feelingdozy

[feelingdozy]

Anthony Mackie and Sebastian Stan's interviews are the reason I believe in love

[feelingdozy]

NOT SO SECRET - Robert Reynolds

Summary: on the bus to work, you're bored of the same old day on repeat. Bob, also on the bus, finds you listening to his favorite artist- after that fateful day, his teammates are realizing something is off about him, and soon they'll start to find out exactly why.

or

Bob being head over heels for you ends up with the thunderbolts slowly finding out he's talking to you (cute guy on the bus trope)

warnings: fluff, strangers to friends to lovers, mention of anxiety/nerves, being claustrophobic(?), sprinkle of angst while readers yearning for love, thunderbolts adventure of finding out bobs down bad, silly team shenanigans, eventual relationship (mention) - more focused on them finding out, more to come?

w/c: 3,2k | ao3 link

The bus was more packed than it usually was on a Tuesday morning- and for a trip to work, it wasn't very pleasant to experience. Luckily, you had found a completely empty seat before it got overly uncomfortable with lousy space and loud voices.

Ones that ran all the way to the back and spared no mercy. The clutter of people urged you to your phone, cranking your volume up way too many notches it wasn't normal, so much so that maybe your ears would go out first instead of all the damn people.

You felt like you were being swallowed- so you averted your sight to the window and hummed along in a peace that said you were in your head and content while it drove along.

Except for when someone had finally decided to sit beside you. At first you left it alone, just continuing on with staring out at the continuous road. But soon you got curious.

You opted for a side-glance, catching golden-brown locks that cascaded nearly off his shoulder, by a warm toned crewneck that spoke a sunlight brittled brown.

With a slight blush to your cheeks, you held yourself back from truly burning his image into your mind, too set on not gaining any more delusions for the month.

It didn't help being in an office 24/7 and having hardly any free time to get yourself out and around other people, so it had been a couple of rough weeks, and ones where, surely, you didn't need to get caught up in your mind now. It was simply playing tricks on you.

You weren't looking for love. No.. definitely not. But you saw it. Everywhere. Every corner. When a coworker spilled coffee on another and they both ended up with smiles and laughter while parting away together.

In the couple's walking down the street that held hands like nothing else in the world mattered. The ones that ate together in the cute little cafes down the street.

Okay, maybe, just maybe, the silence was getting to you. The desire. The want. The need for another.

Just something, something- a speck of love in your otherwise boring day-to-day. Someone who'd support you the way you dream about supporting them. A morning conversation that ends up with the two of you cuddled up in warm blankets draped in the early morning sun while a breeze swept you over-

Not now you'd scream internally. Whenever the notion got out of hand. Whenever the thoughts got too serious. Too overwhelming. Overtaking.

You suddenly shook back to reality- a ride to work, you sighed.

But as the ride kept on, you saw him fidgeting both in his seat and with the tote in his hands, making you anxious with the gesture.

His leg bounced up and down like yours usually did when everything became too much. His hands splayed out now played seemingly innocently with the strap. But you knew what the little signs meant- knew them too well.

Followed by a sudden tap to your shoulder, you were finally met with blue, almost glassy-looking eyes staring back at you with his finger pointed up to his ear

"sorry- uhm, your- your headphones were playing and I couldn't help but listen. Not bad or- or anything, just knew em- I like them too." With a small, awkward smile on his face.

"you know their new album already?" You questioned, but not with a judgey tone.

You looked at him with wide, shocked eyes in surprise.

What made his heart flutter was the way you asked him so innocently- like you didn't doubt him, truly were just interest in how far his taste went for the artist.

"j-just listened to it this morning, hah."

He continued, flowing easily into back-and-forth conversation with a guy you had just somehow stumbled upon on the bus. Well- technically, he stumbled upon you.

The two of you had talked and talked for the entire ride- a couple short sentences had turned into unsuspected minutes, on and on about music and your likes and opinions, the way he hated the people who never got up for the elderly you witnessed and how you couldn't stand the looks of people who stared at you like you were brainless at work.

soon, you realized the packed bus ride wasn't so bad at all..

By the end of it, succumbing to bus times and almost passing you stop dangerously close, he had offered his phone number. Were you dreaming again?

Not in a way with anything implied- you could tell wholeheartedly what his intentions were. But you held his hands so softly- whispered his name so kindly. And when you gave his phone back, he could still smell your perfume lingering near him as you waved a goodbye before getting off.

Was it just him or was the bus really, really hot all of a sudden?

•

It started with a ping. He got your message immediately, saying, "Hey guy with the best taste on the bus" and blushed while his fingers twitched in agony of what to say next.

But eventually, the constant texting started. The easy back-and-forth again.

His mind had flooded itself with you since then- drawn back between the interaction, how you both were so interested and how you spoke so avidly and excitedly about the artist.

Even giggling to himself at times that had Ava staring with her jaw cranked the slightest bit open in horror that Bob Reynolds was here, in her presence, laughing and shying away at his phone like he was 15 again.

She didn't tease him yet- no, she waited. She wanted to see exactly when the others would catch on to his weird antics and new smitten behaviours that she recognized instantly with a keen eye, and much too many high pitched giggles for her liking of daily laughs she'd consume.

Everything about his attitude and way he carried himself had been consumed by you-

And soon they came.

First, you'd think it'd be Yelena, but she's so distracted by making fun of John that Bucky squashes the opportunity first.

The day started out normal. He woke up early, and changed into somewhat comfortable gym clothes gifted to him by val- though only the shorts were used.

He came to the kitchen for his usual tea and toast with the strawberry jam he adored- smothering a little too much it overloaded the pieces and was licking it off his lips about fifty times before it was actually off.

After that, usually he'd read- but he was too busy looking at the photo of you you'd sent after your shower while getting dressed for work with the caption, "can't wait to talk to you later, my favorite spark" and a winky face that made his knees buckle pathetically. He'd been so caught up in adjusting his sweatpants and texting you back that he'd lost track of time to even pick the volume up.

In the training room, Bucky's holding a punching bag for him as Yelena complains with a pointed finger to John's "weirdly angled and oblique form that quite frankly, shouldn't exist". Bob's interested in the punching bag, yes. But he's more interested in the buzzing vibration of his pocket that captures his attention immediately away from red knuckles and tight drawn lips to a boyish smirk Bucky could recognize anywhere. Too familiar. Too soft.

He's in a trance- so withdrawn from his surroundings, he only hears Bucky on the second mention of his name as he's looking out from behind the bag with peaked brows in both suspicion, yet ultimately knowing as Bob rubs the back of his neck awkwardly with a even worse laugh to pair.

"S-sorry! Phone- distracted- y'know, my generation stuff, heh!" He cringes at that internally.

"Mm." He gruffs back at first before Bob resumes his heavy punches. First in silence, he's huffing out, although pondering in long daydreams away from the tower and about how you asked him what his favorite color of crewneck is, and whether he likes strawberry jam off the floor because you failed your 'amazingly done' croissant creation that was meant to be a surprise with whipped cream on top, except for when it all fell off your table when you whipped around it to quick at the sound of the tv-

"What's her name?" Bob stalls.

Frozen. In time.

"H-her.. what?"

He points half-hazardly at Bob's phone

"Her name." Deadpan, Bob's in serious shock, now whipping his head around the room and letting out a breathe he didn't know he was holding when he realized Yelenas now splayed on the mat with Walker as she ever-so-subtly chokes him out as an excuse for better 'oxygen withholding training'

"how'd you even-?"

"tell-tale signs. Your ears got red, and your eyes scanned the text three more times after the initial read. Your heart skipped a beat. Should watch out for that."

He said it so seriously Bob didn't know whether to laugh or cry.

Bucky only shrugged in return, " I was trained for these things"

And when Bob walks out of the gym, out of breath and aching for a cold bottle of water, Ava's already beaten him to it as he pauses to stare up at her, sighing dramatically as she grins slyly at him.

The second is very obviously Yelena.

This day has also been spent very normal to his routine- his teammates have gone on their missions, while he's sat back doing the little house chores all around.

Except instead of being lonely while doing them, this time around he's got you on facetime.

You're watching as he dances around with a broom and pretends to sing the lyrics as you snort out when he almost slips and eats shit on the slippery floor while asking if he's alright.

You're watching as he tells you about his day and how his training was exponentially boring. Mundane. Even teasing whilst saying you would've been there to make it a lot more interesting, which makes you blush more than you'd like to admit- even though he can clearly see it through the screen.

He admits one of his teammates had caught on already- but you only smile. He was so obviously over the moon for you, even the people living with him on the daily could tell? Of course they could. And that made your heart run its course just a little faster.

Soon daytime had dimmed, leaving him to greeting the team when they finally made it back.

Some sweaty. Some bloodstained and bruised. Cut in places not even he could see with fabric torn around the edges. Knowing glimpses exchanged at the way their posture slackened when they got back inside, smiles fading to ones that spoke of hardcore exhaustion.

Yet they kept the tradition- every Friday was to end with a movie night. Filled with food and snacks and drinks that happen to be the day they use the excuse to go all out.

They pick a movie based on the old school name out of a bowl. Although it commences arguments every single time, it just has to happen that way, or it's not the same.

The problem is, he's spent way too many trips back and forth to the kitchen getting the littlest things.

Someone needs a refill? He's squirming to get out of his seat to get it for them.

More popcorn? He's launching out of the couch cushions and reaching over piles of legs to snatch the bowl and microwave another.

More chips and candy? This man almost flies his way back over there with the way he's rushing himself up.

Then there's the bathroom trips. They're only 26 minutes in and he's mumbling how he needs to go.

She swears she sees a little light blaring from his sweats the next time he comments on being way too hydrated for "someone who's immune to bullets" as he excitedly walks down the dark halls.

The third time he's announcing himself, Yelena excuses herself too, just to follow him in the shadows.

And to say the least, he's none the wiser.

His phone illuminates him very properly in the consuming moonlight, propping his back up against a random walk and leaning there. His fingers work fast on the keyboard, letting out little huffs of breath and muttering different phrases to himself in the moment.

So caught up with you and your little dad-jokes and funny little cats you send him on Instagram when you're doing your daily scroll before bed, maybe it's because he misses you so much but he swears he's feeling you near his shoulder-

That is until he realizes there is, Infact, a proper and real presence, and it's definitely not yours.

He jumps with a loud yelp, but her palm is sternly going over his mouth as she spares a glance toward his screen and her eyes scan it up and down.

She gives him a look before huffing in disappointment while tapping her shoe like a mom who caught her kid sneaking back in after a party.

"Well, well, well. What am I gonna do with you, Bob. Or should I say Robert." He shivers as the hairs on his neck raise and his shoulders tense up for the worst.

"Texting a girl at this time and not giving her the attention she needs? Tsk tsk. Do better." She seems hesitant to stop there, but turns around anyways, retreating back to the team and their random 2000s romcoms and bad action-dramas.

He jumps and yells out again when he turns around, unguarded, to be met with Ava staring back at him, arms crossed and a genuine smile painted over her features for the first time in who-knows-when.

"Amazing. 10/10. Enjoyed my show. Thank you"

The third one to catch on is Walker. Alexei- well. He finds out when he sees it with his own eyes.

John notices the inconsistency of normality in his routine. He knows how it goes every morning. Coffee- Bob's on the beanbag reading a book while staring off with his tea into the sunrise. But today..

Where the fuck is Bob? And nicely enough, he's always setting out Walker's coffee. But not this morning.

He's wondering just where the random quiet and clacking of his mug being sat down back on the side table went, and where sudden silence began.

Usually when he gets back after a mission, when he's retreating from his room to get something to snack on, there will always, always be music coming from Bob's room. Sometimes recognizable. Sometimes outright weird and wacky and too new for his taste.

But now?

John doesn't hear the random 80s music Bob will play when he's tired after a long day, or just wanting to relax with the sound of something in the background. Doesn't hear the sulky and heartbreaky Bruno Mars or other love songs and Fleetwood Mac echoing against the walls way too loudly that may add to his headache but he pretends it doesn't. Doesn't hear the pop music when he's being experimental.

Hell, he hasn't heard it in a week.

So he knocks.

Twice.

Three times.

And on the fourth, he enters to an empty room that looks weirdly put together than usual, except for the hoodie that looked swiftly thrown onto the pile of pillows that made up his halfly-done bed.

So he waits. On the lounge-room couch. Scrolling through random channels that make him sigh out in boredom and has him weighing out his patience levels. Then he's scrolling on his phone- what the fuck? labewbew?

Jesus Christ he's really losing it.

He goes to the weapon artillery and cleans his guns. But he stops after each item he cleans, hoping to hear footsteps or the familiar ding of the elevator chime.

And by the time Bob is finally seen back at the tower, it's late and John's day had been wasted waiting around for his silence-filler of a partner in crime.

Bob found his glare when he walked out of the elevator. When Walker didn't avert it nor look away, he then pointed a finger to himself, wondering, me?

"yes, you. Where have you been all day?" Passive-aggressively, he points, judges, and questions like police wondering about a potential perpetrator.

"i-uh? Just.. out?" Was he the dad who caught him sneaking back in now?

"No shit" the blonde spits, overlooking the obvious tote that's way too heavy for a book or two. But perfectly sized for a teddy bear. And chocolates. And a book full of love letters. And a commemoration of a second date and a successful asking to-be-girlfriend event.

Bob's jittery- was jittery with nerves and excitement and a new significant other. Now..

"Im, uh- off to my room Walker. You should get to bed?" He doesn't know how to phrase his words without getting Walker riled up. His mind is too drawn away with other things, John draws it up to him simply not caring. How ungrateful-

Squinting at Bob as he walks away, he realizes that whatever he had with him had dropped in the hallway, leading an 'unsuspecting' trail in his wake.

A rose petal.

Then two. And three. And a couple more after that had dropped.

A rose petal?

A rose petal.

Rose?

Rose petal?

A fucking rose petal.

How dull was he getting.

Incompetent and stupid, lord he was losing his spark. "Jesus Christ" he muttered while spinning on his heel, holding his head in his hands while running them up and down his face in frustration.

Ava stood behind the counter muffling a laugh while seeing the gears turn in that soldier, lackluster romance brain of his.

As the days passed, the tower had become surprisingly dimmed with accusatory looks. Movie nights no longer consisted of side eyes and long glares of suspicion while squinting in his direction. It all just became fact.

A silent knowing. An agreement. Present of the fact, but never even whispering a word in the compound.

That was until the elevator chimed. None of them batted an eye, thinking it was just Bob coming back from the store, or grabbing a book.

Instead, left in awe, you stood behind him, sunk back and presented in a way that screamed shy and nervous and anxious all in one package, of course you were, to meet a damn group of superheros labeled The New Avengers.

You'd come out of your shell soon, but being met by the many eyes of them all didn't help the big fact you were probably red, flushed and shaking incredibly loud and obnoxiously in front of his friends. Teammates.

Holy fuck.

But before you could absolutely lose your shit, his hand slid coyly around your back. You looked up at him, to be met with a dumb, lovesick smile plastered on his face that immediately transferred to yours- contagious and ever so cute, you huffed a laugh and sighed in content as he rubbed your back re-affirmingly.

You waved and managed to get out a more-so quiet "Hi" At them.

They waved back-

Then suddenly, Alexei's voice boomed through the tower.

"Bob! Who is this- you didn't tell me you had a girlfriend!

The one thing you repeated in your mind was, if Bob was Bob, then the rest won't be too far off either. And so when you laughed, they did too.

Bob held you closer to his side, hand tightening around your waist in a silent claim, that spoke out to you more than words did-

If I love you, so will they.

thank you for reading :) requests are open! || Marvel Masterlist

[feelingdozy]

them

My computer is broken

[feelingdozy]

QUIETLY STUMBLED UPON - Robert Reynolds

Summary: Bob stumbles upon a bookstore after a mission, looking for something to bring home to you

warnings: fluff, fluff and fluff- did I say fluff

w/c: less than 500

Bob had always usually been the one to say at the tower for the day due to his inability and unreliability to keep his powers at bay- but now the roles had been reversed.

Called out onto the field, a tiny starter after being inactive for so long. He had been out for most of the day, gathering Intel, finding the hideouts and finally retrieving the papers that Val had ordered surprisingly stern when she had demanded him to get them.

He hadn't complained, shrugging it off because it was so low effort- he didn't think he really needed any praise and such. But what did distract him was the big sign labeled with hidden bookstore on his journey back to the tower, hidden in a stolen alleyway, far torn away from traffic and constant eye view.

It piqued his interest, sketchy and both intriguingly luring as he stepped it.

The door went off with a pleasant chime, being greeted by a short, older woman with glasses that hung down her nose and hair that spoke of years of experience and routine behind the freshly cleaned counter that smelt lightly of lingering lemon in the air.

The shelves were stacked high, old but not rickety and greatly taken care of for such an older aesthetically pleasing place that held a lot more than just dust.

The tainted windows allowed the right amount of sunlight to sparkle in, making it enchanting as his eyes stumbled around to find something he knew you'd like.

In reality, he knew you'd like anything he'd pick out, but he wanted to make it special for both you and him- reminder of his first mission back out on the field and a precious book that came hand-picked from the heart.

As he scanned with steady breaths, more than he'd admit he was focused, he finally picked one that stood out differently amongst the rest in a good way.

Worn, but not torn apart or damaged. Something about a superhero weirdly similar to him- once damaged, made to be revamped and strong, put back out into a world he didn't think he could manage on his own.

And somehow, by the end (he peaked), the hero had found his true love who had stayed by his side- not just seeing him as someone broken, or glass glued back together. Whole, as he was, worth love and deserving of kindness that brought years upon years of devotion that neither swayed nor lost its touch no matter the tribulations it brought upon.

He boyishly smiled to himself at the afterthought, bringing it up to the counter and giving the woman a lot more than the book was worth with a quiet thank you, blindly yet habitually leading himself back to you, hands fidgeting as he imagined how brightly you'd smile when he'd finally return.

[feelingdozy]

Chishiya as the emotional support man and bucky being jealous is what I live for

She’s just not into you (Right now)

Bucky Barnes x Reader

Setting Avengers Compound

Warnings Swearing, Bucky being dramatic, Nat being Nat, fluff, overthinking Bucky, mentions of snacks and hoodie stealing.

(You’ve got mail) I made this because the s3 trailer dropped and I’m so fucking excited for this new season. I’m just sad chishiya won’t be in it. LIKE THATS MY BAE

The Avengers Compound was quiet. Too quiet.

Which, under normal circumstances, would be welcome. But for Bucky Barnes, quiet meant time to think. And thinking, as it turned out, was dangerous.

Especially when his girlfriend—his actual girlfriend, the love of his damn life—had just told him she was too busy to hang out with him.

It didn’t compute. He’d literally gotten back from a week-long mission two hours ago. He was all ready to spend the day curled up on the couch with you, maybe make you dinner (read: order takeout), and have you sit in his lap while he did absolutely nothing productive. Just boyfriend things.

So when he’d casually knocked on your door, grinning like a fool, and you responded with “Sorry, Bucky, I’m kinda busy right now,” without even opening the door—he short-circuited a little.

Which is how he ended up sprawled on the couch in the common room, face down in one of the decorative pillows, mumbling nonsense to Steve.

“She said she was busy, Stevie. Busy. What the hell is that supposed to mean?” he groaned, voice muffled.

Steve rolled his eyes but was grinning. “Did she sound upset?”

“No. She sounded fine. Like I wasn’t important.”

Steve raised a brow. “You think she’s ghosting you. When you live in the same building.”

“I don’t know!” Bucky groaned, flopping onto his back. “Maybe I did something? Maybe she met someone else—what if there’s another guy?”

Steve made a face. “Bucky. You’re being ridiculous. What happened to that confident, flirty punk from the 40s? The one who used to ditch me for girls left and right?”

Bucky crossed his arms, glaring at the ceiling. “He wants his girlfriend.”

At that moment, Natasha walked in, sipping from her cup like she’d been eavesdropping the whole time. (She had.)

“Ooooh,” she drawled, settling into the armchair across from them. “Still sulking, Barnes?”

“She said she was busy. What does that even mean?” Bucky whined again.

Nat shrugged. “Maybe she’s seeing someone. Did you ever consider that?”

Steve shot her a look. “Nat.”

“What? I’m just saying. I mean, she has been spending a lot of time alone in her room lately…”

Bucky looked physically ill. “You’re not helping.”

“Why don’t you just go see what she’s doing?” Steve said, ignoring Natasha, who now looked like she was actively enjoying Bucky’s emotional breakdown. “Knock on the door, ask her. Be direct.”

Nat leaned forward with a smirk. “Or don’t knock. Barriers are for cowards.”

“Natasha!” Steve groaned.

Bucky blinked slowly. “Maybe she’s with someone. Maybe I need to know. Maybe I—maybe I need to see it with my own eyes.”

“Oh my God,” Steve muttered.

But it was too late. Bucky had already gotten up, determination in his bones, heartbreak in his eyes, and a dramatic internal monologue playing in his head like a damn telenovela.

He stood outside your door, hesitating.

She’s probably not even alone, his brain whispered.

Maybe there’s some guy in there. Maybe it’s Peter. Or Sam. Or worse—Tony. Or some guy from the gym. She said she liked guys who could lift her. SHIT, she meant LITERALLY.

Bucky clenched his jaw. Screw this.

Without knocking, he twisted the doorknob and pushed the door open, bracing himself for…he didn’t even know. Cheating? Betrayal? Some terrible scene that would live in his nightmares forever?

Instead?

He saw you curled up in the middle of your bed, burritoed in a blanket, wearing his hoodie, a bowl of popcorn balanced on your chest, your eyes wide and glued to an iPad in front of you.

Your headphones were in. You didn’t even notice him.

Bucky blinked. Stepped in. Stared.

You finally sensed movement and paused the show, pulling out one earbud and looking up.

“Oh, hey baby,” you said, cheerfully, like you hadn’t just ignored his existence for hours. “You back already?”

“I—what are you doing?” he asked, his voice halfway between confused and offended.

You looked at the screen, then back at him. “Bingeing Alice in Borderland. The new season’s dropping soon.”

Bucky looked like he was buffering. “You canceled our hangout because of a show?”

“I didn’t cancel anything!” you protested. “You asked if I wanted to hang out, and I said I was busy! This is my emotional preparation phase. It’s important!”

Bucky blinked slowly. “So… you’re not with another guy.”

You snorted. “No, unless you count Chishiya as my emotional support man. Why?”

He muttered something about Steve and dramatic friends and traitorous redheads and flopped onto the bed next to you.

You raised an eyebrow. “Wait, were you jealous?”

Bucky groaned, face in the pillow. “You ignored me. I thought you didn’t want me anymore. And Nat said—never mind. She’s a menace.”

You leaned over and kissed the side of his head. “Baby. You’re literally the love of my life. I’m just a little too obsessed with fictional death games. There’s room for both.”

He peeked at you. “So if I said I wanted to cuddle and watch, you wouldn’t throw me out?”

You grinned. “I would hand you the snacks and let you wear your hoodie back while cuddling.”

“…I’m keeping it off you,” he mumbled, tugging at the sleeve you were swimming in.

