hhiggs

[hhiggs]

“I’m Glad You Called”

Bucky X Reader One Shot. 

TW: sexual harrassment, swearing, drink spiking

Synopsis: Things quickly go south during a blind date that Wanda had set you up on. After listening to Jake talk about himself for three hours, you leave the bar together, and it becomes clear that Jake has certain expectations for where the evening will go next. The world becomes blurry around you as you make it clear you won’t be sleeping with Jake, but when the ground shifts beneath your feet and Jake gets aggressive, you make a phonecall. Cue one angry super soldier coming to the rescue, confessions of feelings, and lots of fluff. 

You checked your appearance in the mirror one last time, appraising your appearance and shifting the tight black dress that clung to your body ever so slightly. It wasn’t that you were excited for your blind date, per se. During a girls night with one too many glasses of wine consumed you’d finally confessed to Wanda and Natasha that you were ready to give dating another shot after a catastrophic end to your former relationship (he’d cheated on you, and after finding out, you never heard from him again. You couldn’t say for sure, but it was pretty clear your friends had had something to do with it.) The next thing you knew, Wanda had sent a message into your groupchat telling you to ‘put on that sexy black dress and be ready at 8’ for a blind date with someone she knew. So, not so much excited, as a mix of nerves, trepedation and skepticism. But you’d said you wanted to get back out there, and that meant going on a date eventually. You tousled your hair, checked your lipstick one final time, before grabbing your leather jacket, slinging it over your shoulders as you grabbed and walking through the door to your bedroom in the compound. 

You walked along the corridors, heading to the kitchen for a drink to settle your nerves as you had half an hour before the mystery man was supposed to be meeting you, and you’d do anything to alleviate the nagging feeling in your gut telling you this was a bad idea. You walked in, trailing your hands across the marble counter and pausing in front of the fridge, taking a breath as cool air burst out at you, stilling some of the thoughts in your mind. It wasn’t that you didn’t want to be going on a date. It was that whoever the guy picking you up was, it wasn’t the man you wanted it to be. But you shook your head, allowing the cold feel of the bottle of wine on your palm to draw you out of your head and back to reality. There was no point in thinking about that now. With a few glugs, you’d poured yourself a glass of wine, standing at the island counter of the compound's kitchen, lights dimmed, soft music playing as you continued to hype yourself up for the evening ahead. Or at least you tried to, until a voice pulled you out of your thoughts:

‘Wow Doll’, a low voice rumbled out. The wine glass that was making its way to your lips paused mid air as you turned to look at the source of the sound, already knowing exactly who would be there. As you suspected, there was James Buchanan Barnes, leaning against the doorway to the kitchen, smug smile on his lips and head cocked to the side, staring straight at you. You felt like his steel blue eyes were burning a hole right into you, and ducked your head to hide the slight blush that rose to your cheeks. Running your free hand through your hair as you regained some composure, you smiled at your friend, some of the nerves settling in your stomach just from being in the same space as him. ‘Hey Buck,’ you replied, turning to face him and holding your hands out to your sides slightly to give him a better view, ‘what’d you think?’ He didn’t need to know that his response could very well decide for you if you were still going out or not. 

Bucky’s eyes slowly trailed down and back up your form, taking you in with a small smile, as he replied ’I think the guy you’re going out with doesn’t know how lucky he is’. You let out a small laugh at his words, picking up your wine glass to be able to have something between you, to distract you from him, to offer you something to hide behind. ‘Ever the charmer Barnes’, you reply. ‘You know me Doll’ he laughed back, walking past you in the direction of one of the stools on the other side of the counter to you, ‘a true 40’s gentleman could never walk past a dame looking as beautiful as you and not tell you’. And there it was, that slight defferal that always came with Bucky’s compliments. It was always the case with Bucky that compliments wouldn’t come from him, more the charming 40’s ladies man act that he liked to put on. He was one of your closest friends, and it wasn’t like he didn’t compliment you, didn’t look out for you. Hell, when your sleep was disturbed with graphic reminders of your past in the form of some less-than-pleasant nightmares, Bucky was always the first one at your door. You’d given him access after your first nightmare, and it wasn’t uncommon now that you’d be woken up from the horrors of your mind with surprisingly soft touches, concerned blue eyes and gentle reminders that ‘you’re okay, you’re safe, I’m here, they’re not going to take you again, I’ve got you’. He’d slip into bed next to you, hold you until you drifted back into sleep, or if it was one of those nights you knew you wouldn’t be able to go back to sleep, he’d walk with you to the TV room, and you’d watch reruns of Doctor Who until sunrise. But when he said anything that could be read as even remotely romantic, it was said through that ladies-man facade. So, Bucky was one of the people you were closest to in the compound, and that was exactly why you couldn’t tell him that your feelings for him had developed into romantic ones. 

Instead, you bantered back and forth a bit, Bucky sat opposite you, joking about spraypainting redwing pink to annoy Sam, and how he just ‘didn’t get’ the idea of a blind date, saying ‘back in my day, you just told someone you liked them and went out for a dance’. His comment felt like a million pins stabbing into your heart all at once, reminding you once again that the man in front of you, who had slowly helped heal and won over your broken heart, only saw you as a friend.  Still, Bucky had called you ‘beautiful’. That was enough of a boost that when FRIDAY announced that your date was here, you left the remainder of your wine in the glass on the counter, grabbed your purse, and called over your shoulder to Bucky that he needed to ‘remember to eat something’ as you left. What you didn’t see was how his eyes followed you all the way down the corridor until you were out of sight. You didn’t know that inside, he was kicking himself once again for not telling you how he felt about you. And most of all, you didn’t know how it tore him up inside to see you going out on a date with someone else. No, instead, you walked to the front door of the compound, to be met by your blind date.

The date itself had started off badly and only gotten worse as the night went on. You’d got into his car, which was piled high with rubbish from various fast food joints and discarded pieces of clothing. You could have sworn that you’d spotted another girl’s dress buried underneath another jumper. Still, you didn’t know what he had going on in his life, and a messy car was far from a deal breaker. No, that would come later. He pulled up to a run-down, beat-up bar, outside of which two older men, clearly drunk and still sipping on their beer bottles, were hanging around. The second you stepped out of Jake’s car, one wolf whistled at you, as the other called out, ‘Hey gorgeous, why don’t you ditch the kid and let us show you a good time?’. You’d expected Jake to say something. Not necessarily to jump into a fight to defend your honour, but a simple fuck of, a shake of his head, or a reassuring hand on your back as he led you inside. But no, instead, he simply barked out a laugh with the two men, and grimly claimed, ‘this one’s all mine’. 

You should have left then. You know you should have. But Wanda and Natasha had set you up with the guy, so surely he couldn’t be that bad? And you’d never hear the end of it if they found out you hadn’t even made it inside the bar on your first date. So, you gritted your teeth, forcing your lips into a pursed smile, and walked into the bar. It’d only got worse from there. In the hour and a half you sat opposite him, all Jake had showed you was that he was only capable of talking about himself. About his job. About how much money he made. About his ex-girlfriend. About how excellent he was in bed. You’d sat there, becoming more and more bored, and then more and more uncomfortable as the night went on, questioning if you could get away with going to the ‘bathroom’ and sneaking out a back door. Sadly, the bar he’d brought you to didn’t exactly look like it would have a back door you wanted to go through. You’d wondered if you could play sick, or text Wanda and Nat SOS to come and save you, but decided that, while he was clearly an egotistical dickhead, he wasn’t ‘dangerous’. It was just a bad date, and, mercifully, it’d be over soon. He’d picked up the check, and after two hours of hearing all about Jake, you were grateful to be heading back to his car to be dropped off home, and never to see him again. After your second glass of wine, you’d started to feel a little off, too, so getting back into bed and forgetting the whole night couldn’t come quickly enough. 

You and Jake walked back through the door of the bar when his arm snaked itself uncomfortably tightly around your waist, hand pressing into your left hip with enough pressure that you thought it would leave a bruise. You tried to laugh it off, placing your hand over his and very clearly trying to lift his grasp on you. His arm didn’t move. If anything, it got tighter as he yanked you into his side, before twisting his body in front of you and pinning you against the brick wall at the side of the restaurant. Your head spun as it collided with the bricks now behind it, making you feel far dizzier than it should have, as you realised something was seriously wrong. His arms met the wall on either side of you, pinning you in, unable to escape, his breath stinking of rum as he said, ‘Come on now, baby. Don’t try and fight. You know you want me.’ Your legs felt weak beneath you, and the world continued to spin as you tried to force the words ‘get off of me’ out of your mouth, but it was so dry, and your tongue felt like lead. All that came out was a jumble of sounds. Somewhere in the back of your mind, your brain was screaming at you that you’d been spiked, but everything was too loud, spinning too much, and Jake’s body was pressed too tightly against you as his hands trailed up your sides for you to even acknowledge it. 

Jake’s hands made their way up your body, resting on your breasts and kneading them with too much force as he began forcing kisses onto your neck, your shoulders, your lips. Tears were streaming down your face and you kept pleading out ‘no, no, no’, as Jake continued his assult on your body. It was when his hands trailed down between your thighs that something in you snapped. You didn’t even register your body moving as your knee connected with his groin as he cried out. What you did register, though, was the burning heat across your face that sent you spilling to the ground as his fist connected with your cheek, splitting the skin and leaving a nasty cut behind. Somewhere your brain registered Jake, spitting down at you and calling you a ’fucking slut’, as he aimed a brutal kick into your stomach, knocking all of the air out of your lungs and making you see stars while you wheezed out ‘help’ to anyone that might hear you. More kicks followed, as your mind went blank, but the next thing you registered was the sound of footsteps walking away from you and a figure receding in the distance. 

Your mind was bleeding in and out of consciousness as the pain from Jake’s assault left your body reeling. It took all the focus your drugged brain could cling onto to reach your grazed arm out to where your bag had fallen during the assault and pull it close to you. Your hands, feeling heavy and uncoordinated, dug helplessly into the bag before connecting with the metal of your phone. Pulling it out as you heaved in breaths muddled with tears, blood and shame, you opened your contacts, fingers shaking as you pressed on the name of the one person you needed right now. Your head was still spinning, feeling conceringly warm and wet against the cold, damp concrete below it, and your vision kept blurring as you tried to focus your eyes on the screen, pain rippling through your chest with each breath. You didn’t hear the sound of the phone ringing, but the second you heard Bucky’s voice, something in you broke. 

“Doll?” His voice came, light but tinged with what could have been concern or confusion as he answered, “Aren’t you meant to be out with your mystery man?”  A noise ripped its way out of your throat somewhere between a cry of pain and a plea for help, sounding animal, and wounded and helpless. Bucky’s voice immediately softened on the other side of the line, urgency lacing his tone. “Doll, are you okay? Can you hear me?’. Had you been more with it, you would have heard the fear cutting into Bucky’s voice, the sound of him running around grabbing a jacket and his keys. As it was, it took all of the effort you had left in your weakening body to whisper out a broken ‘Buck, he-help.’

‘Ok, ok Doll, I’m comin’. I’m tracking your phone, but you gotta stay awake for me sweetheart, come on now, stay with me!’ 

But you were in too much pain. Various moans of pain were mixing with the words you were trying to say to Bucky. Your head, which once had been spinning, was now pounding as you vaguely felt blood trickling into your hair from where you’d been forced against the brick wall, and each breath shot daggers into your lungs. Bucky’s desperate pleas continued to pour out of your phone, but at this point, it’d fallen out of your hand, and you’re too weak to pick it up again. As the darkness from the sky above began to bleed into the edges of your vision and unconsciousness tried to claim you, a sense of calm began to wash over you, knowing that Bucky was coming to save you. 

‘Oh god, doll, what did he do to you’

Gentle hands were on you, lifting your head up off of the cold ground and cradling it in a lap. You struggled against the touch, remembering enough of what had happened for fear to strike through you, thinking Jake had come back to finish what he started. You tried to get your eyes to open, you limbs to move, but the gentle hands that held your head moved to your arms as a voice, desperate and low spoke above you: ‘you’re okay, you’re okay Doll, it’s me, it’s Bucky, I’ve got you’. He didn’t need to say who it was, you would’ve recognised the warmth in his raspy voice anywhere. But he sounded sad, and you never wanted Bucky to be sad. So you forced your eyes to open, blinking up at him as you tried to get them to focus. You’d never seen such an intense combination of sadness, worry and rage painting his face as it came into focus. ‘Hey, hey sweetheart, there’re those pretty eyes’, Bucky murmured above you, some relief washing his features at seeing you awake. ‘Do you think you can sit up?’ He asked, brushing some blood-tainted hair out of your face. You nod slowly back at Bucky, not trusting yourself to speak yet. ‘Ok doll, ok that’s good. I’m gonna put one of my hands on your back and help you sit up okay? On three. One, two, three.’ 

Your world turned white as hot pain shot through your ribs, and your head spun violently. You let out a string of curses and an excruciating cry of pain, doubling over yourself and placing a hand on Bucky’s shoulder, gripping hard, trying to ground yourself against the pain attacking you. ‘OK, you’re okay, just breathe, breathe through it with me’. Bucky started exaggerating his breathing through his shoulders, the same as he would do when you’d had a nightmare to help you match your breathing pace to his. When the wave of pain finally passed, you settled on your knees and looked up to the steel blue eyes looking down on you with so much worry. Before you even realise it, a train of words come out of your lips, ‘Bucky, he, Jake, he - something in my drink… he tried to, to - I fought back I swear I did, I tried, and then he, he’

‘Woah woah Doll, it’s okay, you don’t gotta explain everything right now’, Bucky said, pulling off his jacket, noticing you shiver, although whether it was from the rain, the drug that was working its way through your system, or the pain, he didn’t know. In his mind, he was raging. His heart had all but broken in two when he heard you cry out for him over the phone, and now his mind was railing against the asshole who hurt you. Bucky would end him. But that wasn’t his focus right now. Now, Bucky was channelling all of his focus on helping you. After quickly understanding some of the trauma of the night, Bucky checked ‘Doll, can I touch you?’ Before he moved again. You nod back, your heart racing in your chest, desperate for someone to just hold you and tell you it was all going to be okay. Quickly, Bucky’s jacket was slung across your shoulders, enveloping you in his warmth, smelling of burnt wood and vanilla, and Bucky had moved himself to be crouched in front of you. 

“I’m gonna pick you up, okay, Doll? Gonna get you back to the car and home to the compound, okay?” All you can do is nod, as tears slip down your face. Bucky’s thumb is there to collect the tears that fell, whispering to you ‘it’s okay, Doll, it’s not your fault, none of this is. You did so good calling me, so good.’ He pulls you into his arms as if you weigh nothing, but you can’t help but grimace at the movement, your head still dizzy and your ribs burning. ‘I know, I’m sorry, Doll. We just gotta get you back to the car, then I can take care of you.’ You whisper back, ‘K’ Buck’, feeling the safest you had been for weeks, held in his arms, your head resting on his chest as he moved gently across the car park. You didn’t catch the way Bucky’s pain twisted in anger as he looked down at the small puddle of red rainwater left behind where you had been lying. He had thought his heart was going to stop when he saw you lying there. It took him a second to be able to move, before sprinting to your side, trying to assess the damage and calling in every favour with every god on the earth for you to just be okay. He needed you to be okay. Then he could end whoever had done this to you.

Now, he nestled you in the passenger seat of his car, placing you down like you were made of porcelain, as he pulled off his hoodie, bundling up his jacket to use as a pillow, as he pulled the warmer, more comforting material of his hoodie as gently as he could over you. Something about the safety of being with Bucky turned off the adrenaline that had been running through your system, and as he moved round to the driver's side of the car, you shifted your head to look at him. Your voice, quiet and broken whispered out to him ‘I’m sorry Bucky’. Bucky simply shook his head, placing a hand gently on your cheek and saying back, ‘you have absolutely nothing to be sorry for Doll. Try to get some sleep, I’ll wake you up when we’re back at the compound’. And once again, you let unconsciousness claim you. 

‘Hey Doll, can you open those pretty eyes for me?’ A soft touch on your shoulder brought you back to reality, feeling more coherent now as you opened your eyes, than before. Whatever that asshole had put into your drink was starting to wear off. That didn’t help the constant pain hammering at the base of your skull as you opened your eyes, this time having to use less effort to bring the world into focus. 

‘Buck?’ 

‘Yeh sweetheart, I’m here. We’re back at the compound. Gonna get you indoors so we can have a proper look at you’. You hummed in agreement, lifting your head as Bucky reached to collect his jacket. You shuffled to the edge of the seat and, with no warning, pushed yourself to your feet. Or at least you tried to. Almost immediately, your knees buckled as you let out a sharp hiss of pain, hand immediately going to cover your ribs as you folded in on yourself. But you never felt your body hit the floor. Instead, gentle arms hooked under your knees and across your back as once more you’re scooped into Bucky’s arms. 

“Yeh Doll, don’t think with that nasty head injury I’m gonna be letting you walk anywhere anytime soon.’ Bucky huffed out, smiling softly down at you, looking at you like you were his whole world. 

‘I -‘

‘Don’t even try doll, we both know you’re too stubborn for your own good. Just let someone else take care of you for once.’ You look down at your hands, softly nodding your head. ‘We gotta get you cleaned up doll, are you okay if I bring you into my room? My kit’s in the bathroom’  You could only nod again, your brain struggling to keep up with what was happening, Bucky’s softness and questioning voice such a sharp contrast to the man who earlier that evening had tried to take whatever he wanted without consent. 

‘Okay doll, I’m just gonna sit you down on the bed here.’ You’d been into Bucky’s room plenty of times before, whether that be to watch a film, to comfort him after a nightmare or just to chat, but a sense of shyness crept over you as he placed you down on the bed. Without a word, Bucky started gathering his medical supplies from around the room and knelt down in front of you, worry still clouding his features as he looked up at you. ‘This isn’t gonna feel the nicest doll, but I’ll try and be gentle.’ Slowly, Bucky started to clean up the worst of your injuries. You’d had plenty before, of course, but there was such a difference between an injury you got in battle and ones you’d got when you were supposed to be out on a romantic evening. Bucky couldn’t stop himself from letting out whispers of apologies each time you grimaced as the disinfectant stung against your cuts. He gently made his way behind you, hands lingering on your shoulders, letting you know exactly where he was and what he was doing the whole time, making sure you felt safe as he was checking the back of your head. ‘Ok Doll, you’re gonna have a concussion, but I don’t think you’re gonna need stitches. Is there anywhere else I need to look at?’ You whispered out ‘my ribs’, and as you pulled down the top of your dress, you heard a sharp inhale from Bucky.

 ‘I’m going to kill him’. You looked down, something between shame and embarrassment clouding your features. Bucky’s fingers quickly found your tilted chin, forcing you to look at him. ‘This is not your fault doll. I am so sorry. We should have been there. I should have been there. But this is not on you. None of this is on you.’ Bucky’s eyes locked onto yours with intense pain, searching for permission before he touched you again, letting you feel completely in control of the situation. You nodded your head slightly, as a cool vibranium hand came to hold your back up while his flesh one pressed gently against your ribs, already a mix of purples and blues and dark bruising encased your side. 

