foreverrogers

[foreverrogers]

Compromised

pairing | new!avengers!bucky x fem!reader

word count | 10.8k words

summary | sent to infiltrate and execute the new avengers, you never planned on falling for their brooding, self-sacrificing unofficial leader—especially when loving him might just ruin you both.

tags | (18+) MDNI, smut, unprotected sex, p in v, rough sex, desperate sex, using sex as a distraction (tool), kind of enemies to lovers? slow burn romance (if 7 months count as slowburn), THUNDERBOLTS* SPOILERS, emotional angst, hurt/comfort, mutual pining, trauma, betrayal, and emotional manipulation, seduction as manipulation, but also feelings, emotional vulnerability and guilt, mental spiraling / internal conflict, gentle aftercare, bucky needs a break, bucky eventually chooses peace

a/n | chat, I'm actually really proud of this (cue the debby ryan meme), I hated the draft that I was writing then changed it up, and I'm in love with the ending, if I'm allowed to toot my own horn (I love old sayings). anyway based on this request.

taglist | if you wanna be added to my bucky barnes masterlist just add your username to my taglist

likes comments and reblogs are much appreciated ✨✨

ᴍᴀsᴛᴇʀʟɪsᴛ

divider by @cafekitsune

The fluorescent lights buzzed overhead—too bright, too sterile—and the new “Avengers” sat around the glossy, fingerprint-smudged conference table like a jury no one trusted.

Alexei was slouched back in his chair, arms folded, halfway into a pout and 100% still bitter he couldn’t wear his suit to the meeting.

Yelena was eating out of a bag of off-brand popcorn. Loudly.

Walker sat with both arms on the table, chin lifted just enough to pretend he wasn’t being judged.

Ava was in the farthest corner, half-faded, watching everything and nothing.

And Bucky? Bucky looked like he was calculating how fast he could jump out the window.

At the head of the table stood Valentina Allegra de Fontaine—heels clicking, posture stiff, holding a coffee she clearly didn’t like and an attitude sharp enough to slice glass.

Her assistant, Mel, stood beside her. Silent. Tall. Holding a tablet and radiating the vibe of someone who’s seen five too many NDA breaches.

Val tapped the screen behind her.

The monitor flashed up a still from the yesterday’s press conference: Alexei blocking a camera lens with his massive hand while Yelena flipped someone off in the background.

“Let me be clear,” she began, voice sugar-coated poison. “This—this is what the American public now associates with the term ‘Avengers.’”

“Iconic,” Yelena said around a mouthful of popcorn.

“Disastrous,” Valentina snapped.

Mel cleared her throat gently and read, without inflection, “Social media sentiment is currently down 83% across all demos under 35. Trending tags include: #WalmartAvengers, #BudgetCrisis, #YikesTeam, and #WhoEvenIsThat.”

Walker perked up. “Well at least they’re talking—”

“About how pathetic you look,” Val interjected smoothly.

She turned on him. “John, you smile like a campaign ad for expired cereal. You can’t speak without sounding like you’re reading from a teleprompter in hell.”

He blinked.

“Do you even like the team?”

“I—”

“Exactly.”

She pivoted.

“Alexei. I don’t even know where to start with you.”

“I was protecting camera woman!” he protested.

“You were about to throw her into traffic because she got too close.”

“Is not my fault she was squishy.”

Mel, without missing a beat, “Three civil suits pending.”

Val turned.

“Yelena. You flipped off a priest.”

“He was filming me,” she said blandly. “And staring at my chest.”

Val nodded slowly. “And you said, quote, ‘God gave you two hands—use one to hold your phone and the other to go f—’”

“I’m sorry, is there a point?” Bucky interrupted.

Bad move.

Val beamed.

“Oh. Bucky.”

The room got real quiet.

“You were an actual a congressman,” she said sweetly, venom practically dripping. “A congressman. You were on the floor of the House of Representatives, and you still don’t know how to string a sentence together for press.”

He scowled. “I’m not here to charm people.”

“No,” she agreed, sipping her awful coffee. “You’re here to grunt monosyllabically in public like you’re allergic to communication.”

Mel clicked through another slide. “The phrase ‘Is Bucky okay?’ has been trending for 48 hours. Also ‘blink twice if you’re in trouble.’”

Val took another sip of her coffee. Winced. Put it down like it had personally offended her.

“I’m going to be honest—because none of you seem to grasp reality,” she said, stepping closer to the table like a headmistress about to assign detention to six grown adults.

“I don’t know how this team came together. Seriously. You’re all walking liabilities with shiny backstories and anger management issues.”

Alexei raised a hand. “I have good management—”

“You threw a vending machine at a janitor.”

“He insulted Mother Russia.”

Yelena rolled her eyes, slouching deeper in her chair. “You act like you didn’t cause this disaster,” she said. “You sent every mercenary you’ve ever hired to the same mountain and told them to kill each other. That was our team bonding exercise.”

Val didn’t blink. “Great point, but wrong,” she chirped.

Yelena’s eyes narrowed. “How.”

“Because I didn’t send all of my mercenaries.”

She straightened, like she’d been waiting to say this.

“In fact,” Val continued, spinning slightly to pace, “there’s one I kept in my back pocket. A… contingency. Someone smart. Refined. Lethal—but good for optics.”

“Sounds fake,” Walker muttered.

“Sounds expensive,” Bob whispered.

“Oh, God, please let it not be another American," Ava added under her breath.

Val ignored all of them. Her eyes lit up like a stage light had just turned on.

“You see, unlike the rest of you drama magnets, this one knows how to handle a camera and a kill order. This one knows how to wear leather without looking like a sex cultist. This one, ladies and gentlemen…”

She turned toward the doors, gesturing with a graceful, almost dramatic sweep.

“…might actually be beneficial to the New Avengers brand.”

Yelena snorted. “God, what a speech.”

Walker leaned back. “I’m gonna throw up.”

Val didn’t miss a beat.

“I would’ve sent her to that little mountain retreat with the rest of you,” she said, voice low, satisfied. “But I didn’t. Because I knew she’d be the only one to walk out of it alive.”

Silence.

Mel glanced at the door, tapped something into her tablet, and said flatly, “ETA: thirty seconds.”

Val smiled.

“Time to meet your upgrade.”

The door opened.

And the entire room fell silent.

You stepped inside like you owned the place—not loudly, not theatrically. Just… completely. Like the room had always been yours and the rest of them were lucky to be invited.

A black suit dress, cut sharp as a razor and cinched at the waist with a leather belt, hugged your frame like it had been tailored by regret itself. Legs for miles beneath it. Heels that made actual noise. The kind of confident click that didn’t just announce you—it warned people.

Hair perfect. Expression unreadable.

You looked like you’d walked off the cover of a Vogue magazine, stopped to kill someone on the way, and still arrived early.

Valentina grinned like a mother presenting her favorite child at a beauty pageant-slash-funeral.

“Everyone,” she said, clearly savoring the effect, as she introduced you.

You smiled. Not a grin. Not a smirk. An award-winning, dazzling, dangerously pretty smile.

And that’s when the team snapped out of it—sort of.

Yelena sat up straighter in her chair and shoved her popcorn aside, her gaze narrowing like she wasn’t sure whether to fawn over you or interrogate you.

Walker’s jaw did something unfortunate.

Bob knocked over his water.

Ava blinked—once, sharp, observant.

Alexei just exhaled, reverent, like he’d seen a vision.

Only Bucky didn’t move. Didn’t speak. But his eyes?

They didn’t leave you. Not for a second.

Valentina clapped her hands once, sharp and smug.

“Well, don’t all drool at once.”

Yelena leaned forward first, elbow on the table, eyes sharp. “So what—did we order you out of a catalog or something?”

You gave her a half-smile, sultry and lazy. “Would’ve been a premium subscription.”

Walker raised a brow, trying to reclaim some footing. “What exactly is it that you… do?”

You tilted your head slightly. “You mean besides everything you can do, but better?”

He blinked.

“Excellent start,” Val said brightly.

Ava crossed her arms. “She’s too polished. What’s the angle?”

You turned to her without hesitation. “Polished is what you call it when someone doesn’t announce their trauma within thirty seconds of arrival.”

Alexei let out a choked laugh. “I like her.”

“Of course you do,” Yelena muttered.

Bob finally found his voice, though it was somewhere between a whisper and a sigh. “You, uh… you have a codename?”

“Nox,” you said, still smiling. “Like the night.”

Valentina beamed. “See? Magnetic and discreet.”

Ava’s eyes narrowed again. “So you’re here to do what, exactly?”

Before Val could answer, you did. Voice smooth. Impossibly calm.

“Damage control.”

The room went tense.

Bucky’s voice cut through it, low and even. “Whose damage?”

You looked at him then. Met his stare with one of your own. Held it. And smiled—just a little.

“Guess we’ll find out.”

────────────────────────

Service Corridor, Just Before Midnight [3 Months In]

He caught you between meetings.

Not planned. Not really. But Bucky had gotten good at learning your patterns—how you moved through the Watchtower with that unbothered grace, all silence and purpose and elegance wrapped in something almost dangerous.

You didn’t flinch when he stepped into your path. Just looked at him. Calm. Composed. Head slightly tilted like he might be a puzzle piece out of place.

“James,” you said. Voice even. Smooth.

A pause.

He leaned against the wall, arms crossed. “Everyone’s already obsessed with you, you know.”

You raised a brow. “And you’re not?”

That threw him. Just a little.

He gave you a half-shrug, like he couldn’t help himself. “I don’t trust you.”

“Good,” you replied. “Means you’re not stupid.”

His eyes narrowed slightly. “Still doesn’t explain what you’re doing here.”

“Funny,” you said, stepping closer—not threatening, not dramatic. Just enough. “I was about to ask you the same thing.”

He didn’t move.

Didn’t breathe right.

“Everyone thinks you’re the reformed soldier,” you continued. “Quiet. Broody. Tragic. But I don’t buy that. You don’t keep looking over your shoulder like that unless you think someone’s still coming for you.”

He swallowed once. Hard. “And what—are you?”

“Am I coming for you?”

You smiled.

“I haven’t decided yet.”

The space between you shrank by inches, thick with something sharp and burning. You smelled like danger and something softer—something expensive and clean. And the way you were looking at him?

Like he was a locked file you’d already memorized.

Then, softer—just for him, “You’re different than the others.”

“How?” he asked before he could stop himself.

You stepped even closer, eyes flicking over him like a readout. “Because you know what it’s like to be used. Bent. Broken. Rebuilt.”

You said it without pity. Without fear. Like it didn’t phase you at all.

He looked at you then—really looked. And there was something in his chest that twisted hard.

You leaned in. Close enough for your breath to hit the edge of his jaw.

“But you’re still here.”

He didn’t speak. Didn’t move. Didn’t dare to touch you.

And then—like it never happened—you stepped away.

Back to your perfect posture. Back to composure. Back to safety.

“Good talk, Sergeant,” you said with a wink.

And you walked away.

Leaving Bucky in the hallway, staring after you, already desperate for another interaction.

────────────────────────

4 Months Ago

The office was dim, filtered in violet and amber light from frosted glass and a skyline too expensive to care about. You stood across from her desk in silence—hands folded neatly, eyes unreadable, your silhouette painted against the city like an omen.

Valentina didn’t look up right away. She was typing. Slowly. Carefully.

Then, without ceremony, she said, “I have a job for you.”

You blinked. “That so?”

She looked up now. Chin high. Lipstick perfect.

“The New Avengers.”

You tilted your head slightly. “The ones you recently just named on live television?”

She gave a humorless smile. “Yes, those ones.”

There was a beat. A pause that settled between you like a blade waiting to be drawn.

“You want me to kill them?” you said flatly.

“I want you to handle them.”

“‘Handle’ as in seduce? Sabotage? Slit throats?”

Val smirked. “Dealer’s choice.”

You didn’t even flinch. “Why?”

She leaned back in her chair, folded her hands over her knee. “Because they’re liabilities. All of them. Unstable, unmarketable, emotionally broken liabilities. Half of them have kill orders from former employers. One of them’s a war criminal. Another literally fades in and out of visibility depending on how she’s feeling.”

“And you made them the face of American heroism?”

“PR move. Politics. Theater. I needed the chaos to stop. Now I need it… cleaned.”

You arched a brow. “So you created your own monster and now you want me to put it down.”

Val’s gaze sharpened. “Don’t be dramatic. I tested them. Now I’m correcting the curve.”

“And why me?”

She stood now. Walked around the desk. Her heels were quiet, but deliberate.

“Because I trust you,” she said. “Because you’re efficient. Elegant. Indisposable.”

You met her eyes.

“And because I know you,” she added, voice low. “You don’t get attached. You finish what you start.”

You didn’t answer right away.

You just let the silence hang.

Then you said, dry as bone, “You really think I can take them all out?”

“I don’t think, sweetheart. I know.”

Another pause.

You glanced at the manila folder on her desk—labeled with the team’s photos. A cross-section of broken people and barely-contained chaos.

You nodded once. “Fine.”

Val smiled. “I knew I kept you for a reason.”

────────────────────────

The Watchtower – Living Quarters, Late Afternoon [5 Months In]

They were spread out across the common room like children too exhausted to cause more trouble. The air was warm. Dimmed light poured in through the angled windows, golden against the muted steel of the Watchtower’s architecture. For the first time in weeks, they weren’t training. Weren’t fighting. Weren’t trying.

And so you watched.

Not because you had to.

Because you couldn’t not.

Yelena was curled sideways across one of the oversized chairs, legs draped over the armrest, eating a half-melted popsicle from a coffee mug like it was a normal thing to do. She was laughing at something Bob said—sharp, bright, uninhibited.

She kept trying to hide her warmth. But it spilled out anyway.

Ava sat opposite her, perched on the floor with a half-disassembled gadget in her lap, fingers working silently. She hadn’t looked up once in twenty minutes. But you could tell she was listening—tracking every conversation, every breath. Her gift wasn’t just stealth. It was restraint. Self-control wrapped in bitterness.

If Yelena burned like a firecracker, Ava was a cold fuse waiting for permission.

Bob had taken the corner of the sectional, crisscrossed like a teenager, a tablet balanced on one knee, a half-eaten sandwich dangling from one hand. He spoke too much. Said too little. But he was sweet. In a world that didn’t reward softness, he still had it. Still offered it.

Which made him the most dangerous one in the room... besides the fact he was a walking bipolar superhuman.

Walker was slouched back with his boots on the table,remote in hand, flipping through channels without watching a single frame. Restless. Bored. Trying too hard not to feel inferior. You knew his kind. Soldiers trained to think they were legends before they ever earned the scars. His righteousness would rot him from the inside eventually.

But you weren’t sure whether he’d burn the world down out of pride—or loneliness.

Alexei had commandeered the entire loveseat and was loudly, badly retelling the story of how he once arm-wrestled a mutant in a Siberian prison. Again.

He told it differently every time.

Today, there were two mutants. And a polar bear.

He was a relic, a fossil with fists, but the strange thing was—he never lied to impress. He believed his stories. Like they were sacred. Mythic. And somehow, that made it easier to let him speak.

You sat on the edge of it all. Legs crossed, drink untouched, eyes half-lidded.

…And then there was him.

James Buchanan Barnes.

The soldier-turned-congressman-turned-reluctant superhero.

He wasn’t like the others. Never loud. Never performative. Always lurking just outside the center of the chaos, like he wasn’t sure if he belonged or if he even wanted to.

You watched him now—seated on the edge of the couch, elbows resting on his knees, watching Alexei lie through his teeth for the fiftieth time. He didn’t laugh. Didn’t roll his eyes. Just… watched.

Observant. Withdrawn. Dangerous in the way old scars are—quiet and unflinching.

His face had been sculpted by war, but it hadn’t dulled the beauty. The high, sharp cheekbones. The straight line of his nose. The furrow carved into his brow like regret lived there rent-free. And those eyes—God, those eyes—sad and blue like a glacier swallowing itself.

But it was his mouth that always caught you off guard.

Unnaturally pink. Like it didn’t belong on a man so grave. So heavy with history. Like softness had been stitched into his mouth as a joke.

You weren’t sure what to do with him.

He didn’t speak to you unless he had to. But when he did, it was always measured. Calculated. Like he was searching for something in you he couldn’t name.

There was something pulling about him. Like gravity in reverse.

You didn’t know if you wanted to stab him or fuck him.

Maybe both. Maybe at the same time.

And that unsettled you more than any mission brief ever had.

────────────────────────

Rooftop in Prague.

The rain came down in sheets. You stood at the edge, scope aimed dead-center on Alexei's exposed silhouette as he darted through a broken alley, backlit by gunfire. The kill shot was lined up. He’d never even feel it.

You lowered the rifle.

Didn’t blink.

Didn’t fire.

“Target repositioned,” you muttered into the comm.

Your finger never touched the trigger.

────────────────────────

Warehouse In Marrakesh.

Yelena was bleeding from the side, back to a concrete pillar, breath ragged as the wall exploded beside her. You could’ve let her fall. Easy. Clean. Too much noise, not enough cover. Her odds were terrible.

You moved anyway.

Tossed a flash. Dragged her out by the collar. She laughed through a mouthful of blood, saying, “I was handling it.”

“Sure,” you replied, voice flat, pulse louder than the bombs.

You never explained why you’d done it.

────────────────────────

Helicopter Extraction Above Bangkok.

Walker was hanging off the side of the landing rail, barely gripping the bar. The metal was slipping in the rain. Bucky was piloting. Ava was too far. You were closest.

You watched him dangle.

Then grabbed his wrist and hauled him up with a grunt.

He looked at you like you’d grown a second head. “Thought you didn’t like me.”

“I don’t,” you replied. “You’re heavy.”

He never brought it up again.

────────────────────────

The Watchtower – Your Bedroom

The dossier was spread out on your desk.

Pages torn. Notes scribbled. Photos frayed.

Each marked with opportunities.

Moments you could’ve taken.

Didn’t.

You stared at them in silence. Lips parted slightly. A strange pressure blooming beneath your ribs—one you couldn’t quite place.

Not guilt. Not fear.

Something worse.

Attachment.

You shut the folder. Locked it back inside the drawer.

And told yourself the same lie you always did:

It’s not over yet.

────────────────────────

Somewhere in Eastern Europe, Nightfall

The city burned behind you. Smoke coiled through the rain-slick streets, orange glow flickering against soaked concrete. Gunfire had finally stopped, but the echoes still rang in your ears like the ghosts of enemies who didn’t get out fast enough.

You and Bucky moved as one.

Shoulder to shoulder. No orders. No plan.

Just instinct.

You’d both bled for this one—him from a deep graze on his thigh, you from a cut along your temple—but you hadn’t stopped moving. You never did.

It was the alley, two blocks from the evac point, where it finally snapped.

You pressed your back to the wall, pulse hammering in your throat, blood trickling past your eyebrow. Bucky stood across from you, chest heaving, eyes wild and locked only on you.

No words passed. Just tension. Just truth.

And then he moved.

Fast. Certain.

His hand hit the side of your face, pulling you to him, and his mouth crashed into yours like something that had waited too long to be allowed.

No warning. No hesitation. Just heat.

And instead of reaching for the knife at your thigh—

Instead of taking advantage of the distraction like you'd trained your whole life to do—

You grabbed him by the collar. Fisted the fabric. And devoured his mouth like you’d been starving.

The kiss turned sharp—teeth and breath and need—his metal hand on your waist, the other in your hair, your back hitting the alley wall like it had been waiting for this moment, too.

The blood didn’t matter. The bruises didn’t matter.

Only the way he kissed you. Like he didn’t know if he’d ever get to again.

And the way you kissed him back? Like maybe you wouldn’t let him stop.

────────────────────────

Late Night — Days After the Kiss [7 Months In]

It was never supposed to go this far.

You weren’t supposed to let it.

You’d trained your whole life for control—for the cold clarity of distance, of mission, of orders. You didn’t get attached. You didn’t get close.

And yet—

His hands were on your hips, bruising and reverent all at once, as you moved above him like the war inside you was the only truth left. Your thighs clenched around his waist, slick heat swallowing him again and again, his name bitten off your tongue like something sacred and forbidden.

Bucky.

You weren’t supposed to crave him.

You weren’t supposed to know what it felt like to be wanted like this—devoured like this. His lips had trailed down your collarbone, your chest, worshipped the slope of your neck like he was memorizing a language only your body spoke. He said your name like it was the only word he remembered.

And now he lay beneath you, naked and sweat-slicked, muscles straining, head tilted back in awe as you rocked your hips harder, chasing your release on top of him.

“You weren’t supposed to be this,” you whispered, breathless, the confession splitting you open.

His hands gripped your ass, guiding your pace, mouth parted with a groan that made your spine arch.

“I don’t care,” he rasped. “I don’t fucking care.”

He looked at you like he’d give anything—everything—just to keep you here.

And that was the most terrifying part.

Because you felt it, too.

The break. The fracture. The pull of him inside you—not just physically, but the way his presence cracked something in you you’d spent a lifetime keeping sealed.

Your fingers tangled in his hair. Your hips met his again, harder, faster, like if you just kept moving you wouldn’t have to think. Wouldn’t have to feel.

But you did.

You felt him everywhere.

And the conflict that had haunted you for days—the guilt, the mission, the lie—faded to static when his hands slid up your spine, pulling you down to him, his mouth crashing against yours in a kiss so desperate, so hungry, you could’ve drowned in it.

“You ruin me,” he murmured, voice low, trembling.

You didn’t respond. You just kept moving.

Because if you stopped—if you let the silence in—then you’d have to admit the truth,

You weren’t a weapon anymore.

You were his. Even if only for tonight.

Your breath hitched as he thrust up into you again, your hips slamming down to meet him—harsh, unrelenting, perfect. The headboard rattled behind him, a soft percussion against the wall, drowned out by the slick, obscene sounds of your bodies crashing together again and again.

Bucky’s hands were everywhere—gripping your hips, sliding up your waist, dragging his fingers over the curve of your breasts like he didn’t know what to touch first. His lips were parted, flushed, pupils blown wide as he looked up at you like you were something he was praying to and falling apart under all at once.

“Fuck,” he groaned, head tipping back. “You feel so good—God, you—”

You cut him off with a kiss, crushing your mouth to his, swallowing every ragged sound like it would keep you from shattering. His tongue met yours with the same hunger you were trying to deny, messy and wet and real, your teeth grazing his bottom lip as you rocked harder, faster, chasing the rush that had nothing to do with control and everything to do with him.

He met every grind of your hips with thrusts so deep, so precise, they had you moaning into his mouth, your fingers digging into his chest hard enough to leave half-moons in his skin. He didn’t seem to mind.

“Look at me,” he said suddenly, voice wrecked, one hand curling around the back of your neck to keep you there, close. “Please, baby, look at me—”

You did.

And that was your end.

The way he looked at you—like you were the last thing in the world worth bleeding for—sent a white-hot spike down your spine.

Your body trembled as you fell over the edge, your orgasm tearing through you like a current, your thighs shaking around him, a broken gasp ripped from your throat as you came—hard, clenched tight around him.

Bucky cursed, bucking up into you, desperate and lost.

“I’m not gonna last,” he choked, voice raw as he held your hips down, driving into you faster, deeper, chasing his own high. “I—fuck, I’m—”

“Do it,” you whispered, still breathless, your lips brushing his ear. “Come in me.”

That shattered him.

With a guttural groan, he spilled inside you, hands fisting in the sheets as his hips stuttered beneath yours, jaw clenched, body taut like a drawn bowstring.

You collapsed against his chest, both of you breathing like survivors. His hand cradled the back of your head. Your heartbeat thundered against his ribcage.

And for a moment—just one quiet, burning moment—you let yourself stay there.

In the ruin. In him.

────────────────────────

The light outside was a soft gray, bleeding through the curtains like regret. The room was still. Still humid with the afterglow, your bodies tangled in a quiet that should’ve been peaceful. Should’ve felt like a victory.

Instead, it sat like a blade in your throat.

You lay on his chest—skin to skin, heart to heartbeat—listening to the slow, steady rhythm of his breath. He was asleep. One arm loosely slung around your waist, the other resting against the sheets, fingers curled gently inward like he’d been dreaming.

His head tilted slightly down, as if instinctively drawn to you even in unconsciousness. His brow, usually furrowed, had smoothed. And his lips—those soft, ridiculous, obscenely pink lips—were parted just barely, like a secret trying to escape.

You couldn’t look away. Couldn’t stop watching him. And that was the problem.

Because he looked so human like this. So real. So unguarded.

You could kill him.

Right now.

Your knife was in the drawer next to the bed. Seven inches of forged steel. You could reach it in half a second. Press the blade to his throat in one. End it all before he even stirred.

And he wouldn’t fight back.

Not like this. Not with the way he held you.

He trusted you.

Fool.

Your chest tightened.

What were you doing?

