower trailing down his very naked, very defined biceps, and pectorals, and- He’s not even trying to mask the amusement on his face as he indulges in your failure.

“Don’t you think you’re being a little ridiculous?” He asks and pries the bottle out of your hold, effortlessly ripping the cap off with a twist of his left hand. A familiar warmth curls between your legs, awakening a response from you that you’ve sworn, under no circumstances, will happen due to Bucky Barnes. You barely want to exchange air with him, nevermind bodily fluids. “There’s no way you’re worth two goats.”

“Every day I wake up and resist the urge to smother you in your sleep.”

Your vitriol is met with a smirk taking over his lips. Watching as he brings the beer up to his mouth, you catch yourself forgetting to blink as the soldier engages you both in a staring contest, all the while he’s tilting the bottle up to steal the first sip. He presses the cold glass back into your hand. You try not to focus on his tongue, peeking out to swipe over his bottom lip and clean up a remnant drop of beer.

In a move that puts you even more on edge, Bucky shuffles closer to you. Delirium floods your mind as the smell of smoke, and musk, and a just a twinge of sweat floods your nose, a smell so masculine it has you debating setting feminism and your own self-preservation back hundreds of years by nuzzling your face into the pulse point of his neck, like you’re some damn animal being exposed to pheromones. Meanwhile, he appears none the wiser to the negative effect he’s having on you, too busy reaching his arm behind you and into the fridge.

“Those boys you entertain, do they ever pay you any compliments?” His voice is so gentle, you almost wonder if that’s how it would sound whispering in your ear. Luckily, you don’t actually wonder about that. Not at all, not even a little. “Or is that your job too, like the bill?”

As quickly as he caged you in against the fridge, he moves away and leaves the cool air to rush over your skin, dragging your mind back into reality and away from whatever thoughts it keeps trying to tempt you with. You track his movements towards the island counter as he sets down a glass bowl, marked by condensation and filled with a batter of some sorts.

It's becoming more and more common to catch Bucky pottering around in the kitchen, a recipe on his phone screen and a personalised ‘Kiss the Baker’ apron — which Sam bought as a joke for his birthday — tied around his waist. He’ll never admit it, but a part of you believes baking helps him relax, to shut off whatever thoughts are floating around in that disturbingly pretty head of his and let him focus solely on measuring, mixing, and making delicious sugary treats. You can hardly complain when he’s gifting you the privilege of an at-home bakery. Fortunately, he gives you plenty of other reasons to complain. 

“Boys I entertain? Way to make me sound like a stripper,” you huff, sneaking over to dunk a finger into the batter as he turns to grab his coffee. “And I’ll have you know, they do pay me compliments.”

Licking your finger clean, you can’t fight the humm of approval that creeps up your throat nor the way your eyes slip shut as you savour the cold, tangy sweetness of the cake mix. Something warm presses against your left side as Bucky returns to the island, setting down his mug and a cake tin.

“Really? What kinda things do they say?” Just as you go to double dip, he smacks the top of your hand with a wooden spoon, and you nearly freeze at the contact. For a few short seconds, the factory in your mind goes into lockdown as every single one of your brain cells scramble to not conjure up the image of him smacking that utensil on a very different part of you. “Hands off. It’s a lemon cake, not a lemon and your-dirty-fingers cake.”

You silence your thoughts with a swig of beer before putting a safety distance between Bucky and you, unsure whether to be relieved at his obliviousness to the less than ideal affect he’s having on you, or offended by his complete lack of reaction to being so close to you while you’re all dressed up and waiting for another man to take you out.

Not that you want him to be affected by that, or you in general, though.

Your phone lights up with a text from an unsaved number: im hear, r yu coming down or shuld i com up? You shut it off and stuff it into your purse, deciding it's best to keep a man waiting anyway; he’ll appreciate your presence even more once you finally give him it.

Besides, you’ve yet to answer Bucky’s question.

“I’d tell you but I’m too sober to stomach you yelling ‘Heaven to Betsy!’ and giving me a lecture on your medieval dating ethics.”

You earn a genuine laugh, in which his knees bend a little and his head is thrown back, while his vibranium hand winds up splayed across his midriff. The sun is setting beyond the window, lingering shades of orange warmth frame a heavenly glow around Bucky, highlighting a slight curl in his hair and the piercing blue of his eyes. The view is uncomfortably pleasant, so you bring the bottle back to your lips and turn your head away, suddenly utterly fascinated with the eggshell colouring of the kitchen cupboards.

“I think there’s a leak under the sink,” the comment is absentminded, a meager attempt at steering your mind away from the man and his mixing bowl.

Bucky ignores it and drags you right back to the actual topic at hand.

“That’s funny,” there’s a shuffle of tin behind you. You glance back around to find him smoothing batter into the cake mold, wooden spoon clasped in metal fingers spreading the mix evenly. You’ve never noticed how good Bucky is at spreading things. “Cause I swear I remember Sam mentioning something about the last guy moaning his own name in your ear.”

Beer shoots to the back of your throat.

In a spurt of coughing, amidst the burning pain of the carbonated liquid dripping out your nose, you hurry over to the sink. Mouth dropped open in a dry heave, you lean into the basin and try to minimize the mess you make in search of a breath. Heat envelops you from behind and a pair of sock-clad feet come into view next to your maroon heels. You briefly register the cool brush of metal against the back of your neck as he tries to tidy back your hair and, while you appreciate the action, you can’t help note how completely unnecessary it is. Too distracted to care, your attention shoots straight to the weight of his flesh hand pressing into your lower back. Heavy, warm, large, it pollutes your mind with the knowledge of how it feels to have him soothe your skin — even if there is a layer of silk in the way.

The moment air returns to your lungs, you shoot up straight and ache to step away from him and his wandering-to-all-the-wrong-places hands. The battle against his touch is mute, not even one percent of his strength is put behind the way he grips your forearms and turns you to face him.

Bucky’s eyes scan over you, studying your features. You swallow back whatever feeling brings salivation to your mouth. His thumb reaches towards his own and you watch, transfixed, as a pink tongue darts out to greet it, licking a stripe over the pad of it. A splash of cake batter stains his ring finger. You swallow back more saliva; confusingly, your mouth feels drier than ever. Only when he delicately presses his thumb beneath your eye and swipes over your waterline do you realise you’re teary-eyed.

“See how clumsy you are?” There’s a chastising lilt to his voice that sends blood rushing to your face, and then immediately back down to the overwhelmingly empty space between your legs. “Can’t even swallow properly without ruining your mascara.”

You need distance.

You need to move.

You need to leave.

“He’s here!” The words are almost a gasp as you turn out of his hold. The weight of his gaze trails over your legs as you rush around the kitchen island, fishing your keys out of your purse and rambling out the nerves he’s summoned. “Okay, there’s some leftover pasta in the fridge if you’re hungry, and you’re welcome to the beers if you get thirsty. Big remote turns on the TV, the little one changes the channel. Behave and take care of the place while I’m away, okay?”

“Quit talking to me like I’m some kind of guard dog,” he complains as you pull open the front door and cross one foot over the threshold to safety.

“Oh, I’m sorry!” You cheer back, trailing the door behind you as you go. “I wasn’t aware you were going to start contributing rent, I’ll send you my bank details.”

With that, the apartment door slams shut and you head out for a date in which three things will happen: you’ll flirt, you’ll fuck, and you won’t think about your roommate.

Only one of those things ends up happening.

It’s not from lack of an offer that you wind up taking a cab back to your apartment. Your date had been nice… enough. He complimented your outfit, took a sufficient amount of interest in you, and he even bought you flowers — of course, he’d accidentally left them in his parent’s home. Where he lived. In the basement.

And the thing is, you’re not shallow. Time’s are tough, the economy sucks, and the world is still adjusting to the sudden return to half its population post-Blip. So you were more than game to play sneak-me-into-your-bed-without-waking-your-parents, but, as the pair of you waited on a taxi to arrive, his hand found your waist and your treacherous mind noticed something it shouldn’t.

Bucky’s hand was larger. And warmer. And more welcomed against your skin.

Sick to your stomach by your own thoughts, your night ended with you tip-toeing past the familiar figure sleeping on your couch — definitely not pausing to take in the sheer width of his naked shoulders dangling half-off the cushion — and crawling into bed alone, belly full of Thai and mind full of Winter.

When morning comes, the bedroom door creaks as you pry it open, a fist rubbing sleep out your eye and a yawn announcing your arrival.

“Did you eat my ice cream?” Bucky calls out from somewhere, voice muffled and full of accusation.

Despite barely finishing a glass of wine the night before, there’s a throbbing pain beginning in your temples and souring your already bitter mood.

“Wow, good morning to you too,” you stumble more than walk over to the kitchen, in search of the salvation of ice cold water.

That’s where you find him: laid out on his back, grey sweatpants clinging to bent knees, with everything from his shoulders up inside the open cabinet beneath the sink. His arms are inside too, tinkering away at something above his face.

“Good morning. Did you eat my ice cream?” If ever a thing such as a verbal eyeroll were to exist, Bucky would be doing it. From the lack of seeing his eyes, there’s every chance he is literally rolling them.

Your journey toward the fridge is interrupted by the troubling sight of a glass full of water, a plate hosting a slice of lemon sponge cake, and two miscellaneous white pills that anyone who suffers the unusually cruel punishment of a menstrual cycle is likely familiar with. A post-it note with your name written neatly across it sits next to the unexpected care package.

“So what if I did?” The painkillers go down effortlessly, though there’s a lingering chemical taste that has you gulping down an extra sip of water. “What are you doing, anyway?”

“I paid for it!” For all his outrage, he doesn’t care enough to poke his head out as he chastises you. “You said there was a leak, so I’m checking your pipes. I’m quite good with my hands, you know.”

Is he dense, or is he saying this shit on purpose? The double entendre in his words is glaring, yet you haven’t the confidence nor the will-power to address it, to poke the proverbial bear out of fear. Fear of him scolding your dirty mind, or fear of him doubling down on his suggestive wordplay, you’re not quite sure.

You choose to steer clear of the topic and, more importantly, the unexpected twinge in your chest in response to Bucky’s unrequested help.

“And I paid for the freezer you left it in, the electricity that kept it frozen, and the apartment you live in,” you don’t intend to sound so snappy, like a sulking child fighting against their own self-confessed crimes. “So I think you can spare me some goddamn ice cream.”

You’ve taken to joining Bucky on the floor, sitting across from him, cross-legged and back pressed against the cabinets that surround the kitchen island. In your lap lies the slice of cake, a mouthful already missing and melting its tangy sweetness onto your tongue. You almost moan, but it’s unclear whether the sugary treat just tastes that good or the visual of the soldier laid out on his back and tinkering away beneath your sink is just so stimulating.

If you mention the strange noise your car’s engine has been making recently, would he fix that too? You can already picture him slicked in sweat and oil, hands on his hips as he stands over the opened hood and assesses whatever the damage is. You’d have to watch over the whole thing, of course — not out of your own self-interest but on the off chance something goes wrong and Bucky needs help taking off his oil-stained shirt, or pants, or-

“Your date was that good, huh?” You almost jump out of your skin when he speaks.

“He bragged to me about how he and his college roommates used to play pool,” the pause in your sentences seems to capture Bucky’s attention, coaxing him out from beneath the sink. “Using a shotgun instead of cues.”

As he sits up, elbows finding rest upon his knees, you can’t help but note the five-o’clock shadow he’s sporting. For reasons that have nothing to do with the fraying seams of your sanity, you need him to shave.

To Bucky’s credit, he doesn’t laugh. Yes, his lips glitch somewhere between a cheeky grin and a serious frown, but he does not outright laugh like you expect him to. Instead, he nods down at the half-eaten cake and tilts his head — an unspoken question, is it good?, that only weakens his argument about not being a guard-dog. Between the puppy-dog blue eyes and the yearning for approval, you half expect him to sprout a tail and start panting.

Scratch that last thought, actually. Bucky and panting should not coexist in a sentence together, nevermind in your imagination.

“Mind feeding me a bite?” Yes, actually, you would mind, but one glance at his fingertips stained in whatever-the-hell is going on with your sink leaves you no choice but to tear off a corner.

Bringing the piece of cake to meet his awaiting mouth, you brace yourself for the tentative scrape of teeth stealing it out of your hold. The delicate brush of his lips enveloping your fingers throws you off your axis, and the challenge in his eyes as they hold contact with your own has your thighs involuntarily squeezing themselves together.

For a moment, you swear you catch him glance down at your lips.

Then you remember the health insurance your job provides does not cover the cost of being institutionalised, so you stop hallucinating and come back to reality where Bucky Barnes is not so much a flirt as he is a pest, a stray animal abandoned at your doorstep by a friend who decided to take advantage of your good-natured heart.

“Can you give me the exact phrasing your date used to describe this shotgun-pool?” The soldier is gone in the blink of an eye, flat on his back again and continuing his attempt to seal the leak.

“Why?”

“I’m making this list,” he says, and he must shift his hands higher above his head because suddenly the soft cotton of his white shirt has ridden up his torso, presenting your eyes with a golden platter of sun-warmed skin. “I’m calling it ‘the manchild files’.”

“That’s not even funny,” neither is the way he inches deeper into the cabinet, exposing not only the glaringly white tan-line delineating where the band of his boxers should be resting but also the beginning dark curls of a happy trail. 

“Well ‘the stupid files’ sounds so simple, I was worried you’d try to jump into bed with it.”

“Are you seriously about to slut-shame me in my own fucking kitchen?” Whilst slutting yourself out on my floor like your name is Mike and you’re about to show me some magic? is the quiet part you don’t say aloud.

“I’m critical but I’m not hypocritical,” there he does again with that verbal eye-roll. “I wasn’t exactly the image of celibacy when I was your age-”

“Yay, more grandpa lore!” Your interruption earns you a nudge from his leg, but you know it made him laugh because his shoulders gently shake.

“I’m not slut-shaming you, I’m taste-shaming. I swear, being useless must be the precursor to having a chance with you.”

“It is not!” You gasp, yet you’re hardly surprised — Bucky’s not exactly subtle in his disapproval of the men you date.

If there is anything to be thankful for, it’s the alleviation that comes with Bucky shimmying out from the sink again, happy trail redressed and a hand diving into the pocket of his sweatpants. With a dramatic clearing of his throat, he brings his phone up to his face and starts reciting.

“After being told you have a nut allergy, Carter B. said Wait, like, you’re allergic to cum?” You’d always known showing him how to use the notes app would come back to bite you in the ass somehow. “Tommy L. walked into a lampost because he got distracted… watching a squirrel run up a tree. You almost got stood up by Steve K. because he accidentally locked himself inside his own car. Lee B. asked you-”

“Bucky B. is about to lose his other arm if he doesn’t shut up.”

“I rest my case,” and he still has the nerve to open his mouth, awaiting another bite of cake.

You cave with no fight and give it to him.

Because you’re a nice person, not because you want to feel his mouth on you again.

Something cool drips onto the bottom of your naked thighs after Bucky reaches over you and grabs at the glass of water, stealing an obnoxiously large gulp; or is it just exaggerated by your stare zeroing in on the way his Adam’s apple bobs as he drinks?

A thought pops into your mind.

“Did you leave these on the counter because you expected me to be hungover?” Your tone is inoffensive, and unoffended, a simple curiosity you need answered.

“You have a headache, right?”

“Uh-huh,” your eyes narrow skeptically.

“Yeah, I figured you would,” Bucky takes another sip, more condensation trickling down onto your legs. “You always have one after eating Thai food.”

Something inside of you stops.

Your heart, or your lungs, or your mind. Your goddamn liver, for all you know.

This is not supposed to be happening. Bucky is not supposed to fix things just because you mentioned it, once in passing and as a scapegoat from focusing too much on him. And he certainly isn’t supposed to notice things, useless little factoids that not even you know about yourself until he brings them to light. Hell, he’s not even supposed to still be here, sleeping on your couch and criticising your love life.

When the thing inside of you clicks back into place and starts again, a new weight rests atop your conscience.

Maybe it’s not so bad having a roommate, having Bucky be that roommate. Maybe you’re starting to get used to coming home to the smell of baked vanilla and the signature grouchy look he wears as he asks you about your day, about how your co-worker pissed you off, about why you’re home later than usual and not wearing a jacket out in the cold of winter.

“By the way,” he’s calling out from beneath the sink again. “You’ll be happy to know I’m touring an apartment next week.”

“Oh.” The bite you just took turns sour in your mouth. You struggle to swallow it down. “That’s great. Finally! You’re going, and I’m staying here, and I’ll have my apartment back to myself. That’s… Great. It’s great!”

No, really, it’s great.

“You’re joking,” a palm on your lower back guides you to the right, just in time to avoid being trampled beneath a cart.

“I wish,” you say, and saunter over to some colourful packaging that’s captured your eye.

After a moment of inspecting the product in hand from every angle, you put it back on the shelf.

“Let me get this straight,” Bucky pushes the cart along behind you, grabbing that same colourful packaging and dropping it in with the rest of the groceries. “You lean through his window, kiss him goodbye on the cheek and then he just… What, crashed his car?”

“Into a wall with street art of a cliff painted on it,” as you add the most important detail, laughter is already bubbling up your throat. “He literally crashed his car into a cliff without even getting to switch out of first gear!”

The pair of you make up quite the sight.

An entire morning of tiptoeing through the limbo of delirium, after an entire night spent trying to block out the relentless banging from the upstairs neighbours. The door to your bedroom crawled open some time past four and there was Bucky, head poking through the space and looking rather pleased to find you wide awake — despite his claims of just wanting to make sure you were asleep.

Seated on opposite ends of the couch, both of you found a quiet solace in the other’s inability to sleep. While a movie marathon played over the TV, the sex marathon above continued. When exhaustion took claim of your body, you drifted off with your arms resting on the armchair and your head resting on your arms. You awoke atop a pillow and beneath a blanket, legs stretched out over the couch and Bucky curled up on the floor by your feet — like any good guard dog would be.

After a botched attempt to sneak past the soldier, only to have him scare the living daylights out of you by grabbing your ankle as you tried to step over him, you both came to the shocking realisation that the fridge was void of any food.

Which brings you to here: standing in aisle 7, laughing an ache into your ribs over yet another one of your failed dates, with a half-filled cart and matching bags forming under your tired eyes.

“I think it’s time we had an intervention about where you’re finding these men,” Bucky says that last word like it's covered in poison, burning his tongue on the way out.

“They find me!” You say, as he reaches for the box of strawberries you just put down. “As generous as I am, do you want to maybe slow down on how much shit you load into our cart?”

His hand freezes, the box of red fruit clasped in a confusingly delicate grip of vibranium fingers

“You picked it up,” his tone is riddled with confusion. “Don’t you want them?”

“Contrary to popular belief, I’m not made of money.”

“Okay?” He replies, like it’s the most irrelevant piece of information you’ve ever given him — and you once spent an hour ranting to him about the inefficiency of the ink cartridges in your office’s printer. “I’m paying, so do you want it or not?”

“Since when do you have money? Did your pension finally come through? I mean… You are old enough. Also, aren’t you literally a vet?”

 “You managed to say all that in one breath, yet you failed to answer a yes or no question.”

A bubble of silence surrounds you both. Bucky blinks, slowly, exaggeratedly. It’s the perfect opportunity to stare at his face and notice the five o'clock shadow has grown. A gruff ‘excuse me’, followed by a man shoving between you both to grab some strawberries, pops the bubble.

Without a word, you snatch the box and place it in the cart.

Half-way up the fruit aisle, Bucky gets the genius idea to open his mouth again: “You wanna know what my theory is?”

“Nope,” you say, popping the p and glancing back at him over your shoulder. “But you’re going to tell me anyway.”

He looks vexingly domestic like this, wearing a sweater and pushing your shopping around. Thoughts betray you, wandering off into dangerous territory as they begin to question how others perceive you from the outside.

What do strangers see: two roommates that quarrel like it’s a biological need, or a couple doing their weekly shop? Two strangers forced together by a circumstance named Sam Wilson, or two lovers unwilling to voice that the metal container between them is too much distance?

“I think you date idiots because they’re idiots.”

“Gee whiz, grandpa, that’s so insightful. I sure do hope I’m as wise as you when I’m your age, but I’ll probably just be dead.” You feel the cart meet your back in a gentle bump, a non-verbal warning to cut the teasing.

“Dating those incompetent men, it’s like…” he pauses, searching for the right words, and plucks a bunch of bananas from your hand, dropping them in with your mounting pile of fruit. “Jumping out of a plane! You get the thrill of falling but, the moment something a little too real and solid appears on the horizon, you pull out the parachute and, that’s it, you’re safe. No danger of falling flat on your face and getting your feelings hurt.”

“I don’t know when you last jumped out of a plane-”

“Remember that Karli situation a few months ago?”

“But not ejecting your parachute leads to a little more than just falling flat on your face.”

“So my metaphor isn't perfect,” Bucky trails off, eyes staring past you and mind lost in thought. You follow his line of sight and find a couple at the end of the aisle, hands intertwined and smiling at each other like they’re the only two people in the world. An unnamed emotion tugs at the soldier’s lips, but he won’t let it take over his stoic features. “But you get my point. If you were actually looking for something serious, you’d date someone better than those men.”

Unprompted and unwarranted, his words spear your heart.

Memories replay in your head, a kaleidoscope of the featureless faces you let take you out, dine you, wine you, kiss you. A handful of immeasurables: how many times you’ve brushed off mispronounced versions of your name, how many excuses you’ve made for the way they talk to you, how many times you’ve lowered your own standards to help a man feel desired. In your wake lies a graveyard of failed relationships, with no proper funeral nor mourning.

You swallow back the lump in your throat.

“Okay, psychoanalysing me aside, what’s left on the list?” You ask, making your way round to Bucky’s side of the cart.

“Well, I still need to write down Jeff G.’s cliff accident.”

“The other list.” You watch as he struggles to fish out the scrap of paper from his pocket.

“Eggs, pasta, feta, toilet roll,” his brows are furled, his eyes are glaring, and with each item he lists off, his words grow more unsure. “Grapefruit? Your handwriting is shit.”

“I was in a rush!”

“And sitting on a jack-hammer?”

“Gimme that,” you snatch the list, he yields it with no protest. As you scan over the scribbled ink, a frustrating truth comes to light. Bucky’s right, your handwriting is shit. “Is grapefruit even in season?”

“Huh,” it’s the sound of hollow amusement.

“What?”

“Just…” His presence looms over you, infecting your senses with the woodsy smell of his cologne and the arduous heat that radiates off of him. When he nods his head to the right, scoffing out a laugh and poking his tongue into his cheek, you find yourself wrestling between temptations of slapping him or pulling him closer. “You really don’t notice what’s right in front of you, do you?”

Lo and behold, on the right side of the aisle, grapefruits.

You make it through the rest of the shopping list in relative silence, with the occasional side-comment from the super soldier that either rouses a grin onto your lips or has your eyes rolling in faux disagreement. Little by little, you peruse the aisles and fill the cart; and, when Bucky picks out the only ice cream flavour void of nuts, you bite your tongue and choose to say nothing.

“I forgot to ask,” you finally speak, standing in the self-checkout zone and struggling to find something to do with your fidgety hands as Bucky scans each item — you insisted on helping and he insisted he’d get it done quicker alone. “How did the apartment viewing go?”

“Oh. Fine,” you grimace as he says your least favourite f word. “The current lease isn’t up yet, so you’re stuck with me a little longer.”

Are you supposed to feel this relieved?

In theory, you were never supposed to feel anything in regards to Bucky Barnes. In practice, it’s a lot more complicated, a pendulum that seems to swing in constant motion between red hot aggravation and red hot something else you refuse to give a name.

All you know is there are times where you wonder if his back is okay sleeping on the couch, and you contemplate asking him to come meet you during your lunch breaks, and you crave to have the anxious shake in your leg quelled by his daily check-in calls whenever he and Sam go off on another misadventure. Whatever reason lies behind your behaviour, the familiarity of ignorant bliss tempts you away from seeking the answer.

Besides, Bucky will be leaving soon. He’ll no longer be your roommate and you’ll both fall out of whatever routine convenience has forced upon you both.

A series of beeps capture your attention.

At the epicentre of the noise stands an elderly woman, grey hair pristinely curled and an outfit that screams Sunday-bests, struggling with the check-out machine. With no employee in sight and no do-gooder fellow customer stepping out of their way to help, the woman’s distress grows with each beep the machine makes at her.

Knuckles brush down your arm, and there’s Bucky at your side, waiting for you to pay him any mind.

“You mind handling the rest?” He asks, in that softly-spoken tone of his that would make anyone feel like swooning. Maybe that’s why it takes you a few moments to notice the wallet he’s holding out to you. “Cash is in the back pocket. I’ll be a few minutes, okay? Just finish bagging everything, leave the carrying to me.”

There’s no time to get a single word out before you’re staring at the back of his head and watching as he makes his way over to the elderly woman.

For every item you scan, you sneak a glance. The butter beeps onto the screen, and you peek how Bucky has effortlessly become the woman’s personal helper. You pass the strawberries through and reward yourself with the sight of Bucky’s cheeky grin �� with the way the elderly lady laughs and swats at his arm, you can only assume he’s made some flirtatious comment. Clicking on the option to pay cash, you nearly give yourself whiplash as you turn to watch them again, Bucky’s just about finishing bagging her groceries while the woman opens her shopping-trolley bag.

Waiting on the receipt to print, your reflection stares back at you on the self-checkout screen: a hue of endearment glowing off your features. The smile quickly melts off your face when you realise that he… Oh no.

Bucky is charming.

Part of you has always known he was handsome — you’re stubborn, not blind — yet the sight of him now, all dashing smiles and twinkling eyes playing rescuer to a woman who, despite the difference in their physical ageing, is closer to his own age than you, it troubles you. The acid burn in your throat is not a manifestation of jealousy, no; it’s the queasy feeling of knowing you’ve never looked across at a date, caught him in a moment of content, and felt the unyielding desire to be the reason behind it.

Someone clears their throat beside you, a man with a wrinkle in his forehead and an agitated look upon his face, so you quickly excuse yourself and, with plastic handles digging into your fingers, you approach Bucky and the elderly lady.

Upon noticing you, Bucky’s quick to tug the bags out your grip, a scolding already falling off his tongue: “I told you to leave these to me.”

“Yeah, well, Mr. Frowny-Magoo over there didn’t appreciate me hogging up the cashier,” the comment is meant as nothing more than a lighthearted joke, yet you swear you see something shift in the soldier’s stance, his shoulders tensing and his jaw clenching as he glances back at the stranger.

Fortunately, the elderly woman interrupts whatever he’s contemplating doing to him.

“Она твоя жена?(Is she your wife?)” She’s looking between you both expectantly, speaking words you don’t understand. “У нее лицо ангела. (She has the face of an angel.)”

Whatever she says, it clearly has an effect on Bucky. His head turns to the side, to you, and a visible softness overcomes his gaze as it traces over your face. His shoulders are relaxing, his jaw is unclenching, and he’s switching the bags over to his metal hand, renewing his grip and freeing up the hand that now hangs right by yours, knuckles gracing over your own in a way that feels like a dare, a challenge, a temptation to lace your fingers together.

You clench your fist shut.

“Я знаю. (I know.)” He says, eyes lingering on you a few moments longer than necessary, before he’s back to smiling at the elderly woman.

Halfway home and doubling your pace to keep up with his effortless stroll, curiosity finally gets the better of you.

“What did she say back there, that lady you helped?”

A stranger rushes past you both, phone glued to their ear and stressing down the speaker. Bucky takes grip of your arm and tugs you closer to him.

“Do you spend your time getting bumped into when I’m not around?” His fingers give your arm a squeeze before releasing you. “And, if you must know, she said I was the most handsome man she’s ever seen.”

Little force is put behind the shove you give his shoulder.

You’re too busy agonising over how much you agree with her.

Bucky leaves.

Not forever, but three weeks away on some stealth mission with Sam sure begins to feel like it.

It happens on a Friday. After the week from hell at work, a friend’s mid-week engagement party, and the unexpected downpour of rain during the journey home, you walk into an unlit apartment and a note stuck to the fridge.

Sam needs me. Be safe, don’t bring strangers home. B. 

The batch of freshly baked cinnamon rolls sweeten your night up, at least.

There’s a quiet that always seems to blanket the house whenever you lose Bucky to missions.

Before he was dumped on your front door, you’d been used to living alone and the peaceful silence that came with it. Independence, the ability to need no one and want nothing, a trait of yours that once brought pride, now brings you nothing but the static sound of a muted television and the hum of the microwave spinning a meal fit for one.

Mornings become a ritual of waking later yet leaving earlier, no one is there to distract you from drinking your coffee. Though the workload is the same, somehow the slow drag of hours still finds a way to pass quicker than ever, the revolving doors of the office building spit you back out onto the streets of New York before you’re fully ready. Your evenings waste away, starved of noise and company, while you run out of shows to watch and books to read, and count the hours down until all that silence becomes necessary for your eyes to close and your mind to rest.

It’s when darkness rules over the sky and the hour is a single digit that the phone finally rings. A blocked number, untraceable, pulling you out the hands of sleep and filling your room with the noise of your ringtone. He never speaks first, not until there’s an echo down the line of your own sleep stained ‘hello?’.

“You can go back to sleep now.”

You never stay on the line long enough to find out how quickly he hangs up after he speaks. Because it’s only ever meant to be a way to let you know he’s safe, alive, somewhere out there doing who-knows-what and stopping who-knows-who. It’s just an unrequested favour he’s granted you, after the incident in which both he and Sam fell-off the grid for five days and you were nearly rounding up a search party. He’s not missed a call since, once a day while he’s away.

So, when he doesn’t call, it’s only natural that you worry.

The alarm bell rings when you wake up to birds chirping, sun spilling through the crack between the curtains, and not a single missed call nor voicemail awaiting you.

It’s Saturday and there’s no work to occupy your mind, so you force down a bagel, toss a tote bag onto your shoulder, and head out to the local market. But there’s no joy in perusing fruit stands without a six foot soldier trailing your heels and muttering to himself about how exotic fruit has gotten, and how ‘back in my day you had your apples, your oranges, and your pears.’

You wind up home by noon, and the dwelling begins to grow, still no call.

There’s a weight on your chest, and a balloon of anxiety that grows in your throat, and an unwarranted agitation burning at your skin as you read over his note again, still very much stuck to the fridge and taunting you — Be safe, says a man who clearly can’t take his own advice. 

Then, why should you?

You agree to go on a date, one you’ve been dancing around agreeing to for a few weeks yet reach for it the moment you decide you’re not pleased with the way Bucky’s lack of a call is ruining your well-earned free time.