‘I think you’ve got some fractured ribs,’ Bucky says, running a hand through his hair. ‘I’m gonna get you some of my sweats to change into so we can wrap your ribs. Is that okay?’  Once again, all you could do was nod. The next ten minutes pass in relative silence as Bucky helps you into one of his Henleys and a pair of his joggers, before wrapping your ribs with as much care as he possibly could. Once he was happy that your physical injuries had been addressed, he sat himself down on the ground next to the bed, looking up at you. Not pushing, but there, as a presence, as a reassurance. Promising you he was there. Promising you were safe now. That’s when you drew in a shaky deep breath, lowering yourself with Bucky’s help to sit next to him on the floor, resting your head on his shoulder, seeking any kind of physical comfort you could get. You told him what had happened.

‘I um, god I didn’t even want to go on this date in the first place. It became clear he was a prick pretty quickly. There were these guys outside the bar who made some comments on our way in, and he just laughed with them. Said I was ‘his’ like he owned me or something’. The shoulder your head was resting against tensed briefly, before relaxing again, and you heard Bucky take in a deep, shaky breath, barely containing his rage. ‘I went to the bathroom and when I came back, he’d bought me a new drink. I didn’t question it. I was a fucking idiot. He must have slipped something in it. I hadn’t even clocked it until we left the bar. He was on me in seconds. I couldn’t -‘ You broke off, looking up at Bucky with red eyes, who only smiled at you through the tears that were starting to form in his eyes, ‘take your time doll, there’s no rush.’ 

You took a deep breath before continuing. ‘I couldn’t get him off of me. He slammed my head against the wall and started pushing himself against me. Kept kissing me, groping me and not letting go.’ You could hear the mechanics of his metal arms whirring softly as he clenched his fist tight enough to leave a dent behind. Behind his eyes, a storm was raging, but you’d started now, and you needed to get it all out. ‘It was when his hand reached down between my legs that something in me snapped. I, uh, I kneed him in the balls to try and get him away, but uh. I guess he didn’t like that. The next thing I knew, I was on the ground, my cheek split, being kicked in the chest. I don’t know how long it went on for I, um, I passed out, I guess. All I knew was that I needed help, that I needed you. I, I’m sorry I called you, but I knew you’d come for me, Bucky. I knew you’d save me.’ Tears were streaming down your face now, freely and with no remorse. Slowly, you felt the figure you were leaning on shift so that Bucky was kneeling in front of you. ‘I will always come for you, Doll. Always. The end of the world wouldn’t keep me away’. Slowly, he leant forwards, placing the gentlest kiss imaginable to your forehead. 

As he leant back, he let out a deep breath. ‘Now might not be the best time, I know Doll. But you gotta know there’s nothing I wouldn’t do for you. I like you, sweetheart. Like, a lot. So much I think my chest is gonna burst when you walk into the room. You don’t gotta say anything, you don’t gotta like me back, I’m not asking you for that. But I promise you now, I will always be here for you. I will turn this world upside down for you. God, I am so, so glad you called me. I will always come for you Doll. Always.’ 

You couldn’t help the tear that slipped down your cheek. But you paid it no mind. Instead, you leaned into Bucky, softly pressing your lips to his. Bucky didn’t move for a second, didn’t kiss you back, didn’t pull away, as if he couldn’t believe what was happening. But slowly, he started to kiss you back, a kiss full of love and promise and softens. Slowly, you sat back against the bed, looking up to Bucky, before whispering out ‘Buck, I have liked you since the first day I met you. I didn’t think you felt the same way, it’s the whole reason I stayed away.’

‘God's doll, I’ve been an idiot. But I’m gonna make it up to you I promise. If you’ll let me?’ The tear tracks on your face that had been caused earlier that evening by so much sadness were suddenly replaced with tears of happiness, as you nodded back at Bucky. ‘I’d like that, a lot.’ Bucky simply leant in to kiss you again, gently, another promise of love and comfort as his hands cradled your face, thumbs wiping away your tears, before pulling away to pick you up and gently place you in his bed, careful the whole time of your ribs and head. You felt the bed dip next to you. Bucky shifted towards you, gently resting his arm over your waist as if in a question of ‘is this okay’. It was when your hand rested over the top of his, pulling his closer to you that he was enveloping you in warmth and love as he held you. ‘No more blind dates, doll. Once you’re all healed up, I’m taking you on a proper date, one you deserve, and I’m gonna show you how you mean the world to me’ Bucky whispered into your hair, placing a kiss over the butterfly stitches on your cheek as you drifted off to sleep next to Bucky. You’d shared a bed so many times before, after nightmares, or the other simply falling asleep. But this time, your heart was full and warm, and you drifted off to sleep safe, protected and next to the man you loved. 

Authors Note: Hi Friends, welcome to my first oneshot on Tumblr! It's been over three years since I've last written any fan fiction, but after reading a bunch of @marvelstoriesepic 's work, I've been inspired to get writing again, so welcome to the chaos 🤍

[hhiggs]

Black Sheep

Summary : The Winter Soldier fell in love with his doctor. Bucky Barnes remembers.

Pairing : Bucky Barnes x doctor!reader (she/her) 

Warnings/tags : Protective!Bucky, slow-burn, trauma bonding, whump, bit of fluff and a lot of angst, violence, mentions of death, medical trauma, human experimentation, psychological manipulation, emotional and physical abuse, attempted and threatened sexual assault, isolation. Protective!Bucky, slow-burn emotional bonding, and angst. Reader discretion is strongly advised, especially for survivors of sexual violence or abuse. (Please let me know if I miss anything!!!)

Word count : 9.2k 

Requested by : Anon! Based on this request

Note : If you’d like to be on the taglist, message me! It gets lost in the comments sometimes. Enjoy!

When you took the job, you didn’t ask too many questions

The recruiter approached you late—long after you’d sent out resumes, long after your student loan grace period had dried up and your dreams of a hospital residency were smothered under interest rates and rejection emails. They found you exactly when they knew you’d be desperate. 

The offer came in a nondescript envelope. No return address and company name. Just a number to call, and a time limit.

It sounded too good to be true. It offered full medical license activation and triple the usual pay. Off-books, but government-sanctioned, they claimed. You’d be working with elite personnel in a high-clearance, undisclosed location. It was a matter of national security, they said. 

When you made contact, they brought you to a warehouse and made you read non-disclosure agreements—dozens of them. They didn’t let you take them home to review. You signed everything in a windowless room with a clock that ticked too fast, and signed up to the project.

Your official title was “Classified field medic for enhanced personnel. Clearance Level 6 required.” It sounded impressive, official. You told your parents it was part of a DOD black ops program and that you weren’t allowed to say more.

You were happy you could finally help— 

 they had far too much medical debt to ever dig their way out.

And… They were proud.

If only they knew.

You were told you’d be assigned to “classified subjects.”

When they finally gave you the details of the work, you noticed the facility wasn’t listed on any public records. The address they gave you wasn’t on any GPS. The car that picked you up had no license plates. You were blindfolded before arriving.

You should have run then. But you didn’t, because they paid in advance.

You paid off your loans in one go and gave the rest to your family, promising you’d be earning more over the next couple of years. 

The facility you were assigned to didn’t have windows. The lights never changed. Days bled into each other until even your internal clock began to fail you. The air was too clean, the silence too dense—like the walls were swallowing sound. They injected you with yellow liquid when you arrived, and you weren't allowed to ask for details. Cameras were in the corners, always watching. 

You weren’t allowed to ask names. You weren’t given files.

You weren’t allowed your phone. No clocks. No outside contact unless you had prior clearance.

They never called it a hospital, because it wasn’t.

It was a slab of steel buried deep underground in Siberia, and you worked under it like a cog in the coldest machine you’d ever known. The men you reported to didn’t wear name tags or rank insignias. They all looked the same— pale-faced, dressed in black. You didn’t know their names, and you have never heard them use yours, either.

At first, you told yourself it was temporary. Just for a year. Just until you paid off your loans. Just until you figured out where you really belonged.

But then you saw the red flags. You folded them neatly and tucked them away with your conscience.

See, they knew the kind of people to look for— desperate ones. They recruit smart people who were overworked, drowning in debt or grief or fear. The ones who couldn’t afford to ask where the money came from. 

And by the time you realised who you were really working for, it was too late. Because no one leaves that facility unless it was in a body bag. 

Hydra was predatory like that.

—

You had been patching up STRIKE team operatives for almost a year. You were good—efficient, clean, and silent. You didn’t pry, and what made you valuable.

You never asked where the injuries came from. Bullet wounds, knife gashes, torn ligaments, crushed bones—you treated them all. You developed antiseptics that worked faster than standard-issue cream and learned how to seal a shrapnel wound in under ten minutes. You fixed what needed fixing, and you didn’t get in the way of the mission.

One morning, you were pulled from your bed at 0400 hours without an explanation. Two men in black shook you awake by the arm and took you to an elevator that descended farther than you knew the facility even went. There was a change in the air the deeper you went—thicker, colder. Like the walls were full of ghosts.

They didn’t tell you what your new assignment was, not until you stepped into the white-lit room and saw him.

He was on a reinforced chair, with blood crusted over his ribs and soaked through his cargo pants. The metal arm was twitching with little sparks, the seams dripping oil and blood in equal parts. His right eye was swollen shut and his lip was split.

And still— he didn’t look away.

You’d heard whispers about him before— the Asset.

They called him It.

Not a name. Not a person. A living weapon— built, not born.

You expected more people guarding the cell, but the only other man in the room was his handler— Colonel Vasily Karpov. You’d met men like him before, but none who looked so openly afraid of the thing they commanded.

"The previous doctor had been terminated due to noncompliance,” Karpov said, which was Hydra-speak for the Asset snapped his spine in two like a breadstick.

Your mouth went dry. "And I’m next in line?"

“You’re competent,” he said. “And replaceable.”

He walked out before you could respond.

The door shut behind him with a final hiss, like a coffin sealing.

And then there was just you— and him.

You took a step closer. He tracked your movement with his blue, calculating eyes. You could tell he didn’t know what you were—but knew how to kill you if you got close.

You didn’t speak at first. You just moved slowly, methodically. 

Eventually, you became brave enough to clean the blood. You assessed the damage. His injuries were extensive— fractured ribs, dislocated shoulder, deep lacerations across his abdomen. Most people would’ve gone into shock hours ago.

But he sat there, still breathing like a machine.

He didn’t flinch when you treated him.

Not even when you pulled a broken tooth from the inside of his right bicep.

He winced, though, when you put a hand on his shoulder to soothe him. And later, when your gloved hand rested gently on his chest, while rubbing small circles to calm him down, his eyes flicked to your face.

It was the first time he looked at you. 

Afterward, you logged the treatment. You followed the protocol. You filed the injury report.

In the official files, they referred to him as an it. But in your private notes, you called him he.

—

Over the next year or so, you were his doctor. 

And apparently, you were the only doctor who survived more than eight months.

You’d fix up his ribs when they were fractured. You cleaned bullet wounds from his side, his shoulder, the meat of his thigh. You iced swollen knuckles and stitched torn flesh, always so amazed how quickly his body healed. 

But still, they used him until he broke. They froze him from time to time, but after he was out, they dragged him back and told him to put the pieces together.

You worked in silence. He sat in silence.

Most days, his eyes were washed-out and programmed.

But sometimes, during the worst of the injuries—when your hands pressed into open wounds, when you whispered sorry— his eyebrows softened.

At this point, you had memorised his injuries, and the places his enemies targeted again and again. You started pre-packing supplies before he even arrived. 

The handlers noticed.

You began modifying your ointments—adding subtle numbing agents, to match his supersoldier metabolism. 

You weren’t supposed to. They wanted him in pain. 

But you did it anyway.

Once, they brought him in half-conscious, his metal arm sparking at the joint, blood soaked through the tactical gear. There was a knife wound under his ribs— and it was too deep. 

He grunted when you pressed gauze to it.

It was not a reaction to pain. It was a warning. His eyes met yours, and they were clearer than usual— as if he was fighting something.

And then, for the first time, you realised: He knew what was happening to him.

Maybe not always. Maybe not fully.

But there was a man inside the machine, and today was awake just long enough to hate it.

That night, they froze him and drilled the trigger words into his brain again. 

—

Tonight, he came back worse than usual.

Bruised. Bloodied. Shot in seven different places. His face was partially swollen, split lip crusted with dried blood, a jagged tear across his side soaking his uniform black-red. His metal arm twitched violently, fingers clenching and unclenching with a mechanical rhythm— as if the programming inside him was short-circuiting.

He was strapped into the chair again, the restraints digging into his wrists deep enough to turn the skin purple. Four guards had hauled him in like he was an animal— one of them nursing a broken arm. 

They left you alone with him and chuckled, “good luck.” 

The Asset’s head was bowed low, hair falling like a curtain over his eyes. The tension in his shoulders was wrong. Too rigid, too coiled, like a wire stretched too tight and ready to snap.

You stepped closer, and he jerked suddenly against the restraints—and his metal hand nearly caught your arm.

You froze.

In your peripheral vision, the guards laughed behind the glass.

He didn’t look at you.

He was breathing hard and shaking violently, as if was trying to stay in his body.

You looked at the camera in the corner, swallowing back a panic and anger.

“I can’t treat him like this,” you said. If he didn’t calm down enough for you to stitch him up soon, he was going to bleed out.

Your voice was sharper than you meant it to be. It was… unprofessional. 

A few seconds passed before the speaker crackled.

“That’s too bad,” said Karpov’s cold, detached voice. “It is your job.”

You stared at the glass behind which they watched— always watched.

Then you turned back to him.

You tried, as always, to be gentle. To be careful. You knelt to clean the gash under his ribs. You threaded your needle, soaked the wound with antiseptic.

But his body thrashed again.

You dropped the needle.

His metal arm lunged forward, nearly catching your throat before the restraints snapped him back into place.

He didn’t mean to, you reminded yourself.

But the part of him that killed without asking questions was surfacing, and you were too close.

Your hands shook.

He turned his head away from you as if ashamed. Or furious. 

Fuck.

You were losing him.

So you did the only irrational, human thing that came to mind.

You… sang.

“Baa, baa, black sheep, have you any wool…”

Your voice cracked on the first line. It had been years— you hadn’t sung it since you were small— curled up on your mother’s lap while she ran her fingers through your hair and kept the nightmares away.

You saw his breathing slow down, just slightly. 

“Yes sir, yes sir, three bags full…”

He…  didn’t flinch again.

You kept singing while you threaded the needle and stitched the worst of the gash along his side. His trembling eased.

You spoke without really meaning to, your voice almost a whisper.

“My mother used to sing it to me,” you lulled. “I only realised later what it meant,” you continued. “‘One for the master, one for the dame…’”

You wiped sweat from your forehead, working on a deeper wound now.

“Servitude, right? ‘One for the little boy who lived down the lane.’ Maybe lullabies sung to entertain children. Maybe they’re for making people… obedient,”

You paused, still stitching, thankful he calmed down. 

“Because I think…,” you said, tilting your head as you managed to fish a bullet out of his side. “Obedience it taught. Not born.”

And then, like the thought slipped out of your mouth without permission, “Were you taught well?”

You didn’t expect a response. 

But this time, his head turned and he looked at you.

His voice came out rough, underused, gravel dragged across rusted metal. But these sounds were not growled nor screamed.

“It was the only thing I remember learning,” he whispered. 

You froze.

It was the first time you had ever heard him speak.

The needle slipped from your hand, fell into the tray with a clink. You were stunned. 

Through all that, he watched you. 

You knelt beside him, picked up the needle again with shaking hands.

His eyes followed you as you resumed treating him. He was silent the rest of the session. 

But something had changed.

—

The first time he leaned into your touch was a couple of months later. 

You were bandaging a wound just beneath his collarbone in tight, methodical loops when your fingers brushed the skin of his neck. He let out a deep breath and tilted his head just slightly toward your hand.

He… made a conscious choice. 

You didn’t say anything, and neither did he. But your hands lingered a little longer than usual.

Sometimes, when he was lucid, he’d look at your hands while you worked— following their motion like they were the only real thing in the room. You weren’t sure what he was seeing. 

Then… you started narrating aloud. It was partly for him, partly for you. “This’ll sting a little,” you’d say, cleaning a wound.

“Pressure here—sorry, hold on…”

He never answered at first. 

Then one day, he did.

You were stitching a deep tear in his thigh when your thread caught. “Sorry,” you said under your breath.

“You always say that.”

You looked up, needle halfway through the thread. “Say what?”

“‘Sorry,’” he managed, “it’s not your fault.”

“Sorry,” you mentioned sheepishly. “I’ll stop saying it.”

Then, you resumed your work.

The next time he came in, he was limping badly, and for once, the restraints weren’t used. Maybe they knew he couldn’t stand. Maybe they didn’t care if he bled out.

And he didn’t even make it to the chair. He sat on the floor instead.

When you knelt beside him, your knees touching his, he didn’t pull away. He let you cut the fabric from yet another ruined suit— fifth one this month— or year? You have long lost track of time in this Siberian bunker. 

Still, he let you clean the blood from his temple.

“Don’t they ever give you a break?” you asked, not expecting an answer.

“No,” he said simply. 

You frowned. 

Still, your hands were steady.

You started humming when he came in—low, quiet melodies under your breath. Sometimes lullabies. Sometimes nothing at all—just sounds, like a lifeline tossed into water. He never asked you to stop.

One night, after they’d brought him in burned—his arm singed, the edge of his jaw blistered—you held an ice pack against his skin and whispered, “You shouldn’t be alive after half of this.”

He didn’t speak for a long time. Then, after careful consideration, he said, “Sometimes I think I’m not.”

Eventually, he started helping you—lifting an arm for treatment, shifting his weight when he knew it would help you work faster. He never said much. Never more than a sentence or two. But the words, when they came, were clear. 

“Thank you.”

“Be careful.”

One night, he asked for your name.

You told him. But when you asked him what his was, he only said, “I don’t know.”

But for the first time in a very long time, The Asset smiled. 

Because it was the first time anyone ever cared to ask.

—

When he wasn’t in cryofreeze, they kept him in a reinforced room that wasn’t technically a cell, but wasn’t anything else either. It had a cot, a chair, and a toilet.

You called it the holding room.

They called it the kennel.

You’d come in for treatment checks once or twice a week between missions— tended his joints, monitored the fluid viscosity in his metal arm, checked for infection. 

But the guards watched him too. Always. From the control room, behind the glass, hands on the mic.

They joked about him.

At first, it was petty things— how much blood he could lose before he passed out, how many bones had healed crooked.

But it got worse.

Much worse.

They joked about his body when he was in heat. How he “rutted in his sleep sometimes.” How they’d seen the security feed catch him grinding against the mattress, the cot, the restraints, whatever he could in his animal state after missions.

“He’s always desperate after a kill,” one of them said once, laughing. “Bet he doesn’t even know what he’s doing. Fucking the pillow like a mutt.”

You had frozen when you heard it. But today—today, it went further.

“Bets?” one of them said. “Ten rubles on the mattress tonight. Twenty on the wall.”

All three of the guards stationed to watch that night laughed. 

“Stop,” you said, through gritted teeth. “What you’re doing is disgusting. Watching him like that—mocking him— when his agency’s being taken from him? He’s a fucking person and you need to grow up.”

What followed was the longest ten seconds of silence in your life. 

And then one of them leaned forward in his chair and sneered. “If you think he’s a person, why don’t you go in there?”