You weren’t supposed to be here. You weren’t supposed to be with him. This wasn’t affection. This wasn’t real. It couldn’t be.

You were the contingency plan. You were the weapon Val sent to finish the job.

And here you were—laying on the man you should’ve gutted by now. Letting his breath warm your hair. Letting his heartbeat lull you into a sleep you didn’t deserve.

This wasn’t mercy. This was weakness.

You clenched your jaw. Blinked slowly.

His arm tightened slightly around you in his sleep, like his body knew you were thinking of leaving. Like it would pull you back in even if his mind couldn’t.

And the worst part? You didn’t move. You didn’t reach for the blade.

You just stayed. Hating yourself for it. Hating that you didn’t know why.

His chest rose and fell beneath you, steady as ever. Unaware. Unafraid.

And that only made it worse.

You closed your eyes—but the darkness behind them felt louder than the room. Thoughts crashing like gunfire, one after another.

You were supposed to kill them.

That was the job. That was always the job.

Every decision Val made, every lie you echoed—it all came down to this: infiltration, then execution. Simple. Cold. Efficient.

And they’d made it so easy. They trusted you. All of them.

Bob with his stammering kindness. Ava with her guarded nods. Yelena, teasing you with every spar but pulling you closer with every glance.

Even Walker—dumb, righteous Walker—looked at you like maybe you were the one person who didn’t pity him.

And Alexei… the fool. He already had your name etched in some bizarre corner of his broken heart.

You could end it tonight. Slit throats. Slip poison. Vanish before sunrise.

And yet—

You couldn’t.

Not to them. Not now.

Especially not to him.

You looked up again—his face still soft in sleep, lips slightly parted. Hair tousled across his brow.

The man who should’ve been your first target. The one whose past was wrapped in so much pain, you recognized it in yourself.

You were never supposed to touch him.

But now you knew how he tasted. How he whispered your name. How he looked at you like you weren’t a weapon, or an operative, or a mask.

Like you were worth saving. You could never hurt him.

But you already had.

Every kiss, every touch, every breath you took beside him—a lie.

If he found out—if he ever knew why you were sent here—he’d never forgive you.

And you couldn’t blame him.

It was a no-win scenario. There was no exit that didn’t leave something broken behind.

Tell the truth? He’d turn on you.

Run? He’d never understand why.

Either way, it would end the same—

In ruin.

Because you weren’t built for happy endings. You were built to destroy them.

And he’d never see it coming.

Unless you stopped this now. Unless you left. But you stayed.

Even when every cell in your body screamed to run, to vanish, to disappear before the sun came up and this all became something real.

You stayed.

Because there was no happy ending for people like you—not with him. Not with anyone.

But God, you wanted it. You wanted him.

And that need burned louder than the guilt.

So you shifted—slowly, carefully—until you were hovering above him again, chest brushing his, hair falling forward around your face like a veil of shadows.

His arm was still around you, limp in sleep. His face turned toward you, jaw soft, lashes fluttering against his cheek. He looked younger like this. Human.

Yours. And it hurt.

Your lips brushed his jaw first—light, tentative. Then his cheek. His temple. And finally—finally—his mouth.

A soft kiss. Then another.

He stirred beneath you, lashes fluttering, lips parting as he blinked himself awake.

“…hmm?”

He was groggy. Beautiful. Confused.

You kissed him again—firmer this time, lips trembling now, your hand resting on his chest like it was the only thing holding you together.

And against his lips, you whispered—

“I need you again.”

He blinked, still caught in the haze. “You—what?”

Your hands slid to his shoulders as you straddled him, slipping fully over his waist, grinding down slowly, purposefully. “I just—need you,” you repeated, breath catching. “Don’t ask why. Just… have me.”

His hands found your hips, warm and grounding. His voice was still rough with sleep, but the way he looked up at you—that gaze—it was like you could ask for anything in this world, and he'd be willing to give it.

And you leaned down—pressing your mouth to his again—like it was the only thing keeping you from breaking completely.

Because it was. Because he was.

And even if it would all burn down soon, for now, you could pretend there was something here worth saving.

Bucky was still half-asleep, blinking up at you with those soft, dazed eyes, his voice low and rasped with confusion.

“You okay?” he asked, hands instinctively anchoring at your hips, warm and callused and so steady it nearly undid you.

You didn’t answer.

You just rocked against him once—slow and deep—and watched his lips part with a breathless gasp as your heat slid over him again. Not teasing. Not playful.

Just aching.

“Shit,” he whispered, his brow furrowing, but his hands didn’t stop—they gripped tighter, like he was scared you’d disappear. “What’s wrong, baby?”

You kissed him instead of answering. Pressed your lips to his jaw. His cheek. His mouth. Each one slower, deeper, needier. You weren’t trying to get him hard. You were trying to feel him—to burn every inch of him into your skin like it would somehow keep you from unraveling.

He was already thick and aching beneath you, body reacting to you even if his mind hadn’t caught up.

But it didn’t matter.

You reached between you, lined him up, and sank down slowly—so slowly—with a broken breath that scraped the back of your throat. His hands shot to your thighs, mouth falling open in a groan as your walls fluttered around him.

“Fuck—oh shit—” he hissed, jaw clenched as you took him inch by inch, your nails digging into his chest for balance. “What is this—why now?”

“Don’t talk,” you whispered, voice barely there.

He didn’t. He just watched you. Let you move. Let you set the pace.

And God, you moved like it was the last time you’d ever get to—hips slow and deep, rolling in a rhythm carved from sorrow and want and a need to forget everything else.

Bucky’s hands roamed—your hips, your thighs, your waist. He kissed your sternum. Your ribs. Over your heart. He whispered your name like it was a prayer, trying to read you, trying to understand.

But he didn’t. He couldn’t.

And still—he gave you everything.

He thrust up just enough to meet you, not rough, not rushed. Just there. With you. Matching your rhythm, matching your breath, letting you take and take and take.

Until your head dropped to his shoulder and your body trembled against his, thighs quivering, your moan caught between a sob and a plea.

His arms locked around you.

Holding you as you shattered again, pulsing around him in a slow, aching climax.

And still—he didn’t ask.

He just kissed your temple. And held you tighter.

Like that would be enough.

────────────────────────

Weeks Later

You couldn’t stop thinking about it.

Not just what you did, but how it felt.

And that was the problem. Because it wasn’t just sex.

It was him.

Bucky.

The way he held you. The way he whispered your name like he knew you. The way he looked at you with that stupid, open-eyed devotion, like you hadn’t spent every hour of your life perfecting the art of being unlovable.

And now… you hated yourself for how easily you let him in.

Your unbreakable mask—gone. Your hardened shell—disarmed.

That perfect, glacial facade you built with blood and bone and discipline was slipping more every time he touched you.

And he touched you a lot.

Not just in bed, but everywhere.

His hand brushing yours in passing. That lazy, half-smile he wore only for you. The way his arms curled around your waist at night like he couldn’t sleep without anchoring to you.

It was addicting. And it made you sick.

Because every time you let yourself melt into his warmth—his breath against your throat, his lips pressed to the curve of your shoulder, your bodies tangled beneath sheets—you felt less like a weapon and more like a lie.

He trusted you. And you couldn’t even look at yourself in the mirror.

You were supposed to be stronger than this. Sharper. Smarter.

But now all it took was his voice in the dark and his fingers on your skin to make you forget that this was all a fucking trap.

That you weren’t supposed to feel this way. Want this.

Crave this.

────────────────────────

Late Night [10 Months In]

The sheets were a mess. Twisted low on your hips, warm with the heat of two bodies tangled together and wrecked by want.

Bucky’s chest rose beneath your cheek, slow and steady. His arm was wrapped around your back, fingers tracing idle shapes along your spine, like he couldn’t stop touching you even if he tried.

The room was quiet.

But not empty.

He broke the silence first.

“Can I ask you something?”

You didn’t lift your head. “You already are.”

His chest shook with a soft chuckle. “You’ve been on this team for ten months,” he said, voice low, rough with exhaustion but laced with something… earnest. “And I still don’t know anything about you.”

You stayed still, heart tightening.

“I mean—” he continued, “I know you. I’ve fought beside you. Slept beside you.” His hand slid up your back, palm warm. “But I don’t know where you’re from. Or how you got to this point. Or what made you… you.”

You exhaled through your nose. Still didn’t lift your head. “That’s three questions, James.”

“I’m serious.”

“I can tell.”

He sighed. You could feel the frustration in his chest. Not anger—just that same yearning that always bled into his voice when it came to you.

And maybe it was the dark. Maybe it was the warmth of his skin. Maybe it was the fact that you hadn’t slept in days without him beside you, because of the team's last mission.

But something in you cracked just enough.

“My favorite color’s blue,” you said softly.

Bucky blinked. “Blue?”

“Mhm.”

He smiled at the ceiling. “Okay… blue. What else?”

“I like summer.”

“Yeah?”

“And I’ve always wanted to go to Fiji.”

That made him laugh—soft and surprised, mouth curved against the crown of your head. “Fiji? Seriously?”

“I said I wanted to. Doesn’t mean I ever will.”

A beat passed. Then another.

“You just…” he started, then stopped. His voice was lower now, honest in a way that made your skin itch. “You say things like they don’t matter.”

“They don’t.”

“They do.”

You finally lifted your head.

Looked at him.

And the weight of that gaze—so open, so damn earnest—made your chest tighten in ways you hated.

“I don’t do sentimental,” you said flatly.

He nodded slowly. “Then don’t. Just… let me know you.”

The silence returned. That soft, almost sacred hush that filled the space between your breaths. His fingertips brushed slow circles over your lower back, his heart steady beneath your hand.

Then, softly—almost like it didn’t want to be heard—you whispered, “If I told you all my secrets… you’d probably hate me.”

His hand stilled.

The words hung heavy in the air, and you swore you could hear his heartbeat stutter once. Then,

“I could never hate you.”

He said it so firmly. So damn sure. Like it wasn’t even up for debate.

Like he didn’t care what you were hiding. Like he’d already decided you were still worth loving. And that was too much.

And it hit you square in the chest.

Too deep. Too close.

You couldn’t let it linger.

So you leaned in—lips brushing his, then pressing harder, swallowing whatever else he might’ve said. Your kiss was slow at first, soft and searching—then it shifted. Changed. Turned sharp and demanding.

A distraction.

The best kind.

You kissed him again, your tongue slipping against his as your hand slid down his chest, and then you shifted—swinging a leg over and settling into his hips, your thighs bracketing his waist.

Bucky pulled back with a breathless laugh, still half-caught in the tangle of sleep and heat. “Already?” he murmured, voice low and wrecked, that familiar hunger blooming in his gaze.

“Shut up,” you whispered against his mouth.

And you kissed him again.

Harder this time.

Grinding down slowly, deliberately, feeling him already hard beneath you.

He let out a small grunt, fingers gripping your hips like he couldn’t decide whether to slow you down or help you go faster.

You rolled your hips again, chasing that friction, burying the ache in your chest beneath the ache in your body.

Because this—this—you could control.

This, you understood.

You kissed him again. And again.

Until the words you didn’t say disappeared into the dark.

────────────────────────

A Few Weeks Later

It was quiet again.

That kind of stillness only the early hours knew—when the world outside was asleep and nothing dared to move. The room was cloaked in shadow, the only light spilling from the streetlamps outside, soft and gold against the sheets.

Bucky slept beside you.

One arm wrapped around your waist, his body pressed close, legs tangled in yours like he was trying to become a part of you.

He held you like you were home.

And it broke you.

You watched him, barely blinking, your eyes tracing every line of his face like they were sacred. The furrow in his brow. The faintest scar near his temple. Those lips—soft and parted in sleep, exhaling slow, even breaths.

You wanted to remember him like this.

Wanted to keep him like this.

But that was a fantasy.

And you didn’t get fantasies.

You got orders.

And you’d failed them.

Worse—you’d betrayed them.

And now everything was coming to a head. Every secret. Every night. Every lie you fed into his mouth while he kissed yours like it was salvation.

So you made your decision.

The coward’s way out.

Not a confession. Not a fight. Just… disappearing.

Slowly, carefully, you shifted.

His arm around you was heavy—solid, warm, safe. You held your breath as you lifted it just enough to slip free, your chest clenching at the soft noise he made in his sleep.

His brow furrowed, his body shifting toward yours, almost instinctively trying to pull you back.

You froze.

Waited.

Watched him settle again.

His hand landed on your side, reaching for you like he could sense your absence even in sleep.

You closed your eyes.

Bit your lip.

And pulled away anyway.

Each movement felt like a sin. Your feet hit the cold floor like a finality. You turned, standing there in the dark, watching him one last time.

And for a second, you almost climbed back in.

Almost said fuck it. Almost stayed.

But instead—

You walked out.

And didn’t look back.

────────────────────────

The Next Morning

The first thing Bucky felt was the cold.

A strange emptiness across his chest where there had, without fail, been warmth. Soft, steady breath against his skin. A thigh draped lazily over his own. Fingers curled into his shirt like they belonged there.

But not this morning.

This morning, there was only space.

He blinked awake slowly, groggy and disoriented, the light through the window pale and early. He ran a hand over the sheets, expecting to feel your skin, your warmth, the familiar curve of you still curled against him.

Instead—just linen. Cool. Still.

His brow furrowed.

He sat up slowly, glancing around the room. Your clothes weren’t there. The chair where you always dropped your heels was empty. The bathroom door was open.

He rubbed a hand down his face, jaw tight.

She probably went back to her room.

That’s what he told himself. Logical. Reasonable. No need for alarm.

He slid out of bed, standing slowly, cracking his neck as he moved to the bathroom. The shower hissed on—he stepped under the spray, the water beating against his shoulders, grounding him.

She had an early start. Maybe she had to prep something for Val. Maybe she’s just avoiding feelings again.

He pushed down the gnawing feeling at the back of his mind.

That sense that something was… off.

That you never left without kissing his jaw. That your heels were still gone. That your scent wasn’t lingering the way it usually did.

He shook it off.

Don’t spiral, Bucky.

You were probably fine. Probably just fucking with him. Playing aloof like you always did after things got too soft between you.

He stepped out of the shower, drying off quickly. Dressed. Pulled on his boots.

Still—

That feeling didn’t leave.

That cold in his chest stayed.

But he forced it down. Forced a breath into his lungs.

He stepped into the kitchen, toweling off his damp hair, still trying to shake the unease from his bones.

The room was already buzzing.

Yelena sat on the counter, eating cereal straight from the box like it was an art. Walker leaned back on the couch, boots on the coffee table, scrolling through his phone. Ava sat curled in an armchair, sharp eyes flicking toward Bucky as he entered. Alexei was… well, loudly chewing something questionable. And Bob was somewhere behind the fridge door, mumbling to himself.

Bucky grunted a quiet greeting, opened the cabinet, pulled a mug from the shelf.

“Anyone seen… her?” he asked, voice low, neutral. Too casual to be casual.

Yelena looked up first. “Probably passed out in your bed,” she said around a mouthful of cereal. “Or under you. You know, standard Tuesday.”

Bucky froze mid-pour.

Walker snorted. “Took long enough, honestly.”

Alexei thumped his fist on the table. “I knew there was something! You always look at her like she’s the last shot of vodka in the room.”

Bucky turned slightly. “What are you all talking about?”

Ava didn’t even glance up from her tablet. “You’re not subtle, Barnes. The way you stare at her? Please.”

Bob peeked around the fridge door, cheeks already red. “Yeah… you uh… you hover. A lot.”

Yelena grinned, sharp and smug. “I am jealous you didn’t let me ride your motorcycle first.”

Bucky exhaled through his nose. “You’re all insufferable.”

“Hmm.” Ava finally looked up. “Sounds like deflection.”

He muttered something under his breath, jaw tight, the discomfort turning into quiet agitation. His eyes flicked toward the hallway. “Forget I asked.”

He set the mug down—untouched—and turned on his heel, heading straight for your room.

Bucky reached your door, knuckles lifting halfway to knock—

But something stopped him.

A feeling. A chill.

He frowned, then pushed the door open. The room was… still. Not quiet. Still. Like no one had moved in it for days.

And that was the first red flag.

He stepped inside slowly, his boots too loud on the floor. The bed was perfectly made. Not military-perfect, but untouched. Not slept in.

He blinked.

The chair in the corner—empty. No discarded jacket. No shoes. No weapons.

He moved toward the dresser, a cold weight forming in his stomach.

The top was bare. No hair ties. No mug. No trace of your usual chaos. And then he pulled open the drawers.

Empty.

He turned to the closet. Swung it open. Gone. Everything. Your clothes. Your gear. Your dresses. Your coat. Even the scent of you—faint, fading.

His stomach dropped.

Hard.

The realization hit like a punch to the ribs. Sudden. Brutal.

You were gone.

Not just left-for-the-morning gone. Not “I’ll be back later” gone.

Gone gone.

Completely erased. As if you’d never been there at all.

Bucky stood there, frozen. His hands at his sides. His breath shallow. His jaw clenched so tight it hurt.

The room blurred. His throat burned. And somewhere, under all of that…

A voice whispered, She left you.

Bucky stood frozen in the center of the room, the emptiness of it clawing at his chest—

When something caught his eye.

A folder. Sitting alone on the dresser. Plain. Unassuming. Perfectly placed. Like it was meant to be found.

He stepped toward it slowly, his breath shallow. His fingers brushed the cover.

A small note sat on top. Folded once.

He flipped it open. Four words.

“Please don't hate me.”

His chest tightened instantly. Something hot twisted in his throat.

He stared at the handwriting—familiar now, too familiar—and turned the note over with a slow hand.

Scrawled in the same ink:

“Valentina still wants you all dead.”

His blood turned cold. The air left his lungs. With shaking fingers, he opened the folder. And there it was.

Page after page.

Files.

Meticulous, terrifyingly detailed notes. About all of them.

Yelena Belova: Range, reaction time, pressure points. Preferred weapons. Known trauma responses. Jonathan F. Walker: Blind spots in combat. Trigger phrases. Patterns of behavior. Ava Starr: Phase irregularities. Nervous system anomalies. Strategic isolation preferences. Robert Reynolds: Emotional leverage. Psychological profile. Manipulation tactics. Alexei Shostakov: Adrenaline patterns. Hand-to-hand vulnerability. Mental deterioration markers. James Buchanan Barnes: …his stomach clenched.

Your notes on him were brutal. Precise. You’d seen everything.

Handwritten notes. Tactical sketches. Surveillance photos. Labeled files. Bullet-point lists.

It was you. All of you.

Strengths. Weaknesses. Combat habits. Psychological profiles. Interpersonal tensions. Detailed analysis of the the New Avengers.

And suddenly he understood.

You were the failsafe.

The one she kept hidden. The one she trusted to take them all down if they became a liability.

And you’d been with them the whole time.

Sleeping in his bed.

Waking up in his arms.

Loving him.

Lying to him.

His fingers curled around the folder so tight the edges bent.

And still—he couldn’t let it go.

Because beneath the weight of betrayal, beneath the rising devastation, one thing stood out above all:

You’d told him without telling him. You’d warned him. You left him the truth.

This was your assignment. Your mission. And you didn’t complete it.

Instead—

You left this behind. For them. For him.

Bucky’s hands trembled slightly as he lowered the folder. He stared at the wall in front of him, jaw locked, heart pounding.

And somehow… even now—

He still didn’t hate you. He didn’t think he ever could.

Six Months Later

The skies above the compound were slate gray, a low growl of thunder humming across the horizon as if the world itself was unsettled.

Inside the facility—steel, silence, surveillance. Maximum security. Triple-reinforced cells. No exits that didn’t require biometric clearance, retinal scans, and six layers of authorization.

Valentina Allegra de Fontaine sat in the center of it all.

She wasn’t in chains—of course not. Not her style.

But she was contained.

Her hair had grown out. Her posture was still impeccable. And her smirk? Untouched.

Through the glass, a monitor flickered with news feeds: charges listed in bold. Conspiracy. Treason. Unlawful black operations. Attempted political destabilization.

The Thunderbolts—no, The New Avengers—had done what she never expected.

They had turned on her. And they had won.

The victory had been quiet. Painfully methodical. But every step had followed the trail you left behind: the file you abandoned in your room. The names. The operations. The buried contracts. The coded transactions.

Every lie she’d built unraveled. Every secret surfaced. And now? She was a traitor to her country. A ghost of her former power.

And the world was watching.

────────────────────────

Time passed.

But not in the way that healed.

Not for him.

The New Avengers, now officially recognized—were busier than ever. Diplomatic calls. Rogue cleanups. Recovery missions. Global surveillance detail. Big threats. Bigger egos.

And Bucky? He did the work. Showed up. Fought hard. Kept his head down when he had to, stepped in when it mattered. The world was grateful. Headlines were clean.

But the ache never left.

Because even in the victory—even with Valentina locked away, even with the press finally calling them heroes—you were gone.

No sign. No contact. No coordinates.

Just silence.

And it haunted him.

Every mission, he looked.

Not deliberately—never enough for the others to question it. But it was there, always. In the way his eyes lingered too long on unfamiliar silhouettes. In the way he checked behind every mask, paused too long on female contacts with a certain walk. In the quiet that came after every debrief, when his jaw tightened just slightly as he scanned the room.

You weren’t in Moscow. You weren’t on the Omega Bunker list. You weren’t at the safe house in Tbilisi, even though it still smelled faintly of your perfume, though that was definitely his imagination. You weren’t on the encrypted black ops list Ava recovered from the Andes.

You weren’t anywhere.

And that—that—was what hurt the most. Because if anyone could disappear, it was you.

And you’d chosen to. You didn’t leave a signal. Or a clue. Or a damn apology.

Just that folder. That warning. And him. Alone. Still reaching for something that wasn’t reaching back.

────────────────────────

The briefing room was quiet.

Dim light. Flickering monitor. Stale coffee left forgotten on the edge of the table. The latest mission files spread in a neat arc—intelligence, recon, target maps.

But Bucky wasn’t looking at any of it.

He sat in the corner, arms folded, brow furrowed—not in focus, not really there.

Yelena noticed it first. Of course she did. She always noticed.

She crossed the room slowly, boots soft on tile, then leaned against the edge of the table across from him—arms folded, eyes sharp.

“Hey,” she said, flat. “Earth to Sad Eyes. You here or still hoping Ghost Barbie shows up mid-mission?”

Bucky didn’t answer.

Yelena snorted. “Jesus Christ. Still with this?”

He looked up, jaw tight. “Don’t start.”

“I didn’t have to.” Her voice sharpened. “You haven’t been present in months.”

“I’m fine.”

“No, you’re not. You’ve been chasing shadows. Running recon like you’re not hunting leads, and we all know who you’re really looking for.”

Bucky’s eyes narrowed. “I said drop it.”

Yelena stepped in. “You do remember she betrayed us, da?”

He stared.

“She was Valentina’s insurance policy. The kill-switch,” Yelena went on. “Sent to eliminate us if we got out of line. Got information on all of us—every weakness, every flaw—and you still look at her like she’s gold.”

Bucky stood. “She didn’t use it.”

“Yet.”

“No,” he insisted. “She had it. And she didn’t use it. Not once.”

Yelena scoffed. “You think that’s love? That’s not loyalty, Barnes. That’s indecision. That’s unfinished business.”

“She had every chance to kill us. You. Me. All of us. And she didn’t.”

“Because she got in too deep. Doesn’t mean she loved you.”

Bucky’s voice dropped, rough. “It means something.”

Yelena didn’t soften. Not even a little.

She crossed her arms tighter, her stare unwavering as Bucky stood there, jaw clenched, shoulders tight, drowning in every word she’d just thrown at him. But she wasn’t done. Not by a long shot.

“You need to wake the hell up, Barnes,” she said, her voice low but sharp, the kind of voice that cut because it had to. “You’re chasing a ghost. And I get it—I do. She had that perfect face, that mystery, that voice—we all felt it. We were drawn in.”

Bucky didn’t look at her. Just stared past her, like maybe if he stayed still enough, he could hold onto the last pieces of you.

“But I need you to feel this,” Yelena continued. “She played us. Every single one of us. For months. She gathered data, memorized habits, logged vulnerabilities like a fucking Hydra operative. She knew how to kill us before we even started to like her.”

She stepped closer.

“And you let her in the furthest. You let her crawl into your bed, into your chest, into your head. And now? Now you’re acting like maybe she was the victim in this. Like she just didn’t know any better. That she was confused.”

Bucky’s throat bobbed, but he didn’t speak.

Yelena’s eyes narrowed. “Here’s the thing, she knew exactly what she was doing. Every calculated smile. Every touch. Every slow night where you let her inside and thought she'd actually stay—she planned that.”

His hands clenched at his sides. She saw it.

“And maybe—maybe she cared, somewhere in there,” Yelena added, a bitter twist to her voice. “Maybe she didn’t pull the trigger because some part of her felt something. But she still left. No note, no trace. Like you were just another mission she couldn’t finish and didn’t want to explain.”