You kissed his cheek again and turned the iPad toward him. “Then get comfy. You’re gonna need emotional support. This show hurts.”

He tucked himself under the blanket with you, pulling you into his chest, sighing dramatically.

“I thought I lost you to another man.”

“You lost me to a Japanese thriller series,” you replied, deadpan.

He kissed your temple. “Same thing.”

From down the hall, Natasha poked her head into the common room. “So? Did he find her?”

Steve looked up from his book. “He did.”

“And?”

“She was bingeing a show in his hoodie.”

Nat sipped her tea. “Adorable. Still soft.”

Steve smirked. “He’s a teddy bear now. But don’t tell him I said that.”

[feelingdozy]

I take a break from writing then get hit immediately by writers block what is this

[feelingdozy]

Spending my time at a con today (holy moly I'm tired) and the rest of the weekend so my writing will be paused for a bit.. but next week hopefully I can finally release a little summer collection ive been working on

[feelingdozy]

GROUNDING - Bucky Barnes

Summary: When Bucky's in his head, you come around and make everything easier- grounding him to the peace that's grown around him

warnings: self-deprication, mention of Bucky's past, reader being his steady in the constant movement

w/c: 500+

When you walk through the door of your shared apartment, it's eerily quiet. His boots are by the door so you know he's home, slowly walking through the space to find him caught up in the bathroom.

Shirt off, he's examining the metal that merges with flesh, scars from long, long ago. His fingertips run over the ragged edges, applying the tiniest bit of pressure to see if he'll ever feel the sensation even just the slightest.

His brows are edged and furrowed, not in pain but a silent guilt and knowing of what it meant carved into his body, forever a memory of death and blood and injury.

mouth downturned, his shoulders are tense and upright in a way the comfort of home doesn't bring when the memories are on the verge of his mind and so desperately scratching to reach out and terrorize.

The scenes replay, and the metal whirrs even when the hand isn't connected to the body, as a constant urgency of what he'd lost to scarred innocence that had been taken too soon from a boy trying to do his best.

You creep in, trying not to scare but to make yourself gently apparent to the man caught up in a distant dream of past reality.

Soft, unhurried fingertips run down his shoulder as he huffs out a quiet sigh, at the familiarity and comfort of touch. One that only counts because it's you.

Wrapping both hands around his neck from the back, you press light kisses to his sensitive skin, feeling a shiver run through him at the tiniest gesture.

He soon turns himself to face you, tired of being met with only a reflection. Calloused hands finding their place on your waist has you nuzzling into the crook of his neck, now just taking in the fading scent of soap that still lingers on him and something cedar- moreso his overwhelming homey, particularly him scent.

"Buck" you mutter into the warmth of him, just enough so he can hear it.

A non-coherent sound comes out of him that's taken as a response, vibrating against the hair he's now cradling to his chest as his fingers run through it to soothe you- though even he knows it's for his sake.

You remove yourself carefully from your spot encasing your bodies together, to meet his eyes that soften when they take in yours.

Cupping his cheeks, you're met with the feeling of stubble and soft scars that line his cheekbones and other places like his forehead that only you can spot so close up.

But you don't comment. You don't even glance at them, as you know where they are. Know what they mean. Your gaze sticks to his cerulean eyes.

He knows how you look at him so deeply entranced. How you're grounding him in the moment. Keeping him and everything inside him together without knowing.

And as you pull him down, and your lips meet his cracked ones, he's only left to wonder how he got so damn lucky with the girl who'll accept all of him.

The once innocent. Boyish, and curious.

The once evil. Murderous and commanded.

And now the broken. Desperate and needy-

The him that thought he would never be deserving

The one that didn't know how much he needed it

And now you were here.

In the bathroom of his apartment, kissing him like nothing else had ever mattered except for his simple existence in this ongoing world that doesn't coddle him. It never has.

But you-

You make it better.

Tolerable.

You make it real.

[feelingdozy]

I'm crying this is so amazingly written

about time

bucky barnes 𝐱 𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐞𝐫 

𝐭𝐚𝐠𝐬 / 𝐭𝐰 – 18+, MDNI, Time travel romance (accidental, unexplained), Slow burn and eventual smut, Soft Dom!Bucky (1940s and modern), Filthy Smut in multiple timelines, creampie, fingering, oral (F! receiving), Memory loss and recovery, Heartache and longing, Uniform kink / Sargent kink, Emotional intensity, Post-Winter Soldier trauma (referenced), Implied trauma from Hydra, Soft angst and emotional vulnerability

word count: 18k 

Summary:  Bucky Barnes never looked at you twice. Too cold. Too distant. Too focused on the mission. You were too much, he said—too loud, too close, too everything. So you stopped trying. Then you woke up in 1943. And he was there—James Buchanan Barnes, all charm and swagger and soft smiles, looking at you like you hung the stars. Flirting like it was breathing. Touching like he already knew your body. Calling you his girl. You told yourself it wasn’t real. That you couldn’t stay. But seven days in the past can ruin a person. Especially when the present is waiting. And when you come back? He remembers. All of it.

notes – not proofread. could have been like 40k words. inspired by an ask from the amazing @niinesb

Tags: @eeveedream @anxiousscribbling @pancake-05 @borhapparker @dreammiiee @benbarnesprettygurl @insidethegardenwall @butterflies-on-my-ashes @maplesyrizzup @rockwoodchevy @jasontoddswhitestreak @loganficsonly @overwintering-soldier @hits-different-cause-its-you

— reblogs comments & likes are appreciated

You weren’t exactly sure what you’d done to piss off James Buchanan Barnes.

Scratch that—you were sure. Absolutely nothing.

From the moment you were assigned to the New Avengers team six months ago, Bucky had been cold to you. Not cold like the others had warned—he didn’t brood in corners or snap like a feral animal. No, Bucky Barnes was cold in the way someone gets when they’ve already made up their mind about you. Dismissive. Clipped. Quick with an eye roll or a grunt, but never more.

He talked to everyone else on the team just fine. Friendly enough with Sam. Dryly funny with Yelena. Even gave Ava a half-smile now and then. But you? You were the ghost in the room.

The thorn in his side. The fly in his drink.

You’d tried to brush it off at first. Not everyone clicked immediately, right? But now, half a year into shared missions, debriefs, and long nights of tactical planning, the pattern was impossible to ignore. Every time you so much as opened your mouth, Bucky’s jaw clenched like he’d rather chew broken glass than hear your voice.

And honestly? It was starting to piss you off.

You were a good soldier. Smart. Quick. Sharp. You never gave him attitude, never pushed his buttons—not even when he deserved it. But his contempt had a weight now, digging into your shoulders like an extra pack you hadn’t trained for.

Which is how you ended up in the quinjet, hunched over a StarkPad, chewing the inside of your cheek, while Bucky sat across from you radiating icy silence.

The mission had been simple. Quick recon of a possible Hydra remnant site tucked in the mountains of Romania. In and out. Nothing serious. You were riding shotgun with Bucky because he was the only other one free. Lucky you.

He hadn’t spoken a word to you the entire flight. And you’d finally had enough.

“Hey, Barnes,” you said without looking up. “Question for you.”

His sigh was audible. Heavy. Like you were personally dragging him through hell.

“Do you hate me,” you asked, voice light, “or is this just your sparkling personality?”

You finally looked up to meet his eyes—and regretted it instantly.

Steel blue. Cold as a bayonet. He didn’t even blink.

“If I hated you,” he said slowly, “you’d know it.”

Oof. Okay.

“So it is your personality,” you muttered. That earned you a scoff. He turned back to the mission readout like you weren’t worth the energy. Something inside you cracked. A hairline fracture along a fault that had been building for months.

You tried again.

“I just don’t get it. You talk to everyone else. Laugh with them, even. But me?” You tilted your head. “I’m invisible unless I mess up. Which I haven’t, by the way. So what gives?”

Bucky didn’t answer right away. For a second, you thought he might actually ignore you again. But then he stood up with that heavy, silent grace, every inch of him thick with annoyance, and came to stand in front of you.

You didn’t flinch. But your spine locked straight.

He was tall. Broad. His vibranium arm glinted under the lights, catching in the shadows of his dark tactical jacket. His mouth twisted as he looked down at you—like just seeing you irritated him.

“You really wanna know?”

Your stomach tightened. But you nodded.

He exhaled slowly through his nose. Shook his head once like he couldn’t believe he was having this conversation. “You’re not my type.”

Silence.

That was it?

You blinked. “Excuse me?”

“You asked,” he said with a shrug. “That’s your answer.”

You stood up, toe-to-toe now. “So your issue with me is that I’m not—what? Fuckable enough to be worth talking to?”

His eyes narrowed. “Don’t twist it.”

“I’m not twisting anything, Barnes. You said it like it explained why you treat me like a damn ghost.”

He took a step closer, and for the first time, the tension in the air shifted. It wasn’t just cold—it was charged. Static and heat, friction and frost. “You want the truth?” he asked, voice low.

You swallowed, nodded again.

He leaned in slightly. “You’re loud. You talk too much. You care about people even when it’s not practical. You make jokes at the worst times. You have a tendency to take unnecessary risks just to make a point. And yeah,” he added, voice sharp, “you’re not my type.”

You tried to cover the hurt that sliced through you. Tried to hold your chin up, tried not to show it.

“Got it,” you said. “I’ll stop bothering you.”

You turned back to the StarkPad, heart stinging in your chest—but the rattle of turbulence snapped your attention forward.

“Brace,” Bucky barked, voice all soldier again. “Something’s—”

The quinjet shook violently. Alarms screamed. You felt the stomach-dropping lurch of altitude loss—but no fire, no explosion.

Just light.

Blinding, golden light ripped through the cabin like a living storm. You barely had time to gasp before everything went white.

-

When the world stopped spinning, your knees hit cobblestone. You gasped, sucking air into your lungs, fingers scraping against pavement. The sound of a horn blared nearby.

You blinked hard—once, twice, trying to make sense of the image forming around you. Streetlamps. Yellow taxis—not modern ones. Men in hats. Women in long skirts. Big band music drifting from an open window. A newsboy shouting something about a war.

And across the street, leaning against a lamppost with wide, stunned eyes…

…was Bucky Barnes.

But not the one you knew.

This Bucky looked younger. Cleaner. Shirt unbuttoned just enough to show a white undershirt beneath his leather jacket. Hair slicked, lips curled in a slow, curious smile as his eyes swept over you like you were the only thing worth looking at in the entire goddamn city.

Then he pushed off the lamppost, swagger in his step, and crossed the street with a grin so charming it nearly knocked the breath out of you.

“Well,” he said, voice smooth as bourbon, “ain’t you somethin’ out of a dream.”

You were still on your knees. Still breathless. Still gripping the edge of a time-shocked world where the air smelled like diesel and warm pretzels and before.

Your eyes scanned him like they were starving. It was Bucky—but brighter. Still heavy with muscle, but leaner than the man who’d grow into the soldier you knew. Hair combed back but falling in a rogue wave across his forehead. That smile? Easy and devastating. That voice? Playful. Brooklyn born and bred.

You opened your mouth to speak—and realized you had no idea what to say.

“Whoa, hey—” he stepped closer, crouching now, one knee hitting the cobblestone in front of you. “You alright, sweetheart?”

Sweetheart.

You choked on the lump forming in your throat. God, this was real. “Y-Yeah,” you rasped. “Just… lost my balance.”

He let out a soft laugh and offered his hand. “Lemme help you up.” His touch was warm—real—and so solid you could’ve sobbed. He pulled you to your feet like you weighed nothing, and you swayed, trying to adjust to the world around you.

Streetcars. People in fedoras and high-waisted skirts. Signs with war bond slogans. This wasn’t cosplay. This was Brooklyn. In the 1940s.

And this version of Bucky Barnes was still holding your hand.

“You sure you’re okay?” he asked again, scanning your face like he could read everything beneath your skin.

You nodded. “Yeah. I just… hit my head.”

“Might explain the outfit,” he muttered, eyes trailing down your tactical gear.

You looked down at yourself—black ops uniform, boots, StarkTech wristband—and winced. “Oh my God,” you whispered. “I look insane.”

“You look like the future,” he said, grinning again. “Which is workin’ for you, don’t get me wrong. Just… kinda makes me wonder if I hit my head too.”

He released your hand only to circle you once, eyeing the details. “I mean—damn, doll. You armed under all that?”

You choked out a laugh. “You have no idea.”

That made him smile wider. “I’m Bucky,” he offered, stepping in front of you again. “Bucky Barnes.”

The way he said it—like it should mean something—hit you in the ribs. You nodded slowly, lips twitching.

“Yeah,” you murmured. “I know.”

That made him pause. He tilted his head, curious. “Have we met?”

You shook your head quickly. “No. Just… heard about you.”

“Well,” he said, sliding his hands into the pockets of his jacket and eyeing you with clear, unfiltered interest, “can’t say I’d forget a face like yours.”

Jesus Christ.

You were going to pass out.

He looked at you like you were something he’d been waiting for without knowing it. Like he wanted to taste you and know your middle name and build you a life all in the same breath.

This Bucky hadn’t been broken yet. No Hydra. No war trauma. No cold walls or clipped tones. Just a guy who looked like he’d kiss you on the sidewalk and mean it.

“Well, you’re clearly lost,” he continued, glancing around. “And I’m a gentleman. Let me buy you a coffee while you, uh—figure out what year you think it is.”

You bit your lip. “You’re just gonna take in a strange woman who might be crazy?”

“Sweetheart,” he said, stepping in again, “I’ve done dumber things for less beautiful girls.” That shouldn’t have made your stomach flip. But it did. God help you. “Besides,” he added, low, “you don’t look crazy. You look scared.”

That shut you up. Hard.

He held your gaze for a long, quiet beat. “Come on,” he said finally, touching the small of your back. “Let’s get you warm.”

He took you to a corner diner two blocks away, all neon and tile and glass sugar dispensers. He ordered two coffees and a slice of cherry pie to split, because “you look like you need something sweet,” and when you sat across from him in the booth, he watched you like a man trying to memorize every blink.

“So,” he said, stirring his coffee. “You from around here? Or… very far away?”

You hesitated. But when you looked into those eyes—so open, so alive—you couldn’t lie. “Far,” you said quietly.

“How far?”

“Too far.”

His brows lifted. “Well damn, you speak in riddles, too. Guess I’ve got my work cut out for me.”

You smirked despite yourself.

His gaze softened. “You really okay?”

“No,” you admitted. “But I’m better now.”

Something flickered in his eyes. That was the moment, you’d realize later. That tiny second when something in him decided: Mine. “Tell you what,” he said, voice lower now. “You stick with me. I’ll get you through the week.”

“The week?”

“Yeah. However long you’re here. You let me take care of you, alright?”

Your throat dried. “Why?”

That grin again—slower this time. Hungrier. “‘Cause I like you,” he said simply. “A lot. And I’ve only known you fifteen minutes.”

You sat back, overwhelmed. This was him. Bucky. And he was everything the world had burned out of him in the years that followed. He was safe. Warm. And he already wanted you like it meant something.

“I don’t have anywhere to stay,” you said softly.

“I’ve got a couch,” he offered. “Or you can take the bed and I’ll sleep on the floor.”

You gave him a look.

He raised both palms, mock-innocent. “I swear on my Ma, sweetheart. I’ll be good for ya.”

“Something tells me you don’t like being good.”

That grin tilted wicked. “Wouldn’t you like to find out.”

Oh God.

You were in so much trouble.

-

Bucky didn’t let go of your hand after the diner. Not when he helped you into his coat because your tactical suit was turning heads. Not when he guided you across the crosswalk, throwing a wink over his shoulder. Not even when you hesitated in front of a department store window, caught by the sight of a 1940s dress that made your brain skip.

He saw your look, then turned to you with that grin again—like he’d found another excuse to spoil you. “You like that one?”

You blinked. “It’s… pretty.”

“Well then, doll,” he said, cocking a brow, “guess we’re going shopping.”

“Bucky—”

“Ah ah,” he cut you off. “Don’t argue with a man on a mission.”

You opened your mouth to protest—but he was already pulling you inside. Fifteen minutes later, you stood barefoot in a curtained stall, blinking down at yourself in the soft blue dress he’d picked: simple, elegant, with cap sleeves and a cinched waist. The reflection made your heart stutter. You looked like you belonged there.

You stepped out slowly. Bucky was leaning against a post near the register, hands in his pockets, hair ruffled from the wind outside. He turned, saw you—and stopped breathing.

“Jesus,” he muttered.

You glanced down. “Too much?”

He took a step forward. “You’re gonna kill a man walkin’ down the street in that.”

You flushed. “You really think so?”

“I know so,” he said, voice rougher now. “You’re the most beautiful damn thing I’ve ever seen.”

You didn’t know what to say. He looked at you like he’d touched heaven and found it soft and smiling in front of him. When he stepped closer, you half expected him to kiss you.

But instead, he ducked his head, and his voice dropped. “You want it?”

“I—”

He held up his hands. “I’ll get it. No strings, no pressure. Just figured… you deserve to feel good.”

You swallowed hard. “You don’t even know me.”

He met your eyes. “Then let me.”

-

The day passed like a fever dream. He took you to a street vendor for hot dogs with mustard so sharp it made your nose burn. Then ice cream—vanilla soft serve dipped in chocolate, and when you got a little on your lip, he wiped it with his thumb and licked it clean.

You swore you saw stars.

You wandered through Central Park, talking about everything and nothing. He told you about Steve, about the army, about Coney Island. You told him stories you twisted into sounding like fiction—space-age tech and high-stakes rescues and an apartment you were pretty sure didn’t exist yet.

He listened like it was the most interesting thing he’d ever heard. Like your voice could write constellations. At one point, he caught you smiling at him—really smiling—and said, “You got a laugh that’d bring a man to his knees, sweetheart.”

You blinked. “That a line?”

“Nah.” He grinned. “Lines are for dames who don’t matter.”

You flushed again. He was too good at this. Too warm, too easy, too much. And yet—he wasn’t pushing. Just circling you like he couldn’t help it.

As the sun dipped low, throwing warm pink across the skyline, he turned to you with a soft, boyish smile. “I know the perfect place to watch it set,” he said. “Come on.”

He brought you to a rooftop he claimed belonged to a friend of a friend. You had to climb a narrow iron staircase behind a row of brownstones, but when you stepped out onto the tarpaper and looked over the edge—it was breathtaking.

Brooklyn stretched below you like a sleeping beast. Orange-pink clouds curled above factory chimneys, and the river caught the light like molten gold.

Bucky spread out his jacket for you to sit on and unwrapped a still-warm pretzel from his coat pocket like a magician. “Thought ahead,” he said proudly. “Street vendor. Best in the borough.”

You laughed and took a bite. He watched you chew like it was pornographic. “What?” you said, grinning with your mouth full.

“Just,” he leaned back on his elbows beside you, “you’ve got this thing when you eat. Like it’s the first time. All soft eyes and quiet sounds. You’re gonna drive me insane, doll.”

You nearly choked.

His grin only deepened. “I’m serious. If you keep lookin’ at me like that, I’m gonna have to throw myself off this roof before I do something stupid.”

You turned to him fully, eyes scanning the boyish cut of his jaw, the shine in his hair, the slope of his neck where it met his collarbone. He was so alive. So untouched by what was coming.

Your voice was quiet. “You don’t even know me.”

“I know you’re brave,” he said. “You’re funny. You talk like you’ve been places no one else has. You walk like someone who’s used to leading. But your eyes?”

He leaned in, just slightly. “Your eyes look tired. Like they’ve seen too much.” You sucked in a breath. “And if you need someone to take care of you for a little while,” he whispered, “I’d like to volunteer.”

God. You didn’t say anything. You couldn’t. Your heart was thundering and you didn’t trust your voice. Instead, you leaned your head against his shoulder. And Bucky let out the softest sigh, like he’d been waiting all day for that.

As night fell, the stars came out—distant, cold, beautiful. Bucky shifted beside you and murmured into your hair, “I got a place not far from here.”

You lifted your head.

“You can crash there, seriously,” he added quickly. “Nothing funny. You’ll have a real bed. And I’ll be a gentleman.”

You searched his face. He meant it. He wasn’t pushing—he was offering. Safety. Warmth. Something dangerously close to kindness. 

You nodded slowly. “Okay.”

His smile could’ve lit the skyline. “Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

“Good.” He stood, held out his hand. “Let’s get you home, doll.”

You took it and didn’t let go.

Bucky’s apartment was on the third floor of a brick walk-up with uneven stairs and a door that stuck halfway shut. He kicked it open with the heel of his boot, holding the frame for you with one hand and flicking on the light with the other. It was small. Warm. A little messy in the way only boys could manage. Shoes tossed by the radiator. A stack of comics on the side table. One bed. One couch. A kitchen barely big enough for two people to stand in.

But it was home.

You stepped inside slowly, feeling out of place again. A time traveler in borrowed skin. Bucky watched you carefully. Not leer-like. Not calculating. Just… quietly fascinated.

“Sorry it’s nothin’ fancy,” he said, rubbing the back of his neck. “We make it work.”

“We?” you asked, turning to him.

Before he could answer, a soft, congested cough came from the bedroom. Then—

“Buck? That you?”

Your eyes widened. That voice. You’d know it anywhere. But when the man himself stepped out—tousled blond hair, thin limbs, big sweater sleeves pushed to the elbows—you nearly forgot how to breathe.

“Steve Rogers,” Bucky said proudly, motioning toward him like he’d just invented the guy. “My best pal. Steve, this is—uh…”

He turned to you, face flickering with sudden sheepishness. “…Actually, I don’t know your name.”

You blinked. “Oh.”

He looked… stricken. Steve coughed again. “Well, she’s beautiful, whoever she is.”

Bucky snapped his fingers. “That’s it. Beautiful.”

You rolled your eyes, trying not to blush. “It’s Y/N.”

Steve smiled, warm and wheezy. “Nice to meet you, Y/N.”

You nodded, still a little dazed. Pre-serum Steve Rogers stood five feet tall and maybe weighed 110 pounds soaking wet—but something about his quiet presence, his kind eyes, made the room feel safer.

“Y/N’s stayin’ the night,” Bucky added casually, like this was normal. “She had kind of a rough day.”

Steve gave him a look. “What kind of rough?”

“The kind we’re not askin’ about,” Bucky said gently, shooting you a glance. “She just needs a place to breathe.”

Steve nodded once. “Well. You’re welcome here.”

You swallowed. “Thanks.”

Bucky gave you his bedroom. He insisted—said the couch had “just the right spring for his back,” and besides, you needed it more. The sheets were clean. The room smelled like shaving cream and cedar soap. He tossed you one of his shirts to sleep in and left a glass of water on the nightstand.

“I’ll be out here if you need anything,” he said from the doorway, voice quiet now. “Bathroom’s to the left. There’s a spare toothbrush in the medicine cabinet. Might be a little stiff.”

You turned, shirt bunched in your hands. “Bucky?”

He paused. You looked at him, soft now. Small. The day had been dizzying, impossible. But he’d been real. Solid. Warm in a way you hadn’t felt in so long.

“Thank you,” you said.

Something passed through his eyes. He nodded once. “You’re safe here.” Then he pulled the door halfway closed. And you stood there in his shirt, holding your breath.