You blinked. “What?"

“Go on,” The other guard grinned and got up from his seat. “If you think he’s man and not machine, let’s test it.”

You stepped back, realising what their plan was. “Don’t touch me.”

“Too late.”

Their hands grabbed your arms.

You fought—kicked, screamed, bit one of them hard enough to draw blood—but there were three of them, and you were half their size. One of them slammed your head into the wall hard enough to daze you. 

You didn’t know where the pain began — your scalp where they’d yanked your hair? The side of your jaw where a fist had struck you clean across the face? 

Still, you fought. You slammed your elbow into one guard’s windpipe hard enough to make him choke. You thrashed and tried everything, but they were stronger. 

And they enjoyed it.

You’d never seen teeth like that — bared in joy at suffering. One of them— Maksimov had blood on his knuckles and another— Yuri had both hands up your shirt before you bit him hard enough to draw blood.

You screamed, “He—we— a person!” not knowing whether you meant yourself or the Winter Soldier.

But they didn’t care.

One of them tore at the buttons of your shirt while another held your arms behind you. The fabric split as your bra snapped and air hit your chest and you curled inward, shaking, humiliated, trying to hide your body with trembling hands.

“He’ll definitely go for her pussy,” one of them muttered like it was a bet at a bar.

“I’d go for the ass first,” another chuckled. “Tighter.”

Then came the worst line.

“I bet the dumb beast doesn’t know the difference and finish in her mouth in under three minutes.”

The laughter didn’t stop.

Your legs gave out once they dragged you through the hallway to the lower levels. You stumbled, bleeding from your lip, your breasts half-exposed, nails broken from the fight. They hauled you back up and slammed your back into the steel door before keying it open.

You saw the inside of the room for only a second before they shoved you in and locked the door behind you with a clang.

“Have fun, soldat!” A guard, Anton, said.

You fell, and started trembling.

Everything hurt.

And then you looked up.

He was there.

The Asset — him. The Winter Soldier.

He was standing in the center of the room. He wasn’t strapped down this time, his long hair damp and clinging to his cheeks. His chest was bare, streaked with drying blood and oil. His eyes locked onto you the moment you hit the floor.

You froze.

Your arms flew across your body, trying to cover yourself as you backed yourself into the wall.  You curled in on yourself, heart hammering so loud it drowned out the rush of blood in your ears.

He’ll fuck you, they had said. He’ll take the choice away from you. He’ll use you as a way to satisfy himself.

You believed it for a second.

You’d seen what he could do — seen the machine they’d made him into. You’d see the bloodlust in his eyes when he came back from missions. 

You were terrified.

You curled tighter.

He took one step forward.

And… stopped.

You took a chance and looked at your face.

He wasn’t looking at your chest. He wasn’t leering. His pupils weren’t blown wide with mindless hunger. He wasn’t hard, or panting, or unchained from reality.

He was staring at your injuries.

At the torn fabric, at the swelling in your cheek. The handprint rising red on your arm. And the grip marks on your breaks. The blood at your lip. His brow furrowed.

And his whole body… melted.

The heat was gone, almost instantly. 

Slowly, he lowered himself to one knee.

“Who…” he rasped, “did this to you?”

His voice was hoarse, barely there. But there was no mistaking the rage that had formed underneath it — nothing like the lust the guards had imagined.

He handed you his only blanket, and you clutched it. He let you wrap yourself in it, and when you couldn’t stand, he helped you sit up, not touching your skin unless he had to.

“Maksimov, Yuri, and Anton,” you whispered, lip trembling.

His teeth clenched.

He reached out slowly — slow enough that you could move away, slow enough that you knew it wasn’t force — and brushed the blanket more tightly around your shoulders, like he was covering you from the world, from the camera, from the three guards he knew were watching.  

You were still crying. You didn’t realise it until his human thumb brushed away a tear from your cheek.

He didn’t say anything for a while.

He just sat there, at your level, holding the blanket closed with one hand, eyes locked on yours. Not on your body. Not on your skin. 

You folded into his chest, not because he demanded it, but because it was safe. 

He wrapped his arms around you like he’d never learned how to hold a person without breaking them. And still — he didn’t break you.

He just held you, shivering, until your breathing slowed.

And in the silence, you heard the quietest thing of all. “I won’t hurt you.”

Once again, The Asset had made a choice. 

A human one.

—

Hours passed.

The two of you stayed curled together on the concrete. You had stopped crying eventually, but your body still trembled now and then— from shock, from adrenaline.

You still felt his arm around your shoulders—gentle, not possessive.

The guards who had been watching were probably bored. You thought maybe—maybe—you’d be left alone. Maybe they’d gotten the message. Maybe they wouldn’t push again.

You were proven wrong when the heavy steel door hissed open.

You barely had time to pull the blanket tighter.

The same three guards entered and they were prepared. They carried sleek, matte black rifles. Loaded, to deal with The Asset should he go rogue. 

And then you heard the voice.

“Что с тобой, солдат?” — What the fuck is wrong with you, Soldat?

Yuri stepped forward, gun dangling casually in his hands, eyes not even on The Asset— but on you.

“Мы дали тебе дырку, и ты даже не воспользовался ею?” — We gave you a hole and you didn’t even use it?

You flinched so hard your head hit the metal wall behind you.

The Asset stood up and stepped directly in front of you, body between yours and theirs, fists clenched. He was…shielding you.

The guards exchanged glances, laughing now. One of them cocked his gun and slung it over his shoulder like a prop in a theatre.

“Ладно. Тогда мы сами её трахнем,” —Fine. Then we’ll use her ourselves. Maksimov said, smiling.

And then Yuri moved fast. He reached out and grabbed your ankle, hard, yanking you out of the blanket.

You screamed.

And The Asset snapped.

No hesitation, No programming.

Just rage.

The Asset’s metal fist punched Yuri square in the chest and launched him into the far wall. The impact was loud enough that you heard a crack—maybe the wall, but most likely Yuri’s spine.

Before anyone else could react, he twisted and ripped the rifle from Anton’s hands. Without really aiming, he pulled the trigger and shot Maksimov in the throat.

Blood sprayed the walls, and Maksimov gurgled once before slumping to the ground.

Anton raised his hands to surrender.

Too late.

Bucky pivoted, metal arm slamming the barrel of the rifle into Anton’s face with brutal force, then fired— one shot, clean through the eye.

He dropped the gun.

It clattered to the floor, ringing louder than the gunshots had.

He turned back toward you, his shoulders rising and falling with every breath.

He knelt. “I’m sorry you had to see that.”

You blinked, still clutching the blanket, hands shaking.

—

Within minutes of the bodies hitting the ground, you heard the sound of heavy boots walking in.

Karpov entered the cell like he owned the air in it.

He didn’t look at you.

He didn’t look at the corpses.

He only looked at The Asset who was still crouched in front of you, body curled like a shield.

Karpov simply pressed a switch on a small black device he held in his gloved hand.

There was a crack of electricity, and The Asset screamed.

You jolted, reaching for him—but it was no use.

His body seized up as the taser pulse ran through his spine, his metal arm locking tight against the floor, 

He didn’t resist. He didn’t even try.

When he collapsed unconscious beside the cot, Karpov turned to you without missing a beat.

“Come.”

You shook your head. “He—he was protecting me—he saved me—”

“You’ll have time for your little report later,” he snapped, throwing you some clothes to put on. “For now, come.”

—

The interrogation room was cold. 

Karpov stood across the table from you, arms folded.

“You will explain,” he said coldly.

Your eyebrows furrowed, still half in shock. “Explain what?”

He tilted his head. “You calmed him down.”

Your mouth opened, then shut.

"You do understand," he said in his frigid Russian-laced English, “that he should have either killed you, or fucked you.”

You froze.

He watched your reaction like a scalpel watches skin.

“That’s what the programming was designed to do,” he continued. “You are aware of his conditioning, yes?”

You nodded slowly, not trusting your voice.

“Then you know what heat was for.”

You have heard of why it was drilled in his brain— but you didn’t answer.

Karpov did not wait for permission to continue.

“It was an instinct trigger. Embedded in his biological and neural mapping through synthetic hormonal injections and psychosexual conditioning. During these ‘heat’ cycles, he was supposed to be motivated—” He paused, eyes narrow, “—it was supposed to encourage mating.”

Your throat closed. Did he really not care about the dead guards? Was the project really his main concern?

“The Soldier’s DNA is nearly perfect.” he said, as if it was. “Hydra wanted progeny. Super soldiers born, not built.”

He leaned in then, elbows on the table, steepling his fingers in front of his mouth.

“But every woman they introduced… didn’t survive long enough to be useful. He tore through them out of instinct. So the project was abandoned years ago. The heat was too unstable, and he had no control.” He sat down across from you. “Until you.”

Your stomach lurched.

“You,” Karpov said slowly, “calmed him down.”

“I—I didn’t do anything,” you whispered. 

“You must have!” he snapped. 

You flinched. 

“I’ve studied his tapes for years! I've watched him crush skulls with his bare hands, tear out throats. Rip people in half when the words are spoken. But you—” Karpov stood, circling the table again. “—you knelt half-naked in front of him while he was in heat—and instead of fucking you to death, he held you.”

“I don’t know,” you said hoarsely. 

Karpov stared at you for a long moment, then sighed. He picked up the file from the table and turned to leave.

At the door, without turning back, he said, “You’re being reassigned.”

—

When you went back to your quarters. Your bunk was gone.

Your locker was cleared and stuffed neatly into a duffel bag. 

On the floor was a folded piece of paper.

REASSIGNED TO: THE KENNEL Effective Immediately. Observation: Subject Winter Soldier Objective: Behavioral stabilization Note: Subject's physiological response indicates reduced volatility in your presence. Further utility assessment pending.

You sank onto the cot.

Now, to Hydra, you weren’t just a doctor. You were a leash.

—

The cot wasn’t meant for two.

It was military-issue— narrow, hard-edged, bolted to the floor like everything else in the kennel. At first, you didn’t even sit on it when he was there. You’d sleep on the floor with your back to the cold steel wall, too awkward to mention what happened that day. The blanket was wrapped tight, pretending it wasn’t humiliating, pretending you weren’t always cold.

At first, he’d just watch, afraid of crossing a line— especially after what had happened to you. 

Then, after a week, he motioned for you to sit beside him on the cot when you changed bandages or administered injections.

Then, a month in, after a mission where he came back with his knuckles broken and a gunshot wound near his ribs, you were too exhausted to curl back up on the floor. You’d been crying silently that night, your hands trembling as you stitched him, your eyes stinging, wondering where everything had gone wrong. 

When you’d finished, he looked at you. “…You don’t have to sleep on the floor.”

Your eyes flicked up.

“What?”

He shifted to make room. One side of the cot opened up to you.

You hesitated. Then nodded.

That night, you lay stiff as a board beside him, back to back, flinching to touch. You barely slept, afraid to breathe too loud.

But the next night, when you came back from the showers and the lights dimmed for sleep, he scooted over before you even asked.

By the second month, your backs were pressed together at night. 

By the third, you’d curl inward, and he’d curl, too. One of your legs would brush his. Your forehead might graze his chest. His arm, the flesh one, sometimes draped around your side in the middle of sleep and didn’t pull away when you shifted closer.

—

When his heat cycles came—and they always came—you prepared.

You stayed calm and gave him space. 

You… would sing to him. Lullabies, mostly— songs meant for children too small to understand how cruel the world could be.

He never moved toward you during those nights. He never touched you without invitation. He’d sit on the cot, the muscles in his neck pulled tight.

Sometimes he’d whisper things to himself, half-delirious.

"No. Not her. Not her."

—

When he was frozen, you stayed in the kennel alone.

You didn’t think you’d miss him, but you did.

You’d find yourself sitting on the floor beside his cot, staring at the sealed cryo-chamber, singing to yourself just to fill the space.

And when they unfroze and reset him, you were still his doctor.

You still iced his knuckles. You still placed his dislocated shoulder back. You still pulled bullets from his flesh and closed the wounds with care no one else gave him.

But after the first few months, he started looking at you differently.

Like he knew you. Even after resets. Even after ice.

—

One day, after a mission that had stretched on far longer than any of the others—he came back. He was quiet when he entered. He did not say a word. 

But after two hours of working on his wound, he whispered, “Bucky.”

You tilted your head, confused. You weren’t sure you’d heard right. 

Then he said it again, firmer this time. “My name is Bucky.”

What?

Your mouth opened slowly, your breath finally catching up. 

He… remembered?

“…Okay, Bucky,” you said, voice quieter than you meant it to be— because anything louder might shatter whatever this was—perhaps a glimpse of the man buried beneath all the programming and pain. “Can you please lift your arm for me?”

He did.

And for the first time, he looked… not just present. Not just there.

He looked real.

—

You were still asleep when the cold hands tore the blanket from your body.

Two Hydra agents stormed into the kennel, and before you could even sit up, they had you by the hair, dragging you off the cot like a rag doll.

Bucky shifted awake next to you, but the third guard tased him before he could fully even register what was happening.

“What—what are you doing—?!”

They didn’t answer. They just manhandled you down the corridor, your bare feet scraping along concrete, your heart still stuck between dreams and dread.

In the interrogation room, one of them shoved you into the metal chair so hard the back of your skull smacked against steel. A hand grabbed your chin, wrenching your face toward him. The other paced behind, a cattle prod crackling ominously in his grip.

You recognised the person in front of you as Karpov. “What did he tell you?”

You blinked. Your ears rang. You were still half-asleep, disoriented. 

Then you realised: 

Oh. 

Someone saw the footage.

Someone saw what happened last night. Someone heard Bucky say his name.

Your mouth opened, before shutting again. You weren’t even sure what to say. He didn’t tell you anything else, but if you said so, would they even believe you?

But Karpov demanded more.

“Did he say his designation?”

“Did he say anything else? Was there a code?”

“What did he tell you, girl?”

The prod surged forward with a snap of electricity, kissing your side. You screamed—more from shock than pain—but the heat seared like fire across your ribs. You convulsed in the chair, gasping, trying to curl away, but the restraints held you firm.

And then—through your haze—you saw a flicker in the hall.

You heard a grunt. A thud.

And suddenly—he was there.

The Winter Soldier. No—Bucky.

His body still shook from the effects of the tasers, but his eyes were burning. 

One of the agents turned in time to catch a brutal kick to the gut that sent him sprawling. The other barely got a hand to his weapon before Bucky lunged, using the full weight of his body to knock him back. You saw blood and heard bone crack.

In seconds, it was over. Even Karpov was hauled away to safety. 

Bucky was at your side, kneeling, his trembling fingers working clumsily at the restraints. 

“Bucky—” your voice cracked. “You’re hurt—your face—”

He didn’t answer right away. His eyes didn’t meet yours.

The cuffs snapped off.

You sagged forward, into his arms before you even realised you were doing it. You felt the thrum of his chest, the rise and fall of ragged breathing. 

He cupped your face with his human hand, and for a second you thought he might kiss you — but no. He pulled back.

Because he knew if he did, he wouldn’t have the strength to lose you.

“You need to go.”

You froze. “What?”

“There’s a tunnel—service corridor—they don’t watch it after hours. It connects to the south barracks. You can get outside the perimeter.”

“Bucky—no,” you said through gritted teeth, “I’m not leaving you.”

He clenched his teeth. 

“You have to,” he said. “I can’t protect you here.”

“I don’t care—”

“I do.”

That stopped you cold.

His voice cracked on those words. He looked away, just for a second, as if ashamed of how much he meant them. “I— I’m starting to know things I shouldn’t,” he said softly. “I need you to go. If I don’t… if I’m not… If they wiped me…”

You shook your head. “Don’t.”

“I need you to promise me,” he said, almost begging now. “Don’t come back for me.”

“I—please—”

His lips brushed your forehead, right before he shoved you gently but firmly toward the hall.

“Go.”

So you did.

—

Thirty Years Later.

The world had changed. 

Until yesterday, James Buchanan Barnes was a congressman. He didn’t go looking for redemption anymore. And he certainly didn’t go looking for you.

What would be the point?

You were probably… what? In your sixties? Seventies? If you’d survived at all— and Hydra said you hadn’t, that they’d caught you in one of the tunnels and killed you— he could only hope you’d built a life—married someone kind, had children, found a place where the past couldn’t follow you. If you had managed to find peace, he wasn’t going to rip it open like an old scar just to ask, Do you remember me?

So he never tried.

But he never loved again either.

Because even if he never said it out loud, Bucky Barnes had once loved you in a place where love wasn't supposed to exist. 

He still did.

That kind of love didn’t fade. It just lay quiet beneath the skin, like a healed-over wound that never quite stopped aching.

It wasn’t something he talked about. Not to Sam. Not to Steve, before he left. 

Until...

—

New York. Post-Void.

The sky was still clearing after the void had swallowed New York City whole

The Thunderbolts were scattered across the debris-littered street, dragging survivors from the wreckage after Valentina smirked smugly from successfully introducing them to the world as the New Avengers.

Bucky was scanning for movement in the fallen concrete.

That’s when he heard it.

It was faint, like madness like a lullaby from another life.

“Baa baa, black sheep… have you any wool…”

His whole body went still. 

He whipped around, scanning the dust and rubble, and—

There.

You were kneeling beside a crying girl on a broken stoop, blood smeared down her shin, and she had a sprained ankle— maybe. Nothing fatal—but you held her like she was made of glass, one hand gently pressing a bandage against her knee, the other stroking her curls as you sang.

And you… you hadn’t changed.

There was not a wrinkle on your skin, not a gray hair on your head. You didn’t look a day older than the last time he saw you, thirty years ago.

He was so stunned, he forgot how to breathe. 

“You know her?” Yelena asked, stepping beside him, flicking blood from her forehead.

“Yes sir, yes sir, three bags full.”

You calmed the little girl down when she started sobbing, making sure you were gentle with her injuries. 

Bucky didn’t answer.

Couldn’t.

His lips parted like he might say yes, but no sound came out. 

“One for the master, one for the dame,” you sang as the girl sniffled, “and one for the little boy who lives down the lane.”

It was like his lungs had forgotten air. His heart beat painfully inside his ribs—too much, too fast, too sudden.

And then—

You looked up.

Saw him.

And smiled.

—

You walked over to him like you were in a dream—like every step was an act of defiance to everything that had broken you, bent you, tried to erase you. 

He was now sitting on the ground, legs sprawled like they couldn’t quite hold him up anymore. Blood streaked across his jaw, already drying in cracked lines. His chest rose and fell like he’d just come back from drowning.

Your boots crunched over broken glass and gravel as you closed in. You didn’t speak at first. You didn’t know if he could handle words yet—not until your presence fully registered. 

You crouched down, and he flinched when you touched his face—not because it hurt, but because he didn’t trust that any of this was real.

“You’re hurt,” you finally said. “Let me help.”

You pulled out the antiseptic, your hands shaking slightly. You dabbed the cotton gently along the edges of a deep cut above his brow. The moment the liquid touched skin, he shuddered.

And then he started shaking.

The tremble that began in his hands and spread to his shoulders, his chest, his teeth. His mouth parted like he wanted to speak, to ask something, but the words got lost 

Tears welled in his eyes before he could stop them. His breath hitched before the first choked sob, clawing its way up his throat.

And maybe it had been.

Because it wasn’t just about seeing you. It was about seeing you alive.