She took one more step. Right into his space.

“So you’ve got two choices, Soldat: keep pining like a lovesick idiot and let her haunt you forever, or get your head back in the goddamn game and remember who you are. Because while you’re busy looking over your shoulder, the rest of us are picking up the slack.”

Silence stretched between them.

Bucky didn’t move. Didn’t blink. Didn’t breathe.

Just sat there, hollowed out and burning, her words settling like ash in his chest.

And Yelena, finally, exhaled.

“I’m not saying forget her,” she added quietly. “I’m saying either find her and get answers… or stop bleeding for someone who doesn't care.”

And with that, she turned.

Left him sitting there alone, in the echo of all the things he didn’t want to hear—but needed to.

One Year Later

Yelena didn’t look up from the mission tablet at first. Her boots were propped on the edge of the table, fingers tapping absently as she scrolled through next week’s ops schedule. Bucky stood near the window, hands tucked into the pockets of his jacket, his reflection faint in the glass.

“I’m leaving.”

She didn’t react at first. Just blinked, brows pulling together as she slowly looked up.

“What do you mean you’re leaving?”

Bucky didn’t turn around.

“I mean I’m done.”

Yelena sat up straighter. “Done with the mission? Or…?”

He finally turned, his eyes tired—not just from the day, or the month, but from years. From everything.

“With all of it.”

She scoffed once, sharp and disbelieving. “You’re quitting? You?”

Bucky just nodded. No bite. No drama. Just done.

Yelena stared at him. “You can't be serious.”

“I am.”

Silence.

She stood now, closing the tablet, crossing her arms. “Okay. No offense, Barnes, but what the fuck are you even talking about?”

He didn’t flinch. “I’ve been giving pieces of myself to someone else’s mission for a so many years, Yelena.”

Her jaw tightened.

He ran a hand through his hair, exhaling slowly. “I’ve been alive a hundred years. Most of it, I’ve been used. As a weapon. As a ghost. As some tragic propaganda machine. First, the Army. Then Hydra. Then the U.S. government, then Congress, and now this—superhero bullshit.”

He looked back out the window. The city shimmered.

“I’ve done what everyone needed. What they told me was ‘right.’ What would ‘make it right.’ And it never did. It never will. There’s always another war. Another mission. Another reason to shove who I am back down just to fit the narrative.”

She opened her mouth. He cut her off.

“And don’t tell me I matter. Or that I make a difference. I know that. I’ve made peace with that. But I’m tired. Bone deep, soul deep. I’m tired. I’ve never done anything just for me. Not once. And I’m not gonna die with that still being true.”

Yelena was silent for a beat.

Then, quietly: “So what? You just walk away?”

He shrugged, voice soft. “Why not?”

“You’re a leader.”

“You’re better.”

“You’re still needed.”

“They’ll be fine.”

“I’ll be down my partner.”

That one hung in the air.

Bucky exhaled, finally meeting her eyes. “You don’t need me. You never did. You just didn’t want to be alone at the top.”

Yelena’s jaw worked for a moment. But she didn’t argue.

Didn’t because—damn it—he wasn’t wrong.

He looked at her, something in his expression softer now. “You’re the best shot they’ve got. You always have been.”

She swallowed thickly.

He stepped closer. Rested a hand on her shoulder. “But I can’t keep doing this, Lena. I need to figure out what my life looks like without being a weapon. Or a mascot. Or a ghost.”

“…So what does it look like, then?”

“I don’t know,” he admitted. “But I want to find out.”

She blinked fast. Then, finally—finally—nodded.

“Just… don’t disappear without a damn postcard.”

“Wouldn’t dream of it.”

────────────────────────

Two Months Later

If someone had asked him ten years ago—hell, even five years ago—where do you see yourself? Bucky Barnes would never have answered Fiji.

But here he was.

Fiji.

The sun was hot. Unrelentingly so. Not in the way that choked or scorched, but in a way that settled into your bones, warmed you from the inside out. He’d never felt heat like this without the edge of a battlefield waiting on the other side.

There were no missions here. No directives. No knives tucked under pillows. No coded radio chatter in the dead of night.

Just waves.

Just air thick with salt and lazy breeze.

And quiet.

He sat barefoot on the edge of a wooden deck, knees drawn up, sunglasses slipping slightly on his nose. His metal hand—gloveless, finally without shame—rested on the railing beside him, catching the sunlight like it had been born to. For once, it didn’t feel like a relic of war. It just felt like part of him.

The water below sparkled like someone had poured diamonds across it. The breeze brought the scent of fruit and ocean and something sweet he couldn’t name. Every few minutes, a bird called out, or a scooter whirred by in the distance.

It felt like another world.

One he didn’t belong in. Not really.

But he was trying.

Trying to belong to himself, finally.

He’d never taken a vacation before. Never even thought to. The idea of sitting still without guilt had always felt foreign. But now? Maybe this counted. Maybe this—quiet mornings, soft shirts, no schedules—was vacation. Maybe it was also retirement. If he let it be.

He didn’t have a plan. Didn’t know what came next. But for once, that didn’t feel like a threat.

It felt like freedom.

The beach bar was little more than a thatched roof, a polished wood counter, and a few half-drunk tourists slowly melting into their plastic chairs.

The scent of citrus and rum hung in the air, and some lazy guitar version of an old Marvin Gaye song drifted through the speakers.

Bucky stepped up to the counter, brushing a bit of salt off his sunglasses, the sand still warm between his toes. He leaned against the bar, gave a polite nod to the bartender.

“Beer, please. Whatever’s cold.”

The bottle landed in front of him with a satisfying clink. He popped the cap one-handed and brought it to his lips just as a voice slid in—smooth, familiar, laced with something sharp and knowing.

“You’re a long way from New York, Sergeant.”

He didn’t turn right away.

Just took a sip. Swallowed. Let the faintest smirk touch his lips as he rested his beer back down.

“Yeah,” he said, voice low. “Guess I finally figured I deserved a vacation.”

A pause.

“Why Fiji?”

He tilted his head slightly, eyes still forward, letting the sea wind hit his face for a beat longer.

“Clear skies. Soft sand. Water so blue it hurts to look at.” He finally turned, his gaze sliding to the left—to you.

“And… beautiful women.”

There you were.

Hair sun-touched and swept back. Skin glowing from the sun. Dressed like you belonged to this place—effortless, radiant, wild. And yet you didn’t blend in. Not at all. You never blended in. You could’ve been wearing armor or silk or nothing at all and you’d still feel like a presence.

His eyes lingered on you.

And when they met yours?

Everything else—every sound, every breeze, every wave—faded.

For just a second.

You leaned one elbow on the bar, casual like the past hadn’t happened, like this was just two people on a beach at the end of the world. Your eyes flicked over him—sunglasses, salt-tousled hair, beer bottle sweating in his hand like he’d actually managed to settle into this place.

You lifted a brow, just enough mischief behind it to crack the tension.

“So…” you said, voice like silk. “Planning on staying?”

He didn’t answer right away.

His gaze was still fixed on you, the way it always had been. Steady. Intent. Like he was memorizing every new beauty mark, every glint of heat behind your eyes.

“I think,” he said slowly, “I’ve got a pretty good reason to.”

Something flickered across your face. The faintest pull at your lips. You could’ve said something sharp, something defensive—but instead, you just turned slightly toward the bar, tapping your fingers once on the counter.

“Then buy me a drink, James,” you said, flashing a sly smile. “So long as you're planning to make it a roundtrip to forgiveness.”

His mouth curled.

And for the first time in a long time, the air between you wasn’t just heavy with uncertainty.

It was full of possibility.

────────────────────────

A Few Days Later

The first thing Bucky felt was the warmth.

Not the sun, though that was already creeping in through the wooden shutters, slanting across the room in golden bands. Not the heat from the open window, or the lazy tropical breeze curling through the linen curtains.

No—the warmth was you.

Your body sprawled across his, half-draped over his chest like you’d always belonged there. Bare legs tangled with his, skin soft and sun-kissed, your breath slow and even where it fanned against his collarbone.

He could already hear the waves outside, steady and close. The faint rustle of palms, the rhythmic hum of island life waking up. It should’ve been loud—but it wasn’t.

It was perfect.

For the first time in… maybe ever, he’d woken up before you.

And he didn’t move.

Didn’t want to.

Instead, he just lay there, one arm loosely wrapped around your waist, the other resting behind his head. Relaxed. Grounded. Not braced for attack. Not aching from loss.

Just present.

His eyes drifted over your face—peaceful, still, impossibly beautiful. And he let himself look. Really look.

No dread curled in his chest.

No panic waited behind his ribs.

Because you were here.

You’d stayed.

And he’d woken up to warmth.

Bucky Barnes Taglist:

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[foreverrogers]

holding your breath (with your arms outstretched)

Pairing: candidate!bucky barnes x campaign manager!reader

Summary: the task at hand was simple. get james buchanan barnes elected to congress. find a date to your sister's wedding. get over your age-inappropriate ex. you knew bucky would help to check at least one of those boxes—you didn't expect him to pull off all three.

Warnings: smut!!!! 18+!!!!! minors please DNI!!!!! inappropriate workplace relationships (past and present), age gap relationships (past and present), canon adjacent, three (3) minor OCs, fingering, unprotected sex, piv sex. pre-brave new world and thunderbolts*!

Words: 8.8k

A/N: the political timeline of the MCU makes zero sense but we make due. this fic is my tumblr renaissance I hope you enjoy!! obligatory lucy dacus title i love you all dearly

request something! masterlist

The cold is sharp, stings at your cheeks and your nose and the tips of your fingers as you press open the familiar office door.

It's January in New York City, frost and puddles of melted snow the last indicators of the snowstorm that had shuttered people indoors over the New Year.

It's sunny now, clean and clear, brings a bustle and an energy and an undoubtable hope to the air.

The warmth is a welcome shock, elicits an involuntary shiver as you smile at the volunteer manning the front desk.

"Good morning! She's-" The receptionist is cut off by the shrill ring of the phone, hand over the receiver in an instant. "Sorry. She's in her office. She's expecting you."

Another polite smile, a quiet "thank you" as you follow the path to the back office. The worn strip of carpet is the only negative space in a sea of desks and printers and busy volunteers, campaign season kicked into full force.

This New Year's resolution: Get Katherine Lee elected for her third term as Senator for New York.

Lee 2026 HQ had been your part-time home since last April. A veteran in her field, a powerhouse of progressive politics who had the heart and know-how to teach you everything you needed to know when you first volunteered for her Congressional run in high school. You had run back after an apocalyptic stint in DC, the cause a familiar one, a comforting one.

You give a quick rap of your knuckles against her door, prepare for the grating whine of the hinges haunting the ancient Brooklyn building. Lee said it added character, kept them grounded.

"Hey, I was thinking-"

There's an unfamiliar man in her office. It takes you a second to register who he is, stopped in your tracks in her doorway, hand still grasping the handle. James Buchanan Barnes. Unmistakable. He looks just like his wax figure.

"Oh, sorry." Your eyes flit between him—standing now, casual in dark jeans and a navy tee—and the Senator still sat behind her desk. "I didn't realise I was interrupting."

"No, perfect timing, please." Senator Lee smiles warmly, lifts a hand in an inviting gesture. "Y/n, this is-"

"Bucky Barnes." He's offering a hand across to you, smile exuding that charm and charisma perfected only by politicians and sociopaths. You have a bad feeling about this. "It's great to meet you."

You think you must look like a deer caught in headlights, can feel the confusion on your face and in your smile as you let the door fall shut with a creak and move to shake his hand. "Likewise."

"Sit, please." The familiar voice breaks you out of your daze, another inviting gesture towards the chair next to Bucky's.

There's a beat of silence, three pairs of eyes looking from face to face. You breathe a thoroughly confused laugh. "Why does this feel like being called to the principal's office?"

"Y/n," Lee starts, hands clasped in front of her. "You know you're the best at what you do."

"Am I getting fired right now? I'm not even on payroll, can you fire me?"

There's a light chuckle beside you that you don't turn towards. You're not really sure what the protocol is for superhuman ex-avengers crashing a routine meeting with your boss. Eye contact is still up for debate.

"You're not being fired, Jesus, Y/n." Lee laughs, a shake of her head as she rests back in her chair. "I met Bucky last year in DC during the whole GRC... fiasco. He reached out over the New Year, asking if I had any referrals for a campaign. Congressional 9th."

"Oh." You breathe a tight laugh, still laced in confusion. "Yeah, I mean it's pretty early for a 2028 run, but I would be happy to help with any-"

"Oh, no, not 2028." Bucky meets your eye.

You think, God, he's handsome, then wonder where the hell that came from. You narrow your eyes at him. "... No?"

"No, I kind of had my heart set on this November."

"You want to run this year?" It's more of a scoff than a question, eyes wide now, incredulous. "It's January."

"It's ambitious."

You really do scoff this time, look to Lee for backup and find her leaning back in her chair, buckled in for the ride. Your expression is wide when you look back at Bucky. "You need twelve hundred signatures in three months to even make it to the primary. Then you're up against an incumbent trying to make it a decade with essentially no political or community foundation. And even if you somehow win that, there's nothing stopping him from filing as an independent just in case. Respectfully, it's more insane than ambitious."

"What I said exactly." Senator Lee now, agreeing, nodding, smiling in a way that worries you. "Which is why I told him I knew you could pull it off."

"Katie." Nicknames. Familiarity that lets you express such scepticism.

"Y/n."

"I'm not a fucking magician."

More silence. Lee is watching you, expectant. Bucky is watching you, expectant, a fucking superpowered centurian placing the fate of a fledgling political career in your unwilling hands.

"There's not enough time." It's a statement of fact, clear-cut. "I mean, even if I stop volunteering here, there's no time to put together the people you need for a campaign like this or the image or anything." It's one long, breathless sentence, talking yourself into an anxiety too intense for the hour of the morning. You sigh, cross your arms and your legs as you fall against the back of your chair.

They're both still silent, just watching. You think you might be getting played, especially because somewhere in the back of your mind, that little voice is giving you some completely and truly insane ideas. You start thinking about fonts.

You're squinting again, suspicious, look from Lee to the mass of a man beside you. "Did she tell you that if you just didn't say anything I would talk myself into it?"

"She did."

"I did."

Another long pause. A sigh and a relaxing of your posture, arms still loosely crossed. "You owe me, like, huge time."

"You're in?" Bucky's smiling at you, plan executed as promised.

"Yeah, obviously."

-----

Bucky's got a short-term lease on an old second-story walk-up in the middle of Brooklyn. It's ancient, falling apart at the seams, an old law office almost entirely empty except for a handful of sketchy tenants. There's a woman with a crystal ball set up in the basement, and with the steady flow of women coming in and out into the late hours of the night, you're pretty sure there's an office of callgirls down the hall.

Your own crumbling unit fits four desks fully stuffed, which is fine because there's no time to onboard anybody else but you and Bucky. It has windows, which is something, you guess.

You probably spend sixty hours there in just your first week, one desk pressed flush against the wall, a couch, a black and white printer, and a whiteboard.

You had come fully prepared with the whiteboard on day one. One side to workshop, the other in permanent marker, key policies, key players, key messages. There are two columns of red and green Post-it notes labelled "assets" and "liabilities."

Asset. Existing name recognition.

Asset. Strong policy basis.

Asset. Personable.

Liability. Time.

Liability. Lack of media presence.

Liability. Winter Soldier.

You never directly address any of them, especially not the last one. They're more just facts of the matter. Bucky appreciates that you're always honest.

You get everything up and running in a matter of weeks. Bucky was there, of course, but the sheer efficiency of it all makes it pass him by like a blur. He takes more pictures than he's ever taken in his life, learns lines for quippy videos under the supervision of a particularly mean videographer, has conversations with people on the street, and gets his first group of volunteers.

Every once in a while, you pick up a panicked call and excuse yourself to spend ten minutes trying to calm down the woman on the other end. Bucky picks up a few details: a little sister, a July wedding and an overbearing mother-in-law, a DJ who has to cancel after getting arrested selling cocaine in a 7/11 parking lot. Every time she calls, it ends the same way: No, I have not found a date. No, I have not been on any dates. Yes, I will tell you when I have found a date.

It's 9pm at the end of week three when Bucky says he could use a drink.

You take him to a corner bar a block over. The lone bartender knows you by name, lets you behind the bar to wrap you in a too-big hug when he sees you. He's got a russian accent and a beer belly and no hair, and Bucky has absolutely no idea how you know all the people he's met over the past few weeks. It's just another fact of the matter.

"Can you even get drunk? Is that a myth?" You're slipping into opposite sides of a booth, cushioned seats so old and worn they might as well be concrete.

"Well, yeah, I have to drink a lot of it in not a lot of time if I want to feel it. But I can still enjoy it for what it is."

"Huh." You're nodding into your glass, first taste of the dark whiskey making you wince a little. "I can hook you up with my moonshine guy, if you want."

Bucky laughs, surprised, furrows his brow at you. "You have a moonshine guy?"

"Yeah, Dimitri." You gesture at the Russian national behind the bar, rag over his shoulder like a caricature. "It'll probably kill fewer brain cells to just drink straight isopropyl, but I'm sure it'll get the job done."

You're smiling ear to ear when Bucky looks back at you. You're too bright for the dinginess of your surroundings, wide-eyed, soft around the edges. Bucky wonders how the Hell he even got here, wonders why it hurts a little to sit across from a smile that big and that beautiful.

"What?"

"... What?"

"You're staring at me."

Bucky takes a beat. "I feel like I don't know anything about you."

"What, you haven't googled me?"

Bucky smiles, real, not the politician's smile you've been training into him. You have this image of him in your mind, in high school textbooks and documentaries and 6pm news highlights. They're mostly glum, broody, straight-faced. Having him in front of you laughing at your jokes makes you a little queasy, a little something else that sits right in the centre of your chest. "Have you googled me?"

"I didn't need to."

"Exactly."

You raise your eyebrows at him, nod slowly like you've just solved his little riddle. "I don't think I'm as interesting as you are."

"Something tells me that's not true."

You sigh, sink into the booth a little, stare at the centre of the table with your glass clutched to your chest as you figure out how to summarise your life in a breath. "I mean, I don't know, I was born here, I spent my entire life here. And then the world almost ended, so I went to work in DC until it almost killed me. Then, I came home." You take a sip, liquor thinner now, finally meet his eye again. He's looking at you like he understands you completely, so you look away again, push yourself up on the firm bench to straighten your posture. "I told you, not very interesting"

"Why'd you leave DC?" It's instant, genuine, interested. You get that feeling again, nausea and what you're trying not to call affection mixing in the pit of your stomach.

You sigh, long and deep, look at him with your head tilted. "Well." Another sigh. "The answer I give everyone is that I worked too much and I met too many people playing the game for the wrong reasons, and it just kind of crushed me. Just kinda chewed me up and spat me out. I spent six years right in the middle of it, and eventually I couldn't take it anymore."

"And the real answer?"

"The real reason," you start, emphasis denoting a need to prepare, strap in. "Is that I was working 80-hour weeks and that I met some really fucking evil people who were really good at hiding the fact that they were evil, which, yeah, I mean, that was demoralising. But it was also that when I wasn't working, I was having a very, very intense love affair with my very much married, very much age-inappropriate boss."

It comes out so quickly, Bucky needs to take a second to register, eyebrows raised. He nods slowly. "That part's interesting."

You scoff out a "Yeah," a smile and a nod as you tip back the rest of your drink. You don't really know why you keep going, blame the booze and the fact that you had eaten your only meal of the day at 3pm. You justify it to yourself without anybody asking, something along the lines of sharing and the importance of mutual trust "I mean, I was in love, not that that excuses anything. I quit because at a certain point, it was eating me alive, like it consumed me in my entirety. I couldn't live with myself. On top of the fact that I stopped loving what I did, my personal life was just like guerrilla fucking warfare, and DC just... isn't worth it."

Somewhere during your haze of a story, Bucky had ordered another round of drinks, two glasses being slid across the table towards you with a Russian huff. Bucky's still watching you, nodding, almost in morbid fascination with this retelling of the implosion of a life. "Intense."

"What, you've never had an affair with a married man old enough to be your father? I thought the military was all about that in those days."

Bucky chokes on his whiskey, moves to clear his throat and is met with your incredibly self-satisfied grin.

"I guess it would be harder to date someone twice your age now."

-----

Bucky wins the primary. Somehow. Maybe it was luck, or maybe you had just well and truly outdone yourself. Either way, July rolls around and James Buchanan Barnes is officially the Democratic candidate for New York's 9th Congressional District.

With his name on the ballot, the campaign kicks into another gear. You call in every favour you have, exploit every connection and show up at every office you can think of to get Bucky in the media, at community events, get him speeches that hit home and a social media presence that can be shared and seen.

Bucky spends more time with you than he has with anybody in a long, long time. The logical part of him knows it's just the proximity of it all, the hours and that tiny office and your voice in his ear.

The rest of him can't help the fact that knowing you makes him feel normal. He had met a lot of people in DC who were convinced he was something other, convinced he was an essential perversion of human nature, convinced that his only use was his transferable skills as a hired gun.

You spend six months knowing everything you need to know about him, never ask anything more. You know he's spent his whole life being dissected by the public, by the government, make a point to never make him dissect himself for your sake. You understand what he stands for, learn his habits and his tells, learn how to make him laugh when it's late and it's cold and you've been working for hours. Bucky doesn't think he's let his guard down this much since 1943.

You're watching Bucky land the final notes of a 4th of July address from stage right when you spot him in the front row.

"James Barnes, folks, Congressional nominee. Thank you so much for your time today." The blood is rushing so loudly in your ears that you don't register the end of the speech or the applause as Bucky crosses the stage towards you. "Now, we've got a last-minute special speaker for us tonight. He's the current ranking member of the Senate Committee on Veterans' Affairs. Please give a warm welcome to our friend, Senator Samuel Brown."

There's an uproar in the crowd, applause and whistles and hoots and hollers. It's a reputation you spent four years helping to build.

"Hey, you okay?" It's Bucky behind you, eyes narrowed with concern. "You look like you've seen a ghost."

You snap yourself out of it in an instant. Turn with an unconvincing smile. "Yeah. Yeah, I'm fine."

He finds you after the speeches, slips through the mingling crowd, says your name with a hand on your shoulder. You and Bucky turn in sync.

"Sam, hey."

He's leaning down, a hand at the small of your back and a polite air kiss to the cheek as he delivers that cookie-cutter politician's smile. "Been a long time."

"Yeah, it has." You give him a tight smile, nod, hold his eyes for a long moment. Bucky clears his throat beside you, draws both of your attentions.

"And this is the man who poached my best girl from me." His best girl. You think you might throw up. "Bucky Barnes, I have been meaning to meet you."

"Absolutely. Senator Brown, it's a pleasure."

Bucky's not an idiot, registers the situation instantly, shoots you a glance out of the corner of his eye. But he's also learning how to be a good politician, and he knows that making nice with a man of Brown's stature can only mean good things.

"Listen, uh, me and a bunch of the VA guys booked out a bar downtown for later tonight. Why don't you come down, take some pictures, make some new friends." Your throat goes dry. You think about gouging out his eyes with your thumbs. "If your manager here doesn't have bigger things planned for you, of course."

You open your mouth to speak, at a loss for words for the first time in you don't know how long. Bucky turns to you, meets your eyes with a softness. "Yeah." You say, smile still tight but polite. "We can definitely swing by."

-----

Somewhere on a park bench in Flatbush, you and Bucky Barnes eat Chinese food in silence.

You don't look at him when he clears his throat, but you interrupt him before he can get a word out. "I really don't want to hear it right now."

"I wasn't-" Bucky sighs, sets his takeout box on the wood beside him. "I was just going to say that we really don't need to go tonight."

You're still not looking at him, shovel a too-big bite of rice and brocolli into your mouth. It takes you a long moment of silence to get it down. "Have I ever been anything other than professional when it matters?"

Your look is so sharp when you turn to him Bucky instantly regrets bringing it up. "No, never."

"Exactly." Your attention is back to your food, chopsticks stabbing in a manner not conducive to eating. "There's no reason this is going to be any different."

-----

As a former tortured super assassin, Bucky Barnes is impressed with your ability to compartmentalise.

If he didn't already know better, he would think that you still had an incredibly positive working and social relationship with your former boss. You still accept his introductions and his drink refills, still laugh at his jokes, and towards the end of the night, he lets slip a secret.

"I have noticed you've been spending an awful lot of time with Thaddeus Ross lately." You're in the middle of a conversation you don't remember the lead-in to, plied with enough vodka sodas that your short-term memory is starting to slip a little. That promise of complete professionalism might have come a little too hastily.

Sam smiles at you, a little too fond and a little too familiar. "Can you keep a secret for another couple weeks?"