And, hey, the guy’s not a complete loser this time. On paper, at least. He’s handsome, tall, and an athlete — ex-athlete, really, but you don’t bother to point that out while he talks about the gymnastic studio he runs. Most importantly, he’s eager to call a cab and get you home, screw Bucky’s warning. If you want to bring a stranger into your home, you’ll do it. 

Brooding, uncalling soldier be damned!

After stumbling through the dark of your apartment into your bedroom, and fumbling with your bra long enough for you to grow tired and just take it off yourself, you and Mister Gymnast tumble into the sheets for a performance so lacklustre, it warrants taking all his medals away. At least your date seems to enjoy himself, spilling onto your stomach and falling asleep the minute his head hits the pillows.

“I finished,” last you checked, he hadn't even started.

You lie awake, staring at the ceiling, and try to will the phone to ring. Encased by a stranger’s snoring and a guilty feeling, you let Lady Sleep whisk you away. When your eyes open next, morning has broken and you’re alone in bed with a remnant trace of warmth on the sheets. But the silence is finally gone.

Beyond your door you hear the faint thud of footsteps, the ding of the fridge being opened, the whistle of the kettle. You almost trip in your rush to get dressed, and nearly rip the hinges off the door as you tear it open. Then the smile falls from your face.

“You’re up!” Everyone’s favourite gymnast is there to greet you, a mug in hand as he goes to pull you in for a kiss. The way you swerve is automatic, unplanned, leaving his lips to land on your cheek. “Uhh, I was hoping you’d sleep a little longer, I wanted to bring you breakfast in bed but-”

“He couldn’t figure out how to boil the kettle.”

And there’s Bucky, leaning back against the kitchen counter with his arms crossed over his chest and a smug look on his face. Aside from the butterfly stitches above his left brow, he looks unharmed. Fine, even. Dressed in all black, with a t-shirt that’s hugging his frame a little too tightly for your liking, the double-combo of his dog-tags and vibranium arm on display. Perfectly safe for a man who couldn’t call.

Your date laughs and sheepishly scratches the back of his head before you get the chance to speak.

“Your brother was kind enough to help me.” It’s unclear who laughs first: Bucky or you. “What’s so funny?”

“Oh, nothing, nothing, just…” Bucky says, shaking the laughter away with a nod of his head. “In what world do me and her look related?”

“Wait, if you’re not her brother then, are you-” Fifty shades of horror spill over the gymnast’s face, his head darting between looking over at Bucky and back at you. “Holy shit, is he your boyfriend?”

“Husband, actually,” the soldier’s all too quick-witted, pushing off the counter and reaching for a mug of brewing coffee. “But don’t worry, we’re open. What do you think of our kitchen lights, by the way? My wife here likes them dim.”

Dumb as he is, your date tilts his head up to inspect the light fixtures.

“Oh, they’re nice!”

That does it for you.

“Bucky, shut up!” You snap, finger pointed over at the menace who’s biting back a smirk and stirring away at his mug, face as innocent as sin. Is this some twisted version of revenge, a punishment for bringing a stranger home? You’d prefer the punishment to be a little more… hands on. Preferably in the form of your slapping that twinkle out of his eyes. “He is not my boyfriend, or my husband. He is the bum that lives on my couch.”

“You see how she treats me, Vince?”

“It’s Lance,” the gymna- Lance corrects him.

Moving towards the kitchen, your eyes check over your roommate once more, as though they expect some previously unseen injury to make an appearance on his skin. Come the end of your search, you’re left looking into a face that is sporting a split brow and a cruel level of entertainment from the situation at hand.

There’s a relief to having him back, and it’s wrestling with the exasperating emotions a single missed call conjured up.

“What are you doing here, anyway? Aren’t you and Sam still meant to be… I don’t know, on a homoerotic getaway, fighting crime?” The questions fire out of you as you slip into one of the island’s stools.

“We finished early,” Bucky appears by your side as though from thin air, hand clasping the back of your seat and pushing you in closer to the counter top.

“Aww, don’t worry, big boy, it happens to the best of you,” you tease, an empathetic pat against his shoulder.

The mockery backfires when you notice his brows shoot up and his stare shifts towards your date, who’s too busy trying to open the sugar jar to notice the dig at his own sexual inabilities.

Wait, when exactly did Bucky get home?

“How do you take your coffee?” One-Thrust-Lance asks you over his shoulder.

Before you can answer, a cup is nudged into your grasp and Bucky looks over you with triumph, metal fingers reaching out to drag over a plate of freshly-baked cookies. The smell of warm vanilla pairs well with the soft musk of his cologne, your eyes nearly roll back inhaling it.

“Mmm,” one sip of your coffee is all you need to know it’s perfect, made exactly to your taste. “Coffee and baked goods… I knew I kept you around for a reason.”

In lieu of any verbal response, the soldier takes to dunking one of the cookies into your mug before stealing a bite out of it. You watch as he chews on the sweet treat, head nodding in approval at his own skills. After he dips a second time, you expect him to take another bite, only to find him offering the chocolate chip goodness up to your mouth. Two eyes, blue as any winter, stare encouragingly while you sink your teeth into the cookie.

Heaven couldn’t taste any sweeter, you think, as the perfect blend of coffee stained dough and the sharpness of the dark chips flood your tastebuds.��

“So messy,” Bucky tuts quietly, his right hand grabbing a steady hold of your chin while his thumb swipes away the crumbs dusting the corner of your mouth.

That thing inside of you stops again as you watch him bring his hand up to his own mouth, a pink tongue poking out to lick his thumb clean.

Arousal thrums through your blood, a pulsing rhythm that spreads straight to your clit. A squeeze of your thighs brings momentary reprieve, yet the ache fights back with renewed force, drying up your throat and knocking the sense right out of you.

Squirming where you sit, your legs switch position until one foot finds itself tucked beneath the opposite thigh, the heel of it sitting perfectly against your clothed core. You find no mercy, no chance to roll your hips forward in search of the balm only friction will bring to your burning skin. Instead there’s simply Bucky, eyes trailing down the length of you and settling on your short-clad legs. As though his behaviour is not cruel enough, he wets his bottom lip with his tongue

“You like that?” More than you’ll ever know, you almost scream until the logical side of your brain takes the wheel again and you notice him pointing down at the half-eaten cookie. Of course he’s enquiring about his baking skills, what else would this scrambled-egg-for-brains senior citizen be talking about? “Are you gonna make me wait all day for an answer?”

Something smashes behind Bucky, just in time to startle away the racy thoughts from your mind.

“My bad!” Your date — who you damn near forgot was even here — is apologising, bending at the waist and trying his best to collect the fractured pieces of a mug off the floor. “Where do you guys keep your dustpan?” 

Bucky pushes away from the island counter, taking the smell of his cologne with him; if you weren’t fully back to your rational senses, you’d miss it.

“I’ll get it, Vince, you just stand there and look pretty.”

“Okay!” Lance, it seems, is just as eager to please the ex-assassin as you almost were a moment ago.

You decide you need to move, to stand up, to stretch your legs. This has nothing to do with the lingering effect of Bucky’s antics, nor the damp patch gathering against your panties.

Slipping off the kitchen stool, you work on chugging down gulps of coffee with every intention of dumping the empty mug into the sink, dashing to your bedroom, and conjuring up the best plan you can come up with to get not only yourself, but also the trash you brought in with you last night out of the apartment and away from an infuriating roommate.

Something on the floor derails you, however, dragging you away from the path to sanctuary. The tiniest red petal, lonesome and neglected upon the cold tile. Three steps over, and there’s another petal. One step until the next petal. You follow the breadcrumb trail all the way over to the garbage can where, with one gentle push of a button, the lid opens up to reveal the unexpected, thrown away like a dirty secret.

A crumpled bouquet of roses.

Everywhere you turn, there’s tension.

In your neck, from sleeping at an unfavourable angle. Within your stomach, where a queasy feeling keeps threatening to spew your guts out onto the bathroom floor. Between you and Bucky, a foreign energy that’s grown over the course of this last week, during which you’ve been avoiding eye contact and his stare is full of accusation.

Retracing your steps, they take you back to the moment Lance left the apartment and you found yourself drowning in Bucky’s company for the first time in weeks. He was barely half-way through poking fun at the choices you made in his absence — most of his focus being on the blubbering fool you brought into your bed — when your patience ran thin and snapped.

Now here you are, bearing the consequence of your own short temper, wiping lipstick off your teeth whilst mentally preparing yourself to go on a second date, planned sheerly out of spite and the need to prove a point.

Poor Lance is none the wiser to his role as pawn in your game of ‘Screw You, Barnes!’.

“Everything okay in there?” Think of the devil and he shall knock on the bathroom door, apparently. “Thought you had your big date at seven.”

The gymnast’s text thread stares back at you, a wall of grey bubbles. You have to swallow down the lump in your throat to speak, “He’s not answering my calls.”

“You’ve been stood up? By that loser?” There’s every chance your storm of emotions is impeding you from thinking straight, but you swear you almost hear a hint of disbelief in Bucky’s voice. Disgust, even.

There’s no point dwelling on the thought.

After a quick wash of your hands, you pry the door open and watch as the soldier leaning against it nearly topples forward before catching himself against the frame. He’s entirely too close for comfort, close enough for you to notice the different shades of blue in his eyes.

“Maybe he broke his phone?” The lack of assurance in your voice has you cringing, the fear of being called out suddenly doubling.

Bucky scoffs, arms crossing over his chest.

“More likely he forgot to charge it.”

Is that what happened to him? Is that why he left you to dwell in the dark over his whereabouts and wellbeing, rendering the usual distraction of a night-time companion useless? Only for you to find him the following morning, right as rain and as annoying as ever, standing in the kitchen and casting judgement-filled glances at your overnight guest?

Thinking about it, about him, brings on an onslaught of anger you’re not willing to address. Not right now.

“Shut up!” It comes across as less independent girlboss and more petulant child, but you’re too busy noticing how firm his chest feels under your palms as you push past him out of the bathroom to care.

Prying open the freezer, you hear the soft click of the toilet door closing. Good, you think, he’s gone away. Out of sight, out of mind. Even if it is only for the short time it takes him to do his business.

That time ends up being even shorter than expected, for only minutes after you’ve dug your spoon into the creamy, frozen goodness of vanilla fudge, the object of both your fascination and your torture is making his way towards the kitchen.

“Didn’t I tell you to stop eating my ice cream?”

“Didn’t I tell you to move out?” Mouth full of vanilla, you shoot him a toothy grin and relish in the grimace it earns you.

Satisfaction melts away when Bucky invades your personal space, metal arm reaching over head and pulling open a cupboard.

“Don’t do that,” you swat at the vibranium bicep, a futile fight that simply makes you all too aware of how smooth it feels beneath your fingertips.

“Do what?” Brain of a caveman, Bucky continues his rustling through the cabinet behind you, features as stoic as a rock as though he’s none the wiser to how your chests brush against one another with each exhale.

“That,” another swat at his arm, though this time he yields. The space between you doesn’t grow, however. It worsens, his attention fully falling onto you now. “Reaching over me like you can’t just ask me to move.”

“Fine, if it really bothers you that much,” are the last words you hear before you’re airborne, two hands squeezing at your hips and moving you two steps over and out of the way.

The soldier doesn’t struggle, not even for a moment, the serum that’s altered his DNA leaving him primed and ready to manoeuvre the most steadfast of objects. Manhandle them, too. Pick them up, turn them over, pin them down, make them scream… Objects, of course, or those big, bad guys he and Sam are always chasing after.

The anger in you is renewed, burning brighter than a star ready to die. You shove his hands off of you and secure another step of distance between you.

“Well aren’t you a ray of sunshine today.” With the rate he’s going at, one would think the soldier makes a living out of deepening the frown on your face. “Is this princess’ first time being stood up?”

You’d slap him, right here and now, if it didn’t mean moving closer and touching his skin; the current top two of your ‘Things To Not Do’ list.

Luckily, the tub of ice cream sits just within reach and your eager fingers take grip of it, sliding it over the counter towards yourself. A mouthful of coolness precedes the burning question on your tongue, “Why didn’t you call?”

“Are you serious?” Now he’s the one scowling and taking a step closer.

“Deadly,” you dig the spoon back into the carton. “Now answer the question.”

“You’re pissy with me for not calling, meanwhile I’m the one who came home to some asshole in your bed?”

He’s moving closer. You try to step backwards.

“Yeah, well, if you’d called like you were supposed to, I wouldn’t have ended up with said asshole.”

Bucky’s eyes narrow, “Oh, so now it’s my fault that you date degenerates?”

The cackle that escapes you could break the soundbarrier.

“Wow! Everybody, give it up for another original dig at my love-life from James Buchanan Barnes!” Voice dripping with seven layers of venomous sarcasm, you give three slow claps of your hands. The cynical smile that overcomes your face feels borderline deranged, something plucked right out of a horror movie. “Okay, yeah, I date losers! Happy? Jesus Christ, Bucky, what do you expect me to do? It’s not exactly like there’s anyone else lining up to date me.”

“I am!” His voice is raised, his eyes are wide, his chest is heaving. “Maybe I’m the biggest idiot, rushing home last week to surprise you. Even brought you flowers.  I just… Fuck!”

You don’t move, don’t blink, don’t breathe.

Bucky runs a hand through his hair, knuckles going white as he pulls on the tresses.

There it is again in his eyes, the accusation.

Even though he’s shaking his head, he steps closer.

The kitchen counter is right behind you, there’s nowhere for you to run.

The heels on your feet almost give out beneath you, you try to steady yourself with your hands.

Bucky has other plans and grips both your forearms.

“I am,” he repeats, softer. Slower. The icy exterior of accusation melts away to reveal vulnerability.

A hand meets your cheek and holds you like you are glass, breakable beneath his touch. Your heart’s in your throat, and there’s a current of electricity running down to your toes, and that neglected hunger in your loins creeps in again. His eyes search your face, while his thumb gently swipes over your bottom lip, prying it out an involuntary capture from your teeth.

It’s unclear who reaches for who first, whether he dips and takes possession of your mouth, or you grab him by the collar of his shirt and lay your claim over him. In a matter of seconds, a tentative press of lips against lips divulges into loss of breath, tongues in mouths, and fevered kisses.

The soldier kisses with starvation, like he has walked through the desert of loneliness and at last stumbled upon an oasis, like a bee seeking every last drop of nectar from a flower dying off with the spring, like a body clings to sleep in the throes of exhaustion. It’s a necessity, a human need, a matter of survival to keep your lips interlocked.

The hand on your face holds you steady as he tilts himself deeper into the kiss. Noses brush against the swells of cheeks, eyelids rest close, feet shuffle closer in search of eradicating the crevice of distance between you two. Metal fingers curl around the nape of your neck, a gesture you reciprocate while your spare hand lays flat-palmed against his beating chest. One of his legs winds up between yours and, as he shifts weight from one foot to another, there’s the faintest relief of friction against your cunt and a whine gets caught between your throat and Bucky’s eager mouth.

Despite how you chase his lips, he pulls back and grants you the sight of pure endearment.

“Look at you, whining already. Where’s all that fire gone?” It’s practically a whisper, spoken with fascination. “Or were you just needing Old Bucky to touch you, huh?”

Second-hand embarrassment burns the tips of your ears, while your own unspoken agreement to his question has your stomach twisting up. Survival instincts, that have never been much of a friend, scream at you to flee this feeling, to throw away Pandora’s box before you risk fully opening it and having it consume you.

Bucky intercepts your attempt to push out of his arms.

“Ah, ah, get back here. Not done kissing you,” his words divulge into a barely coherent mumble as he reconnects your lips.

Beneath the heat of his kiss, the discomfort in your chest turns to ashes. Because, while instinct tells you to run from danger, this is Bucky.

Bucky who fixes cupboard hinges, and sleeps with both eyes on the door. Bucky who carries all the shopping, and holds every door. Bucky who calls to hear your voice while he’s away endangering his life, and brings home the silliest trinkets he finds on missions. Bucky who wakes you when you miss your alarm, and knows if you’ve had a bad day simply from looking at your face.

How could you possibly be in danger when it comes to him?

While you’re overcome with epiphany, he’s taken to tracing his lips over the slope of your jaw and mouthing at the skin of your neck. It’s when he lifts you up onto the kitchen counter that your wandering mind is reeled back in, to the physical present where your legs rest on either side of the soldier and the prized possession of vanilla fudge once again sits within reaching distance.

“Are you stealing my ice cream right now?” His lips tickle your collarbone as he speaks, barely  a moment after you’ve scooped the spoon into your mouth.

“I’m warm, and it's melting,” his head pops up just in time to accept the spoonful of vanilla you deliver. There’s a glow in his eyes, one that has you questioning if it's been there all along or if it's a consequence of touching your skin. “Don’t want it to go to waste.”

His mouth is on yours again, a rush of three chaste kisses seared against you before he replies, “Then let’s cool you down.”

At a teasingly slow pace, you feel his fingers tug down your dress’ straps, leaving the silky fabric to slip down your frame and pool around your hips. Under the golden hue of the kitchen lights, his gaze studies your bare skin like it's a work of art, an eighth wonder of the world, the greatest poem never written woven into it. Yet it still manages to pale against the face that overcomes him as he removes a final layer of lace.

Unlike Vince, he has no trouble removing your bra.

“So responsive,” he talks as though only his ears are meant to hear it, his vibranium palm gently taking hold of your left breast and rolling the hardening nipple between two fingers. 

He’s studying your reaction, bewildered by the goosebumps spreading over your flesh.

When was the last time he truly touched another person? Weeks, months, years, decades? The thought of his hands on a faceless shape makes you sick. First with envy, and then with hypocrisy, an amalgamation of all the men you’ve taken to bed flashing before your eyes. But none of them ever touched you like you were porcelain, and none of them looked at you like you held the key to eternal pleasure. None of them were Bucky.

A chill runs down your spine and a gasp rips out your chest as Bucky swipes the spoon over your skin, leaving a trail of ice cream atop your right breast for his tongue to follow. He plants a garden of kisses along the swell of your chest before pulling away to give the left side equal treatment, another creamy river along your skin for him to clean up.

Moving at their own volition, your hips grind gently against his steady figure as Bucky coats your nipple in vanilla, moaning into your chest as he lays claim over you with his mouth. Spoiling you in his kisses, the soldier begins to yearn for friction, meeting the careful roll of your hips with his own.

Your hand finds his hair and his stare meets yours, intense and all-consuming as he releases your nipple with a scrape of his teeth. You want to soothe his kiss-swollen lips but they’re already wrapping themselves around your other breast, not even patient enough to lather you in the vanilla goodness this time.

Instead, the coldness on your skin stems from metal fingers, perched on your thigh and creeping up the length of it, inch by tormenting inch. A hesitant hand wraps around a vibranium wrist, tightening its grip before you begin guiding his touch inwards, upwards, to where you need it most. Bucky's stronger, more resistant, and holds off your interceptance, left hand continuing its intended path beneath the skirt of your dress and grabbing hold of your naked waist.

He’s everywhere, all over you. Mouthing at your chest, gripping at your hip, rutting into your pussy. The sweet drag of his bulge over your clothed core sires a wet patch against your thong and has your fingers tugging on the roots of his hair, winning you the hair-raising hum of a groan against your breast.

Desperate to feel more, you renew your efforts to lead his hand to the space between your legs and are met with a shake of his head.

“No,” he mutters, and robs you of a hand beneath your dress, using it instead to cradle your jaw while his lips skim over the shell of your ear. “Wanna feel you.”

The warmth of flesh brands your thigh, Bucky’s right arm now leading the charge beneath the silky fabric. With bated breath, you brace yourself against his strong chest and try not to squirm in anticipation of his touch. With one final squeeze at your inner thigh, the soldier’s hand engulfs your clothed cunt and his breath cracks in your ear, a strangled out, feral noise that has your toes curling.

“She’s so wet, darling,” his voice has you delirious, breathy against your ear. His fingers flex against your pussy and a moan catches in your throat. “You gonna let me touch her?”

Something about the way he’s speaking to you, the words he’s choosing, makes you want to fall apart. Your sex-life has always been liberal, you know what it is to have a man’s hands all over you, trying to take ownership of parts of you he thinks belong to him. Men who take, and take, and take, until there is nothing left of you to give, and not once do they care to win your favour, to plead for permission. But Bucky…

“Please, say I can touch her, wanna give her what she needs,” he’s pleading for it, begging for you — wrecked and desperate, breath run ragged from no more than the relief of rolling his groin against your thigh. “Promise I’ll be real sweat, make you feel good.”

Too caught up in his own head, he doesn’t notice you nodding, until you’re granting him salvation verbally, “Touch me, Bucky.”

He doesn’t hesitate, doesn’t waste time on taking off your underwear, just moves it to the side and drags the tip of his fingers down the inseam of your pussy. You hear it, more than you feel it, the moment he touches your opening, a sharp inhale at your ear telling you he’s exactly where he wants to be.

As his middle finger slips in, it’s hard to tell which of you reacts louder, both a mess of guttural moans. Once it's fully sheathed within you, he curls it and presses against your soaked walls, grinning against your skin at the reaction it coaxes out of you.

“Don’t hold back,” he chastises you as you bite back another pathetic whimper, a second finger slipping into you. “Let me hear what I’m doing to you.”

He must have a magic touch, you’re sure of it. Thick fingers that fuck into you at a steady pace, curling and teasing at that world-bending spot inside you, while his thumb makes itself useful against your clit, a firm force for your bucking hips to grind up into while you chase the pleasure he’s unleashing on you. In a matter of minutes, the room is alive with your melodic moans, Bucky’s endless hums of approval, and the damn-right embarrassingly loud squelch of him fingering your drooling cunt.

You make the mistake of letting your eyes slip shut, relinquishing yourself to the way he touches you with the rough hands of a soldier yet the delicate stroke of a musician playing his favourite instrument. He must feel the shift in you, for he’s instantly prying his face away from your neck and tightening the metal grip on your jaw, fingertips digging into squished cheeks.

“Look at me,” his words are both a command and a plea. An order you follow and a prayer you answer, eyelashes fluttering open to find his face in front of your own. His lips are a hard line, his brows furrowed in disapproval, and there’s a vein threatening to split down the middle of his forehead, but his eyes. His eyes are affection incarnate, two pools of lust and worship that pose no threat of drowning. “Do you want to cum?”

Never has a more needless question been asked. 

You nod into the force of his vibranium hand, but that’s not what he wants, frown deepening.

“Say it,” needy, helpless, spoken like he’s the one on the brink of ecstasy. “Please.”

“Bucky,” it feels good to say his name like this, brain melting into mush and heart racing in your chest. “I want you to let me cum.”

“Let you?” He’s offended by the word, fingers burying impossibly deeper inside of you while he continues to stare you down. “I beg of you.”

No warning precedes the coil in you snapping. The muscles in your core tense, your back arches into his broad figure, your pussy squeezes at Bucky’s fingers with a death grip. He guides you through it, ignoring the cramp in his wrist in favour of continuing to fuck his hand into you, a smile finally cracking over his face as he watches you fall apart atop the counter, nothing but Bucky, Bucky, Bucky surrounding you.

He tries to give you reprieve, a moment to breathe and savour the buzz in your veins, the hand around your jaw shifting to stroke at your cheek while the hand between your legs soothes you with featherlight touches.

You don’t let him, hand pawing down his torso and gripping at the belt of his jeans, delighting in the familiar clang of a buckle being undone, nimble digits that tear leather out its loop and tug down his zipper. Bucky’s bringing his lips back against yours just as you palm at his bulge, his tongue licking into your mouth when you finally release him from the confines of his boxers.

Fingers coated in your own slick grip at your thigh while the soldier makes it his mission to steal your breath, rendering you blind to the sight of his cock. But you can feel it. The weight of it in your hand, the burn of want ingrained in his skin. The width of it, and the length of it, and the perfectly mushroomed tip that has him keening into your touch as your pointer finger drags over the head.

“Is this what I do to you?” Still lost in the maze of your orgasm, you manage to gain back crumbs of your usual confidence watching Bucky fall mute. When he merely nods, you play him at his own game, fingers back in his hair and forcing him to look you in the eye. “Say it.”

He doesn’t.

He says something much better.

“D’you even realise how many nights I’ve laid on that fucking couch, hard as a rock and willing you to come out your room?”

“That’s your generation's problem, you know?” You whisper teasingly, incapable of fighting off your own laughter. “You swear more than you breathe.”

“C’mere,” he’s rolling his eyes and pulling you in, kissing you like it’s been a milenia and not a minute, hand nudging yours out the way to take a hold of himself.

Your teeth graze over his tongue as he drags the head of his cock through your folds, and he groans into your mouth before pulling back. Resting his forehead against yours, he’s teasing you both as his tip brushes over your hole before continuing its rutt up, bumping against your sensitive clit.

A wicked voice takes control of your mouth.

“Lance would have fucked me by now.”

“Vince would have cum by now, too,” he’s still rocking his hips, no sense of urgency behind the way he soaks himself in you.

Meanwhile, you’re a handful of seconds away from screaming at him to just stick it in already.

“You- Oh!” Prayers answered, hallelujah, his cock finally sinks into you. It’s a shallow thrust, barely more than the tip before he’s retreating, yet it's enough to mess with your head. “You heard us?”

��Unfortunately,” and he means it, the most subtle of pouts forming on his lips before he feeds himself a little deeper into your pussy. “I’m not great when it comes to timing.”

“I only slept with Lance because you-” Right on cue, he fucks into you even deeper and your words dissappear before they can reach your tongue.

“New rule,” a hand rests on your knee and encourages you to spread your legs wider. “No speaking another man’s name when you’re in bed with me.”

“Technically, this is the kitchen counter-” The bastard does it again, cuts you off with his dick — if it didn’t feel so damn good, you’d slap him.

He’s bottomed out at last, buried himself fully in your cunt. Hands snake around your waist, one palm flattening against your lower back while the other rests a little further up and guides your spine to arch into him, closer, like there’s anymore space left between you to devour.

His pace is still slow, teasing. A toe-curling drag of his cock out of you, letting you feel every ridge and vein before his hips promptly snap back into you and send your eyes rolling back, your head falling back — and smacking loudly against the cupboard door behind you.

Bucky freezes, one hand quick to cradle the back of your skull while his eyes scan over you.

“Jesus, doll, you okay?” 

“Please don’t stop,” you plead, ridiculously unfazed by the faint ache when you’ve got him inside of you.

Even though he rolls his eyes, he complies.

“Might have just given you a concussion and all you care about is getting fucked?” He asks, like you could possibly care about anything else when his arms are hooking themselves under your knees and rucking you up off the counter, away from any rogue cupboard that means you harm.

If anything, you’ll gladly shoulder the burden of any possible injury, if it means being granted the sight of his biceps tensing as he effortlessly stands there and fucks you down onto him. Were you in any sane state of mind, you wouldn’t think it, but god bless that super soldier serum.

“You can give me a cockcussion for all I care,” head perched on his shoulder, you watch your nails sink into the fabric of his shirt and wish it would disappear and gift you the naked view of his back.

“Adding that to the list,” he whispers against your forehead, pressing a kiss against it.

Legs bent at the knee, you watch how, with one particularly deep thrust, they bounce at either side of him and one of your heels clatters to the floor.

The room pivots as Bucky turns, you still in his arms and your ankles locked behind his back. At first, you believe he’s aiming to move things into the bedroom, where the only thing your head will be hitting is the mattress when he lays you down. He proves you wrong, however, the cold press of marble against you once more as he settles you down onto the kitchen island.

Much to your chagrin, he slips out of you, cock now sitting pretty against his clothed abdomen and glistening with the sheen of your essence. In the blink of an eye, the soldier is sinking to his knees, metal finger reaching back for your fallen shoe.

The scene plays out like something stripped right out of a morally dubious, low quality pornography retelling of Cinderella, in which Prince Charming has his dick out, Cinderella’s gown is half-way off, and the infamous glass slipper is just a pair of heels you bought on sale.

Bucky is delicate and slow, mouth tickling at your inner knee as he secures the shoe in place. He rests back on his haunches and fully takes in the sight of you, perched upon the counter, hands splayed out on marble, a tangle of silk around your waist, lips parted in search of steady breathing.

There’s an intensity to his gaze, burrowing itself beneath your skin and becoming part of your bloodstream, spreading throughout your body. It makes you want to hide, flee like you do best, but Bucky has other plans.

“The shoes stay on, but this,” Bucky’s fingertips tug lightly on the hem of your dress, exposing a sliver of new skin. “I need this gone. Am I allowed to take it off?”

There he goes again, face the model of innocence while he asks for permission to your body. If you weren’t already dripping against your panties, you would be now. Luckily, he doesn’t push you to verbalise your agreement this time, more than eager to comply the moment you nod your head.

You wiggle your hips as he pulls the fabric out from beneath you, his grip snagging on the waistband of your thong and dragging it away alongside the dress. When your ass cheeks press back down onto the cool of the counter, reality hits you like a freight-train: you’re completely nude, with Bucky on his knees before you, in the middle of the kitchen.

“Buck,” the y of his nickname disappears as you feel him peppering kisses of your leg, inching that little bit higher each press of his mouth. Squeezing your eyes shut, you try to remember where your rational thoughts are stored, conjuring up images of friends, of Sam sitting at this very surface. “I don’t think we should… I mean, people eat off this counter!”

“Don’t worry,” reaching the threshold of your thigh, his kisses seem to speed up, that sauve and composed exterior chipping away to reveal a man who no longer wants to take his time with you. “I intend to eat.”

No sooner than the words reach your ears, Bucky swipes his tongue up your pussy and any fight left in you melts away as you turn to putty beneath his touch, soft and malleable, willing to sit there and take whatever he wants to give.

Give, he most certainly does. Lips latch onto your clit, hands hold your squirming hips in place, tongue dances over your most delicate areas before dipping into your entrance. He drinks from you like you’re the sweetest honey, the richest of red wines, the Holy Grail promising an eternal youth to a man whose time was stolen from him.

“You should see her, doll,” there’s a rasp in Bucky’s voice, a feral undertone to the growl that rests in the back of his throat. One hand tugs his shirt off while the other snakes between your legs, two fingers spreading your lips open in an obscene gesture that has you clamping down on your bottom lip. “She’s drooling for me, all pretty and wet.”

Dropping both your legs over his shoulders, he tugs you right to the edge of the counter and dives back in. You feel his nose bump against your clit and your hand grabs onto your thigh, nails piercing into flesh as your mouth sings a whined symphony.

Vibranium curls around your wrist, prying harm away from your own skin and silently imploring you to hurt him instead, nestling your fingers back into his hair. He’s renewing his effort, a touch that’s more determined than ever to make you fall apart, on his knees and worshipping the altar of your body — fealty and devotion seared into each lap of his tongue, each brush of his lips, each stroke of his fingers.