Alive.

Not a hallucination. Not a memory. Not like he saw you, in the void. 

Alive. With breath in your lungs and heat in your veins and the same look in your eyes that once held him when he was in pain. 

His lips moved—silent at first. Then the words came out shaky. “Do you… remember me?”

You froze for half a second, eyes softening in a way that shattered him all over again.

“Of course I do,” you whispered, brushing a stray hair away from his forehead. “I could never forget the love of my life.”

Was that what he was to you?

After all this time, he still meant the same thing that you did to him? 

He turned his face away like it might somehow spare him some tears, but it didn’t. The sob that followed ripped from the deepest part of his heart, almost primitive. Not the kind you cry when you’re sad, but the kind you cry when you realise your heart’s still beating after being convinced it was gone.

He collapsed into himself, shoulders hitching, breath stuttering out in ragged gasps. His metal hand clawed blindly at the ground like he needed something solid to hold onto before he slipped under.

You didn’t say anything else. You just moved closer, wrapping an arm gently around his shoulders, resting your forehead to his temple as he wept.

Yelena had wandered off a while ago—probably in search of someone else to pester— most likely her father. 

She hadn’t even looked back. She probably knew that this moment didn’t belong to her.

It belonged to him. And you.

He tried to say something else—an apology, maybe, or a confession—but all that came out was, “I—I…” he swallowed, “I— I…”

“Bucky…” You hushed him gently, thumb brushing the tears from his cheek. “We’ll talk somewhere private, yeah?”

He barely nodded. 

Because right now, language was too small a thing. All he could do was hold onto you. And all his mind could think was the way your hand fit in his like it always had.

—

You walked ahead of him, leading him down the cracked sidewalk with a hand hovering just near his arm in case he stumbled again.

He hadn’t stopped shaking.

Every so often, Bucky would glance sideways at you—like if he looked away for too long, you might vanish. His eyes were still red, his fists clenched like it hurt to hold himself together. Still, he followed.

It wasn’t far—just a few blocks. Somewhere between tourist traps and bodegas. 

The sign above the trauma clinic was clean and professional. Your name etched in utilitarian serif, easily overlooked.

You didn’t take him through the front. Instead, you circled to the alley behind the building and paused before a rusted steel door that looked like it hadn’t been used in years. But then—you looked directly at a small, seamless panel embedded beside the frame.

A red light swept across your retina, and when it recognised you— the lock hissed open with a pneumatic sigh.

“Come on,” you murmured as the door swung inward.

You descended a narrow staircase, the lights flickering on ahead of you one by one—clean, white fluorescence bathing the walls. At the bottom, it opened into a wide, reinforced corridor. 

And then you turned the final corner.

Oh.

That was all his mind could manage.

This was not a secret lab. Not some grim Hydra hellhole or impersonal bunker. 

No. This place was…

It was your life. A shrine. A sanctum buried beneath the city.

It was a sterile medical bay with sleek counters, an exam table and chair, sealed cabinets filled with trauma kits and gauze and every instrument a trauma doctor could need—but the walls told a different story.

To his right: a newspaper framed in glass. “Harlem Disaster Narrowly Avoided: Doctor Treats Over Fifty Civilians After Abomination Rampage.” Your name was in the byline. There was even a photo—blurry, taken on someone’s flip phone, of you, sleeves rolled up, arms smeared with blood as you performed a field tourniquet on a screaming man.

Then, “Unsung Hero of New York: Trauma Doctor Saves Dozens in Battle of Midtown.”

He kept turning. The memorabilia… evolved.

A cracked Daredevil helmet, dark red and scuffed.

A display case holding a single 9mm bullet, etched with the faint white skull of the Punisher— etched on it. 

A shattered web cartridge, unmistakably Spidey’s, with a bit of dried synthetic fluid still crusted at the nozzle.

Even a shelf with a glittery Ms. Marvel Funko Pop, clearly out of place, sitting cheerfully among medical books and gauze rolls.

Bucky’s voice, when it came, was nothing more than a breath. “What is this?”

You stepped beside him, your fingers trailing the little bobblehead. “Gifts from… friends.”

He turned to you. “Friends?”

You gave him a tired smile and joked, “Is it so unbelievable for me to have friends, Bucky?”

He blinked, startled by the levity. You gently nudged him to sit on the exam table, and he obeyed without protest as you cleaned his wounds. 

“I just…” he said, voice thin. “I don’t know how you’re still alive. Or how you still look so…” His eyes lingered. “…young.”

You didn't meet his gaze. “Thank Hydra.”

Bucky swallowed, but you continued. 

“When I got recruited, they injected me with something— they said it was just a stimulant— to keep me going longer, help me work longer hours.”

He went still.

“Later, I learned that it was something called the Infinity Formula. Not exactly a Super Soldier Serum, but it… slowed my aging significantly. I guess they didn't want to have to train more people.”

You kept working on the cuts on his face. 

“When you got me out… I didn’t know how to be in the world anymore. So I built this practice. I wanted to be… useful”

Your fingers paused briefly, then continued.

“But then, vigilantes started showing up. People who couldn’t go to hospitals— people who were bleeding, hunted, scared. It was a small community, so word spread.”

Bucky winced as you moved on to the next cut.

“I patched them up.” You nodded toward the artifacts on the walls. “No questions. Just… tried to keep them breathing long enough to get back out there. It became my life.”

Every artifact had a story, and you were the invisible thread stitching it together.

“A couple months ago, Fisk outlawed masked vigilantes and made everything worse. Not a lot come round anymore, but I still help. How could I not?” You looked up at him.“They show up half-dead, still trying to save people. They just need someone to believe they’re worth saving too.”

Bucky's hands curled into trembling fists at his sides.

You pulled the final stitch and wrapped the wound. “There,” you whispered. “You’re good.”

But Bucky didn’t move. He was staring again. Not at the artifacts, not at the walls. But… at you.

“You…” His voice cracked. “You never stopped.”

There was no more Hydra. No more handlers. No more needles.

And yet you continued doing what you do best. 

Back then, he'd thought he'd imagined it. That flicker of you— the only good thing in that place built to destroy anything good.

But now…

Now, here you were. Standing in front of him. Still real. Still breathing. Still looking at him like he was a man, not a weapon.

His voice, when it came, was hoarse and hesitant, like it hurt to say.

“Can I…?”

He didn’t finish the sentence. He looked at you, struggling to find his voice. “Can I touch you?”

You didn’t move for a heartbeat. But then you nodded.

And that was all he needed.

He pulled you ever closer, barely daring to breathe. He lifted his metal arm so gently, like you might vanish if he pressed too hard— he cupped your cheek.

His thumb brushed along your skin, just once.

It was real. 

His other hand followed, cradling your face between his palms. His calloused fingers trembled against you, his lips parting. A man who had faced death a thousand times over… and was now utterly undone by the fact that you were standing in front of him, alive.

Bucky pressed his forehead against yours, and the first sob slipped out of him like a wound opening in real time. His whole body curled inward, as if trying to shield you and collapse into you at the same time.

Your hands came up slowly, mirroring his motion like magnets finding their way to each other after centuries apart, holding him just as gently. “I missed you, Bucky.”

His eyes, that haunted blue, searched your face. “Why didn’t you come for me?” he asked, pain buried deep in his voice. You must’ve seen him in the news— during the Sokovia Accords, the ordeal with the Flag Smashers, or when he became a congressman. You simply have had to have seen him.

You swallowed hard, blinking away the sudden sting in your eyes. “I didn’t think…,” you admitted, “I didn’t think you’d remember me.”

His brows furrowed. “Of course I remembered you,” he said, a little broken, a little desperate. His thumb moved again, tracing circles against your skin. “But Hydra told me you were dead— I never believed them. But after everything, I thought maybe you’d moved on. That you were gone for good, one way or another.”

Tears welled in your eyes now, hot and brimming over, and you let them fall. “After what we’ve been through?” you asked, your voice trembling as a sad smile curled your lips. “How could I ever move on from you?”

He let out a sharp breath, like your words were a punch to the chest. Gently, as if giving you the chance to pull away,  he pulled you closer — chest to chest, heart to heart — until he helped you up and you were straddling his lap, your hands finding a perch on his shoulders, his arms caging you in like you were the most precious thing he’d ever held.

His forehead rested against yours again, breaths mingling, warm and shallow. 

“God, Bucky…After all this time,” you whispered in amazement, “what are we?”

He didn’t answer right away. 

Then, finally, with certainty, he said, “A choice.”

Your breath hitched.

“A choice,” he repeated, eyes locked with yours, his grip tightening slightly on your hips. “The first real choice I made after having my mind taken from me. The first person I cared for that were not orders, not missions.”

Oh.

You let your fingers trail up into his hair, letting yourself touch him like you’d dreamed about for so long. He leaned into it, eyes fluttering shut for a heartbeat.

You swallowed again, sighed when he leaned into your touch. 

“I…” you started, but  pulled back just slightly so you could see his face, your eyes meeting his. “Can I kiss you?”

He looked at you like you were the only person in the world that made any sense.

He could only nod. 

And you kissed him.

It was cautious at first, tentative, like a secret being unravelled — but the second he hummed, the world disappeared. His hand slid to the back of your neck, the other anchoring you to him as he kissed you like he’d been holding his breath for years. You melted into him, your mouths moving together like you’d done this a thousand times in your dreams.

When you finally pulled back, your forehead pressed to his again, both of you smiling like teenagers.

You let out a small laugh, “I’ve always wondered what your lips tasted like.”

He chuckled too, that low, boyish sound you hadn’t heard… ever. “Yeah?” he asked, fingers still tracing lazy lines along your spine. “Was it everything you imagined?”

You grinned, eyes still closed. “Better.”

He kissed your cheek, your jaw, the corner of your mouth and whispered, “I missed you, too.”

—

You and Bucky had taken it slow.

After those first intense days together, you both decided to learn about each other outside of Hydra. Just to see who you were now. 

You went on actual dates— coffee that turned into late dinners, morning hikes, lazy afternoons in museums, cooking together and arguing over whether pineapple belonged on pizza. 

Turns out, outside the cold walls of bunkers and laboratories and hidden bases, you and Bucky were more compatible than you'd even dared hope. He liked vinyl records and peaceful mornings. You liked stargazing and stealing his sweaters. You both loved old noir films, loved sushi, and had developed a strangely passionate shared hobby for urban beekeeping.

You laughed more. He smiled more. It was like discovering each other for the first time all over again.

You’d kept your medical practice open, still offering your services to non-traditional patients. But when the Watchtower was done and the New Avengers moved in, they asked you to help the team.

Your official title was Medical Liaison and Trauma Consultant, but mostly you patched up a rotating cast of stubborn supersoldiers and spies who swore they “healed fast” and then passed out on your med bay floor.

But today, the med bay was calm — just a light checkup for Alexei, a bruised rib for Yelena, and a lot of banter.

Everyone knew you and Bucky were dating, but no one had the guts (or stupidity) to ask questions. 

Until now.

You were cleaning up your tray of instruments when Bob leaned back in his chair and asked casually, “So… how did you guys meet again?”

You paused.

Bucky, seated on the edge of the exam table with his shirt half-buttoned, glanced at you.

“Oh, you know,” you blinked, “Mutual enemies.”

There was a beat of silence.

“What does that even mean?” Walker asked, clearly disappointed. 

You smiled sweetly. “It means you don’t want to know.”

Yelena squinted at you from the other bed. “It means the real story is either classified or deeply traumatic.”

“Or both,” Alexei said.

You laughed — a little too brightly for the topic — and handed Yelena her discharge form. “Exactly. Now who’s next for bloodwork?”

Bucky slid off the table, kissing your cheek quickly as he passed. Ava rolled her eyes so hard you could practically hear it.

Mutual enemies? Yeah, right. 

The more accurate term would be: the best thing Hydra never meant to happen. 

– end.

General Bucky taglist:

@hotlinepanda @snflwr-vol6 @ruexj283 @2honeybees @read-just-cant

 @shanksstrawhat @mystictf @globetrotter28 @thebuckybarnesvault @average-vibe

@winchestert101 @mystictf @globetrotter28 @boy--wonder--187 @scariusaquarius

@reckless007 @hextech-bros @daydreamgoddess14 @96jnie @pono-pura-vida

@buckyslove1917 @notsostrangerthing @flow33didontsmoke @qvynrand @blackbirdwitch22

@torntaltos @seventeen-x @ren-ni @iilsenewman @slayerofthevampire

@hiphip-horray @jbbucketlist @melotyy @ethereal-witch24 @samfunko

@lilteef @hi172826 @pklol @average-vibe @shanksstrawhat

@shower-me-with-roses @athenabarnes @scarwidow @thriving-n-jiving @dilfsaresohot

@helloxgoodbi @undf-stuff @sapphirebarnes @hzdhrtss @softhornymess

@samfunko @wh1sp @anonymousreader4d7 @mathcat345 @escapefromrealitylol

@imjusthere1161 @sleepysongbirdsings @fuckybarnes @yn-stories-are-my-life @rIphunter

@cjand10 @nerdreader @am-3-thyst @wingstoyourdreams @lori19

@goldengubs @maryevm @helen-2003 @maryssong23 @fan4astic

@yesshewrites1 @thewiselionessss @sangsterizada @jaderabbitt @softpia 

@hopeofwinter @nevereclipse @tellybearryyyy @buckybarneswife125 @buckybarneswife125

@imaginecrushes @phoenixes-and-wizards @rowanthomasknapp @daystarpoet @thefandomplace

@biaswreckedbybuckybarnes @herejustforbuckybarnes @kitasownworld @shortandb1tchy @roxyym

@badl4nder

[hhiggs]

what's left behind 𐙚 b.b

pairing: new avenger!bucky barnes x you

warnings: nsfw, 18+, minors dni, soft smut, unprotected sex, lots of vulnerability, angst, arguments

summary: after finding out bucky’s leaving on another mission without telling you, everything falls apart. the argument is brutal, but that night, he comes back to hold you. just once more. maybe for the last time.

word count: 3.6k

author's note: hi loves, i hope you enjoy this fic, thank you for stopping by! i love ya and stay safe out there!

requests are open!

The training room pulsed with familiar noise, the heavy thud of gloves against bags, low music crackling from the corner speaker, the distant echo of Alexei's grunts as Yelena dodged and countered with practiced ease. You were seated near the mats, crouched low to tighten your bootlaces, half-listening as Ava adjusted the wraps on her wrists beside you.

Then came John. He wandered over with a towel slung around his neck and a water bottle in hand.

“Man,” he said with a half-laugh, “Barnes really got the short end of the stick this time, huh?”

You didn’t look up. “What are you talking about?”

He shrugged, grinning like it was just another joke. “Val’s sending him to Prague for that off-the-books recon shit. Solo op, no backup. Tonight, I think. Hope he’s got his will written.”

The blood drained from your face.

“What did you say?”

John blinked, caught off guard. “What? I figured you—”

Yelena’s head snapped toward him mid-spar. “John,” she barked, sharp as a blade. Her gloves dropped to the mat with a thud as she stalked over, face thunderous. “sometimes you should shut up"

But the damage was done. You were already rising, the laces on your boots forgotten, breath stuck somewhere between your ribs and throat.

“What mission?” you asked, voice brittle.

Yelena slowed as she approached, expression softening the second she really looked at you. “Shit,” she muttered, shoulders slumping. “He didn’t tell you.”

Your stomach turned. Ice spread through your limbs like a warning.

“No,” you whispered.

The room began to distort—muffled punches, shifting feet, the faint ring of metal-on-metal—all of it warped around the sudden roar in your head. You looked at Yelena, waiting for her to laugh it off, say she got the timing wrong, that it wasn’t a big deal.

She didn’t.

“It’s just recon,” she offered weakly. “Val briefed him this morning. Probably nothing.”

“And all of you knew?” you asked softly.

No one said it out loud, but the looks on their faces answered for them. Yelena's hesitation, Ava's downcast eyes, John's wince—it was written in the silence, heavy and unspoken.

“Then why didn’t he tell me?” The words were low, almost strangled. No one answered.

John had the decency to look like he wanted the floor to swallow him whole. His eyes flicked up to meet yours, guilt crawling over his features. "Maybe he just... didn’t want you to worry," he offered quietly, voice far too late and far too unsure.

You had heard that sentence one too many times. The last few instances Val had pulled him for something like this, he came back a mess, bloodied and bruised.

Once, he was rushed straight to the med wing in the middle of the night, unconscious, soaked in blood that wasn’t all his. And even then, he hadn’t been alone. John had been there, Ava too as his backup

But this time? This time he was going alone.

Alexei, still leaning against the ropes, huffed and shook his head. "Barnes is idiot," he muttered.

Ava moved like she might say something, lips parting slightly, then thought better of it. Yelena didn’t look away, she just watched you with something that looked too much like sympathy.

You stood there in the stunned quiet, heart crawling its way up your throat.

You inhaled sharply, blinked hard, and turned for the door.

“Where are you going?” Yelena asked, her voice soft now.

“I need to find him.”

You didn’t wait for a reply.

The doors slid shut behind you as you stepped into the corridor, every footfall too fast, too loud. The air outside the training room was cold, sterile, and it did nothing to cool the heat rising in your chest, that bitter, crawling ache you only ever felt when he shut you out.

He didn't even bother telling you.

Not even a word. Not at breakfast. Not when he kissed your forehead half-asleep last night. Not when he curled around you, hand resting warm on your hip like he always did when he didn’t want to talk about what was coming.

He was going to leave. Again. No note. No warning. You’d have woken up alone, found his side of the bed cold and empty, and the duffel gone.

Without telling you.

He came back around six that evening.

The door creaked open with that soft, careful click, the one he always used when he thought you might be sleeping. Like if he was quiet enough, you wouldn’t notice the weight he was carrying. Like he could still pretend this wasn’t about to break you.

You were already sitting on the edge of the bed, elbows braced against your thighs, hands clenched so tight your knuckles were bone-white. You heard the soft rustle of fabric as he stepped inside.

The quiet thud of his boots. He smelled like sweat and cold air and hotel soap, still damp from the showers downstairs, hair curling faintly at the ends. The black tactical shirt clung to his frame, soaked down the spine. He moved like nothing was wrong.

He set his gloves on the dresser. Dropped his bag near the closet. Reached for the strap of his holster.

“When were you going to tell me?”

His hands stopped moving. He turned slowly, eyes cautious, like he already knew.

“It’s just recon,” he said, voice steady in that way he used when he knew you were about to snap. “In and out.”

You rose to your feet. “Don’t do that,” you said, voice shaking. “Don’t stand there and lie to my face like it’s not another off-the-books op with no support. Don’t act like Val doesn’t send you to bleed for her."

He exhaled through his nose, jaw clenched. “I wasn’t lying.”

“You weren’t telling the truth either,” you said. “You weren’t going to tell me anything. You were going to disappear. Again.”

He stepped back, defensive. “I was going to tell you—”

“When?” you cut in, voice cracking. “When I woke up to an empty bed and your fucking dog tags gone?”

His mouth opened. Closed. He ran a hand through his hair like he could smooth out the mess he made with silence. “I didn’t want you to panic.”

“Bullshit,” you hissed. “You didn’t want to see me panic. You didn’t want to watch me fall apart because you would rather carry everything alone and pretend it doesn’t hurt.”