You smile back. A little too fond. A little too familiar. "You know I can."

"Ross is announcing me as his running mate at the end of the month."

It sobers you up in an instant. It's an immediate realisation. Everybody knew Ritson had no chance of a second term. Thaddeus Ross being the next President of the United States was almost set in stone already, and with it, the future of his Vice President. "That's incredible, really." It's all you can manage. "Congratulations."

You don't know what excuse you come up with, but you find something to get you outside, a blur so fast Bucky notices from all the way across the bar. He watches the back door fall shut with a thud, and the man who follows you out moments after.

Bucky manages his own excuse, takes him a couple of minutes, but soon enough finds himself at the back door. It's quieter, a cool breeze filtering in as the door rests ajar. He doesn't know why he doesn't just open it, but he doesn't. Your voice is raised.

"Are you being fucking serious right now? How can you even ask me that?" Bucky's never heard you so angry. He knows he shouldn't be listening, but he does.

"I don't know why you think it's such an egregious suggestion. You've always been the best, Y/n. You quit without even a simple explanation, and I'm still asking for you back. You should be flattered."

"I should be flattered?!" You scoff, heels clacking harshly across the pavement. Bucky can tell that you're pacing. "Are you so fucking self-absorbed that you still don't know why I left DC?"

There's a long pause. "Why did you?"

"You don't deserve an explanation."

"I know I don't."

You sigh hard. More pacing. Bucky thinks about interrupting just to save you from the answer. "I was killing myself over you, Sam. You were my entire universe."

"You were mine."

"It's not a good thing. I had nothing outside of you. You had a wife, and it didn't matter how many times you told me you were going to leave her, because I knew that you knew it would be political fucking suicide. Everything was always for you, and you never even told me to take so much as a break. I left because I got some fucking self-respect."

Silence. Long. The air thick with it.

"I really am happy for you, Sam. VP is, I mean, it's everything you always talked about... But I could never, ever go back to that."

Bucky should probably hear the footsteps approach the door, but he's still too busy processing to register the sound. The door swings open, and for a moment, he's face to face with the Senator. He scoffs, then he's gone. "She's all yours."

You've already lit a cigarette by the time Bucky steps into the alley, back pressed against the brick. You don't look at him when he slots into place beside you.

"I didn't know you smoked."

"I don't." You take a long, slow drag, tiny light glowing in the dark alley. "So you heard all of that, huh?"

Bucky opens his mouth to speak, pauses, considers lying. "I... Yeah, I heard all of it."

You take another drag, silence filled by the pop of fireworks somewhere nearby. You both follow the arc of the projectile into the air, the alley briefly lit in red and blue before dimming again. You sigh.

"So... Vice President, huh?"

You laugh, genuinely, meet his eyes in the dark. You're smiling, which is better than he thought he would get. "Can you fucking believe it?"

Bucky returns your smile, holds your gaze for a long moment. "You know I wouldn't blame you. If you wanted to work for him. It's a huge opportunity."

You're still smiling, look away only to snuff out the flame of your cigarette against the cool brick. "Why would I want to do that? I like you."

Bucky thinks his breathing might falter a little, thinks it's really not the time to be acting like a teenage girl. "I like you too."

-----

"Oh, you like like him."

"Oh, shut up, Soph, you have no idea what you're talking about."

It's too loud in this bar. Even shoved into this corner booth, it's still a Saturday night in the middle of Manhattan, and you're all at least four drinks into this bachelorette party.

"Hey, don't tell me to shut up, I know you, Y/n. I haven't seen you this happy since... yknow... he who shall not be named."

You're shaking your head, take a long sip of your drink, extra-strong and burning on the way down. "He's basically my boss."

"It's never stopped you before."

You kick her in the shin under the table.

"You should bring him to the wedding."

It comes out of nowhere. You scoff at her, mouth agape, expressions a little exaggerated after all those pornstar martinis. "You're joking."

"I'm being serious!" She's smiling at you widely, leans in to squeeze your arm. "It's next week, who else are you planning on bringing?"

"Not him. Do you think I'm that insane?" You tip back the rest of your martini. "I do need another drink, though."

You're halfway through drink number seven when he appears in front of you in a blink. You wonder if he's a figment of your imagination. "Bucky?!"

Bucky looks almost as confused as you do. "Hey, yeah, I, uh... I got your text?"

"You got my text?" You're yelling louder than the music necessitates, but you're drunk and you're confused and you're wearing a mini skirt in front of Bucky Barnes and you're still not certain he's not a hallucination.

"Oh, hey! He got my text!"

Sophie appears next to you, arm slipping around yours, leans so hard she almost knocks you over.

"Your text?" You say it in unison.

Sophie's still beaming, leans in to whisper in your ear. "I might have texted him from your phone." She's laughing when she pulls away, puts her index finger to her lips and shushes as if to say Don't tell y/n.

"Oh, Jesus Christ. Okay, you're going back to the bar. We are going outside."

You put your hands around her arms and physically spin her around. "Ask him!" She yells, gives a smile and a wave at Bucky before falling back into her crowd of bridesmaids.

Your hand is around Bucky's bicep, leading him through the crowd until you can push yourself into the street. It's impossibly quieter, gives you a moment of clarity. You feel about 60% more lucid than you had inside, which is unfortunate. "I don't even know what to say. I am so sorry. She's lost her fucking mind."

Bucky's smiling at you. You resent the amusement in his eyes.

"What did she even text you?"

Bucky pulls his phone out of his back pocket, wordlessly opens up your texts and spins the screen around to face you. The text is succinct. need to see you asap!!! She had clearly been sober enough to remember to send him a pin to your location.

"Jesus Christ." You give a deep sigh, cross your arms as you look back up at him. "I would never use that many exclamation marks, by the way."

"I'll remember that for next time."

You sigh, narrow your eyes up at him. "You came all the way into Manhattan at midnight just because I texted you?"

"I... Thought there was an emergency."

"At a bar?"

"Why am I the one on trial here?"

You sigh again, register your unwarranted temper in your haze of a brain. "You're right, I'm sorry. I'm sorry you had to come down here for nothing."

"Yeah, it's okay." Bucky looks at you softly, still a little amused, one of those looks that makes you try to ignore the feeling in your chest. "What did she want you to ask me?"

You swallow, avert your eyes, cross your arms even tighter. "It's nothing. She's been drinking since seven, it's unimportant."

"Seems pretty important if she broke into your phone to get me here."

You should lie, but you're drunk and being faced with a man willing to take a cab 30 minutes in the middle of the night on a whim, just because you asked, just to check you were okay. You would think it was a romantic gesture if that's what this was. Which it wasn't. "Sophie's been pestering me to find a date for the wedding all year, even though I keep telling her I don't have the time to even start to date, I barely had time for this, but, anyway, she's gotten the idea in her head that I should just ask you to go with me, even though I told her it's insane to-"

"You want me to go to your sister's wedding with you?" Bucky cuts you off, probably for the best if your drunken rambling was any indication. His eyes are a little wider, a little incredulous.

"Well... No, I mean... She wants me to want you to go with me."

Bucky narrows his eyes at you, confused, tries to follow your winding train of thought. "So you don't want me to go to your sister's wedding with you."

You don't think you have the capacity to process his tone. You think you might need another drink. "Do you want to come with me?"

Bucky opens his mouth, takes a moment to find the words. "I mean... If it's easier for you. We're friends, right? You've done enough for me, I'd do the favour for you."

You're smiling at him. You blame it on the alcohol. "Okay, yeah."

"Okay then."

You're still smiling when you find your sister at the bar. She reads you like an open book, leans back in to whisper in your ear. "You're welcome."

-----

The rehearsal dinner is only a few blocks away from your apartment, which means that at the end of the night, Bucky offers to walk you home.

You've had a few drinks. Your arm is slipped around his. Bucky tries to tell himself it doesn't mean anything.

It is harder to convince himself, though, when he had just spent an evening with your entire family, when your mom had crowded in and showed him baby pictures on her phone, when your dad had projected up a slideshow of childhood milestones, birthdays and graduations, you at eight or nine with a tiny baby in your arms.

"Thank you for coming tonight, really."

You're in front of the stoop of your building now.

It's starting to rain.

Neither of you is particularly concerned by it.

You could speed up the goodnight, rush inside before the sky opens up, but you don't. You stand under the dim street lights and watch each other in the dark. "Yeah, of course. Anytime."

You're smiling at him, warm, eyes bright. You breathe a light laugh. "I should probably get inside."

Bucky nods slowly, doesn't take his eyes away from yours, smile steady. "Yeah, I should get home."

Neither of you moves, just stand there as the rain gets heavier.

You take a step forward, press up on your toes, lean in. Bucky stops breathing.

Your lips are on his cheek, warm, feather-light.

There's a long moment of silence when you pull away. You're smiling, a little too satisfied with the flustered look on his face.

"Goodnight, Barnes."

You watch the bob of his Adam's apple as he swallows. "Goodnight, Y/n."

-----

Bucky doesn't remember the last time he went to church.

Not that this was church church, just so happened to be an event traditionally held within a church.

Even still, the ceilings and the towering doors and the stained glass make him feel like there's something he should be apologising for.

The back doors opened into the courtyard bring a light breeze through the cavernous building, help to stifle some of the dense July heat.

There's a ray of sunlight filtering through the stained glass pieta above the altar, creates a warm patch of light in the middle of the aisle. Bucky stands in it, looks up into the sunlit face of the Virgin Mary until it hurts his eyes.

"Hey." You're next to him all of a sudden, hadn't heard you coming, look up at him with your arm pressed against his.

You're beaming at him when he looks at you, wide and devastating. Bucky forgets how to speak for a second. "Hey."

"Am I interrupting your moment with the Madonna?"

Bucky smiles, takes you in, sun-soaked and warm next to him. "You look beautiful."

It surprises you a little, makes your face go hot, smile softening. "Thank you." Your voice is a little smaller than you meant it to come out. Bucky's looking at you like you've got the world in your eyes. You swallow down the lump in your throat. "Have you seen my sister by any chance?"

"Oh, uh." Bucky looks left, looks right, realises that probably isn't helping. "No, I just got here."

You sigh, facing falling now, look past him into the courtyard where most of the guests have started to gather. "Okay, I'm gonna go look for her. Will you text me if you see her?"

"Yeah, 'course."

You only get a step away before you're spinning on your heels back to him. "Thank you for coming, by the way. It means a lot, really."

You smile at him, and you're gone before he can find the words in response.

-----

"Oh."

Bucky sees the dress before he recognises the face. He's spent twenty minutes trying to mingle before it all gets to be a bit much, prefers the script of the campaign exponentially to trying to make small talk with your cousins and your aunts and your childhood friends.

He was just trying to find a moment of quiet. He was hoping not to find a runaway bride crouched behind a tree.

"Oh. Hi."

Bucky opens his mouth, doesn't know what to say. "Uh... Your sister's been looking for you."

Bucky watches her sigh, takes a sip of the glass of champagne in her hand as she rests her updo against the bark. He moves to text you as covertly as possible. "Do you want to sit down?"

He can't really say no.

"I should really apologise about that whole... Y'know... Text thing last week. I was wasted."

Bucky laughs lightly, remembers it with something like fondness. "No, it's okay... I think it all worked out in the end."

Sophie smiles at him. He thinks her eyes might be a little red, a little damp in the corners. "She really likes you, you know. Really likes you."

"Oh, I don't know if-"

"Hey, what are you- Oh, babe." You're rounding the corner, features surprised enough that he can tell you hadn't overheard any of the highly incriminating conversation he had just engaged in. Your eyes soften instantly, flits over Bucky before landing on your sister. "Are you okay?"

Sophie moves to stand, smooths out the skirt of her dress. "I'm fine, Y/n, really."

"Are you sure?" Your hands are on her shoulders, frowning, drenched in concern.

"Yeah, I just needed some air, seriously. I'm okay." She's smiling, which is something, at least. "Is my hair still okay?"

You laugh, concern still clear in your eyes as they move over her. "Yeah, you're perfect." You hug her, meet Bucky's eyes over her shoulder, smile and mouth a quick thank you before pulling away.

-----

It's late, and it's cool, and Bucky Barnes' suit jacket is draped around your shoulders.

You've been awake for eighteen hours, but when Bucky asks if he can walk you home, you still say yes. He says the same when you ask if he wants to come up for a drink.

You take opposite corners of the couch, cautious, curling your knees up into the empty space beside you as you turn to face him.

Bucky watches as you take a slow sip, ice clattering. You wince a little. Six months in and he's still not convinced you actually like whiskey.

He's smiling at you in that devastating way that makes your chest hurt, soft and lopsided and genuine. You settle your arm over the back of the couch, resting your head in your hand. You return the smile, squint at him playfully. "What?"

Bucky doesn't say anything, holds your eyes for another long moment. His smile falls a little, but that gleam in his eye, that fondness, can't be hidden so easily.

And then he's reaching out across the couch, hand running along the back cushion towards you before stopping between you. He opens his palm towards you, invites you in.

You hesitate.

Your smile fades, eyes shifted to this offering in front of you. He can see the options being weighed in your eyes, thinks that maybe this is the moment to decide all moments, bigger than your lips on his cheek in the rain.

Your hand is soft in his before the doubt can pull him away, warm, pulse beating under his fingertips. He watches you sigh gently, watching this small connection of your fingers slotted over his.

He feels you squeeze and returns the gesture, smiles softly when your eyes meet his again. He wonders if the pads of his fingers are rough and calloused. He wonders if you'd mind.

"Your heart is racing." He's not sure what he's supposed to mean by it, a simple observation he can make with this small privilege, skin to skin.

"You make me feel like it'll jump out of my chest." It's instant, no hesitation this time, just the truth so bold and plain it doesn't even need a second thought.

Bucky doesn't know what to say, can't find the words to encapsulate how it feels when he's with you, how it feels to sit here with your hand in his. He doesn't realise he's stopped smiling.

You clear you throat, expression muddled and flat, pull your hand away in an instant. He should have said something, missed his opportunity.

You move to rest your glass on the coffee table as you stand, shuffling under the length of your skirt. "I, uh, I'm just gonna get changed, gotta take this stupid dress off."

You're gone without another look.

Bucky sighs as soon as you're out of his line of sight, closes his eyes and falls against the back of your couch with a solid thunk. There's a light ache emanating from the base of his skull. He thinks he deserves it. It's gone in an instant.

When he opens his eyes, there's a soft lilt of music drifting down the hall. Bucky stands up, follows the sound until he lands outside your bedroom door, still ajar.

He presses it open.

You've got a floor mirror set up next to your dresser, dragging a cotton round across your lips and bringing a streak of lipstick up with it. You throw the excess into the basket beside you, and when you look up again, you meet his eyes in the mirror.

You smile at him. "Hey."

Bucky crosses the floor to you without thinking. "Hey."

You're still wearing your dress, hands hovering over the loose satin, eyes raking over you in the mirror. You scoff lightly, draw his attention back up to your face. "You can touch me, y'know."

Bucky swallows. He thinks his mouth might go dry.

His hands settle over your hips, feels the movement of your chest as you sigh into him, lean back into the firmness of his chest.

Bucky dips his head, moves to press his lips to your bare shoulder. The first contact makes you shiver, makes the grip on your hips a little tighter.

He brings a hand up to brush your hair to the side, opens up the stretch of skin along your shoulder and up your neck, lets his lips trail up the path.

"Bucky..." You breathe it, impossibly quiet, tilt your head to the side to let him closer. Your eyes are closed when he searches for your face in the glass.

When you open them again, you're reaching for his hand. You slip your own over it, guide him up your side, rides up your dress slightly as it glides over your stomach, over your breast, lands squarely over your heart.

You let him feel the pulse there, faster, faster, faster. Bucky doesn't think he's ever felt this way in his life. His pants are tight. It's way too hot in here.

You let him pull away his hand after a long moment, let it trail behind you until it lands at the zipper of your dress. He doesn't know what possesses him, but you don't stop him.

He looks for a reaction in your face, finds you staring at him, mouth open. "What are you waiting for?"

The loose fabric pools around your feet. Bucky takes you in, returns his hands to your sides to pull you closer, bare except for the soft lace clinging to your hips. "You are so fucking beautiful, doll."

Doll. It's so Brooklyn, so him, makes you want to kiss him, so you turn around in his hands and you do.

It's soft at first, slow, testing the waters even though you're already in your underwear and he's touching your bare skin. Bucky holds you like something precious in his arms, kisses you like he needs it to breathe. Your arms are around his neck, and your hands are in his hair, and the feeling of fabric against your bare chest makes you want to tear off his shirt with your bare hands.

"You're starting to look a little overdressed." It's deeper when you kiss him next, pull him closer by the tie, hands sliding up his chest to tug it open. You work on the top buttons while Bucky starts at the bottom, smiling into open kisses, fluid and hot and messy.

You step out of your dress, urge him backwards towards the bed.

Your hands are everywhere, smooth planes of muscle along his chest and his stomach, his back and his shoulders, his neck, tangles in his hair and tugs hard until he's groaning into your mouth.

His knees fold under him when he meets the side of your bed, sits upright and doesn't have any time to move before you're in his lap.

It's fast and it's intoxicating and it's real. He's tangible in your hands, holding you, touching you, pressing your hips against the growing bulge in his pants.

Bucky's got his hand between your legs, presses two fingers right against the lace, finds you soaked and moaning into his mouth.

You say his name like it's the only word you've ever known, say it breathless against his lips, speak it into the open air just so the universe knows how it sounds. You gasp it pressed against his neck when he pulls the fabric of your panties aside and pushes two fingers inside you.

You lean back, move your hips to meet the working of his fingers, a hand on his knee to keep you steady while the other grips hard at his wrist. "Fuck, doll, you're the hottest thing I've ever fucking seen."

Bucky leans forward, mouth on your chest, runs his tongue across your nipple and tigtens his grip on your hip when he feels you clench around his fingers.

You know you should be savouring it, but you can't help the growing impatience, want to feel more, want to feel everything all at once.

You reach in between your bodies, find the button of his trousers, the metal warm with body heat.

In a blink, his arm is around your waist, and he's flipping you onto your back. He's fast. He's strong. He's almost unbearably hot. His fingers are still inside you, and when the pad of his thumb finds your clit it almost breaks you then and there.

"There you go, sweetheart." He can tell, in between your legs now, chest firm against yours as he dips his head into the crook of your neck. He kisses you there, sloppy, breathes hot against your ear. "Wanna feel you cum for me."

Bucky revels in the sting on your nails in his back, the heat of you, the whine of his name as you cum around his fingers.

Bucky's got his fingers hooked around your panties when you remember how to think, pulls them down with a trail of slick down one leg. You look down at him. "Please tell me you're not still wearing fucking pants right now."

You push yourself onto your knees, shuffle over to him across the covers as he works down his zipper. Bucky's smiling when you kiss him, a laugh deep in his chest. "Never knew you were so needy, sweetheart."

"Not needy." A hand on his chest, a hand down his boxers. "Just efficient. It's why you like me."

Bucky curses under his breath. You kiss his bottom lip when his mouth falls open, press a grin to his jaw when you feel him buck into your hand.

Finally, mercifully, Bucky drops his boxers around his ankles, presses you back against the bed until your head meets the covers. The orientation is all wrong, but neither of you are particularly preoccupied with fixing that right now.

Bucky's expression is softer when he meets your eyes next, slots between your legs. You think he must be able to hear how fast your heart is beating, can't ignore the sound rushing in your ears. "Do you have any idea how completely fucking incredible you are?"

You smile at him, blushing, face hot, chest tight. "You're a dork."

"I wanna hear you say it." Bucky's completely serious, face straight. He looks like he's never meant anything more in his life.

You narrow your eyes at him. "I'm not gonna say it, Barnes."

"Okay, well then." Bucky pulls away, leans back on his shins. He's still hung like a fucking horse. It's a crude picture, makes you want to laugh, only makes you want him more. "Guess we should probably put our clothes back on then."

You scoff, scrambling forward, shove him back until he's sitting flat against the headboard. You're in his lap again. "You've got a woman asking you to ruin her in your lap, and you're gonna give that up over this?"

Bucky swallows. "Yes. Yes, I am."

"Fine." You sigh, lean down to grab his hands, pull him up until he's sitting upright, warm skin and warm metal on your hips. "I guess I must be pretty incredible to get a guy like you in bed with me."

Bucky smirks at you. "A guy like me?"

"Yeah." You smile, lean in, kiss up his jaw until you land right under his ear. "Have you looked at yourself?"

You're touching him again, soft and firm and Bucky melts into you, voice caught in his throat.

"Satisfied?"

"Almost."

Bucky kisses you, hard, hot, pulls you closer and helps you line himself up with you, holds you tight when you're finally sinking onto him.

You feel it through your whole body, in your chest and in your thighs and in the tips of your fingers, makes your brain go fuzzy with the pleasure of it all.

You're a slurry of profinities and sighs and gasps, voices melting together, utterly fucking filthy.

"Feel so fucking good, sweetheart."

He feels you falter when your legs start to give out, ride out the burn just to keep feeling the rest of it, can't imagine ever not feeling like this.

Bucky stops you with an arm around your waist, a split-second shift as he holds you in place, the bend of his knees to steady himself as he fucks up into you.

"Oh, fuck." It's all-consuming, impossibly better, head tilted back. Bucky's mouth is on your chest, and his hand is between your legs again, tight circles around your clit sending a hand into his hair, a tug and a deep groan against you.

You lean down, catch his jaw and tilt his face up to yours so you can kiss him hard. "Wanna feel you."

Bucky thinks it's over for him, thinks it might have been over the moment he met you, when you had eyed him up the wrong way and sworn at him and talked yourself into an impossible task just for the fun of the game. Bucky lets go because it's entirely, undeniably over for him. It's always going to be this, hands and mouths and tangled limbs as he fills you up.

It's that feeling that does it, that pulsing heat inside you and warming you from the inside out, only takes one, two more swipes of his thumb before you're right there with him, slumped against the headboard.

Bucky keeps you there, holds you to him, kisses you slow, a hand on the small of your back and a soothing thumbing brushing back and forth.

Bucky thinks it's over for him, thinks he might never let you go.

-----

Everything is tight, your chest and your stomach, climbing up your neck, rushing in your ears. You can feel your heartbeat in your entire body, pulsing all at once, thumping, thumping, thumping, eyes darting across the scenes in front of you as the graphics shift. Another percentage counted, another hitch in your breath.

It's unhealthy, objectively—CNN on the TV, NBC muted on your laptop, AP up on his, your phone clutched in your hand, refreshing Twitter every 30 seconds. You think you might be a little itchy, but you don't do anything about it.

You don't move when you hear the door click shut behind you, even though you had sent him out for Chinese twenty minutes ago, hear the jingle of his keys on the counter, the light creak of a floorboard. You only look up when the room goes quiet, the TV suddenly blank and reflecting your wide-eyed expression.

Bucky tosses the remote on the couch.

"Hey, what the Hell?"

He goes for the laptops next, flips the screens and slides them off the smooth wood, collects them in the crook of his arm. "This is for your own good." Bucky turns to you, offers out his hand.

You're squinting at him, eyebrows knit, watch his eyes flit down to your phone then back up to your face. "Absolutely not."

Bucky sighs, settles the stack of laptops back on the table. He sits down, turns towards you. "Look at me."

You turn slowly, suspiciously, move to crisscross your legs. He offers the palms of his hands, opens them to you. You look at them for a long second before huffing lightly, let your phone drop to your lap as you take his hands.

"The votes aren't going anywhere."

"I know, but-"

"Y/n." It's firm, straight faced, so much care and adoration in his eyes you don't want to fight it. "You have given everything you have to this for ten months, and it'll pay off, I believe in that. But it's out of our hands now. You need to take a break."

You sigh, long and deep, close your eyes. If you were a praying woman, you think now is the moment you would pray. Bucky's smiling when open your eyes. "You get that smug smile when you know that you're right."

It breaks into more of a grin, makes you want to wipe it off his face so you lean in and you kiss him, slow, heartbeat subsiding. You rest your forehead against his when you pull away, close your eyes, sync your breathing with his. You're so calm for a moment you forget what you were worried about to begin with. "I love you."

You're hands are still resting in his, so he squeezes them. "I love you."

You sigh, pull away. You reach for your phone but don't flick it on. "Okay. Everything is gonna be okay."

"Everything is gonna be okay." A hand on your knee, firm, grounding. "And even if it isn't, I still met you, so it'll still have been worth it in the end."

You grin at him, eyes narrowed a little. "You're disgusting." You give him another quick peck before you're untangling your legs and standing. You reach for his hand as you toss your phone on top of the pile of electronics. "C'mon, the food is getting cold, what are you doing just sitting around?"

request something! masterlist

[foreverrogers]

holding your breath (with your arms outstretched)

Pairing: candidate!bucky barnes x campaign manager!reader

Summary: the task at hand was simple. get james buchanan barnes elected to congress. find a date to your sister's wedding. get over your age-inappropriate ex. you knew bucky would help to check at least one of those boxes—you didn't expect him to pull off all three.