-

You didn’t sleep right away. Too much noise in your head. Too much ache in your chest.

Bucky’s scent was everywhere—clean and warm, like skin and cotton and the faint trace of motor oil. His pillow was soft. His bed was wide. And your body didn’t quite feel like yours.

You lay in the dark listening to the sounds of the city beyond the window, and then—closer—Bucky and Steve’s voices in the living room. Low. Murmured.

“Where’d you find her?”

“She kinda… fell into my arms.”

“No kidding.”

“Yeah. Wasn’t gonna let her sleep on the street, Steve.”

“…You like her.”

A pause.

“You know I’m not a love at first sight kind of guy, punk. But I do think she’s the most interesting girl I’ve ever met.”

“Does she know that?”

“Nope.”

“You gonna tell her?”

“…Not tonight.”

You bit your lip and rolled over, heart in your throat.

Hours passed. The city never slept. Neither did you. You kept thinking about the way he looked at you—like he couldn’t decide if you were real. Like he wanted you to be.

And it hit you, quiet and sharp: He didn’t know what was coming. Didn’t know what he’d be turned into. What he’d lose. What he’d become.

The Bucky you knew in your time was scarred. Hardened. Full of ice and metal and regret. He barely looked at you. Barely let himself want anything. But this Bucky? He had no armor yet. And he’d already given you his bed.

You didn’t know how long you could stay here. Not just in this apartment— in this time. In this skin that didn’t feel like it belonged to this era. In this borrowed warmth. In this strange, dizzying version of the world that had somehow wrapped you in velvet and soft jazz and the smell of motor oil and old books.

Every step you took beside Bucky Barnes felt like it might be your last. Every look he gave you—sweet, unguarded, curious—chipped away at your common sense like water carving out rock.

You knew the science. You knew enough about temporal anomalies and Stark’s tech and SHIELD’s experimental files to understand what might have happened. But that didn’t help you now. There were no labs. No comms. No breadcrumbs to follow.

Just him.

And God help you, he made you want to stop looking.

-

The day had passed like it belonged to someone else’s life. Bucky had taken you to bookstores where the pages smelled like old smoke and glue, and the clerk greeted him by name. He insisted on buying you a pocket notebook—“for all those riddles you speak in”—and grinned so wide when you took it that it almost hurt.

You’d laughed more than you had in months. Not the polite kind. Not the public kind. The real kind. The kind that cracked something open.

You didn’t let yourself think about your Bucky—not yet. The one in your time. The one who’d brushed you off like static. Who’d said you weren’t his type. Who’d looked through you like glass.

He was probably glad you were gone.

You weren’t naive. You knew when someone wanted you to disappear. He probably thought of your absence as a relief—less friction on the team, one less nuisance to endure. You doubted he’d even ask where you went. Why would he? You were forgettable, weren’t you? Loud. Reckless. Not his type.

But this Bucky? This Bucky bought you a fucking pretzel and smiled at you like he couldn’t wait to hear what you’d say next. And it was ruining you.

-

When he’d turned to you after lunch and said, “I wanna take you dancing,” you’d hesitated. Not because you didn’t want to—but because you did. Because you wanted to step into whatever he was offering and never look back. Because part of you—the part that was tired, aching, worn thin from years of tight grips and clipped words and gritted teeth—wanted this to be real. Wanted to lean into the warmth in his voice, the promise in his smile, and the easy safety of the world he lived in, where the most dangerous thing was falling too fast for someone you barely knew.

It terrified you.

You blinked up at him, standing there in the middle of the crowded sidewalk, the hum of the city buzzing behind him. His hands were in his coat pockets, hair catching the winter sun, mouth twitching like he already knew what you were going to say.

So you covered your heart with a joke. “Are you trying to win me over?”

He didn’t flinch. His grin widened—slow, lazy, a little dangerous—like he’d been waiting for the challenge.

“Is it working?”

You snorted softly, looking away. It was. Of course it was. You’d never been so seen—not by him, not by the version of him you knew in your time. This Bucky didn’t just notice you. He leaned into you. Flirted like it was breathing. Made you feel like the only woman on the sidewalk, in the city, in the whole goddamn decade.

Still, you rolled your eyes—kept your cool. “You’re laying it on thick.”

“You like it.”

You met his eyes. He wasn’t cocky, not really. There was no cruelty in his teasing. It was softer than that. Sweeter. Like he wanted to make you smile just to see how your face moved when you did.

“I’m not easy to win,” you said, voice quiet now. Serious.

His grin faded—not gone, just gentled. “I wouldn’t like you if you were.”

That made your chest ache. You hadn’t realized you’d stopped walking until he stepped in close, just enough to crowd your senses without touching you.

His voice dropped to something warm. Earnest. Almost shy. “I just wanna show you a good time. Somethin’ real. Something that makes you forget,” He paused, looking down. “Whatever it is you’re runnin’ from.”

Your breath caught. You hadn’t told him anything. Not really. But he knew. Somehow.

You nodded. Barely. Just enough. He took it like a promise.

“Good,” he said, softer now. “Because you deserve that, doll.” And he held out his hand. “Come on. I’ve got the perfect place.”

You hesitated one second longer, searching his face for anything that might betray his easy charm, some hint of ulterior motive. But all you saw was kindness. And curiosity. And a hope that felt almost too big for such a small, quiet moment.

So you took his hand and you didn’t let go.

-

The place he brought you to was tucked in the corner of a quiet block, down a narrow set of stairs behind a faded green door with a flickering neon sign overhead that just read The Blue Room. You might have missed it if he hadn’t pointed it out — it looked like a supply entrance for the bakery next door. But the sound leaking from the cracks in the brick said otherwise.

Inside, it was nothing like the polished lounges of your time. No pristine marble floors or LED lighting. No velvet ropes or high ceilings or overpriced cocktails in minimalist glasses. No one took your name. No one checked your ID. You just walked in, and the room breathed.

The floors creaked beneath your feet, well-worn and uneven from decades of dancing. The walls were a soft, tarnished gold. The lighting was low and warm, thick with the glow of amber sconces and the soft haze of cigarette smoke curling toward the ceiling. A saxophone moaned gently from the corner, weaving through the air like silk.

The room was full but not packed, humming with a low buzz of conversation and laughter. Soldiers in dress uniforms twirled girls in cherry-lipped smiles and pin-curled hair. Waitresses with trays full of glasses moved gracefully between tables, laughing at familiar jokes, winking at customers. A few men in suspenders and sleeves rolled to their elbows leaned at the bar, nodding along to the music. The rhythm of the place was slow, warm, alive — like a heartbeat.

You stood near the entrance, momentarily overwhelmed. It was beautiful. Not fancy. Not curated. Just human. A moment frozen in time, and for once, not in the terrifying way.

Then Bucky stepped up behind you, his presence as steady and grounding as ever. His hand slipped gently into yours, warm and calloused and easy. His breath brushed your ear. “C’mon,” he murmured. “We don’t have to do the fast ones.”

You turned your head slightly, startled. “I didn’t say yes.”

His voice was low, teasing. “You didn’t say no.”

You stared at him, deadpan. “I don’t know how to dance like this.”

His smile grew, slow and sincere. “You don’t have to. Just follow me.”

You weren’t graceful. The moment your feet hit the floor, it became clear that you were not going to be the belle of the ball. You stepped the wrong way on the first beat, nearly caught your toe under your own heel, and mumbled an apology under your breath.

But Bucky caught you. Both hands steady on your hips, he guided you easily, gently correcting your footing without a word. His touch was firm but not presumptuous — careful in the way of someone who knew how to lead without making it a performance.

“Hey,” he said softly, eyes locking with yours in a way that made your stomach flutter. “I got you.”

You believed him. And so, you followed. It wasn’t perfect. You fumbled once or twice, still too stiff, too aware of the people around you. But Bucky didn’t care. He never looked away from you. Never laughed at your missteps. He just kept smiling — not the cocky grin from earlier, but something gentler. Something that felt like care.

The music was slow enough that your body had time to adjust. You stopped worrying about the beat. About who might be watching. About anything except the pressure of his hand at your back and the slow, lazy sway of his hips as he pulled you gently into rhythm with him.

Your chest brushed his on the next turn. Your fingers curled in his hand. Your feet forgot to trip. And suddenly, the room disappeared. The lights, the laughter, the music — all of it melted away until there was only him. The solid weight of his body guiding yours. The quiet concentration on his face. The faint smile tugging at his lips like he was proud of you for trying.

You forgot the cold way your Bucky used to look through you like you were a noise he didn’t have time for. This Bucky was looking at you like you were something rare. Something wanted.

As the music slowed, so did the dance. The swing faded into a bluesy sway, and the air around you thickened. You drifted closer to him, feet finding him without thinking, hips brushing just enough to be felt. His arm moved lower on your waist. Not possessive. Not inappropriate. Just there. A promise. A question he wasn’t asking yet.

Your bodies met in that soft, electric way—not quite flush, not quite separate—like gravity was trying to stitch you together but hadn’t made up its mind yet.

His breath was warm at your temple. You felt him inhale. Felt his chest rise. “You’re a fast learner,” he murmured, voice like smoke and honey.

You smiled without meaning to. “You’re a good teacher.”

He let out a quiet chuckle. “Nah,” he said, eyes dropping to your lips, just for a second. “I just like holdin’ you.”

You should’ve pulled away but you didn’t. You stayed pressed to his chest, breathing in the scent of him—clean skin, worn cotton, cedar soap, and something unmistakably him. Something warm and masculine and steady, like a lighthouse in a storm.

You didn’t think. You didn’t speak. You felt like glass. Like one more touch might break you in half—not from pain, but from want.

The walk back to the apartment was quiet. Not awkward. Not heavy. Just… full. Every step was lined with things unsaid. You didn’t hold hands, but your arms kept brushing. Your shoulders bumped once. He looked at you like he wanted to speak, but never quite found the words. And you were glad for the silence. Because you didn’t trust yourself to say the right thing, either.

You were too full of him. His warmth. His voice. The ache in your chest from how easy he made it feel to be seen. Wanted. It wasn’t real. You knew that.

-

When you reached the front steps, Bucky opened the door for you like always, hand warm at the small of your back. You climbed the stairs side by side, but slower now.

Halfway up, he glanced sideways. “You cold?”

You turned toward him. His voice sounded almost shy now. Younger. You shook your head. “No. I’m okay.”

Still, he stopped. Unwrapped his scarf. And without asking, draped it gently around your shoulders. It was warm from his skin. It smelled like him. You swallowed hard, heart aching. He was killing you. Piece by piece.

Steve was already asleep when you entered. Curled on the couch like a question mark, blanket pulled halfway over his chest, one sock slipping off the edge of his foot. His mouth was slightly open. You smiled faintly.

Bucky leaned down, pulled the blanket up over his friend’s chest, and muttered, “Night, punk,” so soft you weren’t sure Steve even heard it.

Then he turned to you, thumb hooked in his belt loop, brow raised. “You can take the bed again.”

You stopped in your tracks. He did too. “…You sure?” you asked.

He nodded, calm. “Course.”

You stared at him. Everything in you boiling over. This man was letting you sleep in his bed. Cook in his kitchen. Take up space in his life like you belonged there despite knowing you less than 48 hours. And he hadn’t tried anything. Not once. Not a single move out of place.

He wasn’t trying to fuck you. He was just taking care of you. And you couldn’t take it anymore.

You turned, slowly. “I mean,” you said, voice barely above a whisper, “you don’t have to give it up every night. It’s your bed.”

He blinked.

You hesitated. Then, with heat rushing to your cheeks, you rushed out, “I don’t mind sharing.” His mouth opened. Closed. Opened again. You rushed ahead again before he could misread it. “You don’t have to be a gentleman,” you murmured. “But I know you will be.”

He stared at you like he was memorizing the way your lips moved. The way you looked when you offered him softness. “You sure, doll?”

You nodded once. “Yeah.”

His voice came out hoarse. Quiet. “Okay.”

You lay side by side in the dark. Not touching. Not speaking. The space between you stretched like a fault line. You could feel his presence — the heat of his body, the rise and fall of his chest, the unspoken tension thick in the air. You faced the wall. He faced the ceiling. And your thoughts were screaming.

You need to get back. You can’t stay here. This is a dream. It’s not yours. He’s not yours. And the Bucky who is? He probably doesn’t care.

You pulled the blanket higher. Bit your lip. You were starting to forget what it felt like to be unwanted. To be looked through. To be told—without words—that you were wrong. This Bucky made you feel like a miracle and you didn’t know how much longer you could stand it.

“Still awake?” he whispered.

“…Yeah.”

He shifted slightly beside you. Not toward you. Just enough to make his voice clearer. “I’m glad you came,” he said.

You stayed silent.

“Even if I don’t understand how,” he added. “Even if you vanish tomorrow. I’m still glad I met you.”

You turned your head slowly. He was staring up at the ceiling, hands folded across his stomach.

His voice was quieter now. “You make the room feel brighter.”

Your throat clenched. “You’re good at making people feel safe,” you whispered, surprised by how true it sounded.

He smiled, just barely. “I want you to feel that.”

You watched him breathe. One long, steady inhale. One soft, contented exhale. Then, almost reverently, you whispered, “Goodnight, Bucky.”

He closed his eyes. “Goodnight, doll.”

And somehow, in that borrowed bed, in that borrowed life, in a time that wasn’t yours… You felt more seen than you ever had in the world you left behind.

-

You woke to the sound of a pot clattering in the kitchen. It was still early. Pale morning light crept between the slats of the blinds, drawing soft gold lines across the bedsheets. You blinked slowly, adjusting to the world. The room smelled like toast.

Bucky was gone.

You sat up—stiff, dazed, wearing his shirt, the covers still warm where he’d slept beside you. Just sleep. Restful. Safe. The way he’d whispered goodnight, doll still echoed in your chest.

You padded out to the kitchen on bare feet, finding him hunched over the stove in a plain white tee, sleeves tight over his biceps. He looked domestic, casual—like something out of a magazine cover. He was humming, gently off-key, spatula in one hand, frying eggs in a pan that crackled under the weight of sizzling butter.

He turned at the sound of your footsteps. His smile was immediate. “Hey, sleepyhead.”

You folded your arms, leaning against the wall. “Are you always up before sunrise?”

“Army habit,” he said, flipping the egg with a little too much flourish. “Steve hates it.”

You grinned. “You’re making breakfast?”

“I’m makin’ you breakfast.”

That made your stomach twist. He slid a plate onto the table—eggs, toast, a sliver of jam. He even poured coffee into a chipped mug and added cream without asking, like he’d been paying attention.

“You didn’t have to do all this.”

“Wanted to,” he said simply. “It’s day three. Figured I had to impress you eventually.”

You tried not to let your smile grow too much. “You’re doing a good job.”

He looked down—sheepish now. Boyish. It made your chest ache. You ate together at the tiny table, knees brushing again. You talked about nothing and everything. He asked about your favorite music, your favorite food, your favorite season. He made up fake answers for himself when you refused to give too much away. He called you doll like it was your name and leaned in every time you laughed.

And when you told him—teasing, playfully—that he wasn’t as charming as he thought he was, he gave you a look so soft, so fond, that it knocked the breath out of your lungs.

“You’re trouble,” you whispered, gaze flickering down to his mouth without meaning to.

His voice dropped. “You keep lookin’ at me like that,” he said, “I’m gonna do somethin’ stupid.”

Your pulse spiked. You stood abruptly. “I should… brush my teeth.”

He stood with you. “Yeah. Right. I’ll clean this up.”

But as you turned toward the bathroom, his fingers caught your wrist.

“Hey.”

You paused. Turned. He didn’t speak — not right away. He just stared at you for a long, quiet second, eyes sweeping your face like he was trying to memorize it all before it slipped away. And then, slowly, he stepped closer. His voice was low. Careful. Nothing but honesty in it. “Can I kiss you?”

Your breath caught. He wasn’t teasing. He wasn’t playing. He wasn’t pushing. He was asking. You nodded. Just once. And then he kissed you like it meant something. Not greedy. Not showy. Just warm. His hand came up to your cheek, thumb brushing your skin as his lips pressed to yours. He tasted like coffee and sugar, and something about the way he breathed through his nose, like he didn’t want to scare you—it undid you.

You kissed him back. Softly. Gently. Once, and then again. And when you pulled back, he stayed close—forehead nearly resting against yours.

“I’ve been wantin’ to do that since you stumbled into my arms,” he whispered.

You smiled, heart racing. “Only took you three days.”

He grinned. “You’re a tough nut to crack.”

-

He dreamed of you. That was how it started. The second night after your disappearance, Bucky Barnes tossed and turned in a cold sweat, sheets tangled around his waist, a dull ache in his chest. He didn’t remember falling asleep—just the moment his eyelids closed, and suddenly there you were.

Spinning in his arms in some haze-lit dancehall, wearing a soft blue dress and a smile that should’ve stopped time. He saw the way your hem twirled, the curve of your mouth when you laughed, the exact shape of your hand in his. And he could feel it—the way you fit against him, the press of your waist under his hand, the ghost of your body flush to his.

He remembered wanting to kiss you. Desperately. Like it had been building for days, and the music had just slowed, and your lips were right there, soft and flushed and parted, and he was leaning in—

And then he woke up. Hard. Sweating. Angry. Not because the dream ended. But because it wasn’t a dream. Not really. It didn’t feel like one.

The next day, it got worse. He saw you. Not really—you were still missing, still gone, still ripped from the quinjet in a flash of light and chaos—but he saw you. Flickers. Glimpses.

The curve of your jaw in profile when he blinked too long.  The swish of a skirt that didn’t exist anymore. The echo of your voice calling his name—not with contempt, not with frustration, but fondly. Sweetly. The way no one ever did.

And then, just before dawn, another memory. He was standing in the kitchen, making coffee. And you walked in. Hair rumpled. His shirt on your frame. Bare legs. Sleepy eyes. You smiled at him like he hung the fucking moon. And he knew—knew—that you’d slept in his bed. That he’d pulled the covers over you. That you’d whispered Goodnight, Bucky and fallen asleep breathing against his chest.

It wasn’t real. It couldn’t be real. But he could feel the ghost of your body in his arms like it had been.

By the third full day, he was losing his grip. No one else seemed to notice.

Ava kept checking mission logs, trying to figure out what had happened. Yelena was deep in a debrief with Valentina, arguing over how to get you back if “they all just punch and shoot”. The team operated like a machine—even short one person—and no one had the time or bandwidth to question why Bucky had started pacing at night. Why his mouth was always half open like he was about to ask a question he didn’t understand. Why he kept whispering your name when he thought no one could hear.

But it was there. Gnawing. He couldn’t stop seeing it. The way your lips had looked in that blue dress. The way your eyes had closed when he leaned in to kiss you in the sunlight. The brush of your leg against his at the breakfast table. The soft gasp you gave when he kissed you again—unshaven, half-dressed, still tasting of coffee and sleep.

And the need he’d felt then—God, the need. He remembered wanting to bend you over the counter, morning breath and all. He remembered wanting to fuck you slow, messy, still dazed with sleep. Remembered wanting to say things to you he’d never said to anyone. He remembered your mouth on his, the small, surprised sound you made when he licked into you like he’d been starving.

But he didn’t. Because it never happened. Right?

He pressed his palms into his eyes hard enough to see stars. He didn’t know what the hell was happening. What the fuck kind of cruel hallucination this was. He hadn’t even liked you. Right?

You were loud. Reckless. Irritating. Always questioning him. Always lingering too long in rooms he wanted to be alone in. You smiled at everyone like you weren’t afraid of breaking. You cared. And he’d hated that. Because he couldn’t care. Not then. Not when it meant letting someone see how fucking lonely he really was. But now? Now you were gone. And he couldn’t stop tasting you.

He jerked off to the memory that night. Couldn’t help it. His hand was rough. Quick. Angry. He grunted your name once and bit it back the second time, hand flying faster over his cock like he could chase the feeling down. He remembered how your lips had felt when he’d kissed them. How warm you’d been in his arms. The sound of your laugh. The way you whispered stay when he offered to sleep on the floor.

And he came hard—faster than he meant to. Spilling into his hand with a breathless, broken groan. When it was over, he sat there, hunched and shaking, guilt rotting him from the inside out. Because if none of it was real… Why did it hurt like it was?

He didn’t sleep again that night. He just stared at the ceiling. Waiting for the next memory. Waiting for you.

-

You woke before him. His arm was heavy around your waist, anchoring you to the bed. His chest pressed warm to your back, breath slow and steady against your neck. For a moment, you just lay there, eyes closed, letting yourself believe it was real. That this was your life. That you belonged to this time. To him.

You didn’t. You knew that. But God, you wanted to.

You turned your head slowly, just enough to catch a glimpse of him in the morning light. Hair tousled. Lips parted. Brow relaxed in a way you hadn’t seen in your own time. There was no weight on him here. No decades of pain. No Hydra. No Winter Soldier. Just a man who kissed you like he wanted you.

And he did. He proved it every time he handed you coffee before you asked. Every time his fingers brushed yours a second too long. Every time he said your name like he was trying it on his tongue just to see how it tasted.

That morning, when he woke, he blinked at you sleepily, hand tightening at your hip. “Hi,” he rasped, voice rough and warm.

You smiled. “Hi.”

“You’re still here.”

You blinked. “You thought I wouldn’t be?”

He swallowed. “Didn’t know if I’d dreamt it.”

Your breath caught. “I’m real.”

“Yeah,” he whispered, cupping your cheek. “You are.”

He kissed you like it was the only thing that mattered.

-

You didn’t leave the apartment that day. The rain came early, whispering against the windowpanes in a steady rhythm, soft enough to ignore but constant enough to quiet the world outside. The city moved on without you. For once, that felt like a blessing.

You sat together on the couch, legs curled beneath you, one of Bucky’s tattered paperbacks in your hands. Something about spies or gangsters or both—you hadn’t been paying attention. Not really. Not with the way his thigh brushed yours, solid and warm, every time he shifted to turn a page.

He was beside you, reading something well-loved, the spine bent like it had been cracked a hundred times. He didn’t say much. Just hummed sometimes—soft and low—or tapped his fingers along the margins like the silence needed something to hold.

At one point, he leaned forward, reached for a slice of sandwich from the plate on the coffee table, and held it out to you without looking up.

You blinked. “That for me?”

“No,” he said dryly. “I was feeding the ghost.”

You grinned and took it, letting your fingers brush his just long enough to feel the tension curl between your knuckles. He smirked but didn’t comment.

Later, when Steve finally returned—soaked to the bone, arms full of groceries—he dropped the bags, muttered something about the sidewalk being a “goddamn ice rink,” and disappeared into the bathroom.

You were half-finished with your second sandwich when Bucky rose from the couch, disappeared into the kitchen, and returned with the wooden spoon from the drying rack. You barely noticed until you heard the crackling static of a record player, the soft scratch and warble of something old and velvety rising beneath the hiss.

Then came Ella Fitzgerald.

He didn’t say anything. He just stood in the middle of the room in his socks and undershirt, raised the spoon to his lips, and started lip-syncing dramatically to Dream a Little Dream of Me.