Who are you to reject his piety? You welcome it, with closed fist and glassy eyes. The soldier shudders — a full-body shiver that shakes down his spine — as the point of your heel digs into his back and your fingers squeeze at his scalp, no mercy shown as you lose yourself in the throes of lust.

When you cum, a silent scream rips through your chest and a burning-too-bright white light turns you blind. He doesn’t let up, tongue still buried in your convulsing walls as your thighs clamp around his head and your feet kick at his back, shoes flying elsewhere into the kitchen. He pays none of it any mind, content to prolong your orgasm for as long as you’ll allow him, slowly rising off his knees with two hands pinning you back against the counter while he continues to feast on your pleasure.

“Ja-mes,” a fractured call of his name is all it takes for him to stop, pupils more black than blue as they stare down at the picture you paint atop the counter: teary-eyes, swollen lips, heaving chest.

He’s hardly the image of composure either, red lines along the expanse of his back, hair a tousled mess, the scruff on his face covered in a sheen of your juices. And, yet, never have you wanted to kiss him so bad.

All you manage, after minutes of floating atop the cloud of your peak, is a cheeky grin and a comment that makes him roll his eyes: “For a fossil, you’re pretty kinky.”

“War camps aren’t exactly known for being fun,” as he speaks, he slowly lowers your legs off his shoulder. “You find ways to keep yourself entertained.”

“Bet you were quite the pleaser, huh?” Trying your best to play it cool, you lay your head fully back on the counter and stare up  at the ceiling, praying he doesn’t notice the hypocritical pit forming in your stomach as you listen to your own words. “Probably had all the prettiest nurses fighting over who gets to tend to your poor, aching, throbbing co-”

“Jealousy looks cute on you,” he interrupts, amused, as his hands soothe over your hips.

“I’m not jealous!” You exclaim, barely believing yourself.

One hand reaching out for him, you watch your fingers intertwine with the prosthetic digits and let him tug you back up, chest to chest when his hand finds your cheek.

“I was,” his confession is crooned whilst staring right into your eyes, the tiniest up-turn to his mouth. “Everytime you walked out the door to go date a new loser.”

“Who knew,” your voice is as gentle as his own, nonchalant as a finger dances down the well-defined muscles of his abdomen and elicits a groan out of him. “All along I had my own loser at home.”

Bucky opts for silence as your hand reaches his groin and pays no mind to his cock, red-tipped and leaking, flushed against his stomach. You’re more interested in his jeans — in removing them, to be exact. It doesn’t take much, a sharp tug at the hem before they’re slipping off, meeting restraint as they cling to his muscled thighs and implore him to finish the job on your behalf, shucking them off blindly to where the rest of your clothes lie.

You must have saved a village in a past life to be rewarded with the view of a completely nude Bucky Barnes, skin stained by lust and laced with gold beneath the kitchen light. You must have saved the rest of the world, too, to watch how his eyes roll back and his mouth falls slack when you take his length in hand and give one slow pump of your wrist, releasing it just to watch it slap back against his abdomen.

As you reach for his dick again, his hand secures itself around your own and guides it up and down the length of it. Once, twice, thrice, till he’s breathing heavily and dripping in pre-cum.

“You must be close,” a statement you make with his own bodily reaction as evidence to back it up, yet there’s still room for doubt — to what extent does that soldier serum interfere with him?

“Put me back down on my knees and I’ll cum to the taste of you,” the soldier certainly makes a tempting offer, one that it almost pains you to refuse.

Almost, if you hadn’t already felt the sweet stretch of him inside you.

“Pretty sure putting you back down on your knees might be considered elder abuse, ole buddy.”

“My age may be a hundred and six but-”

“Exactly my point.”

“But my body isn’t,” he’s using that stare of his, the one Sam always warns you about, while  you’re full-on cheesing, a rush of adrenaline shooting through your veins as you wind him up.

“Remind me, who threw their back out a few weeks ago pulling a tray of muffins out the oven?”

His flesh hand grips behind one of your knees and tugs you right to the edge of the counter, while his left one, still clasped over your own, drags his tip over your folds.

“I don’t remember hearing you complain when you drunkenly ate half the tray and then threw up over the rest,” admittedly, not one of your proudest moments.

“Shut up and fuck me, Barnes.”

“Yes ma’am.”

Just like that, you’re drowning in him again, gasping for breath as you lose yourself in a flood of lust. Bottomed out, stuffing you full, Bucky barely graces your pussy with the chance to adjust to his stretch once more before he’s moving, the sweet graze of every inch being dragged along your sensitive walls.

Your nerves are still reeling from his mouth, a quiet hum of electric pleasure reawakened by his throbbing cock and his vulgar mouth.

“She fits me like a fucking glove,” his hands are pawing at your waist, your breast, your face, never in one place for too long as he begins to settle into a rhythm of thrusts. “Doing so good for me, darling.”

The softness put into his term of endearment births an ache in your chest, one that will accept no medicine other than your arms around his neck and his lips on yours. Mouths tangled in kisses and sweat dripping down your skin, Bucky halts — your hips pressed together, the swell of his balls resting right against your swollen cunt, the head of his cock resting right against your sweet spot — and grinds.

Slow, deliberate, delicious. You whine into his mouth and feel how he swallows it, feasts on your ecstasy with a willing tongue, and a smiling mouth, and possessive teeth that tug at your lip as he pulls back. He stretches out the feeling, grinding a second time as your noses bump against one another.

“Bucky,” his name is an anchor, a paperweight, something to ground you amidst the floaty feeling of being two orgasms deep with a third approaching any time now.

“I know,” he says, and you believe him. Believe that he knows, that he’s known, that he always knows when it comes to you.

You lay your head to rest upon on his left shoulder when he returns to chasing a high between your thighs, a renewed vigor behind each thrust that has your hips rolling to meet his and your nails raking over the straining muscles of his back.

“I lied,” an unprompted confession stumbles out his mouth, fingers flexing into their grip on your waist. “About the apartment viewing. I didn’t go.”

“Bucky,” is all you can manage, branded into his skin with a kiss along his neck.

“Is that all you can say? Huh?” His voice carries a teasing lilt, paired to perfection with the pad of his thumb rubbing at your clit. “I’m giving pivotal revelations here, and you’re just gonna reply with that?”

Another echo of his name, walls fluttering around his dick.

“Bucky, Bucky,” he’s mocking you, a torturer’s laugh as he moans his name into your ear. “Keep going, you sound so pathetic it’s almost cute.”

Beyond words and beyond sense, you give in to the weight of his palm splaying against your stomach and guiding your back down onto the island. The soldier hooks your legs over his elbows, deepening the angle that his cock fucks into you, and you swear you see stars dance along the kitchen ceiling.

A hand smooths over your gut and you look back at Bucky to find adoration in his eyes.

“You see that?” You almost want to cry when his movement switches back to a slow drag — innnnn and outtttt — until you notice it: the smallest hint of movement beneath your flesh, a subtle visual of the outline of his tip bulging against your skin from inside you. “See how full she is, how good I’m making her feel?”

Pressing your hand against it, you can’t help but giggle as you feel him poke at your palm, only to fall back into a puddle of incoherent noises when he keeps pushing at that sweet spot, over and over. Harder and faster with each draw back of his hips, you feel rivulets of your own arousal roll down your ass and onto the marble, tainting the counter forevermore in the sins the soldier commits against you, the sins you welcome with open legs.

You’re near the edge again, and he feels it, pushing you closer and closer as he slowly spirals into a mess of phrases that barely begin before he’s cutting them off with something new.

“Don’t deserve this-” He catches himself, rips the insecurity in his voice out by the roots. “C’mon, let me see it one more time. Need to see you fall apart.”

“Want you to fall apart too,” you manage to beg, unwilling to watch him hold back or pull out before he finishes. “Please!”

Like any good soldier, he obeys.

Crashing over you like a wave, he’s doubled-over by the waist and sandwiching you between the counter and him. You feel him spill into you, hot ropes of cum painting your walls white as a third crescendo washes over your body.

Both of you seek out the other as his thrusts grow languid and your walls spasm, milking him for every last drop he’s got. When your mouths meet, it’s less of a kiss and more of you simply breathing into the other, exchanging air and body heat.

“So,” you croak eventually, exhausted and spent atop the counter yet completely unwilling to relinquish him from blanketing you. “Are you gonna do that every time I steal your ice cream?

Somewhere between jello-ed legs and cold compresses, you wind up in bed.

Skin clammy, lips swollen, lust satiated, you practically melt into the buttery softness of your bed sheets as Bucky lays you down. Despite how you’re still basking in the glow of your third and final orgasm, the soldier seems to think, for a second, you can handle another.

With gentle hands prying open your thighs and a curious tongue diving in for a second helping, licking up the dribble of his own cum spilling out your hole, he’s quick to be corrected when you roll away from his touch with a whine and a plea, “think I might actually die if you make me cum again, Buck.”

He’s unbothered by the rejection, wholly embracing it as he curls up behind you and snakes his arms over your naked skin. It’s you who drags the sheet up and over you both, turning in his arms to plant your head on his chest. His heart races beneath it, but you hold off on teasing — your own isn't any better.

“Sam’s going to kill me,” you whisper out into the room, when moonlight is peeking through your curtains and both of your heartbeats have calmed down.

“I’m sorry,” you feel him shift beneath your head and, though you can’t fully see him, you feel that blue gaze land on you. “Have I not made it clear enough what name you should be saying in bed?”

“There’s a serious chance I’ll die and you’re thinking with your dick,” he squirms as you pinch at his nipple. “You’re no better than the men on your list, Barnes.”

Silence floats back in between you for a moment, peaceful as the slow stroke of his fingers dancing up your spine.

“Why would Sam kill you?” He pauses, hand pressing a little harder down against a knot in your shoulder.  “He knows you have a crazy guard dog.”

Your crazy guard dog just pressed a kiss against your forehead, how frightening.

“He made me swear I wouldn’t get involved with you. He said you weren’t in the headspace for a relationship, that you needed to focus on inner peace first.”

“Turns out inner peace is being inside of you,” you pinch at his nipple again. This time, he doesn’t run from it. This time, you almost swear you hear a little moan creep up his throat. “So, Wilson’s to blame? I can get behind that.”

“To blame for what?”

His hand’s now running up and down the back of your arm, leaving goosebumps wherever its tender touch goes. 

“Why it took you so long to jump my bones.”

“You think I jumped your-” Your head rises off his chest and you stare into the navy darkness of the room, trying to make a concrete shape out where you see shadows of his face. “Wait, so these past few weeks, I’ve not been hallucinating? You’ve been… flirting?”

“It’s been more than a couple weeks, sweetheart,” Bucky seems to have no problem finding you in the dark, hand cupping your cheek and dragging you up to press a chaste kiss against your mouth. “You don’t seriously think I waited until morning to check that sink without hoping to be caught, do you?”

“So you were slutting yourself out on the kitchen floor!”

“Think the kitchen’s seen worse,” worse might be the understatement of the century.

Clothes still lay discarded, counters unwiped, ice cream completely melted. Cleaning you up had been the soldier’s only priority, and you weren’t in the mood or the mindstate to argue with him on that.

A fingertip tickles down the slope of your nose.

“Stop fighting it, you’re tired,” you hear him whisper.

“I want to hear more about your desperate efforts to get my attention,” it’s nothing but a weak protest.

“We have all the time in the world for that. Sleep,” you don’t hesitate to comply when Bucky’s hand presses you back down against the warmth of his chest. “You’re going to need it. Our upstairs neighbours still need a taste of their own medicine.”

+ extra hyde ! · 70% of this fic is just dialogue, these two losers would not stfu! · writing banter + sexual tension feels more exposing than writing literal porn. · lore accurate photo of me whenever bucky barnes exists:

[darling2411]

I AM MELTING ( and supposed to work)

hello! Bucky with a baby strapped to his chest while trying to act tough in public. That’s it. That’s the request.

THIS IS SO CUTEEEEE

edit: since y’all went so feral for this…..

----------

“You gonna let me pass, or what?”

The man standing in front of Bucky flinches. Not because of the question—but because of the tone. Low. Sharp. Laced with enough threat to make a grown man think twice.

It would’ve been perfect. The classic Winter Soldier grit.

Except for the fact that Bucky has a baby strapped to his chest.

In a soft, fuzzy carrier. With little bear ears. And a spit-up stain on the left strap.

The baby — your baby — gurgles happily and grabs a fistful of Bucky’s Henley, jamming it directly into her mouth like she’s got somewhere to be and zero time to chew.

“Right, sorry, man,” the guy mutters, sidestepping quickly. His eyes flicker down once, doing a double take at the plush pink pacifier hanging from Bucky’s metal finger like a keychain. Bucky doesn’t move. Doesn’t explain. Just narrows his eyes, waiting until the guy’s out of the way before continuing down the sidewalk like a man on a mission.

Which he is.

Diapers. Wipes. Gripe water. A replacement teether shaped like a pineapple because the first one got flung into a sewer grate yesterday. That was the mission. And Bucky Barnes takes missions seriously—even when he looks like a rugged babysitter who got mugged by a Build-A-Bear.

He walks like he’s still in boots and body armor. He scans alleys. Mirrors. Rooftops. He has one hand on the carrier’s strap and the other curled protectively around the baby’s foot.

Her sock fell off five blocks ago.

A woman walking her dog glances up, does a visible double take, and melts.

“Oh my god,” she whispers. “That’s the cutest thing I’ve ever seen.”

Bucky freezes.

She’s talking to the baby, obviously. People always are. Nobody ever compliments him when he’s alone, but the second there’s a chubby infant involved? Suddenly he’s America’s Sweetheart.

“Say hi, muffin,” the woman coos.

The baby lets out a tiny fart. Bucky clears his throat. “She’s… shy.”

“You’re doing great, Dad,” the woman beams before walking off, leaving Bucky blinking like he’s just been hit with a sniper round made of sunshine and praise.

He ducks into the corner store a few minutes later, maneuvering carefully through the aisles with a diaper bag slung across one shoulder and a pacifier clipped to his shirt like a combat badge. The baby starts fussing.

“No,” he mutters. “No, don’t do this. We’re almost there. We’re in the endgame.”

She squawks.

“I have the binky, okay? Just let me find the stupid pineapple—”

He crouches to check a lower shelf and instantly regrets it. His knees are not made for this. The baby grabs a bag of marshmallows and wails when he takes it away. People are staring. A teenager nearby starts filming.

He’s about to give up and accept the marshmallows as tribute when you appear in the doorway, holding a coffee and looking like an angel with a side of rescue mission.

“I leave you alone for ten minutes—”

“I had it handled,” Bucky grumbles.

“Mhm. You looked very tactical holding those marshmallows.”

You pluck the baby off his chest. She calms instantly. Bucky feels the warmth of her little body disappear from his and immediately misses it.

“She likes being strapped to me,” he mutters.

“She likes chewing on you.”

“…Same thing.”

You smile.

And as you loop your arm through his and lean against his side—diapers in your other hand, baby now giggling at nothing—Bucky finally lets his shoulders relax.

He’s still a weapon. Still a soldier.

But yeah. He’s also a dad. And maybe bear ears aren’t the worst uniform he’s ever worn.

[darling2411]

Spellbound

Jason Todd x Sorcerer!reader

ONE

TWO

THREE

Scarecrow’s goons were supposed to be easy.

That was what Dick had said when the intel came in. A leyline site embedded in the ruins of an old textile factory outside Gotham, supposedly another half-assed ritual hotspot.

But as it turned out?

Not easy.

The goons had been armed with sigil-charged weapons—enchanted, crackling with unstable dark matter—and twice as many had poured from the shadows as expected. Whatever Scarecrow had planned, he wasn’t screwing around anymore.

And now? You were kinda limping.

And Dick?

Dick was panting, his staff hanging limp as he stumbled back from his sixth takedown. One of Scarecrow’s goons had just exploded into a screaming mess of corrupted spirit slime, and another had nearly taken a chunk out of Dick’s arm before Jason intercepted, moving like a blur.

Jason disarmed three men in eight seconds. No gadgets. Just fists and a gun and terrifying grace. He ducked under a punch, slid across wet concrete, caught another guy’s leg mid-kick, and slammed him into a wall hard enough to leave a crater.

You stood dumbfounded for a beat, staff raised mid-spell.

Even Dick had to pause.

Wiping his sweat-slick brow with a groan, he muttered under his breath:

“Yup. Totally trained by al Ghul.”

You’d seen him fight before, obviously—fists flying like they hated gravity, guns sometimes holstered but rarely quiet—but this time? This time he moved like someone born in war. Shadows didn’t touch him. Bodies dropped like whispers.

“I hate how good he is at that,” you muttered.

Barbara’s voice buzzed in your comm. “Watch your right, incoming—”

You spun, blasting a sigil into the dirt, flinging an armored brute into a trash heap. The fight raged around you—screams, spells, steel, the soft crack of bone and wet crunch of someone’s nose meeting Jason’s fist.

You were starting to feel a bit out of your league, to be honest.

Still, you did your part—freezing spell here, blinding charm there, warding circle to make sure Dick didn’t get ambushed again. The team moved in rhythm, and for a moment, it felt like victory was close. You could feel the leyline pulse stabilizing under the brick and grime. A little more effort and—

Then the ground beneath your feet shivered.

A ripple, like hot breath down the spine of the earth.

You all turned at once.

Across the floor, one of the few surviving goons clawed away from a pulsing mark in the concrete—a new summoning circle, slick and sticky, lined in crimson ink and twitching shadows.

“What the hell…” Tim muttered over comms.

You raised your hand instinctively, but the spell fizzled in your palm.

Jason stepped in front of you automatically, gun out.

The boy-devil tilted his head, and Jason flinched—not visibly, but you saw the tension spike.

“You’re angry,” the boy said softly, voice like frost. "Mourned better than ever accepted."

Jason didn’t speak. He just gritted his teeth.

The demon turned to you. You locked eyes. And instantly, your heart stopped.

Because you didn’t see him.

You saw John Constantine.

Back turned. Walking away from you.

Gone.

You gasped, blinking fast, and the illusion snapped. The demon smirked.

“Oh,” he purred. “That fear runs deep.”

The demon's gaze slid toward Dick, a slow, knowing curl at the edge of its mouth. Shadows clung to its voice as it leaned in, almost playful.

"Lead them… straight to the grave, huh?"

And just like that, Dick froze—because it didn’t need to say more.

It wasn’t guessing. It knew.

He looked maybe seventeen. Pale. Dressed in charcoal robes stitched with symbols older than your grandmother’s tarot deck. Eyes like ink puddles. Too calm. Too still.

Dick stood straighter. “That’s not one of Crane’s usuals.”

“No,” you breathed. “That’s—something else.”

Your fingers twitched.

The spell surged in your palm. Magic charged, glowing, vibrating from your wrist to your knuckles—ready.

But before you could even lift your hand—

It vanished.

Not blinked out. Not teleported.

Just—gone.

So was Scarecrow.

And the hallway emptied, leaving nothing but knocked-out cultists and your team staring into empty air.

Tim’s voice crackled through again, quieter this time. “Crane opened a portal.”

That made your stomach turn.

Not just because you recognized the magic.

But because you didn’t.

Your throat tightened. You knelt beside the mark, brushing your fingers against the outer rim.

It felt wrong.

Ancient.

Something like sulfur and frozen time.

Then you said it.

“…This is Constantine and Zatanna territory.”

The silence was instant.

Jason looked at you then—really looked. The way your shoulders hunched. The way your eyes didn’t leave the floor. Like maybe if you stared hard enough, you could undo it. Like maybe if you’d just done more, you could’ve stopped it.

Your tone hadn’t been sad.

Not exactly.

Just tired.

Resigned.

Broken in a way you’d never show.

Dick spoke gently. “Hey. We were both distracted. We all were. This isn’t your fault.”

Jason’s voice came low, like gravel and thunder.

“This was his plan,” he said. “He gave us the wrong reason. Kept us busy with sewer monsters and leyline interference. He knew we’d look.”

Barbara and Tim both looked up, blinking.

“You think Scarecrow’s been… faking us out?” Tim asked.

"He made us think he was incompetent.”

Barbara and Dick both paused.

Because it made sense.

It made too much sense.

Scarecrow—known for his theatrics—spending weeks summoning crap-tier entities. Little monsters. Weak sigils. It wasn’t failure.

It was misdirection.

Back at Mount Justice

The debriefing was quiet. Cold. The kind of silence where nobody wanted to admit how they came to failing.

Barbara led the briefing with her usual brisk clarity. She pointed out the goons’ tattoos—archaic runes, older than standard occult magic. “Not for ritual summoning,” she explained. “For anchoring. Something needed these bodies alive.”

Dick flipped through maps of leyline surges. “It’s all misdirection. Every site so far? Minor. Low risk. It was a trap to keep us busy.”

You sat on the corner stool of the room’s little drink bar, legs curled up, nursing a soda like it was a potion.

“Technically, I did say this was bigger than a sewer-pocalypse,” you offered. “And technically, none of you listened. So really, I should be promoted to Magical Advisor Supreme.”

Barbara didn’t look up. “You’re listed in the system as ‘Chaotic Magic Goblin #2.’”

You gasped. “I’m number two?! Who’s number one?!”

You mock-collapsed dramatically.

Jason—quiet in the corner, leaning against the wall—barely glanced your way.

But his jaw ticked.

Because he knew you weren’t fine.

You were blaming yourself. For not sensing it. For playing Scarecrow’s game.

Barbara mentioned calling Zatanna. You flinched—just barely.

But you covered it in a heartbeat, grinning. “Ooh, maybe she can teach me how to not explode rats next time. That’d be neat.”

Barbara ignored the sarcasm.

Dick sighed and rubbed the bridge of his nose. “We’re running out of options. If this is a full-scale demonic summoning, we’ll need every magical defense we can get.”

The meeting wrapped up. Dick and Barbara stayed behind, discussing how to contact the League without raising red flags. Tim, now mildly exhausted and bored, flipped open his laptop and started playing a game.

The hallway was dim. Cold.

Your boots echoed dully as you walked, head down, arms crossed.

Jason caught up a second later.

Not deliberately.

Maybe.

You talked the whole way.

“Y’know,” you said suddenly, “I’ve been craving carbonara for, like, three days. Maybe that’s the real reason my magic’s been off. Lack of cheese.”

Jason shoved his hands deeper into his pockets. “That’s your excuse?”

“Obviously.”

You turned, steps slowing as you reached your room.

Hand on the door.

He stopped behind you.

Then—gruffly, awkwardly, like it cost him something—Jason said: “I could make you the carbonara.”

You turned your head like he’d grown a second one. Eyebrows shooting up. For once, you were speechless.

“You what?”

He looked vaguely irritated with himself. Like offering to feed you physically hurt.

Jason looked mildly annoyed already. “I make a good one.”

“I—You know how to make carbonara?”

Then your grin started forming. Wide. Teasing.

But just before you could let it take over, you muttered—

“You pity me, don’t ya?”

Jason stilled.

For a moment, he didn’t say anything. He just looked at you like he saw the thing under the jokes. The you that had been left behind by your mentor. The you who’d felt lesser in every room with Zatanna or Raven. The you who’d seen a demon use your abandonment against you and still managed to make a joke afterward.

He just exhaled through his nose, slow and silent.

“I don’t pity you,” he said finally. Quiet, low. “That’s not what this is.”

You didn’t say anything for a second.

Because something in his voice stuck under your ribs.

Then, before it could go tender or soft or real, he added, smirking faintly:

“Carbonara just might buy me thirty seconds of you shutting up.”

You punched him in the arm.

Not hard.

Just enough.

“Asshole.”

You stepped past your door, turning instead toward the kitchen.

“Come on, Chef Todd. I like mine creamy and extra cheesy,” you chirped.

Jason watched you go—still yapping, messy ponytail bouncing—and he smiled.

Far from Gotham,

In a neon-lit dive bar no hero ever dared admit they liked, John Constantine nearly dropped his glass. The alcohol trembled in his hand like a warning.

“…That’s not right,” he murmured to himself, rubbing his fingers together.

Power.

Old, wrong, intelligent power. Not random. Not chaotic. Controlled.

“Something just got summoned…”

Far away, in another continent, Zatanna paused mid-mission. Her lips twitched. She turned toward the east. Her breath fogged.

“…That’s not good.”

[darling2411]

OMG!

This deserves so much more attention.

From now on Bucky and curly hair reader have a special place in my heart✌🏼💗

You Ran Into Me

Pairing College hockey!Bucky x Curly hair!Reader

Synopsis You don’t do sports. One accidental run-in changed that One smirking boy with too much charm and too much hair and way too much confidence. And suddenly you’re tangled in locker room teasing, sideline stares, long text threads, and a boy who plays hard on the ice but flirts even harder off it.

Word Count 3.2K

Themes + Warnings Magnetic pull , COLLEGE AU , curly hair reader , flirty banter (a bit suggestive but nothing explicit) , descriptions if attraction , accidental meet (its cute) , college hockey player!bucky , mild language , dumbass in love meets a dumbass who refuses to believe , public flirting , romantic tension , he def. fell first and fell even harder LOL

— You Ran Into Me “She doesnt even like sports” Bucky’s eyes lit up. “No?” he asked, focusing back on you. “Guess I’ll have to change that.”

M. List | Request (open)

You were already regretting everything.

The rink lobby was crowded, cold, and far too chaotic. The roar of voices, the faint scent of sweat and popcorn, and the buzz of skate blades against ice filtered in from the main arena as you stood awkwardly in front of a map of the stadium, utterly and completely lost.

Your phone buzzed in your hand, a text from Nat lighting up your screen.

“C-5. Hurry, Steve’s already on the ice warming up. Wanda is screaming.”

You typed back furiously with frozen fingers.

“I DON’T KNOW WHERE THAT IS I’M IN SOME LOBBY I HATE IT HERE.”

Eyes glued to the screen, feet moving too fast, and heart already racing for no good reason— You didn’t see him.

You slammed into someone so solid your shoulder bounced, the impact strong enough that you stumbled back.

Before you could hit the ground, strong arms wrapped around your elbows and steadied you, warm and firm. Your breath hitched.

“Whoa,” came the voice—deep, smooth, laced with a kind of casual charm that made your spine straighten. “Easy there.”

You looked up.

Your brain short-circuited.

He was tall—taller than you by at least half a foot—with hair the color of roasted chestnuts, long enough to brush the top of his shoulders. His jaw was sharp, dusted with stubble, and his blue eyes—God—his eyes were so stupidly blue it was almost offensive. But it was the look on his face that made your stomach twist.

That smirk. That slow, cocky, devastating smirk.

“You alright, sweetheart?” he asked, still holding you gently.

You nodded dumbly, heat flooding your face. “Y-Yeah, I’m fine, sorry—wasn’t paying attention.”

“Clearly,” he teased, but there was no bite in it. Just playfulness.

You tried to pull away, completely mortified, but he didn’t let go just yet.

“It’s okay,” he added softly, his grin turning more charming than smug. “Happens to even the best of us.”

The words landed warm in your chest. You swallowed. Hard.

“I should go,” you said, already backing up, trying to recover whatever dignity you had left.

He gave you a small nod. “See you around, curls.”

And then he turned, disappearing down the tunnel with an easy, confident stride, leaving you blinking in the middle of the lobby, breathless and confused and entirely overwhelmed.

Curls?

You touched your hair, still soft and springy from the twist-out you’d done last night.

What. Just. Happened.

He noticed you the moment you walked into the arena.

He was supposed to be focused—locked into his pre-game warm up routine, mind sharp, adrenaline brewing just beneath his skin like it always did before a game.

But then you stepped in, looking completely out of place. In the best, most painfully captivating way.

You were clutching your phone in both hands, lip caught between your teeth, brow furrowed as you stared down at the screen. There was a flutter of nerves in the way you moved—like you weren’t sure where you were supposed to go, and you hated that you didn’t. Like you weren’t used to crowds like this. To noise like this.

You looked soft in a world that wasn’t.

And the first thing he saw?

Your curls.

Full and bouncing gently as you moved, framing your face like some painter had taken their time. They moved when you laughed, when you turned your head, when you tilted your phone slightly and let out a breath that caught in your throat. He was mesmerized by the way the light hit them. Golden. Gorgeous. Effortless.

He didn’t even realize he was staring.

He had to physically shake his head, snapping himself back into reality. But even then—he kept glancing toward the lobby as he skated warm-up laps, eyes flicking toward the entrance every few turns.

And then?

You walked straight into him.

He caught you like it was instinct. Muscle memory. Like his body already knew how to reach for you.

You smelled like coconut and clean linen. Your hands were warm in his. Your eyes wide. Surprised. Soft.

And your voice—your voice was gentle. Nervous. Sweet.

You apologized. And smiled. And his entire chest went tight.

He didn’t mean to say it, not really.

“You alright, sweetheart?”

It just slipped out.

The way you looked up at him? The way your curls bounced slightly when you stepped back? The way your hand ghosted over your hair like you were embarrassed?

He was gone.

You didn’t know it. But he was already toast.

Ten minutes later:

He’s back on the bench, trying to act like everything’s fine, like he’s not spiraling.

He pulls his phone from his locker before the first period starts, behind the curtain, just before the team huddles up.

Text to Steve Rogers:

Steve.

Steve:

??

Bucky:

Curls, man. CURLS.

Steve:

What curls.

Bucky:

The girl I caught. Lobby. She ran into me. Literally. *She smelled like summer and her eyes are gonna haunt me and her curls—dude—CURLS.

Steve:

Are you texting me a haiku or having a stroke?

Bucky:

I’m in love. I think I’m in love.

Steve peeks past the curtain, scanning the crowd. When he finds the spot by the glass—when he sees Natasha and Wanda waving like lunatics—and you standing there between them, eyes wide as you nervously play with your bracelet—

He gets it.

He turns to Bucky. “You’re screwed.”

Bucky doesn’t deny it.

By the time you made it to your seat, Natasha and Wanda were already standing, pressed to the glass, cheering loudly as the players skated out for warmups.

You dropped into the seat beside them like a ghost.

Nat looked at you, brow arching. “You good?”

“I just…” You exhaled sharply. “I think I ran into someone. Literally. And he caught me. And—smiled at me. And called me sweetheart.”

Wanda’s head whipped around so fast you thought she might pull something. “Wait. Hold on. Wait. Back up. Was he tall tall?”

You blinked. “Uh. Yeah?”

“Dark brown hair?” Wanda continued, voice rising with every word. “And like—stupidly blue eyes? Like baby-blue-punch-you-in-the-gut eyes?”