Warnings: smut!!!! 18+!!!!! minors please DNI!!!!! inappropriate workplace relationships (past and present), age gap relationships (past and present), canon adjacent, three (3) minor OCs, fingering, unprotected sex, piv sex. pre-brave new world and thunderbolts*!

Words: 8.8k

A/N: the political timeline of the MCU makes zero sense but we make due. this fic is my tumblr renaissance I hope you enjoy!! obligatory lucy dacus title i love you all dearly

request something! masterlist

The cold is sharp, stings at your cheeks and your nose and the tips of your fingers as you press open the familiar office door.

It's January in New York City, frost and puddles of melted snow the last indicators of the snowstorm that had shuttered people indoors over the New Year.

It's sunny now, clean and clear, brings a bustle and an energy and an undoubtable hope to the air.

The warmth is a welcome shock, elicits an involuntary shiver as you smile at the volunteer manning the front desk.

"Good morning! She's-" The receptionist is cut off by the shrill ring of the phone, hand over the receiver in an instant. "Sorry. She's in her office. She's expecting you."

Another polite smile, a quiet "thank you" as you follow the path to the back office. The worn strip of carpet is the only negative space in a sea of desks and printers and busy volunteers, campaign season kicked into full force.

This New Year's resolution: Get Katherine Lee elected for her third term as Senator for New York.

Lee 2026 HQ had been your part-time home since last April. A veteran in her field, a powerhouse of progressive politics who had the heart and know-how to teach you everything you needed to know when you first volunteered for her Congressional run in high school. You had run back after an apocalyptic stint in DC, the cause a familiar one, a comforting one.

You give a quick rap of your knuckles against her door, prepare for the grating whine of the hinges haunting the ancient Brooklyn building. Lee said it added character, kept them grounded.

"Hey, I was thinking-"

There's an unfamiliar man in her office. It takes you a second to register who he is, stopped in your tracks in her doorway, hand still grasping the handle. James Buchanan Barnes. Unmistakable. He looks just like his wax figure.

"Oh, sorry." Your eyes flit between him—standing now, casual in dark jeans and a navy tee—and the Senator still sat behind her desk. "I didn't realise I was interrupting."

"No, perfect timing, please." Senator Lee smiles warmly, lifts a hand in an inviting gesture. "Y/n, this is-"

"Bucky Barnes." He's offering a hand across to you, smile exuding that charm and charisma perfected only by politicians and sociopaths. You have a bad feeling about this. "It's great to meet you."

You think you must look like a deer caught in headlights, can feel the confusion on your face and in your smile as you let the door fall shut with a creak and move to shake his hand. "Likewise."

"Sit, please." The familiar voice breaks you out of your daze, another inviting gesture towards the chair next to Bucky's.

There's a beat of silence, three pairs of eyes looking from face to face. You breathe a thoroughly confused laugh. "Why does this feel like being called to the principal's office?"

"Y/n," Lee starts, hands clasped in front of her. "You know you're the best at what you do."

"Am I getting fired right now? I'm not even on payroll, can you fire me?"

There's a light chuckle beside you that you don't turn towards. You're not really sure what the protocol is for superhuman ex-avengers crashing a routine meeting with your boss. Eye contact is still up for debate.

"You're not being fired, Jesus, Y/n." Lee laughs, a shake of her head as she rests back in her chair. "I met Bucky last year in DC during the whole GRC... fiasco. He reached out over the New Year, asking if I had any referrals for a campaign. Congressional 9th."

"Oh." You breathe a tight laugh, still laced in confusion. "Yeah, I mean it's pretty early for a 2028 run, but I would be happy to help with any-"

"Oh, no, not 2028." Bucky meets your eye.

You think, God, he's handsome, then wonder where the hell that came from. You narrow your eyes at him. "... No?"

"No, I kind of had my heart set on this November."

"You want to run this year?" It's more of a scoff than a question, eyes wide now, incredulous. "It's January."

"It's ambitious."

You really do scoff this time, look to Lee for backup and find her leaning back in her chair, buckled in for the ride. Your expression is wide when you look back at Bucky. "You need twelve hundred signatures in three months to even make it to the primary. Then you're up against an incumbent trying to make it a decade with essentially no political or community foundation. And even if you somehow win that, there's nothing stopping him from filing as an independent just in case. Respectfully, it's more insane than ambitious."

"What I said exactly." Senator Lee now, agreeing, nodding, smiling in a way that worries you. "Which is why I told him I knew you could pull it off."

"Katie." Nicknames. Familiarity that lets you express such scepticism.

"Y/n."

"I'm not a fucking magician."

More silence. Lee is watching you, expectant. Bucky is watching you, expectant, a fucking superpowered centurian placing the fate of a fledgling political career in your unwilling hands.

"There's not enough time." It's a statement of fact, clear-cut. "I mean, even if I stop volunteering here, there's no time to put together the people you need for a campaign like this or the image or anything." It's one long, breathless sentence, talking yourself into an anxiety too intense for the hour of the morning. You sigh, cross your arms and your legs as you fall against the back of your chair.

They're both still silent, just watching. You think you might be getting played, especially because somewhere in the back of your mind, that little voice is giving you some completely and truly insane ideas. You start thinking about fonts.

You're squinting again, suspicious, look from Lee to the mass of a man beside you. "Did she tell you that if you just didn't say anything I would talk myself into it?"

"She did."

"I did."

Another long pause. A sigh and a relaxing of your posture, arms still loosely crossed. "You owe me, like, huge time."

"You're in?" Bucky's smiling at you, plan executed as promised.

"Yeah, obviously."

-----

Bucky's got a short-term lease on an old second-story walk-up in the middle of Brooklyn. It's ancient, falling apart at the seams, an old law office almost entirely empty except for a handful of sketchy tenants. There's a woman with a crystal ball set up in the basement, and with the steady flow of women coming in and out into the late hours of the night, you're pretty sure there's an office of callgirls down the hall.

Your own crumbling unit fits four desks fully stuffed, which is fine because there's no time to onboard anybody else but you and Bucky. It has windows, which is something, you guess.

You probably spend sixty hours there in just your first week, one desk pressed flush against the wall, a couch, a black and white printer, and a whiteboard.

You had come fully prepared with the whiteboard on day one. One side to workshop, the other in permanent marker, key policies, key players, key messages. There are two columns of red and green Post-it notes labelled "assets" and "liabilities."

Asset. Existing name recognition.

Asset. Strong policy basis.

Asset. Personable.

Liability. Time.

Liability. Lack of media presence.

Liability. Winter Soldier.

You never directly address any of them, especially not the last one. They're more just facts of the matter. Bucky appreciates that you're always honest.

You get everything up and running in a matter of weeks. Bucky was there, of course, but the sheer efficiency of it all makes it pass him by like a blur. He takes more pictures than he's ever taken in his life, learns lines for quippy videos under the supervision of a particularly mean videographer, has conversations with people on the street, and gets his first group of volunteers.

Every once in a while, you pick up a panicked call and excuse yourself to spend ten minutes trying to calm down the woman on the other end. Bucky picks up a few details: a little sister, a July wedding and an overbearing mother-in-law, a DJ who has to cancel after getting arrested selling cocaine in a 7/11 parking lot. Every time she calls, it ends the same way: No, I have not found a date. No, I have not been on any dates. Yes, I will tell you when I have found a date.

It's 9pm at the end of week three when Bucky says he could use a drink.

You take him to a corner bar a block over. The lone bartender knows you by name, lets you behind the bar to wrap you in a too-big hug when he sees you. He's got a russian accent and a beer belly and no hair, and Bucky has absolutely no idea how you know all the people he's met over the past few weeks. It's just another fact of the matter.

"Can you even get drunk? Is that a myth?" You're slipping into opposite sides of a booth, cushioned seats so old and worn they might as well be concrete.

"Well, yeah, I have to drink a lot of it in not a lot of time if I want to feel it. But I can still enjoy it for what it is."

"Huh." You're nodding into your glass, first taste of the dark whiskey making you wince a little. "I can hook you up with my moonshine guy, if you want."

Bucky laughs, surprised, furrows his brow at you. "You have a moonshine guy?"

"Yeah, Dimitri." You gesture at the Russian national behind the bar, rag over his shoulder like a caricature. "It'll probably kill fewer brain cells to just drink straight isopropyl, but I'm sure it'll get the job done."

You're smiling ear to ear when Bucky looks back at you. You're too bright for the dinginess of your surroundings, wide-eyed, soft around the edges. Bucky wonders how the Hell he even got here, wonders why it hurts a little to sit across from a smile that big and that beautiful.

"What?"

"... What?"

"You're staring at me."

Bucky takes a beat. "I feel like I don't know anything about you."

"What, you haven't googled me?"

Bucky smiles, real, not the politician's smile you've been training into him. You have this image of him in your mind, in high school textbooks and documentaries and 6pm news highlights. They're mostly glum, broody, straight-faced. Having him in front of you laughing at your jokes makes you a little queasy, a little something else that sits right in the centre of your chest. "Have you googled me?"

"I didn't need to."

"Exactly."

You raise your eyebrows at him, nod slowly like you've just solved his little riddle. "I don't think I'm as interesting as you are."

"Something tells me that's not true."

You sigh, sink into the booth a little, stare at the centre of the table with your glass clutched to your chest as you figure out how to summarise your life in a breath. "I mean, I don't know, I was born here, I spent my entire life here. And then the world almost ended, so I went to work in DC until it almost killed me. Then, I came home." You take a sip, liquor thinner now, finally meet his eye again. He's looking at you like he understands you completely, so you look away again, push yourself up on the firm bench to straighten your posture. "I told you, not very interesting"

"Why'd you leave DC?" It's instant, genuine, interested. You get that feeling again, nausea and what you're trying not to call affection mixing in the pit of your stomach.

You sigh, long and deep, look at him with your head tilted. "Well." Another sigh. "The answer I give everyone is that I worked too much and I met too many people playing the game for the wrong reasons, and it just kind of crushed me. Just kinda chewed me up and spat me out. I spent six years right in the middle of it, and eventually I couldn't take it anymore."

"And the real answer?"

"The real reason," you start, emphasis denoting a need to prepare, strap in. "Is that I was working 80-hour weeks and that I met some really fucking evil people who were really good at hiding the fact that they were evil, which, yeah, I mean, that was demoralising. But it was also that when I wasn't working, I was having a very, very intense love affair with my very much married, very much age-inappropriate boss."

It comes out so quickly, Bucky needs to take a second to register, eyebrows raised. He nods slowly. "That part's interesting."

You scoff out a "Yeah," a smile and a nod as you tip back the rest of your drink. You don't really know why you keep going, blame the booze and the fact that you had eaten your only meal of the day at 3pm. You justify it to yourself without anybody asking, something along the lines of sharing and the importance of mutual trust "I mean, I was in love, not that that excuses anything. I quit because at a certain point, it was eating me alive, like it consumed me in my entirety. I couldn't live with myself. On top of the fact that I stopped loving what I did, my personal life was just like guerrilla fucking warfare, and DC just... isn't worth it."

Somewhere during your haze of a story, Bucky had ordered another round of drinks, two glasses being slid across the table towards you with a Russian huff. Bucky's still watching you, nodding, almost in morbid fascination with this retelling of the implosion of a life. "Intense."

"What, you've never had an affair with a married man old enough to be your father? I thought the military was all about that in those days."

Bucky chokes on his whiskey, moves to clear his throat and is met with your incredibly self-satisfied grin.

"I guess it would be harder to date someone twice your age now."

-----

Bucky wins the primary. Somehow. Maybe it was luck, or maybe you had just well and truly outdone yourself. Either way, July rolls around and James Buchanan Barnes is officially the Democratic candidate for New York's 9th Congressional District.

With his name on the ballot, the campaign kicks into another gear. You call in every favour you have, exploit every connection and show up at every office you can think of to get Bucky in the media, at community events, get him speeches that hit home and a social media presence that can be shared and seen.

Bucky spends more time with you than he has with anybody in a long, long time. The logical part of him knows it's just the proximity of it all, the hours and that tiny office and your voice in his ear.

The rest of him can't help the fact that knowing you makes him feel normal. He had met a lot of people in DC who were convinced he was something other, convinced he was an essential perversion of human nature, convinced that his only use was his transferable skills as a hired gun.

You spend six months knowing everything you need to know about him, never ask anything more. You know he's spent his whole life being dissected by the public, by the government, make a point to never make him dissect himself for your sake. You understand what he stands for, learn his habits and his tells, learn how to make him laugh when it's late and it's cold and you've been working for hours. Bucky doesn't think he's let his guard down this much since 1943.

You're watching Bucky land the final notes of a 4th of July address from stage right when you spot him in the front row.

"James Barnes, folks, Congressional nominee. Thank you so much for your time today." The blood is rushing so loudly in your ears that you don't register the end of the speech or the applause as Bucky crosses the stage towards you. "Now, we've got a last-minute special speaker for us tonight. He's the current ranking member of the Senate Committee on Veterans' Affairs. Please give a warm welcome to our friend, Senator Samuel Brown."

There's an uproar in the crowd, applause and whistles and hoots and hollers. It's a reputation you spent four years helping to build.

"Hey, you okay?" It's Bucky behind you, eyes narrowed with concern. "You look like you've seen a ghost."

You snap yourself out of it in an instant. Turn with an unconvincing smile. "Yeah. Yeah, I'm fine."

He finds you after the speeches, slips through the mingling crowd, says your name with a hand on your shoulder. You and Bucky turn in sync.

"Sam, hey."

He's leaning down, a hand at the small of your back and a polite air kiss to the cheek as he delivers that cookie-cutter politician's smile. "Been a long time."

"Yeah, it has." You give him a tight smile, nod, hold his eyes for a long moment. Bucky clears his throat beside you, draws both of your attentions.

"And this is the man who poached my best girl from me." His best girl. You think you might throw up. "Bucky Barnes, I have been meaning to meet you."

"Absolutely. Senator Brown, it's a pleasure."

Bucky's not an idiot, registers the situation instantly, shoots you a glance out of the corner of his eye. But he's also learning how to be a good politician, and he knows that making nice with a man of Brown's stature can only mean good things.

"Listen, uh, me and a bunch of the VA guys booked out a bar downtown for later tonight. Why don't you come down, take some pictures, make some new friends." Your throat goes dry. You think about gouging out his eyes with your thumbs. "If your manager here doesn't have bigger things planned for you, of course."

You open your mouth to speak, at a loss for words for the first time in you don't know how long. Bucky turns to you, meets your eyes with a softness. "Yeah." You say, smile still tight but polite. "We can definitely swing by."

-----

Somewhere on a park bench in Flatbush, you and Bucky Barnes eat Chinese food in silence.

You don't look at him when he clears his throat, but you interrupt him before he can get a word out. "I really don't want to hear it right now."

"I wasn't-" Bucky sighs, sets his takeout box on the wood beside him. "I was just going to say that we really don't need to go tonight."

You're still not looking at him, shovel a too-big bite of rice and brocolli into your mouth. It takes you a long moment of silence to get it down. "Have I ever been anything other than professional when it matters?"

Your look is so sharp when you turn to him Bucky instantly regrets bringing it up. "No, never."

"Exactly." Your attention is back to your food, chopsticks stabbing in a manner not conducive to eating. "There's no reason this is going to be any different."

-----

As a former tortured super assassin, Bucky Barnes is impressed with your ability to compartmentalise.

If he didn't already know better, he would think that you still had an incredibly positive working and social relationship with your former boss. You still accept his introductions and his drink refills, still laugh at his jokes, and towards the end of the night, he lets slip a secret.

"I have noticed you've been spending an awful lot of time with Thaddeus Ross lately." You're in the middle of a conversation you don't remember the lead-in to, plied with enough vodka sodas that your short-term memory is starting to slip a little. That promise of complete professionalism might have come a little too hastily.

Sam smiles at you, a little too fond and a little too familiar. "Can you keep a secret for another couple weeks?"

You smile back. A little too fond. A little too familiar. "You know I can."

"Ross is announcing me as his running mate at the end of the month."

It sobers you up in an instant. It's an immediate realisation. Everybody knew Ritson had no chance of a second term. Thaddeus Ross being the next President of the United States was almost set in stone already, and with it, the future of his Vice President. "That's incredible, really." It's all you can manage. "Congratulations."

You don't know what excuse you come up with, but you find something to get you outside, a blur so fast Bucky notices from all the way across the bar. He watches the back door fall shut with a thud, and the man who follows you out moments after.

Bucky manages his own excuse, takes him a couple of minutes, but soon enough finds himself at the back door. It's quieter, a cool breeze filtering in as the door rests ajar. He doesn't know why he doesn't just open it, but he doesn't. Your voice is raised.

"Are you being fucking serious right now? How can you even ask me that?" Bucky's never heard you so angry. He knows he shouldn't be listening, but he does.

"I don't know why you think it's such an egregious suggestion. You've always been the best, Y/n. You quit without even a simple explanation, and I'm still asking for you back. You should be flattered."

"I should be flattered?!" You scoff, heels clacking harshly across the pavement. Bucky can tell that you're pacing. "Are you so fucking self-absorbed that you still don't know why I left DC?"

There's a long pause. "Why did you?"

"You don't deserve an explanation."

"I know I don't."

You sigh hard. More pacing. Bucky thinks about interrupting just to save you from the answer. "I was killing myself over you, Sam. You were my entire universe."

"You were mine."

"It's not a good thing. I had nothing outside of you. You had a wife, and it didn't matter how many times you told me you were going to leave her, because I knew that you knew it would be political fucking suicide. Everything was always for you, and you never even told me to take so much as a break. I left because I got some fucking self-respect."

Silence. Long. The air thick with it.

"I really am happy for you, Sam. VP is, I mean, it's everything you always talked about... But I could never, ever go back to that."

Bucky should probably hear the footsteps approach the door, but he's still too busy processing to register the sound. The door swings open, and for a moment, he's face to face with the Senator. He scoffs, then he's gone. "She's all yours."

You've already lit a cigarette by the time Bucky steps into the alley, back pressed against the brick. You don't look at him when he slots into place beside you.

"I didn't know you smoked."

"I don't." You take a long, slow drag, tiny light glowing in the dark alley. "So you heard all of that, huh?"

Bucky opens his mouth to speak, pauses, considers lying. "I... Yeah, I heard all of it."

You take another drag, silence filled by the pop of fireworks somewhere nearby. You both follow the arc of the projectile into the air, the alley briefly lit in red and blue before dimming again. You sigh.

"So... Vice President, huh?"

You laugh, genuinely, meet his eyes in the dark. You're smiling, which is better than he thought he would get. "Can you fucking believe it?"

Bucky returns your smile, holds your gaze for a long moment. "You know I wouldn't blame you. If you wanted to work for him. It's a huge opportunity."

You're still smiling, look away only to snuff out the flame of your cigarette against the cool brick. "Why would I want to do that? I like you."

Bucky thinks his breathing might falter a little, thinks it's really not the time to be acting like a teenage girl. "I like you too."

-----

"Oh, you like like him."

"Oh, shut up, Soph, you have no idea what you're talking about."

It's too loud in this bar. Even shoved into this corner booth, it's still a Saturday night in the middle of Manhattan, and you're all at least four drinks into this bachelorette party.

"Hey, don't tell me to shut up, I know you, Y/n. I haven't seen you this happy since... yknow... he who shall not be named."

You're shaking your head, take a long sip of your drink, extra-strong and burning on the way down. "He's basically my boss."

"It's never stopped you before."

You kick her in the shin under the table.

"You should bring him to the wedding."

It comes out of nowhere. You scoff at her, mouth agape, expressions a little exaggerated after all those pornstar martinis. "You're joking."

"I'm being serious!" She's smiling at you widely, leans in to squeeze your arm. "It's next week, who else are you planning on bringing?"

"Not him. Do you think I'm that insane?" You tip back the rest of your martini. "I do need another drink, though."

You're halfway through drink number seven when he appears in front of you in a blink. You wonder if he's a figment of your imagination. "Bucky?!"

Bucky looks almost as confused as you do. "Hey, yeah, I, uh... I got your text?"

"You got my text?" You're yelling louder than the music necessitates, but you're drunk and you're confused and you're wearing a mini skirt in front of Bucky Barnes and you're still not certain he's not a hallucination.

"Oh, hey! He got my text!"

Sophie appears next to you, arm slipping around yours, leans so hard she almost knocks you over.

"Your text?" You say it in unison.

Sophie's still beaming, leans in to whisper in your ear. "I might have texted him from your phone." She's laughing when she pulls away, puts her index finger to her lips and shushes as if to say Don't tell y/n.

"Oh, Jesus Christ. Okay, you're going back to the bar. We are going outside."

You put your hands around her arms and physically spin her around. "Ask him!" She yells, gives a smile and a wave at Bucky before falling back into her crowd of bridesmaids.

Your hand is around Bucky's bicep, leading him through the crowd until you can push yourself into the street. It's impossibly quieter, gives you a moment of clarity. You feel about 60% more lucid than you had inside, which is unfortunate. "I don't even know what to say. I am so sorry. She's lost her fucking mind."

Bucky's smiling at you. You resent the amusement in his eyes.

"What did she even text you?"

Bucky pulls his phone out of his back pocket, wordlessly opens up your texts and spins the screen around to face you. The text is succinct. need to see you asap!!! She had clearly been sober enough to remember to send him a pin to your location.

"Jesus Christ." You give a deep sigh, cross your arms as you look back up at him. "I would never use that many exclamation marks, by the way."

"I'll remember that for next time."

You sigh, narrow your eyes up at him. "You came all the way into Manhattan at midnight just because I texted you?"

"I... Thought there was an emergency."

"At a bar?"

"Why am I the one on trial here?"

You sigh again, register your unwarranted temper in your haze of a brain. "You're right, I'm sorry. I'm sorry you had to come down here for nothing."

"Yeah, it's okay." Bucky looks at you softly, still a little amused, one of those looks that makes you try to ignore the feeling in your chest. "What did she want you to ask me?"

You swallow, avert your eyes, cross your arms even tighter. "It's nothing. She's been drinking since seven, it's unimportant."

"Seems pretty important if she broke into your phone to get me here."

You should lie, but you're drunk and being faced with a man willing to take a cab 30 minutes in the middle of the night on a whim, just because you asked, just to check you were okay. You would think it was a romantic gesture if that's what this was. Which it wasn't. "Sophie's been pestering me to find a date for the wedding all year, even though I keep telling her I don't have the time to even start to date, I barely had time for this, but, anyway, she's gotten the idea in her head that I should just ask you to go with me, even though I told her it's insane to-"

"You want me to go to your sister's wedding with you?" Bucky cuts you off, probably for the best if your drunken rambling was any indication. His eyes are a little wider, a little incredulous.

"Well... No, I mean... She wants me to want you to go with me."

Bucky narrows his eyes at you, confused, tries to follow your winding train of thought. "So you don't want me to go to your sister's wedding with you."

You don't think you have the capacity to process his tone. You think you might need another drink. "Do you want to come with me?"

Bucky opens his mouth, takes a moment to find the words. "I mean... If it's easier for you. We're friends, right? You've done enough for me, I'd do the favour for you."

You're smiling at him. You blame it on the alcohol. "Okay, yeah."

"Okay then."

You're still smiling when you find your sister at the bar. She reads you like an open book, leans back in to whisper in your ear. "You're welcome."

-----

The rehearsal dinner is only a few blocks away from your apartment, which means that at the end of the night, Bucky offers to walk you home.

You've had a few drinks. Your arm is slipped around his. Bucky tries to tell himself it doesn't mean anything.

It is harder to convince himself, though, when he had just spent an evening with your entire family, when your mom had crowded in and showed him baby pictures on her phone, when your dad had projected up a slideshow of childhood milestones, birthdays and graduations, you at eight or nine with a tiny baby in your arms.

"Thank you for coming tonight, really."

You're in front of the stoop of your building now.

It's starting to rain.

Neither of you is particularly concerned by it.

You could speed up the goodnight, rush inside before the sky opens up, but you don't. You stand under the dim street lights and watch each other in the dark. "Yeah, of course. Anytime."

You're smiling at him, warm, eyes bright. You breathe a light laugh. "I should probably get inside."

Bucky nods slowly, doesn't take his eyes away from yours, smile steady. "Yeah, I should get home."

Neither of you moves, just stand there as the rain gets heavier.

You take a step forward, press up on your toes, lean in. Bucky stops breathing.

Your lips are on his cheek, warm, feather-light.

There's a long moment of silence when you pull away. You're smiling, a little too satisfied with the flustered look on his face.

"Goodnight, Barnes."

You watch the bob of his Adam's apple as he swallows. "Goodnight, Y/n."