His tone sharpened. “You think this doesn’t kill me too? You think I want to leave you? That I don’t lie awake every time I get called and wonder if it’s the last time I’ll see you?”

“Then why do you keep letting them take you?” you cried. “Why do you keep letting her use you like you’re expendable?”

Bucky’s jaw flexed, teeth grinding. “Because she doesn’t ask. She corners me. Hands me a file and reminds me what happens if I say no.”

“That’s not an excuse,” you snapped, eyes glassy as tears threatened to spill.

“No,” he bit out, “it’s not. But it’s the truth. You think I get to walk away? Say, ‘Sorry, Val, not this time’? She doesn’t care. She reminds me what I was built for. What I’m good at.”

“You’re good at surviving,” you shot back, breath catching. “And all you’ve done lately is survive. Bleed for people who don’t care if you make it home and you let it happen.”

He turned away, pacing like the walls were shrinking around him. “If I don’t go, someone else does. Someone who won’t make it back.”

“So that’s it?” you said, voice rising. “You martyr yourself over and over again and I’m just supposed to sit here and watch?”

“I’m not a fucking martyr!” he exploded, voice cracking. “I don’t sleep. I don’t breathe when I’m not out there. I come back in pieces and pretend I’m fine because I don’t want to see that look in your eyes.”

“You don’t want to see me scared?” you asked, furious tears spilling freely now. “Then stop giving me reasons to be fucking terrified.”

He stopped. Breathing hard. Looking at you like it hurt just to meet your eyes.

“You think I don’t want to stay?” he whispered. “You think this is easy for me?”

“I think you’re punishing yourself,” you said, voice trembling. “Because somewhere deep down, you still think you deserve it.”

He didn’t deny it.

You took a step back, chest heaving. “You let Val own you,” you whispered. “You let her decide how much of you I get to keep. And every time you go, I get a little less.”

His voice was thin. “I never wanted you to see me like this.”

“I see you Bucky,” you said. “And I love you anyway. But you don’t let me hold any of it. You don’t trust me with the parts of you that hurt.”

His mouth opened, but nothing came out.

So you kept going. “I’m not asking you to quit. I’m asking you to stop walking out that door like you’re already halfway gone.”

And that’s when he said it.

“Maybe you should stop waiting for me like I’m gonna die.”

Your lips parted. Your breath stopped. A sob caught somewhere in your chest and refused to move.

He froze.

You didn’t scream. You didn’t throw anything. You just stood there, broken open in the center of the room, tears pouring freely down your face.

Your voice trembled when it came. “I wait for you because I love you. Not because I want to lose you.”

He didn’t say anything.

Didn’t reach for you. Didn’t even move.

You wiped at your face with a shaking hand and stepped back.

“I hope the mission’s worth it.”

And then you turned and walked out, footsteps too loud in the hallway, tears burning every step of the way—while behind you, the man you loved just stood there.

And let you go.

You sat curled in the corner of your bedroom, back pressed to the wall like it might hold you together, knees drawn tight to your chest.

The shirt on your skin was his—the one he had left draped over the chair last night. It smelled like him. Damp in places, creased from your grip, warm where your body clung to it. You hadn’t changed. Couldn’t. Peeling it off felt like severing the last piece of him you had left.

The silence wasn’t quiet. It was hollow. Heavy. The kind that followed after something had cracked wide open and left nothing in its place.

You didn’t know how long you’d been sitting there—long enough for the ache to settle into your spine, for your breathing to level out into something quiet but not calm.

The clock ticked on, cruel in its indifference. You imagined him already gone, the duffel slung over his shoulder, the bed behind him cold, the door clicking shut like none of it ever mattered and you waiting for him, heart thundering in your chest as you awaited for an update from someone, anyone.

Then came the knock.

Three soft taps. Hesitant. Uneven. Like he didn’t know if he was still allowed to be on the other side of your door.

You didn’t move. Not yet. The second knock came after a pause. Then nothing.

Eventually, you stood up, not because you were ready, but because you couldn’t not know. You opened the door.

He was still in the same gear, shirt clinging to his chest, sleeves, pants creased and dust-streaked. The holster was gone, but his boots were still on. His hair was damp from a rushed shower, curling faintly at the ends. Those cerulean eyes were red-rimmed, glassy, he looked wrecked.

You didn’t speak. Neither did he, not at first.

Then his voice broke the quiet. “I shouldn’t have said that.” Your voice came out flat. “No. You shouldn’t have.”

He nodded once, jaw flexing hard. His hands twitched uselessly at his sides. “I’ve been out here for twenty minutes,” he said, hoarse. “Trying to figure out what the hell I could say that’d make you open the door. That might make this less fucking ugly.”

You didn’t respond. Your heart ached, but your mouth wouldn’t move.

“I-I don’t know how to leave you,” he said quietly, “and still get on that plane.”

You looked at him then—really looked. He wasn’t wearing armour anymore. Not the kind that mattered. Not the kind that could keep this out. He was unraveling, standing there like he didn’t know where to put the hurt.

“I know I don’t deserve it,” he said, voice shaking now, almost breathless. “But please, baby, Just tonight. Let me stay. Let me hold you. Before I go."

And you stood there, heart cracked open, staring at the man who had broken it and realising, in the hollow quiet between you, that he was bleeding too.

He didn’t press. Just stood there for a breath longer, eyes on yours, like he was waiting for you to slam the door or let it fall open wider. And when you didn’t move, when you didn’t speak or breathe or push him away, he stepped inside, quiet and slow, like he was afraid any sound might shatter what was left.

He looked around the room like it hurt to be in it, like every corner still held a trace of his voice, his laughter, the way his hands used to hold you without hesitation.

He didn’t speak. Didn’t make excuses. He just came to you. And when he reached you, he didn’t plead. He simply gathered you into his arms.

You didn’t resist, no, you couldn’t. Not when his warmth surrounded you like that—desperate, unsteady. Like he was terrified this might be the last time.

His hands trembled where they touched your back. His breath hitched when your face pressed into his shoulder. And for a long moment, neither of you said a word. You just stood there, wrapped up in each other like it was the only way to stay upright.

Then his voice cracked the silence, low and barely there. “Please. Just one more night. Let me love you one more time before I go.”

Your fingers curled into his shirt. He pulled back only enough to look at you, eyes red, jaw tight with restraint, like this whole thing was holding together by a thread.

And when you didn’t answer, when your eyes only shined up at him, raw and full, he kissed you. It wasn’t desperate or rushed. It was like he was trying to remember every part of you by heart, like he was memorising the taste of you.

His hands moved slowly, down your back, over your ribs, under your shirt. The cotton lifted over your head with careful fingers. He undressed you the way someone handles something precious they’re afraid to lose—gently, every motion saying I’m sorry.

His lips trailed along your collarbone, your jaw, the corners of your eyes. When he laid you back against the mattress, his mouth moved lower, kissing your chest, your stomach, the inside of your thighs.

And when he pressed his lips to your skin, you whispered his name like it was a prayer, like it was the only word left in you.

He took his time. He touched you like he wanted to worship every inch. And when he finally moved above you, when he pushed into you slow and deep, it wasn’t to claim, it was to remember.

He buried his face in your neck, his hand tangled with yours beside your head. The stretch of him made your breath stutter, but you didn’t care. You wanted to feel it. All of it. Wanted the ache, the weight, the heat. So you could remember exactly how it felt to be his. His pace was slow, measured, meant to carve into you like a promise.

“I don’t deserve you,” he murmured, forehead pressed to yours, breath shaking with the effort not to fall apart.

“I’m scared,” you whispered, your voice breaking on the words.

“Me too,” he said—and the quiet agony in it wrecked you.

You clung to him tighter, wrapped your arms around his shoulders, your legs around his waist. And still it wasn’t close enough.

You cried before you came, not from pain, not even from pleasure, but from the weight of it all. From the terrifying, beautiful knowledge that this might be the last time. That you were loving each other like you were running out of time because maybe, this time, this mission, you were.

And when you shattered around him, he was right there, whispering your name, holding your face like it was something holy. He followed soon after, breaking apart with a ragged groan into your mouth, like he couldn’t bear to let go of you even for that.

And when it was over, when the world quieted again, he didn’t move. He just stayed wrapped around you, one hand cradling your cheek, the other resting low on your back, his heartbeat thudding hard against your chest.

You didn’t say anything. You didn’t have to. Because in that moment, your bodies said everything your hearts couldn’t. And maybe that was enough.

You lay sprawled across his chest, skin still slick with sweat and salt, your cheek rising and falling with every unsteady breath he took. His arms were wrapped around you like a lifeline, like he couldn’t bear the thought of not holding you if this was it.

His voice broke the silence, quiet, so quiet you almost didn’t hear it.

“I told Val this is the last one for a while."

Your fingers twitched against his ribs, but you didn’t speak.

“I want peace," he whispered. “And I want… you.”

That was what did it. Not the words, but the way he said them. Like a man who finally realised what he could lose.

“Will she let you?” you asked, barely above a breath.

He exhaled, a rough sound that cracked in the middle. “Doesn’t matter. Even if she doesn’t, I’m done, at least for now. I won’t let her take this from me too.”

You didn’t reply. You didn’t trust yourself to. You just let him press a kiss to your wrist, to the fragile skin where your pulse raced like it knew time was running out.

“I’ll come home (y/n), I swear to you."

But even as he said it, you both knew the truth—promises made before war rarely survived it.

Sleep came slow and fitful. When you finally drifted off, you curled yourself around him like you could anchor him there, like your body could keep him from slipping through the cracks.

But the morning came anyway.

And with it came the emptiness.

You woke to a bed that was too quiet, too cold. The warmth of him was fading fast, almost like he had left just minutes before. The pillow beside you was indented where his head had been. Your fingers reached for it before you could stop yourself.

No sound. No footsteps. No gear being packed in the hallway. He was gone.

For a second, your throat closed. Then you saw it. Right there on the nightstand.

A folded note with your name written on it in his sharp, slanted scrawl.

And beside it were his dog tags.

Not around his neck. Not taken for luck.

Left behind. Your heart seized.

You picked them up with shaking hands. They were still warm—and somehow, that broke you even more. Like he hadn’t wanted to take that piece of himself with him. Like he knew he might not come back, and couldn’t bear to let you be without it.

You opened the note.

I love you. I need you to believe that. If something happens, it was never because I didn’t try to get back to you. You’re the only thing I’ve ever been sure of. Wait for me. — James

You didn’t cry right away. You just sat there, staring at the words. Holding the tags to your chest like a lifeline. Like maybe if you clutched them hard enough, he’d come back through the door.

But the door stayed closed.

Now, all you had was a note, a promise, and the weight of him still lingering in the sheets.

So when he returned two weeks later, quiet and bruised, with a half-healed cut beneath his eye and his duffel slung over one shoulder, you didn’t breathe at first.

His eyes found you immediately, and for a long moment, the hallway went still.

You didn’t run to him. Not at first.

Because you didn’t trust it. Didn’t trust your own legs. Didn’t trust that this was real and not just another dream you had to wake from, sweating and empty, with his dog tags clutched in your hand and his note folded beneath your pillow.

But he stopped walking. Dropped the duffel.

Held out his arms. And that’s when you moved.

You collided with him all at once, fists against his chest, then fingers in his jacket, then your face pressed to his neck. His arms came around you instantly, crushing you to him like he needed proof you were still here.

Still his. Still waiting.

“I told you I’d come home,” he whispered, voice raw, rough with exhaustion.

You didn’t answer right away. Just stood there, trembling, forehead pressed to his jaw, tears threatening again.

“I know Bucky" you said. "I believe you."

He pulled back just enough to meet your eyes. And when he kissed you, it wasn’t rushed. It wasn’t frantic.

It was everything he hadn’t said.

Everything he’d nearly lost. And everything he came back for.

a/n: i think i have a penchant for writing angst, i enjoy it and i hope you enjoy my work!

requests are open!

[hhiggs]

Now , Forever

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x Fem Reader (set during CABNW)

Summary: Bucky ended things out of fear , thinking his dark past made him unworthy of love , but when he found her drowning her heartbreak in a bar, he couldn’t stay away.

Word Count: 2.5k+

Warnings: anstyyyy then ends happy , established relationship , exes to lovers , lots of drinking , smoking mentioned , depression mentions , alcoholism mentions , buckys past mentioned , blood mentioned , throw up/vomitting , hangover symptoms , medicine mentions , kisses i think thats all....

If I missed any let me know! 💖

A/N: im writing this half asleep and in one contiuos go , so sorry for any mistakes till i can proof read it! this little idea just popped in my head when rewatch CABNW and i just had to quickly whip something up. Hope you enjoy bbys :P

read my new series here! MY MASTERLIST

REQUESTS AND INBOX ALWAYS OPEN COME SAY HI OR DROP AN IDEA OR TWO! <3

The night Bucky ended things , you could feel it in your gut before he had even said the words. 

He was tense , shoulders tight as cable , his jaw working like he was chewing on something bitter and sticky. 

The apartment was a little too quiet , the air too still. 

You sat on the edge of the bed , fingers twisting in your lap waiting for the ball to drop.

“Bucky , what is it?” you asked softly.

He didn’t look at you at first. 

He stared at the plush carpeted floor, eyes shadowed and distant in deep thought. 

His hands clenched and unclenched at his sides , the faint creak of the metal plates as his vibranium fingers flexed.

“I can’t do this ,” he finally replied , voice low and hoarse.

Your heart seized up. “What? What do you mean?”

He dragged a hand through his hair , his fingers trembling. 

“I’m not who you think I am. I’ve tried to be… someone better. But it doesn’t change what I’ve done. What I’ve been.”

“Bucky,” you whispered , your voice shaking and broken. 

You stood , crossing the space between you , reaching out to touch his flesh arm. “I know about your past. I know it’s hard for you. But I love you. I don’t care—”

“It’s not that simple!” he snapped , his voice breaking on the last word. 

He flinched like he’d struck you , his expression twisting and turning. “I can’t let you see it. If you did… if you really saw what I’ve done , the blood on my hands , the ghosts that haunt my mind , you’d never look at me the same again and I can't live like that.”

You swallowed hard , tears blurring your vision pouring out. “I already see you , Bucky. I see the man in front of me. I see the way you try every day. That’s who I love.”

He shook his head , shoulders slumping now. “You deserve more than this , more than me. I can’t keep pretending I’m not… tainted and bruised. I thought I could protect you from it , but I can’t.”

You stepped closer, your hands on his chest , feeling the frantic beat of his heart beneath your palms. “Don’t do this,” you whispered. “Please don’t , you dont mean it right?”

But his hands came up wrapping around your wrists , gently but firmly removing yours from his chest. His eyes were wet now , his lips trembling. “I’m sorry,” he said. “I have to.”

And with that , he turned and walked out the door , leaving you standing there with your heart in your hands and the taste of his goodbye lingering on your lips.

You didn’t go home that night. 

Couldn’t. The apartment felt like an empty tomb without him , every shadow whispering his name. So you ran.

The bar down the street was loud and bright , neon signs flickering in the dark and glitter scattered around like promises you knew better than to believe. 

You pushed your way in , the music hitting you with a physical force , the beat so loud it rattled inside your bones.

You didn’t bother with grabbing a seat. 

You went straight to the bar , your voice barely a thread as you ordered a shot of vodka. 

The bartender gave you a once-over , something like concern flickering in his eyes, but he poured it anyway, sliding it over.

You tossed it back, the burn slipping down your throat a welcome distraction from the ache in your heart. 

You ordered another. 

And another. 

The edge of the bar was sticky under your fingertips , the smell of sweat and smoke heavily thick in the air.

The world started to blur around the edges. 

Faces became smears of color and simple shapes , laughter and conversation melting into the thud of the bass blaring. 

You ordered another shot , your hand shaking so badly the shot glass clinked against the counter.

Someone bumped into you , muttered an apology you didn’t hear. 

You didn’t care. 

Nothing mattered except the heat of the alcohol and the numbness creeping through your veins.

Just what you were wanting.

Your phone buzzed and lit up in your jeans pocket , a tiny lifeline in the noise and haze. 

You fumbled for it , your fingers clumsy and tingling , almost dropping it twice before you managed to answer.

“Hello?” you mumbled,  your voice thick and slurred , not even looking at the contact.

“Hey,” Sam Wilson's voice came through , calm but urgent. “Where are you?”

You tried to focus , tried to remember. “I’m… I’m at the bar. The one by the river. He… he left me , Sam.” Your voice cracked , a sob breaking free before you could stop it. “Bucky left me.”

Sam took a breath on the other end , calming himself. “Okay. Listen to me. I need you to stay right there. I’m coming to get you , okay? Don't leave.”

You clutched the phone so hard it could crack under the pressure. “Don’t… don’t tell him where I am . Please. I don’t want him to see me like this.”

“I won’t,” Sam promised. “I’m just going to get you home safe.”

You didn’t remember hanging up. 

You didn’t remember much of anything after that , just the constant too loud music pounding in your buzzing head , the alcohol burning a hole in your gut and chest , and the feeling that you were already halfway to nowhere.

You slumped forward , your head resting on the bar top , the shot glass still clutched in your hand like medicine. 

You didn’t even fight it when the world went black around you.

When you woke back up , it was to the smell of stale coffee and paper. 

Sam’s office. 

The overhead light was dim , the soft hum of the city outside the only sound you could make out right now.

You tried to sit up , but your head felt like it was full of broken glass and bricks. A groan slipped past your lips , and you pressed a hand to your forehead , trying to piece together how you got here.

Your eyes caught a picture frame on Sam’s desk , Sam and Bucky, arms slung around each other, grinning wide and bright. 

It felt like a punch to the gut. 

In your fuzzy , still havely drunken mind , you couldn’t separate the photo from the real people.

You stumbled to the desk , your hands trembling as you reached for the frame. “Bucky,” you whispered , your voice small and raw. “Why’d you leave me? Why didn’t you let me fight for you , for us?”

Tears welled up , slipping hot and fast down your cheeks. You pressed the frame to your chest , your body shaking with sobs. “I love you,” you cried , your voice ragged. “I love you so much , please, don’t leave me.”

The picture didn’t answer. 

It just stared back at you , frozen in time. You sank to your knees , the frame still clutched in your hands , your tears dripping onto the glass.

And then , from the doorway , you heard a voice , soft , rough , but unmistakably real and him.

“I’m here.”

You looked up , your breath catching in your throat. 

Bucky stood there , his expression a mix of anguish and love , his hands curled into fists at his sides.

“Bucky,” you gasped , the frame slipping from your fingers. “You’re… you’re here.”

He crossed the room in three long strides , dropping to his knees in front of you. His hands came up to cradle your face , thumb pads brushing away your warm tears. “I’m here,” he said again, his voice shaking. “I’m so sorry.”

You threw your arms around his neck , burying your face in his shoulder. 

The scent of him , leather and pine soap and something uniquely his , wrapped around you , grounding you to the world.

“I thought you didn’t want me,” you sobbed. “I thought I lost you.”

“Never,” he murmured , his breath warm against your hair. “I was trying to protect you. But I was wrong. I can’t protect you by pushing you away.”

Your fingers curled in the fabric of his jacket , holding him like you’d drown if you let go. 

Bucky didn’t say another word as he stood and scooped you into his arms. You let out a soft gasp , surprised by the effortless strength of his hold , but you didn’t fight it. 