You choked on your bite, clapping a hand over your mouth as he reached for an imaginary note in the air like he was singing onstage at the Apollo. When he turned and pointed to you—brows raised, doing the finger waggle like he was flirting with a thousand-person audience—you lost it. Laughter burst out of you, sharp and real and loud, curling your spine over your knees as tears pricked the corners of your eyes.

Then Steve walked out of the bathroom—towel around his neck, expression already tired—and stopped dead. He looked at Bucky. He looked at the wooden spoon. He looked at you, curled up, breathless from laughing. Then he just turned around and walked back into the bathroom without a word.

That only made it worse. You laughed until you couldn’t breathe. Bucky bowed deeply, grinning. “I take requests, sweetheart.”

-

Long after Steve had fallen asleep on the couch, you found Bucky standing in the kitchen. The apartment was quiet, the only sound the soft, steady drip of the leaky sink and the occasional creak of the old wood beneath your bare feet.

He hadn’t turned on the main light. Just the one above the sink—a narrow golden glow that softened the corners of the room and turned him into a silhouette carved in amber. He was barefoot, leaning over the counter, sleeves pushed to his elbows, two glasses of water resting beside his hand.

You stood in the doorway for a beat too long just watching him. The slope of his back. The breadth of his shoulders. The way his hair curled at the nape of his neck. He looked tired. But not heavy. Not like your Bucky.

He looked real. And for a second, you wanted to tell him. Everything. Who you were. What year it was. Why the way he looked at you now was going to break something open in you for  a man who didn’t even know he had a heart left. 

But instead, you stepped into the kitchen. Quiet. Barefoot. He turned before you could speak. And for a moment, he just looked at you. Really looked. Hair tousled. Eyes soft. Cotton pants slung low across your hips, the cotton of his undershirt slipping off one shoulder, collar loose enough to bare the line of your neck and the dip of your collarbone. You didn’t speak either. You didn’t need to.

He set both glasses down, stepped forward, and reached for your hand. You didn’t ask where the music came from. Maybe it was playing faintly from the radio left on low in the living room. Maybe it was just in his head. Maybe in yours. It didn’t matter.

He pulled you in close, one hand curling around your waist, the other lifting your hand to his chest. No one said a word. He spun you once, slow—no rhythm, no technique, just instinct and want—and when you turned back into him, you stayed there. His chest to yours. Your cheek brushing the warm cotton of his shirt, right over his heart. You felt it. The way it sped up. The way it kept time for both of you.

He didn’t make a move. Didn’t lean in. Didn’t kiss you. He just held you. Let you sway with him in the soft gold of the kitchen, your bare feet stepping with his in unspoken rhythm. You fit against him like you’d been built to. After a minute, he whispered your name. Just once.

You looked up. He didn’t kiss you. Not yet. He just stared. Stared at you like he already felt time slipping away. Like you were the only thing keeping him tethered. Like he wanted to memorize this moment — this version of you, in his shirt, in his arms, in the low light of a life that hadn’t been shattered yet.

Your breath hitched as you said, quietly, “Bucky.”

That was all it took. He kissed you slow. Hands on your jaw, tilting your face up, thumbs brushing your cheeks like you might break if he pressed too hard. His mouth was warm and tentative at first, like he was asking a question with every touch of his lips. But you answered it. You kissed him back. Messy. Needy. And then it all unraveled.

He groaned into your mouth, pulled you up into his arms, and walked you backward toward the bedroom without breaking the kiss. He didn’t drop you. Didn’t toss you onto the bed. He laid you down. Reverent. Gentle. Like he’d been handed a miracle. His body came over yours, all heat and muscle and quiet restraint. But his hands — God, his hands were shaking.

“You’re sure?” he asked, voice hoarse, like it hurt to speak.

“Yes,” you nodded, eyes shining.

That broke something in him. He undressed you like he was unwrapping something precious. Not a single sharp motion. Not a single impatient yank. He ran his fingers up your thighs like he was learning your shape. Dragged his knuckles along the underside of your breasts like he’d never touched softness before. When he finally stripped off his own shirt, you saw him bare for the first time — strong, solid, scarred in the way only a soldier can be. But his eyes were soft. Gentle. Starved.

He kissed his way down your stomach like it was sacred ground. His palms flattened along your hips as he settled between your legs, broad shoulders pressing your thighs apart. You could barely breathe—not with the look in his eyes, not with the reverent heat of his breath just above where you ached.

“Spread those pretty legs for me, baby,” he said, voice low and steady, as though it was the simplest request in the world.

You obeyed. You had no choice. Bucky slid his hands behind your knees and pushed—gently, but firm enough to open you wide for him. His eyes dropped to your glistening folds, and for a second, he just stared. He looked hungry.

He let out a quiet groan, like the sight of you alone was too much. “Goddamn,” he muttered, dragging his thumbs along your inner thighs. “You always get this wet when a man treats you right?”

You swallowed hard. “No one’s ever—”

He glanced up. His face changed. “No one’s ever what, doll?”

You hesitated. Flushed. “No one’s ever… taken their time.”

His brow twitched. Then he leaned in—slow, nose dragging up your slit without touching, just breathing you in. “Then they were all fools,” he rasped. He licked you once—one slow, devastating stroke from your dripping entrance to the swell of your clit—and you nearly came off the bed. He chuckled, low and dark. “Easy,” he murmured. “Ain’t even started yet.”

His tongue circled you with precision—soft and teasing at first, then firmer, wetter, focused. His lips wrapped around your clit and sucked, slow and rhythmic, like he wanted it from you. You whimpered, hips arching, but his arm came across your waist, pinning you down.

“None of that,” he said against your skin. “Stay right there, baby. Let me do my job.” Then his fingers came into play. One thick digit slipped inside you, slow and careful. “God, you’re tight,” he groaned, knuckle-deep already. “Squeezin’ me like a vice. You sure you want all of me tonight?”

You moaned helplessly. “Yes—fuck, please—”

He added a second finger. You gasped. He grinned. “Better hold on,” he murmured, fingers curling just right. “Got a rule, sweetheart. My girl always cums first.”

His mouth dropped back to your clit as his fingers began to move — slow pumps, twisting, searching, finding that perfect spot that made you see stars. When he hit it, he knew. “Oh yeah,” he breathed. “Right there, huh? That’s your spot. Look at you, baby. Look how good you take my fingers.”

You were babbling now, legs trembling, hands in his hair as he worked you open. He groaned when you tugged hard. “That’s it, sweetheart. Use me. Come on. I wanna feel you gush on my fuckin’ hand.” His lips suctioned over your clit as his fingers thrust faster, curling harder, and your back arched.

“Bucky—oh God—”

“Cum for me, doll,” he growled into your cunt. “Come on. Soak me. Show me how sweet this pussy is.”

And you did. You shattered around him with a cry, thighs shaking, nails dragging down his shoulders as your orgasm tore through you like a tidal wave. He didn’t stop. Not until you whimpered his name in broken gasps, trying to pull away. Only then did he lift his mouth—slick on his chin, pupils blown wide—and smile down at you like he’d just stolen heaven from the gods.

“Still want me inside?” he asked, voice hoarse and reverent.

“God, yes.”

Then he rose above you, bracing his weight on one forearm as he looked down—and for a moment, he didn’t move. He just hovered there, eyes fixed where your bodies met, the flushed tip of his cock glistening against your soaked entrance.

Your legs wrapped around his waist almost without thinking, your thighs trembling from the orgasm he’d just pulled out of you. You felt boneless, undone—but greedy. He dragged the head of his cock through your slick folds once, twice, catching at your clit with a low hiss through his teeth.

“You’re takin’ me so good already,” he murmured, voice gone husky and reverent, like he was in awe of you. “Pussy so wet for me… she knows who she belongs to, huh?”

“Bucky,” you whimpered, fisting the sheet beside you.

He met your eyes. And then—finally—he pushed in. Slow. Deep. Thick. You gasped at the stretch, your mouth falling open as he filled you inch by inch, the pressure stealing your breath. It was too much — and not enough. It was perfect. His cock was hot and hard and wide, dragging against every sensitive nerve inside you, and still he kept going, hips sinking until he bottomed out.

You felt it. Felt him press so deep it made your stomach flutter, made your chest tighten, made your eyes sting. Your body opened for him like it had been waiting—not just for someone, but for him.

His mouth dropped open as he bottomed out, forehead pressing to yours, both of you gasping in the dark. “Fuck,” he choked out. “So tight… baby, you feel that? Feels like heaven. Like you were made for me.”

You could only nod, breath ragged. He didn’t move at first. Just held there, buried to the hilt, like he was trying not to fall apart. Like the moment deserved silence. Like your body deserved worship. Then—gently—he pulled back. And thrust in again. Slower than before. Deeper. Like he was memorizing every second. You moaned, hips rising to meet him.

“Attagirl,” he whispered, his voice low and wrecked. “That’s it. Take it. Let me in, baby. Let me love you right.”

And he did. He rocked into you with a rhythm that was patient and deliberate, the kind that said I’m not just fucking you—I’m keeping you.

His hand found yours, fingers lacing together as he drove deeper, grounding you, tethering you to him like he couldn’t bear the thought of letting go. “Never had it this good,” he rasped against your neck. “You know that? Never felt anything close to this.”

You were crying, just a little—from the fullness, from the sweetness, from the way he kissed your tear when it slipped down your cheek.

“Beautiful fuckin’ girl,” he groaned. “My sweet little doll. You’re perfect. Perfect.” Every time he thrust, your breath caught. His hips rolled, slow and heavy, grinding you open. He shifted one hand down between your bodies and rubbed your clit in gentle circles, and you cried out, arching into him.

“Gonna cum for me again?” he whispered, lips brushing yours. “C’mon, sweetheart. Wanna feel you milk my cock. Wanna feel that sweet pussy squeeze me while I tell you how good you are.”

“Bucky—”

“That’s it. Say my name. Cum on it. Soak me. Show me how much you love this.”

And when you broke again—shattering, spasming, sobbing into his mouth—he felt it. He fucked you through it, slower now, hips stuttering as your body clung to his. Then he groaned, long and low, and you felt the heat of him spill inside you, thick and deep and endless. He stayed buried in you. Panting. Shaking. His lips brushed your temple. Then your cheek. Then your mouth.

“I’ve got you,” he whispered hoarsely. “I’ve got you, doll. Always. Just stay with me.”

And even though neither of you said it. you both knew it was more than a fuck. More than a fever dream. It was a promise. Even if time didn’t keep it.

-

It started in the margins. Barely-there flickers at the corners of your vision. The strange chill in your bones that didn’t match the weather. A shimmer in the mirror when you looked too long. A brief, pulsing hum beneath your skin — like your body could already feel time starting to catch up.

You didn’t tell him. Not at first. Because how could you? Because last night, he held you like he had all the time in the world. Touched you like he’d been born to know your body. Fell asleep with your face tucked under his jaw, one arm curled around your waist, a soft, tired kiss pressed to your forehead in the dark.

You woke up to birdsong and his breath at the back of your neck, and for a few aching seconds, you forgot what year it was. Forgot about the man who’d let you fall through the cracks of the future. Forgot everything except this boy — this man — who worshiped you with his hands, with his voice, with every careful kiss like he wanted to build a home in your skin.

Then the knock came. Three short raps against the door.

“Buck?” Steve’s voice, muffled. “It’s the Lieutenant.”

You felt him tense behind you. His fingers gripped your hip once, then slipped away. He stood slowly, bare feet on creaking wood. He looked down at you, eyes shadowed. Said nothing. But you saw it.

The shift. The war creeping back in. The seconds slipping. He got dressed in silence. Uniform laid out on the edge of the bed, ironed within an inch of its life. You sat up slowly, knees pulled to your chest, one of his shirts clutched tight around your body.

He tried to smile. “You gonna miss me, doll?” he asked, light and low, smoothing a hand through his hair in the mirror.

You swallowed. “You’ll only be gone a few hours.”

“Still worth missin’, ain’t I?”

You didn’t answer. Not with words. Instead, you rose, stepped up behind him, and wrapped your arms around his waist. You laid your cheek between his shoulder blades, fingers clutching the fabric of his jacket like you could hold him in place. He turned in your arms. Tipped your chin up and kissed you slow. Not rushed. Not goodbye. Just slow.

His fingers threaded into your hair. His thumb brushed your cheek. And when he pulled back, he searched your eyes. “Promise me you’ll be here when I get back.”

You opened your mouth. Stopped. Then nodded.

He nodded too. But the look in his eyes—it wasn’t sure. You watched him leave from the window.

He paused once on the street, tilted his head back like he could feel you watching, and lifted a hand in a lazy, cocky salute. Then he turned and disappeared into the late-morning light.

And suddenly the apartment was too quiet. The edges of things started to blur again—just a little. The shadows stretched longer. Your reflection in the glass flickered, unfamiliar. You sat on the bed and curled your arms around your knees.

I don’t want to go. But you could feel it now. Like static in your bones. Like a slow, rising tide. Time wasn’t going to ask permission. It was coming. And you didn’t know how much longer you had.

-

You didn’t hear the door open. But you felt it. The moment he crossed the threshold, the air in the apartment shifted. Like gravity remembered what it was meant for. You turned from the kitchen—heart already pounding—just as the floor creaked behind you. And there he was. Framed in the doorway. Rain-spattered and flushed from the cold. His jacket was still buttoned, dog tags swaying from his neck, dark hair slicked back except for one piece that had fallen across his forehead. His eyes found you instantly.

And he froze. Took a single step forward and the door fall shut behind him. “You wait up for me, doll?”

Your throat went dry. He looked dangerous. That uniform—olive green, pressed, perfect—stretched across his broad chest like it belonged there. The patches on his sleeve. The shine of the brass. The belt cinched tight across his waist.

You nodded slowly. “Yeah.”

He moved closer. Bootsteps measured. “You been thinkin’ about me, sweetheart?”

You backed into the counter as he approached, nodding again—heart hammering so loud you could barely hear your own voice. “All day,” you whispered.

He made a soft sound. Something like a growl. Then his hands were on your waist, spinning you around, bending you over the kitchen counter with a controlled kind of force that made you gasp.

“You know what this uniform means, right?” he rasped against your ear. “Means I make the rules, doll.”

You nodded, breathless.

“Means you say yes when I give an order.”

“…Yes, Sarge.”

That did it. He groaned — full-bodied, filthy — and shoved your panties down in one rough motion, his palm dragging up between your legs. “Fuck, baby. Still so wet for me.”

He didn’t give you time to answer. Just dropped to his knees, shoved your thighs apart, and buried his face between your legs like he’d dreamed about it all day. “Been thinkin’ about this sweet little cunt since I left,” he growled, tongue dragging through your folds. “Missed the taste of you. Thought about you drippin’ all over my cock while I sat in that cold-ass truck, pretendin’ I wasn’t hard as a fuckin’ rifle.”

You moaned—loud, shameless—and he spanked your ass once, just enough to make you yelp.

“Keep still,” he snapped. “Let me fuckin’ eat.” And he did. Tongue firm and fast, his mouth latching to your clit with filthy, practiced hunger. His fingers slid into you deep and curling, finding that spot that made you cry out—legs shaking, cheek pressed to the counter.

“That’s it, baby. That’s it. Fuckin’ cum on my face. Let me feel you.” You broke like a wave, clenching around his fingers, panting his name like a prayer. But he didn’t stop—just grunted against your pussy, tongue dragging up everything he’d coaxed out of you.

By the time he stood, your knees were buckling. He undid his belt with one sharp motion, the clink of the buckle echoing through the kitchen like thunder. Then he shoved his trousers down just enough, wrapped a hand around the base of his cock, and slammed into you in one deep, devastating thrust.

You screamed. He groaned—guttural and raw—then bent over your back, panting into your neck. “Fuck, sweetheart. You feel that? That’s your pussy stretchin’ around your Sarge’s cock. You take it like you were born for it.”

You couldn’t speak. Could barely think. He was fucking you hard now, deep and relentless, still in his uniform—jacket straining, tags hitting your back, boots still on. His hand fisted in your hair, pulling your head back. “Say it,” he growled. “Say who owns this pussy.”

“You—Bucky—fuck—Sarge—”

“That’s right. You’re my girl. My sweet little thing. This pussy’s mine. I earned it.”

You were close again—too fast—sobbing with how full you felt. He wrapped an arm around your waist and pulled you upright, still fucking into you from behind. His other hand covered your throat, fingers pressing just enough to make your head spin.

“Wanna cum again?” he whispered, mouth against your ear. “Gonna let me feel this pretty cunt squeeze me while I fill you up?”

“Yes— Sarge, please!”

He growled. Then slammed into you harder. “Cum.” He ordered. 

You shattered. Came so hard your vision went white, your body trembling in his arms, and he groaned—loud and broken—as he emptied into you with a few rough, desperate thrusts.

“Fuck— take it, baby, take all of it, that’s it, sweetheart—God, you’re so perfect for me. Never letting you go.” And when it was over, he collapsed against your back, breathing hard, pressing kisses to your shoulder as you both trembled. He didn’t pull out right away. Didn’t let you go. Just held you there—full, spent, loved. Then whispered, like it broke something in him, “Don’t go while I’m gone tomorrow.”

-

He fell asleep with his face tucked into your chest, one hand fisted in your shirt, the other curled beneath your ribs like he was afraid of letting go. His breathing was slow now. Deep. But not peaceful — not entirely. Even in sleep, he held you with too much need. Like his body knew something he didn’t. Like it sensed the way time frayed at the edges of this moment. Like it was bracing for a goodbye it didn’t have words for.

You smoothed your fingers gently through his hair, watching the lines on his face relax in the dim amber of the bedside lamp. His lashes brushed your skin. His mouth, that filthy, reverent, hungry mouth, was parted against your collarbone, soft breaths spilling onto your skin like prayer.

God, he was so young like this. Unburdened. Untouched by war, by pain, by the endless weight of guilt you knew he’d carry one day. There were no ghosts in his eyes yet. No metal arm. No frozen decades of silence and screaming. Not yet. And it ached. Your throat burned because you knew what was coming. You knew what the world would do to him.

How it would carve the softness from his voice. How it would dull the light in his eyes. How it would twist his memories and make him doubt every good thing he’d ever been. Every kind word. Every instinct to love. Every night he ever held someone like this. Held you like this. And you couldn’t stop it. Couldn’t protect him from the decades that would follow.

But God, you wanted to. You blinked back tears and pulled the blanket higher around you both, trying not to think about how your time here was running out. How it would happen tomorrow. Or the day after. How you would wake up, or fall asleep, or blink, and suddenly this version of him—this warm, open, man—would be gone.

And in his place? The man you left behind. The man who barely looked at you. The man whose voice was a blade. The man who’d scoffed at your jokes and narrowed his eyes when you spoke and clenched his jaw every time you so much as entered the room.

You used to think he hated you. You used to believe it—really believe it. But now? Now you weren’t so sure. Because when you looked at this Bucky—the one asleep in your arms—you could feel it. The truth of him. That hidden, aching softness. That same bite. That same stubborn mouth and steel spine. But layered with something else, too—something gentle. Something good.

And maybe… Maybe that version of him—the one in your time—still had this softness buried somewhere. Buried deep beneath the decades. Buried beneath Hydra and blood and silence and shame. Maybe he still remembered how to touch you like this. Maybe he wanted to. Maybe he had once, long ago, before the world broke him in half.

You pressed your lips to his temple—so softly he didn’t stir—and let your eyes fall shut. You could fall in love with this version so easily. You already had.

-

It started with the air. Still and strange. Like the apartment was holding its breath.

You felt it before you opened your eyes — the prickling across your skin, the pressure in your chest, the hum beneath your ribs like a string being pulled tight.

No sound. No birds.

Just time, waiting.

You turned your head and found him still beside you — bare-chested, tangled in the sheets, one arm thrown over your stomach. He was half-buried in sleep, lips parted, lashes casting shadows across his cheeks. Peaceful. For now.

You watched him for a long time. Memorizing the slope of his nose, the fullness of his mouth, the creases in his brow that hadn’t hardened yet. The boy inside the man. The one the future would forget.

But you wouldn’t.

You could never.

Because you loved him now.

You loved him.

Even if you never got to say it.

-

It got worse as the sun rose. The shimmer started in the corners of the room—not light, not shadow, something else. A pulse in the air. A fraying of edges. The wall by the window flickered once, twice—like a tear in the fabric of now.

Time was pulling.

No. Not yet. Please.

You sat up with a gasp. His arm slipped from your stomach. He stirred, frowning.

“Bucky,” you whispered, voice already cracking. “Wake up.”

He groaned softly. “Mmm… what time is it?”

“I think— I think it’s happening.”

His eyes snapped open. “What?”

You couldn’t answer. Because the wall across the room was glowing now—pulsing gold, thin and bright and wrong.

He followed your gaze and understood.

“No,” he breathed. “No, no, no—not yet.”

You were already crying.

He sat up fast, hands cupping your face. “Tell me how to stop it. Tell me how to keep you.”

“I don’t know.” You sobbed. “I don’t know.”

“Then stay,” he rasped. “Please. Just stay. I’ll take you somewhere far—off-grid. I'll desert. We’ll figure it out, I swear. Just—”

“Buck,” you whispered, shattering. “I can’t. I think— I think I was never supposed to stay. I think it’s taking me back.”

He was shaking his head. Still denying it. His fingers curled tighter in your hair. “No. No, I just got you. My girl.”

You were both crying now. The glow spread. The air buzzed.

You pressed your forehead to his. “I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be sorry. Be with me. Please—” He crushed his mouth to yours, kissing you hard, wet, desperate. His hands slid down your back, gripping you like he could hold you here. “Just one more time. Let me—please—I need—”

You kissed him back and nodded.

“Okay,” you whispered. “One more.”

You made love like it was a promise. Like it was the last chapter of a book neither of you wanted to finish.

No rush.

No frenzy.

Just him.

Moving over you—slow, reverent—slipping inside like he’d done it a hundred times before. Like your bodies had been made for this exact kind of goodbye.

He braced over you, cradling your face in both hands as he sank into you, a groan clawing out of his chest as your body welcomed him. “Still so tight, baby,” he whispered against your lips. “Still mine. All mine.”

You cried beneath him. Tears rolling hot into your hair. Wrapping your legs around his waist, threading your fingers into his hair, clutching him closer like you could keep him. Like holding him tighter might anchor you here.

He fucked you in long, aching strokes. His forehead pressed to yours. Breath shaking. Mouth trembling. “You feel so good, sweetheart,” he rasped. “Gonna miss this. Miss you. I don’t wanna forget. Don’t wanna forget you.”

“You won’t,” you whispered.

But he shook his head—like he didn’t believe you. Like he was already trying to memorize every inch of your face.

And something cracked inside you.

“Listen to me, Bucky,” you said, voice trembling. “You can’t forget. No matter what happens. No matter what the world takes from you—don’t let it take this.”

He stilled for just a moment—eyes locked on yours, confusion flickering deep behind the glassy haze of lust and heartbreak. “What are you talkin’ about—?”

“You have to hold onto this,” you breathed. “Please. To this bed. This morning. This touch. This—us. Because the world is going to hurt you. It’s going to take things from you you don’t even know how to name yet.”