-----

Bucky doesn't remember the last time he went to church.

Not that this was church church, just so happened to be an event traditionally held within a church.

Even still, the ceilings and the towering doors and the stained glass make him feel like there's something he should be apologising for.

The back doors opened into the courtyard bring a light breeze through the cavernous building, help to stifle some of the dense July heat.

There's a ray of sunlight filtering through the stained glass pieta above the altar, creates a warm patch of light in the middle of the aisle. Bucky stands in it, looks up into the sunlit face of the Virgin Mary until it hurts his eyes.

"Hey." You're next to him all of a sudden, hadn't heard you coming, look up at him with your arm pressed against his.

You're beaming at him when he looks at you, wide and devastating. Bucky forgets how to speak for a second. "Hey."

"Am I interrupting your moment with the Madonna?"

Bucky smiles, takes you in, sun-soaked and warm next to him. "You look beautiful."

It surprises you a little, makes your face go hot, smile softening. "Thank you." Your voice is a little smaller than you meant it to come out. Bucky's looking at you like you've got the world in your eyes. You swallow down the lump in your throat. "Have you seen my sister by any chance?"

"Oh, uh." Bucky looks left, looks right, realises that probably isn't helping. "No, I just got here."

You sigh, facing falling now, look past him into the courtyard where most of the guests have started to gather. "Okay, I'm gonna go look for her. Will you text me if you see her?"

"Yeah, 'course."

You only get a step away before you're spinning on your heels back to him. "Thank you for coming, by the way. It means a lot, really."

You smile at him, and you're gone before he can find the words in response.

-----

"Oh."

Bucky sees the dress before he recognises the face. He's spent twenty minutes trying to mingle before it all gets to be a bit much, prefers the script of the campaign exponentially to trying to make small talk with your cousins and your aunts and your childhood friends.

He was just trying to find a moment of quiet. He was hoping not to find a runaway bride crouched behind a tree.

"Oh. Hi."

Bucky opens his mouth, doesn't know what to say. "Uh... Your sister's been looking for you."

Bucky watches her sigh, takes a sip of the glass of champagne in her hand as she rests her updo against the bark. He moves to text you as covertly as possible. "Do you want to sit down?"

He can't really say no.

"I should really apologise about that whole... Y'know... Text thing last week. I was wasted."

Bucky laughs lightly, remembers it with something like fondness. "No, it's okay... I think it all worked out in the end."

Sophie smiles at him. He thinks her eyes might be a little red, a little damp in the corners. "She really likes you, you know. Really likes you."

"Oh, I don't know if-"

"Hey, what are you- Oh, babe." You're rounding the corner, features surprised enough that he can tell you hadn't overheard any of the highly incriminating conversation he had just engaged in. Your eyes soften instantly, flits over Bucky before landing on your sister. "Are you okay?"

Sophie moves to stand, smooths out the skirt of her dress. "I'm fine, Y/n, really."

"Are you sure?" Your hands are on her shoulders, frowning, drenched in concern.

"Yeah, I just needed some air, seriously. I'm okay." She's smiling, which is something, at least. "Is my hair still okay?"

You laugh, concern still clear in your eyes as they move over her. "Yeah, you're perfect." You hug her, meet Bucky's eyes over her shoulder, smile and mouth a quick thank you before pulling away.

-----

It's late, and it's cool, and Bucky Barnes' suit jacket is draped around your shoulders.

You've been awake for eighteen hours, but when Bucky asks if he can walk you home, you still say yes. He says the same when you ask if he wants to come up for a drink.

You take opposite corners of the couch, cautious, curling your knees up into the empty space beside you as you turn to face him.

Bucky watches as you take a slow sip, ice clattering. You wince a little. Six months in and he's still not convinced you actually like whiskey.

He's smiling at you in that devastating way that makes your chest hurt, soft and lopsided and genuine. You settle your arm over the back of the couch, resting your head in your hand. You return the smile, squint at him playfully. "What?"

Bucky doesn't say anything, holds your eyes for another long moment. His smile falls a little, but that gleam in his eye, that fondness, can't be hidden so easily.

And then he's reaching out across the couch, hand running along the back cushion towards you before stopping between you. He opens his palm towards you, invites you in.

You hesitate.

Your smile fades, eyes shifted to this offering in front of you. He can see the options being weighed in your eyes, thinks that maybe this is the moment to decide all moments, bigger than your lips on his cheek in the rain.

Your hand is soft in his before the doubt can pull him away, warm, pulse beating under his fingertips. He watches you sigh gently, watching this small connection of your fingers slotted over his.

He feels you squeeze and returns the gesture, smiles softly when your eyes meet his again. He wonders if the pads of his fingers are rough and calloused. He wonders if you'd mind.

"Your heart is racing." He's not sure what he's supposed to mean by it, a simple observation he can make with this small privilege, skin to skin.

"You make me feel like it'll jump out of my chest." It's instant, no hesitation this time, just the truth so bold and plain it doesn't even need a second thought.

Bucky doesn't know what to say, can't find the words to encapsulate how it feels when he's with you, how it feels to sit here with your hand in his. He doesn't realise he's stopped smiling.

You clear you throat, expression muddled and flat, pull your hand away in an instant. He should have said something, missed his opportunity.

You move to rest your glass on the coffee table as you stand, shuffling under the length of your skirt. "I, uh, I'm just gonna get changed, gotta take this stupid dress off."

You're gone without another look.

Bucky sighs as soon as you're out of his line of sight, closes his eyes and falls against the back of your couch with a solid thunk. There's a light ache emanating from the base of his skull. He thinks he deserves it. It's gone in an instant.

When he opens his eyes, there's a soft lilt of music drifting down the hall. Bucky stands up, follows the sound until he lands outside your bedroom door, still ajar.

He presses it open.

You've got a floor mirror set up next to your dresser, dragging a cotton round across your lips and bringing a streak of lipstick up with it. You throw the excess into the basket beside you, and when you look up again, you meet his eyes in the mirror.

You smile at him. "Hey."

Bucky crosses the floor to you without thinking. "Hey."

You're still wearing your dress, hands hovering over the loose satin, eyes raking over you in the mirror. You scoff lightly, draw his attention back up to your face. "You can touch me, y'know."

Bucky swallows. He thinks his mouth might go dry.

His hands settle over your hips, feels the movement of your chest as you sigh into him, lean back into the firmness of his chest.

Bucky dips his head, moves to press his lips to your bare shoulder. The first contact makes you shiver, makes the grip on your hips a little tighter.

He brings a hand up to brush your hair to the side, opens up the stretch of skin along your shoulder and up your neck, lets his lips trail up the path.

"Bucky..." You breathe it, impossibly quiet, tilt your head to the side to let him closer. Your eyes are closed when he searches for your face in the glass.

When you open them again, you're reaching for his hand. You slip your own over it, guide him up your side, rides up your dress slightly as it glides over your stomach, over your breast, lands squarely over your heart.

You let him feel the pulse there, faster, faster, faster. Bucky doesn't think he's ever felt this way in his life. His pants are tight. It's way too hot in here.

You let him pull away his hand after a long moment, let it trail behind you until it lands at the zipper of your dress. He doesn't know what possesses him, but you don't stop him.

He looks for a reaction in your face, finds you staring at him, mouth open. "What are you waiting for?"

The loose fabric pools around your feet. Bucky takes you in, returns his hands to your sides to pull you closer, bare except for the soft lace clinging to your hips. "You are so fucking beautiful, doll."

Doll. It's so Brooklyn, so him, makes you want to kiss him, so you turn around in his hands and you do.

It's soft at first, slow, testing the waters even though you're already in your underwear and he's touching your bare skin. Bucky holds you like something precious in his arms, kisses you like he needs it to breathe. Your arms are around his neck, and your hands are in his hair, and the feeling of fabric against your bare chest makes you want to tear off his shirt with your bare hands.

"You're starting to look a little overdressed." It's deeper when you kiss him next, pull him closer by the tie, hands sliding up his chest to tug it open. You work on the top buttons while Bucky starts at the bottom, smiling into open kisses, fluid and hot and messy.

You step out of your dress, urge him backwards towards the bed.

Your hands are everywhere, smooth planes of muscle along his chest and his stomach, his back and his shoulders, his neck, tangles in his hair and tugs hard until he's groaning into your mouth.

His knees fold under him when he meets the side of your bed, sits upright and doesn't have any time to move before you're in his lap.

It's fast and it's intoxicating and it's real. He's tangible in your hands, holding you, touching you, pressing your hips against the growing bulge in his pants.

Bucky's got his hand between your legs, presses two fingers right against the lace, finds you soaked and moaning into his mouth.

You say his name like it's the only word you've ever known, say it breathless against his lips, speak it into the open air just so the universe knows how it sounds. You gasp it pressed against his neck when he pulls the fabric of your panties aside and pushes two fingers inside you.

You lean back, move your hips to meet the working of his fingers, a hand on his knee to keep you steady while the other grips hard at his wrist. "Fuck, doll, you're the hottest thing I've ever fucking seen."

Bucky leans forward, mouth on your chest, runs his tongue across your nipple and tigtens his grip on your hip when he feels you clench around his fingers.

You know you should be savouring it, but you can't help the growing impatience, want to feel more, want to feel everything all at once.

You reach in between your bodies, find the button of his trousers, the metal warm with body heat.

In a blink, his arm is around your waist, and he's flipping you onto your back. He's fast. He's strong. He's almost unbearably hot. His fingers are still inside you, and when the pad of his thumb finds your clit it almost breaks you then and there.

"There you go, sweetheart." He can tell, in between your legs now, chest firm against yours as he dips his head into the crook of your neck. He kisses you there, sloppy, breathes hot against your ear. "Wanna feel you cum for me."

Bucky revels in the sting on your nails in his back, the heat of you, the whine of his name as you cum around his fingers.

Bucky's got his fingers hooked around your panties when you remember how to think, pulls them down with a trail of slick down one leg. You look down at him. "Please tell me you're not still wearing fucking pants right now."

You push yourself onto your knees, shuffle over to him across the covers as he works down his zipper. Bucky's smiling when you kiss him, a laugh deep in his chest. "Never knew you were so needy, sweetheart."

"Not needy." A hand on his chest, a hand down his boxers. "Just efficient. It's why you like me."

Bucky curses under his breath. You kiss his bottom lip when his mouth falls open, press a grin to his jaw when you feel him buck into your hand.

Finally, mercifully, Bucky drops his boxers around his ankles, presses you back against the bed until your head meets the covers. The orientation is all wrong, but neither of you are particularly preoccupied with fixing that right now.

Bucky's expression is softer when he meets your eyes next, slots between your legs. You think he must be able to hear how fast your heart is beating, can't ignore the sound rushing in your ears. "Do you have any idea how completely fucking incredible you are?"

You smile at him, blushing, face hot, chest tight. "You're a dork."

"I wanna hear you say it." Bucky's completely serious, face straight. He looks like he's never meant anything more in his life.

You narrow your eyes at him. "I'm not gonna say it, Barnes."

"Okay, well then." Bucky pulls away, leans back on his shins. He's still hung like a fucking horse. It's a crude picture, makes you want to laugh, only makes you want him more. "Guess we should probably put our clothes back on then."

You scoff, scrambling forward, shove him back until he's sitting flat against the headboard. You're in his lap again. "You've got a woman asking you to ruin her in your lap, and you're gonna give that up over this?"

Bucky swallows. "Yes. Yes, I am."

"Fine." You sigh, lean down to grab his hands, pull him up until he's sitting upright, warm skin and warm metal on your hips. "I guess I must be pretty incredible to get a guy like you in bed with me."

Bucky smirks at you. "A guy like me?"

"Yeah." You smile, lean in, kiss up his jaw until you land right under his ear. "Have you looked at yourself?"

You're touching him again, soft and firm and Bucky melts into you, voice caught in his throat.

"Satisfied?"

"Almost."

Bucky kisses you, hard, hot, pulls you closer and helps you line himself up with you, holds you tight when you're finally sinking onto him.

You feel it through your whole body, in your chest and in your thighs and in the tips of your fingers, makes your brain go fuzzy with the pleasure of it all.

You're a slurry of profinities and sighs and gasps, voices melting together, utterly fucking filthy.

"Feel so fucking good, sweetheart."

He feels you falter when your legs start to give out, ride out the burn just to keep feeling the rest of it, can't imagine ever not feeling like this.

Bucky stops you with an arm around your waist, a split-second shift as he holds you in place, the bend of his knees to steady himself as he fucks up into you.

"Oh, fuck." It's all-consuming, impossibly better, head tilted back. Bucky's mouth is on your chest, and his hand is between your legs again, tight circles around your clit sending a hand into his hair, a tug and a deep groan against you.

You lean down, catch his jaw and tilt his face up to yours so you can kiss him hard. "Wanna feel you."

Bucky thinks it's over for him, thinks it might have been over the moment he met you, when you had eyed him up the wrong way and sworn at him and talked yourself into an impossible task just for the fun of the game. Bucky lets go because it's entirely, undeniably over for him. It's always going to be this, hands and mouths and tangled limbs as he fills you up.

It's that feeling that does it, that pulsing heat inside you and warming you from the inside out, only takes one, two more swipes of his thumb before you're right there with him, slumped against the headboard.

Bucky keeps you there, holds you to him, kisses you slow, a hand on the small of your back and a soothing thumbing brushing back and forth.

Bucky thinks it's over for him, thinks he might never let you go.

-----

Everything is tight, your chest and your stomach, climbing up your neck, rushing in your ears. You can feel your heartbeat in your entire body, pulsing all at once, thumping, thumping, thumping, eyes darting across the scenes in front of you as the graphics shift. Another percentage counted, another hitch in your breath.

It's unhealthy, objectively—CNN on the TV, NBC muted on your laptop, AP up on his, your phone clutched in your hand, refreshing Twitter every 30 seconds. You think you might be a little itchy, but you don't do anything about it.

You don't move when you hear the door click shut behind you, even though you had sent him out for Chinese twenty minutes ago, hear the jingle of his keys on the counter, the light creak of a floorboard. You only look up when the room goes quiet, the TV suddenly blank and reflecting your wide-eyed expression.

Bucky tosses the remote on the couch.

"Hey, what the Hell?"

He goes for the laptops next, flips the screens and slides them off the smooth wood, collects them in the crook of his arm. "This is for your own good." Bucky turns to you, offers out his hand.

You're squinting at him, eyebrows knit, watch his eyes flit down to your phone then back up to your face. "Absolutely not."

Bucky sighs, settles the stack of laptops back on the table. He sits down, turns towards you. "Look at me."

You turn slowly, suspiciously, move to crisscross your legs. He offers the palms of his hands, opens them to you. You look at them for a long second before huffing lightly, let your phone drop to your lap as you take his hands.

"The votes aren't going anywhere."

"I know, but-"

"Y/n." It's firm, straight faced, so much care and adoration in his eyes you don't want to fight it. "You have given everything you have to this for ten months, and it'll pay off, I believe in that. But it's out of our hands now. You need to take a break."

You sigh, long and deep, close your eyes. If you were a praying woman, you think now is the moment you would pray. Bucky's smiling when open your eyes. "You get that smug smile when you know that you're right."

It breaks into more of a grin, makes you want to wipe it off his face so you lean in and you kiss him, slow, heartbeat subsiding. You rest your forehead against his when you pull away, close your eyes, sync your breathing with his. You're so calm for a moment you forget what you were worried about to begin with. "I love you."

You're hands are still resting in his, so he squeezes them. "I love you."

You sigh, pull away. You reach for your phone but don't flick it on. "Okay. Everything is gonna be okay."

"Everything is gonna be okay." A hand on your knee, firm, grounding. "And even if it isn't, I still met you, so it'll still have been worth it in the end."

You grin at him, eyes narrowed a little. "You're disgusting." You give him another quick peck before you're untangling your legs and standing. You reach for his hand as you toss your phone on top of the pile of electronics. "C'mon, the food is getting cold, what are you doing just sitting around?"

request something! masterlist

[foreverrogers]

a comment a day keeps the insanity at bay

[foreverrogers]

does any body want to ttalk about the character

[foreverrogers]

i know what this situation needs…explicit fanfiction

[foreverrogers]

friendships end. relationships end. fictional man whos doing even worse than you is forever

[foreverrogers]

i have sugarcubes.

[foreverrogers]

Do y'all ever read a fic so good that it makes you want to elevate your own craft and also befriend the writer? It's almost like, "Hi! You write so well that you've inspired me to embark on a creative training arc. Also, can I yell about the character in your dms because you get it?"

[foreverrogers]

"i don't comment on ao3 because i don't wanna be annoying or weird" skill issue + you greatly underestimate the power dynamic here, writing multi paragraph comments is like feeding a bunch of deeply insane and possibly starved ducks at the park and watch them go completely mad over having received a piece of bread

[foreverrogers]

"If you use em dash in your works, it makes them look AI generated. No real human uses em dash."

Imaging thinking actual human writers are Not Real because they use... professional writing in their works.

Imagine thinking millions of people who have been using em dash way before AI becomes a thing are all robots.

REBLOG IF YOU'RE A HUMAN AND YOU USE EM DASH

[foreverrogers]

Evil doesn’t die, it reinvents itself

[foreverrogers]

Evil doesn’t die, it reinvents itself

[foreverrogers]

Man of all time

bonus:

Billy the Kidder

[foreverrogers]

touch tank

pairing: clark kent (superman 2025) x journalist!reader summary: he’s soft. earnest. 6’4 of midwestern guilt and golden retriever loyalty. and he looks at you like you invented the sun. you’re fine. everything’s fine. it’s just friends-with-benefits. you're not a thing. but clark? clark has always been there. warm, steady, maddeningly soft. indulging your commitment-phobic nonsense with quiet patience and those unfairly good dimples. until suddenly—he’s not. listen to the playlist here! word count: 11.2k (jesus christ, i am so sorry) content warnings: 18+ mdni, fem!reader, piv sex, they freak NASTY in this one, dom/sub undertones, soft dom!clark, sub!reader, brat/brat taming, oral (fem!receiving), marathon sex, multiple orgasms, overstimulation, shower sex, eye contact, mentions of bdsm and handcuffs, light marking kink, nipple play, protected sex (wrap it before you tap it!), then unprotected sex, rough sex, riding, mentions of sex toys, clark picks the reader up, mentions of reader's hair, commitment issues, situationship survivor!clark, ungodly amounts of yearning and denial, angst, happy ending

It doesn’t start with sex.

It starts with Clark.

Which is to say: it starts with Metropolis’s biggest, most overgrown corn-fed boy scout, who gets flustered every time you swear, who says things like “gosh” and “what the hay” without a trace of irony, and who you once watched spend ten full minutes trying to politely decline a street hotdog but the vendor just “looked so hopeful.”

You met him on your third and a half day at the Daily Planet.

He spilled coffee on you. A full cup. Right down the front of your blazer. Frothy iced caramel latte catastrophe. He panicked immediately—rushed through an apology so fast you barely caught the words—then offered, in complete earnestness, to dry-clean your coat. Not send it to the dry cleaner. Do it himself. Like it was the gentlemanly thing to do. You just stared at him, dripping, blinking. “Are you okay?” you asked, because someone had to.

He nodded—too fast—then proceeded to trip over the recycling bin just trying to get you napkins.

You’ve been friends ever since.

It’s not the cleanest origin story.

But over time, somehow, Clark became your person.

Not in the “call-at-3-a.m.-while-sobbing” kind of way (that’s Jimmy), or the “bring-wine-and-insult-your-evil-ex” kind of way (also Jimmy). 

But in a steadier, quieter way. You write your little articles; he helps edit them. You fight with your sources on the sidewalk; he bakes them apology muffins the day after to make sure they don't contact Perry. You cover Metropolis politics like it’s trench warfare, and he smiles across the bullpen at you like you’re doing God’s work even when you're calling the mayor a “power-drunk thumb in a trench coat and a receding hairline you can see from space.”

He’s your constant. Steady and reliable and always five degrees too soft for this world.

Which is exactly why it doesn’t make sense.

Why, one night, it all… shifts.

.

You’re soaked.

Not in the steamy, sexy way. Not even in the Charli-XCX-Spring-Breakers kind of soaked.

Just: wet. Unpleasantly. In that half-drenched, trench-foot, what-is-my-life kind of way.

The weather app lied again (seriously, Metropolis Weather has one job), and your jacket is now suctioned to your body like a bad ex. Your boots have crossed the line from “water-resistant” to a really bad “Swamp Thing cosplay,” and your tote—home to your press pass and a sad little Tupperware of soggy couscous—is dripping like it’s auditioning for a plumbing ad.

So when Clark offers his place—soft-voiced, ever-accommodating, all that big dumb golden retriever energy—you say yes.

Not because you’re weak. Please.

Because he lives closer.

Logistically. Geographically.

(Okay, maybe emotionally, too, but you’ll unpack that when your socks aren’t squelching like a really bad porno.)

So now you’re in his apartment. Standing in the entryway. Leaving a trail of water on his hardwood floors while he gently, gently hands you a towel and fiddles with the thermostat and says things like, “You’re going to catch a cold if you don’t change out of those clothes.”

And you, being the self-possessed adult that you are, snort and say, “Thank you, Mom.”

Clark blushes.

Actually blushes. Like a cartoon character. Like a man who has never, in his life, imagined someone undressing in his home, which is hilarious, given that you’ve seen the size of his arms. 

“Sorry,” he mumbles, rubbing the back of his neck. “I just meant… yeah. You’re soaked.”

His place smells like cinnamon and laundry detergent. There’s a candle burning on the kitchen counter—one of those $9.99 specials from Bath & Body Works. You imagine him in the store, earnestly reading the label on something called "Warm Vanilla Sugar" while the cashier tries to upsell him on a five-for-fifteen deal.

The image makes your lips curl. Your mascara's halfway down your cheekbones, your calves are cramping from the walk, and you should really, really, really just go take a hot shower and crash on his couch.

Instead, you look at him.

And he’s looking back.

Not like most men do—not the bar-stool inventory of what you are and aren’t. Not a scan. Not a question. More like a memory. Like he’s already filed you away in some quietly treasured part of his brain and he’s just taking the time to make sure the details are right. Like you are known.

You don’t think. You don’t make a plan. You just move.

Step forward. Grab the lapels of his flannel like it owes you money. Pull him down. Kiss him.

It’s not graceful. Not choreographed. You catch his chin at a weird angle, and your nose bumps into his, and the kiss lands too sharp, too fast. Like you’re trying to stun him. Like you’re trying to win a fight.

But then, he exhales.

And he melts. Not urgently. Not hungrily. Just… fully.

Like this is the thing he’s been waiting on for months, and now that it’s finally happening, he’s scared to spook it. His hands hover for a beat, like he’s making sure it’s real, and then one comes to rest lightly on your waist—tentative, patient. The other curls around your jaw with all the softness of a man who has no business being this gentle.

You break the kiss first, of course.

Because you always break things first.

When you look at him, he's staring at you like you invented language. Like he doesn’t know what to do with his hands, so they hover awkwardly at your sides, respectful, warm, and shaking just a little.

Which is when the panic crashes in.

He’s not supposed to look at you like that. Like you hung the stars. Like he knows you. Like he loves you.

Because if he does. If he really, truly does. Then eventually, he’ll stop.

They always stop.

People love you in the beginning. They love your bite, your snark, the way you know which part of a politician's background are most incriminating. They love the thrill of earning your attention. They love that you make them work for it. But eventually, the charm fades. The sharp edges cut a little too deep. 

You forget to text back. You overshare. You undershare. You get tired. You get real.

And they get bored.

You’ve never wanted to risk that with Clark. He’s been yours—just yours, in the safe way—for too long.

You step back like the floor might collapse under you. 

Put space. Just… anything between your body and the soft burn of his flannel. Try not to think about how fucking warm he was. “Shit—uh. You don’t have to say anything,” you blurt, voice too fast, too thin. “We can pretend it didn’t happen. Go back to normal. That’s fine.”

Clark’s brows knit, not in offense, just concern. He doesn’t look hurt. He looks… steady. Like he expected this part. “Are you sure?”

The way he asks it is soft. Unhurried. Like it’s not some ultimatum. Like it’s okay if you're not sure.

You open your mouth. Close it. Swallow.

“I just—” You press your fingers to your temple, like maybe that might just reorganize your entire internal filing system. “You know I don’t do relationships.”

“I know,” he says, without hesitation.

You study him—really study him—like you’re trying to find the catch. Some hint of disappointment or wounded ego. But it isn’t there.

He reaches up slowly and tucks a damp strand of hair behind your ear, his touch feather-light. “You don’t have to do anything you’re not ready for.”

You blink. “Even if I’m the one who kissed you?”

Clark smiles, just barely. “Especially then.”

His hand lingers near your cheek, but he doesn’t push. He’s patient in that maddening, disarming way. Waiting, always, for you to meet him halfway.