You didn’t want to.

Your head lolled against his chest as he carried you out of Sam’s office. 

The cold night air bit at your skin , but it didn’t matter. 

All you could feel was the steady , sure beat of his heart under your cheek.

Sam and Joaquin hovered in the doorway, their expressions worried but relieved.

“Thank you guys,” Bucky murmured , his voice a promise as he shifted you in his arms. “I’ve got her.”

Sam gave him a small nod. “You know where I am if you need anything.”

Bucky just nodded , but his focus was entirely on you.

The ride back to your apartment was quiet and short.. 

You curled against him in the passenger seat of his car, the streetlights blurring past in streaks of white and golden light.. 

You felt the rough but also soft pad of his thumb brushing soothing circles on the back of your hand and knuckles , the last bit of tether to reality , in the here and now.

When you reached your building , he carried you inside like you weighed nothing at all. 

He kicked the door shut behind him , the soft click of the lock sealing you in with him , no more noise , no more neon lights , just you and him and the quiet of the night.

He set you down gently on the edge of your bed , his hands lingering on your shoulders as he knelt in front of you. 

Your eyelids fluttered , heavy with exhaustion and the last dregs of alcohol sinking in  , but you forced them to still be open.

“Let’s get you cleaned up baby ,” he murmured , his voice a low rasp that sent shivers down your spine.

You nodded , your breath hitching as his fingers brushed a lock of hair behind your ear. 

He reached for a washcloth in the nearby dresser , running it under warm water before wringing it out. 

He cupped your cheek with his flesh hand , tilting your head slightly as he began to wipe away the smudged mascara and left over makeup ruined by your tears.

The gentle drag of the cloth was comforting , his touch so tender it made your stomach do a flutter.

“I missed you,” you whispered, your voice barely audible, eyes still closed. “So much.”

“I missed you too,” he said softly, his eyes full of intent on cleaning your face. “Every second.”

He set the now dirty washcloth aside , his hand lingering on your cheek for a moment longer before he moved to brush your hair. 

He found your black hairbrush on the nightstand , the bristles worn and familiar.

He worked slowly , carefully , untangling each knot with a patience that made you want to cry again but you were drained of all tears. 

Your eyes fell closed again , breathing in the familiarity of having him here with you , letting yourself relax under his touch.

“There you go,” he murmured , his voice a soothing rumble. “Almost done.”

When he was finished , he gathered your hair in a messy ponytail , his fingers deft as he laid it over your back. He tied it off with a small black band , his knuckles brushing against your collarbone in a way that made your skin tingle.

“Better?” he asked, his lips curling into a small smile.

You nodded , blinking up at him with glassy eyes. “Yeah. Thank you.”

He pressed a barely there and oh so quick kiss to your forehead. “Let’s get you into bed , okay?”

He helped you out of your rumpled and dirty day clothes reeking of cheap vodka and that smokey club smell , swapping them for one of his old t-shirts that you loved so much. 

It hung loose on your frame , the fabric soft and word against your skin. When he was done , he tucked you in , smoothing the blankets and duvet around you with a care that stole your breath.

He paused for a moment , just watching you. 

His eyes traced every line of your face , every dotted freckle , and the soft curve of your lips , even the faint flush on your cheeks.

“I love you,” he said finally, his voice rough. “I hope you know that.”

“I love you too,” you murmured , your voice thick and raw with sleep. “Don’t leave again. Please.”

He brushed your fly aways back from your face , his thumb tracing the curve of your cheek bone . “I’m not going anywhere,” he said. “Not this time, not ever again.”

You drifted off to sleep with his hand in yours , the world fading around you like the last echoes of a bad dream.

You woke to the sharp , twisting pain of a hangover in your gut and piercing dull pain in your head , your mouth overly dry. 

You stumbled to the bathroom barely making it , half-blind with the bright morning light streaming through the window.

Before you could even get your mind together , Bucky was there. 

He knelt beside you as you vomited into the toilet , his hand steady and warm on your back , his other hand gathering your hair away from your face to keep it clean and out of the way.

“It’s okay , I'm right here ,” he murmured, his voice low and soothing. “Just let it out.”

When you were done and spent , he wiped your mouth with a damp corner of a  towel and helped you rinse your mouth and brush your teeth. 

You leaned against the cool tile wall ,  breathing ragged, but he didn’t move away. 

He stayed right there the entire time , his thumb brushing over your temple.

“Here,” he said , holding out a glass of cool water. “Small sips not too much.”

You took it with shaking hands , the cold liquid a relief against your parched and raw throat. 

You managed a weak smile of thanks , your eyes bleary as you looked at him.

“You didn’t have to do all this,” you said , your voice barely audible.

“I wanted to ,” he said simply. “I love you.”

Tears welled up again , but this time they were soft , gentle. “I love you too,” you said , your voice breaking. “I don’t want you to run anymore.”

He cupped your face in his hands , his thumb brushing away the single tear that slipped down your cheek. “Then I don’t,” he said. “We face it together.”

He pulled you into a hug , his arms wrapping around you like a shield against the world. 

You clung to him , your face buried in his shoulder , breathing him in.

“You’re it for me,” he said softly, his breath warm against your ear. “You’re my forever.”

You looked up at him, your eyes shining. “You’re my forever too.”

He pressed his forehead to yours , the soft morning light catching on the tears in your lashes. “Then let’s start that forever right here , right now,” he murmured.

In the quiet morning , with the world slowly waking around you , you knew that no matter what came next , no matter how dark the nights , how heavy the memories , you’d now face it together. And that was all you both needed.

-end 🌷

Comments , Reblogs , Likes and Requests are always loved!

(although if you liked this fic please consider reblogging so it can reach a wider audience)

They let me know that you are enjoying what I'm publishing and gives me motivation to write more and more! :33

[hhiggs]

Toxic Heat

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x Agent! Reader

Summary: While waiting for the extraction team after a successful mission, Bucky leaves you and runs into a greenhouse room in the mission building with strange plants. Accidentally breathing in the gas from the plants he returns to you, but something is off.

Warnings/Tags: 18+, Smut, Cursing, Fingering, Rough Sex, Edging, Enemies to lovers, Hormone inducing plant, Vaginal sex, Multiple orgasms, Aftercare, Super Intense (my god this is so dirty.)

Word Count: 6.4k

The mission had been straightforward at first: infiltrate the abandoned research outpost, gather intel, and get out before anyone noticed.

But when the team’s extraction was delayed, you and Bucky found yourselves trapped inside the building’s dusty corridors, waiting for backup.

After the constant, usual bickering and insults, he left and you heard his footsteps retreat down the hall as he scouted ahead, his metal arm clanking softly with each step. You stayed close to the cracked wall, nervously fingering the strap of your gear. Wishing there were windows to bring in any source of light throughout the creepy dim building.

Suddenly, Bucky’s footsteps stopped. Silence swallowed the hallway. Slight worry grew over you, as you take a look down the hallway, however, no sight or sound of him to be found.

When you finally heard footsteps again, you quickly peaked your head past the doorway down the hallway. Seeing Bucky approach, his movements were slower, heavier. His dark eyes held something unreadable — a flicker of distraction mixed with a strange heat.

You noticed the sweat beading at his temple, the way his breath came a little too fast, a little too shallow.

“Bucky?” Your voice curious, concern knitting your brows.

He didn’t answer immediately. Instead, he leaned against the doorway, jaw clenched tight, hand pressing over his mouth as if trying to catch his breath.

Your heart pounded. You couldn’t just stand there.

Carefully, you took a few steps closer, eyes scanning his face for any sign of injury or distress. “Are you hurt? You don’t look well.”

Your fingers hovered uncertainly near his arm before gently laying it on the flushed skin.

The contact made him flinch, a sharp intake of breath escaping his lips, and his whole body tensed under your touch.

He looked at you, confusion clouding his dark eyes before darting his eyes away. “I… I don’t know what’s happening,” he admitted quietly, voice strained. “I can’t… focus.”

You bit your lip, cheeks burning with a mix of worry and something else you couldn’t name.

Despite your hesitation, your fingers lingered, tracing the line of his jaw slowly.

His heavy breathing filled the tight space between you.

He wasn’t the bold, direct, and frankly asshole of a man you’d expected to come back— he was confused, vulnerable in a way that made your heart ache.

And yet, beneath that confusion simmered something primal, waiting to break free.

You swallowed hard, fighting the urge to pull back as Bucky’s gaze locked with yours—dark, confused, and somehow raw in a way you’d never seen before. His chest rose and fell rapidly, breath hitching like he was struggling to steady it.

“Do you need to sit down?” you offered softly, voice barely above a whisper. You hated how your own hands trembled, but you couldn’t just leave him like this.

Bucky shook his head slowly, jaw still tight. “No,” he said, voice rough, “I just… need a moment.”

You edged closer, feeling the warmth radiating off his body, the subtle tremor running through his muscles. Your fingers brushed again against his skin—this time along the softer flesh of the inside of his wrist, inspecting his seemingly pulsing veins.

He flinched again, that sharp intake of breath turning deeper, ragged. His eyes fluttered closed for a second, turning his face away from you as if trying to contain something he didn’t understand.

“Bucky…” Your voice softened, uncertainty threading through every word. “What’s going on?”

He opened his eyes, dark pools swirling with confusion and frustration. “I don’t know,” he said roughly, voice breaking just slightly. “I feel… wrong. Hot. Like I’m… burning up from the inside.”

You bit your lip, heart clenching. The man who is feared, who’s a deadly super soldier, was now trembling under your touch, vulnerable and raw.

Without thinking, your hand moved to rest flat against his chest, feeling the rapid thud of his heartbeat beneath your palm.

His breathing hitched, eyes darkening as if the simple contact overwhelmed him. “Don’t…” he growled out, voice hoarse.

The room seemed to shrink around you both, heavy with unspoken tension. You wanted to pull away, to respect his boundaries, but your body betrayed you—drawn to him like a moth to flame.

“Bucky,” you whispered, “I’m here. I’m not going anywhere.”

Your palm pressed against his chest, trying to calm the wild thumping of his heart. Bucky’s breath was ragged, uneven, like he was barely holding himself together. His dark eyes flicked toward you, filled with confusion—and something raw, unfiltered.

He growled softly, a frustrated sound. “I ran into some kind of room in the west wing with a bunch of plants. They were releasing some kind of gas. I don’t know what it’s doing to me, but—” He cut himself off, jaw tightening. “—it’s making me feel things. Things I don’t like.”

You raised an eyebrow, and try to lighten the mood. “Oh great. Just what I needed: Barnes, the grumpy tin man, suddenly turned into a hot mess.” You say softly, rolling your eyes with a slight smile

He scowled but didn’t deny it. “Keep it up, and I might just knock that smug smile off your face.”

“Yeah, yeah. Not like this you won’t” you teased, voice light despite the tension.

Bucky took a deep, shuddering breath. “Don’t tempt me. Besides, this isn’t a joke. I don’t know how to control it, and I don’t want you getting involved.”

You stepped closer, still wary but unable to look away. “Since when did you care what I think?”

His eyes darkened, and he took a half-step towards the other side of the room, like you might be contagious. “Since this gas has me all messed up and I’m not sure I’m still me.” He growls out

You bit your lip, trying not to let your cheeks betray how much the sight of him like this was affecting you.

“Look,” he said, voice low and rough, “I understand that we’re partnered up for this mission, but—” His voice cracked slightly, “right now… I need you to just stay out of it. Or maybe just don’t make it worse.”

You raised your hands in mock surrender. “Fine. But only because I’m curious what’ll happen next.” Not sliding in the tid-bit that you’re still extremely worried for him no matter how aggravating he may be or how many times he’s insulted you back at the avengers tower.

Bucky’s glare was sharp, but something softer flickered beneath it before he turned away, trying to hide the vulnerability that scared him.

Bucky’s back was stiff as a board as he leaned against an abandoned table in the room, jaw clenched tight, but the rapid rise and fall of his chest gave him away. The gas wasn’t just messing with his head—it was twisting something deeper, something primal he clearly didn’t want to admit.

Without a word, he suddenly stepped closer, the heat radiating off him intense and raw. His dark eyes locked onto yours with a sharpness that made your breath catch.

Then, almost abruptly, his hand reached out and grabbed your wrist—his grip firm but not cruel.

His voice came low and rough, like gravel scraping over steel. “You don’t get it. This gas… it’s messing with me. Making me feel things I shouldn’t.”

You blinked, caught off guard, heart pounding.

He swallowed hard, eyes darkening as if fighting to hold himself back. “I don’t want you involved. Hell, I don’t want anyone involved. Especially not you.”

You stepped back slightly, wary but steady. “Just cut deeper why don’t you.” You say dripping with sarcasm.

Bucky’s jaw tightened even more. Standing in silence very clearly thinking something through despite the haze he’s under. “I feel like I’m starting to lose control—and you’re the one thing that’s driving me crazy.”

His breath hitched. “I don’t want this. I don’t want to want you.”

Your cheeks flushed but you didn’t pull away.

He hesitated for a moment, then leaned in just enough for you to feel his breath on your skin.

“Don’t make me lose it,” he warned, voice rough and low.

The closeness of his face, feeling the hotness of his breath fanning over your skin, the tone of his voice. You can’t help but to begin breathing heavily. Despite you and Bucky’s mockery, insults, and arguing, you can’t help but be affected by how he’s acting towards you right now. Your eyes scan over him as you fail to resist the squeezing of your thighs and the feeling of molten heat pool in your stomach.

You notice his nostrils flare and his eyes close, inhaling deeply as he lets out a low groan. His eyes open and burned into yours, fierce and unyielding, but underneath there was a raw vulnerability that made your chest tighten. He walks closer towards you, making you back up until your back hits the cold concrete wall. The tension between you wasn’t just the usual snark or competition anymore—it was something sharper, hotter, dangerous.

Bucky closed the last few inches and pressed his palm flat against the wall beside your head, trapping you gently but firmly. His metal fingers brushed lightly against your temple, and a flicker of something desperate crossed his face.

“You don’t know what this is doing to me,” he muttered, voice thick with frustration and something darker. “I’m not… me right now. And I don’t want to hurt you.”

You swallowed hard, nerves sparking but your gaze steady. “You won’t.”

He swallowed again, chest rising and falling faster now, like every breath was a fight.

Then, almost reluctantly, his hand found yours—fingers curling around yours, cool against your skin but firm, possessive.

“I’m warning you,” he breathed, his voice dropping lower, “if you let me, I might not going to be able stop.”

His gaze flicked down to your lips, then back up, heavy with unspoken promises and desperate need.

You felt your heart hammer in your chest, caught between fear and the undeniable pull drawing you closer to him.

Bucky’s grip tightened around your fingers, a low growl rumbling deep in his throat. His dark eyes searched your face like he was looking for permission—and maybe begging for it too, though his pride wouldn’t let him say so.

“I don’t want this,” he snarled softly, voice rough and raw, “but I’m losing the fight.”

His breath hitched, hot and ragged against your skin. The heat radiating off him was suffocating—an almost tangible force pulling you closer, burning away the space between.

You wanted to pull back, wanted to remind him that you weren’t sure what this was either, that this was the opposite of professional, opposite of what you two were—but something in his expression held you fast, unsteady and trembling.

His metal hand slid from your fingers to your wrist, then higher, tracing the delicate skin of your forearm. Every inch was electric under his touch, like you were both alive on a knife’s edge.

“Tell me to stop,” he whispered hoarsely, voice thick with frustration, “and I will. But if you don’t…”

He closed the distance suddenly, lips brushing a harsh, breathless kiss against yours—rough and demanding, like he was trying to ground himself through the contact.

Your breath caught, shyness warred with a fierce, blooming heat deep inside you.

Bucky’s hands framed your face, thumbs brushing over your cheekbones as if trying to memorize every line, every trembling breath.

“I’m scared,” he admitted, voice low and vulnerable beneath the roughness. “Scared I won’t be able to pull back.” You feel him physically trying to restrain himself from pulling himself closer to you.

You swallowed, heart pounding louder than your thoughts.

“No,” you whispered, voice soft but sure. “Don’t pull back.”

His lips instantly found yours, crashing into your lips, with a wild insatiable hunger. There was no gentleness in it, just raw need and the taste of restraint shattering. He gripped your waist, his hands big and calloused, roughly pulling you flush against his body like he needed you to stay anchored to the ground.

You gasped into him, the sound catching in your throat as you felt the heat of him—every line of muscle, every tremble in his body that betrayed how hard he was fighting to stay in control.

“I shouldn’t want this,” he growled, voice rough against your lips, “not with you… not like this.”

But his hands didn’t stop. One slid up under your shirt, skimming over your ribs, fingertips dragging goosebumps in their wake. His touch was desperate, reverent, like he needed to memorize your body just to keep from coming undone.

“I didn’t even like you,” he muttered hoarsely, forehead resting against yours, breath ragged. “You always ran your mouth, always got under my skin…”

Your hands clutched at the front of his tactical shirt, heart pounding against your ribs. “You didn’t like me?” you managed, breathless.

“I hated how much I noticed you,” he growled. “How I couldn’t stop watching the way you moved… how you looked at me like you saw past the metal and my history.”

You whimpered as his fingers slipped beneath your waistband, teasing the skin just above your underwear. His touch wasn’t tentative—it was firm, claiming. Possessive. But there was a tremble in it, like he wasn’t sure if he was about to worship you or ruin you.

“Tell me to stop,” he whispered again, voice cracking with restraint. “Please.”

But you couldn’t. All you could do was look up at him, seeing him, pieces of hair falling in his face, his dark eyes staring into yours and let out a soft needy whine.

That was all he needed.

His mouth moved to your neck, kissing and biting, the sting softened by the heat of his tongue. His hand slid into your pants, cupping you firmly. The gasp that tore from your throat only made him press closer, lips brushing your ear.

“Fuck, you’re warm,” he groaned. “So soft…”

His fingers dipped lower, teasing over your folds, dragging a moan from you that made his grip falter—like your voice alone was a match to dry gasoline.

“You’re gonna ruin me,” he muttered, pressing his forehead to your shoulder as his fingers slipped inside you, slow but thick and deep. “Don’t even know if this is the gas anymore… or just you.”

You could barely breathe, body melting into his as he thrust his fingers slow and deep, watching your every reaction like he was starving for it. He was so careful despite the desperation coiled in his muscles—his touches growing rougher, but still holding back that last thread of restraint.

His fingers, curling just enough to make your knees shake. You gasped, a tremor running through your thighs as you clutched at the front of his suit, but Bucky didn’t rush—not yet.

He growled under his breath, forehead still pressed to your shoulder, lips ghosting against your skin as his fingers dragged slick and steady inside you.

“Goddamn…” he breathed, voice broken with awe and frustration. “You’re driving me out of my fucking mind.”

You whimpered, your breath shallow. “Bucky…”

His name made him shudder.

He pulled his hand away too soon, and you let out a small sound of protest. Bucky met your eyes then—completely unguarded. His pupils were blown wide, his lips slightly parted, sweat shining along his jaw.

“Don’t look at me like that,” he muttered. “I’m hanging on by a thread.”

You weren’t sure if that was a plead, command or a threat.

Then, you could feel the thick bulge of him straining against his pants, grinding against your soaked core through the fabric of your clothes.