He shook his head again. “No. Don’t—don’t say that—”

“But you have to fight. Even if you don’t know why, even if you can’t remember my name—you have to feel me. Somewhere. Please.”

He went still. Like your words punched straight through him. Then he kissed you—open-mouthed, crushing, broken. And he started moving again—deeper now. Slower. Each stroke a kind of vow.

“I won’t forget,” he whispered. “I swear to God, doll—I won’t.”

You cried harder. “I love you,” you said suddenly—unguarded, wild. “I love you. I don’t care if it’s only been a week. I don’t care if I never see you again. You need to know that. You need to feel that.”

“I do,” he said, voice wrecked. “I do, baby. I feel it. I feel all of it. Every time I touch you—fuck—every time I hear you say my name.” He kissed you deep. “Say it again,” he begged.

“Bucky—” you panted.

“Again.”

“Bucky. My Bucky.”

He moaned deep in his throat—and that was it. He came inside you with a sound that shattered something between you, clutching your body to his like he could fuck the memory of you into his bones.

He held you through it. Mouth against your skin. Trembling. “Gonna find you again,” he whispered. “Even if I forget—I’ll find you. I’ll feel you in my hands. I’ll taste you in my dreams. You’ll always be mine, doll. Always.”

And you—

You kissed him like the world was ending.

Because for you, it was.

-

The bed was still warm when he woke up alone. Bucky sat up slowly, chest heaving, eyes already stinging.

Your side of the sheets sat empty. Not rumpled. Not tucked back in. Just… gone. Like you had never been there. His hand found the hollow you’d left behind and pressed into it, hard. Like he could wring the memory back from the cotton. Like he could keep you there through sheer will.

You had warned him. He knew. But nothing could’ve prepared him for the weight of it. The absence.

The apartment was too quiet. Too clean. Too fucking cold.

He stood, bare-chested, dog tags swinging against his chest, and paced the room like a man trying to retrace his own shadow.

Then he stopped and reached for the small drawer in the nightstand. He fished out a pen and ran into the kitchen. He tore a piece of paper from the back of Steve’s sketchbook. His hands were trembling as he wrote. Ink blotting at the corners where his grip shook too hard.

But he didn’t stop. He wrote it all.

Your name.

Your voice.

Your laugh.

The way you had looked the first time you’d danced with him barefoot in the kitchen. The way you had cried when he made love to you the last time—like you were etching the memory into your soul.

He wrote how your fingers felt tangled in his hair. How you clung to him when you came.

How you had warned him, begged him to remember. To fight. And he wrote that he would. That no matter what happened—no matter what came for him—he would hold on to this.

To you.

He folded the note carefully. Pressed a kiss to it. And tucked it into the lining of his jacket pocket—the one he always wore.

He would keep it close. Even if he forgot. Even if the war chewed him up and spit him out.

Even if the world stripped away his name, his mind, and his mercy—somewhere, buried deep in muscle and bone, you would remain.

-

He woke up choking on your name. Not a scream. Not a gasp. A whisper. Ragged. Crushed. Alive.

His body jolted upright in the dark, drenched in sweat, heart galloping like it was still inside you, still chasing your pulse. His sheets were tangled. His fists clenched. And his cock—hard. Throbbing. Still aching for you like it hadn’t been decades. Like you were still beneath him, soft and wet and whispering Bucky, my Bucky, over and over like a benediction.

He dragged a shaking hand over his face.

No.

No, no, no—

It hadn’t been a dream.

It had been real.

The scent of you was still on his pillow. The taste of your mouth still on his tongue. The feel of your thighs trembling around his hips, the warmth of your tears soaking into his chest, the sound of your breath hitching when he pushed inside you slow that first time. He remembered his words that last time, “Still so tight, baby. Still mine.”

He felt like he was dying because he remembered. All of it.

The way your hand fit in his. The swing of your hips in his undershirt. The sound of your laugh in his kitchen while he made sandwiches. The way your lip trembled when you begged him to remember you.

He remembered you. Not just your body.

You.

The way you stared too long. The way you acted like you didn’t care but couldn’t look away. The way you kissed him like you knew. Like you’d already lost him once.

And now—

Now he understood why.

He stumbled out of bed like a man possessed. Shirtless. Barefoot. Half-hard and half-mad. He paced his apartment, muttering your name, running both hands through his hair like the memory physically hurt.

Because it did.

It hurt.

He’d loved you.

He’d fallen in love with you. In less than a week. Like some fucking storybook. And when you disappeared—when you were ripped from his arms, from his bed, from his fucking life—he’d spent the rest of that night on his knees in the bedroom, sobbing into his hands like a man broken in two.

And then?

The rest of his life had unfolded. The war. The capture. The fall. The silence. The knives.

The loss.

And somewhere inside that hollowed-out version of himself, some piece of you had still clung to him. The way he reached for someone in his dreams and woke up screaming. The way he hated that Ella Fitzgerald song without knowing why.

The way he’d first seen you, months ago, in this timeline—and something inside him screamed.

But he hadn’t known.

Until now.

Until this.

You had come to him.

You’d warned him.

Told him to fight. Told him to remember.

And he had.

It had just taken 80 years.

-

His phone buzzed. He didn’t move. Didn’t answer.

Couldn’t.

Not when he could still feel you—pressed to his chest, moaning in his ear, whispering I love you, Bucky, as you came around him for the last time.

God, he missed you. He needed you.

“Say it again.”

“Bucky—”

“Again.”

“Bucky. My Bucky.”

He groaned aloud, fisting his hand against his hard length through his boxers. It wasn’t about getting off. It was about the ache. The craving. His body remembered you, and it was screaming for you.

But this wasn’t just physical.

No, this was worse.

He wanted to hold you again. Feed you again. Watch you dance in your pajamas and laugh at his stupid jokes and scold Steve for walking in without knocking.

He wanted to wake up to you again.

And he couldn’t.

You were gone.

But then—a thought. A flash. A whisper of his voice telling you he'd find you.

He froze. Heart hammering.

And for the first time in decades, Bucky Barnes felt something more powerful than shame or rage or regret.

Hope.

If you’d found him once— If you’d come to him when the world least expected it— Then maybe, just maybe—

He could find you too.

He stood in the middle of his apartment. Bare chest rising and falling. Eyes burning.

And whispered, “I remember you.”

-

You woke up in your apartment.

Face down. Cold sheets. A bruise on your hip in the exact shape of his hand.

For a few moments, you thought maybe you were dreaming. That your body had conjured it all — the smoke and the saxophones, the cheap soap and the undershirts, the kiss he gave you on the kitchen floor, and the goodbye that cracked you in two.

But then you sat up.

And the pain in your chest was real.

The grief of it came fast. Hard. Hot behind your eyes.

You didn’t cry.

Not yet.

Just stared at the ceiling and whispered, “Bucky,” like he might still be beside you. Like the word might pull you back.

It didn’t.

-

You went back to the Tower the next morning.

Yelena hugged you so tight your ribs ached. Ava hovered at your elbow, quiet but present. Bob pulled you into a jostled, almost shy embrace before disappearing again like a mirage, and Alexei—bless him—cried openly and loudly and accused everyone of underreacting.

You smiled for them.

Laughed at the right beats.

And when John came into the room and stared at you for a full five seconds before silently pulling you into his chest, you let him.

You didn’t talk about what happened.

Not in any real way.

Just said you got sucked into a time loop. Weird glitch in the fabric of space-time. Mission interference. You said it casually, like you didn’t wake up aching for a man who hadn’t been born yet.

They explained they’d tried everything.

Sensors. Search teams. Portal triggers. Bob even tried to “resonate the quantum field” with a spoon and a synthesizer. It didn’t work. None of it did.

They said it was like you’d vanished. Like the world had briefly unstitched.

And then—just as suddenly—you were back.

No burn marks. No radiation. No warning.

Just… back.

You nodded and thanked them and changed the subject.

What were you supposed to say? That you’d fallen in love with a man from 1943? That you’d left him in bed with your name on his lips? That he’d held you like he already knew how the world would tear him apart?

You didn’t say any of it. You couldn’t. Because Bucky wasn’t there.

He’d left on assignment the day before your return.

-

You didn’t cry until three days later.

Not when you woke up alone. Not when you unpacked the old undershirt that still smelled like him. Not when you turned the radio on, hoping — needing — to hear Ella Fitzgerald just to prove he’d existed at all.

But then you dropped a coffee mug. Shattered it across the kitchen tile.

And something inside you broke with it.

You sank to your knees in the shards and cried so hard you thought your lungs might cave in.

Because you hadn’t just lost him.

You’d left him.

-

You kept seeing him.

Not in front of you. Not in the mirror. But behind your eyes. In your dreams. In the corner of your peripheral vision every time you walked into a room that almost smelled like 1943.

You thought you heard him once in the hallway.

Turned so fast you nearly gave yourself whiplash.

It wasn’t him.

It was never him.

Because he wasn’t here.

-

And what would you even say, if he was?

What could you say?

I’m sorry I vanished mid-kiss? Sorry I warned you about the future without telling you what was coming? Without stopping it? Sorry I let you hold me like I was yours and then disappeared like a ghost?

You tried to imagine it. The way he’d look at you. What his face would do.

Would he remember? Would he know?

Or worse — would he not?

Would he just stare at you like you were a stranger again? Would he greet you with a nod and a grunt and go back to sharpening his knives?

You didn’t know what would be worse: him forgetting or him remembering everything.

Because if he did remember—

You’d have to live with the sound of his voice breaking when he begged you not to go. You’d have to look into his eyes and see the ghost of that final kiss, that final fuck, that final heartbeat he gave you in the dark.

You’d have to look at him and remember the exact moment your body stopped being yours and became his.

And you didn’t know if you could survive that.

—

What would you say to him?

You whispered it into your pillow at night, just to hear it aloud. 

“Bucky, I’m sorry.”

“I didn’t want to leave.”

“I didn’t want to forget.”

“I didn’t forget.”

“Not for one second.”

You’d beg him to understand.

You’d grab his face in your hands and kiss him like it had only been a day. Like no time had passed. Like your body still remembered him the way his remembered you.

If he remembered.

If he didn’t… you’d die quietly.

If he did… maybe you’d finally get a taste of what it felt like to be remembered. Wanted. Chosen. Again.

But only if the universe was kind.

And it rarely was.

-

Until it was. Until the universe gave you one small mercy. Until you stepped into that briefing room — same as you always had, boots steady and heart quiet — and saw him.

Bucky Barnes.

Alive. Whole. Waiting.

And staring at you like he’d spent the last eighty years crawling his way back from death just to see you one more time.

You stopped.

Mid-step. Mid-thought. Mid-breath.

He was across the room. Half-shadowed in the corner like he was trying to blend into the walls. Arms crossed tight. Shoulders drawn. Head low.

But his eyes—

God, his eyes.

Fixed on you like you were gravity itself. Like if he blinked, you might vanish again. Like he could still feel your thighs clenched around his waist and your mouth whispering don’t forget me, Bucky into the dark.

Your pulse skipped.

It wasn’t supposed to happen like this.

You were just here for a mission briefing. Standard debrief. In and out. You’d done this a hundred times. Your badge had buzzed at the gate. The elevator hummed you up, clean and sterile. The Tower lights flickered like always. Controlled. Normal.

Until now.

Until him.

Until the breath caught in your throat and the floor dropped out from beneath you.

You weren’t ready for this. Maybe you were hallucinating that he looked like he remembered. Maybe you were so delusional that you were making up things in his gaze. 

He hadn’t moved. He looked just like he had a week ago when you stood across from him before the mission. Before the quinjet. He just stood still, looking at you across the room. Not even a shift in his stance. 

But something in him had shifted. 

His hand twitched at his side as your gaze traced his form. His lips parted slightly. And somehow… you knew. For certain. 

This wasn’t the same man who used to glance past you in the hallway. Who snapped his gum and looked bored in meetings. This wasn’t the version of Bucky who kept his distance and ducked out of group dinners early.

No.

This was the man who had kissed your fingers across a chipped 1940s kitchen table and danced with you barefoot in the hallway. The man who’d cradled your body in trembling hands and slid into you with a reverence that stole your name from your own lips. This was the man who had begged you to stay.

And now he was here. Staring at you. Jaw clenched. Eyes burning. Breathing like it hurt.

He looked older. Of course he did. But different, too — like the lines in his face had finally met purpose. Like the cold weight in his chest had thawed and spilled open.

Because you were here. Because he remembered. He remembered everything.

The rest of the team kept talking—Bob cracking a joke, Yelena shoving John, Ava sighing—but none of it mattered. Because he was looking at you like nothing else existed.

And then he moved.

Silent. Direct.

One long stride after another, silent and steady until he was in front of you, shadow falling across your chest.

He didn’t touch you. Didn’t say a word. Just stood there. Breathing hard. Staring like he didn’t trust his own eyes.

You opened your mouth—

But he beat you to it.

“Come with me,” he said, voice low.

It wasn’t a question.

You didn’t answer. You just followed.

He grabbed your wrist and led you down the hall, past the elevators, past the armory, into a supply closet you hadn’t used in months. He opened the door, shoved you inside, and locked it behind you. The fluorescent light flickered. Your heart slammed against your ribs.

“Tell me it was real.” He said finally, looking down at you, chest rising and falling with the weight of his breath. 

You swallowed. “It was real.”

A flash behind his eyes. Relief. Rage. Desire. He stepped closer, his fingers twitching at his sides like he was forcing himself not to grab you. Not yet.

“You remember?” he asked.

You nodded.

His voice dropped. “Do you know what it did to me? The moment you disappeared out of my arms?”

Your throat tightened.

“You were gone. One second you were beneath me. Breathing my name. Crying. And the next…” He shook his head. “I searched everywhere. Thought maybe I’d dreamed you up. Gone mad.”

You tried to breathe, but your chest was a furnace. “I wasn’t gone,” you whispered. “I didn’t want to go.”

He stared at you for one long, shaking second.

And then—

“I want a taste,” he said hoarsely. “Again. No. I need a taste.”

You couldn’t breathe. Couldn’t speak.

So you didn’t. You just stepped into him—hands fisting his shirt, mouth crashing against his like you hadn’t kissed him in nearly a century.

He groaned into your lips like it hurt to be gentle. Like he’d waited too long and dreamed too much to hold back now. His hands were everywhere—jaw, hips, waist, back. He kissed you like a man who knew you. Who’d mapped every sigh, every moan, every place your body broke open under him.

Because he had. Because he remembered.

You gasped as he backed you into the door, his thigh slotting between yours with brutal purpose. He swallowed it whole.

“God, Doll,” he rasped. “I thought I’d never get to touch you again.”

“I thought you forgot.”

He growled. “Never. I remembered every second. The way you kissed me in that kitchen. The sound you made when I first slid my fingers inside you. How tight you were when I finally fucked you—”

You whimpered.

“I dreamed it all, every night. Woke up so hard it hurt. Had to bite my knuckles to keep from screaming your name.”

He dropped his forehead to yours. “I came thinking about you every time, baby. Every time.”

You pulled him closer, breathing in gasps against his mouth. “Then let me in,” you whispered. “Now.”

He kissed you again—rougher, hungrier, trembling.

“I already am,” he breathed.

Then he lifted you—arms under your thighs, back hitting the wall—and kissed you like the sky might fall down around him if he stopped.

Your hands flew to his face, your fingers in his hair.

His body caged yours against the door. Heat. Muscle. Need.

And this time—

This time he didn’t have to fuck you like it was goodbye. Because you were here. Now. Again. And he wasn’t letting go.

You moaned as his mouth dragged from yours to your jaw, down your neck. Wet, desperate kisses that bordered on worship. He groaned like he needed it—needed you—just to survive.

His hands slid under your shirt. Not soft. Not hesitant.

Possessive.

“Off,” he growled against your throat. “Need to feel you.”

You tore at the hem, dragging your top over your head as he shoved your bra aside with trembling fingers. Your nipples peaked instantly in the chill, and he groaned at the sight, mouth closing over one like he was losing his mind.

“Oh my god—Bucky—”

“That’s right,” he murmured. “Say my name again. I earned that name, baby.”

You cried out as he sucked hard, flicking with his tongue while one hand shoved your pants down your thighs. He didn’t even take them off—just pushed them down far enough to touch what he really wanted.

And god, the sound he made when his fingers slid against your soaked panties—low and guttural—like it took everything in him not to come on the spot.

“Fuck—” He dropped his head to your shoulder. “You’re so wet. You missed me, huh?”

You whimpered. He tugged your panties aside and sank two thick fingers into you in one slow, greedy push. You nearly screamed.

“Jesus—!”

“Still so tight, sweetheart,” he groaned, rocking them in and out. “Still mine. Still fuckin’ perfect.”

You writhed against the door, heels digging into his back as he curled his fingers and rubbed that spot inside you that had your eyes rolling.

“I got a rule,” he panted, kissing your collarbone. “My girl always comes first.” Your head fell back. Your heart lurched as you remembered the first time you heard those words. 

He dropped to his knees.

Just like that.

Didn’t ask. Didn’t wait. Just hooked your leg over his shoulder and buried his face between your thighs like a man made to kneel.

“Bucky—!”

You slapped a hand against your mouth as his tongue slid over your clit, broad and filthy, licking you like a man possessed.

He growled against you, then looked up—eyes dark and blown. “You better take that hand off your mouth, doll,” he rasped, voice raw. “You been quiet for eighty fuckin’ years. Let me hear you now.”

You dropped it.

And he went in.

Tongue circling your clit, fingers fucking up into you with perfect rhythm. He devoured you like it was his last meal—like he needed to memorize your taste before time could steal you again.

“Oh fuck—oh my god—”

You were shaking. Writhing. Gasping. Every nerve pulled tight as he groaned into your cunt, messily mouthing at your clit like a man drowning in devotion.

“You’re gonna come for me, baby,” he said, sliding his mouth up just long enough to pant the words into your core. “Gonna come all over my fuckin’ face, aren’t you?”

“Yes—”

He didn’t stop. Not once. His mouth was ruthless, his fingers steady, his filthy Brooklyn praise flooding your ears. “That’s it. Show me. Fuckin’ love how this pussy tastes. Made for me.”

You came with a cry, thighs clamping around his head, hips bucking against his mouth as he moaned and licked you through it. You were still twitching when he stood.

“Jesus Christ,” he breathed, rubbing your slick down his cock through his pants. “You’re so fuckin’ sweet.”

Then he undid his fly. And the breath punched out of your lungs. Thick. Heavy. Desperate. He stroked it once, slow.

“You ready?”

You nodded, eyes wide.

“No, sweetheart. Say it.”

“I’m ready,” you gasped. “I need you.”

That was all it took.

He grabbed your thighs, hauled you higher, and lined himself up. “You’re takin’ me so good already,” he murmured. “So fuckin’ tight… can’t wait to feel you wrapped around me, baby.”

And then he pushed in.

Slow.

Deep.

And it was like being split wide open by something you’d begged to remember. His cock stretched you to the edge, inch after thick inch until you could feel him in your throat.

Your mouth fell open.

He groaned into it. “God damn,” he hissed, fucking into you with one long, shuddering thrust. “Still the best I ever had. Still mine.”

“Yours,” you gasped. “I’m yours—”

He kissed you then, deep and messy and thankful. Because this time? There was no ticking clock.

Just you. Just him. And the kind of fucking that doesn’t end in goodbye.

-

You never made it back to the debrief.

You tried.

God, you tried.

But the moment Bucky came—with a hoarse, broken groan buried in your neck, holding you like you were the only thing keeping him upright—he didn’t let you go. Didn’t even try. He just held you there, trembling, still buried inside you like he couldn’t bear the thought of not being part of your body.

And then he whispered. “Fuck the debrief.” You laughed, breathless. He kissed your cheek. Your jaw. Your temple. “Fuck the mission. Fuck the timeline. I’m not lettin’ you out of my sight again.”

You didn’t fight it.

You let him take your hand, zip you back into your top, and pull you down the hallway like a man on borrowed time. Every teammate you passed turned to speak—Bob raised a hand, John started to ask a question—but Bucky didn’t stop walking.

Didn’t speak.

Didn’t even look at them.

Just kept his hand locked in yours and led you straight to his quarters.

The door shut with a soft hiss behind you.

Then everything went still.

He stepped close. Closer than the supply closet had allowed. Both hands coming up to cradle your face like he was still afraid you might vanish if he looked away.

“I don’t know what happened,” he said, voice low, wrecked. “I don’t understand any of it. Why you were there. Why I remembered.”

You stayed silent. Letting him speak.

Letting him feel.

“But I’m glad. I’m so fuckin’ glad, doll.”

His eyes shone.

“I remember dancing with you. I remember the way your lips looked in candlelight. I remember how you smelled when you laid on my chest. I remember your voice when you said my name the first time I touched you there.”

You swallowed thickly.

He dropped his forehead to yours. “I remember how you warned me. How you told me to fight.”

His hands were shaking. “I don’t know if I ever would’ve made it without that.”

You reached for him. Curled your fingers in the collar of his shirt and pressed your lips to his—soft, trembling, endless.

He kissed you like it meant something.

Like it was everything.

And when you finally pulled back, when your breath was shaking between you and his thumbs brushed tears from your cheeks, he asked the question that broke you:

“Does this mean I get to keep you this time?”

You didn’t answer right away.

Just looked at him.

At this version of Bucky—this blend of past and present, of soldier and lover, of man and myth and everything in between.

You saw it all now.

You remembered it all now.

The slow smiles. The gentle touches. The fucking in the dark that felt like worship. The way he whispered don’t forget me like it was a prayer.

You leaned in, kissed him once, and whispered, “Yeah, Bucky. I’m yours.”

His eyes fluttered closed. He exhaled like it was the first breath he’d taken since 1943. Then he pulled you to the bed. No sex. No hunger. Just hands. Just heartbeats. Just him folding you into his arms like the long war was finally over. And he’d won.

-

It happened late one night.

Days had passed since the reunion. You were back at the tower. Back in your room, which somehow felt too modern, too cold, too still—despite the warmth of the man who now never left your bed.

Bucky lay behind you, arm curled around your waist, fingers splayed just under the hem of your shirt like he still needed proof you were real.

Your bodies were tangled under the covers, but neither of you had made a move in hours. Not for sex. Not even for sleep.

He was too quiet. Too still.

You turned in his arms to face him. “You good?”

His eyes flicked open. Pale and sharp, even in the dark. Then he nodded once. Hesitated. And said, rough and low, “I lied, you know.”

Your brows furrowed. “About what?”

He exhaled, looking past you for a moment—through the air, through the years. “Back then. Before. When I said you weren’t my type.”

You blinked, breath catching.

He brought a hand to your cheek, brushing your skin like it was glass. “You were exactly my type. Always were.”

You didn’t speak. Couldn’t. Just stared at him.

“But you reminded me,” he continued, voice soft now, “of everything I thought I couldn’t have. Everything I thought I didn’t deserve. Not with the blood on my hands. Not with the shit the world had made me.”

Your throat tightened.

“And I hated it,” he whispered. “Hated that you made me want things I didn’t think I could ever be again.”

You reached for his wrist and held it there, palm to cheek. Anchoring him.

He swallowed. “I saw you laugh, and I wanted to keep it. I saw the way you looked at me, and I wanted to be worth it. But I wasn’t ready. Not then.”