“Whatever you want,” he says again, quiet. “I’m good with that.”

You stare at him. “You’re really not gonna argue?”

“Nope.”

“Not gonna psychoanalyze me? Tell me I’m avoidant or emotionally stunted or terrified of my own vulnerability?”

He huffs a small laugh. “Already did. Long time ago.”

Your lips twitch despite yourself. “And?”

He shrugs, like it’s the easiest truth in the world. “You’re complicated. But you care. A lot. More than you let people see.”

And damn it, you hate how much that lands. How much he lands. You hate that he’s always been able to see through you, gently, without ever demanding more than you could give. And you hate—more than anything, more than all of that—how badly you want to kiss him again.

So you do.

Maybe to prove a point. Maybe to blow it all up before it can settle. Maybe because you’re already in too deep and part of you is tired of pretending you’re not.

You didn’t plan for it to go further. You didn’t plan anything, really. 

But your hands slide up into the open collar of his flannel, and he stumbles a little as you back him into the bookshelf. His glasses tilt when your fingers brush his temple, and you pull them off carefully, reverently, like they’re the only thing tethering you both to whatever was before.

His eyes are wide. His mouth already parted. And when he looks up at you like this—flushed, breathless, undone—you think, mine.

And it’s terrifying.

Because it means it’s real.

It happened.

God.

It happened.

.

You strip him out of that worn flannel with a kind of sick, obsessive care. Button by button, like you were unwrapping a gift, like you were unearthing something you’d been searching for in every bad date, every failed talking stage, every mediocre bar makeout that had ever left you cold.

His flannel hit the floor. He doesn't say a word.

Not until you settle into his lap, thighs on either side of his. Then—quietly, like he wasn’t sure if it was okay to want anything—he says, “You… you don’t have to be gentle. Just, just in case. So you know.”

But you are. Because he is. 

Because even now, even with your mouth to his, your hands fisted in his curls, his hands stay light on your hips. Like he doesn't want to take more than you’d give. Like he's still giving you the option to leave.

He makes a sound when your hips tilted forward. Not a groan, not exactly. Something deeper. A noise from his chest, halfway between a gasp and a plea. You kiss more of it out of him, mouths clumsy and desperate, fingers scrabbling at the hem of his undershirt, and it feels like breathing.

His breath's caught between his teeth when you rip a condom wrapper in between yours, slotting it onto him with shaking, shaking hands and trying not think about how he's probably the biggest you've ever had.

Lord have mercy.

You ride him like your life depends on it.

You get a thigh cramp halfway through—let out an annoyed groan and tried to keep going—and he, sweet, precious idiot that he is, sits up and says your name like it hurt. Voice quivering like he wants to stop, wants to help, wants to make sure you're okay.

Absolutely no way in hell you wanted that to happen.

“Clark,” you hissed. “Chill. I'm okay, dude. I’m fine.”

“Okay,” he said, dazed, grinning. “Just—didn’t want you to get hurt. I mean. You’re, uh. You were very intense. Just now.”

“Yeah, well, you’re the one with the dick that's slowly rearranging my guts,” you mutter, and he laughs so hard his shoulders shook.

And worse—goddamn it, worse—he looks at you the whole time.

No games. No posing. Just Clark. Holding your hips with those hands—god, those hands, unfairly big and warm and steady—and looking up at you like he meant it.

You’d told him once, over shitty fries past midnight on the curb at McDonald's, that you didn’t trust men who made eye contact during sex. Called it performative. Manipulative. 

“Like they’re trying to Jedi mind-trick you into thinking it’s love,” you’d scoffed, and he'd gone quiet in that way he does, not sulking, just thinking. But that he was filing it away.

So of course—of course—when you're bare above him, hair a mess, mascara still clinging to your cheekbones, all vulnerable and exposed and teetering over the edge because his dick was doing wonderful, amazing things to your insides and making you melt—

He looks up at you with that open, earnest face and asks, softly:

“Do you want me to close my eyes?”

You freeze. Like an absolute idiot. Like prey.

And you say no.

"No."

Never.

He nods. “Okay.”

Then he kissed the inside of your wrist—just because it was there—and you lost ten entire emotional minutes and your grip on reality, grinding down on him like your life depended on it.

You come so hard you forgot your name. 

Forget what you were supposed to be protecting yourself from. Forget every lie you’ve ever told yourself about  the depth of your feelings for him.

It was insane. Deranged.

(Perfect.)

Later, three orgasms later, you collapse over him in a ridiculous heap of limbs and half-dressed post-coital delirium, forehead pressed to his shoulder, chest still heaving.

And he whispered something into your hair—something low and steady and not quite the word love, but so close it that it scraped through your head.

Then he hums.

You don’t recognize it at first—just the vibration under your cheek, the low murmur of a tune, warm and unassuming. You’re half-asleep, boneless, and not fully aware he's still inside of you, pulsing, your fingers curled around his neck.

But you listen.

“You humming Dolly right now?” you murmur, voice hoarse.

Clark hums a little louder. “‘Here You Come Again.’” Then, almost shy, “She’s good. What?”

You groan into his chest. “You absolute dork.”

“I like her,” he says, defensive. “She’s smart. You know she gave away, like, a million books to—wait, are you laughing?”

You are. Full-on giggling into his shoulder now. Giddy and too full and sore in all the best ways.

.

And you really don't mean to keep it going in the morning, let alone  in the shower.

Truly. 

You're just trying to get clean. 

Wash off the evidence of the night before—sweat and come and a whole life’s worth of repressed emotional distress—but then, Clark steps in right behind you, warm and quiet and too gentle. 

And suddenly it was over for you. Just absolutely fucking over.

He offers to join, sheepish and bashful, eyes flicking away like he hadn’t just had his face between your thighs just a few hours ago. “Just to save water,” he says. “'Cause of the environment… and all that.”

And sure, Clark. You absolute liar. The environment.

Except the second he steps in behind you—naked, dripping wet, glasses still off so he looked all boyish and wreckable—your resolve crumples like wet newspaper.

He reaches around you for the body wash and that was your downfall. Arm flexing around your waist, that goddamn baritone rumble in your ear as he asks, “This one okay?”

Like you're supposed to just—what? function when his voice was doing that thing? That was supposed to be okay?

But then his hands are on your hips—steady, reverent, huge—and you tilt your head back just enough to graze his jaw. He flinches. Or maybe you do. And before either of you could process it, your palm's flat against the tile and Clark was slowly pressing himself against your back.

“Okay?” he asks, voice a little too hoarse, a little too human.

You nod. “Yeah. Just—don’t be sweet about it.”

“But I'm always sweet about it,” he mumbles, and then he was, dragging a hand up your stomach, brushing your wet hair off your neck, mouthing at the base of your spine like he was making a wish.

He moves inside you slow. 

Like he means it. Like he thinks he’d scare you off if he went too fast. And it was disgusting, really, how good it felt. How intimate all of this was.

Your knees nearly buckle. You have to brace yourself with both palms on the glass, forehead pressed against fogged-up safety plastic, biting down on your own goddamn fist to keep from crying out his name like something from a romance novel.

(You still did, eventually. He made sure of that when he pressed one large hand up against your stomach so you can feel him, really feel him, and another down your front, rubbing at your clit like it was a lifeline until you saw stars.)

"Clark. Clar—fuck, baby, I'm almost—Jesus Christ—oH!"

When it was over—when your legs were jelly and your throat was raw and your spine was doing that post-orgasm melt thing—you turn to rinse the shampoo out of your hair, and he just… helped. Without you even having to say anything.

He lathers it for you, gentle and thorough, massaging your scalp. His cheeks are pink. His mouth is pink. You think about biting him. Maybe.

But instead, you let yourself lean into his chest while the water poured down over both of you, and you didn’t speak, because if you spoke, it would become too real.

So, you just let him wash your back.

He didn’t ask you to stay.

You didn’t ask if he wanted you to.

But when you wander out of the bedroom ten minutes later—half-wet, flushed, wearing his old Central Kansas A&M hoodie like it hadn’t just been folded neatly in a drawer—you find him in the kitchen, humming again. 

Making pancakes.

“You want blueberries in yours?” he asks, like he didn’t have his dick in you in the shower ten minutes ago.

And you—traumatized, horny, emotionally compromised—you say, “Sure."

Then, because your brain has finally rebooted just enough to return to its default defense mechanism:

“Also, we need to talk.”

Clark pauses mid-pour, then turns around, spatula still in hand. “Okay,” he says, unbothered. His voice is calm, casual. Like you didn’t almost combust from having maybe, four—no, five or six orgasms in his arms over the past twelve hours.

You cross your arms over your chest, over his sweatshirt. “Last night—and this morning was great. I mean, objectively. A solid eight out of ten. No complaints.”

He looks amused. “Only eight?”

“I’m leaving room for improvement,” you say, defensive. “But I just want to be clear again that this isn’t… this isn’t a thing.”

Clark nods slowly. “Okay.”

You squint at him. “You’re not going to ask what I mean by that?”

“Well,” he says, lips twitching, “I—uh, I figured I’d let you finish your prepared statement first.”

You gape at him. “I knew I was giving Perry's press conference energy.”

“You’re even holding your coffee like a mic.”

You glance down. You are. Damn it.

He walks over, sets your pancake on the table next to you, and then settles into the armchair across from the couch. His legs are way too long. He has to fold them a little awkwardly, which should be goofy, but somehow only makes him look more like someone who could carry you up a mountain and apologize for the inconvenience while doing it.

You sip your coffee. Clear your throat. “So. Ground rules.”

He raises his brows. “Rules?”

“Yes. Rules. Guidelines. Frameworks for how this… goes.”

Clark tilts his head. “You mean for… us?”

“No, for NATO,” you deadpan. “Yes, us.”

He tries to cover a laugh with a sip of his own mug, but you see the dimple twitch. Smug bastard.

You forge ahead. “Okay. Rule one: this is casual. Very casual. Like… like ‘you can sleep with other people’ casual.”

Clark nods, slow. Thoughtful. “Do you want to sleep with other people?”

“No,” you admit. Then scowl. “But I want to have the option.”

“Right,” he says, nodding. “The illusion of freedom.”

“Exactly. Wait—"

He’s smiling at you now. Soft and fond and dangerously amused.

You plow on. “Whatever. Rule two: no romantic stuff. No dates. No—like—Valentine’s Day cards or surprise cupcakes or, God forbid, foot rubs.”

“You’re really against foot rubs?”

“I just think they set a tone.”

Clark looks at his plate. “What if I just make you pancakes sometimes?”

You narrow your eyes. “Pancakes are a gray area. I'm only allowing it this time."

“Noted.”

You tuck your feet under you. “Rule three: no falling in love.”

He looks up.

There’s a pause. A beat of silence so thick it fills the whole room.

You add, quickly, “I know that sounds dramatic, but I’ve seen what love does to people, and it’s terrifying. They lose brain cells. They post Instagram captions like ‘my forever’ with sparkly emojis. They start making weird couple TikToks where they throw cheese slices at each other’s heads. I can’t be part of that kind of ecosystem. I'm lactose intolerant."

Clark’s smiling again. Not in the ha ha you’re sooooo funny way. In the I think you’re the best thing to ever happen to me way, which is very much against the rules.

“Are you even taking this seriously?” you demand.

“I am,” he says, clearly lying. “You’re very intimidating.”

You roll your eyes and gesture wildly. “I’m just saying! I don’t want this to become something that implodes because I—God, because I can’t remember your favorite pizza topping one day and suddenly we’re—we're not friends anymore and splitting custody of houseplants and  fucking Cat is stuck writing a gossip column about it.”

Clark chuckles. A pause. “well, for the record? My favorite pizza topping is mushrooms.”

You wrinkle your nose. “That’s a red flag.”

“You’re the one writing up a treaty before brunch.”

“Exactly,” you say, triumphant. “See? We’re incompatible.”

Clark leans forward slightly. 

The sunlight from the window cuts across his glasses, but you can still see his eyes, warm and impossibly blue, locked on yours like you’re the only person in Metropolis who matters. “I think you’re scared,” he says gently. “Which is okay. I just want you to know… I’m not going anywhere. Rules or not.”

And that—

God. That should not make your eyes burn the way it does.

You shake your head, fast. “Don’t say stuff like that. It’s dangerous. You’ll trick me into liking you more.”

“I’m just being honest.”

“Well, stop.”

He raises a brow. “What do I do if I want to kiss you?”

You freeze.

Your heart does a complicated backflip-kick into your ribs.

“...well, that's allowed,” you mutter.

He smiles again, dimple sinking deep.

And then, because he’s a menace with zero self-preservation, he leans in.

You meet him halfway.

And it’s soft this time. Sweeter. Slower. No rain, no adrenaline, just his hand cradling your jaw and your fingers twisted in the hem of his t-shirt like you’re trying to anchor yourself to something real.

.

It's been months now of your little arrangement. And you're already destroyed by the time he even speaks.

Not because he’s touched you yet. Not really. He’s just there, mouth warm against the inside of your thigh, hands stroking the back of your knees like you’re something delicate. Something precious.

Which is so fucked. You are not precious.

You told him that that, breathless and still shirtless and sitting on his kitchen counter at midnight while he gently fed you the leftover peach cobbler Martha left for the two of you straight from the fridge.

He just nodded. Wiped away the crumb left on the edge of your lip. Said, “Okay.”

And then he kissed the inside of your wrist again and said, “You’re still allowed to want things, you know.”

Which is—god, so not fair. 

Now he’s between your legs, kissing a line up your thigh like he’s praying. He’s been taking his time. Like the goal isn’t to get you off, but to study you. Like he’s memorizing the exact way your breath catches and the little twitch of your fingers every time he licks just close enough to your center, but not quite.

You’re panting. Whimpering. Biting your lip so hard you’re pretty sure you taste blood.

And he’s grinning. Not cocky—just happy. Which is so much, so much worse.

“You’re staring at me again,” you breathe.

Clark hums, kissing just below your hip. “I just like looking at you.”

“That’s crazy,” you whisper. “You’re crazy.”

“Probably.” He kisses your navel. “Do you want me to stop?”

You whine. You actually whine. You feel like you've just set feminism back by centuries. “No.”

“Didn’t think so,” he murmurs, nuzzling into your skin. And then, because he’s the devil in a button-up: “You know, the way you objectify me is honestly very inappropriate. I’m not just a—just a piece of meat, you know.”

You bark out a laugh, head tipping back against the pillow. “So bad news, you're actually a mountain of meat, man.”

“See? Objectified.” He presses a kiss just below your ribs. “Reduced to my—”kiss“—ridiculous shoulders—”kiss“—and tragic dimples—”kiss“—and stupidly proportionate thighs—”

“I didn’t say anything about your thighs—”

“Oh, but I think you were thinking it.”

You giggle, delirious. Drunk on this man. “God, shut up and fuck me.”

Clark goes still.

Not awkwardly—this isn’t early-days Clark, the one who used to stammer when you wore red lipstick when you came over and knocked over his own coffee trying to offer you a napkin. 

This Clark—the one under you now, hands broad and firm against your thighs, spine pressed into the worn couch like it’s the only thing keeping him from rising into the sky—this Clark is different.  

He’s grown into himself. Into this. Into you.

Not cocky, not exactly. But assured in a way that makes your stomach clench and your mouth go dry. You’ve seen it happen slowly. Like the sunrise—you didn’t notice until the whole room was full of it.

This Clark doesn't flinch when you flirt, doesn’t panic when your mouth goes sharp or your eyes go guarded. He just… waits. He sees it all. Lets you burn yourself out. And then lays a hand on your cheek like you’re made of something precious.

Still, he doesn’t move.

And that’s what sets you off.

You squirm, shifting your weight in his lap, irritated now. “What?”

He looks up at you, his jaw tight, hands still splayed over your thighs like he doesn’t know whether to hold on or let go. There’s something in his eyes, sharp, patient, impossibly tender, and it makes your chest ache in a way you refuse to name.

“You really want that?” he asks, voice low.

You roll your eyes. “You think I climbed onto your face to do taxes?”

“That’s not what I asked.”

Your stomach flips. You hate when he does this. Gets all serious and calm and measured while you’re flailing, clearly two seconds away from combusting. You cross your arms over your chest—petulant, defensive. “Clark.”

“You say stuff like that,” he murmurs, one hand slowly dragging up the back of your thigh, “but then you pull back like I’ve asked for your soul.”

You glare at him. “I’m not pulling back.”

He lifts a brow. “You haven’t even kissed me yet.”

You scowl. “I was about to, but you’re being annoying.”

His smile is crooked, lazy, maddening. “Yeah? Gonna punish me for it?”

Your heart skips. You hate that you love it when he talks like that. You hate that he’s right—that you’re the one drawing lines in the sand and then pretending you don’t care when he steps over them.

You lean down, hover over his mouth. “I swear to god, if you don’t do something soon, I’m walking out that door.”

He catches your jaw in one hand, gentle but firm. “You won’t.”

“Watch me.”

His thumb drags over your bottom lip. Lets it pop out just a bit, so you can feel the way the wetness drips over your chin. “You always say that. You never do.”

Your breath stutters. Your spine goes stiff. You hate how much he knows you. You hate that he’s always so calm about it, so damn tender, even when he’s calling you out.

“I’m not just a warm body, you know,” he says after a beat, the faintest furrow between his brows. “If that’s what you wanted, you should’ve picked someone who doesn’t look at you like I do.”

You blink. “And how is that?”

Clark tilts his head, eyes never leaving yours. “Like I actually see you.”

You hate him for that. A little.

But you kiss him anyway.

Hard. Sharp. Like a warning.

And then he flips you—effortless, smooth, like it doesn’t take more than a breath. One of his hands pins your wrists above your head. The other trails slow up the curve of your thigh. His mouth finds your neck, and you gasp—not in surprise, but because it’s too much. He’s too much.

“You keep asking me to take you apart,” he murmurs against your skin, “but you never let me show you what it actually means.”

“Oh my god,” you groan, shivering under him. “You are so fucking—”

“What?” he interrupts, dragging his mouth back up to yours. “Soft? Serious? A buzzkill?”

You don’t respond. You’re too busy squirming, too busy arching into him, because he’s right. Again.

“Too bad,” he murmurs, smiling like a secret. “You don’t get to run the show tonight.”

And you're already clawing at his back by the time he finally pushes in. And god, fuck, it’s—

He’s so much. Too much. Even now, even after months of attempting to get used to him, after a minimum of one hour of foreplay every time, hours spent fingering you open and devouring you whole and it still makes your spine tingle in the best way possible. The push and pull of it every time, the struggle, the way he looks at you so, so proudly when he's bottomed out and your smiling from under him like you've just won the lottery.

You make a sound—something small, strangled, "Clark."—and he doesn’t shush you this time.

He smiles.

“There it is,” he murmurs. “Now we’re being honest.”

.

Then one day, Clark cancels a lunch.

That’s it. That’s all. Not the end of the world.

He texts you a sweet apology. Too many words, as always, classic Clark, something about a lead on some money laundering story and “I’ll bring dinner to make up for it, promise, anything you want, even that overpriced pasta from the place with the weird chairs.” He adds three emojis. Two are completely nonsensical (a chicken and a rain cloud?). One is a little heart. You stare at it longer than you should.

You text back something breezy. Casual. “You’re the one missing out on my lunchtime TedTalk about corrupt city councilmen and their tragic toupees.”

He doesn’t respond until hours later. Just a thumbs-up emoji.

You tell yourself it’s fine. You tell yourself you don’t care.

.

Then it happens again.

This time, you're already standing outside the Planet, coffee lukewarm, watching a construction crew down the block try to maneuver scaffolding around a new billboard. It’s another Superman PSA—third this month. Something about disaster preparedness and blood drives. His cape’s caught mid-whip, expression noble and inhumanly calm. You roll your eyes, but your stomach tugs a little. Something about the stillness in his posture—it looks almost familiar.

Your phone rings.

Clark.

You answer with a smirk, trying to make it light. “Should I be worried you’ve joined a pyramid scheme? Please tell me you’re not selling supplements.”

There’s a pause, then his voice, warm but ragged around the edges: “I’m so sorry. Something came up. Can I explain later?”

You make some offhand joke about mafia debt collectors and say, “No worries,” even as your stomach twists.

He sounds tired. Tired in a way Clark never really gets. You’re the one who burns out, who rants and paces and flirts with deadline-induced breakdowns. He’s the one who shows up with coffee and an extra pen. Always.

But now his voice has this roughness to it. Frayed edges. Like he’s trying not to breathe too hard into the receiver. Like he just ran here. Or ran away from somewhere.

“Are you okay?” you ask, before you can stop yourself.

Another pause. “Yeah,” he says, and he softens, like he always does when he hears your voice. “I will be.”

.

By week three, he’s dodging plans like it’s his new hobby. You’re not hurt, obviously. You’re busy too. You have other friends. You go to bars. You flirt with bartenders you’ll never text back. You have a whole life outside of this whole thing with Clark.

It’s not a relationship. It’s just a thing. A nice, dependable, sometimes pantsless thing.

That’s all.

But still, there’s this night.

You’re at your apartment. There’s an old movie playing, something black and white and miserable, and Clark was supposed to be here an hour ago.

You’d ordered his favorite takeout. You’d even found that dumb craft soda he likes, the one that tastes vaguely like melted gummy worms. You told yourself you just wanted someone to share the noodles with.

He doesn’t show.

No call. No text.

You sit through the entire movie. Alone.

And when your phone finally buzzes—close to midnight, just his name and a short, “I’m so sorry. Can we talk soon?”— you stare at it for a long moment.

Then you flip your phone over, face-down.

And in the dark, you think, Shit. This is how it starts. The distance. The shift. The slow pulling away.

You’ve done it to people before.

You just never thought you’d be on the receiving end.

Not from him.

Not from Clark.

.

Around 11:30, you open Twitter out of boredom. You don’t cry. That would imply something was wrong. That you were hurt. You’re not. Obviously.

You’re just a little annoyed.

And maybe, just mayb, you’re thinking about how Clark used to be your safest person. Your sure thing. Your just-text-me, just-call-me, just-walk-right-in-without-knocking guy.

And now he’s something else. Something slippery. Something you have to squint at sideways to understand.

Your thumb scrolls through the usual mess. Politicians being embarrassing, memes you’re already tired of, some half-hearted discourse about whether the Metropolis skyline is over-designed or “delightfully optimistic.”

Then: a video clip.

No sound. Just shaky phone footage.

A blur of red and blue moving fast—streaking through the air over Hobbs Bay, pulling someone from a collapsed scaffolding, leaving behind a wake of stunned bystanders and bent steel.

You pause. Watch it again. Retweets piling up.

BREAKING: Superman saves construction worker after scaffolding collapse.

You stare at it for a second longer than you mean to, then snort under your breath.

Must be nice, you think. Some people get rescued. Some other unlucky fuckers just get ghosted.

.

The message comes on a Thursday. One of those weirdly warm spring evenings when Metropolis smells like asphalt and deli grease and the last ten years of your bad decisions.

Hey. You free tonight?

You stare at it for a moment too long. Thumb hovering.

Then:

yeah. yours?

A pause.

If you want.

God, he’s infuriating. Polite even now. Careful with you, like you’re made of something breakable. Like you haven’t already cracked half a dozen times this month alone.

Still, you go.

.

It’s not tense at first. It’s easy. Familiar.

Clark opens the door wearing one of those threadbare t-shirts that should be illegal, sleeves barely containing his biceps, neckline just a little too stretched from use. His hair’s damp. There’s flour on his cheek.

“You baked?” you ask, stepping past him before he can do that thing where he tries to gauge your mood like a barometer.

He shrugs. “Felt like it.”

There’s banana bread cooling on the counter. Two plates. One knife. He’s already sliced yours and left the end piece—your favorite—on the left, like always.

You want to be mad. Or suspicious. Or anything that would make this easier to navigate. But it’s hard to keep your footing when he’s being like this. Soft. Normal. Like he didn’t flake three times last month. Like you hadn’t spent the last few nights half-dressed and overthinking on your bathroom floor

But them again, you could never really resist him for that long.

So maybe it’s no surprise that your dress ends up pooled around your ankles. The lamp’s still on. Your mouths are moving like they’ve done this a hundred times—because you have, but it's not enough, will never be enough—and you’re both pretending it’s still casual. Still nothing.

Except it doesn’t feel like nothing.

And then Clark pulls back.

Not sharply. Not like he’s been burned. More like he just remembered something, which, again, not unusual. You’ve seen that look before. That oh shit look.

But tonight, he doesn’t immediately jump up. 

He doesn’t mutter something about needing to check in with Perry or help Lois edit her headline.

He just… stares at you.

And not in the usual way, not with those soft, soft eyes like you’re something he stumbled across in a field and decided to treasure. He looks—serious. Scared, even. His hand is still on your hip, but his other is twitching slightly at his side like it doesn’t know what to do with itself.