“Feel that?” he rasped into your ear, rutting against you. “That’s what you’re doing to me. And I haven’t even gotten inside you yet.”

Your breath caught. His words lit a fire in your belly, made your thighs clench, made you ache.

His hand slipped down again, running two fingers over your clit.

“Fuck. You’re soaking.”

The curse slipped through his teeth like a prayer as your eyes roll back at the heavenly friction of his hand.

You whine once more as he brought his fingers up and stared at them—coated in your wetness—then met your eyes again as he sucked them slowly into his mouth.

Your legs nearly gave out. “Bucky…” you mutter.

“I’m not gonna fuck you yet,” he said, voice rough and tight like it hurt to say it. “Not until you’re begging for it.”

You whined, hips rolling instinctively toward him, chasing friction.

“Oh, you like that?” he murmured darkly, hand sliding between you again, rubbing slow, heavy circles over your clit. “The mouthy little agent who never shuts up… can’t even form a sentence now.”

You were panting, your body hypersensitive to every stroke, every drag of his rough voice.

“I want to ruin that attitude,” he growled. “Make you forget how to talk. Make you cry.”

His fingers dipped inside you again, thrusting slow and deep, each stroke deliberate and angled just right. You clenched around him, a soft cry leaving your lips, and he chuckled low and sharp in your ear.

“There it is,” he whispered. “That’s what I wanted. So fucking tight around my fingers already.”

His metal hand slid up your shirt, palming your breast through your bra, thumb flicking across your nipple with just enough pressure to make your back arch. “You gonna fall apart just from this?” he taunted, voice husky. “We haven’t even started yet.”

“Bucky—” you gasped.

“No,” he cut in, hot breath against your neck. “Not yet. You don’t get to come until I say.”

Your head hit the wall behind you with a soft thud, pleasure cresting inside you—too much, too slow, not enough.

Bucky’s mouth moved to your jaw, your throat, licking and biting as his fingers fucked you slow, precise, dragging you closer to the edge and pulling you back again and again.

“You think I don’t see the way you look at me?” he whispered. “Like you hate me. But underneath it? You wanted this. You wanted me.”

Your moan betrayed you.

He grinned against your throat, then sank his teeth into the delicate skin there—not enough to hurt, just enough to make you gasp. His hand never stopped moving, never gave you what you needed all the way. He was relentless, teasing, every inch of him vibrating with tension and barely held control.

“I could keep you like this for hours,” he muttered. “Desperate. Soaking wet. Shaking.”

He dragged his fingers out of you and pressed them between your lips.

“Taste how sweet you are,” he said roughly. “And tell me you don’t want me.”

Your mouth opened before you could stop yourself, and the taste of your own need sent heat rushing straight to your core.

Bucky growled. “Fuck, that’s it. That’s what I wanted.”

He pushed his hips into yours again, the thick, throbbing heat of him pressing right against your clit through the fabric.

“You ready?” he asked darkly. “Because once I’m inside you, I’m not stopping.”

You were trembling beneath him, body pinned to the wall, soaked and aching. Every nerve ending buzzed under the weight of his mouth, his hands, his voice—dragging you to the edge, over and over, without mercy.

And still… he hadn’t taken you.

Until now.

Bucky’s jaw flexed like he was still trying to fight it—but the look in his eyes told you he was past the point of no return.

“I told myself I wouldn’t,” he growled, lips ghosting over yours. “Told myself I could ride it out. Wait for backup. Do the right thing.”

He leaned in, pressing his forehead to yours, his hips grinding against you in a slow, punishing circle. You felt him—thick, hard, straining inside the confines of his pants—and your breath hitched.

“But I can’t fucking think straight,” he whispered, almost like it hurt. “Not when you’re this wet. This soft. Looking at me like you’d let me break you open.”

You didn’t say a word. You couldn’t. The air was thick with your shared breath, hot and humid, and your voice had long since abandoned you.

He slid your pants down, low enough for you to shimmy and step out of them. He reached down, undid his belt with shaking hands, and freed himself—thick and heavy and flushed, the head already leaking. The sight of it made your thighs clench instinctively.

Bucky groaned at the sight of you. “Fuck, look at you. So shy all the time, but now…” he leaned towards you, grabbed your thigh and wrapped it around his waist. He pushed your soaked underwear to the side, lined himself up and paused, metal hand gripping your thigh, holding you open, holding you still.

“Last chance,” he rasped. “You want me?”

You look up at him with pleading eyes and a whine, “please, Bucky….”

That was all it took.

He thrust forward in one deep, brutal stroke,

burying himself inside you to the hilt. You cried out, nails digging into his arms as your body stretched to take him.

“Shit,” he gritted through clenched teeth, eyes screwed shut. “So fucking tight. You feel—God—you feel unreal.”

He held still for a beat, shaking from the effort not to lose it too fast. But you clenched around him, and he groaned low in his throat, head falling to your shoulder.

Then he started to move.

Each thrust was deep, rough, and controlled—but just barely. He was shaking with it, like he couldn’t believe how good it felt, like every time he slammed into you it pulled a piece of him loose.

“You like it rough, sweetheart?” he growled against your ear.

But you were already gone—moaning, head back against the wall, gasping as your body met his rhythm instinctively. You give a messy nod.

“Yeah,” Bucky snarled, gripping your ass and lifting you a little higher so he could drive in deeper, your leg not wrapped around his waist barely touching the ground. “You take me so fucking good.”

The sound of skin slapping echoed off the walls, the wet slick of your arousal making each brutal thrust louder, messier.

“You think I don’t see you?” he grunted, voice ragged. “Always biting your lip around me, looking away. Playing innocent. But you’re not.”

His pace picked up, hips slamming into yours harder now, deeper. “You want this. You’ve always wanted this.”

“Bucky—” you whimpered, voice cracking.

“Say it,” he growled. “Say you want me.”

“I want you,” you gasped, clinging to him.

He cursed viciously, his control unraveling at the sound of your voice.

“Fuck—I’m not gonna last—” he bit out, slamming in deeper with each thrust. “You feel too good—too tight—I’ve never—”

He cut himself off with a broken groan, his lips crashing against yours in a searing kiss, swallowing your moans as he fucked you harder, rougher. Your body was shaking, teetering right at the edge, and he could feel it.

“Come for me,” he commanded, voice thick and guttural. “Now.”

And with one last, brutal thrust—he hit the spot that sent you spiraling.

You shattered around him, crying out, trembling as your climax tore through you, soaking him. Bucky followed instantly with a strangled groan, burying himself deep as he came hard, hips jerking, forehead pressed to yours as he gasped your name like a lifeline.

His hips slowed, but only slightly—just enough to ride out his own release as you trembled around him, body slack and twitching in his hold. But he didn’t pull out. He didn’t ease away. He stayed inside you, panting against your neck, every muscle still coiled tight like a predator that hadn’t fed nearly enough.

You whimpered softly as his cock throbbed still-hard inside you, impossibly thick, sensitive—but not softening. Not even a little.

“…You’re still hard,” you breathed, dazed.

Bucky’s shoulders shook with a low, humorless laugh. He dragged his mouth up your throat, tongue catching on the sweat at your collarbone before he murmured, “I know.”

His voice was darker now—gravel scraping over flame—and when he pulled his head back to look at you, his pupils were still blown wide, black swallowing the blue.

“That plant,” he said, panting, “it did something. I don’t feel normal, I—” He gritted his teeth and rolled his hips forward again, slow and grinding.

You moaned, sharp and overstimulated, but it only made him groan. “Still not enough.”

He pulled out just a few inches, dragging his cock against your soaked, sensitive walls—then slammed back in with a low, wrecked sound.

Your body jolted, pleasure colliding with sensitivity, making you gasp. “Bucky—”

“Can’t stop,” he growled. “Can’t. You feel too good. I need more.”

He hooked your other leg up around his waist, spreading you open and lifting you slightly off the ground. The shift in angle drove him deeper, the stretch unbearable, the pressure mounting again despite how recently you'd come. You were already growing slick around him again, your body betraying your mind as it begged for more.

“I should hate you for this,” he whispered against your lips. “You make me insane.”

“Then hate me,” you whispered back, breathless.

He snarled—and then snapped.

His mouth crashed to yours, biting and claiming, tongue dragging over your lips before plunging deep. At the same time, he started to fuck you again—harder than before, frantic and relentless, each thrust punching a moan out of you.

You had no defense anymore. No sharp quips, no witty retorts—just Bucky, inside you, growling your name like a curse and a prayer all at once.

“Gonna keep you like this,” he panted, lips brushing your ear. “Stuffed full of me. Until you can’t walk straight. Until everyone on comms knows what I did to you.”

His words hit you like lightning, heat pooling fast and hard in your gut again.

“You want that?” he murmured, nipping your earlobe. “Want me to ruin you until all you can say is my name?”

You couldn’t speak. You could only cry out, moaning shamelessly as he started slamming into you again—rough, wild, deep. His grip bruised your thighs, his mouth never left your skin, and every thrust sent stars behind your eyes.

“You’re mine right now,” he gritted, pounding into you. “Just mine.”

Your second orgasm hit harder—sharper—your body seizing around him with a cry that echoed through the empty hall. You were pulsing around him, milking him, but this time, Bucky didn’t come.

He just groaned and kept going.

His breath was ragged now, like he was in pain from holding back.

“I’m not done,” he choked out, pressing your back tighter to the wall. “Not until I’ve wrung every fucking sound out of you.”

Then he pulled out, slowly, deliberately—and spun you around.

Your hands hit the wall just in time to catch yourself as he dragged your underwear the rest of the way off. You whimper at the cold concrete pushing against your soft chest. His hands gripped your hips, pulling your ass back toward him—and without pause, he shoved himself back in from behind with a deep, wrecked growl.

You gasped, moaning at the new angle, at how deep he felt this way.

His hand came around to your front again, fingers finding your swollen clit, rubbing in messy circles.

“You’re taking me so fucking well,” he snarled. “Like you were made for me.”

The words made you clench, and he hissed through his teeth, hips stuttering.

“Say it,” he barked. “Tell me you want more.”

“More—” you choked, hands scrambling for purchase against the wall. “Bucky—God—more—”

He slammed into you even harder, punishing now, wrecked with need.

“Good girl,” he growled, voice low.

Your hands braced against the wall, fingers splayed, trying to ground yourself—but Bucky gave you no reprieve.

His thrusts were brutal now, paced with a rhythm that shook through your entire body. Each snap of his hips pushed a cry from your lips, every inch of him stretching you open all over again, slick from your last two orgasms and still somehow burning for more.

You were soaked. Raw. Quivering.

And he was insatiable.

Behind you, Bucky was panting like a man possessed. His forehead dropped to your shoulder for a second, teeth grazing your sweat-slicked skin as his grip on your hips tightened, fingers digging in deep enough to bruise.

“Fucking hell,” he growled, voice wrecked. “I can feel you squeezing me—like you’re trying to pull me deeper.”

You moaned, unable to answer. You weren’t sure there were words anymore—just sensation.

Heat. Pressure. Him.

He slammed into you harder, and your knees buckled, but he caught you—one arm locking around your waist, dragging you up against his chest. Moaning, feeling your body pressed flushed against his. His other hand was still between your legs, fingers working your clit with ruthless precision, flicking and circling until your legs were trembling, your cries coming faster.

“Gonna come again,” he rasped in your ear. “I can feel it. You’re so close, baby. Give it to me.”

His metal hand gripped your throat—slightly tight, just enough to tilt your head, to control you—and he sank his teeth into the curve of your neck as he fucked you harder, faster.

You cried out, your body tipping toward the edge again with dizzying speed, your back arching at the intense pleasure.

“Say it,” he ordered through gritted teeth. “Say you want to come on my cock.”

“Please—Bucky—want it—fuck—I want it, I want it—”

“That’s it,” he hissed. “God, that’s it—gonna make you come so fucking hard—”

You clenched around him, your whole body going taut—and then snapped.

Your climax tore through you like fire, a scream ripping from your throat as your pussy spasmed around him, pulsing, slick, drenching him.

Bucky groaned like it broke him, thrusting deep one last time before he came with a roar—slamming into you to the hilt, cock twitching as he spilled inside, hot and thick, filling you to overflowing.

He held you tight, shuddering, mouth pressed to your shoulder as he rode it out—still pulsing, still deep inside you.

For a moment, everything was quiet—just your panting, the wet sounds of your bodies, and his heart hammering against your back.

Then he finally spoke—voice low, hoarse, almost reverent.

“…Still hate me, sweetheart?”

You let out a breathless, broken laugh against the wall.

“Only when you’re not fucking me like that.”

Bucky chuckled darkly, nuzzling your neck, still buried inside you. “Then I guess I’ll have to keep doing it.”

Bucky’s breathing was still ragged behind you, his broad chest rising and falling against your back. His arms stayed wrapped around your waist, firm but gentle now, as if afraid you’d slip away if he let go.

You both stayed like that for a long moment—pressed together, skin flushed and slick with sweat, the heavy sound of your breathing the only thing filling the silence.

Then, slowly, he eased out of you, hissing softly at the overstimulation. You whimpered, sensitive and sore and still trembling, and he caught you as your knees buckled, guiding you gently to the floor.

The moment your back hit the cold wall, you shivered.

“Shit,” Bucky muttered, voice thick and gravelly. “You okay?”

You looked up at him, lips parted, dazed. “I think so…”

He crouched in front of you, one knee bent, eyes scanning your face—not with lust now, but something softer. Something real. His pupils weren’t as blown out anymore. The sharp edge of heat in them was starting to fade.

And for the first time since all this started, you realized… the gas was wearing off.

You could see it in his body—the subtle way his muscles unclenched, the way his breathing evened, like his senses were slowly coming back under control.

“…Bucky,” you murmured, still catching your breath, “what was that stuff?”

He exhaled hard, dragging a hand back through his damp hair.

“Like I said earlier, there was a room. Down the hall. Some kind of overgrown greenhouse or lab, I don’t know.” His voice was quieter now, more grounded. “I barely stepped inside before I started sweating. My head got light, and then everything started to burn. My skin, my blood… my cock.”

You flushed, throat bobbing as your eyes flicked down between you.

He noticed. His jaw tightened.

“I didn’t know what was happening,” he added, guilt creeping into his tone. “Didn’t understand why I was reacting like that until I saw you again and I just—”

He broke off, shaking his head like he was angry at himself.

“I’m sorry,” he said, finally. “I shouldn’t’ve touched you. Not like that. Not when I wasn’t thinking straight.”

But you reached out and curled your fingers around his vibranium wrist, grounding him.

“You didn’t force me,” you said softly. “I wanted it. All of it.”

His eyes met yours—sharp, guarded, like he was still waiting for the punchline.

“You sure?” he asked. Not a tease. Just a whisper of vulnerability cracking through the armor.

You gave a breathless laugh, nodding. “Yeah. Pretty sure the three orgasms confirm that.”

That pulled a small, crooked smirk from him—but it didn’t last. His gaze drifted back to where your bare thighs were still spread, slick and flushed, your pants still tangled around one ankle. You were raw, used, full of him.

And still… somehow… the tension wasn’t gone.

“You didn’t hate it,” he murmured, like he was testing the waters.

“No,” you admitted. “And… maybe I don’t hate you as much as I pretend to.”

That surprised him.

He tilted his head, lips parting like he had something to say—but instead, he leaned forward, slowly, giving you the chance to stop him.

You didn’t.

His lips brushed yours, soft this time. Nothing like the devouring heat from earlier. Just a quiet, aching thing. A kiss that said we’re not done—but maybe not just in a physical way.

You kissed him back, fingers curling into his jacket. And when he finally pulled away, his forehead leaned against yours, breath warm across your face.

“I’ll get you cleaned up,” he murmured, voice husky again, but this time with gentleness rather than hunger.

You nodded, legs still shaky. “Yeah. I… don’t think I can stand yet.”

That made him chuckle, low and rough.

“You won’t be walking straight for a while.”

You smacked his chest weakly, and he grinned. It was the first time you’d ever really seen him smile—not that tight, sarcastic twist, but something real.

And just like that… something had shifted.

The lines that used to keep you on opposite sides of every room were gone—burned away by sweat, heat, and the way his hands had held you like he was afraid of losing something he didn’t know he wanted.

As he helped you pull your clothes back on, slow and careful, your fingers brushed. You didn’t pull away.

Neither did he.

⊹ ︶⏝⭒ ⊹ ⭒⏝︶ ⊹

By the time the extraction team touched down, the gas was well out of Bucky’s system—but the aftermath lingered on both of you like a second skin.

He still walked close to you. His arm still brushed yours whenever the hallway narrowed. His jacket, slung loosely around your shoulders, smelled like him—warm leather and sweat and something darker, primal, something you’d felt grinding deep inside you less than an hour ago.

Neither of you had said much since.

Not because there wasn’t anything to say—but because the weight of everything that had happened still hummed like a live wire between you.

And when the door to the building finally slammed open and Sam’s voice came over the comms—dry, impatient, and absolutely oblivious—you nearly jumped.

“There you two are,” he said, stepping into view in full gear, eyes flicking from you to Bucky. “Took your sweet time, huh? We were about to call it and let you rot in there.”

Bucky didn’t flinch. He just grunted. “We managed.”

Sam looked at the both of you suspiciously.

Your hair was a mess. Your pants were definitely on inside out, despite your frantic fumbling earlier. Bucky’s shirt clung to him with dried sweat, and his belt was still hanging open under his tactical vest.

And when Sam’s eyes narrowed and slid down to the distinct bite mark blooming just beneath your collarbone, visible even beneath the edge of Bucky’s jacket—

He froze.

Blinked.

And looked back at Bucky. Slowly.

“…Did you fight each other?”

You opened your mouth, panic rising in your throat.

But Bucky—smug bastard—beat you to it.

“Doesn’t matter,” he said coolly, leading the way past Sam without missing a beat. “I won.”

Sam gawked after him. “You won what? An STD?!”

You groaned and followed quickly, cheeks flaming. “Shut up, Wilson.”

“You shut up!” Sam called after you. “I’m gonna have to Lysol the entire jet, aren’t I?!”

Bucky didn’t even blink as he climbed aboard.

You shot him a glare as you slid into the seat across from him, keeping your arms crossed even though his jacket still hung around your shoulders like some ridiculous trophy.

The second Sam stepped in behind you, eyeing the both of you like a disgruntled parent, you tried to school your expression into something neutral.

You failed.

Bucky smirked.

“So,” Sam said, dropping into the pilot’s chair with a sigh. “Either of you wanna tell me why your vitals were going crazy on the monitors for thirty minutes straight?”

“Must’ve been a glitch,” Bucky replied smoothly.

Sam turned, staring at him.

You were biting your lip. Hard.

“A glitch,” Sam repeated flatly.

Bucky shrugged, unbothered. “Must’ve been the plant gas. Messed with my sensors.”

“Oh, I bet it did,” Sam muttered, spinning back to the controls. “God, I’m too old for this.”

The Quinjet engines flared to life.

You glanced at Bucky. He was watching you from under his lashes, jaw tight, one corner of his mouth twitching upward like he was this close to smiling.

You leaned closer, voice just low enough that Sam wouldn’t hear.

“You’re really proud of yourself, aren’t you?”

Bucky’s smile turned wicked.

“You’re the one still wearing my jacket, sweetheart.”

You flushed—and hated how much it thrilled you.