You nodded slowly. “Yeah. Why?”

“Oh my God,” Nat whispered, covering her mouth.

“Of course our girl walks face-first into Mr. Heartthrob himself,” Wanda gasped, looking equal parts horrified and delighted.

You stared between them, thoroughly lost. “What are you talking about?”

Nat smirked. “That was Bucky Barnes.”

Wanda nodded like it was gospel. “Teams left wing. Steve’s best friend. Campus legend. Walking thirst trap.”

Your stomach flipped. “What???”

Nat leaned in, smug. “And apparently, you made an impression.”

“Curls,” Wanda echoed, grinning. “He called you curls? Oh, he’s done. He’s obsessed.”

You didn’t have time to react to that because—

There was a sudden surge of energy in the crowd, and the announcer’s voice boomed through the stadium. The players took their final warmup laps, and Steve Rogers skated up to the glass, tapping his stick right in front of Nat.

You looked down just in time to see another figure coast up beside him, and your breath caught.

Bucky.

Helmet off, hair a little damp, mouthpiece hanging lazily from the corner of his lips. And somehow—somehow—he looked even more attractive than before.

His eyes found yours instantly.

A slow grin spread across his face.

“Hey there, sweetheart,” he drawled, voice low and warm, like honey dripping on something sinful.

You opened your mouth but words failed you.

“I was starting to think you’d wandered off on me,” he added, shifting his weight as he leaned closer to the glass.

“She doesn’t even like sports,” Nat called, clearly enjoying herself too much.

Bucky’s eyes lit up. “No?” he asked, focusing back on you. “Guess I’ll have to change that.”

You swallowed. “We’ll see.”

He grinned wider, tilting his head. “You here to watch your friend’s brother?”

You nodded.

“You should be watching me, doll.”

You laughed, cheeks heating again. “Are you like this with every pretty girl you run into?”

He gave a lazy shrug, that flirty smile curling at the corner of his mouth. “Only the ones with curls and big eyes who look like they might steal my heart if I’m not careful.”

You felt that. In your ribs. In your chest. In your everything.

Wanda practically collapsed against the glass behind you, grinning like a maniac.

Someone from the team called his name.

Bucky sighed dramatically. “Duty calls.” Then he pointed his stick at you. “Don’t leave. I like knowing you’re here.”

And then he was skating away.

But he looked back.

Twice.

You sat down hard in your seat again, face burning, heart racing.

Wanda turned to you, eyes wide. “Oh, he’s done.”

Nat smirked. “You’re done.”

“I don’t even know him,” you whispered, dazed.

“Doesn’t matter,” Wanda grinned. “He already knows you.”

Okay.

You might not know much about hockey.

You didn’t grow up watching it, didn’t memorize penalties, couldn’t tell the difference between a slapshot and a wrist shot if someone offered you a million dollars on the spot. But even you knew—something was up with Number 17.

He was on fire.

Fast, brutal, clean. Explosive off the line. Moving like a man who had something to prove. And maybe it was just you, but it kind of looked like…

…he kept glancing at your section?

Your brows pulled together as you leaned toward Wanda. “Is that normal?”

“Is what normal?” she asked, eyes still tracking the puck.

“That,” you said, pointing vaguely toward the ice. “That thing he just did. That move—where he spun around and passed it behind his back and made that other guy trip over himself.”

Wanda blinked.

Then she turned slowly to look at you.

Nat did, too.

“Oh my God,” Wanda said under her breath. “He’s showing off.”

“What?” you asked, heart skipping.

Nat snorted. “Girl. He’s doing tricks. Mid-game. In front of scouts.”

“I thought he played like this all the time?”

“He does,” Wanda said, eyes narrowing. “But not this. This is cocky, confident, please-look-at-me Barnes.”

“He’s showboating,” Nat confirmed. “And he only does that when he’s trying to impress—”

They both turned to look at you.

You froze. “Me? No—no, he’s not—”

“You’re the only new face here tonight,” Wanda pointed out.

“You’re the one he’s been staring at since before the game,” Nat added.

You crossed your arms, already flustered. “Maybe he’s just… hyped.”

“Babe.” Wanda tapped your arm and pointed toward the ice. “Watch.”

You turned.

Just in time to see Bucky intercept a puck mid-pass, pivot hard, and fly down the ice like the damn wind. There were two defenders on him. One tried to block him, but he shifted low and sharp—smooth—his shoulder dipping, skating backwards for a second before twirling around to push the puck through the guy’s legs with a flick of his wrist.

Then—he scored.

Crowd: screams. Bucky: cool as hell, skating back like it was nothing.

But his eyes? Already lifting to find you.

And the second they locked with yours—he smiled.

That damn smirk. That “did you see that?” smile. That “I did it for you” smile.

You felt your mouth go dry.

“Jesus Christ,” Nat muttered. “He wants you bad.”

Wanda let out a slow breath. “I can’t believe this is happening in front of my salad.”

He should be focused.

Should be tracking the puck, thinking about the play, listening to his coach shout from the bench.

But every time there’s a stoppage, every time he skates by that same corner, he’s looking.

And every damn time—you’re looking back.

Once, during the second period, he catches you mid-laugh. Your hand’s on your cheek, curls bouncing, and you’re trying to hide your smile but failing. You’re glowing.

And God, Bucky actually misses a pass because of it.

Steve was already glaring at him.

“Get it together.”

Bucky blinked innocently. “What?”

“You’re peacocking.”

“I’m playing the game.”

“You’re putting on a damn Broadway show.”

Bucky just shrugged, pulling his helmet back down, that stupid little grin tugging at the corner of his mouth. “She’s watching.”

Steve groaned. “You are such a simp.”

“Worth it.”

“Sam noticed.”

“Good.”

“Peter noticed.”

“Kid’s observant.”

“Pietro is making heart hands at you every time you pass the bench.”

“Honestly? Valid.”

Steve shoved him back toward the ice. “You’re disgusting.”

“And distracted.” Sam added, skating past. “At least buy her dinner first, Buck.”

“She bumped into me and said I was flirty,” Bucky muttered. “I have a reputation to maintain.”

“She’s still smiling,” Bucky mutters under his breath, eyes still on you.

Steve sighs. “I’m gonna lose you to a girl with great hair and no hockey knowledge, huh?”

“I’d die for those curls.”

“She doesn’t even know your last name.”

“I don’t care.”

“You’re a disaster.”

“She’s an angel.”

Steve groaned into his gloves.

Meanwhile, in the stands:

Wanda is whispering in your ear, practically vibrating. “You’re not even watching the game.”

You were melting. There was no other word for it. No saving yourself from it, either.

“I hate athletes,” you muttered.

“You don’t,” Wanda said, grinning.

Nat leaned close. “You hate how they make you feel.”

You didn’t argue. Because she was right.

And when you looked back at the ice— He was already looking.

That same look. That unspoken thing. That pull.

And you let yourself smile.

Because this time?

You didn’t look away.

The game had ended twenty minutes ago, but your pulse was still racing.

Not that you were showing it. No—you were calm. Cool. Sipping the last of your coffee like it wasn’t cold and bitter now. Twirling your keys around your finger like you didn’t just watch a guy slam someone into the boards and then grin at you like it was nothing.

You’d been nursing that drink like a lifeline, like it would keep you grounded, but it was gone now—and so were your excuses for feeling like your skin was too warm.

Nat stretched next to you. “Okay, that was good!”

“Yeah,” you nodded, sliding your bag onto your shoulder. “It was.”

Wanda smirked. “You sound surprised.”

“I just…” You shrugged. “Didn’t expect to enjoy watching people body-slam each other on ice. Guess I have range.”

Nat grinned knowingly. “Yeah. Sure.”

You reached into your bag, grabbing your car keys, voice casual. “You two ready to go?”

Wanda blinked. “We’re not leaving yet, babe.”

You frowned. “Wait, what? Why not?”

Nat just smiled as they both stepped toward the exit leading to the lobby. “Because someone’s waiting.”

“I swear, if I’m driving your boyfriends home—”

“Relax,” Wanda laughed. “You’re not.”

You followed them reluctantly, stepping into the low-lit lobby, boots scuffing slightly on the tile. It was quieter now, just a few straggling students and the faint buzz of vending machines. You crossed your arms, letting your fingers find a strand of your hair and twirl it—mind wandering again.

You replayed the goals. The crowd. The heat of the lights. The look Bucky gave you every time he passed your section. That smirk. That cocky tilt of his chin.

Then you stopped yourself. Because obviously he was like that with everyone.

You sighed quietly. He probably flirted the same way with anyone who looked twice.

And you? You had looked a lot more than twice.

You were so lost in thought, you didn’t even register the footsteps—didn’t realize they were already here.

Until Wanda elbowed you lightly.

“Stop twirling your hair, he’s gonna faint.”

You blinked. “What—?”

And then your eyes lifted.

Steve. Pietro. And walking behind them, just a few feet behind, was Bucky.

Still slightly flushed from the game, curls damp, his gear bag slung over one shoulder and a navy hoodie pulled half-on over his pads. He looked relaxed—calm—but when his eyes found you?

That calm cracked just a little.

He smiled. Not the smug one. Not the cocky, I-just-scored-two-goals one. But a softer one. A little crooked. A little shy.

His eyes dropped briefly to your hand still curling around your hair and—

“You’re gonna make me think you’re doing that on purpose, sweetheart.”

You blinked.

He was already standing in front of you now, tall and flushed and unreasonably charming, voice just slightly lower than it was on the ice, like he’d adjusted the volume for you only.

You laughed softly, dropping your hand. “Nervous habit.”

“Don’t stop,” he said, almost too quickly. Then, with a sheepish little smirk, “Looks good on you.”

You stared.

He smiled a little wider, but you could see the way he bit the inside of his cheek, like he was trying not to get ahead of himself.

“How’s the coffee?” he asked, glancing at the empty cup in your hand.

“Terrible,” you admitted.

“You stuck it out anyway?”

You shrugged. “Had to pass the time somehow.”

“Oh?” he stepped a little closer, his voice dropping just a little, teasing. “The game wasn’t entertaining enough?”

You raised a brow, eyes glinting. “I mean, it was alright. You could be better, I guess.”

He laughed. That deep, full, rumble that shook a little in his chest and made your heart stutter.

“Brutal,” he grinned, eyes sparkling. “And here I thought I was putting on a show.”

“You were,” you said. “I just wasn’t sure if it was for the crowd or for… other reasons.”

That caught him.

He leaned his head down for a second, smiling, biting back a grin. “You caught that, huh?”

You shrugged. “A little obvious.”

He looked back at you then, really looked. Eyes soft. Almost fond. He stepped just close enough to make the hair on your arms raise.

“You made it easy.”

You blinked. “What?”

“To play like that.” His voice was low now. Honest. “I couldn’t stop looking.”

You tried to find something smart to say—but you were suddenly very aware of how close he was standing. Of how he kept looking at your mouth like it was a habit he didn’t mean to have. You could feel your pulse behind your ears.

And then— “Buck, you ready to dip?” Steve’s voice cut in, pulling both of you out of the moment.

Bucky didn’t look away right away. Just stared at you a second longer.

Then he blinked, turned slightly. “Yeah—uh, hold on.”

He turned back to you, smile a little crooked again.

“Can I see your phone?”

You blinked. “My—what?”

“Just for a second.”

Curious, you handed it over. He took it gently—his fingers brushing yours like he meant to—and typed something quickly.

A second later, your phone buzzed in his hand.

He handed it back, that cocky little smirk tugging at his lips again. “There. Now you’ve got me.”

You looked at the message.

[New Text From Unknown Number]:

Hi. It’s Bucky. I like your curls.

You looked back up, heart skipping.

He was already taking a slow step back, grinning at you like he had all the time in the world.

“Nice meeting you, doll.”

And then he turned, walking out the door with Steve and Pietro.

But right before he disappeared through the glass— He looked back.

One last time.

You didn’t even realize you were smiling until Nat grabbed your arm.

“Ohhh, you’re done for.”

Wanda grinned. “Toast. Absolutely toasted.”

You didn’t deny it.

Because you knew—

You were.

(You've got mail!) okay at first i was like haha college hockey player bucky. and then haha college player hockey bucky and curly hair reader and then it hit me. I had a thats so raven moment. very small very cute very little but its cuteee i have been toying with this idea and ya girl brought it to life ay ay ay!! anyways you will slowly realize i have an insane love for sports and marvel, i think i get that from both my parents.AND SOON I WILL BE DROPPING A VOLLEYBALL VERION YUPPPPPP!!!

Tag List (For Mr. James Buchanan Barnes is open)

@bbsbrina @herejustforbuckybarnes @barnesandbouquets @winchestert101 @totallyanxiousart @lovinqbella @starstruckfirecat @beestarsuck

[darling2411]

THIS WAS SOOO BEAUTIFUL AND I’M CRYING RIGHT NOW

just a dress “Doesn’t matter what you wear,” Bucky murmurs. “I’d still fall for you.”

There are a few constants at Avengers Tower.

Tony’s ego. Steve’s early morning runs. Sam making playlists no one asked for. Bucky Barnes sitting across from you every morning at breakfast. Waiting, always waiting, with a second mug of coffee he’d never admit was specifically for you. And you showing up on time.

Which is why it makes sense that every morning at breakfast, Bucky Barnes is already sitting at the table, two mugs of coffee in front of him. One for him. One for you.

“You’re cutting it close today,” he says one morning, flipping the page of his book as you slide into your seat.

“It’s 9:01,” you reply, raising an eyebrow.

He grunts. “Still late.”

“You love it.”

“I tolerate it,” he mutters, but hands you the coffee like always.

It’s a ritual neither of you talks about too much. It started months ago. You’d show up late to breakfast, blaming your alarm or your book or that “one last video” at 2AM. Bucky would already be there, freshly brewed coffee in front of him… and a second one just happened to be sitting next to it.

At first, you thought it was a coincidence. But then Sam teased him about it. Loudly. And Bucky stopped denying it.

Now it feels like a fixed point in the universe. Just like how you always sit beside him during meetings. Just like how he always makes sure you get home safely from late-night gym sessions. Just like the way he glances over when you make a bad joke, just to smirk when you laugh at yourself.

You aren’t anything. Not really.

But you move around each other like planets stuck in orbit. Quietly, consistently, unspoken.

And everyone notices.

It’s a Thursday when Stark makes the announcement.

Tony Stark stands on the lounge coffee table in his socks and dress shirt, arms spread like a game show host.

“Formal gala next Saturday!” he declares. “Right here in the penthouse. Black tie. String quartet. Be sparkly, be charming, be fashionably unarmed.”

“Another one?” Sam groans.

“It’s an annual Stark tradition,” Tony replies. “You’ve survived worse. Plus, open bar.”

You blink.

You try to act normal. Cool. Unbothered. But something in your stomach flutters.

Fancy events aren’t exactly your comfort zone. You’re more a “cozy café and soft playlists” kind of person. The thought of gowns and heels and being watched makes your heart beat a little too fast.

You give a little nod, mostly to yourself. “Cool. Sounds fun.”

Across the room, Bucky looks at you from where he leans against the wall, arms crossed. He doesn’t say anything, just raises a brow like he’s already reading your mind.

You pretend not to notice. You’re getting very good at pretending.

The days leading up to the party pass in a blur of missions and meetings and movie nights on the couch. Somewhere in there, Nat and Wanda stage a coup.

“You’re not wearing something you already own,” Wanda declares. “This is not a ‘recycle your last wedding guest outfit’ situation.”

“I wasn’t going to-”

“Yes, you were,” Nat says, cutting you off. “We’re going shopping. You’re coming.”

“I have dresses.”

“Non-negotiable,” Wanda says sweetly, tugging you toward the elevator.

You open your mouth to argue but are immediately handed your jacket and pushed toward the elevator.

It’s a whirlwind. Nat is a force of nature, striding through boutiques like she owns every mannequin. Wanda flits between colors and fabrics like a kid in a candy store. You mostly follow, trying not to get overwhelmed.

Until you see it.

It’s tucked behind a rack, almost hidden. Deep sapphire blue. Long. Satin. High neckline. And when you pull it out, the back dips low. Dramatic, elegant and beautiful in a way you don’t usually let yourself wear.

You hold it up, hesitant.

Nat appears behind you. “Oh, that’s the one.”

You laugh. “No, it’s too much.”

“It’s perfect,” Wanda says. “And so are you.”

You blush. “I’ll try it on."

You do try it on. Alone. And when you turn toward the mirror, your breath catches. It fits like it’s been made for you. The satin clings and drapes in all the right places. Your hair, loose and natural, spills perfectly across your shoulders.

For a second, you see someone else in the reflection.

Someone effortless.

But then the light shifts, and the old doubt creeps in… quiet, uninvited. Not loud or cruel. Just a whisper.

The dress is beautiful. You’re just wearing it.

You step out of the fitting room slowly.

Still, when you step out, Nat and Wanda audibly gasp.

“That one,” Nat says. “No contest.”

You smile back, but your voice is soft. “Okay. Just in case I don’t chicken out.”

They don’t argue.

Back in the tower, nothing changed… on the surface.

You had breakfast with Bucky. Teased Sam during movie night. Trained with Steve and actually knocked him off his feet once, which became a three-day bragging right.

But in the back of your closet, behind your “safe” black dress… that sapphire gown waited.

And sometimes, when you were alone, you took it out and ran your fingers along the satin.

The week passed in fragments.

Mission briefings. Morning coffee. Shared elevator rides. Stark’s party was all anyone could talk about, mostly because Tony wouldn’t shut up about the custom glass champagne tower being shipped in from Paris. Steve had started practicing his waltz “just in case.” Sam was planning a pre-party playlist “for the vibe.”

But if someone looked closely, if they knew where to watch, there was something else underneath it all.

Something unspoken.

Something that looked a lot like almost.

You weren’t entirely sure when it had started, the slow unraveling of comfort into longing. Maybe it was the way Bucky always poured your coffee first without asking. Or how he lingered at the edge of rooms when you laughed too loud, eyes flicking toward you like it was a sound he didn’t want to miss. Or how his voice always softened when it was just the two of you, even if his words didn’t.

He was still Bucky. Still sharp-edged and dry-humored, still grumpy in the mornings and skeptical of movie nights. But with you… he was something else, too.

And with him… you let yourself be a little more, too.

You didn’t tell anyone about the flutter in your chest when he passed you a protein bar without looking, knowing exactly which kind you liked. Or the way your heart stalled when he leaned close during training, murmuring corrections just low enough for only you to hear.

“You’re dropping your left shoulder,” he said on Monday, fingers brushing your arm to correct your form. “You’ll get thrown off balance.”

You nodded, distracted not by the advice, but by the feel of his touch, light, careful, familiar.

“Thanks,” you mumbled.

“Anytime,” he replied, already a few steps away.

He didn’t say much. Never did. But his presence lingered like a gravity field. Constant, quiet, and hard to pull away from.

On Tuesday, you walked into the lounge to find him asleep on the couch, book splayed open on his chest, the TV playing some old black-and-white movie.

You stood there for a moment, just watching. His features, usually guarded, were softer in sleep. Less worn down by memory. More like the man he let you see in glimpses.

You sat beside him without waking him, gently pulling the blanket over his shoulders.

He mumbled something. Your name, maybe.

You didn’t ask.

Wednesday, he found you in the kitchen at midnight, digging through the fridge.

“You always eat like this before missions?” he asked, leaning on the counter, arms crossed.

“I get hungry when I’m anxious,” you said, holding up a half-eaten leftover taco. “Don’t judge me.”

He smiled, actually smiled, and shook his head. “Not judging. Just wondering why you never share.”

You slid the other half toward him. “Don’t say I never gave you anything.”

He took a bite, chewing thoughtfully. “This is awful.”

You laughed. “You’re welcome.”

By Thursday, the party talk has fully taken over the tower.

Tony hands out gold-foiled invitations (dramatic, unnecessary, very Stark). Wanda drags Sam to a tailor for a fitted tux.

And you… pretend you’re not thinking about it.

“Do you have something to wear?” Bucky asks over lunch.

“I’ve got dresses.”

“Multiple?”

“Yeah. I bought a new one with Nat and Wanda but I don't know if I'm gonna wear it.”

“Why?”

“It’s not really… me.”

“Then why did you buy it?”

“I liked it!”

“Then it is you.”

He gets you.

Saturday comes fast.

The tower transforms. All warm lights and string music, trays of champagne and crystal bowls of things no one can pronounce. Everyone looks like movie stars.

Wanda curls her hair into soft waves and wears a wine-colored dress that makes her look like royalty. Nat, of course, wears black. But somehow manages to make it look like it belongs in Vogue.

The guys are in suits. Steve somehow looks both uncomfortable and handsome. Sam gets complimented three times by the catering staff.

And you?

You’re upstairs. In the dress.

Frozen in place.

The clock ticks. Time passes.

And for the first time in months, you’re not there.

You can feel the nerves setting in.

It’s the dress.

It’s always the dress.

You keep pacing your room, staring at the mirror, biting your lip. The makeup is done. The heels are on. The earrings are clasped. But still, you hesitate. Looking at yourself feels like holding your breath.

The dress looks the same as it did in the store. A deep sapphire blue, smooth satin, the neckline high and elegant, the back open and dramatic. It clings to you in a way that should make you feel powerful. Beautiful.

But tonight… it just feels like it isn’t yours.

You’re not panicking. Not exactly.

It’s quieter than that. A slow, creeping sense of not belonging. Like the longer you stare at yourself, the more the magic unravels thread by thread. The dress is stunning. That isn’t the problem. The problem is how perfectly it fits.

Because sometimes, when something fits too perfectly, it feels like it’s shining a light on everything you wish it could hide.

You sigh and stand, adjusting whatever you think could be wrong with it.

Downstairs, Sam glances at the elevator again.

“Where’s Y/N?” he asks.

“Probably fixing her hair,” Wanda says, sipping a drink.

“She’s never late,” Steve adds.

“She’s not,” Nat agrees. “You want me to go check?”

Before anyone else can answer, Bucky stands up from the leather armchair near the bar.

“I’ll go,” he says, too fast. “She’s probably wearing heels. Better if I go.”

No one argues.

Not even Sam, who raises a brow but says nothing.

Bucky adjusts his suit jacket, smooths down his tie, and heads for the elevator, ignoring the flutter in his chest.

You brush your hands over the fabric. The material shimmers when you move. Your heels are black and slim, your earrings match. On paper, it all works.

So why can’t you walk out the door?

You glance at the clock. Nearly 40 minutes late.

Your stomach drops.

“Damn it.”

You move toward the chair, where your backup dress still waits. The black one. Safe. You’ll throw it on, pull your hair into a low slick bun, and no one will even-

Knock knock.

You freeze.

Another knock. Firmer this time.

“Y/N?”

Your heart jumps. Bucky.

You nearly trip over your own heels rushing to the door.

“Coming!” you call, trying to gather yourself. You crack the door open, just wide enough to peek out.

And then forget how to breathe.

Bucky stands in the hallway in a tailored black suit, no tie, collar open just enough to be unfair. His hair is slicked back slightly, but still soft. He looks like he’s walked out of a noir film. And he’s staring at you.

Staring.

His eyes drop, slowly… from your face, to the curve of your shoulders, to the way the blue satin hugs your waist and falls in a soft, perfect line. His lips part just slightly.

He blinks once.

“Wow.”

You flush immediately. “What- what are you doing here?”

He clears his throat. “You’re late.”

Your brow knits. “What?”

“You’re never late,” he says softly. “Sam, Nat, Steve… everyone noticed. They were worried. Natasha was about to come up, but I figured… heels. Safer if I came.”

“Oh.”

You glance at the clock again and wince. “I didn’t realize. I lost track of time. I’m sorry.”

“It’s okay,” he says quickly, voice gentle.

You reach for the door. “You should go. I’m just going to change dresses. I’ll be down in five-”

His hand, cool metal, presses gently against the door.

“Wait.”

You pause.

“What do you mean, change?”

“I…” Your voice falters. “I don’t think this is the right dress.”

Bucky’s eyes narrow slightly. Not judging, just reading you.

“Why not?”

You look down at your hands. “It’s just too much. I thought it looked better in the store. It's fine.”

The words are barely a whisper.

Bucky is silent for a long moment.

Then he steps closer, just slightly, enough that the air between you shifts.

“Y/N.”

You look up.

“You’re already wearing the dress,” he says, his voice quiet but certain. “And you look…” He exhales, shaking his head slightly. “You look incredible.”

You swallow hard. “You don’t have to say that.”

“I’m not saying it because I have to.”

He tilts his head, eyes warm. “You walk into that room tonight, no one’s gonna be able to look at anything but you.”

You blink. Your chest aches in that soft, quiet way that comes from being seen — really seen.

He lets the moment breathe between you, then offers you a small smile.

“I’ll meet you downstairs.”

And then he turns and walks away.

Just like that.

Leaving you breathless in the doorway.

Five minutes later, you’re still staring at your reflection. The dress hasn’t changed.

But maybe… you have.

The elevator doors slide open with a soft chime, and the room stills.

You step into the penthouse, the soft click of your heels echoing beneath the music. The lights are low and warm, spilling golden across the polished floors. Glass clinks, laughter hums, and in the middle of it all—Bucky looks up.

His heart stops.

You move slowly, a soft wave of deep sapphire satin sweeping around your legs as you walk. Hair swept to the side, silver glinting at your ears, that impossible dress catching the light with every step. But it isn’t the dress that stuns him.

It’s the way you hold yourself.

Quiet. Glowing. Real.

Everyone notices. Sam gives a low whistle. Nat smirks like she’s known this moment was coming. Even Steve, standing near the drinks, raises his brows in quiet approval.

But Bucky?

He doesn’t move.

He just watches you cross the room, like time has slowed and sound has faded and the only thing that matters is you.

You find him near the balcony doors, where the crowd is thinner, the music softer.

“Hey,” you say, voice light but a little breathless.

His gaze travels over you again, slower this time.

“You came,” he says, as if there had been any doubt.

You smile, tucking a loose strand of hair behind your ear. “Took me a while.”

He offers his hand, not breaking eye contact. “Dance with me.”

Your breath catches.

The music shifts into something slower—something with strings and soft piano. You hesitate for a moment, then place your hand in his.

He pulls you gently toward the floor.

You fit together easily.

Your hand on his shoulder, his at your waist. The press of satin and silk. The low hum of music. And somewhere beneath it all, the quick, fluttering beat of your heart — mirrored in his.

Bucky doesn’t speak for a moment. He just sways with you, moving like the rest of the world has faded behind you both.

“You’re good at this,” you murmur.

He smirks, eyes never leaving yours. “I’m old.”

“I didn’t want to say it.”

He chuckles, low and quiet. “You almost didn’t come.”

You shrug, trying to play it off, but your voice betrays you. “I didn’t think it was a big deal.”

“It is,” he says gently. “You are.”

Your eyes flick up to meet his. You don’t know what to say.

So you don’t say anything.

The dance ends, but neither of you let go.

The music shifts again. Someone laughs near the bar. A camera flashes. But here, in this small space between breaths, you stand close. Too close. Not enough.

“Wanna get some air?” Bucky asks softly.

You nod.

The balcony is quieter. Cooler. The city stretches out below you, lights twinkling like a second sky. You lean against the railing, your hands brushing the cold metal.

He slips off his suit jacket and drapes it over your shoulders before you can protest.

“It’s not cold,” you say.

“You’re still getting the jacket.”

You smile, tugging it tighter around yourself. It smells like him — clean soap, something warm and familiar. The sleeves are too long.

“I feel like a kid playing dress-up.”

“You look like a goddess.”

You laugh.

He doesn’t.

You turn to face him, the night wind catching your hair, your cheeks flushed from dancing, from nerves, from him.

“I meant what I said,” Bucky tells you. “Downstairs.”

You bite your lip. “About the dress?”

“No,” he says. “About you.”

There’s a beat of silence, full and fragile.

“I’ve been trying to figure out how to say it for a while now,” he admits, voice low. “You’re not just part of the team. You’re not just… around.”

You blink.

“You’re the best part of my day,” he says. “And that dress didn’t change that. It just made it harder to keep pretending I don’t want to hold you like this all the time.”

You open your mouth. Close it again.

And then?

You kiss him.

It’s soft, barely more than a press of lips. But it carries months of unspoken things. Warmth. Tension. Relief. All of it wrapped in satin and city lights and the sound of your heart racing like it finally has somewhere to go.

When you pull back, he’s already smiling.

“I should’ve worn this dress a long time ago,” you whisper.

He leans in again, forehead resting against yours.

“Doesn’t matter what you wear,” he murmurs. “I’d still fall for you.”

The tower feels different the next morning.

Maybe it’s the way the sun comes through the floor-to-ceiling windows in lazy gold streaks. Or maybe it’s just you.

You pad quietly into the kitchen, still wearing soft pajama pants and one of your oversized sweatshirts. Hair a little messy. No makeup. Bare feet against the tile. And yet, for the first time in a long time, you don’t feel the need to shrink yourself.

You’re not glowing. You’re not dressed up.

You’re just you. And it feels… enough.

“Morning, Sleeping Beauty.”

You turn, startled, to find Bucky leaning against the counter, mug in hand, already dressed in his usual black T-shirt and jeans, the picture of quiet calm. His hair is a little rumpled. He looks unfairly good for someone who’s probably been up for hours.

“You’re up early,” you say, grabbing a mug of your own.

“Old man body clock,” he says with a smirk.

You roll your eyes and step closer. “How long have you been waiting to say that?”

“Since last night,” he replies, voice lower now, softer. “Wanted to see you again.”

And just like that, you melt.

He hands you the coffee. Your fingers brush. Neither of you pulls away.

The rest of the team trickles in slowly.

Wanda first, hair tied up and looking far too put-together for 9 a.m. She spots the two of you leaning together by the counter and arches a brow.

“Good morning,” she says, sing-song.

You sip your coffee like it’s not obvious. Bucky stays still beside you.

Then comes Sam, dramatically hungover. “If anyone mentions classical music or champagne, I swear I’ll jump off the roof.”

Steve follows, clean and annoyingly alert. “Nice party.”

Natasha, last, in her I don’t do mornings sunglasses, grabs toast and mumbles, “You two looked cozy on that balcony.”

You nearly choke on your coffee. “What?”

Nat doesn’t even look up. “Relax. We all saw it coming.”

You blink. “Saw what?”

“You and Barnes. I mean, please,” she says, waving her toast. “The tension has been driving everyone insane for months.”

Sam nods, dead serious. “I literally bet Steve ten bucks it would happen before the end of the year.”

“I won,” Steve says, smugly.

Bucky chuckles beside you. Quiet, amused.

He reaches down under the table and laces his fingers through yours.