You shifted closer. “You didn’t have to be ready then. You just had to let me close.”

He met your eyes, guilt shadowed deep in the lines of his face. “I couldn’t,” he said. “But I wanted to.”

You smiled—sad and soft and a little tired. “You know I liked you, right? Even before?”

His breath caught.

“I always did,” you said. “Even when you were an asshole. Even when you looked through me like I wasn’t there. I still… I still saw you.”

His brows furrowed.

“And now I’m glad,” you continued, “that I got to see the man you used to be. Back then. In 1943.”

He closed his eyes like that year still lived under his skin.

“Because now I understand,” you whispered. “You didn’t change. You just got hurt. You just got… taken.”

His grip on you tightened.

You leaned in, touched your forehead to his. “And I’m not going anywhere, Bucky. I know who you are now. All of you. And I love that man.”

He shuddered a breath.

Then his arms wrapped around you—not in lust, not even in desperation—but in something softer. Something older.

Something like home.

He kissed your hair. And when he whispered “I love you too, doll” into the dark, it didn’t sound like a confession.

It sounded like a memory, finally given permission to be true.

[feelingdozy]

Taglist:

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thank you for sticking along and I hope you enjoy the last part :)

HOW QUICKLY THE NIGHT FADES pt. 3 - Bucky Barnes

Summary: It was a mistake- the tension, the kissing, the sex. It was only because the two of you were so pent up from stress that it had been the outlet you chose. What happens when that one night stand turns into a lifetime when you realize you're pregnant?

When you're forced to go on a mission pregnant, and with bucky alongside you, you're forced to confront both fear of getting injured and of him finally finding out the truth of what happened that night.

Warning: one night stand, injury & blood, angst, angst/comfort, hurt/comfort, whole lot of dialogue, finally talking it out, pregnancy symptoms, eventual fluff and romance

a/n: at the end of my first series!! Holy moly this took me a long time so thank you for your patience but I really did love making this, and hoping to do some more in the future. Thank you for sticking along :)

w/c: 2,4k | ◁ previous chapter | II |

You had said no. You begged. The tears pricked behind the facade when you sat in one of Val's meeting rooms, where she had ordered a debrief on a mission- that specifically needed you and your skills.

Even the other members tried to pitch in. Yelena put her hand forward about how you obviously weren't in the best condition to be out in the field, dark circles and messy hair not a secret to a girl who knew what you looked like on a regular day.

Ava had picked up your slowing moves and dimmed posture, ranting about how if you were to be sent out, even for a small detail, it wouldn't be safe nor proper with your reactions and jumpy ways in the simplest interactions.

Bob had argued. Loud. Tough. Constant. More than he'd ever spoken up, even for himself.

But Val compromised. She needs you- your smart fingers to get into databases that no one dares to touch at the risk of guilty consciousnesses and cruelty of being caught. Your talent of drawing no attention and running both on and with caffeine and haste, she'd never seen anyone corrupt a system in less than a minute with no Intel on the matter.

So, in the end, it didn't matter. Because you were going to be put on that mission whether you liked it or not, and while hiding the pregnancy.

No, the gear didn't matter. You could ask for a size up. You could keep on hiding the bulk of it. The weight of it all didn't matter. The guns, the shouting, the blood. The impact.

This time around, what mattered was the life growing inside you, and you weren't going to let it be lost to the same battlefield your life had been lost to long times ago when you didn't have the choice.

You went in with Bucky, terribly nervous while climbing into the jet before waving a shaky goodbye to Bob as he sent you off with a reassuring smile- leaving you with something to cling on to again.

The ride had been anything but pleasant- tension drew from the smallest crevices of a tight airship and no conversation had risked being made. Somehow, it made it all the more pathetic.

His withdrawn hands- shoulders upright and guarded more than usual. He was..awkward in a way that spoke unknowing how to go about everything unspoken.

He stole glances- undeserving ones. He took them anyways. To catch the wavering of your pupils. He could tell worry was stirring inside.

He wanted to ask- he even went to, but every time the opportunity was taken neither by you or Bob, but Valentina. Like every possible factor had gotten in his way and shaved off just a little more time that could've been used for broken apologies and explained absences.

His nights were still as restless as yours- more hauntingly so. The same dream stirring within his brain, more hard-hitting every time it replayed, over and over and over.

He always woke up at 2 am drenched in a cold sweat. Like a vicious cycle he'd granted on himself for the state he'd put you in.

He knew he deserved it. He knew that his mind wouldn't coddle him- it never has.

But god, was he trying to stand up. Trying to unstick his heavy boots off the ground and come back to the drunkenly familiar scent of you he's missed since that day.

He should've seen it in hindsight.

The future screw up.

The distance- parting from loved ones was how he thought would love the most.

But deep down, he knew that it wasn't. That he was scared.

And the entire ride, the only thing in his head was how he should've said something earlier.

•

At first, everything had been fine- the first sign signaling that kind of relief made you queasy. The entry had been a little too quiet, too easy to slip into and find exactly the room you were looking for.

You began your time on the computer, looking for the hard-kept files and important data that definitely didn't belong to them. But yet you made quick work.

Extracting, searching, hacking. Files one by one flying past your eyes in a familiar pace of hard-set skills that'd been worked into your bones.

But nausea returned. Lightheadedness came back like it always had by now. Posture swaying, breaking in a silent undoing way that made it harder not to crack.

Bucky had begun to hover.

Not up in your space- more trying to look busy but failing magnificently at it. The gesture was appreciated- but made you question everything about the weary silence the two of you had played at.

He was the first to break the silence- seeing the way you swirled around weirdly in your spot.

"You okay?" Hardly there, hardly spoken in the once again tension-baring room you could slice with a knife.

"Yeah.." dimmed and badly lying.

He only nodded, head lined with sweat and not sure if he should go on- or let the two of you stay soaked in the underlying silence of unresolved words and issues ahead.

But soon the steps came- powerful and apparent. Pushed through the otherwise quiet hallways with the cocking of guns and obvious straining of military combat level equipment.

You knew it was off-

They were closing in on the two of you- and fast. You tried your best to steady your hands, but both anxiety and fear were making them freeze up although urging for the clack of the keys.

Bucky's many gunshots rang through the loud room, bouncing off the doors along with his grunts, looking over at you every time he'd finished another.

One caught his eyes- sneakily stealthy as he tried to run up when your back was turned, pointing the gun near your torso.

Bucky felt his heart almost tear out of his body.

Immediately retreating from his spot as your backup, he had dramatically leapt to cover you, taking the brunt hit of a bullet as your waist was captured in his heavy grip and brought to the floor as two more shots rang out in the hollow of your ear.

Gasping for unsteady breath, Bucky was beneath you holding his side. Luckily covered by a bulletproof vest, he quickly stumbled to get up,

"you finished?" He questioned as his eyes were now wide and utterly aware of every thing around the two of you, gesturing to the computer as you nodded.

You began to lead a limping soldier back to the meeting spot.

Though it wasn't easy- they still ambushed relentlessly, leading to a hard exit plan that had the two of you scattering for a clear point.

Valentina over the comms had ordered a regroup and found an area to supposedly be unaware to the ones hiking their way up your asses.

Rushing over to the place, you had almost gotten out- but suddenly your head was spinning as a shot had grazed your lower hip and making an indent on your forearm.

"uhghh!" with sudden surprise at the pain surging through you, along with adrenaline trying to ambush every nerve ending, his calloused hand was once again gripping you to lead you out.

Absentmindedly hearing mumbled praises to your air, your mind was floating.

"almost there. Don't go out on me now." eyes dizzy and unsteady- you only remembered the buzz of cold air freshly against your face as it stung as a reminder of the injury to your arm.

"you got it- doing so well"

The only thing on your mind was the baby.

•

you had finally awoke, groggily and sore as you grunted out in pain flaring in your lower ribs. Pulsing through your skin, you remembered the sensation, but it was never easy.

He was sat right beside you, hair muffled and messy, sweat-sheened with an overly large shirt that looked like it was meant for a sleepover- kind of ironic.

His hand immediately twitched at your newfound presence, peaking his leaning form up to find you staring back.

He jumped up from his seat, wiping the mop of twisted, stuck strands from his face that showed dark circles and concern in the lines that wept across his forehead.

Your surroundings had been scarily accurate to your predicament, when you found ultrasound equipment out in the open. But when twisting your head to him again, he looked guilty.

Both of a quiet knowing- whether he found out about it that way or not a mystery.

"I uh.. told them to take good care of you on the jet back- said you had a baby. I was so panicked that I- I didn't watch who was around."

You nodded at both the confession and the truth in his words of concern. Surprising and rough all the same to hear.

Almost a whisper, you asked, "are you mad?"

Your eyes glossy, and body horribly sensitive, you tried your best not to sulk on the spot.

"mad? God no. Fuck I was worried.."

"you're.. not?"

He huffed, "I've.. I understand I'm not the one you would've told first- I-I treated you in a way I shouldn't have. I regret it."

"how'd you find out about it?" Not anger, nor frustration in your tone- you sounded utterly vulnerable and wrecked in a pathetically retched way.

You knew you shouldn't have.. but you felt bad. The horror of not being told the girl you slept with is having your kid. The mystery and pullback, consequences of your actions you hadn't faced personally with proper sentences.

"I-I found out.. snuck in your room when I wasn't supposed to. Thought you were deathly sick, maybe- looking for hopeful signs but instead I.. I stumbled upon that in your bathroom and I felt.. numb. Not in a hydra way- not that sort of control. But- but with fear for you.. and me. Fear I didn't think I deserved to feel after what I had done- I still don't."

"and you- that-" hoarsely, "you're okay with this one night stand baby?" Your voice now louder, tumbling through the restraints of a drought in your throat and the staggering pain thumping in your lungs when you spoke.

"the baby.." he started, but you interrupted him.

"I wanna have a baby because I love you James- not because we fucking- we messed up and had a night we didn't use protection, but because I..I fucking care about you. About us. And- and I want this baby to be made with love. Our love, in safe arms- not because of a mistake." Stumbling over your words, they came out quick and immediate, but the words hit Bucky the same.

"This, we- I-I mean us, none of it was a mistake, please- I know. I know what I did was wrong, I-I thought protecting you meant keeping myself away but.. but I was wrong. And I can't.. I blame myself for that" almost gasping for air at the rate he was going, he had caught your tremble before looking up to catch a tear fall down your face

"You- I thought you.." unable to finish, he caught you in his arms bringing you toward him carefully.

"Im sorry. Im- I can't make you forgive me" breaking and unguarded, "I want to be there for you." He said almost a whisper.

He continued, "Not just.. the baby. You. A new start. The one I didn't give you before. The one I screwed up. Only if your willing. I'll wait. Be there- for you and them."

"And- and how do I know..?" You murmured, voice on the verge of snapping while saying it. "That you'll stay this time" looking up at him, his eyes a mixture of sorrow and purging guilt that had made his brows furrow and his expression turn even more pitiful in a way that held raw, unfiltered nights with you ripping him apart in mindless dreams of sullen regret. 

"I'll be there. I'll be here. For you. Every day, every moment, hour, second. Fuck, I'll get down on my knees at an altar and pray for you with my promises. I know- words alone.. they're nothing from me right now. Let me prove it to you.. as long as it takes me- years. A decade. My love for you it- it's real, and it's everlasting and my decisions were stupid-"

"James" 

"Yes?" 

You pulled him in by the collar, chests pressed together and arms folding themselves over his shoulder to hug him. He took you in the same, tight and reassuring- like he was claiming he'd do it. That he'd live up to the words he couldn't admit to you or himself before. He was here. He was finally here.

And he was here to stay.

EPILOGUE

Yelena on her tiptoes had edged dangerously closer to the wall of the nursery, almost falling off of the balancing ladder act she fought hard to maintain to get the little stars on the ceiling.

Alexei carried in a bookshelf mixed with his little trinkets throughout the years he shoved in there, "as a reminder of red guardian to her!" He had said- announced.

Bob and Ava sorted through the other books in a pile on the ground, paired with the clothes beside it as they giggled on stupid patterns and silly color splashes they chose.

"that's one really stupid looking giraffe" Bob had exclaimed with the loudest snort you'd ever heard from him, making you giggle in return.

You stay in a rocking chair in the corner- terribly round and almost due- and keenly observing. It was nice. The rumble of activity around you. But a good team activity. They were helping, and laughing- happy.

With you. Around you. Because of you.

Bucky had slipped in with a bag in his hand, landing a smile on your face at the familiarity of the burger place you craved potentially daily by now.

"Thank you, baby" you said as you pressed a kiss to his lips.

"No problem sweetheart. How's she doing?" Handing you the food to get down on one knee, hands roaming the length of your belly and pressing his head closely to it.

"She's good- a little kicking but.. mostly good." He hummed in content, getting up to press another gentle kiss to your forehead.

"Thank you," he whispered quietly. "For making me a father."

You only smiled shyly back, pressing your forehead to his.

"Thank you- for making me a mother. And.. and staying."

"I'm here. 'm never leaving. Not again. Not ever. gonna be here for you and our sweet little girl."

thank you for reading :) requests are open! || Marvel Masterlist

[feelingdozy]

HOW QUICKLY THE NIGHT FADES pt. 3 - Bucky Barnes

Summary: It was a mistake- the tension, the kissing, the sex. It was only because the two of you were so pent up from stress that it had been the outlet you chose. What happens when that one night stand turns into a lifetime when you realize you're pregnant?

When you're forced to go on a mission pregnant, and with bucky alongside you, you're urged to confront both fear of getting injured and of him finally finding out the truth of what happened that night.

Warning: one night stand, injury & blood, angst, angst/comfort, hurt/comfort, whole lot of dialogue, finally talking it out, pregnancy symptoms, eventual fluff and romance

a/n: at the end of my first series!! Holy moly this took me a long time so thank you for your patience but I really did love making this, and hoping to do some more in the future. Thank you for sticking along :)

w/c: 2,4k | ◁ previous chapter | II |

You had said no. You begged. The tears pricked behind the facade when you sat in one of Val's meeting rooms, where she had ordered a debrief on a mission- that specifically needed you and your skills.

Even the other members tried to pitch in. Yelena put her hand forward about how you obviously weren't in the best condition to be out in the field, dark circles and messy hair not a secret to a girl who knew what you looked like on a regular day.

Ava had picked up your slowing moves and dimmed posture, ranting about how if you were to be sent out, even for a small detail, it wouldn't be safe nor proper with your reactions and jumpy ways in the simplest interactions.

Bob had argued. Loud. Tough. Constant. More than he'd ever spoken up, even for himself.

But Val compromised. She needs you- your smart fingers to get into databases that no one dares to touch at the risk of guilty consciousnesses and cruelty of being caught. Your talent of drawing no attention and running both on and with caffeine and haste, she'd never seen anyone corrupt a system in less than a minute with no Intel on the matter.

So, in the end, it didn't matter. Because you were going to be put on that mission whether you liked it or not, and while hiding the pregnancy.

No, the gear didn't matter. You could ask for a size up. You could keep on hiding the bulk of it. The weight of it all didn't matter. The guns, the shouting, the blood. The impact.

This time around, what mattered was the life growing inside you, and you weren't going to let it be lost to the same battlefield your life had been lost to long times ago when you didn't have the choice.

You went in with Bucky, terribly nervous while climbing into the jet before waving a shaky goodbye to Bob as he sent you off with a reassuring smile- leaving you with something to cling on to again.

The ride had been anything but pleasant- tension drew from the smallest crevices of a tight airship and no conversation had risked being made. Somehow, it made it all the more pathetic.

His withdrawn hands- shoulders upright and guarded more than usual. He was..awkward in a way that spoke unknowing how to go about everything unspoken.

He stole glances- undeserving ones. Selfish ones. He took them anyways. To catch the wavering of your pupils. He could tell worry was stirring inside.

He wanted to ask- he even went to, but every time the opportunity was taken neither by you or Bob, but Valentina. Like every possible factor had gotten in his way and shaved off just a little more time that could've been used for broken apologies and explained absences.

His nights were still as restless as yours- more hauntingly so. The same dream stirring within his brain, more hard-hitting every time it replayed, over and over and over.

He always woke up at 2 am drenched in a cold sweat. Like a vicious cycle he'd granted on himself for the state he'd put you in.

He knew he deserved it. He knew that his mind wouldn't coddle him- it never has.

But god, was he trying to stand up. Trying to unstick his heavy boots off the ground and come back to the drunkenly familiar scent of you he's missed since that day.

He should've seen it in hindsight.

The future screw up.

The distance- parting from loved ones was how he thought would love the most.

But deep down, he knew that it wasn't. That he was scared.

And the entire ride, the only thing in his head was how he should've said something earlier.

•

At first, everything had been fine- the first sign signaling that kind of relief made you queasy. The entry had been a little too quiet, too easy to slip into and find exactly the room you were looking for.

You began your time on the computer, looking for the hard-kept files and important data that definitely didn't belong to them. But yet you made quick work.

Extracting, searching, hacking. Files one by one flying past your eyes in a familiar pace of hard-set skills that'd been worked into your bones.

But nausea returned. Lightheadedness came back like it always had by now. Posture swaying, breaking in a silent undoing way that made it harder not to crack.

Bucky had begun to hover.

Not up in your space- more trying to look busy but failing magnificently at it. The gesture was appreciated- but made you question everything about the weary silence the two of you had played at.

He was the first to break the silence- seeing the way you swirled around weirdly in your spot.

"You okay?" Hardly there, hardly spoken in the once again tension-baring room you could slice with a knife.

"Yeah.." dimmed and badly lying.

He only nodded, head lined with sweat and not sure if he should go on- or let the two of you stay soaked in the underlying silence of unresolved words and issues ahead.

But soon the steps came- powerful and apparent. Pushed through the otherwise quiet hallways with the cocking of guns and obvious straining of military combat level equipment.

You knew it was off-

They were closing in on the two of you- and fast. You tried your best to steady your hands, but both anxiety and fear were making them freeze up although urging for the clack of the keys.

Bucky's many gunshots rang through the loud room, bouncing off the doors along with his grunts, looking over at you every time he'd finished another.

One caught his eyes- sneakily stealthy as he tried to run up when your back was turned, pointing the gun near your torso.

Bucky felt his heart almost tear out of his body.

Immediately retreating from his spot as your backup, he had dramatically leapt to cover you, taking the brunt hit of a bullet as your waist was captured in his heavy grip and brought to the floor as two more shots rang out in the hollow of your ear.

Gasping for unsteady breath, Bucky was beneath you holding his side. Luckily covered by a bulletproof vest, he quickly stumbled to get up,

"you finished?" He questioned as his eyes were now wide and utterly aware of every thing around the two of you, gesturing to the computer as you nodded.

You began to lead a limping soldier back to the meeting spot.

Though it wasn't easy- they still ambushed relentlessly, leading to a hard exit plan that had the two of you scattering for a clear point.

Valentina over the comms had ordered a regroup and found an area to supposedly be unaware to the ones hiking their way up your asses.

Rushing over to the place, you had almost gotten out- but suddenly your head was spinning as a shot had grazed your lower hip and making an indent on your forearm.

"uhghh!" with sudden surprise at the pain surging through you, along with adrenaline trying to ambush every nerve ending, his calloused hand was once again gripping you to lead you out.

Absentmindedly hearing mumbled praises to your air, your mind was floating.

"almost there. Don't go out on me now." eyes dizzy and unsteady- you only remembered the buzz of cold air freshly against your face as it stung as a reminder of the injury to your arm.

"you got it- doing so well"

The only thing on your mind was the baby.

•

you had finally awoke, groggily and sore as you grunted out in pain flaring in your lower ribs. Pulsing through your skin, you remembered the sensation, but it was never easy.

He was sat right beside you, hair muffled and messy, sweat-sheened with an overly large shirt that looked like it was meant for a sleepover- kind of ironic.

His hand immediately twitched at your newfound presence, peaking his leaning form up to find you staring back.

He jumped up from his seat, wiping the mop of twisted, stuck strands from his face that showed dark circles and concern in the lines that wept across his forehead.

Your surroundings had been scarily accurate to your predicament, when you found ultrasound equipment out in the open. But when twisting your head to him again, he looked guilty.

Both of a quiet knowing- whether he found out about it that way or not a mystery.

"I uh.. told them to take good care of you on the jet back- said you had a baby. I was so panicked that I- I didn't watch who was around."

You nodded at both the confession and the truth in his words of concern. Surprising and rough all the same to hear.

Almost a whisper, you asked, "are you mad?"

Your eyes glossy, and body horribly sensitive, you tried your best not to sulk on the spot.

"mad? God no. Fuck I was worried.."

"you're.. not?"

He huffed, "I've.. I understand I'm not the one you would've told first- I-I treated you in a way I shouldn't have. I regret it."

"how'd you find out about it?" Not anger, nor frustration in your tone- you sounded utterly vulnerable and wrecked in a pathetically retched way.

You knew you shouldn't have.. but you felt bad. The horror of not being told the girl you slept with is having your kid. The mystery and pullback, consequences of your actions you hadn't faced personally with proper sentences.

"I-I found out.. snuck in your room when I wasn't supposed to. Thought you were deathly sick, maybe- looking for hopeful signs but instead I.. I stumbled upon that in your bathroom and I felt.. numb. Not in a hydra way- not that sort of control. But- but with fear for you.. and me. Fear I didn't think I deserved to feel after what I had done- I still don't."

"and you- that-" hoarsely, "you're okay with this one night stand baby?" Your voice now louder, tumbling through the restraints of a drought in your throat and the staggering pain thumping in your lungs when you spoke.

"the baby.." he started, but you interrupted him.

"I wanna have a baby because I love you James- not because we fucking- we messed up and had a night we didn't use protection, but because I..I fucking care about you. About us. And- and I want this baby to be made with love. Our love, in safe arms- not because of a mistake." Stumbling over your words, they came out quick and immediate, but the words hit Bucky the same.

"This, we- I-I mean us, none of it was a mistake, please- I know. I know what I did was wrong, I-I thought protecting you meant keeping myself away but.. but I was wrong. And I can't.. I blame myself for that" almost gasping for air at the rate he was going, he had caught your tremble before looking up to catch a tear fall down your face

"You- I thought you.." unable to finish, he caught you in his arms bringing you toward him carefully.

"Im sorry. Im- I can't make you forgive me" breaking and unguarded, "I want to be there for you." He said almost a whisper.

He continued, "Not just.. the baby. You. A new start. The one I didn't give you before. The one I screwed up. Only if your willing. I'll wait. Be there- for you and them."

"And- and how do I know..?" You murmured, voice on the verge of snapping while saying it. "That you'll stay this time" looking up at him, his eyes a mixture of sorrow and purging guilt that had made his brows furrow and his expression turn even more pitiful in a way that held raw, unfiltered nights with you ripping him apart in mindless dreams of sullen regret. 

"I'll be there. I'll be here. For you. Every day, every moment, hour, second. Fuck, I'll get down on my knees at an altar and pray for you with my promises. I know- words alone.. they're nothing from me right now. Let me prove it to you.. as long as it takes me- years. A decade. My love for you it- it's real, and it's everlasting and my decisions were stupid-"

"James" 

"Yes?" 