“We need to talk,” he says.

You still have one shoe on. You don’t even remember kicking the other off.

You blink at him. “I—what?”

He licks his lips. His glasses are smudged. He doesn’t take them off.

“Something’s been—there’s something that I need to tell you,” he says, slower now, like he’s rehearsing this in real time and trying not to panic.

And that—that is when your stomach drops.

Because you know this script. You’ve seen this scene. The music swells, the camera pans in, the guy who smells like safety and Sunday mornings says he “needs to talk,” and then boom. Heartbreak, cut to black, roll credits.

You hold up a hand before he can say anything else. “Wait. Just… don’t. Yet.”

Clark pauses. He blinks at you.

“Look,” you say, backing up a step, scanning the room like you’re looking for your dignity. “If this is about how I’ve been kind of, I don’t know, evasive or inconsistent or, like, deeply emotionally unavailable, I just want to say — I know. Okay? You don’t have to do this so gently.”

His face twists. “What?”

“You’re trying to break things off,” you continue, steamrolling him, your voice way too steady for the freefall happening inside your chest. “And I get it. I do. You’ve been pulling away for weeks, you disappear all the time, you don’t sleep anymore, you look like you’ve been hit by a truck most days, which I assumed was just bad reporting hours, but who knows, maybe it’s metaphorical.”

Clark tries again. “I’m not—”

“It’s fine,” you say, voice louder now. “It’s fine if you met someone. You don’t have to pretend it’s not happening.”

“I didn’t—”

“You’re allowed to outgrow this. Me. Whatever this is.”

Your dress is still on the floor, and you suddenly want it back on like it’s armor. You crouch to grab it, clumsy with urgency, your hands all wrong.

“I should’ve seen it coming. You were too good to last. Guys like you don’t stick around for girls like me.”

“Hey,” he says sharply, stepping forward, but you back away before he can reach you.

“Don’t,” you say, holding your dress to your chest like a shield. “Don’t be nice to me about it.”

Clark runs both hands through his hair. He looks like he’s short-circuiting. “You’re not even letting me—I’m not trying to end this with you.”

You stare at him, lips parted.

He’s breathing hard now. His glasses are askew. His shirt’s wrinkled, and his jaw is clenched like he’s holding something back with both hands.

“I was going to tell you something,” he says, voice raw. “Something real. Something I’ve never told anyone who didn’t already know.”

You freeze.

Because that doesn’t sound like cheating.

That sounds like confession.

“What,” you whisper, suddenly breathless. “Like a dark secret? You have a kid? You’re actually married? Are you part of a mafia? Are you—Oh my God. Are you a stripper?”

“What?” he blurts, completely thrown.

“I don’t know, Clark!” your voice spikes, hands flying up. “What the hell could you possibly say right now that starts with ‘we need to talk’ and isn’t a relationship guillotine?”

His eyes flick to the window. Just for a second. A glance, like instinct. And then right back to you.

And for the first time, you see it.

The quiet panic. The way his entire body is buzzing like a live wire under skin.

Like he’s not scared of you.  He’s scared for you.

But it’s too late. You’ve already built the wall and bricked yourself in.

You grab your dress, yanking it on with the dignity of a raccoon being evicted from a trash can. Somewhere behind you, Clark says your name again, gentle, like a bruise he’s afraid to touch. You ignore it.

Instead, you just start collecting your things like a squirrel in crisis.

Because—and this is humiliating—you’ve essentially moved into his place over the last year in the slowest, most passive-aggressive way possible. Not officially. Not “hey, should we get you some keys?” But enough that the signs are there. 

Enough that you now have to do this, which is to say the break-up equivalent of packing a go-bag in the middle of a fire drill.

You grab the mug with the faded “Central City Gazette Student Press 2013” logo you refuse to drink out of at home because it’s chipped, but which you do drink out of here, because Clark always makes tea the right way — hot, strong, too much honey. You grab the copy of Tomorrow, and Tomorrow, and Tomorrow you stole from his shelf three months ago and meant to pretend was yours all along. The sweatshirt he “forgot” you left here, that you “forgot” he noticed you wore to bed six times in a row.

You jam it all into your work tote like it’s a goddamn body bag.

Then there are the smaller things. The stupid things.

The half-used notepad from a city council meeting where someone tried to blame vigilante-induced infrastructure damage on solar panels. The disposable camera from that one weekend in Smallville — the one you never developed because the idea of seeing his parents smile at you felt too dangerous, too much like you might belong there.

And then you eye the drawer next to his bed. Your drawer, to get that clear, which was never explicitly claimed but which somehow holds one (1) pair of fuzzy pink handcuffs, two (2) half-empty bottles of lube, and three (3) protein bars, one of which is probably from last fiscal year. You shove it all into your bag, zipper groaning like a sad, sad accordion.

Clark’s still standing near the window, looking bewildered. Like he walked into the scene five minutes late and can’t tell who started the fire.

“Wait—are you leaving? You don’t have to—just—can we talk? Please?”

You don’t look at him.

Instead, you gesture vaguely at your bag. “This is just me doing a quick inventory of my terrible judgment. Don’t mind me.”

“Can you stop for two seconds and just let me—”

“Clark,” you say, and your voice comes out quieter than you meant it to. “It’s okay.”

It isn’t. But you’re trying to win the emotional Olympics in the “cool and detached” category, and you’re not about to blow it with something as devastating as eye contact.

You sling the bag over your shoulder and pause by the door. 

You consider saying something devastating and poetic. Something from Hamlet, maybe. You’ve always liked the line about cutting love out with a knife and it still bleeding. But instead, you give him a big, fake smile and an inexplicable hand up, like a contestant leaving Rupaul's Drag Race in disgrace.

“No harm, no foul,” you say. “Tell whoever you're seeing that I say hi.”

And then you leave.

.

You are, in every measurable way, unwell.

You don’t call it a breakup.

That would imply there was something official to break. That you were ever really together. That there was something solid under your feet to begin with, instead of months of teasing the edge, hovering over the line like two people too chicken to admit they’d already crossed it.

So, no. Not a breakup.

Just—a recalibration. A pause. A hot minute.

You say this to Jimmy, who narrows his eyes and says, “You’re holding a spoon like a murder weapon right now, so I’m gonna circle back on the ‘hot’ part of that minute.”

You even say it to the woman at the corner bodega—the one who always gave Clark an extra packet of honey for his tea and once slipped you a protein bar when you looked particularly anemic on a deadline.

She glances up from restocking the gum and says, “He’s okay? The tall guy? With the glasses and the very... polite shoulders?”

You blink. “Sorry, what?”

“He always said thank you. For the bag. Like, sincerely.” She squints at you. “You were good together.”

You make a sound of vague agreement and exit before she asks if you want your usual. (You do. But the idea of holding a wrap in your hands right now makes your stomach lurch.)

You take your PTO. Two weeks. You don’t tell anyone where you’re going, mostly because you’re not going anywhere. You lie in bed. You eat cereal out of a mug. You watch a three-hour documentary about the collapse of a bridge in Gotham and cry when a random city engineer says, “We tried our best, but it wasn’t enough.”

You don't let yourself think about that… that stupid drawer by Clark’s bed.

Or the banana bread.

Because there is banana bread.

It shows up on your doorstep the morning of Day Three, wrapped in wax paper and still warm. No note. Just a faint imprint where a palm must’ve rested on the foil, like he wasn’t sure if he should knock. You don’t bring it inside right away.

You stare at it. Then the door. Then back at the bread like it might explode.

Eventually, you take it in. Set it on the counter. Eat half of it standing over the sink with your fingers, because you don’t trust yourself to not drop it.

He texts you the next day. Just your name. Then a minute later: Just wanted to check in. Hope you’re doing okay.

You stare at the dots blinking at the bottom of the screen until they disappear.

You don’t answer.

He calls a few times, a few days later. Your phone lights up with his name, and you let it ring out. Not because you’re angry—okay, maybe you are, a little—but because you know the sound of his voice will wreck you. Because if he says your name in that soft, patient, Clark way, you’ll crack like a fucking fault line.

He doesn't leave a voicemai any of the times l. Just hangs up.

(You spend the rest of the night clutching a throw pillow to your stomach like it’s a life raft.)

You tell yourself this is temporary. You’ll get it together tomorrow.

And then tomorrow happens.

And then the next day.

And then—on the seventh day, like Jesus, you rise.

Kind of.

You pull on the ugliest hoodie you own, some too-large sweatpants with a questionable stain, and a pair of knockoff Crocs. Your hair is doing something that technically defies gravity, and you haven’t worn deodorant since Tuesday. Your soul is gone. Your standards are lower. All that remains is one singular thought:

Hotdog.

.

Which is how you find yourself under the flickering fluorescent lights of a 7/11 at 1:42 a.m., perched on the curb out front like a feral raccoon, holding a lukewarm hotdog in one hand and a Red Bull in the other, actively disassociating while Whitney Houston’s I Will Always Love You plays through a tinny outdoor speaker with all the emotional resonance of a dying Roomba.

You stare off into the distance.

Which is, of course, exactly when Clark walks up.

You see him in your periphery first. Hear the crunch of gravel, the telltale weight of his sneakers.

“No,” you say, out loud. “No. No. Absolutely not.”

Clark stops short. “Hi,” he says, voice soft. A little nervous.

You hold up the hotdog like a loaded gun. “Turn around.”

“I—”

“I swear to god, Clark.” You don’t even look at him. “I am mentally and spiritually clinging to life by the barest thread, and if you say something kind to me right now, I will vomit on the pavement.”

He nods. Raises both hands. “Okay. Not saying anything.”

You stare at him. His flannel is wrinkled. His hair’s sticking up at the back. There’s a scuff on his glasses like he’s been rubbing at them all day.

Goddammit. He looks like home.

You turn your burning eyes back to the pavement and try to focus on your dinner. Try to remember how this whole dignity thing works.

“Why are you here,” you say finally, flat.

He swallows. “Because I needed to see you. Because I’ve been calling, and—”

“Right,” you cut in. “The calls. That I didn’t answer. On purpose.”

“I know.”

“And you took that as a challenge?”

Clark exhales slowly. He takes a tentative step closer.

“I’ve tried everything else,” he says.

You roll your eyes. “Maybe that’s because you’re not supposed to fix this. Maybe this is just what it is now.”

“That’s not what I want.”

You shrug. “And? Sometimes we don’t get what we want. That’s life. Welcome.”

He’s quiet. Long enough that you glance sideways and catch him staring at you with a look you can’t name. Doesn’t defend himself. Just stands there, quiet, while a beat-up minivan idles past the edge of the lot and the Whitney Houston outro fades into static. And you’re just about to tell him to cut it out—whatever this whole tortured-eyes, kicked-puppy thing is—when he steps forward.

One arm wraps around your waist.

And then—

You are no longer on the ground.

You shriek like a B-movie scream queen, clutching your 7/11 hotdog in its sad foil wrapper like it might save your life. “WHAT THE FUCK,” you yell. “WHAT—ARE YOU KIDDING ME—WHAT IS HAPPENING.”

“I’m sorry!” Clark yells over the wind.

“ARE YOU—IS THIS YOU?! ARE YOU—”

“Yeah!” he shouts. “Hi! Surprise!”

“SUPERMAN?!”

“…Yes!” he calls back, cringing midair.

“YOU’RE SUPERMAN?!”

Clark doesn’t answer that. Just… grimaces. Flying sideways. His arm tightening around your waist like he’s half-expecting you to elbow him in the ribs and wriggle free.

You might, honestly. As soon as your brain catches up. You’re only just vaguely aware of your Croc flying off somewhere over a used car dealership.

“My toothbrush is still at your apartment!” you shriek.

“I know!”

“I HAVE A TOOTHBRUSH AT SUPERMAN’S APARTMENT!”

“I know! That’s why I—listen, I panicked! You weren’t picking up! You blocked me on like, four platforms—”

“I BLOCKED YOU BECAUSE I THOUGHT YOU WERE GHOSTING ME FOR ANOTHER GIRL, NOT MOONLIGHTING AS A NATIONAL TREASURE.”

The wind roars past your ears. Your teeth are chattering. You’re barely holding onto the last few shreds of coherence. And Clark—no, Superman, apparently—he’s not even breaking a sweat.

“You couldn’t have called?” you snap.

“I did!”

“WITH WHAT, MORSE CODE?”

“I showed up at your apartment!”

“With a cape, Kent?!”

“No! No, the cape’s new—look, I didn’t know what else to do. You wouldn’t talk to me. Jimmy said you took PTO and haven’t left your apartment in four days and I just—I needed you to see me. To listen.”

You make an inhuman noise, somewhere between a wail and a curse. “So your solution was to airlift me like a stolen asset out of a CIA bunker?!”

“I checked to make sure no one was looking!”

“YOU TOOK ME HOSTAGE.”

“I swept the parking lot, I swear! The cameras at 7/11 are fake, and there was one guy but he was busy dropping a Big Gulp.”

You blink at him. Wind in your eyes. A foot still bare. There’s an onion from your hotdog stuck to your shirt. Your heart does a slow, brutal somersault.

“…Okay,” you breathe. “Okay, so this is real.”

“It’s real,” he says.

“Like, capital-R Real.”

“Yeah.”

You shake your head once, sharp. “Jesus Christ.”

And then something in you quiets. Something that’s been vibrating with panic for days—for weeks—sputters out like the end of a bad engine. You’re too tired to scream again. You’re too wrung-out to cry.

So you just say, quietly: “I'm sorry. For not listening. Or giving you the time to explain. But, what the fuck, dude.”

Clark swallows. His eyes flick to your mouth, then away. He nods—once.

“I didn’t want to lie to you,” he says again, quieter now. “I hated it. Every second of it.”

His breath fogs slightly in the night air. He still won’t quite meet your eyes.

“I thought I could keep it separate. You and… that part of me. I thought if I just kept my head down and made you pancakes and let you call me out when I forgot to text back, it’d be enough.”

He runs a hand through his hair, still wind-tossed from flight. “But then it wasn’t. Because I started… I don’t know, noticing stuff. Like the way you always get a little mean when you’re scared. Or how you never remember to lock your front door but you’ll glare at me for refusing to jaywalk. And every time I had to run off and I saw the look on your face—I wanted to tell you. I almost told you, like, like, forty darn times.”

His voice cracks a little. He’s still not looking at you.

“I kept thinking, if I say it out loud, you’ll leave. Or worse—you’ll stay, but only because you think you owe me something. Because I have the suit. Because I can lift a building. But I don’t want you to be impressed by me. I just want you to look at me the way you used to. Like I’m just… Clark.”

He laughs, sudden and shaky. “God, I sound insane.”

You say nothing. You’re not breathing very well.

And then, softly, finally, like he’s pushing it out before he loses the nerve: “I love you. Not in a heroic, save-the-day kind of way. Just—I love you. I think I’ve been in love with you since you made me help you tail that councilman with the suspicious hair plugs. And you made fun of me the whole time, but you still brought snacks.”

He swallows. “I don’t need anything from you. I just wanted you to know.”

The wind whips gently around you both now, slower, softer. Like the world has dialed down to listen in. 

Clark hovers easily in place, arms strong around you, careful and warm, like he’s afraid you’ll wriggle free again and drop straight through the clouds.

He’s flushed. Nervous. He looks like he’s trying to prepare for every possible version of the moment after this. Every soft or horrible thing you might say. Every joke you might make to dodge the weight of it. Every silence.

You lean back a little to look at him.

And then, honestly, you just kiss him.

Because it’s easier than saying the whole thing. Easier than listing every moment that’s led to this, every reason you tried not to fall for him and did anyway. 

The time he walked (not flew) across the city in the rain because you forgot your keys. 

The fact that he never interrupts when you’re spiraling, just waits it out, steady and warm and right there. 

The way he let you drag him into that adult store and joked around and made him blush with the pink handcuffs, and then he bought them for you anyway.

 The banana bread. 

“I love you too, you idiot.”

His whole face crumples. And then he laughs, messy and relieved and a little helpless, like he wasn’t expecting you to say it back. Like he wasn’t hoping.

“You do?”

You nod, eyes stinging. “Yeah. In every kind of way.”

And Clark—not Superman, Clark Kent, the world’s most ridiculous man, the guy you’ve known and kissed and run from and found again—leans in and kisses you silly again.

.

You’re still smiling when he stumbles through your front door with you in his arms.

Not gracefully. Not like some poised, soap-opera seduction —more like the two of you crash through the threshold like a couple of drunk fucking idiots who forgot how to use their limbs. You reach back and slap the door shut, barely catching the knob, breathless from altitude and adrenaline and everything that’s been boiling under your skin for months.

Clark kicks over your shoe rack by accident. It topples over with a loud bang and suddenly, all your shoes are on the floor.

“Sorry,” he says, half-choking on a grin, already pressing you to the wall. “I’ll—clean that up—later—”

You cut him off with your mouth. Sloppy, desperate. Fingers tangling in his curls, tugging just to feel him gasp against you. You can feel the way he hardens close to you, and you're really, really liking where this is going.

It’s not like you didn’t know he was strong. 

You’ve seen his biceps. You’ve felt the hand at your back steady you when a cab came too close. You’ve watched him shoulder his way through panicked crowds, through chaos, through life, always quietly making space for you.

But this is different.

This is him holding your entire body like you weigh nothing. Like physics doesn't apply to you anymore. Like his hands were made to carry you and his mouth was made to ruin you.

“Clark,” you gasp, because you don’t know what else to say. Your hoodie’s already halfway up your torso. His hands are under it, up your ribs, one squeezing your thigh like he’s staking a claim and the other splayed wide across your spine. “You’re—fuck—”

“I know,” he pants, nosing down your throat, licking into the hollow like he’s starving for it. “I know, baby. You’re—God, you’re actually killing me.”

He lifts you—actually lifts you—like you’re nothing, just sweeps you up with one arm under your ass and carries you toward the bedroom, leaving a trail of your jacket, your hotdog wrapper, and one of your slippers behind. 

You claw at his shirt, frantic, trying to get it off. Buttons ping off somewhere near the kitchen island and you both flinch, then laugh again, dizzy with it.

He drops you on the bed and follows fast, crawling over you, shedding the remains of his flannel and undershirt like he’s being hunted for it. 

"Fuck, fuck—take this off," and yank off your hoodie and he groans at the sight, like the skin of your chest is some sort of a revelation, like he hasn’t had it memorized since the first time he saw you in a tank top at work and forgot what day it was.

His mouth is everywhere. On your collarbone, your shoulder, between your breasts. 

Hot and open and eager, tongue twisting ruthlessly around your nipples. He’s making sounds now, those broken, happy little gasps like he’s surprised every time you let him touch you again.

You’re squirming under him, soaked and breathless, tugging at the waistband of his pants like it might save your life.

“I am gonna ruin you,” you manage to say. "Baby, let me fucking ruin you."

Clark laughs again, the kind of laugh that goes straight to your core, deep and bright and boyish, and then he flips you effortlessly onto your stomach, pushing your thighs apart with his knee, dragging his mouth down your spine like he’s tracing poetry there.

“Oh yeah?” he murmurs, low and smug and reverent. “Get in line, pretty girl.”

He pushes into you with one smooth, slow thrust, so much of him, too much, your jaw goes slack, and he just stays there for a moment, his hand curled over yours, forehead pressed to the back of your shoulder.

“I love you.”

Your breath stutters.

He doesn’t give you time to recover, emotionally or physically. Doesn’t let you laugh it off or throw up your usual wall of flippant sarcasm. He kisses your shoulder again, hips moving deeper, slower.

You twist beneath him, trying to turn over because as much as you love doggy, you can't bear to not look at him right now. 

But his hand presses gently between your shoulder blades, grounding you. “Wait,” he murmurs, and you freeze. You’re still so full of him you can barely think. “Just let me—can I just—”

He grinds forward, pushing all eight inches of him inside, and you choke on a moan. You’ve never heard him like this. Not just desperate, not just lost in it — but open.

“I love you when you’re mean,” he pants, voice fraying around the edges. “I love you when you roll your eyes at me in meetings and mutter under your breath during interviews. I love you, God, you're so tight," another thrust. "—when you wear those socks with the tiny dogs on them and try to pretend you’re not soft.”

You turn your head, mouth parted, eyes wide. “Clark—”

He leans down, kisses your cheek, your temple, the place behind your ear that makes your thighs shake.

“I love you when you’re being impossible. When you steal my flannels. When you pretend you don’t care. When you kissed me for the first time and then gave me a whole spiel about it.”

“Stop—”

“I love you,” he says again, brokenly this time, like it’s being torn out of him. “I love you even when I’m scared you’ll leave. Even if this is all I get.”

You turn fully this time, eyes glassy, fingers curling around the back of his neck to drag him in.

And you kiss him.

Hard.

Hungry.

Grateful.

“I love you,” you whisper against his mouth. “I love you, you wonderful, wonderful man.”

Clark lets out a sound that’s not quite a laugh and not quite a sob.

Then he flips you under him and fucks you like it’s a promise.

You say it again when you come the second time, breathless, high-pitched, hands clutching at his shoulders, and again when he follows with a low, shuddering groan, spilling into you like he’s got nowhere else he’d rather be.

.

The car smells like spearmint gum and way, way too much coffee. Clark’s got one hand on the wheel and the other laced through yours like it’s always been there. Which, lately, it has.

You’re about halfway to Smallville.

“So,” you say, tapping his knuckles with your thumb. “How many embarrassing baby photos am I being subjected to this time? Just give me a ballpark.”

Clark chuckles. His dimples show. “Oh, uh… probably all of them. Again."

You groan. “Even the corn maze one?”

“There are multiple corn maze ones,” he corrects gently. “There’s one where I’m dressed as a scarecrow.”

You stare at him.

He nods solemnly. “With face paint.”

“Oh my God,” you wheeze, turning toward the window. “I don’t know if I’m emotionally prepared for that.”

“Don’t worry,” he says, squeezing your hand. “Ma loves you. You could commit tax fraud in front of her and she’d ask if you wanted seconds.”

You snort. “That’s very comforting.”

He shrugs, smiling again. “It’s true. She already set up the guest room.”

You blink at him.

“…The guest room?”

A pause. Clark glances over. “Well, I didn’t want to assume we’d—uh—share a bed. With my parents in the house.”

You raise a brow. “Clark. We had sex in a supply closet at the Planet.”

“That was—okay, yes—but that was under different circumstances.”

“We are dating.”

“I know.”

You lean your head back against the seat, grinning. “You’re so weird.”

“You love it,” he mutters, cheeks pink.

You do.

God, you do. You love him.

It still sneaks up on you sometimes. The clarity of it. The quiet, persistent fact of Clark Kent: the man who once made you blueberry pancakes the morning after you nearly ran out on him, who kissed your wrist like it meant something, who never—not once—looked away. Who told you he was Superman in the middle of a 7/11 parking lot, like some fucking lunatic.

And now here you are. In his car. On the way to meet his parents.

Officially.

Not just as the girl who sleeps over sometimes. Not as the coworker who won’t stop pretending she doesn’t care. Not as the idiot who thought she could get away with loving him and not doing anything about it.

No. Now, you’re his girlfriend.

Which means this is real. Which means you’re going to their farmhouse in Smallville. And Martha is probably going to offer you pie. And Jonathan is probably going to show you Clark’s fifth grade spelling bee trophy like it’s the most precious thing in the world.

Which should terrify you.

(And maybe it does, a little.)

But mostly—mostly it feels like the best thing you’ve ever said yes to.

Clark clears his throat. “Hey.”

You turn.

He’s watching you with that expression again. That soft, unguarded, ruined look like he still can’t believe you’re real. It’s so sincere it nearly undoes you.

“I’m really glad you’re coming,” he says. Quietly.

You look at him. You squeeze his hand back.

“Me too, Michigan.”

His ears go a little red. “Don’t call me that.”

“Oh? I thought you liked when I objectify you by state.”

“I like it slightly less when it happens in front of a rest stop attendant while you’re holding beef jerky and winking at me. And when it's the wrong state."

You smirk. “Not my fault you were born with that jawline and a humiliation kink.”

Clark coughs through a laugh. “God help me.”

He reaches across the console, dragging his thumb lightly over the inside of your wrist. The same spot he kissed that night. The one you think might still hum a little under your skin.

You let your head fall against his shoulder, smile tucked into your cheek.

“Wake me when we’re ten minutes out?”

“You sure?” he murmurs, already lowering the volume on the radio.

“Mhm.” You close your eyes. “I gotta mentally prepare myself for the scarecrow photos.”

You feel the press of his lips against your knuckles. Gentle. Familiar.

“You’re gonna be fine,” he says. “They love you, you know that. I do too."

You smile.

Because yeah. You do know.

[foreverrogers]

thunderbolts as a concept is hilarious to me lmfao like imagine your DAD is a part of your friend group

[foreverrogers]