And just like that, the noise fades. The teasing doesn’t matter. The looks don’t matter.

All you can focus on is the warm weight of his hand, the soft pressure of his thumb brushing the back of yours.

You turn to him, lips tugging up.

“You okay?” he asks gently.

You nod. “I’m good.”

“You sure?”

“Yeah,” you say. “I just… didn’t think it would feel this easy.”

Bucky smiles, small and sincere.

“It was never supposed to be hard,” he says.

You look at him then, really look, and something inside you softens.

For weeks, months, maybe, you’ve been carrying this quiet ache around like armor. The weight of feelings you didn’t know what to do with. The fear of hoping too much. Of reading into things that weren’t there. Of thinking you mattered more to him than you did.

But now, standing in the golden spill of morning light, fingers still twined with his under the table, you don’t feel foolish anymore.

You feel… known.

And that scares you more than anything.

“You’re always so calm about this stuff,” you murmur, eyes on your joined hands. “Like you already knew.”

“I didn’t know,” he says, thumb brushing over your knuckles. “I just hoped.”

You blink, surprised. “You?”

His smile turns a little crooked. “You think I spent all this time saving you the last cup of coffee every morning just because I’m a gentleman?”

“You don’t even like mornings.”

“Exactly,” he says. “That’s how serious this is.”

You laugh then, a soft, genuine sound that makes something in his chest ease.

“I guess I thought I’d have to be… different,” you say after a beat. “To be noticed. To matter. I’m not the loudest or the strongest. I’m not Nat. Or Wanda. I’m just-”

“You’re you,” he cuts in, gentle but firm. “And that’s always been enough.”

You swallow hard, throat tightening around the words you don’t know how to say.

“I notice everything about you,” he adds, quieter now. “The way you wrinkle your nose when you’re reading something complicated. The way you hum off-key in the lab. The way you always walk out of the room last because you’re checking that everyone else is okay.”

You look up at him slowly.

“You think no one sees you,” he says. “But I do. I always have.”

Something unspoken passes between you. A slow, electric stillness.

“Why didn’t you say anything?” you ask, voice barely above a whisper.

He hesitates, eyes soft. “I didn’t want to risk losing what I already had with you.”

“And now?”

“Now I’d rather risk it than pretend anymore.”

You blink fast, like that might keep the emotion at bay. It doesn’t work.

“Okay,” you say quietly.

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

He leans in, forehead brushing yours for the briefest second, not quite a kiss, just… closeness.

“I’m in this,” he murmurs. “Whatever it looks like. However slow you need.”

You nod, the edges of your smile trembling.

“I’m in this too,” you whisper.

The kitchen fades away.

The clinking dishes, the sunlight, even the teasing voices echoing from down the hall. It all fades. There’s only the soft grip of his hand on yours and the quiet warmth building between you, solid and real.

And for the first time in a long time, you’re not wondering what comes next.

You’re just here.

With him.

A Tuesday Morning, Three Weeks Later

The tower is quiet.

Not silent, the way no home is ever truly silent, but the kind of soft hum that means the world is at peace for a little while.

The sun has barely risen, casting a warm gold light through the floor-to-ceiling windows. Somewhere down the hall, the elevator chimes. In the distance, the coffee machine gurgles to life.

And in the kitchen, you stand barefoot in one of Bucky’s sweatshirts, stirring cream into a mug with your eyes still half closed.

Behind you, footsteps.

You don’t need to turn around.

“You’re up early,” you say, voice husky with sleep.

“Technically,” Bucky replies, stepping up behind you and wrapping an arm loosely around your waist, “I haven’t slept yet.”

You lean back into his chest without hesitation.

“You brooding again?”

“Just watching the sky.”

“Romantic.”

He kisses your temple. “You bring it out of me.”

You snort and hand him his mug. “Don’t lie to me before caffeine.”

You move through the morning with the ease of something settled. Something earned.

He leans against the counter while you make toast. You sit cross-legged on a barstool while he recaps an old dream he can’t make sense of. You pass each other plates and comments and quiet smiles like it’s always been this way.

Like there was never a time you weren’t his favorite part of the morning.

At some point, Nat wanders in, squinting at the sunlight. She takes one look at the sweatshirt you’re wearing and smirks. “That’s not yours.”

You sip your coffee, unbothered. “It is now.”

Nat grabs an apple and mutters something about “finally” before disappearing again.

Bucky looks at you, eyes warm with amusement. “Subtle.”

“She’s not wrong.”

“No,” he agrees, stepping closer. “She’s not.”

You lean into him again, letting your forehead rest against his chest. He smells like coffee and clean soap and something that just feels like home.

“Did you think it’d feel like this?” you ask softly.

He considers it. “I hoped.”

You tilt your face up toward him. “Me too.”

His eyes drop to your lips, but he doesn’t move just yet.

“Hey,” he says gently, voice barely above a whisper. “You know what I see when I look at you now?”

“What?”

“Everything I ever thought I couldn’t have.”

You blink, chest tightening, not with fear, not with nerves, but with something whole. Something steady.

“You always had me,” you say.

“I know,” he whispers. “Took me a minute.”

You smile, eyes crinkling, and then he kisses you. Slow, soft, like he has all the time in the world.

Because he does.

Because you do.

Because after all the waiting and wondering and quiet hoping…

This is the part where everything begins.

[darling2411]

a thousand years; a thousand more

bucky barnes x reader

synopsis: snippets of your life with bucky over the years (and years, and years)

warnings: oh boy. torture, blood, needles, experimentation, crying, kissing, ANGSTY, violence, steve doesn’t leave his best friend for a woman he kissed once because F U C K that, canon divergence obviously, poorly explained super powers lol, marriage, potentially crappy ending, pretty unedited

notes: THIS IS SO LONG AND HAS TAKEN SO LONG SO PLEASE GOD ENJOY IT and lemme know if you wanna hear about any moment of this timeline in more detail/anything about this couple from TFATWS or thunderbolts <33

[ SIBERIA - 1945 ]

when you awoke, you were shocked to hear bucky’s voice across the room.

at first, you were certain it was a hallucination; there was absolutely zero chance that bucky could have found you. you were captured as collateral damage in an ambush on your camp nearly a week ago. it couldn’t be real.

“please!” bucky begged, arms and legs thrashing his restraints—the fresh sutures on his left shoulder burned and begged for mercy, but he ignored them. “please, just stop. whatever it is you want, i’ll give it to you. anything.”

“anything?” zola mocked cruelly, stopping the syringe about halfway through and leaving the needle dangling in your arm.

‘arm: humerus, radius, ulna’ you mentally recited in a desperate attempt to remain conscious.

you had to stay awake.

you’d studied and worked your ass off for a chance at a good education, to become a real doctor like you’d always dreamed.

you had to live for that.

you were gonna marry bucky and have a kid and maybe a garden and a nice big library.

you had to live for that.

you had built the foundation for the life your mother had wanted for you before she died; you’d put it all on hold for the war, but you were supposed to come back and make her proud.

you had to live for that.

you had to stay awake.

“what about your right arm, huh?” zola mocked. “what about that, will you give me that?”

you wanted to protest but all that came out was a weak sob, your skin burning.

‘skin: epidermis, dermis, hypodermis.’

“yes, yes, whatever you want!” bucky screamed. “just stop it, you’re killing her!”

the man simply shook his head. “killing her? mmm, no, no, no,” he tutted. “she’s too valuable to die. i mean, if she is more valuable than your own arm, she must have something good to her.”

‘arm: humerus, radius, ulna’

he looked down, grabbing your cheeks and moving your head side to side. if you could have recoiled in disgust, you would have, but the table you were strapped to was not very flexible.

“what do you think, pretty?” he probed, shaking your head in his hand with a sick smile. “do you think you’re worth all that?”

the edges of the room had started fading after the last hour of torture and experimentation, and despite your efforts to stay conscious, you had begun to come to terms with the fact that you were fighting a losing battle.

on one hand, sleep sounded like a welcome escape. on the other, you didn’t know if you would ever wake up. but at the very least, you weren’t going out with out a fight.

you mustered all of your strength, throat raw from screaming and lips cracked and bleeding—however, you still managed to purse them, and as his pudgy face came in even closer to yours, you spat at him.

“fuck. you.”

before bucky could even speak, one of the other men pushed a button, and an electrical whir buzzed in the air, followed by a wretched scream, ripped straight from your chest.

in seconds, you fell limp, the needle still hanging out of your arm.

“w-what—no, no, no, what happened?” bucky looked between your body and the man still standing over it.

zola shook his head as he wiped the remanence of your revenge off of his face.

“i don’t know. hopefully something bad.”

when you awoke hours later, your memories came back in bits and pieces—nothing quite cohesive but all vivid nonetheless.

first, the feeling: blind pain searing through you, like molten lava in your veins.

then, the taste: blood in your mouth—not from your tongue as you may have expected—but from your throat, nearly choking you.

next, the smell: your own sweat and smoke.

then, the sight: a blinding flash behind your eye lids like your very mind was breaking.

and finally, the sound: bucky’s screams.

you struggled to piece your memory together as you woke from a dead sleep. all you could feel now was cold.

“doll? are you awake?”

you opened your eyes to see bucky, a mess of tears and filth, crawling his way across the concrete floor one armed. he let out a sob, smiling widely as he saw your eyes open.

“you’re awake.”

“how’d you get here? what happened?” you sat up, quickly realizing that your leg was cuffed and chained to the wall like a leash. your eyes flickered to bucky, taking in the sight of his left arm and the fresh wounds surrounding the seam at the top.

your memory was coming back and suddenly, you really wished it wasn’t.

“oh god.”

he only sobbed, crawling up next to your cot and burying his face in the crook of your neck. “god, he said he’d killed you.”

“bucky, your— your arm—"

he ignored you, pulling away and cupping your cheek with his right hand, keeping himself upright on his knees. “i can’t believe you’re alive.” and he just stares at you like you’re the only thing that matters in the world.

you feel your heart racing, hammering against your aching ribs. you’re sure that under the flimsy nightgown they’d given you, you’re covered in bruises and lacerations.

he was right, it was unbelievable that you were alive. although, if the torture didn’t kill you, the infection likely would. or the ‘doctors’ would come back and take you out for good this time.

‘this is it,’ you thought, ‘i’m going to die in the mountains and nobody will ever find my body. maybe bucky will bury me. at least there’s that. bucky is useful, maybe they won’t kill him.’

“i can see gears turning in that pretty head, baby, and don’t you even think about it,” he said, holding back another wave of tears. “we’re not dying here. i’m gonna find us a way out.”

you shake your head, tear filled eyes meeting his. “you don’t know that, bucky—”

he cups your cheeks, even though it hurts like hell to move his new prosthetic—but he would be damned if he let it stop him from touching you.

“i do. i do know it, i know it like i know i love you, like i know i’m going to marry you, like i know we’re gonna have a kid and a picket fence house and whatever else we want after we get the fuck outta here. we’re not dying here, doll.”

that breaks you, and you fall forward, burying your face in bucky’s chest. he rests his back against the cold concrete wall, his arms tight around you.

“we’re not dying here,” he repeats. “i’m not letting you die here.”

[ SIBERIA, 1965 ]

over the course of the next year and a half, you’d seen your bucky, your jamie, the love of your life, turned into someone else. something else.

even now, so many years later, you refused to dehumanize him. even when he wasn’t really your bucky, you could never see him as anything less than a human. but sometimes it was easier to view the soldier as a sort of other. something that inhabited your bucky’s body but was separate from him. it helped, sometimes—it also helped that bucky never seemed to forget you.

zola had tried to kill you again once you’d woken, but it didn’t work out as planned.

bucky had been held in place by no less than three guards as zola grabbed you by the hair and pulled you off of your cot, slamming your shaking body into the corner of the cell.

you braced yourself, eyes shut and hands up before your face defensively. you didn’t want to cower before him but all you could think was that you wanted to see your mother again.

you hoped she’d greet you when you arrived, wherever you were about to go.

but instead of rough hands, bullets, or even blades, all you felt was warmth.

it was like it was coming from inside you, like you were the source. then you looked down.

your hands were glowing.

zola had stopped in his tracks now, just staring, not with fury but with something worse: hunger.

since then, you’d become a personal nurse for their favorite asset. whatever ability they’d inadvertently given you, undoubtedly from the spare experimental serums and electric shocks, allowed you to emit light.

in a glow, in sparks, in wisps, in odd looking orbs; they were warm, or burning hot, whatever you wanted at the time. you used it to cauterize his wounds or offer comfort on the colder nights. sometimes you just made light dance on the walls as a distraction, for yourself and for him.

thankfully, they never used you as a weapon. they gave you your own unique value, taking you in and out of cryogenic freezing just like bucky. you never saw him for more than a day at a time, but you had two distinct purposes: as a nurse and as a taught leash around his neck. they never failed to remind you both of the ladder.

[ SIBERIA, 1995 ]

“do you want to see her again?”

bucky—or the soldier, whichever had more power at this moment—whipped his head around so fast his neck cracked.

he and rumlow were in some dusty lab deep in the facility you refused to call home. after a failed mission to kill a french politician, bucky had been dragged back to siberia in a bloody heap of rumlow’s making—and he was not done.

rumlow smirked. “i knew you’d remember her. answer the question, soldat, do you want to see her again? because if you don’t follow your orders, i will make sure you never see your pretty little toy ever again.”

a silence falls over the room, only interrupted by the humming of the pipes. after a few moments, bucky speaks.

“she’s not a toy.”

“i’ll take that as a ‘yes’, then.”

later that night, as you clean him up, he speaks of the conversation in a gruff yet desperate tone.

“they’ll take you away from me,” he whispered. you looked up and you could almost see your bucky in his eyes. “if i don’t kill those people, they’ll take you. i can’t let them take you.”

you smiled tearily, cupping his cheek and kissing his forehead shakily, not caring about the blood and dirt. “they won’t. i’m not going anywhere.”

on nights you had together, you’d often lay awake for hours, just letting him hold you. it was like he was stitching his soul back together with every minute, piece by piece. he was often silent, so you would talk—you’d remind him of all your plans for after the war.

honestly, you didn’t even know what year it was. for all you knew, the war never ended. for all you knew, the nazis won and there was nothing waiting for you on the other side.

but hope kept you going and you tried to share that hope with him. sometimes, he’d even whisper back, promises of love and devotion falling from his lips like a prayer.

[ ROMANIA, 2016 ]

two years ago, for the first time ever, you’d been ordered to accompany bucky on a mission. not to help eliminate the target though—not even to tend to his wounds.

“this is your second attempt,” rumlow explained. “so you carry out this mission right, or i will put a bullet right between her eyes.”

ironically, he hadn’t carried out the mission right, and you were alive and… not well, but close to it.

after rumlow attempted to use you as a human shield against sam wilson, the latter had managed to hold him off long enough to let you escape.

“i don’t even want to know what that glowing thing is about, just get outta here!” he shouted.

you could only respond with a sob of thanks before running as fast as your ill kept legs could carry you. you felt like your muscles were atrophying with every stride, but you couldn’t bring yourself to care.

you needed air.

you needed freedom.

you needed bucky.

when you’d found him, soaked to the bone, shivering, and confused, you let him wrap you in a feverish embrace. he buried his face in the crook of your neck, breathing you in like he always did after a mission—when he didn’t know when or if he’d see you again.

but now, you were free. scared fugitives, but free. and nobody was gonna take you away from him. that last part may have led to the current situation.

you had accompanied bucky to the farmers market in town, one of your favorite morning activities. he was picking out some plums when the paper caught your eye.

oh fuck. oh fuck.

you’d shoved the paper into his hands and before he could process what he was seeing, you were pulling him away. you had to run, you had to hide. but when you opened the apartment door and found a figure standing in your kitchen, a sinking feeling in your gut told you it was already too late.

still, you were not going down without a fight.

but then he turned around.

when your eyes land on steve, your hands fall slowly, their pale glow dimming as shock slithers down your spine.

stevie rogers. in your kitchen.

stevie rogers, who’s mother took you in like her own when you lost your parents at age seven.

stevie rogers, who you had patched up after every beating, who you’d nursed back to health after every ailment.

stevie rogers, who you’d gone to war with, watching him wield the same shield he was holding now.

stevie rogers, captain america, living and breathing 70 years after you last saw him.

“oh my god…” steve’s shield clatters to the floor, and before you know it, his arms are wrapped around you, strong, painfully tight, and most importantly, familiar.

“stevie,” you sobbed, unable to bring yourself to proceed with caution as your brother hugs you.

“i’ve got you,” he whispers, kissing the top of your head softly as his tears wet your hair. “i’m here, you’re safe.”

bucky didn’t seem so convinced. in mere seconds, he’d ripped steve right off of you, metal arm wrapped around his throat like a noose.

“why are you here?”

“buck—”

“you’re not taking her from me.”

steve struggled, clawing at the metal as if it’d make a difference. “…not… taking her…bucky…” he sputtered, face turning red.

“then why are you here?”

you approached bucky carefully, getting behind him and resting your hand on his shoulder. “jamie, he’s not taking me—”

bucky shook his head, jaw shaking as tears welled in his eyes. “you don’t know that.”

“it’s steve,” you pleaded. “steve. he’s my brother. he wouldn’t hurt us, i promise.”

after a moment of internal struggle, bucky’s arm fell away, dropping steve to his knees before you. bucky straightens out again, taking a step back to shield you.

“you’re that guy from the museum,” he bluffed.

steve didn’t buy it. he stood, putting his hands up to show he was not a threat. his throat still ached, and he could already feel the bruises blooming. “you’ve gotta come with me.”

[ WAKANDA, 2018 ]

the last few years had been a blur. after narrowly escaping bucharest, steve had you thoroughly evaluated in an alien-looking building in back new york—if you could even call it that anymore.

dr. cho was nice—she even laughed at your shocked expression when she told you there were lots of female doctors now.

“i was studying,” you’d told her, voice barely audible as she checked your reflexes. “medicine, that is. before the war, before… before they took me.”

she smiled, pausing her work for a moment. “women like you were half the reason i made it through medical school.”

you furrowed your brow. “why?”

she shrugged. “i wanted to make you proud.”

however, peace only lasted so long. when the fighting began again, you were confused and scared beyond belief, but bucky refused to let you involve yourself.

“your fights are my fights, james,” you argued. “they have been for 70 fucking years.”

bucky just smiled, pained, and shook his head. “not this one.”

you’d tried to chase him down, only to find yourself pinned down by spiderwebs on the runway. you scratched at it, struggling with all of your might, wishing you had learned to harness your gift into something a little more dangerous than light shows.

thankfully, a great red robot had managed to find you, pulling you up with one arm—turns out, there was in fact a man inside.

“hey kid? we generally frown upon webbing innocent bystanders.”

he did try to kill bucky later, but at least he drew the line somewhere.

steve had convinced natasha to take you home and not let you out of her sight, much to your annoyance; luckily, though, this meant you weren’t there to see bucky’s arm get blown off. unluckily, it meant steve had to face your wrath when he saw you again.

“where is bucky? tell me, steve!” you shouted, shaking your finger in his face. you were sure you’d be much more intimidating if you weren’t actively crying.

“he’s being taken to wakanda—” steve started, keeping his voice calm and steady.

you were not feeling calm and steady.

“i don’t know what that is, rogers, my last geography lesson was in 1937! just—just take me there. take me to wakanda. now.”

he winced. “i can’t really—”

“STEVE ROGERS!”

eventually, you’d made it to wakanda, made it back to bucky—and the rest was history.

“your hair is so pretty,” you mused, combing it with careful attention. the lighting in shuri’s lab almost made his hair sparkle.

bucky huffed, leaning his head back in your lap to catch a glimpse of you. “really? i think it’s a little too long.”

“it’s cute.”

“please, he looks like he belongs in a boy band,” shuri quips, wrestling with her latest gadget. you’d tried to offer your help a month ago but it landed you on a cot with a bleeding hand (in your defense, nail guns weren’t a thing in the 1940’s).

you shrug, smiling at her obliviously. “well i don’t know what the hell that is, so i still like it!”

she laughed, rolling her eyes. “you know, i am really going to miss this. well, her mostly, but you have some good qualities too.”

bucky smiled softly at the teasing, eyes shining with gratitude as they always did around here. “we don’t have to leave.”

she scoffed dismissively, waving him off. “this is going to work and you are going to have the freedom to live your life wherever you please.”

you shrugged, twisting your fingers absentmindedly in his waves. “i don’t know where we please. since new york, this is the first place we’ve been able to call home. and our new york… doesn’t really exist anymore.”

since the events at the airport, the fight that tore the avengers apart, you had the time to think about your future. for so long, the future hadn’t been a guarantee—in captivity, it was nothing more than a hope and a prayer. even now, it felt like that sometimes. the future you’d seen for yourself was buried back in 1945 in an unmarked grave somewhere in the siberian mountains. you could never really go back home.

shuri frowns, shooting you a sympathetic look; she knew better than to pity you, but sometimes, when you spoke like that, or said you’d ‘felt worse’ than a nail through your hand, it was a little hard not to.

“well,” she starts, shaking off the feeling. “we will always welcome you back. even if you bring mister grumpy pants over here.”

you smiled, looking down at bucky once more as you tied his hair up in a bun. “here that? you’re mister grumpy pants now.”

[ NEW YORK, 2023 ]

that day in wakanda was one of the last things you remembered—the last moment of peace before a hole ripped in the sky and all hell broke loose in the place you’d just started to call home.

against bucky’s wishes, you’d stayed to fight; and for a while there, you’d thought you were doing good. that maybe you and bucky would make it out of this alive. that was until the smoke started to clear, and the forest grew eerily quiet, and you started to feel a little strange.

you didn’t even notice you had started to disintegrate.

bucky did though.

he fell to his knees in front of you, catching you as you stumbled. “no, no, no, no.”

“bucky, i—” you started, but it was like your tongue wasn’t yours anymore. moving your mouth felt painful, each sound you made sounded slow in your ears.

what was happening to you?

bucky grabbed at you desperately, pulling you into his lap as your arms gave way to ashes. sobbing already, he clung to you, chasing fist fulls of dust as you crumbled beneath him.

“i love you,” you managed to whisper.

that was the last thing you remembered.

when you reappeared, you were flat on your back, staring at the treetops in that same forest. you just laid there. you could hear people all around you, their voices blending into the atmosphere. you didn’t budge until you heard bucky’s.

“thank god,” he sobbed, at your side—well, side was a generous term, he was really on top of you. he relieved you of his weight but stayed on the forest floor, holding onto you for dear life.

“what happened?” you rasped. “i just—i turned to dust and then—”

“i did too,” bucky responded, face still buried in your hair. “but we can figure it out later, for now, you—you just have to promise you’re never gonna leave me again.”

you laugh. “i don’t think it counts as leaving when you follow me.”

“i’ll follow you to the ends of the earth.”

during the final battle, bucky didn’t let you out of his sight. and for the first time in years, you saw a bit of the soldier come out again. any close calls on your life were met with brutal precision that you’d only ever witnessed in footage of his training. however, each and every time, he’d turn back to you and you’d see something distinctly bucky in his eyes.

by the time it finally came to the end, you were bruised and bloody, but alive. time moved fast from there on out, and by the time you arrived at tony’s funeral, it felt like you’d aged forty years.

you paid your respects, letting pepper cry on your shoulder as the crowed dispersed.

“i’m sorry, i don’t even know you very well and now i’m getting your shirt all wet,” she laughed, wiping at her cheeks.

you smiled gently. “that’s okay. i understand the pain of losing people; grief knows no bounds.”

you’d waited until it was time for her to float around and thank the guests before you split off to follow bucky. he, steve, and sam stood at the top of the hill, looking out on the view.

“he gave sam the shield,” bucky tells you as you approach. you shrug. figured. no questions there.

“is he gonna stay with her?” you ask instead. “y’know, with peggy. when he returns the stones.”

bucky shrugs. “i don’t know.”

he wraps an arm around you, tucking your head under his chin. he watched the wind rustle the leaves on the trees, the sky perfectly blue—unfit for a funeral.

what he’s about to ask you is probably unfit for a funeral too, but he has waited 80 years, and he doesn’t want to wait a second more.

“will you marry me?”

you look up so fast your neck cracks. “what?”

he looks down. “what, you sick of me or something?”

[ WAKANDA, 2024 - PRESENT ]

“i’m nervous,” you tell steve, wiping your hands on the front of your dress. it was a gorgeous day; blue skies with puffy white clouds, vibrant flora, all of your loved ones out in the field.

waiting for you.

he shook his head, slipping his arm around yours. he rubbed his thumb up and down your forearm before leaning down to kiss your temple carefully. “you have nothing to worry about. bucky has wanted to marry you since the day he met you.”

“really?”

steve nodded, lowering his eyes to meet yours. “from the moment i told him to keep his filthy hands off my sister.”

you leaned your head on his arm, careful not to mess your hair too much. “it’s not just that, steve. we’ve been through so much together. i’m scared it’s all gonna disappear.”

you feel his suit jacket bristle as he turns to pull you into a hug. “nobody is going anywhere, honey. the war is over. hydra is gone. it’s time for you to finally have the life you’ve always wanted.”

you nod, letting the words wash over you. “alright. then let’s get this show on the road.”

you walked slow, hands shaking, but steve held you steady. your song, one from the forties you used to dance to in the kitchen while sarah cooked dinner, played softly in the background. heads turned to look at you, and as you recognized the familiar faces, you felt your shoulders relax.

sam, clint, and peter, who was surprisingly tearful for a teenage boy at a wedding.

pepper and morgan, who was wearing her little flower girl gown.

t’challa, ayo, and shuri, who waved her fingers at you teasingly.

and at the end of the aisle, bucky, not even bothering to hide his tears as he watched you.

once you reached the altar, steve kissed your cheek and slid his arm away from yours; for a split second, you almost latch onto him, wishing he’d hold your hand like when you were a little girl and were scared of thunderstorms.

however, when you see bucky, the way his hands are twitching like he’s struggling not to touch you, nothing seems so scary anymore. you step into position, waiting patiently for steve to assume position at the back of the alter, opening his little officiant book.

it’s not until bucky puts the ring on your finger that you realize everyone that had told you the wedding goes by in an instant was right; so you tried to take a mental picture of this moment, of bucky taking your hand so carefully like he’d never held it before, slipping the ring on your finger and holding on for dear life.

“you may now kiss the—”

he doesn’t even let steve finish, diving in at the first possible second, cupping your cheeks and kissing you desperately—he’d been waiting to do it since he saw you in that dress.

the kiss tasted like salty tears and joy, with a bit of coffee and vanilla, like bucky’s kisses always did.

he pulled away, leaning his forehead against yours, noses brushing. “i told you i’d marry you.”

[darling2411]

Oh wow. This series has my heart. Your honor I love them !!!! You can be sooooo proud of your work. The ups and downs. The plot. The mind games. The angst. Beautiful. Marvelous. Incredible. I will reread and reread and reread.

˗ˏˋ ★ Little Dove ★ ˎˊ˗

MASTERLIST POST

winter soldier x empath!reader

summary: Hydra sends you — a broken empath — into the Winter Soldier’s cell to keep him calm. You’re supposed to soften him. Control him. But instead, something starts to unravel. In both of you.

WARNINGS: 18+ explicit content, MDNI— disclaimer: contains dark themes. read at your own discretion! angst, slowburn, captivity, tortures, hydra, violence, sa (mentioned), brainwashing, non-consensual experimentation, hurt/comfort, trauma, possible smut in future chapters? we’ll see.

playlist | pinterest board

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

ONESHOTS (take place after the main story)

Sam’s BBQ

[darling2411]

Naaaaaaaaaawwwwwww

Lunch boxes

pairing: newavenger!bucky x reader

summary: you make lunch for new avengers John almost loses his life

a/n : just a silly drabble been thinking about it for days

bucky masterlist

Bucky never knew softness until he met you. You are the epitome of softness, you think of others first and then yourself. He loves that about you its sweet but he never let's it go too far.

He knows one day he'll marry you, buy you a house in the country side all those domestic things he dreamed of. He just needs a bit more time. Bucky sees the way you look at him, with love and absolute certainty that he's your future.

There's nothing he wouldn't do for you, not when he meets your doe eyes full of hopes and dreams. And he can't wait to make them all reality.

One thing about you is that you show your love through food, lots of it, he gained a few since you two started dating. Bucky didn't even know he loved food this much ( maybe he doesn't and its only to please you but the line blurred long ago when he realised that love is you and everything you do and make).

He never intended for you to meet the other new avengers, but they somehow found their way into your shared home. You welcomed them with open arms and heart. And you charmed them from the fist second. He knew you would, all you have to do is smile and you have people falling over left and right.

They weren't used to kindness and you had so much to give and you gave it freely in abundance.

Last night was rough for them and they all needed somewhere to recharge for the hard day ahead, so what did they do? They came to a little sanctuary, that is yours and Buckys apartment.

Even if Bucky hadn't called ahead you had opened the door in the middle of the night, you didn't even seem upset that they woke you up or that he brought five more people with him.

You jumped into his arms like it didn't matter that he was all dirty and sweaty and bloody, and to you it didn't.

Your small apartment was looking even tinier with the six avengers in the living room/kitchen.

"Welcome back! I'm sorry I didnt know you were coming you must be hungry! Ah I didnt prepare anything! I'm sure we have something around here!"

Bucky told you not to fuss about it, they'll order something for tonight and be out early in the morning. It took a lot of convincing and stolen distraction kisses to make you drop it.

"Jamie it's not nice! They're guests, your work family!" He smiles and pulls you into a hug and kisses your forehead.

"You can cook some other time come on back to bed." Bucky ushered you to your room and laughed when he noticed your frown. He took a quick shower and then gave the rest of them towels and told them to figure it out how to sleep on one pull out bed. He didn't care enough he just wanted his girl.

"Good night, doll." Bucky says as he pulls you into his chest and kisses your neck. He feels you smile.

"Night Jamie."

In the morning Bucky can smell food? Its all kinds of food. He gets up and opens the bedroom door. Four figures stand behind the kitchen counter and watch you.

John is sitting on the pull out sofa, his eyes closed.

"Damn Soldier Barnes! Your wife is so talented! Look how she cooks!" Alexei says pointing at you stiring the pot and shaking the pan at the same time. You turn and your cheeks are flushed, both from the stove and the way Alexei called you Buckys wife.

"Morning love!" you look at him sheepishly, like you're caught doing a crime.

"She won't tell us what she's doing but this looks dangerous? No?" Yelena says..

"I'll be done soon I promise."

Bucky fondly laughs and walks over to you to give you a morning kiss but before he can do that an alarm sounds from your phone.

"Ah get that out of the oven! Thanks honey."