You pulled him in by the collar, chests pressed together and arms folding themselves over his shoulder to hug him. He took you in the same, tight and reassuring- like he was claiming he'd do it. That he'd live up to the words he couldn't admit to you or himself before. He was here. He was finally here.

And he was here to stay.

EPILOGUE

Yelena on her tiptoes had edged dangerously closer to the wall of the nursery, almost falling off of the balancing ladder act she fought hard to maintain to get the little stars on the ceiling.

Alexei carried in a bookshelf mixed with his little trinkets throughout the years he shoved in there, "as a reminder of red guardian to her!" He had said- announced.

Bob and Ava sorted through the other books in a pile on the ground, paired with the clothes beside it as they giggled on stupid patterns and silly color splashes they chose.

"that's one really stupid looking giraffe" Bob had exclaimed with the loudest snort you'd ever heard from him, making you giggle in return.

You stay in a rocking chair in the corner- terribly round and almost due- and keenly observing. It was nice. The rumble of activity around you. But a good team activity. They were helping, and laughing- happy.

With you. Around you. Because of you.

Bucky had slipped in with a bag in his hand, landing a smile on your face at the familiarity of the burger place you craved potentially daily by now.

"Thank you, baby" you said as you pressed a kiss to his lips.

"No problem sweetheart. How's she doing?" Handing you the food to get down on one knee, hands roaming the length of your belly and pressing his head closely to it.

"She's good- a little kicking but.. mostly good." He hummed in content, getting up to press another gentle kiss to your forehead.

"Thank you," he whispered quietly. "For making me a father."

You only smiled shyly back, pressing your forehead to his.

"Thank you- for making me a mother. And.. and staying."

"I'm here. 'm never leaving. Not again. Not ever. gonna be here for you and our sweet little girl."

thank you for reading :) requests are open! || Marvel Masterlist

[feelingdozy]

Requests - send one!

01. ｡･ﾟﾟ･ Any characters are welcome as long as they are from the fandoms listed in my main masterlist ( focusing on marvel right now )

02. ｡･ﾟﾟ･ Requests can be nsfw or sfw

03. ｡･ﾟﾟ･ It can be a scenario, headcannon, oneshot/drabble, even a prompt of some sort. Any type of fic goes

go into specifics!

• Tropes! Enemies to lovers? One bed?

• Details! An assistant reader? Maybe you've met the character before?

Specific request rules can be looked at below.

Requests open | closed

They may sometimes take awhile, I may not feel comfortable doing them, or I am inactive, sorry for long waits!

I will do

↳ fluff/angst, your usual tropes and such

↳ nsfw/sfw

↳ dark content to an extent (mild descriptions, not in great detail unless focused)

↳ character x gender neutral/afab reader

↳ no ocs or other character x characters (personal writing pref.)

I will (for sure) not do

↳ incest, non-con, underage, ageplay

↳ overly extreme kinks

↳ character with an actual person or ocs

↳ extreme descriptions of gore/horror (super dark content)

[feelingdozy]

SHUT UP AND DANCE - Robert Reynolds

Summary: When Val decides to set up a party for The New Avengers that they must attend, Bob finds himself stuck between his long lasting crush on you and his overwhelming doubt as the event swiftly sneaks up on him.

Warnings: oblivious Bob and reader, tooth-rotting fluff, friends to lovers, eventual romance, alluding to intimacy, fantasizing about each other, party setting, crowds, mention of anxiety

w/c: 3,3k | can be read as a standalone, smutty part 2 here

a/n: I got inspired while listening to old songs and one of them was this one and I just had to write something fluffy out for it and it reminded me so much of Bob

"you use this as your chance, swoop in, take her by the arm and ta-da! You got her heart" Yelena explained enthusiastically to Bob.

"That's-" he huffed, "it's not gonna work, Lena." Trying to deflect all possible reasoning it could be true.

"You got to believe me- or, better yet, you try! Bob!" She followed as the man started to retreat back to his room, hand twirling a rogue strand of hair that had fallen with his eager strides.

"it's like a damn teenage dream! I- I just don't think.. I'd just embarrass myself." He admitted while Yelena had caught up to join him at the front of his door, his fingers now absentmindedly toying with each other to distract him from the truth he tried so hard to not make adherent to himself as much as he already had.

Yelena sighed in turn, "Just you see Bob- tonight. Tonight will be the night." Before turning away, she grabbed both his hands and squeezed in silent reassurance.

"just you see."

Tonight was the night that the team, well more like Val and happy agreements like Alexei had been in tune with, had wanted to do a celebration of sorts for the commemoration of the new title, The New Avengers.

There were frowns and hidden pouts among the crowd when she had first briefed them on the whole idea, something to draw the media and gain a crowd, good social media credibility!

Except Bob's eyes, and mind, and pretty much everything else was faced towards you. At first you had been quite open to the idea but.. as she progressed it became less and less about the team and more and more about the people it drew in with the live attraction as you guys as the zoo animals.

He agreed in retrospect, but having a moment to be able to see you in a dress was a silent prayer answered by the unfortunate Val gods. So the man stayed quiet in the corner and let the rest of the team discuss the precautions and different levels of motion involved for this to work and for them to agree to it.

Hosted on a floor of the avengers tower meant not much travelling nor effort into going somewhere new and strenuous setup, but moreso that their privacy might be even more up for grabs than before.

After the meeting had been adjourned, Bob had followed your path to the couch, making yourself comfortable while putting your head in your hands. He noticed. Of course he noticed.

The boy noticed absolutely everything. The way you fiddled with the hem of your shirt when nervous, retreated to your room when flushed and embarrassed, mouthed the words of others when subtly wanting to join in on a conversation.

You had striked him as interesting in all sorts of ways that didn't end and instead grew as a whole, eventually bundled up to hard-kept and secret feelings that Yelena had eventually seen bubble to the surface.

She had found it in the gentle touches he unconsciously had given to you. His fingertips lingering after graciously taking the remote from your hand to scavenge for a movie on the nights the team rotated staying up and watching dramatic romcoms or stupid action movies while stuffing popcorn down their throat.

The way you leaned into him after a heavier mission, one that had you with more bruises and cuts that left a good mark and took a week to heal, and how he held you with nothing but eyes that looked like you hung the stars for him.

How he had always found you a souvenir while out. A random thrift or second hand store and saw a trinket that reminded him of you- a cat made into a key holder that had stayed on one of your dressers since he had brought it back to its rightful place with you.

She knew Bob was lovesick- but also painfully oblivious. She knew the look on your face that wondered exaclty what his touches meant to the two of you, but kept to an unsteady silence that he took as peace. And although it was, it always made you wonder.

To keep that peace exactly where it was, you'd have rather not done anything to test the boundaries in case you were painfully wrong. Mistakenly ending your friendship with Bob was the last thing you wanted.

As the day had slowly come to night, the bustling had started. People crowded in different places with many different orders as Val stood out among the rest with her colored strip of hair and over the top dress that she had chosen for the night, unafraid of the looks she got from others when people had been told to keep it casual. Mel by her side, cautiously trying to keep up with everything going on around her, demands, yelling, words that blended in with the sudden growing amounts of people.

Bob found himself struggling to find his suit he had misplaced somewhere in the depths of his closet. He knew for a fact it was buried deep, as he thought he'd never have to wear it, as he'd decline the offer to go to these kinds of things- though he knows he wouldn't be able to decline it at all.

As he pulled it out from the jumbled mess of clothes now all over his floor, he jumped when he heard a knock at his door. Double-taking while holding it in his hand deciding whether or not he wanted to show it off yet. Taking too long to decide, he kept it closely in his hand to his torso. Opening the door, he least expected to find you staring back at him.

"y/n! Hey- what uh, you doing here?" He laughed almost awkwardly, caught off guard and scanning your figure, noticing your already done up hair but normal pj's that he'd seen you wear around the compound before.

"sorry I- didn't mean to interrupt you" you started with a sigh, "Lena was supposed to help me get into this dress and now, she won't answer her damn calls and I can't find her anywhere."

As you complained, a glint in his eyes had come forward. Damn Yelena had started setting him up before the party had even begun.

"are you able to lend a bit of your time? If not I totally understand-"

"yes!" Too fast, too swiftly. "I-i mean yes of course, not busy at all no, no."

He gestured for you to come in by opening his door wider, now seeing a dress that was held behind your back the entire time, too focused on looking at how your shirt hung nicely off your shoulder revealing the skin underneath, and the way your hair had been styled to notice

"you alright if I'm changing in here?" At the realization of exactly what you were asking of him finally landing, the tips of his ears had lit up within seconds and he was milliseconds away from completely combusting.

"yeah! Bathroom.." he went to point to it, but instead turned around to find you shimmying out of your pjs down to your bra and underwear, unbothered and relaxed in his presence.

Both honored and scared truly out of his mind, he whipped his head back around so hard he thought he might've given himself whiplash at the absolute vision in front of him. Was he getting a fucking boner?

"Bob- Bob a little help with the zipper please? You called out kindly, jolting him back to reality. With a swat and pull of his lazily sat sweatpants, he walked over mumbling multiple quiet sorry's.

His fingers had gently put their weight in caressing the dress where the zipper had originated, making you bite your lip down both at the fleeting touches and sudden closeness that felt so intimate, but like nothing at the same time. That was a lie. Charged- tension. Passionate. But none of you said a word.

He carried a different type of weight with just how he desired to feel you, god he had ideas in his head he definitely shouldn't share out loud, nor to anyone in that case. Your mind wasn't exactly safe from the thought either, both too caught up in the moment that held so much- yet not enough to confess. Too scared, too anxious, not wanting to ruin something so darn good.

He fantasized- so much so that his lips were dangerously close to pressing themselves to the curve of open skin deliciously sticking out where the zipper hadn't reached to cover you, so tempting that it had put him in a trance. You looked so soft- delectable, so damn beautiful, otherworldly distracting. He wanted to worship you-

"you got it, Bob?" You swore you could feel his breath fanning you.

"y-yeah got it." He replied, trying to act cool while he had zipped it completely like he wasn't imagining taking it off of you.

Returning back to his original spot further away from you, he still hadn't put on his suit. Scurrying to the bathroom with many excuse me's, he had come out almost a different sight.

You held a whine as a long sigh, catching it luckily down deep in your throat before it had a chance to reveal itself. His hair was slicked nicely to where the ends were still visible all the way down to bottom length, protruding to frame his neck, his suit clinging to all the right places as it had made friends with the muscles on his back as he combed the stray hairs out of place, and almost traced his hidden abs for you to view beneath his white, almost translucent teasing undershirt.

Nothing to the damn imagination. You hoped you weren't drooling.

"Do you mind helping me with the buttons?" He'd asked while trying to push one through.

"Of course- I got you."

With a smile that held back many, many thoughts, you had buttoned him up starting from bottom to top, his eyes never once leaving your hands and their magical way of doing him up so nicely.

"here, gimme your tie" you playfully demanded with a gesture of your hand.

He handed it to you without question, having no trouble swinging it around his neck and bringing your hands to drag down to the middle of his chest. God was he holding back his facial expressions like a mad man.

When finished, you patted his chest and had a giddy smile at your work.

"done! Whaddya think of my work handsome?"

Handsome. "Thank you, hahah wow you're quick." coming out rushed and half in the moment, half in his head about what the hell he had just experienced and felt.

"I'll see you at the party?" you questioned as you walked towards his door.

"Yeah!" He exclaimed before giving you a fond nod, finding yourself making your way downstairs.

Bob tied his tie a little tighter and loosened his pants quite a bit.

blaring lights and blasted speakers are the first thing that Bob is made apparent to, even just a hall away from the actual hosting place. Delicately dimmed and fancy tones in every corner line the walls with gold-like ribbons accompanied by wild colors like pinks and blues, and fancy carved features that come with the building. Signs dedicated to pointing out the right of way catch his eye as he continues, nerves only racking higher as he begins to catch the surface of lively and clustered groups dancing or fetching their seat, a combination of romantic and high pace music in the background making for a welcoming atmosphere, the mood airy with the littlest hints of formal to attract the audience just right.

Bob immediately felt out of place. Singled out, heavy breathing and holding his hands tightly together as he continued through the doors to see where a bar was and a tiny music station that didn't make much of a difference as everybody knew they wouldn't be able to actually use it. Tables lined the sides of the dance floor prominently in the middle, and an actual kitchen sat off to the side of the huge room for access to normal drinks and snacks that they might've had to keep frozen until guests arrived.

His first instict was to look for the bright blonde of Yelena's hair, but now that seemed the hardest task with multicolored lights that never rested, instead took their time traveling around the event and lighting every area once inawhile with rotating colors. Distracted and now a little dizzy, he found himself a little lost- overwhelmed and really regretting the non-negotiable invitation.

Turning himself right, then left, he was desperately trying to find something, someone to be able to ground him- lead him through this mess of random social interaction that he did not want to participate in, in the least.

Letting himself get deeper into the masses of bodies, he had found himself closer to the dance floor and less in the big handlers of conversation and questions he always muttered an answer to, both out of uncertainty and anxiety. Mingling hands and grouped whispers along with stares of women who giggled while staring lustful daggers into his eyes was not the intimidating way he wanted to go out right now.

Many excuses me's later, he had finally caught a lead on Alexei's booming laugh that somehow had the power to echo just a bit off of the wide intricate walls that boxed him in with his now sweaty and nervous demeanor, getting up close enough to finally spot the blonde he'd been trying to navigate the entire time he'd been here.

"Yelena!" He tried, but ultimately came closer to the group that consisted of Yelena dancing with Ava, John off talking to a woman in a nice velvet sequined dress that showed a high slit of the leg, and a dangling shiny gold necklace that definitely spoke money in all sorts of ways he hadn't known. Trying to draw his eyes anywhere but there, he found you as the woman in hand with Alexei, laughing while nursing a fancy cup of who-knows-what in your hand.

God- Bob had started to cling to the sides of his suit at the sight of you, so happy and enjoying a moment, your face being embraced by one of the multicolored lights that framed you so perfectly, he had seen every expression of a laugh grace your face as your eyes had squeezed shut, presumably laughing hard at one of Alexei's jokes.

Blown away? Obsessed? Down bad? All those words described the look on Bob's face, stunned in place by your figure, and that damn dress that flowed off you beautifully- causing him whiplash of guilt and shame as he hadn't even heard Yelena approach him.

"Go" Bob physically jolted back at her sudden voice in his ear, turning to look at her now directly beside him.

"W-what?"

As she continued, you turned and your eyes met his from across the floor. "Go ask her to dance. Now, Bob."

"I- im gonna get a drink, now..kitchen" he stuttered out, scrambling the crowd he worked so hard to find you in yet ending up in the empty, not so bare kitchen. He checked the fridge for anything- food, maybe a non-alcoholic drink to stable him for now.

Finding fruit punch pre-made, he took it out, placing it on the counter before pouring himself a glass and putting it back in place. He tipped his head back, hitting the higher cabinet behind him while closing his eyes and taking deep breaths recounting what he had just been through. He was, frankly, a mess.

"You in here?" a voice appeared, causing him to come back from his silence to lock eyes once again with you.

A small, almost knowing smile present on your lips- in fact you did know exactly why he came to the quietest place he could find, away from all the music, dancing and people.

"Needed quiet?" you questioned anyways, to make sure.

nodding quietly, "Y-yeah."

You leaned on the counter beside him, putting your glass down with a clack and sighing out dramatically.

"Me too.. just- too much."

His lips quirked up at your confession as well, now staring at you. Your hair had dropped in front of your face while huffing, and before he had grasped what he was doing, Bob had tucked the straying piece of hair back to its place behind your ear.

Looking at his face above you, you slowly scanned his eyes, pupils dancing wildly and heart starting to race. And slowly- slowly, Bob had placed his hand on your cheek, leaned in, and kissed you.

Lightly, like you'd regret ever putting your lips to his, he had captured your breath. Returning his touch, you cupped his hand and deepened it, making his eyes widen and a groan slip from his throat from the sudden surge of you. Your taste, the softness of your lips against his, fuck the warmth of your tongue.

You tilted your head the slightest for him to slip in just a little deeper, finding your natural rhythm in it all as you felt his tongue explore the inside of your mouth like he yearned to remember every spot of it.

Both pulling back for a breath, yet still connected by a string of saliva, you both giggled with both adrenaline and disbelief.

"you, uh- taste just like candy-no.. fruity. Bob. were you drinking fruit punch?" he chuckled quietly,

"Maybe"

"at least invite me next time" you grinned cheekily

"fuck wouldnt dream of not.. god- was it-"

"It was amazing, Bob"

"good!- good. thank god." he muttered, before you intertwined your fingers with his, guiding him to the doorway of the kitchen.

"Would you-" you started, but not wanting to lose another moment between the two of you, he had suddenly brought your knuckles up to his mouth, pressing a kiss on each one before asking himself

"Ma'am, would you honor me with a dance on this fine night?" a little teasing and a hundred percent fueled by pure desire and selfishness, he had a playful smile etched on his face matching yours, before you walked up to him and grabbed his cheeks more harshly- in a good way- he would've never expected from you.

Pressing a deep peck to his lips, "Shut up and dance with me, Bob." deathly close to his ear as your hand splayed itself on his chest, a shiver running through him at the contact and your confident words directed to him, and only him.

Dragged to the dance floor, he took your lead, swaying and twirling you as you hummed and swung him back in return wildly. Slow music had come on suddenly, and his hands had found gentlemanly purpose on your waist, holding you close and protective, yet his heart was thumping loud.

"Now don't you dare look back" you commented as you slid him a sly grin, but noticed the way his eyes traveled across the room for ones staring back at him.

Cupping his cheek, he turned swiftly back to your attention, reassuring him, "just keep your eyes on me."

He nodded back, gently rocking with both your rhythm and the song that lulled him to proper form. Seeing him become shy all of a sudden, you asked,

"are you holding something back from me, Bob?" Teasingly.

"After this- can I uh.. take you on a date? Proper one at that, not this.. y'know" music attempting to drown him out, but the only thing you were focused on was him, and the way his hands ran up and down your sides, with a squeeze bordering on protectiveness and a charming claim that said you're mine.

"Of course Bob, always."

"and forever?" He added, unsure.

"always, forever, and so on."

He smiled, boyish and largely at that and replied,

"you're my destiny"

thank you for reading :) requests are open! || Marvel Masterlist

[feelingdozy]

FRUIT PUNCH - Robert Reynolds

Summary: After Val's party that Bob was forced to go to, his crush on you had blossomed with a kiss and the two of you decide to take it up to his room for the night.

Warnings: 18+ explicit content!! porn w/like no plot whatsoever, oral (f!rec), p in v, unprotected, fingering, virginity loss (f!rec), first time with Bob bcz yes, hickeys, biting, kissing, soft bob, mention of sex toys, lots of praise and worship

a/n: a smutty pt. 2 to Shut Up and Dance, but can be read as a standalone. I absolutely love this little idea of Bob being so desperate on the dance floor and needing to take that dress off of you when he can

w/c: 3,0k of pure flilth

After a night with you on the dance floor, Bob had found himself more riled up than ever before, and he shows you just how much he's willing to worship you, not only your moves, but your body too.

You both hardly made it to his bedroom in time before stripping eachother bare of your attire for the event hosted by Val, and still many people remained downstairs- you two were supposed to remain down there for a majority of the night. But the two of you got handsy. Then teasing. Then just hardly resisting the urges.

Hands tangled in clothing and hair, wildly and harshly pressing your lips to each other's, you were sure that your lipstick was everywhere but where it needed to be on your lips. And your hands, holding on to thick strands of his hair as they made their way down to his neck to trap his body close to yours.

You hummed while you could still taste the faint flavour of the fruit punch he had drank before the two of you had kissed, making your head buzz from remembrance of the giddy moment that had undone you both in the first place.

No stranger to wanting all of you, he ran his hands over your own, resting them above your head while holding your wrists together with a grip that said claiming, and wildly desperate at the same time. He made his way back down to your mouth, but instead of stopping there, had held his tongue until he reached your jaw.

He began to plant soft kisses at first, that made you gasp in delight at the feeling of his warmth back on your skin and deliciously so, but extravagantly teasing with mighty purpose.

Occasionally sucking hard, you knew for sure you'd have some obvious fleeting or darkened marks littered all over the junction of your neck. But you weren't complaining- not with the way his brows furrowed as he took his time planting them on you, both worshipful and hungry to devour you- to taste you.

They became messy and frantic, soon sticking his tongue out to lick a stripe up from the side of your neck to the sensitive place underneath your ear, with a groan as you bucked into him.

His slick had found purchase nibbling on your earlobe, letting out an embarrassingly loud gasp paired with the dirtiest moan he had ever heard come from your lips.

"oh" he paused, swollen lips hovering over the spot.

"o-oh?" You repeated, before seeing the sinister sparkle in his eyes

"you're sensitive there, aren't you?" With a glint in his eyes- gold and very familiar.

you attempted to squirm, both out of his grip and the presented truth of his words, failing horribly and instead egging him on with little 'mmphs' of effort wasted.

He continued instead, torturous but painfully beautiful in the way your back arched off the bed as he kept going. More and more sensitive by every kiss he had drawn out, he put more pressure and made sure you could tell how intricately his tongue had dipped lower to your collarbones, then had come back as he bit your ear harder.

eventually pulling back from his newfound guilty pleasure and not-so-secret secret he'd definitely bring up again, his hands had found the zipper he once innocently did up for you, now undoing it and pulling it off with all the strength not to ruin it.

The sight of just your top-half without an article of clothing was godly- his lips were swollen and pupils blown wide as he took in your bare nipple, hard from the sudden coldness.

The warmth of his tongue had only peaked your hisses, now not just from the cold but from the way his tongue skillfully twirled around it and took it into his mouth, gently sucking on it. The other one a victim of his slightly calloused palm, between tugging it with his fingers and rubbing up against it teasingly, your body had begun searching for more friction from him.

Pulling away from your nipple, saddened but needed, he swept you off your feet with a gasp and carried you bridal style to the bed, placing you down carefully.

It was hunger that had led him here, but it was the opposite of what he was acting with. He caressed down your body gently, worshipful, looking at you like you were an angel beneath him, eyes wondering with no place on you left to the imagination.

Lust? Love. An insatiable amount of love as he admired every part of you with dilated pupils as his fingertips skimmed the waistband of your black laced underwear you had put on for the special occasion. On purpose? No. Coming in handy? Yes.

To watch his eyes drop, and his heart stutter a beat as trembling hands had found themselves ever so close to taking them off before looking up at you.

He asked, "is this okay?"

You nodded fast, so desperately fast for his hands on you, teetering on the edge as they found your slit hiding underneath the already soaked fabric.

He had a hard time managing to slip the underwear off you in one piece, threatening to tear it completely if it had taken one more extra second.

Left with you bare in front of his fond eyes, his expression softened, both with soft hunger and fueled desire.

Running his fingers through your folds, he'd start to mumble, "you're so wet- so damn good, so nice for me, beautiful baby, so beautiful."

And as you blinked, he had brought them up to his mouth with a loud suck and pop of his cheeks as he relished in the flavour of you finally on his tongue, almost moaning.

"And so damn sweet- my god-"

Sweetly, he asked, "Can- can I put them in?" And you nod furiously at the request, face warm and body already overwhelmed with need.

Slowly they travel down you again, but before he reaches your entrance, your hand is encasing is wrist lightly that he thinks if he hadn't seen the gesture he wouldn't have known your hand was there.

"what's wrong- are you hurt? Did I do somethi-" he questions immediately while frozen.

"No! No, Bob you- fuck you're amazing.. it's just I," you sigh in a shaky defeat at the words tumbling off your lips "I've never done this before- with anybody."

He takes a moment to consider your words as they sink in, but he pops back up in no time, "oh! s-sorry am I going too quickly or?"

"I just.. wanted you to know in case you- didn't wanna do it anymore.." both shy at the confession and the way you're so revealed beneath him, he smiles a small, genuine smile you know all too well.

"y/n, baby.." he starts, putting a lone strand of hair across your face back behind your ear while cupping your face in earnest, "in the nicest way possible, I couldn't give a singular fuck if you've done it or not, okay? Just- just gotta prep you nice and take it easy, yeah?"

With butterflies and unspoken love bubbling up between bodies, you hoarsely get out a 'yes', paired with a giggle.

His hands are back where they started, sure and steady as he caresses your folds, wetness coating them with a gasp before he lines them up and prods at your entrance.

One finger first, your back is bucking into the intrusion, not totally unwelcomed, but new and drastic.

"'s feel okay?" Using his other hand to catch your jaw, tipping it up to look him in the eye.

You nod with fluttering eyes at the feeling, allowing him to get a second one in the mix when he feels you're ready for it.

Now curling them up against your tense walls, he feels you start to give into the new tension rising that's pleasurable and not holding so much weight.

"is it okay- can I taste you?" he asks suddenly, sounding desperate as you find his expression glassy- blurred with lust and hunger.

without any struggle, you say yes, watching him scramble to get to his knees to have your thighs perched over his shoulders in one swift, eager movement that has him shivering in more anticipation than you.

His hands warmly grasp yours in a way to steady, before he licks a slow stripe up your cunt, stopping when you let out a yelp as he reaches your clit.

Kneading into your inner thighs as a way to ground himself from digging in like a man starved, he's gently sucking ever so often on the bundle of nerves as you struggle in his hold to keep still, grabbing blindly for his brown roots.

Tangled in random strands, you're pulling on him as he goes to slowly push a finger in again, while his tongue toys with kitten licking at your clit teasingly as you clench around him.

"Bob, fuck!- oh fuck please.. feels 's good" half-screamed, half-muttered praises are scraping your throat at every sensation and every tug that gets you closer to your orgasm, hips arching more aggressively signaling your release.

He curls in a second finger similarly to before, paired with his now sloppy organ discovering all different areas of your pussy. He makes his way to nibble on your clit,

"m' close, please, please," you're begging for him at this point, needing this, needing him to bring you closer- and god you were drowning in it all.

"'v got you" mumbled and messy, vibrating through you as he sucks harshly to your nerves, curling over and over in a place that almost has you keening over him, all your strength put into ripping and not ripping his hair out simultaneously.

Gasping out, you're coating his face in seconds as he selfishly slurps it all up, forcing as much as he can get out of you until your're practically limp in his god-like hold he has.

He rubs the sensitive skin of your thighs before climbing up to you and finding your lips, kissing you deeply, passionately as you taste your flavor on him- both dirty but turning you on as your hand palms his hard-on through the suit he's somehow kept on. Though now dirty with little areas of something familiar of yours fresh and actively drying out on the fabric as a confession of what happened that night you'll be reminded of the next morning.

"Bob- need you inside me so bad" you whine into his ear as he's kissing down your jaw again to distract him from the heat growing and pounding in his groin, and how he's been leaking since seeing you all to himself.

You're rising to hurriedly unbuckle his belt as he helps by taking off the top layers of his suit, hands on the hem as he pulls the undershirt over for your eyes to catch the view of his abs. The drop of his now-free pants startling you makes him let out a boyish chuckle, both awkward and nervous for how you'll react to him though you've been staring.

Quite the contrast, your minds on how he's going to ruin you with his strength, running your hands absentmindedly down his toned yet lean torso, admiring the scars that land themselves on the flesh on the way down.

And unexpectedly to him, you're kissing the little indents and scars from bad memories long ago, replacing them with the tenacity behind your love and desire for the man in front of you.

It tickles him both physically and mentally, the way you're so gentle with his body and the way he wasn't- dislike he's worked out many months ago but left unspoken at the crucial moments, put away to rot for next time.

Now he's growing to like it, witnessing the look in your eye and the realness of your ogling.

"bob- sweetheart- you're so fucking handsome" singing affirmations all the way down until you get to his leaking boxers, snug right against your cheek as he grunts at the sudden touch to his sensitive tip underneath the garment.

You find his scent intriguing, and you might even be starting to drool- but he's pushing you playfully back onto the bed before you have a chance to pull his boxers down and get to work yourself.

With the scarily darkened gaze that shadows his features, he's crawling up you before his hands find your thighs once again, spreading them open slightly and rubbing his dick through your soaked folds, tapping teasingly on your clit just to hear you whine for him again.

"You sure about this? M' taking it slow- not rushing this- you're pretty pussy taking me in, fuck you're everything."

"Please Bob- want it. Want you- need you right now, inside me. My first. Trust you."

He's slowly pushing himself past the ring of resistance, as you moan out both mixed with pain and pleasure as he shushes you, muttering praises like a mantra and telling you to relax gently.

With newfound pressure, he's sheathing inside as he goes a tantalizing inch by inch, but soothing you with the distraction of his hands all over your body.

They play with your tits, squeezing and kneading them one at a time as the other hand stays at your thigh to keep you open for him

Almost to the hilt, that pain grows to newfound highs as your head tips back.

"is it okay?"

"Move- please" and without being asked twice, his confident demeanour starts to stutter as he holds back his strength, but thrusts into you so deeply you swear you're feeling it press into your stomach- it probably is.

"fuck!- oh fuck Bob, you're so fucking good!"

He holds back a growl- pushing your legs down to an unintentional missionary that has you feeling him almost rearranging your guts better than any of your sex toys had done for you- unreal, and so, so fucking deep.

His girth doesn't help with the stretch either, as you feel like he's carving himself into you, the shape being stained both into your memory and your cunt as he keeps his pace rough with hints of softness as he's putting in the effort but keeping in mind your inexperience as his cock drags through your walls with another tilted thrust.

Becoming too fucked-out to even catch his name on your tongue, he's becoming frantic as he heightens his speed.

He's messy- hands digging themselves in the thick of your hips, curls stuck to his forehead as the room is thick and sex-veiled. And as his movements stutter, so does his responsiveness, breaking and becoming louder both with his moans and grunts along with his tongue that's so, so dirty in many ways.

"you feel so fucking good, baby- you were made me for me".

"so beautiful, can't believe you're actually mine"

with shame etched into his features, "I used to dream of this, and now- god you're under me and it's even better." He admitted, pathetically and truthfully.

"Oh bob-" you moaned out as he thrusted deeper than before, both to cover himself and to prove his words.

"Fuck!- holy fuck- me- too-" he grins at that.

"Close! Close- where do you want it?" He's becoming relentlessly fast, and you can tell he's on the verge of combustion as his stamina holds out- you're the only thing making him unable to hold back

"in me" he almost comes on the spot at your immediate words unfiltered.

sticky and sweat-sheened, his cock now slippery because of how close you are is slapping together in the otherwise quiet room, filled with the two of you closing fast on your release.

He's kissing in the crook of your neck, too far gone to question it- not that you would, you're coming on his cock when he sucks and bites down on another dark and definitely multicolored hickey that'll show vividly and harshly in the morning- along with his hands imprinted to your waist.

But you don't care- not when you're screaming out for him and your impending orgasm.

"fuck- coming!- I'm coming, holy fuck please"

"me too, me too, so soft, so tight- fuck!"

Utterly soaked and his freshly spewed cum you can feel, runs out of you and onto the depths of your legs, twitchy and sensitive as he collapses beside you in the glory of cuming together.

His hands reach for you, clingy and seeking your body as he plants small kisses all over your face, allowing you to breathe and take in what had just happened while he rises to get a warm cloth from the bathroom to clean you up.

IN THE MORNING

You both awake- sore, but with the best sleep you've had, and cuddled in each other's arms as Bob fell asleep to the sound of your heartbeat pounding like a lullaby against his ears.

He never let you slip out- not even to go to the bathroom. He followed and stood there waiting for you to finish.

Finding comfort in one of his large hoodies as he goes with a classic crewneck, you both match with baggy sweats as you make your way out to the kitchen- only to find the whole crew there except for you two, staring relentlessly and with bullets into the two of you.

Yelena only shrugs while putting her hand out.

"What'd I say. Good assassin- told you I know. Jinxed it for Bob. Where's the cash?" Gesturing as she does a 'come on' motion, while they sigh as dollar bills fill her once empty palm.

Both you and Bob are stood in shock, witnessing the horrible but greatest bet gone through the tower of all time.

John looks at the two of you, "lights uh- lights went out last night. Gonna have to guess it had somethin' to do with those hickeys" he phrases quietly at the end, but they all grin slyly and bucky coughs awkwardly as you scramble to bring your hair to the front to cover your ranging array of marks covering your body in many, various places.

Bob only shyly smiles at all of them while he fidgets in place, but Yelena comes up, and pats his shoulder before she retreats and whispers in his ear,

"told you, I know everything."

thank you for reading :) requests are open! || Marvel Masterlist

[feelingdozy]

GROUNDING - Bucky Barnes

Summary: When Bucky's in his head, you come around and make everything easier- grounding him to the peace that's grown around him

warnings: self-deprication, mention of Bucky's past, reader being his steady in the constant movement

w/c: 500+

When you walk through the door of your shared apartment, it's eerily quiet. His boots are by the door so you know he's home, slowly walking through the space to find him caught up in the bathroom.

Shirt off, he's examining the metal that merges with flesh, scars from long, long ago. His fingertips run over the ragged edges, applying the tiniest bit of pressure to see if he'll ever feel the sensation even just the slightest.

His brows are edged and furrowed, not in pain but a silent guilt and knowing of what it meant carved into his body, forever a memory of death and blood and injury.

mouth downturned, his shoulders are tense and upright in a way the comfort of home doesn't bring when the memories are on the verge of his mind and so desperately scratching to reach out and terrorize.

The scenes replay, and the metal whirrs even when the hand isn't connected to the body, as a constant urgency of what he'd lost to scarred innocence that had been taken too soon from a boy trying to do his best.

You creep in, trying not to scare but to make yourself gently apparent to the man caught up in a distant dream of past reality.

Soft, unhurried fingertips run down his shoulder as he huffs out a quiet sigh, at the familiarity and comfort of touch. One that only counts because it's you.

Wrapping both hands around his neck from the back, you press light kisses to his sensitive skin, feeling a shiver run through him at the tiniest gesture.

He soon turns himself to face you, tired of being met with only a reflection. Calloused hands finding their place on your waist has you nuzzling into the crook of his neck, now just taking in the fading scent of soap that still lingers on him and something cedar- moreso his overwhelming homey, particularly him scent.

"Buck" you mutter into the warmth of him, just enough so he can hear it.

A non-coherent sound comes out of him that's taken as a response, vibrating against the hair he's now cradling to his chest as his fingers run through it to soothe you- though even he knows it's for his sake.

You remove yourself carefully from your spot encasing your bodies together, to meet his eyes that soften when they take in yours.

Cupping his cheeks, you're met with the feeling of stubble and soft scars that line his cheekbones and other places like his forehead that only you can spot so close up.

But you don't comment. You don't even glance at them, as you know where they are. Know what they mean. Your gaze sticks to his cerulean eyes.

He knows how you look at him so deeply entranced. How you're grounding him in the moment. Keeping him and everything inside him together without knowing.

And as you pull him down, and your lips meet his cracked ones, he's only left to wonder how he got so damn lucky with the girl who'll accept all of him.

The once innocent. Boyish, and curious.

The once evil. Murderous and commanded.

And now the broken. Desperate and needy-

The him that thought he would never be deserving

The one that didn't know how much he needed it

And now you were here.

In the bathroom of his apartment, kissing him like nothing else had ever mattered except for his simple existence in this ongoing world that doesn't coddle him. It never has.

But you-

You make it better.

Tolerable.

You make it real.

[feelingdozy]

lord almighty

Bucky Barnes + hair bobbing hard THUNDERBOLTS*

[feelingdozy]

LATE NIGHT COLLAPSE - Bucky Barnes

Summary: After Bucky realizes your absence is unusually long, he takes charge in finding where you've really gone for the evening and waiting up til you return.

or

you get assigned on a last-minute mission and come back injured, but Bucky is there to patch you up.

Warnings: established relationship, mild hurt/comfort, more anxiousness and worry than angst, injuries, blood, arguments (the team), eventual romance/comfort, eventual fluff, bucky yearning and bandaging you

w/c: 2,3k

Swirling hazes of tension like sizzling static had stirred beneath his veins.

What seemed of a tough facade lined his furrowed eyebrows, the curves of his downturned mouth and the way his lightly trembling fingertips had pushed his sweat-sorrowed hair back to have some sort of peace of mind

You had been gone for too long.

A mission you hadn't told anyone- not even him. A late evening that he thought not even Val would take from you, but even he knew he couldn't keep a hope such as that. 

He was angry- no, not at you but himself for letting this slide under his supervision. Of course he wasn't a higher up of sorts, but he sure was able to make a good argument on behalf of pulsing and dire emotions laid dormant inside of him that were ready to release themselves on a tongue-lashing rampage.

He had been waiting all afternoon- at first, the team had distracted him. They made a nice dinner without questioning your weirdly timed absence, placing plates with arguments in between with Walker complaining about the effort put into a "normal evening" and Ava returning, "doing something nice for once brings up bad memories for you".

The silence was dimming, but it was nevertheless the team dynamic that filled that space with less awkwardness, but a silent understanding to eat in peace after a long day at work that brought the frustration bubbling underneath everyone's skin. 

Bucky's mind was everywhere but that. The arguments and the tiny jabs that got on the others nerves. The spill of those hard-earned emotions when the voices gained volume and fingers were pointed, like they were in the middle of yet another battlefield made by themselves, trauma, and bottled up feelings none of their hardened selves could even begin to express.

Bob had started on washing the dishes, to keep him occupied and away from being involved in his own round of being a punching bag to mean words. bucky had rounded the corner, grabbing a drink from the lacking fridge to accompany him in lonely times when Bob had started to think out loud, "wonder where y/n left off to.." and the thought had trailed bucky all the way back to his shared room with you.

Where the hell were you?

He knew for a fact the last thing you'd do is miss dinner with the team you praised with a certain hint of pride and talked about constantly with a smile that lit up at the subject, always grateful for the opportunity. He knew you'd say something about it to him- so why haven't you? 

Now, the man wasn't stupid- but he knew to give a woman space when it was needed. He thought it was as simple as that, really. But it wasn't.

Not when space becomes evenings that had you beside him, hand always present either in his palm or on his thigh that made the corner of his lip lift ever-so-slightly in a boyish manner of a reminder of how you were always with him. The way your shoulders touched because of the closeness and shared proximity you kept the other in, habit and quiet intimacy both true.

His demeanour was boiling over.

He started to trace your usual steps back through the empty corridors of the avengers tower.

Training rooms where the mats were crisp and untouched, cold from the loud fan in the corner that was constantly on. Maybe, just maybe he'd see you stretching on the mat with the same cheeky grin you'd wear well teasing him with a provocative pose, or posing a spar while egging him on with how you'll have him down in less than a second.

The memory replayed scarily vivid for a room now contrasting the loud thumps of his heart in the moment, and the light blush on the tips of his ears at your sly comments of his build. He reluctantly moved on.

The weapons artillery lined with lockers of your gear had your lock on, but he knew your code. He didn't want to, he really didn't want to snoop- but a part of him was aching, wondering with both good and bad on your location. 

You weren't sitting on the bench by your locker either. Questioning him on the right gun or knife for you to practice with, or if he had any cool tricks to show you with a giggle at the non-hostile grumpy huff of a man too experienced and too fed up with your inquiries he might never have admitted he favoured so much, if not for eventual fate.

He sighed, relentless and eager with desperation as a click filled the otherwise empty room as it creaked open at Bucky's intrusion, only to see it empty of all your things except for Bucky's dog tags he had gifted you.

Laying in bed with you, shared whispers with hungry kisses in the dark, leaned into each other with no intention of getting up nor away from the feeling of love. He knew what he felt was special- that the two of you were special. That you- god he loved you.

The kind that words couldn't describe, but flowers matched to your curtains on your bedside table could. The kind that he tried to make obvious but were shown in the way he'd carry you to bed after a long movie night, traces of popcorn and warm sips of alcohol still on your lips. The kind that he couldn't express in deep physical affection at first, entrusting you instead with his lips sealing themselves on the tags and placing them over your neck. His- now yours. Like everything else.

To say you were his. To prove his affection. To say, I love you.

And so the man knew you didn't want them to have accidentally ripped off on a mission, and just in case, you'd leave them behind as a promise to return to him when it was all over. 

Damnit. 

Now his mind was definitely running, certain at the fact you had been sent out quickly and very quietly in the blink of the eye, going undetected under your own boyfriend and self-proclaimed protecter.

He knew his next stop- Vals office

He stormed there, boots loud to be heard as he strutted through, the air around him crackling with frustration running through his bloodstream. 

He almost hadn't cared to knock, but unfortunately he did enough. With two clammy-handed fists to her door, it opened with caution and an eye sticking out to see who decided to bother her at this time of day, only to see Bucky and hesitantly gesturing him in like she knew already why he had come.

"Soo, bucky! What have you come here-"

"Where did you send her?' gruff and groggily, moreso downtoned and scary in a way that said old, grumpy, and not taking anyone's shit right now.

"Aheh- so- she was, y/n was stationed on a solo infiltration, a stakeout with a simple break in, get the data and papers and get out." She shrugged at the idea, simmering real anger in his fingertips as she talked like she had no empathy for her teams life.

"Mission was estimated to be done by midnight. Don't wait up too long, Barnes. Don't need you sleepy for press tomorrow" almost in a teasing fashion, but with knowing confidence that made it hard for him not to lash out that very second.

He hardly gave a nod, knowing if he spoke she wouldn't hear the last of his complaints, nor the vile words he had in mind just for her ears.

So here he found himself, on the couch of the lounge waiting for your return at the dead of midnight- past midnight now.

It was taking too long for his comfort- thoughts rampant and heavily resisting the closing of his eyelids through the darkness of the room. His anxiety and worries kept him up easily with the moonlight striking him and the breeze in the curtains accompanied by sounds that made him perk up at the idea it could be you.

When the ding of the elevator really did come, it was faint and he thought it was his imagination playing tricks on him. But when he saw the contrasting bright white coming from the opposite direction of the open window, he turned to see you-

Dirt and blood, a mix of both lining almost every crevice of your face with smudges and scratches above your eyebrow and on the corners of your cheeks. Your suit had tears and even blood poking from a visible patch of skin near one of your arms and upper thigh. Your breath was heavy, exhaustion lacing your movement as you held your side with grunts as you attempted to stumble in somewhat quietly.

So absent to your surroundings because of not only adrenaline, but it wearing off to the sudden violent thumps and tinges of pain that echoed through muscles and open wounds alike. You swear even your heartbeat was up in your head because of the blazing headache you had received getting out of there.

Bucky was stunned for a second- with fear at the sight in front of him creeping every corner that made his limbs stiff, almost tripping as he swiftly got off the couch to support you.

Bruised, almost unconscious, and very extraordinarily tired, you jolted at the supporting and careful hands of another at your side. Not expecting the feeling of comfort, you still leaned on the strangers shoulder you recognized as you placed your head on the broad landscape. Nuzzling into him, you took in the familiar scent of Bucky with an unexpected hum.

"what did you get yourself into.." he muttered, and you couldn't find the exact word for emotion in his tone, but you could feel the concern in the way his hand grazed your side, tapping and feeling over every place he could reach, checking for more injuries.

He brought you to his room, laying you gently on his bed as he began to undress you in the dimmed light of his bedside lamp that you knew all too well.

"What happened- where did they hurt you" stern, but you could tell there was an underlying shakiness.

Weak and strained, you attempted to respond to try and calm his nerves, "Bucky-'

"And who. Give me the bastards name." You knew he wouldn't relent now, so you sighed in an easy defeat.

"More than expected- he had his data locked up with more security than the Intel had said. Men scouting all around the block. Own personal bodyguard. Thought maybe they were getting it on before I got in there because I caught them off guard-"

"are they still alive?"

You paused

"not all of them. But the main guy got away with half of what I needed to retrieve. Got me pretty good, I wouldn't have been able to keep up with him."

He let you finish this time, but still didn't rest easy.

One by one, he stripped you of the heavy chest plate, big guards and knives hidden in random pockets and spaces he knew you kept them. He scavenged for the first aid kit underneath his bed, hands working hastily.

Intimate. His calloused touches across your purple and red tainted flesh laid in front of his eyes. The way his eyes found yours with words that didn't come out, but said everything.

He cleaned you with antiseptic, hisses at the sting leaving your mouth as he kissed the skin around it afterward, trying to ease and replace pain with his pleasure. His desire. His love.

He managed to find all the little places not even you had known about, to bandage and rub like he hadn't felt you in years. He was yearning in every way. How he wasn't there to defend you, stop you from getting torn apart and done dirty by people higher than you. Wanting to transfer all your suffering onto him so you didn't have to go through it all.

Written deep in his bones, in his soul, in his gentle cerulean eyes.

All for you.

Yours had found comfort in leaning back and keeping them shut at his ministrations that nearly put you to sleep. After his doctor-esque treatments and top-notch stitching, his lips found yours, and he adjusted you to lie sideways to get in beside you.

He didn't say it, but you knew he needed your touch, and you needed his all the same. The warmth your body provided, and how it grounded him on the days that were too much. The moments and scenarios that overwhelmed.

The bruises that didn't pound underneath your skin as much when you had him by your side. How he'd always help you selflessly and gently, like he knew nothing but kindness and kisses- calming the helpless memory of a long forgotten mission that still scarred.

Feeling every area across your flesh he could reach, his hands danced with fervor and longing. His face softened when his eyes met yours like a reflection in the dark, pulling you closely to his chest so he could wrap his arms around you like the shield he wasn't able to provide for you this time.

He kissed your temple. His fingers glided through your hair. He whispered in your ear.

"Please baby- don't ever leave me in the dark like that" your hand found his underneath the blanket that covered the two of you, intertwining them. He rubbed your red and overused knuckles at that.

Said hoarsely while tears lined your lashes, "I'm- I'm sorry Bucky."

"no, no don't apologize.. I just.." he huffed out "I'm worried and you- I'm not letting you die on me. I'm here. And you're never getting rid of me"

Placing a kiss on his trembling lips, stubble grazing deliciously before whispering back,

"Never dreamt of it."

thank you for reading :) requests are open! || Marvel Masterlist