Bucky does as he's told and pulls out a huge tray of pastries out of the oven with his metal arm.

"Are we feeding an army?"

"Yes Bucky look how many of you and no one should work on an empty stomach."

Before he can say something you shush him and peck his lips.

"Okay now everything's done!"

And there on the counter six paper bags, each one has a name written on it, with a little doodle each different than the other.

Buckys heart grows and aches in ways he can't quite understand. You did all of this for him, for them, the people who have done horrible things, are doing horrible things.

First one to grab a bag is Alexei who then gives you a bear hug and lifts you off of the floor.

"Ah you are amazing woman! If Soldier doesn't treat you right he will have problem with me! I am very grateful!" You laugh and hug him back.

Ava just nodds and takes the bag, but in her eyes you see softness and thankfulness.

Yelena takes hers and says "Ah my favorite! Thank you! You are the best! I can't promise I won't come back for another round."

"You're always welcome" you reply and give her a hug.

"Thank you, miss. I appreciate your effort it is very kind for you to give us this food!" Bob says and stands at the door with the others.

John's the last one but he only stands up and goes to the door.

"Wait I made you one too!"

"Im not taking a children's lunch box I'll just buy something out."

The silence that came is deafening, you could hear a pin drop. Your eyes well up in tears.

And then Bucky grabs John by the throat, Yelena pulls her guns and points them at John, Ava teleports next to John and hits him and Alexi says

"I kill him now."

"Im sorry I'm sorry Im sorry I swear I didnt mean it." John starts to beg the avengers for mercy...

"Not to us stupid."

Bucky drops him to the ground and then John crawls to your feet and starts begging.

"Its fine I forgive you." you say kind of terrified and touched that they all care so much.

"You live another day, next time you make my girl cry I will kill you and then cut you into pieces and then I will burn those pieces."

John only nods and runs out the door.

Buckys eyes immediately soften as he walks over to you and grabs the last bag, it says love of my life and there's like a dozen hearts drawn. His hear melts.

"Thank you baby. I love you and I already miss you." you giggle at the hundreds of kisses Bucky gives you.

"Love you too!"

[darling2411]

PROTECTIVE FERAL OBSESSED BUCKY I LOVE YOU

for better or for worse masterlist 𐙚 b.b

you hated him for it. but not nearly as much as you hated yourself for wanting it again.

pairing: new avenger!bucky barnes x fem!reader (fake marriage au)

warnings: nsfw, 18+, minors dni, unprotected sex, sexual tension, possessiveness, jealousy, angst, lots of team banter

summary: you and bucky are forced to play newlyweds at a luxury honeymoon resort. he’s controlling, you’re reckless, and now you’re sharing a bed. the problem? it’s getting harder to play pretend. and you’re not sure either of you will survive what comes next.

a/n: hi loves! so, this series has been collecting dust ever since i watched thunderbolts a few weeks ago, but i finally decided to dig it back up and actually finish it, hopefully! i hope you enjoy it!

series playlist

chapter 1 (posted on: 7th june)

chapter 2 (posted on: 9th june)

chapter 3 (posted on: 11th june)

chapter 4 (posted on: 13th june)

chapter 5 (posted on: 15th june)

chapter 6 (coming 17th june)

chapter 7 (epilogue) (coming 18th june)

[darling2411]

I have no word for how amazing this fic is

Сетка

pairing | civil!war!bucky x widow!reader

word count | 10.4k words

summary | when you, a former red room widow crosses paths with the man who once trained you—now a ghost of the monster you remember—your collision reignites memories neither of you can outrun. in a world that only ever taught you two to survive, you find something you were never trained for: each other.

tags | (18+) MDNI, smut, unprotected sex, intimate sex, enemies to companions to lovers, angst, slow burn, emotional hurt/comfort, winter soldier triggers, protective!reader, protective!bucky, mutual obsession, feral love, soft intimacy, violence, reader only speaks russian, bucky speaks english, emotionally devastated bucky barnes, shit translated russian (probably), reader does not play about her man

a/n | IMPORTANT TO NOTE: the events of black widow happen before ca:cw in this. Based on this request. (I'm posting this from work lol)

likes comments and reblogs are much appreciated ✨✨

ᴍᴀsᴛᴇʀʟɪsᴛ

Москва, 2003 — Красная комната

Moscow, 2003 — The Red Room

The walls were too white.

Sterile. Silent. Watching.

That was the first thing you noticed—that kind of white that felt wrong. Like it had been bleached so many times, even the ghosts had nowhere left to hide. Even the steel doors looked polished, like they were proud of what happened here.

You sat shoulder to shoulder with the others—seven girls, fifteen on average. Not children. Not soldiers. Not yet.

The floor was colder than ice, and it bled through your thin uniform. But none of you shivered. That had been trained out early—along with tears, questions, and the word нет.[no.]

The air reeked of antiseptic and metal. Underneath it, sweat clung to the walls like memory. Like shame.

Footsteps echoed.

Three sets.

Two sharp. One heavy.

No one turned to look. That was lesson one. Looking got you noticed. Being noticed got you hurt.

But you felt him before you saw him.

The shift in the atmosphere—immediate and suffocating. Like gravity got heavier. Like breath didn’t work the same anymore.

Он пришёл. [He’s here.]

You didn’t flinch, but your muscles locked up. Your knuckles pressed into your knees until they went white.

Then: silence.

Not peace.

The kind of silence that held a knife behind its back.

“Смотри вперёд,” Madam B’s voice cut cleanly through the air. [Eyes forward.]

You obeyed. All of you did. Like clockwork. Chins lifted. Spines straight.

He stood beside her. Taller than you remembered from the rumors. Broader. Real.

Зимний солдат.

The Winter Soldier

His face was half-shadow under the fluorescents, but his eyes—those eyes—were unmistakable. Dead, pale things. A shade too light. Like they’d been bleached, too.

He didn’t look at you. Or at anyone. His stare drifted somewhere behind the wall, like even he didn’t want to be in his body anymore.

That metal arm glinted under the lights. Thick at the shoulder. Seamless. Inhuman.

Madam B clasped her hands in front of her. Her posture was perfect. Her smile was poisonous.

“Ваши инструкторы научили вас дисциплине, послушанию, терпению боли,” she said. [Your instructors have taught you discipline, obedience, pain tolerance.]

“Точность.” [Precision.]

She nodded toward him.

“Теперь вы узнаете страх.” [Now… you will learn fear.]

He moved without signal. No countdown. No command.

Just violence.

One second, stillness.

The next—he was on Yulia.

The smallest one. The quietest. The one who tried to hum to herself when the lights went out.

Her back hit the wall with a sickening crack. His left arm—that arm—pressed into her throat. Just enough to choke. Not enough to kill.

Her boots scraped the tile. A soft panic-sound left her lips—then cut off as her training kicked in.

She stopped fighting.

That was lesson two.

You didn't move. Not even your eyes.

Yulia turned her head slowly. Her gaze found you. Desperate. Wild. The kind of fear none of you were allowed to show.

You didn’t blink.

“Вы будете тренироваться с ним,” Madam B continued, like this was nothing. [You will train with him.]

“Вы выучите его методы. Его инстинкты.”

[You will learn his methods. His instincts.]

Yulia let out a breath that sounded like breaking glass.

And the Soldier?

He still didn’t look at her. Or at you. Or at anyone.

Because you weren’t people. Not to him.

Just shapes to break. Dolls to test.

Madam B’s smile never wavered.

“Если вы выживете.” [If you survive.]

────────────────────────

Красная комната — Тренировка, 2003

The Red Room — Training, 2003

The floor wasn’t white.

It was concrete—cracked, stained, pitted with impact. The kind of surface that remembered every body that ever hit it.

The air in the training room was humid with breath and blood. The walls sweated under the heat of fluorescent lights, buzzing like flies in your ears.

You stood alone at the center.

The others were pressed against the wall—backs straight, eyes forward, silent as statues.

Your breathing was even. Measured.

Your fists curled tight, knuckles aching with pressure.

You didn’t shake. You never shook.

You’d already lost blood on this floor. Skin. Teeth. You’d learned how to fall without sound.

But this was different.

He stepped into the ring.

Black tactical gear. Combat boots. Gloves pulled tight. His metal arm caught the light—chrome and shadow. It wasn’t a limb. It was a threat.

He didn’t speak. He never did.

Not even a command.

Madam B stood off to the side, clipboard cradled in one arm, her pen already moving.

She didn’t call a start. She didn’t have to.

The moment his weight shifted—you moved.

You struck first.

Open palm to the throat. Hook to the ribs. Low kick toward the knee.

They were survival strikes. Precise. Fast. Smart.

He swatted them away like you were nothing.

Effortless. Mechanical. Indifferent.

Then he hit back.

His fist caught the edge of your jaw—crack—and your skull snapped sideways. Your vision pulsed white for half a second, but you stayed upright.

You had to stay upright.

Then came the sweep. His left leg scythed yours out from under you, and before you even hit the floor, the metal arm slammed across your chest.

You went down hard.

Concrete kissed your back. The air tore from your lungs.

And then—pressure.

He was on top of you. One knee against your ribs, hand to your throat.

That arm. Cold. Absolute.

He wasn’t holding you down.

He was claiming the ground beneath you.

You didn’t fight it. Not yet.

You stared up into his face, and for the first time—saw him. Not as the ghost of a myth. Not as the whispered fear behind training drills.

But as a man.

A machine.

Both.

His expression was blank. But that blankness said everything.

This wasn’t a lesson.

This was a warning.

You don’t win.

You survive.

So you reached for his sidearm.

His hand snapped around your wrist. That sound—metal joints locking down on bone.

It should have crushed you. But it didn’t.

You kneed him in the stomach—your knee landing against Kevlar with a jolt. You twisted, shoved your shoulder down, and used his own momentum to roll you both.

It wasn’t elegant.

It was smart.

Calculated. Ruthless.

You weren’t bigger. Or stronger.

But you were sharp.

You learned.

He came at you again, and this time you didn’t flinch.

You dropped beneath the punch, spun inside his reach, and used his arm like a fulcrum—flipped over his shoulder.

You landed wrong.

Your elbow scraped open.

But you were standing.

There was no applause. No approval. Only the scratch of Madam B’s pen.

The Soldier didn’t react.

He reset.

No emotion. No hesitation. Just reset. Like you hadn’t earned a single thing.

But you saw it.

The twitch of his fingers. The micro-adjustment in how his feet planted. The pause—barely a pause—as his eyes followed your stance like he was filing it away.

He wouldn’t remember your name.

You didn’t have one here.

But that day? He noticed you.

────────────────────────

Красная комната — через шесть месяцев

Red Room — Six Months Later

The mat was stained with old sweat and old blood.

You stood barefoot at the center. Bruised. Breathing steady.

Fifteen years old. One of the last still standing.

You didn’t know what day it was. Didn’t need to. You measured time in bruises, in blood dried under fingernails, in how long it took for your ribs to stop aching.

This was your fourth session with the Soldat in six days.

They were testing something.

Durability, maybe. Threshold. Obedience.

Or maybe they just wanted to see if you’d finally break.

Above, behind the black glass, Madam B watched. Her voice came cold over the intercom.

“Начали.” [Begin.]

You moved instantly.

A blur across the mat. Feint left, then up—elbow aimed for the hinge of his jaw.

His metal hand caught your arm mid-strike. Effortless. Inevitable.

He twisted. Spun you. Drove a knee into your side.

You blocked—barely. The pain reverberated through your ribcage like splintering glass.

But you didn’t grunt.

Didn’t cry out.

You never made a sound.

Pain didn’t mean stop.

Pain meant continue.

The room rang with impact. Bare feet sliding. Fists connecting. Breath coming sharp between attacks.

He was bigger. Stronger. His reach eclipsed yours, his strikes heavier, colder.

But you were faster. You had studied him. Memorized every tick, every tell. He never led with his right. The metal arm always came second—the trap after the bait.

You slid low under a hook, came up behind him, and kicked the back of his knee.

He faltered.

A grunt left his mouth—barely audible, but real.

You didn’t pause.

You spun, forearm tucked in, and drove it up under his ribs. You connected.

His breath hitched.

Your chest rose once—sharp.

You’d drawn breath from the Soldat.

His hand snapped out—metal fingers closing around your throat.

You slammed into the wall with a thud that rattled through your spine.

His grip tightened.

But you didn’t fight it. You didn’t blink.

Your stare locked with his—blank to blank.

Two weapons mid-calibration.

He leaned in. Not far. Just enough to study you.

His eyes weren’t flat. Not fully.

Something behind them… ticked.

Then—he spoke.

Low. Controlled.

Almost quiet enough not to register.

“Хватит.” [Enough.]

Your body stilled.

Muscles stopped firing. Breath locked. Every cell in you responded like a command had been entered in your bones.

That word—from him—meant stop.

Session over.

He released you.

You dropped—not from failure, not from injury, but from the vacuum left by adrenaline. Your knees hit the mat. Your hand splayed out to catch balance.

Your chest heaved. Hot. Controlled. Like a furnace behind your ribs.

He watched you.

Still silent. Still unreadable.

But his fists were clenched.

And this time… he didn’t walk away immediately.

He looked at you.

Really looked.

Not like an opponent. Not like an assignment.

Like something had clicked. Like a new file was being written in his mind.

Not fear. Not even memory.

Interest.

────────────────────────

After Hydra took back the Soldat, the others gave you a nickname.

Сетка.

[The Web.]

You weren’t the strongest.

You weren’t the fastest.

But you were the only one—aside from the one they called Romanova—to hold your ground against the Soldat.

You weren’t known for brute force.

You were known for calculated strikes.

For how you waited. For how you wrapped your opponents in silence and then struck.

You didn’t earn it through survival.

You earned it through stillness.

Through how, when the Winter Soldat looked at you—he paused.

Румыния, Бухарест, 2016

Romania, Bucharest, 2016

The world was too big.

You hadn’t realized that until you were freed.

Not with fanfare. Not with chains breaking on a concrete floor. Just… the chemicals gone. The fog lifted. Like smoke peeling away after the fire’s already eaten everything it wanted.

You were free.

And you didn’t know what to do with it.

No one gave you instructions. No handler. No target. No voice in your ear.

So you drifted.

Trains. Buses. The back of a truck once, when it didn’t matter where you ended up. Countries blurred. Time warped. Faces forgotten before they were registered.

You didn’t speak.

Not because you couldn’t.

Because your voice didn’t sound like yours yet. It sounded like property. Like training. Like the echo of someone else’s weaponized breath.

When you did speak, it was only in Russian. A comfort. A shield.

If they couldn’t understand you, they couldn’t own you.

Now—

Bucharest.

A city wrapped in damp air and dull concrete. A sky so overcast it looked like someone had smudged out the sun.

You didn’t pick it.

It just happened.

Like most things now.

No mission brought you here. No ghost pulled you.

Just the weight of motion finally running out of road.

You sat at the corner table of a café so small the world didn’t seem to notice it existed. A chipped white mug sat between your hands. Coffee, cooled and untouched. You hadn’t tasted anything in days, but the smell was something. Bitter. Familiar.

Across the street, a man adjusted a bike chain. His hands were black with grease. Someone shouted upstairs in Romanian. A dog barked. The faint crack of an egg hitting a pan cut through the air.

It should have felt normal.

And maybe that’s what made it unbearable.

You weren’t made for peace.

Peace had no rules. No orders.

Peace expected you to feel.

But you didn’t feel human.

You didn’t feel anything at all.

Just a hum in your chest where panic used to live. Just silence where purpose used to be.

Your fingertips curled against the ceramic like you were checking to see if you were still real.

Maybe you were. Maybe not.

You watched the sky for signs of rain.

And thought: Maybe tomorrow, you’ll leave.

────────────────────────

Несколько дней спустя

A Few Days Later

It started with the color of his eyes.

You didn’t recognize the rest of him at first—he moved differently now. Civilian clothes. Hair tied back. Slower, softer posture. Almost… human.

But then he turned toward the sun.

And you saw them.

That shade. That steel blue.

Unnatural. Icy.

Dead things wearing a face.

And suddenly, the world tilted sideways.

Your fingers twitched at your sides.

Солдат. [Soldat.]

The market noise dulled to a hum in your ears. Just smells and motion. Heat and light. Someone was selling tomatoes. Someone else bartered for lamb. Shoes scuffed pavement.

You didn’t blink.

Your feet were already moving.

He spotted you seconds later. His brows knit in confusion—not fear. Recognition hovered behind his expression, but distant. Faded. Like trying to remember the lyrics to a song he only half-heard.

Then—your eyes met.

His mouth opened, confused.

You lunged.

He moved just in time—sidestepped, arm up, deflecting your first strike. You twisted under him, elbow jabbing into his ribs. He caught your wrist.

“Wait—who the hell are—?”

You dropped your weight, flipped him over your hip. He hit the cobblestone with a grunt, rolled, sprang to his feet.

A vendor screamed. Then another.

Crates of fruit crashed around you. Splinters of wood. Apples underfoot.

He tried to disengage—hands up, defensive, careful.

“I don’t want to fight you—!”

You weren’t listening.

Your fist slammed toward his face. He blocked. You kicked at his thigh, drove your knee up toward his gut.

He grunted, staggered. Caught your leg mid-air.

You spun inside the hold, using the capture, and flipped over his shoulders.

Your knees slammed down on his collarbones.

He stumbled.

You slammed your palm into the back of his skull, forcing him toward the ground.

He rolled, bringing you down with him. The two of you crashed through a vendor’s table, shattering it into splinters and cloth.

“Чёрт—who are you?”

[Damn it—]

You didn’t answer. You wouldn’t.

His face twisted—half in frustration, half in dawning memory. But you weren’t a memory. You were now.

He blocked a knife-hand strike. Caught your other wrist. You twisted under, slammed your head toward his jaw.

It connected. His lip split. A child screamed nearby.

He shoved you off—but not to hurt. To breathe.

“I’m not him,” he rasped. “Not anymore.”

Your heart pounded. Your knees bent. You were ready to kill.

You didn’t stop. Couldn’t.

Every second he breathed in your presence felt like failure.

You were fifteen again. You were on the mat. You were under the metal arm.

You struck low—shin to his knee. He buckled slightly, but rebounded quick, grabbing your arm and twisting. You followed it, using the torque to throw yourself up and over him, body flipping above his head. He ducked, but not fast enough.

Your heel scraped his temple.

He staggered.

You hit the ground in a crouch, surged forward, fists flying—open-palm strikes, throat jabs, knife-hand to his kidney. He blocked most. Absorbed some.

But you were faster.

You always had been.

Around you, the market dissolved. Stalls crushed. People scattered. Screams and panic thick in the air. Vendors grabbed their children and ran. Tomatoes exploded underfoot like bloodstains.

He was breathing heavier now.

You could see the calculation behind his eyes—how he wasn’t hitting back.

Because he knew. He knew the precision in your strikes. He knew where you’d learned them.

“Why are you doing this?” he ground out, catching your arm again, ducking under a punch and shoving you backward into a stack of crates. “I don’t want to hurt you!”

You snapped forward, wrapped your legs around his neck, pulled.

He fell—slammed hard on the ground with you on top. You straddled his chest, brought your elbow up, and—

He caught your wrist. Locked it. Twisted just enough to force the momentum off. Rolled.

Now you were beneath him.

His knees pinned your thighs. His hand gripped your wrist above your head. Metal arm pressed against your collarbone—not choking, just holding.

Your breathing came fast. Harsh. Chest rising and falling in panic, fury, fire.

His hair hung loose now. Lip bleeding. Chest heaving.

And his eyes—

They weren’t dead. They weren’t his. They weren’t the Soldat’s.

His voice came low. Guttural.

“I’m not him.” His hand didn’t tighten. He didn’t shake. “I don't want to hurt you.”

You wanted to fight. Your body ached to.

But your eyes locked with his. And something fractured. Because the eyes that looked back at you now—they weren’t hollow. They weren’t blank.

They were human. Still haunted. Still carrying every sin etched into his bones. But there was no order in them. No command. No programming.

Just… regret.

Your body didn’t relax. But it stopped resisting.

Just slightly. Just enough.

Your breath caught in your throat—not because you were scared, but because you didn’t know what to do with stillness.

Your body had stopped moving, but everything inside was still screaming.

His grip didn’t loosen.

He was still above you, pinning you down—not aggressively. Just… securing the chaos.

You stared up at him, and he stared back, his brow furrowed like he was searching for a word he’d forgotten in a language he hadn’t spoken in years.

And then—

sirens.

Not close yet, but coming. Sharp. Rising.

His head snapped to the side. You tensed beneath him again. His eyes flicked back to you. Jaw tight. Conflicted.

Then, in a movement that felt more instinct than decision—he pulled you up.

You didn’t resist. Not out of trust. Out of confusion.

He didn’t let go of your wrist. Didn’t shove you.

He just moved—guiding you fast into a narrow alley between buildings. The noise of the street dimmed behind you. Fabric flapped on a laundry line above. The pavement here was cracked, lined with moss and cigarette butts.

He stopped. Pulled you behind him.

Pressed your back against the wall, one hand splayed across your stomach to keep you behind his frame.

You should’ve fought him again. You should’ve broken his arm. But you didn’t.

His other hand came up—not touching you, just hovering slightly, as if to say stay.

You both stayed frozen. You could feel his breath against your temple. Still steady. But his hand—

It was shaking. Not from fear. From memory.

Like his body remembered something his mind hadn’t caught up to yet.

He didn’t look back at you. But he stayed there.

And for now, so did you.

The sirens faded.

The city noise returned in slow motion—honking, voices, the far-off clatter of trams and tires. The chaos in the market had been swallowed again by the buzz of ordinary life, like the fight never happened.

Bucky shifted. Just slightly.

His hand eased away from your stomach, the other dropping to his side. He didn’t speak. Didn’t move.

But you did.

You turned your head—slowly—and shot him a look so sharp it could’ve cut through bone.

You shoved his chest with both hands. Not hard enough to hurt—just enough to get space between you. Your expression was blank, but your body radiated heat and fury.

He didn’t resist. He let you push him.

And you turned.

No words. No explanation. No retreat. Just your back as you walked away—shoulders squared, movements clipped, hair tangled from the fight. You didn’t run.

You didn’t need to.

“…Hey,” he called after you, stepping out of the alley. “Hey—wait.”

You didn’t pause.

Your boots clapped against the wet pavement, turning down another street without looking back.

“Where are you going?” No answer.

He caught up, boots scuffing beside yours. He wasn’t panting anymore, but he was confused. Disarmed in the way only survivors could disarm each other.

“You just tried to kill me,” he said. “You started that. You could’ve—”

He stopped. Regrouped. “Who the hell are you?”

You didn’t even glance at him.

Just one subtle shift in your jaw. Tension in your neck.

That was all he got.

He caught up beside you. Tried to get in front of you. You side-stepped him like he was furniture.

“You speak?” he pushed, breath hitching with disbelief. “You got a name? Or just fists?”

Still nothing.

You barely acknowledged his existence now. That alone made his pulse spike.

“Did we know each other?” he demanded, frustration creeping into his voice. “I mean—really know each other? Because something about you feels… I don’t know.”

You stopped. Just once. You turned your head slightly.

And said, flatly, with razor-edged indifference, “Он умер.” [He’s dead.]

Then kept walking.

The words froze him. Just for a second.

The Soldat.

Dead.

Killed in your eyes the second he hesitated. The second he showed mercy. The second he didn’t fight back.

He kept following. Not at a sprint. Not with force.

Just… there.

A shadow a few steps behind. Close enough to be felt. Not close enough to touch.

You turned corners like the city owed you space. Didn’t rush. Didn’t look back. But you knew he was behind you. Every step. Every breath.

And still—you didn’t stop.

You passed shopfronts. Faded yellow walls. Posters curling off the bricks. A cracked tile underfoot. The stink of wet bread and exhaust in the air.

“Why are you running from me?” he asked, not breathless—just bitter. “You came at me. Remember that?”

You didn’t respond.

He didn’t expect you to.

“I don’t remember everything, alright?” he pushed, his voice clipping at the edge. “There are gaps. Big ones. I don’t know who I hurt. Who I—”

You rolled your eyes.

The noise he made in frustration wasn’t a sound of anger.

It was need.

“Just—just tell me your name,” he said. “Please. I don’t care what you were trying to do. Just give me that.”

You stopped again.

Slow.

Turned slightly.

Your face unreadable.

Voice low. “Сетка.”

His brow furrowed.

“Setka?” he repeated. “That’s not a name.”

You tilted your head—just a fraction. And then you looked at him like he was insects. Not worth a fight.

Just an irritation buzzing too close to your ear.

You turned back. Started walking again.

He followed.

“Is that a code name? What is that? Russian? Hydra?” He caught up beside you, walking now shoulder to shoulder. “Did I know you?”

You gave him nothing.

But his eyes stayed on you.

And you?

You just kept walking.

Not because you were done with him.

Because you were done with what he used to be.

────────────────────────

You ducked into the café like it owed you something.

Not the same one from before—this one was smaller, grittier. Glass smudged with fingerprints. Fluorescent light overhead flickering like a dying star. But the pastries in the case were fresh, warm, and dusted with powdered sugar.

That’s all that mattered.

You didn’t look back to check if he was still following.

You knew he was.

You ordered with a short nod, pointed at what you wanted. Paid in crumpled bills. And sat by the window, legs crossed, posture casual—like this was your place and the world was just visiting.

A sweet bun sat in front of you, golden, soft, still steaming.

You tore into it with precision. First bite was deliberate—slow chew, eyes half-lidded in genuine pleasure.

And then—

He walked in.

You didn’t look up. Not at first.

You licked a smear of sugar off your thumb, eyes fixed on the glass.

He ordered something. You didn’t care what. Until he slid into the seat across from you.

Boots heavy. Posture coiled. Forearms resting on the edge of the table like he was ready to fight if the cutlery moved.

He stared at you.

That stare. Cold. Sharp. Brow low. Eyes locked in.

The kind of look that made grown men flinch. You took another bite of your pastry.

Chewed. Swallowed. Licked your lips. And looked up slowly.

Your gaze met his.Unblinking. Flat. Not intimidated. Just... annoyed.

He stared harder.

You raised an eyebrow—just one.

Bit into the pastry again with a kind of exaggerated grace. Sugar dusted your bottom lip.

He leaned forward a bit.

You leaned back, leisurely, like the air between you bored you.

The silence was so thick it should’ve collapsed the table.

Still, you said nothing. Because you didn’t need to. You’d already won.

He shifted. You didn’t. His jaw flexed. Then—

He moved.

Slowly, reluctantly, like it physically pained him to do it, Bucky brought his hand up and extended it across the table. Palm open. Fingers slightly curled. That awkward, stilted kind of offer people made when they weren’t sure they were allowed to touch the world yet.

“I’m Bucky,” he said.

The words didn’t come easy. They stuck to the back of his throat. “Bucky.” Like he was still trying the name on. Still figuring out if it fit.

You looked at his hand. Not quickly. Not dramatically.

Just… down. Like you were glancing at a smear on your table.

Then you looked back up at him. Dead stare. Cold.

“Мне всё равно,” you said softly.

[I don’t care.]

The words landed heavier than a bullet. You didn’t spit them. You didn’t hiss them. You just meant them.

His hand hovered for another second—like he thought maybe he’d misheard, misunderstood, anything. Then he slowly pulled it back. Fingers flexing once before curling into a loose fist on the table.

You went back to your pastry. He didn’t move again.

────────────────────────

You didn’t flinch. Didn’t blink when he stared at you across the table. Didn’t soften when he introduced himself. Didn’t care.

He’d held out his hand like it meant something—like the name Bucky still belonged to him—and you looked at it like it was rotting.

“Мне всё равно.” [I don’t care.]

That should’ve been the end of it.

He should’ve let you walk. Let you disappear like every other phantom in his half-formed memory. But—

He couldn’t.

You were like smoke in a room with no fire.

Wrong. Out of place. But present.

Cold. Controlled. Eyes like winter steel and hands trained for death.

You weren't avoiding him like he was dangerous. You acted like he was a fly. An inconvenience.

And still…

He couldn’t stop watching you.

He found out you stayed three blocks away from him, in a run-down building that looked like it had never seen heat. No lights on past midnight. You came and went like habit—not avoidance.

No weapons drawn. Just… presence.

And it started happening before he noticed it: He’d time his walks to cross your path. He’d change course just to track where you ended up. Not to hurt you. Not even to corner you.

Just to exist near you.

Because somehow, somehow—he felt more alive around you than he had in years.

Not safe. Not comfortable. Alive.

Like the weight wasn’t pressing quite as hard against his chest when you were in the room. Even if you never looked at him. Even if you never said a word.

There was something about you.

Not just the way you moved—efficient, brutal, graceful like a damn blade in water. But the way you carried herself.

Like you didn’t owe the world a thing.

You were impenetrable. And it made him feel human.

────────────────────────

Несколько дней спустя

Some Days Later

You were sitting on the edge of a crumbling fountain, half a pastry in one hand, your boot tapping against the stone.

Same coat. Same deadpan stare. Same indifference like it was armor stitched into your skin.

Bucky stood across the square, watching.

Again.

You didn’t look at him, but he knew you saw him.

You always did.

This time, he walked straight over.

No subtlety. No circling. No waiting for a moment that wouldn’t come.

You didn’t move. Didn’t shift.

Just kept eating, like the man you tried to murder in a marketplace last week wasn’t about to sit beside you.

He lowered himself onto the edge of the fountain—not too close. Close enough.

You still didn’t look at him.

“I’m not following you,” he said quietly.

You raised a brow but said nothing. The flake of pastry lingered on your lip. You didn’t wipe it away.

“I just need to know…” He sighed, hand curling over his knee. “Setka. What that name means. Who are you?”

No response.

A pause.

Then, at last, your voice—quiet, flat, “Ты думаешь, ты хочешь знать.”

[You think you want to know, but you dont]

You met his eyes. Still unreadable. Still so, so tired.

“I don’t want to hurt you,” he said, low.

His voice was raw now—not just tired, but unraveling.

“I just… need to know.”

A pause.

“Did I hurt you?”

Your chewing stopped.

You looked forward, eyes tracking something only you could see. Your fingers flexed once on the crumpled pastry paper. Then, softly, “да.” [Yes.]

A beat.

And then, quieter still—

“Но ты также научил меня не умирать.”

[But you also taught me not to die.*]

The words hit him like a blow to the chest.

His throat worked. His fingers twitched against his thigh. He wanted to ask what you meant—but couldn’t even form the question.

So he looked at you. Not with suspicion.

But with that kind of desperate, quiet plea in his eyes—the kind that asked without sound.

Please. I need more.

You finally sighed. A long, slow exhale through your nose. Tired. Annoyed.

Like explaining this was beneath you, but his stare was loud enough to warrant an answer.

“Красная комната,” you said flatly.

[The Red Room.]

His brows furrowed.

“Гидра отдала тебя им.”

[Hydra gave you to them.]

You finally looked at him.

Your face was unreadable. Not cruel. Not soft. Just matter-of-fact. “Ты… обучал нас.”

[You trained us.]

And there it was. The fracture in his expression. Shock, but not surprise.

Like you'd just said something he already knew, deep in his bones—but didn’t want to hear aloud.

He blinked. Swallowed.

“You were a widow,” he said, mostly to himself.

Your silence was confirmation. And for the first time since he met you, you didn’t look like a ghost.

He sat there, silent. Trying to make sense of what you'd just given him. And still—he needed more.

“How…” he said quietly, carefully, “how did you get out?”

You didn’t look at him.

You exhaled sharply through your nose. That specific kind of sigh. The one that said you’re annoying, but I’ll answer because I want you to stop talking.

Then, cool and clipped, “Наталия Романова. И Елена Белова.”

[Natalia Romanova. And Yelena Belova.]

You didn’t elaborate. You didn’t soften. You tossed the empty pastry wrapper into the bin beside the fountain and stood.

Then added, almost as an afterthought:

“Слишком поздно для большинства.”

[Too late for most of us.]

And without a glance back, you turned and walked away. Boots clicking against the stone. Shoulders squared. Back straight.

Leaving him there with a realization that the only person who might know who he was still didn’t care who he is.

You heard his steps before you saw him.

You always did.

He didn’t walk like a civilian. Not even when he tried.

His boots were too heavy. His presence too loud. Even in silence.

You didn’t turn when he entered the courtyard, hands shoved into his jacket pockets like he didn’t mean to be there.

But you knew better.

You were sitting on a low wall, picking at the crust of a tart. Raspberry filling on your thumb. The sun was barely up.

And there he was. Again.

You didn’t sigh. Didn’t roll your eyes. This time, you just… watched. Not with annoyance. Just observation.

He sat a few feet away. Close enough to talk. Far enough not to press.

He looked tired.

More than usual.

Like he hadn’t slept. Like being in his skin had worn him raw.

And for the first time, you wondered.

Not what he wanted.

But why he kept wanting.

You let the silence hang for a moment longer, then tilted your head just slightly.

Voice soft. Even.

“Что ты хочешь от меня?”

[What do you want from me?]

He blinked.

Then smirked—dry, thin, almost embarrassed.

“Your name,” he said. “For one.”

You gave him a look. Half-bored, half-knowing.

“и…?” you prompted, arching a brow. [And…]

That’s when he faltered.

He shifted on the wall. Looked down at his hands. Flexed the metal one like he didn’t trust it.

“I don’t know,” he admitted.

Not bitter. Not confused. Just honest.

“I don’t know why I keep looking for you. I just—”

He hesitated.

“You’re the only thing that makes sense. And you don’t even like me.”

You blinked at him. Then returned your gaze forward. Back to the rising sun. And said nothing.

But for once, you didn’t get up and leave.

You stayed.

────────────────────────

The fountain was silent, just a hollowed-out shell of stone, stained with rust and time. You sat perched on the rim, arms resting against your knees, watching the last light of day catch in the cracks of the broken tiles. The warmth of the sun was soft on your face, but the air was already turning cold.

You felt him arrive before he spoke.

He moved like someone who didn’t want to be noticed, but was too heavy with memory not to be felt.

He sat beside you—not too close, but not far. He didn’t speak. Not yet. And you didn’t turn your head to acknowledge him. It wasn’t necessary.

You’d started sharing silence like it belonged to both of you.

Minutes passed.

You listened to the slow creak of birds returning to the rooftops, the faint echo of footsteps on distant concrete. The world had quieted around you, and he hadn’t left.

Eventually, his voice broke through, rough and low.

“I don’t think I'll ever stop waiting.”

You didn’t answer. Not right away. The words hung in the air, weightless and unfinished, and part of you wondered if he even expected a reply. Your gaze stayed fixed ahead, tracking the fractured pattern of shadows stretching across the courtyard.

And then, maybe without knowing why—you spoke.

Your name left your mouth quieter than you intended, like it had to sneak past the years of silence it had been buried under.

He turned to you. “What?”

You looked at him.

Met his eyes.

And said it again.

Clear. Certain. Yours.

The way he blinked told you he hadn’t expected it—not tonight, maybe not ever. He repeated it under his breath, carefully, like the syllables might dissolve if he held them too tightly. He said it like he was tasting something real for the first time in years.

Then he gave a small nod, the corners of his mouth twitching into something soft.

“Nice to meet you,” he murmured.

You raised an eyebrow, unimpressed, giving him the same look you’d used on a hundred fools who thought they’d earned something for no reason.

His smile grew—not smug, but amused. Quiet. Unforced.

For a moment, you didn’t mind that he was there.

───────────────────────

You always took the same seat—back corner, right by the window, where the sunlight slanted across the table in late morning like gold dust.

Your coffee was always lukewarm by the time you drank it, and your pastries were always sweet. The music in your ears pulsed soft and steady, a low hum only you could hear. You never shared what you were listening to, and you never offered to.

He never asked.

But he noticed.

He noticed that when you chewed slowly, your head tilted slightly to one side—just enough to catch a particular note. He noticed that you tapped your fingers on the table sometimes, in rhythm with whatever beat lived under your skin.

It wasn’t much.

But it was yours.

And you noticed him too.

He always had the same notebook—small, black, worn at the edges, the kind that could be slipped into a coat pocket without a second thought. He never let anyone else see inside. But he wrote in it often, sometimes mid-sentence, like a thought might escape if he didn’t pin it down fast enough.

You didn’t speak for a long time.

Until one morning, when he was scribbling again inside it, you leaned slightly forward, voice low, words rolling off your tongue like it belonged there.

“Что ты там всё время пишешь?”

[What do you keep writing in there?]

He glanced up, blinking like he hadn’t realized you were watching him.

“Stuff I remember,” he answered, softly. “Names. Places. Dreams. I forget a lot, so I write it down.”

He didn’t ask what you were listening to.

But his gaze flicked toward the earbud still nestled in your ear, and you knew he was thinking it.

You didn’t offer it.

But you didn’t hide it, either.

Later that morning, you both reached for the last almond tart at the same time.

Your hand got there first.

You raised a brow. He huffed out a laugh through his nose and motioned for you to take it.

You did.

You broke it in half and pushed the other piece across the table.

He didn’t thank you. But he ate it.

That was the day you stopped sitting across from each other.

And started sitting side by side.

────────────────────────

The café was nearly empty, just the soft clink of ceramic and the distant hum of an old radio behind the counter. The pastry case had been picked clean, and the overhead light above your usual table flickered faintly, but neither of you moved to find another seat.

You sat beside him this time—shoulder to shoulder, one knee pulled up onto the booth seat, your arm resting lazily along the back of the bench. The hood of your coat was down, loose pieces of hair falling over your face. You didn’t bother fixing them.

You were listening to something again—earbuds in, eyes half-lidded.

He glanced at you from the corner of his eye. He didn’t speak. He didn’t want to break whatever this was. The fact that you were still here meant something.

You shifted suddenly.

Not much—just a lean, just enough that your shoulder pressed into his arm, your head tipping to the side until it rested against him. Light. Casual. Like it was accidental. Like he wasn’t even there.

His breath hitched slightly—but he didn’t move.

You didn’t look at him.

But you reached up, plucked one of the earbuds from your ear, and—without looking—held it out toward him.

An offering.

No words.

No eye contact.

Just choice.

He hesitated—then took it.

David Bowie’s voice filtered in, old and warm and ghostlike. Something about changes, about time bending and slipping through fingers. The kind of song that made the city feel like it was holding its breath.

You didn’t speak.

You didn’t smile.

But your head stayed against his shoulder.

And when the song ended, you didn’t take the earbud back.

You just let it stay.

Несколько месяцев спустя

A Few Months Later

He was on the floor again.

The mattress had been too soft. The air too still. He needed edges. Needed cold.

But even here—against the hard wood, spine pressed into the earth like punishment—it wasn’t enough to keep the dreams out.

They started like they always did.

Flashes of corridors. Screams without mouths. His own hands soaked in red. Russian commands slicing through the dark like razors.

He heard bones snap. He heard a girl scream—

No, not a girl. You.

But the Soldat didn’t stop.

His own voice—flat, mechanized—spoke a language he couldn’t feel, barking orders at children.

And then—

He was drowning in snow. Arms bound. Blood freezing.

He gasped awake like something had clawed through his chest.

His breath came ragged. Sharp. Cold sweat clung to every inch of skin, and the room felt like it was collapsing.

But then—

A hand.

Soft.

Warm against his chest.

Not sudden. Not a jolt. Just there—pressed gently over his heart like it had been holding him for hours.

“Тише…” [Easy now…]

Your voice was the first thing to cut through the fog. Low, steady, threaded with sleep but utterly sure.

His eyes snapped to you.

Darkness wrapped around the room like cloth, but he could see you in the low amber spill from the window. You were curled against him, body bare and familiar, skin pressed to skin. Your thigh hooked over his, one arm wrapped around his waist, the other tracing slow, grounding circles over his chest.

You didn’t flinch at his shaking.

You just held him.

“Это не сейчас,” you whispered again, softer.

[It’s not now.]

And he breathed like he hadn’t in days.

Hands found your back—clutching, clinging, greedy in the way that had nothing to do with sex. Like you were oxygen. Like his fingers didn’t know how to stop searching for the edges of you.

You didn’t pull away. You let him take. You let him need.

His breath stayed ragged for a long time, chest heaving beneath your hand like it couldn’t find its rhythm. His fingers clutched at your back, shifting slightly to your waist, to your shoulder, back again—like he needed to make sure you were real every few seconds.

You didn’t move. Didn’t speak. Just kept your arm over his chest, anchoring him.

Eventually, his head turned slightly against your temple. His mouth brushed your hair when he spoke, the words low, scratchy, like they were being dragged out of his ribs one by one.

“I saw them again.”

You said nothing.

“I was holding one of them down. I don’t even think she was older than fifteen. She looked like you. I think—I think maybe it was you.”

You pressed your lips against his jaw.

Not a kiss. Not an answer.

Just pressure.

“I can’t always tell if it’s memory or something Hydra put here,” he muttered, voice splintering at the edges. “Sometimes I remember things I know I didn’t do. And other times—I know it was me. The worst ones… I know it was me.”

His hand moved to your stomach. Held you there like gravity.

“I hear screaming in Russian, and I can’t tell if it’s my voice or someone else’s. I keep thinking I’ll get used to it. That it’ll fade. But it’s like it’s burned into the back of my eyelids.”

You shifted, just slightly, fingers brushing the line of his jaw, guiding his face closer until your foreheads touched.

He exhaled like it hurt.

“I don’t know who I am outside of what they made me,” he said. “But when I’m with you, it’s the first time I don’t feel like a ghost in my own body.”

Your hand slipped behind his neck, fingertips resting just beneath his hairline.

“Ты не призрак.” [You’re not a ghost.]

The words didn’t feel like comfort.

They felt like truth.

And when his breath caught again—quiet, uneven, almost broken—you stayed exactly where you were.

Not fixing him. Not saving him. Just with him.

Because at some point, without meaning to, he had become the only thing in this world that mattered.

The room was still dark, the sky outside only just beginning to tint at the edges. You were still lying there, skin warm against his, your breath a steady rhythm he’d started to match. His body had gone still again—not tense, not panicked. Just quiet. Contained.

But his hand was still at your waist. His fingers drawing soft, slow shapes into your side like he didn’t even realize he was doing it.

And you let him.

Because it wasn’t urgent. It wasn’t hungry.

It was careful.

His breath brushed the space just behind your ear when he spoke again.

“You’re the only thing I feel like I don’t need to apologize for.”

You shifted slightly—chest to chest now, one leg brushing between his. Your palm moved up to his shoulder, then trailed along the line of his throat, slow and exploratory. Not a seduction.

A recognition.

The intimacy didn’t build like a fire—it simmered, low and inevitable. He leaned into you like someone who had forgotten how to reach for warmth. His hand moved to your back, spreading wide across your spine, holding you there—not hard, not desperate, but present.

And then—

He kissed you.

Not rough. Not fast.

Just his mouth against yours, slow and searching. His breath shaky, his fingers tightening just a little in your hair.

You kissed him back. Not because you were trying to fix him. Not because you owed him anything.

But because he felt real beneath your hands, and that was enough.

When he pulled back, forehead resting against yours, his voice barely more than breath:

“Please…”

You didn’t ask what he was asking for.

Because you already knew.

Bucky's forehead stayed pressed to yours, his breath warm where it spilled between your lips, ragged in the quiet. His eyes were still closed. Like he couldn't bear to look at you yet—like the weight of being seen might break him.

You moved first.

Your hand slid slowly from the nape of his neck down to his shoulder, tracing the edge of his scars with deliberate softness. His skin twitched under your touch, not from fear—from hunger.

His metal arm lay inert beside him, but his other hand came up, slow and reverent, fingertips brushing your cheek like he still wasn’t sure you were real. His thumb ghosted over your bottom lip. His mouth followed.

This kiss was different.

No panic. No desperation.

Just need, thick and quiet and sharp.

You shifted, straddling his hips, your thighs bracketing his waist, your palms splayed flat against his chest. His skin was warm under yours, heartbeat hammering as though his body was still catching up to the permission he'd finally given himself—to want.

His hands found your waist. Traced the line of your spine. One stayed there, grounding himself in the curve of you, while the other slid up your side, fingers memorizing the shape of your ribs like he was trying to draw you blind.

When your hips pressed down against him, his breath caught sharply in his throat. He met your gaze then—fully, finally.

Not as the Soldat.

Not as a ghost.

As himself.

And you saw it—that flicker of reverence buried under the heat. Like even now, even wanting you, he didn’t feel like he deserved to have you.

So you kissed him again.

Not to reassure him.

To claim him.

His mouth opened under yours, hands gripping tighter now, pulling you down, closer, deeper. You rocked together slow, controlled, your rhythm deliberate, the pace of two people not trying to lose themselves—but trying to find themselves in each other.

You whispered between kisses—soft sounds only meant for him. He didn’t understand some of the words, but he held on to the tone, the way you said his name like it didn’t belong to anyone else.

When you sank down onto him, his whole body shuddered under you. His hands gripped your thighs, not guiding—begging. His lips trailed your throat, jaw, shoulder, anything he could reach, like touch was the only language he trusted.

You moved together slowly at first—bodies adjusting, memorizing, matching breath for breath, sound for sound. Every shift brought a deeper connection, every sigh a new thread stitched between skin and soul.

By the time your pace quickened, the air around you had changed. The city had faded. The world narrowed down to this room, this moment, this need.

He moaned your name against your neck like it was a prayer.

You held him like you were anchoring a man about to fall through the floor.

When release came, it wasn’t just pleasure. It was relief. A crashing, dissolving quiet that left you tangled together, chest to chest, sweat-slicked and breathless, your pulse finally syncing to something steady.

You didn't let go.

And neither did he.

Just stayed inside you, forehead pressed to your shoulder, arms locked around you like the world outside your bodies had ceased to exist.

You didn’t speak.

You didn’t have to.

You had this.

────────────────────────

Следующее утро

The Next Morning

The market was quiet in the way city mornings could be. Early light filtered between rusted awnings, the smell of spices and stone settling into the cracks of the pavement. You walked beside him, not touching, but close enough to feel the heat of his arm near yours.

He was holding plums.

Inspecting them like they were treasure.

You watched him quietly, a faint, unreadable smile tugging at the corner of your mouth. It was absurd—how gentle he looked now, murmuring something about ripeness in Romanian under his breath. You didn't understand every word, but the tone was enough.

Then—

Something shifted.

A sharp prick under your skin.

Like static.

Like danger.

You didn’t know where it came from. A glance. A tension in the air. A silence that cut through background chatter too cleanly.

Your eyes tracked the source—an older man, just across the way, holding a folded newspaper in stiff fingers. He wasn’t watching the stand. He was watching him.

You followed the man’s line of sight, moving slowly, deliberately toward the stand. The vendor was distracted. You picked up a copy of the paper.

Front page.

Explosion at UN Assembly. Dozens dead. Suspect at large.

And beneath the headline—

His face.

Your stomach flipped. You turned sharply, plums forgotten. Walked straight to him.

Bucky looked up just as you shoved the newspaper into his chest.

He blinked. Then froze.

You didn’t raise your voice. You didn’t run. You just leaned in, eyes locked with his.

“Нам нужно уходить. Сейчас.”

[We need to leave. Now.]

He didn’t ask why. He didn’t argue. His fingers clenched the paper.

And together, without another word, you turned and disappeared into the crowd.

────────────────────────

Берлин — Безопасный объект хранения

Berlin — Secure Holding Facility

You hadn't left his side since the arrest.

When the guards cuffed him, you didn’t fight them—not yet. You walked behind him, eyes narrowed, body coiled, your presence like a blade just waiting to be unsheathed.

No one could talk to you.

The blonde one had tried—gentle voice, soft posture, his hands open like that meant anything.

You stared at him like he was furniture.

His friend had watched you carefully, tension in his jaw, waiting for you to snap.

You didn’t.

You just stood closer to Bucky.

Then there was him.

The one in black. The Panther.

The moment he tried to approach, your hand twitched toward your hip. You had no weapon. Didn’t need one. Your body was a weapon. The look in your eyes alone was enough to make one of his guards step between you.

They tried to separate you.

You didn’t let them.

You didn’t speak a word—not in English, not in Russian. You were a storm in the room, silent and immovable. And even Bucky, tired and cuffed and quiet, looked at you with something just shy of awe.

Then the elevator opened.

She stepped out.

Red hair. Calm stride. Cold eyes that knew.

You didn’t need her name.

She didn’t need yours.

Natasha Romanoff approached slowly. Not cautiously. Respectfully.

She spoke in Russian, voice smooth but even.

“Мы никогда не встречались, но я знаю, кто ты.”

[We never met, but I know who you are.]

You said nothing.

She stopped a few feet away.

“Ты Сетка.” [You’re The Web.]

Still, no answer. But your gaze softened—fractionally.

Because you knew her too.

Not from missions. Not from photos.

From whispers in hallways. From training drills where instructors used her name like a warning.

Natalia Romanova. The Black Widow.

The one who escaped.

The one who survived.

“Он этого не делал,” you said finally.

[He didn’t do it.]

Your voice was low. Flat. Carved from certainty.

Natasha studied you. Something passed behind her eyes.

“I believe you,” she answered.

Then, more carefully:

“Но тебе нужно это сказать в суде.”

[But you need to say that in court.]

You stared at her.

Eyes hard.

“You’re his only alibi,” she added. “Without you, they’ll tear him apart.”

The thought made your stomach twist.

You clenched your jaw. Glanced at the camera behind Natasha—at Bucky, sitting in a metal chair, hands cuffed, head bowed.

You gave a slow nod.

And for the first time since his arrest—your eyes left him.

────────────────────────

The lights died without warning.

A loud click. A sharp hum.

Then—darkness.

Shouts echoed down the corridors. Metal scraped. Radios crackled with confusion. Power was down, systems offline, backup still lagging behind.

People froze. You didn’t.

You moved.

No hesitation. No questions.

The moment the lights dropped, your body remembered.

Because this kind of darkness only ever meant one thing.

You sprinted through the corridor like blood in a vein, bypassing the agents stumbling toward emergency protocols, your feet silent, lethal. Every step was muscle memory. Every twist and turn of the hallway a reflex carved into you long before freedom ever tasted real.

The door to the security wing came into view.

Ten guards. No time.

The first went down with a strike to the throat, his flashlight bouncing twice against the wall before silence claimed him.

The second reached for his radio—he didn’t get the chance. You broke his wrist, then slammed his head against the concrete.

They didn’t scream.

You didn’t give them the chance.

Three. Four. Five.

A baton cracked across your ribs—you spun and caught the next one mid-swing, driving his weapon into his own throat. The others hesitated.

That was their mistake.

Six. Seven. Eight.

Blood sprayed against the wall, glistening in the emergency red light now blinking to life.

Nine and ten dropped nearly at once—one from your heel, the other from your elbow, the weight of him crumbling against the wall with a breathless grunt.

You didn’t stop moving.

Not for breath. Not for pain. Not for blood.

You reached the holding cell just as the red emergency lights revealed him through the glass.

Bucky.

No. Not Bucky.

The Soldat.

His expression was blank. Eyes lifeless. Shoulders squared in that familiar, bone-deep way.

Inside the glass room, a man stood calmly—his voice rhythmic, deliberate.

“…Грузовой автомобиль.. Отчет—м…”

[Freight car... Mission report—m…]

You moved. Fast. You didn’t shout. You didn’t warn.

You slammed into the door controls, cracked them open with a guard’s badge, and dove through just as the man turned.

Your fist collided with his jaw before the last word could leave his mouth. He hit the floor, unconscious, blood blooming from his temple.

And then—

Silence.

Just the sound of the red lights humming.

You turned slowly. And looked at him.

Not Bucky. Not anymore.

Those eyes—the ones you’d let kiss your neck, trace your waist, breathe your name like it was prayer—were gone.

What stared back at you now was him.

The Soldat.

Empty. Programmed. Cold.

Your chest rose and fell with sharp, silent breaths. Not from exhaustion—but from adrenaline. From the ache that started deep behind your ribs and crept outward the moment he turned and looked at you with those eyes.

Cold. Vacant. Not his.

Your fingers curled slightly, tension trembling just beneath your skin.

You took one step forward.

“Бакки,” you said softly. [Bucky]

Nothing.

Not even a blink.

Another step.

“Бакки,” you tried again. [Bucky]

Still nothing.

Your throat tightened.

You didn’t let it show.

Then—voice quieter, firmer, the way you’d been taught to never say unless you meant it—

“Солдат.” [Soldat]

His body shifted. Barely.

But his head tilted, just slightly, like the command lodged itself where language became law.

“Готов к выполнению.”

[Ready to comply.]

You closed your eyes for half a second. Just long enough to breathe.

And then you moved toward him. Hands raised.

No fear now. Not anymore. Not after all this time. Not after all the nights he’d held you like you were the only thing in the world that stopped him from drowning.

“Это не ты,” you murmured, approaching slowly. [This isn’t you.]

He didn’t respond. Didn’t move.

You laid your palms on his chest, feeling the warmth there—his heartbeat still steady, still human. You let your fingers spread, grounding yourself in the body you knew like your own.

“Ты не он.” [You’re not him.]

Your hands slid upward—over his collarbone, along his jaw, up to the sides of his face.

His eyes didn’t change. But he didn’t pull away. Didn’t react.

“Посмотри на меня.” [Look at me.]

Your thumbs traced just beneath his eyes. Soft. Intentional.

“Вернись ко мне.” [Come back to me.]

Stillness. And then—

A flicker. Just a breath. The barest crack behind his gaze.

His lips parted slightly, brows knitting, as if a noise were caught in his throat—something unsaid, something struggling to be remembered.

Your voice stayed low. Calm.

“Ты со мной сейчас.” [You’re with me now.]

His breath was just beginning to shift. Something in his face softening, eyes twitching with confusion—recognition pulling like a thread through fog.

Then—

Footsteps.

Boots on tile. Raised voices. Weapons ready.

You didn’t need to turn to know who it was.

Steve’s voice broke through first. “Bucky—!”

And in an instant, the tension returned.

Bucky’s body went rigid beneath your hands. His spine snapped straight, jaw locked, breath shallow and clipped. The softness vanished like it had never been there.

You felt the shift. Felt the Soldat rising again.

“Нет,” you whispered, voice firm, thumb still pressed to his cheekbone. “Нет.” [No.]

His hands twitched at his sides. You didn’t flinch.

You pressed closer, chest against his, forehead nearly touching his now. Then—

Movement behind you.

A shuffle of armor. The slight drag of a weapon’s safety clicking off.

You turned your head sharply—just enough to meet them.

Steve. Sam. T’Challa, face hard with fury, muscles taut with the restraint of a man who wanted to strike.

You stepped slightly in front of Bucky, still keeping one hand on his chest like you were holding a live wire.

Your eyes burned into all of them.

Then you pointed down at the unconscious man—Zemo, still bleeding from where you struck him.

“Вот ваш подрывник,” you spat, low and lethal. [There’s your bomber.]

None of them moved. Not yet.

Steve looked between you and Bucky, guilt bleeding into his features. Sam lowered his weapon just slightly. T’Challa’s jaw worked, but his eyes flicked to the man on the floor. Realisation behind his misplaced anger.

You didn’t wait for them to speak. You turned back to Bucky. Hands on his face again.

“Ты здесь,” you whispered, not begging—commanding. [You’re here.]

His breathing slowed. Not calm. But contained.

The emergency power roared back to life.

Lights flickered overhead, harsh and unforgiving. Cameras reactivated. Screens across the control room sparked awake, broadcasting every inch of the cell.

Security forces tensed.

Steve took a step forward—halted only by the look you shot him.

Deadly. Final. And then.

You turned back. Everyone was watching. But none of it mattered.

You pressed your hand gently to Bucky’s chest again, fingers curling against the fabric of his shirt like you were anchoring him there—in this moment, in this body.

His face twitched. Brows drew together in pain. His jaw clenched. The lines of the Soldat’s posture—so rigid, so familiar—began to shake.

You stepped closer still, voice low, Russian rolling like smoke from your lips. Words meant for him and no one else.

“Ты здесь. Это прошло. Это я. Только я.”

[You’re here. It’s over. It’s me. Only me.]

You said it like a vow. Like something you’d carve into him if you had to.

He blinked once. A flinch. Barely visible. Then his eyes met yours. Not hollow. Not gone.

Still struggling. Still fighting. But there.

His breathing hitched—once, then twice—and then with something like agony, he let out a sound low in his throat.

He bowed his head. And leaned into you.

Forehead against your shoulder, arms rising slowly—tentative at first, then tighter, until he was holding you with a force that felt like drowning. Like if he didn’t hold you, he’d disappear.

Your hands slid into his hair, your fingers cradling the back of his skull.

Not protectively. Possessively.

He wasn’t a soldier anymore. He wasn’t a ghost. He was yours.

You didn’t look up. Not at Steve. Not at T’challa. Not at the dozens of cameras now recording this moment in real time, every politician, every soldier, every damned spectator watching the Soldat become Bucky Barnes again in the arms of the only person who knew how to bring him back.

And inside, rage burned in you like wildfire.

Not at him. At them. All of them.

For letting this happen to him. For dragging him back into it. For daring to treat him like a threat when he was barely holding himself together.

You hated them. Every last one of them.

But him?

You buried your face in his neck, whispering words no one else would ever hear.

He was the only thing you loved in this broken world.

The best way i can describe Bucky and Reader : Docile Dog and Feral Cat

[darling2411]

Soft

Random thought that I thought was adorable. 

Bored Bucky. 

Everyone sat around the conference room listening to Fury hand out mission assignments. It was rare for him to make an appearance but the latest assignment was a serious one and he expected all avengers present. 

Steve and Tony sat near the front making note of who should be paired with who and action plans. Nat, Clint, Sam and Thor listened attentively, making mental notes of what to pack and mission tactics. 

Bucky yawned. 

He was unbothered. He’d heard worse, seen worse, felt worse. His mind was other places. 

Where did all the dunkaroos go…that fatass Sam probably ate them all. 

Why did was the ice cream machine at McDonalds always broken…also probably Sam’s fault some how. 

What was tik tok and why did Peter keep refencing it

Should he make Instagram?

What would he even have as a username

JBB, no, too short. 

James Buchanan Barnes. No, too long.

James White Wolf Barnes. Nope.

White Wolf the Howling Commando…..sounded like a fucking porn star what the hell was wrong with him. 

Never mind. 

The hamster in his brain continued to lazily trudge around while his eyes fell on your hair. You were sitting in front of him, jotting down some notes for what you had to do, all your attention focused on the meeting. Your hair was like a silky water fall, cascading down the back of the chair. 

Bucky couldn’t help himself, reaching out and playing with the soft strands, humming contently. You hadn’t even noticed, barely feeling him paw at your hair, combing his fingers through. 

Bucky smiled to himself, your hair felt so nice. Soft. Smelled like sweet shampoo. He loved how lush it felt as he sectioned a bit of your hair to fiddle with, twisting and playing with the strand, careful not to get it caught around his mental fingers. It was almost calming in a way, almost like petting a kitten-

“Sergeant Barnes are you braiding Agent y/l/n’s hair?!” 

Fury’s face scrunched up, stopping the meeting, looking across the table to where Bucky’s attention was focused. His eyes shot up, a deep blush spreading across his cheeks while Steve and Sam snickered, the rest of the team smirking at him. 

“I-

You bit back a giggle, turning around to see a flustered super soldier looking back at you, his puppy eyes wide, dropping the strand of hair and retreating his hands into his lap. 

“I must say, James braids hair beautifully” Thor smiled, admiring the braid Bucky had done in your hair before proudly looking at his own, the blond strands neatly plaited and tucked behind his ear. 

“If you’re done playing hair dresser, can we focus on the meeting” He gave Bucky a pointed look before continuing. “As I was saying…”

“Sergeant, you’ll be at the east side, with Captain Rogers, Stark, you’ll be with Wilson, I need eyes from on top of the base”

Everyone hummed in agreement, making note of their positions. Except Bucky. 

“Sergeant”

No reply. 

“Sergeant” 

“BARNES”

Fury turned around, having not heard a reply from Bucky yet, just to find him with his hands in your hair again, practically kneading his hands in and purring like a cat. 

“Mother f-

Tags: @glxwingrxse  @hungryyeyess  @sebsgirl71479  @beabutterfly987  @teambarnes72  @witchywhore @jamesbuckybarneswify @slutforsexyseabass  @chrisdrysdale @littlemarvelmenfan  @buggy14  @whimsyplaty92  @sergntbarnes @inkedaztec   @pono-pura-vida   @moonlightreader649 @brooklynscherry-z  @elle14-blog1 @justsebstan @littlelightnings @psychomanniac-blog  @happyt0exist   @emmabarnes  @bethyruth @matchat3a  @cjand10   @getwellsoontana  @cherryschaos   @lokisasgardianvampirequeen  @ashenc-blog  @buckybarnessimpp   @potatothots  @goldylions  @high-functioning-lokipath @morganemorganite-blog  @kingfleury   @peaches1958   @spiderman-stilinski   @peaceinourtime82  @gublur   @wintersmelodie @geeky-politics-46   @lolawassad  @almosttoopizza   @a-poor-gryffindork @alternativeprincess   @buckycallsmeaslut    @kamaria-sweet-writes  @charmedbysarge    @xnorthstar3x  @kryoee7 @alina02  @gh0stgurl    @polishprincess999 @jessybarnes @alltheficsiwant @chemtrails-club  @eralen   @carrotfantasimp  

[darling2411]

I had an idea !!!!! Bucky and best friend reader making out . Not just once . Constantly. When they’re drunk at a party , they find a corner and start making out . When they’re sober and watching a movie , they make out cause the moxie was boring . And if anyone asks ? No they’re not dating . They’re just friends that like to kiss . And not just simple kisses . Sloppy full on make out session ! You can take this and do whatever you want with it

18+

We are talking sloppy sloppy. We are talking lips glossy, swollen and tender. Tongues laced with each other. Hands roaming wherever they want. Tangled in each others hair, up each others shirt, stroking thighs, stroking waists. 

The drunk party set it off. Tequila for you and Asgardian mead for him, you'd both started off with giggling over nothing; neither of you can stop the way your eyes flick to each others lips. 

"M'bored"

You huff and Bucky gets a bright idea, grabbing your waist and dragging you off to the quieter side of the room. 

"Come here" He pulls you into his lap, cupping your cheek, lips brushing against his. You don’t hesitate, parting your lips, letting his tongue slip though, your hands grasping onto his shirt, wishing he could be even closer some how. He shifts so you can straddle him, his hands on your ass, while you run your fingers though his hair, soft moans and whimpers falling from both your lips.

“Isn’t this more fun” Bucky rasps, pulling away for air while you take in a breath, your forehead resting on his. 

“Much better” You giggle, going in for his lips again, which he immediately reciprocates. 

Most of the team see at some point but they shrug it off figuring you’ll both forget any of this happened by morning because everyone’s shit faced. 

Except. 

It’s movie night.

Everyone's sitting around the living room, snacks out, comfy blankets, and the movie is great. It's one of your favorites. But there's something else you'd rather do...

You're sitting beside Bucky in a large beanbag chair, glancing at him every so often, his lips are so much more interesting than anything happening in that movie. He catches you sneakily looking at him and it makes him smirk; he shifts so he can pull you a little closer to him.

"Buckyyy" You pout at him, hoping he can take the hint without you having to say anything. "M'bored"

He grins, tilting your chin up, pressing his lips softly against yours. It's dark enough that no one would really notice unless they looked directly at what you were both doing. You part your lips granting access for his tongue to tangle with yours, his hand moving to grasp the back of your neck. Your hands fist his shirt, tugging on his dog tags to keep him as close as possible, nipping his lip, making him groan. You could stay like this forever and be perfectly content.

Your both so lost in each other, you don't notice the lights turning on after the movie ends. OR screaming and howling coming from the team when they look down and see you sitting right in Bucky's lap, his hands carded through your hair, making out with you like its the one thing that's keeping him alive.

"HOLY SHIT"

"What the-

"WHEN DID THIS HAPPEN?!"

"Do neither of you need oxygen?!"

"Bad Bucky"

You and Bucky yelped, breaking apart, feeling water hitting your face while Tony sprayed you both once more for good measure.

"Bad Bucky. Bad. Down"

"You wanna tell us what that was" Sam wiggled his eye brows while Bucky groaned.

"We were bored" He shrugged, his cheeks skill flushed and lips still plump. You nodded in agreement, while the rest of the team stared at you both. They have so many questions but don't even know where to start so they call it for the night.

Imagine they come down for breakfast and they find you on the counter, your legs wrapped around his waist, both of your plates still left on the counter because you got...busy.... Steve attempts to cough to get you both to stop but Bucky's to distracted, one arm wrapped around your waist, the other tugging your pony tail from your morning run. They all stand and watch for a while, Tony occasionally checks the time, a little impressed with just how long either of you can go without having to break apart for air. Sam finally breaks the silence, mostly because he's hungry.

"Okay, fucks going on with you both"

"What do you mean" Bucky's voice is breathless, his chest heaving. Neither of you even bother to look over, eyes still locked with each other, still glancing at each others lips.

"I've watched porn with less raunchy kissing than this" Tony snorted, while you both kept gazing at each other, clearly itching to jump at each other at any moment.

"We're just friends" Bucky helped you off the counter, hoping to drag you somewhere else because he wasn't done kissing you.

"Friends that kiss" You added, pulling Bucky by his wrist to go and make out somewhere else.

"I'm putting you both in separate cages!"

A few years later

"We are in the house of God, don't you dare pull that shit up here"

"I have no idea what you're talking about" Bucky snorted while Tony shook his head, rolling his eyes. Bucky could feel his heart race, while Steve squeezed his shoulder reassuringly.

“I will pull out the spray bottle”

"You look gorgeous doll" Bucky whispered, holding your hands in his, itching to do the one thing he wanted to do so badly the moment he saw you that day, just a second longer...

"You may now kiss the bride"

His hands wrapped around your waist pulling you close, his lips smashing against yours. Your hands cupped his cheeks, moving your lips softly with his, the crowd erupting into cheers and happy tears while you both stayed lost in each other. 

"I told you not to pull that shit up here!" Sam sniffled, grabbing a tissue from Steve, watching you both still softly kissing each other, unable to stop the little pecks and nips on each others lips. You finally broke apart, still giving each other heart eyes; no one else stole his breath away like you did. 

"Friends that kiss, huh?"

Tags:

@glxwingrxse  @hungryyeyess  @sebsgirl71479  @beabutterfly987  @teambarnes72  @witchywhore @jamesbuckybarneswify @slutforsexyseabass  @chrisdrysdale @littlemarvelmenfan  @buggy14  @whimsyplaty92  @sergntbarnes @inkedaztec   @pono-pura-vida   @moonlightreader649 @brooklynscherry-z  @elle14-blog1 @justsebstan @littlelightnings @psychomanniac-blog  @happyt0exist   @emmabarnes  @bethyruth @matchat3a  @cjand10   @getwellsoontana  @cherryschaos   @lokisasgardianvampirequeen  @ashenc-blog  @buckybarnessimpp   @potatothots  @goldylions  @high-functioning-lokipath @morganemorganite-blog  @kingfleury   @peaches1958   @spiderman-stilinski   @peaceinourtime82  @gublur   @wintersmelodie @geeky-politics-46   @lolawassad  @almosttoopizza   @a-poor-gryffindork @alternativeprincess   @buckycallsmeaslut    @kamaria-sweet-writes  @charmedbysarge    @xnorthstar3x  @kryoee7 @alina02  @gh0stgurl    @batprincess1013 @polishprincess999 @jessybarnes @alltheficsiwant

[darling2411]

Nawwwwwwwwww

Yield to me

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x F!Reader (ft. adventurous Alpine) WC: ~950 ish Warnings: Fluff | Reader rescues a kitten | Whipped Bucky | Roommates-to-lovers trope | Mutual pining | Yet-to-be-named kitten (Alpine) being adventurous | Reader being reckless | Metal-armed supersoldier to the rescue | Concerned Bucky | Angry Bucky | Unbeta'd | Lemme know if I missed anything! A/N: This is my submission for Hot Bucky Summer 2025 | Week 01 Prompt: Mind your own damn business" | @buckybarnesevents Thank you for hosting. 😊✨🥹💞 Note: Do not Steal, Copy, or Plagiarize any part of my work! I do not consent to AI scraping my work. Banner & Divider made by me. Picture credits to Pinterest. Check out my other works: Masterlist

Indulge Away!

You got this.

Taking a deep breath and mustering some courage, you took another careful step. The ledge creaked, making you wobble.

Fuck. Fuck.

Maybe not.

In theory, it had looked so fucking doable from your bedroom window, but in reality, it was a monumentally bad idea.

Shit. What now?

Meow.

"Hold on, baby," You muttered, clinging to the window frame because it was the only thing stopping you from plummeting five floors down. The kitten let out another meow as it clung to the edge, two tiny paws already slipping from the sill.

"THE FUCK DO YA THINK YOU'RE DOIN?"

You nearly slipped from the shock of Mrs. Batton's screeching up at you from the fourth floor. She was out of her window, puffing on a cigarette.

"Nothing," you called back with a wince, trying to calm yourself while adjusting your grip on the narrow ledge.

Adrenaline surged as you took another shaky step, inching closer to the terrified furball. Your neighbors were out of town. Otherwise, you could have saved her from the inside of their apartment. But that wasn't an option. It'd also be too late to call 911. And your supersoldier roommates weren't home. So your only shot had been sliding over the tiny ledge from your apartment, and now here you were.

"How in the world did you get there?" You wondered out loud, looking at the kitten.

You'd seen her once in the lobby earlier this week on your way to the mailroom. She'd come right up to you, and you'd cuddled with her for a moment until a couple of people walked in. Then she jumped out of your arms and ran off. You tried to follow her but eventually lost sight of her. You'd assumed she belonged to someone in the building. However, with the strict no-pets policy, you'd wondered who was sneaking one in.

The kitten scrambled, mewling helplessly. You lunged, snatching her into your arms just as her back paws lost hold. She yowled and clung to your shirt with tiny, sharp claws, burrowing into your neck.

"It's okay, sweet girl. You're safe," you whispered, heart pounding otherwise, still clinging to the frame with one arm as you assessed your next move.

Shit. You did not think this through.

That's when Mrs. Batton shouted again, "ARE YOU GONNA JUMP?! SHOULD I CALL 911?"

Meow.

"Gosh! Mind your own damn business!" you snapped, a little harsh, maybe. You'd apologize later with some cookies. If you lived.

You glanced at the fire escape just a few feet away. Four steps. Four steps, and you could land safely on the platform, slide back into your room, and question your and the little kitten's insane life choices.

Bravely, you took one more step. Nope, you couldn't make it. Maybe you should ask Mrs. Batton to call the cops.

"Have you lost your goddamn mind?"

Oh no.

You whipped your head around, nearly losing your balance in the process.

"Bucky?"

He stood there, phone to his ear, half out of your window, tactical suit still on, staring at you horrified.

"What the hell are you doing?" he hissed, pocketing his mobile and climbing onto the fire escape. You, meanwhile, were clinging to the frame with a sweaty hand. Bucky rarely spoke to you in that tone. You'd seen him use that tone on Steve on various occasions, a privilege of sharing a flat with two super soldiers.

"I…"

Meow.

Your arms tightened around her.

"She was about to fall, Bucky," you shouted unnecessarily. With enhanced senses, he could hear just fine, but your ears were ringing loudly, scared out of your wits.

Bucky looked livid. It made your stomach drop to the ground, promising to take you along.

"Hold on tight," he ordered. Your pulse tripped unhealthily.

He jumped onto the tiny sill and held out his metal hand. You nodded at him and then tried to hand the kitten to Bucky, but she clung to you, claws ripping into the fabric of your shirt and skin tightly.

"Don't worry, baby. He's got you. You're safe," You cooed.

He gently took the kitten from your arms. The little thing curled against his metal arm, and he brought her to his chest instantly.

You both exhaled in relief. One crisis managed.

You shifted your footing, trying to prepare for your own escape, but Bucky's sharp voice stopped you cold.

"Don't fucking move."

Your breath caught, and your heart galloped.

You didn't dare argue. Not like you were in a great state to do so anyway.

He secured the kitten inside your room, sliding the window mostly shut so she wouldn't wander out again. And now he was headed back for you.

"Take my hand," he said urgently, stretching out his gloved palm, his eyes locked on yours. You hesitated.

"I'll never let you fall," he added softly, and somehow your stomach did a cocktail of dance forms.

"Do you trust me, doll?"

"I do, Bucky. It's just my hands are clammy, and that section is a little wonky…"

He glanced at the spot you indicated and back at you. The twitch in his jaw was clear from where you were standing.

Bucky groaned, evaluating the situation. Then, he placed his feet back on the fire escape railing, turned around gracefully, and leaped onto the ledge beside you.

Were you not hanging on the edge, you'd be swooning at that seductive move right there. But mooning over your crush could prove fucking lethal right now.

Bracing himself with his right hand on the fixture of your window, Bucky stretched out his metal arm again. Sweet baby Jesus! He was tall, alright.

"Gimme your hand," he said, voice strained.

You whimpered shakily and reached out, terrified that your sweat-slicked fingers might doom you both.

Bucky didn't reach for your palm but took your elbow and pulled you close, and you were airborne for a few seconds before being pressed against him. His metal arm wound around you tightly, and you could feel his muscles rippling as he straightened out.

"Fuck!" He muttered, sighing into the crook of your neck. "I've got you. Close your eyes for me, okay?" he said.

"Wrap your legs around me," he ordered, and you did. You buried your face into his chest. God! He was strong and smelled so damn fine. You were giddy that you felt so fucking safe in his arms.

Bucky swung you both to safety on the fire escape landing.

"Holy shit." You let out a breathless, nervous laugh.

But before you could wiggle out of his arms, Bucky held you, guiding you toward your window. He sat you down on the sill, his palm flexed roughly on your thigh, keeping your legs wrapped around his waist. Then, he hugged you.

You felt his whole body shaking, breath coming out ragged, his sharp nose tickling the expanse of your shoulder and neck, making your heart plummet.

You tried to say something, but honestly, you were breathless. All you could do was wrap your hands around him, hoping to calm him. This was the first time you had this much body contact with Bucky. It had always been a small touch of fingers when passing a glass or a plate. You'd always been mindful to respect his personal space.

You let out a gasp, your face heating up when he squeezed your sides.

His rough, fingerless-gloved fingers tilted your chin up, daring you to meet his gaze, and you did, reluctantly. His blue eyes were so intense, they made you shudder.

"You're okay," he whispered, brushing his knuckles along your cheek. Then, he pressed a kiss to your forehead gently, making you freefall into the perfection that was Bucky.

You blinked up at him, utterly and irrevocably taken aback. Because Bucky minded his business, mostly, while you'd been rotting in your one-sided affections for him. This display of his worry left you gaping.

And right then, he grumbled softly, "God! You're a worse punk than Steve." A nervous, surprised chuckle escaped you without your volition.

"I'm gonna seal that damn window shut. Never do that to me again. You understand?" he growled against your lips, his nose grazing yours.

With all that intense, barely restrained anger absolutely entrancing you, you nodded dumbly.

Well?

Leave your thoughts if you enjoyed reading it. 💞✨

If you'd like to be tagged/removed from my works, please do so here.

[darling2411]

nobody has been there for me like the ‘x reader’ tag has been there for me

[darling2411]

My favourite Bucky ship?

Winteragent? No.

Winterwidow? No.

Bucklena? No.

SamBucky? Good one, but no.

Stucky? I totally see it, but no.

My favourite Bucky ship is Bucky x Me

That’s my man, that’s the love of my life, that boy is mine 💖

[darling2411]

I NEED MORE OMG PLEASE TELL ME THERE IS MORE

New Girl [04]

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x Reader

(slow burn, endgame, as in you’ll be seeing some short term pairings here and then as well)

MODERN DAY AU

Word count: 3,512

Warning: cursing, a little self-doubt, not much else really

Summary:  Life threw you a curve ball when you walked in on  your long term  boyfriend making out with someone who definitely wasn’t  you. Since  living with him was no longer an option, you’ve ventured out  at the  advice of a work friend and found the absolute perfect loft to  reside  in. The only issue?

You suddenly have four very odd roommates.

[04]: BE NICE

It was late when you got home from your fourth date with Pietro. So far, Scott Lang was two for two because you really liked the quick witted man he gave your number to. Pietro was funny, made you feel seen, lighthearted, charismatic, and, by God, was he handsome. Enough so that you thought you might be ready to invite him to the loft. That was a good fifth date, right? A home cooked meal? Now, you just had to learn how to make a home cooked meal.

As you tiptoed further into the loft, Bucky suddenly sat up from where he was lying on the couch. You tilted your head curiously. He was in his pajamas and had bed head, but he was not in his bed. You pointed at him, “Aw, are you and Sam fighting again? Haven’t you heard? You’re not supposed to go to bed angry with each other.”

Keep reading

[darling2411]

Next door - Bucky Barnes x Reader

━━━━━━━━━━━ ⋆⋅ ♡ ⋅⋆ ━━━━━━━━━━━

Word Count: 2.9k

Description: You thought you were being quiet when you touched yourself. It wasn’t Bucky’s fault he could hear everything from his bed next door every single time. And when you moan his name out loud, he’s done pretending he doesn’t hear.

Tags/Warnings: Smut. Menace Bucky is back on this one. Fem!reader. Bucky spying on her. Mutual masturbation. Oral f!rec.

Note: this is literally just Bucky being feral about a helpless doll next door, he just has to step in. Enjoy lovelies 🫶🏼 also I’m making a John Walker version of this.

Masterlist

It wasn't his fault. His room just happened to be next to yours, beds pressed against the same wall. A thick wall. But it wasn't his fault he had enhanced hearing, so he just couldn't help it. Couldn't help hearing the nights you gave yourself over to pleasure.

And fuck, he listened. Every single time.

He learned every sound you made. He could tell when you were already worked up, getting yourself off in just a few minutes. Other nights where you would drive yourself to the edge, again and again, dragging it out for hours.

Hours he spent with his cock in hand, back pressed to the headboard, leaning towards the wall so he wouldn't miss a single wet, filthy sound your fingers made.

And then other ones, rare, where you couldn't quite get there. Frustrated groans. The creak of the bed as you shifted restlessly. He could even picture the sweat dripping past your furrowed eyebrows, when your fingers just weren't enough.

Nights where he fought everything inside him, that feral instinct to tear the wall between you and show you how it feels to be fucked right.

Tonight was one of those nights.

He wasn't expecting anything, he never really did. He'd taken a hot shower, put on a pair of boxers and sat on his bed with a book in hand. His back rested on the headboard, legs crossed over his ankles. A warm, cozy light coming from the lamp on his nightstand illuminated his room. The place was quiet, the only sounds disrupting the silence were his fingers flipping over the pages as he read, and the occasional chuckle the story provoked.

But then he caught it.

A faint, almost inaudible whimper slipped from your mouth on the other side of the wall. He froze in place, just like he always did, like it was somehow still a surprise. Like he didn't expect to hear you again. Like he knew it was wrong to listen. To want to listen.

But he did. Every damn time.

He snapped the book shut in his hands, dropped it over his lap, and instinctively leaned closer to the wall, to your side of the bed. He listened, focused hard, until he could finally hear that familiar sound of slick fingers sliding in a desperate rhythm. A breath got caught up in his throat, when you moaned, and blood rushed to his crotch.

He squeezed his eyes shut, feeling himself harden against the hardback cover of the book he had completely forgotten about. He sighed deeply, shoving it aside, and reached to switch off the lamp on his nightstand.

He knew what came next, what he was about to do. He knew it was wrong, dirty. But somehow, being swallowed in complete darkness made it easier to pretend it wasn't.

Like if he couldn't see himself, then maybe he didn't have to feel guilty.

His hand slipped into his boxers, gripping his swollen, painfully hard cock. He pulled it out and immediately started stroking at a fast pace, no buildup, no teasing this time. Just tight, large punishing pumps of his fist to the sounds that came out your mouth. His head dropped back to the wall, eyes closed to block out everything but you.

To try to feel you.

He swore he could even smell you, the arousal, the wetness between your thighs, the sex emanating from your skin as you fucked yourself with your fingers like there was no one else to do it for you. Like he wasn't next to your room, stroking his cock to your whimpers like a fucking pervert.

Like he wasn't willing to split you open if you just said the word.

So he just kept stroking, up and down, cause it was the only damn thing he could do when you were unknowingly putting on a show for him.

But after a while passed, he noticed you just went on and on, but it wasn't edging. Not this time. It didn't bother him, he knew he could go for hours if he wanted to, but you? He knew you weren't getting there.

He knew those frustrated sighs escaping your mouth, when you paused because your fingers were probably cramping from pumping in and out without getting anywhere. That soft thump against your mattress when you hit the bed desperate.

It wasn't fair, he thought, you deserved to see white, to come so unbelievably hard that you screamed without a single care if the entire team heard.

He heard you stop, chest probably rising up and down, panting, as a groan escaped your lips. He stopped too, dick resting on his palm as he waited for your next move.

"Come on ... please" You mumbled to yourself, words muffled by the wall separating him from completely ruining you.

Every fucking part of his body twitched to that plea. Fuck. You were lonely, you needed someone.

You needed someone to fuck you right.

He takes a deep breath, restraining himself with whatever is left of his will, whimpers invading your room as you began moving your fingers once again. He restarts with you, harder, sloppier this time, like he's frustrated too because if you're not coming neither is he.

And then, in the middle of the moans, he hears something else, it's not just incoherent sounds, you're whimpering someone's name.

"B-b ... Bucky"

Shit. Holy fucking shit. His name? he couldn't have heard that right.

He stopped stroking himself, body rising up from his seating position to kneel on the bed, left ear to the wall, hands on either side of his head. He held his breath, closing his eyes, part of him wishing he misheard you, the other part craving to be right.

He heard more moans, but in between, there was something else. Slurred B's. He was sure.

"B-buck ... Bucky please just like that baby"

Shit. You were fantasizing about him. Out loud. About his head between your legs, about his tounge eating you out while his fingers wrecked you.

You wanted him. You needed him.

His legs moved before he could think with his brain instead of the cock he shoved back into his boxers. He took long strides to his door, metal hand messing with his hair like that would do something to take away the heat on his face or bring his heart rate back to normal.

Suddenly he was out of his room, in front of yours, chest heaving like a lunatic in heat. He shook his head, it was too late to back away now, so fuck it, might as well try it. His hand knocked against the door, instantly making you stop your little session.

You sat on the bed all flustered, quickly wiping your hand on a small towel you had tossed to the mattress in case you made a mess of yourself. Which quite frankly you were doing, before someone decided to interrupt your sacred self love time.

Who the hell is knocking on your door and what the hell do they want right now?

You let out an exasperated sigh, finally getting up from the bed, the oversized shirt on your body falling down to cover the drench between your legs. You threw the towel to a hamper, taking a deep breath before reaching for the doorknob.

A gasp caught in your throat the second you opened the door. There he was. The man whose name rolled out your tongue so painfully easily.

Bucky.

Standing right there, wearing nothing but a pair of boxers and his dog tags on his chest. Jaw locked, face visibly on edge. His hair was a mess, the front strands sticking to a sheen of sweat on his forehead. His eyes were dark, exactly how they looked in your little fantasy just minutes ago.

Shit. He didn't know, he couldn't know. Right?

Bucky was having his own fight inside his head. When he saw you open the door, pupils dilated, your rapid heart rate thumping on his ears, all agitated and ... kind of glowing. Glowing in that arousal I'm-fucking-myself sheen. He had to fight every urge in his body that told him to wrap his hand around your neck and pin you to the ground to make you scream in the hallway, so everybody in that floor knew what name you were pleading to in your room.

"B-Bucky?" You blurted out, eyes darting around nervously.

He almost laughed at that. Why were you so shy now when you were praying his name just minutes ago?

"Are you okay? Is it a nightmare?" You shifted your tone, eyebrows furrowing. Figured that must be the reason of his unsettled expression.

He did let a chuckle out then, shaking his head as he slowly pushed himself into your room, closing the door behind him, backing you up like he was cornering a prey.

"I guess you could say I was having a nightmare, doll" He growled, voice deeper than you've ever heard before. "One where you desperately called out my name, all helpless and needy, and I wasn't here to help you"

Your legs threatened to buckle when you realized what he meant. He'd heard you moaning his name, like a freak.

You'd fantasized about him before, you did it every single time your fingers traveled down to your thighs, but his name had never left your lips then. However, this time, you were so frustrated, so swollen from teasing, rubbing, pushing and not getting anywhere, that his name just rolled out your tongue like a plea, like a call for help.

The back of your legs hit your bed, making you stumble, but his arms were quick to catch you. Your hands hit his bare chest for support, grazing the dangling metal tags, looking up at him with wide eyes and a hint of embarrassment washing your features.

The huge bulge pressing against your stomach didn't help either, too warm and solid to ignore.

He lifted his metal hand to cradle your face, you instinctively leaned into his cold touch closing your eyes, almost purring. He took a deep breath, this wasn't about him, this was all about you. He planted a kiss on your forehead, making you open your eyes at the gesture.

"You don't have to be ashamed angel, not when you were calling my name so sweetly" He said, too softly, like he wasn't about to ruin your life. "And I think it would be real fucking rude if I didn't give you what you were begging for"

You bit your lip, his chest was fire against yours even through your shirt, the cold vibranium hand in your cheek was keeping you grounded, but you weren't sure how long your composure would last under his touch.

"Are you gonna let me make it better for you, doll?" He asked, in mock sweetness.

Cause he already knew the answer, he'd already decided you weren't going to sleep until your legs were shaking.

You nodded, desperately, you were too flustered from the haze, too frustrated with all the bottled up tension in your body. You barely had time to blink before he pushed you onto the bed, flat on your back, sinking to his knees in front of yours. He bunched up the shirt up to your waist, big hands dragging your thighs apart, the cool air hitting your wet skin made you gasp.

"Shh, I know angel" Bucky mumbled against your skin. "Let me take care of you"

His hot breath ghosted its way up your legs, trailing wet kisses that made it hard to maintain eye contact with him, when your head threatened to fall back in pure bliss. He slowly went higher, like he was not only teasing you, but himself.

Something inside him went feral the moment he finally caught the sight of your glistening pussy. Something he had pictured before, all those lonely nights in his room.

"Fuck me... look at you doll" he groaned, spreading your legs even wider, his firm grip pressed the soft flesh of your thighs. "You thinking about my mouth on this pretty little pussy? That what got you dripping all over yourself?"

You nod shakily, hips twitching when he leaned in, hot breath grazing your soaked folds.

"I just, I-I couldn't..." You tried to explain, but he was already shaking his head.

"I know, doll" He cut you off, placing a quick, teasing kiss on your clit, making you whimper. "I heard you, I know every single sound you make. When you're close, when you don't want to let yourself go, when your fingers don't cut it anymore"

Your back arched, trying to grind up against his lips again, beard tickling your skin, but his metal arm wrapped around your thigh and held your hips flat to the mattress.

"Nuh uh, stay still for me dollface" he warned. "You move again and I stop. You hear me?"

You nodded rapidly, chest heaving with anticipation. You were becoming undone and he hadn't even started yet.

"Good girl" He praised, placing another kiss in your bare pussy, this time letting it linger for a few seconds.

He draws back satisfied when he hears your moan, and licks his lips to let the taste of you sink into his mouth.

"Now, good girls aren't supposed to play with themselves like that. So fucking messy with no one to help them" He shook his head, with a devilish grin. "Not when a man willing to break them is next door"

"B-bucky ... please" You begged, this was taking too long, you were dripping over the sheets.

He grinned wider, now this is the way you were moaning his name earlier.

That was all he needed.

You lose it the second his mouth touched you. It was so warm, greedy all over you, groaning into your skin like he was the one getting off from it.

"Sweetest fucking thing I've ever tasted, angel" he mumbled, lips dragging up to your clit, sucking it into his mouth until you cried out. "How the fuck did I go this long without it? Without kicking that door and showing you what is like to be pleased properly"

Your hips lifted involuntarily at his words, thighs shaking, but he wasn't having it. His vibranium arm pinned you in place, cold palm heavy on your lower belly, sending you into overdrive. "I said hold still" he growled, before diving right back in.

He was sure he could bust into his boxers just from hearing you become undone under him. This time there was no wall muffling your sounds, your scent, your wetness. This time he had you moaning so loud under his touch, he was sure no one in that floor needed enhanced hearing to know what was happening in your room.

"Bucky...f-fuck, I can't" You cried, unable to control your feet kicking next to his head, but every time your hips jerked he just grunted and pressed down harder.

"Yeah you can" He growled. He let you go briefly to hook your legs over his shoulders and pulled you closer to the edge of the bed until your pussy was even deeper into his face. "Gonna hold you down and make you take it, doll"

Your back arched, trying to escape the overwhelming pressure of his mouth, but he just tightened his grip and kept going. Bucky's tongue worked heavenly over your clit, and when you thought it couldn't get any better, he slipped two fingers inside, curling just right, like he memorized every sound you made through the wall and translated it into his hand.

Your fingers tangled in his hair, pulling tight, and he moaned at every tug, while he kept fingering, licking, sucking, groaning into you like he needed every drop of your pleasure. Like he was fucking addicted.

"C'mon, angel" he whispered, agitated breaths hot against you. "Let me hear it, let me hear what it sounds like when I make you come"

"B-bucky" His name was the only thing you blurted out, body trembling, ragged breathing.

"Come on my tongue, doll" He begged, too drunk in your sweet taste. "Soak my fucking face. Show me who this pussy belongs to"

That was all you needed to let yourself go. Your vision blurred as your orgasm hit, ripping through you so hard you pushed his hands and head away but he kept you pinned, kept licking through it, like he wasn't done until you were sobbing. He only stopped when your legs were shaking uncontrollably, pussy clenching his fingers, and your breath came in broken gasps, eyes lost on the ceiling.

That drove him to the edge too.

He wiped his beard with his right arm, before yanking his boxers down, cock springing free, thick, leaking, heavy in his hand as he wrapped his fingers around it.

"You did this, angel. Look at me" He leaned over your body, his metal hand reached behind your neck, lifting it slightly. "Look what just tasting you does to me"

You were still dazed, eyes blinking to focus yourself on him.

He didn't even need his hand to come, so he used it to hold himself above you. He straddled your shaking body, placing his cock over your stomach with a wet slap, sliding against your soft skin while you were too wrecked to move, just whimpering again and again under him. He grabbed your hand and put it over his cock, to push himself deeper into your skin.

"That's it, dollface, just lay there and take it. Let me use this sweet body to finish" He grunted, hips jerking forward, desperately seeking for that release he'd sought after in his room.

You were breathless, overwhelmed by the weight of his cock on your stomach and it’s width under your hand, while he panted like you were the only thing that could save him.

After a few more pumps, he finally came hard with a groan.  Thick, hot white landed on your stomach in long, messy streaks. The first spurt made you flinch, the second had him cursing under his breath, hips jerking uncontrollably as he emptied himself on you. His chest heaved as he watched it drip down your skin, and a proud look flashed across his face like he just marked what was his.

The warm fluid felt almost comforting, running down the side of your leg as you still twitched every now and then, trying to remember how to breathe again. 

Bucky falls onto the bed beside you, panting, with that painfully arrogant smile like he didn't just come from rubbing himself to you.

“Next time …” He whispered low in your ear, wrapping his arms around you. “I’m not stopping until it’s dripping out of every hole you have”

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reblogs and comments are always appreciated, thank you so much for reading 🫶🏼