As the jet lifted into the sky, the tension didn’t fade.

It simply shifted.

No longer the tension of enemies circling each other like knives waiting to clash—but the quieter, heavier kind. The kind that simmers under the surface, waiting to boil over again the second you're alone.

And something told you…

This wasn’t over.

Not even close.

[hhiggs]

Better Man

Summary : Trapped in an abusive relationship, you cross paths with Bucky Barnes. Maybe, you deserve a second chance at love.

Pairing : Bucky Barnes x reader (she/her) 

Warnings/tags : Mentions of domestic, emotional, and sexual abuse (not by Bucky), toxic relationship (not Bucky), trauma, threats, healing, hurt/comfort, protective Bucky Barnes, angst, fluff, angst with a happy ending, self-worth struggles, cheating, substance abuse (not by you or Bucky). Your boyfriend is called Damien (apologies in advance if you are named or know someone who shares the name), implied sex, You are mentioned to be a librarian.

Word count : 8k

Note : This story comes from a very vulnerable place, so please be kind. Maybe this is how I process it lmao. The title is inspired by Better Man by Pearl Jam, a song that hits close to home. Please seek help if you are experiencing any kind of abuse.

You met Damien three years ago. He was charming back then, a man with an easy smile. The kind of man who could light up a room just by walking into it. You had been drawn to his confidence, mistaking it for warmth.

It started with flowers on a first date. Then late-night texts that made your heart race. He called you beautiful before he even knew your last name. He made you feel special.

And for a while, it was good.

But the thing about fire is that it burns.

At first, the signs were subtle. You brushed it off as bad days, stress, or just the way love was. The first time he raised his voice at you, you had been late for a date. It was nothing, really. A misunderstanding. You had apologised again and again, and he had forgiven you after five days of not speaking to you. That’s what love was, right?

Then, when you moved in with him, you started to realise how much he drank. 

You thought he’d only have beer or two after work, maybe a glass of rum before bed. You convinced yourself it was normal. But normal turned into necessary, and necessary turned into destructive.

The first time he hit you, you had laughed too loud at another man’s joke.

His fury came in the form of a slap. Quick and sharp, so sudden it barely registered in your brain. You had touched your cheek in shock. The first time it happened, he had apologised— fuck knows, had he apologised. He cried crocodile tears, swore it would never happen again. He told you he loved you, and you had believed him.

Because love was supposed to hurt sometimes. Right?

But it didn’t stop. It never stopped.

And one day, he stopped apologising. He stopped even pretending to care

The worst part of it all was that you loved him. Or at least, you thought you did. Love makes people stay. Love makes people forgive. And you were good at forgiving him, even when his knuckles left bruises on your ribs, even when his drunken words tore you open in a way his fists never could.

He always had an excuse: sometimes it was stress at work. Sometimes it was the liquor talking. One day, it was because you pushed him too far. After that, it was all your fault, really.

And you had believed that, too.

Because leaving wasn’t an option.

Every time you tried, he reminded you what he could do, how easy it would be to make sure you never left him. He knew where you worked. He knew your friends. You didn’t have family close by, no one to run to.

So you stayed.

You learned how to walk on eggshells. How to keep your voice silent, to make yourself small. How to cover bruises with sweaters and long skirts.

And when you couldn’t take it anymore, you just went to work. 

And you worked in the library. 

You liked the quiet. Here, no one yelled. No one slammed doors or threw bottles against walls. No one grabbed your wrist too hard or left bruises in the shape of their fingers.

It was your only escape— a place where silence was expected and peace was mandatory.

And that’s where you met him.

“Mind if I sit here?” He asked. The library was full today, all the regular study tables taken by students and scholars alike. So he had looked for the only available seat— the one directly across from the librarian’s desk.

You looked up to see Bucky Barnes, in the flesh.

You had seen him on the news, had heard people talking about him when his name was printed on the paper. The Winter Soldier turned hero. He wasn’t in uniform, just a simple t-shirt stretched over his broad shoulders, a jacket slung over the back of a chair he hadn’t even fully claimed yet. But even dressed down, he still carried himself like a soldier.

You hesitated. You weren’t used to people—men—asking for permission. 

But Bucky… he was waiting for your answer.

You nodded. “Yeah, sure.”

“Thanks,” he said. He smiled— one you had seen in newspapers, on screens. It was different up close. 

He sat, stretching his metal arm along the back of his chair, completely at ease. You, on the other hand, had no idea how to act. It wasn’t every day a literal super soldier sat across from you.

“What are you reading?” He asked, curious. It wasn’t out of place for you to enjoy personal reading during your shift downtimes, mostly because you couldn’t do it at home. 

You hesitated before flipping the book so he could see the cover. Wuthering Heights.

Bucky let out a low whistle. “That’s the one with the guy who’s obsessed with his dead girlfriend, right?”

You blinked. Then, before you could stop yourself, you chuckled. “That’s… one way to put it,” you admitted.

Bucky grinned. “I remember reading that back in the day. Or, well, trying to. Never made it past the first few chapters. Too much drama.”

“That’s the whole point,” you said, surprising yourself. You were talking to him. Joking with him. When was the last time you had let yourself just… talk?

Bucky tilted his head. “You like all that tragic, doomed romance stuff?”

You hesitated, the smile faltering just slightly. It hit too close to home.

“I guess I used to,” you murmured, lowering your eyes.

Bucky didn’t pry. He just nodded like he understood. And then, instead of pushing, he said, “I know you work in a library, but if you ever need a break from that stuff, I can give you some better book recommendations. I’ve got a collection of banned books at home.”

You raised an eyebrow. “Oh? And what do you recommend?”

“Anything that doesn’t involve a guy wandering around moaning about his dead girlfriend for two hundred pages.”

You laughed again. Twice. In one conversation.

Bucky pressed his lips together. He looked pleased, maybe… fond.

And then he started flirting.

At first, it caught you off guard.

You weren’t used to compliments unless they came with conditions. You weren’t used to smiles without an edge hiding behind them.

But Bucky was different. He wasn’t forceful. He didn’t expect anything. He just let the conversation take its natural course, his attention fully on you.

“Y’know, for someone who likes doomed romances, you sure have a nice laugh,” he mentioned, tapping his fingers against the table.

You should have shut it down. You should have reminded yourself that you had a boyfriend, however unkind he may be. You should’ve told yourself that this was wrong. 

But Bucky wasn’t touching you. He wasn’t cornering you. He was just talking to you.

And fuck did you like the attention.

So you flirted back, hesitant but eager, testing the waters.

And then, he asked, “Let me take you out sometime. Dinner. Or coffee, if that’s more your style.”

The smile on your face slipped.

You had a boyfriend.

You had a boyfriend.

A cruel, violent man who would kill you if he ever found out, but a boyfriend nonetheless.

But then you looked at Bucky. 

However misguided, you realised a man like Bucky could protect you.

And for the first time in years, you wanted to be protected.

So you took a breath, pushed down the guilt clawing at your ribs, and said “Yeah. Coffee sounds nice,” you said. “Meet me here during my lunch break tomorrow?”

—

The apartment was dark when you got home, but the moment you stepped inside, you knew.

The stench of alcohol was suffocating. It mixed with sweat, stale smoke, and the acrid bite of spilled liquor seeping into the carpet.

Damien was drinking again.

You shut the door softly, careful not to let it creak, your fingers trembling as you turned the lock as silently as possible. Your body moved on autopilot, muscle memory guiding you through the steps you had learned to survive. You took your shoes off, your bag down. Maybe—maybe—you could slip into bed unnoticed.

But then you heard a low chuckle.

“Well, well,” Damien said, his voice reeking of vodka. “Look who finally decided to come home.”

You turned slowly, forcing your shoulders to stay relaxed, your hands to stay at your sides. You looked at the clock. You were only fifteen minutes later than usual.

Damien lay sprawled on the couch, a half-empty bottle dangling from his finger, shirt wrinkled like he hadn’t moved in hours. His eyes were bloodshot, but they still managed to pin you in down like a predator sizing up prey.

You swallowed hard. “It’s late. I just want to go to bed.”

Damien scoffed, shifting to sit up. “Oh, you want to go to bed? That’s funny, babe, ‘cause I’ve been sitting here, alone, all night, wondering where the fuck you’ve been.”

You forced your expression to stay neutral. “I was at work.”

“Work,” he repeated, shaking his head with a bitter laugh. “Always work with you. You love that goddamn library more than you love me.”

You said nothing. There was no right answer. 

Damien took a slow sip from the bottle, then licked his lips, “You dressed nice today.”

Your breath hitched.

A compliment should have been harmless, but not from him. Not when he was dangerously possessive. Not when you knew what was coming next.

“You trying to impress someone?” he slurred. “Someone at work?”

Stay calm. “I just—”

“Don’t lie to me,” he said gently. But you knew better than anyone that the softness in his voice was a trap. You had fallen for it before.

“I’m not,” you whispered.

Damien set the bottle down, breathing out sharply through his nose. “You think I’m stupid?”

“No—”

“Then why the fuck do you keep lying to me?”

You flinched as he pushed himself off the couch, staggering slightly before regaining his balance. You took a step back.

Damien noticed. “Where were you really, huh?” he pressed, taking a taunting step forward. “Who were you with?”

“No one,” you said quickly. “I swear.”

His fingers twitched. 

You tried to brace for it, but stumbled when he shoved you anyway.

Your hip hit the floor first, hands catching yourself on the carpet.

Damien crouched beside you, grabbing your chin in a bruising grip, forcing you to look at him. His breath reeked of alcohol as he muttered, “I don’t like feeling disrespected, baby.”

You didn’t answer. You knew better.

He let go, shoving your face away like you disgusted him. “Go to bed,” he commanded, already reaching for his bottle again.

You moved carefully, with no sudden movements. You got to your feet, keeping your head down as you made your way toward the bedroom.

The moment the door shut behind you, you collapsed onto the mattress, curling in on yourself.

Your hip throbbed where it had hit the floor. 

You lay there, staring at the ceiling, listening to the distant clink of glass and the murmur of the TV Damien had turned on.

Tomorrow, you had a date with Bucky Barnes.

And for the first time in years, you let yourself look forward to something.

—

It felt wrong to be this excited.

Your shift at the library had been slow—only a few regulars meandering through the aisles. Then you saw him. 

Bucky stood near the front desk, hands tucked into the pockets of his jacket, leaning against a shelf. He was so casual, for a second you could pretend he wasn’t a super soldier waiting for you to take your lunch break.

“Ready, doll?” He asked. Your heart flipped at the nickname.

You put aside the nerves bubbling in your chest and nodded, stepping out from behind the desk. 

It had been so long since you’d gone on a proper date— since you’d felt safe enough doing something out of work. Damien never liked you going out alone. 

You stepped outside together, “So,” you started, glancing up at him. “Where are we going?”

“There’s this little diner down the block,” he said with a small smile. “Figured we could grab a sandwich or something.”

A casual lunch. You liked that.

The walk was short, but you noticed how Bucky always positioned himself between you and the street. You doubted he even realised he was doing it. It probably was just instinct.

Inside the diner, a waitress greeted you both, eyes widening slightly when she recognised who Bucky was, but she said nothing beyond a polite, “Right this way.”

You slid into a booth, and Bucky sat across from you. 

“So,” he said, metal hand resting on the table. “Tell me something about you that’s not librarian-related.”

You blinked. “Uh. Like what?”

He grinned. “I don’t know. What do you do when you’re not working?”

You hesitated. Because what did you do? Your life had been so wrapped around making sure Damian didn’t get angry that you hadn’t had time for hobbies.

Bucky noticed your pause, picking up that you needed a better prompt. “Alright. Let me make it easier—favourite book?”

That was easier. “Don’t have one,” you shrugged, “But I just finished Persuasion last week and I thought it was pretty good.”

His brows lifted. “Jane Austen?”

You nodded, sipping your water. “It’s about second chances.”

“Sounds like my kind of book,” he said.

The conversation just… came freely after that. He told you about the 40s, about how he used to sneak out of school with Steve to get hot dogs from Coney Island. He told you about how Sam kept trying to get him into modern music, but he still thought the best stuff came from his time.

And you laughed. It felt good.

By the time you finished your sandwiches, you had  to go back to work.

Bucky walked you back, hands stuffed into his pockets again, looking reluctant to leave.

“You can stay, you know,” you said before you could think better of it.

His head tilted. “Yeah?”

You shrugged. “It’s a slow day. I wouldn’t mind the company.”

He smiled sheepishly. “Well,” he said. “Can’t say no to a pretty librarian asking me to stick around.”

You could feel your cheeks burning.

Bucky stayed and sat in the library, flipping through books he probably didn’t care about just to be near you.

—

When you came home, Damien barely spared you a glance. 

The coffee table was a mess— littered with empty bottles of rum, crumpled dollar bills, and a small mirror dusted with white powder.

He was on the couch, slouched back, Some guy—one of his friends you didn’t recognise—was laughing beside him, rubbing his nose. 

“Ah, there she is,” Damian slurred, stretching his arms over the back of the couch.

His friend snickered. “This is your girl, man?”

You froze.

Damian ran a hand through his messy hair. “Yeah. Can you believe it?” He gestured toward you, like you were some kind of joke. “Look at her—always in those oversized sweaters, like she’s hiding something.”

You clicked your jaw.

His friend hummed in agreement, looking you up and down. “Eh. She’s alright, I guess.”

Damian laughed.

“Right? I keep telling her she could actually be hot if she tried. But nah—she just walks around putting no fucking effort.” He leaned forward, tapping his nose twice before inhaling another line of coke. “No other guy’s gonna wanna fuck that, so I don’t even try,” he joked.

You gripped the strap of your bag so tightly your fingers hurt.

It wasn’t the first time he’d said things like this. But now, after spending time with Bucky— after being wanted —Damian’s words finally felt wrong. 

You turned, heading toward the bedroom, because if you stayed out here any longer, you weren’t sure you’d be able to keep yourself together.

“Hey,” Damian called after you, mocking. “Don’t be mad, babe. I’m just saying what everyone else is thinking.”

The laughter followed you down the hall.

And you hated that you let it get to you.

—

You told Damien you had to pick up an extra shift as an excuse to go on another date with Bucky after work.  

Now, you found yourself sitting across from the super soldier in a café near your job, fingers curling around a warm cup of coffee.  

“You got a little something right there.” He gestured vaguely toward your mouth.  

You frowned, swiping at your lips with a napkin. “Did I get it?”  

Bucky chuckled, shaking his head. “Nah. C’mere.”  

He leaned in, human hand swiping the stain on your lips.

God, he was close. So close. Too close.

“Can I kiss you?” He whispered.

Damien never asked. He just took.  

But Bucky was different.  

You nodded, and the moment his lips met yours, it was soft, sweet, nothing more than a chaste kiss, but it stole the breath from your lungs.  

Your heart stumbled in your chest, and when he pulled back, you blinked at him, dazed.  

Bucky smiled sweetly. “Yeah. Got it.”  

You should have felt guilty. You should have pulled away. But instead, you smiled.

—

You told Damien you had to work late again.

Instead, you were in Bucky’s apartment, his lips tracing down your neck.

It started like the others dates— with coffee and a conversation. This time, when he offered to take you back to his place, you said yes.

You weren’t sure why. Maybe you just needed to know what it felt like to be touched gently again. To be adored.

Bucky laid you down on his bed, hands roaming over your thighs, his lips peppering kisses over your collarbone.

And then he paused.

He saw it.

His fingers brushed over the bruise on your hip, the one Damian had left the last time he shoved you to the ground. 

His brow furrowed. “What happened, doll?”

You swallowed. “Uh—smacked a table.”

He didn’t believe you, but he didn’t push. Instead, he leaned down, his lips ghosting over the bruise, pressing the softest kiss against it— so gentle you thought you were going to cry. 

His mouth trailed lower—  teasing, tasting. And when he finally sank into you, his forehead pressing against yours, there was no fear. No pain. No doubt.

Just pleasure. 

You weren’t used to this— the tenderness. The way he whispered beautiful against your skin, like he couldn’t even believe you were real.

At one point, he brushed a strand of hair from your face and said, “You know, I thought you were way out of my league.”

You stared at him.

“Bucky,” you deadpanned. “Look at yourself.”

He smiled, hands splayed on your waist. “Look at you.”

You didn’t stop him when he kissed you again.

Didn’t stop him when he held you close after.

Didn’t stop him when he got up, disappeared into the kitchen, and returned with an ice pack.

“This’ll help,” he said, pressing it gently against your hip.

You hesitated but took it from him anyway, letting the cold seep into your bruised skin.

For a moment, you wondered, would it really be so bad if I told him the truth?

But then you thought of Damien— of what he’d do if he found out. 

And then you thought of Bucky.

What would he do if he knew? If he pieced it all together? You wanted to believe he’d never hurt you, that he was different. But if he reacted like Damien… it would be so much worse. He was a super soldier, after all.

So you said nothing.

And Bucky—sweet, patient Bucky—let you keep your secrets, for now.

When you rolled over, you saw the clock on his nightstand.

Shit.

It was late. Way later than you told Damian you’d be “working.”

You sat up quickly, clutching the sheets to your chest. “I—I should go.”

Bucky propped himself up on an elbow, blinking in confusion. “Already?” 

You nodded, forcing a tight-lipped smile. “Yeah. Early shift tomorrow,” you lied.  

It was a weak excuse, but he didn’t push.

Instead, he sat up, running a hand through his messy hair. “Alright. Lemme drive you.”

“No!” The word came out too fast.

Bucky froze.

“I—I mean, it’s fine,” you insisted, “I’ll just grab a cab.”

He stared at you like he was putting together pieces of a puzzle, but he let it go anyway. “Okay.”

You dressed quickly, avoiding his stare as you gathered your things. When you turned to leave, Bucky caught your wrist, tugging you back just enough to press one last kiss to your lips.

“See you soon?” he asked hopefully.

Your throat tightened.

You nodded. “Yeah. See you soon.”

Then you walked out the door with dread in your stomach.

Because you weren’t going home to safety.

You were going home to him.

—

The apartment was dark when you stepped inside. Damien was passed out on the couch with one arm hanging off the side.

You stepped in quietly, not wanting to wake him.

Your phone buzzed in your pocket.

Bucky.

Let me know when you get home.

You felt warmth spread through your chest, but guilt quickly smothered it. You shouldn’t have let him care this much. Shouldn’t have let him worry about you.

But fuck did you wanted him to.

You slipped into the bathroom, locking the door behind you before pressing call.

He answered on the second ring.

“Hey, doll.” He greeted, eager.

You sat on the edge of the tub, “Hey. I just wanted to let you know that I’m home.”

There was a beat of silence before he asked, “You okay?”

You hesitated.

Your eyes looked in the mirror. You dropped your pants slightly to see that the bruise on your hip was still there, but fainter. Bucky’s ice pack had helped.

It shouldn’t have made you tear up, but it did.

“Yeah,” you lied. “Just stress.”

Bucky hummed, unconvinced. “Alright,” he said, “Get some rest, sweetheart.”

You nodded, even though he couldn’t see you. “You too.”

You hung up before the lump in your throat could grow.

Then, you turned off the bathroom light, took a deep breath, and stepped back into your own personal hell.

—

Tuesdays and Wednesdays became highlights of your week. Those were the days that Bucky would meet you during your lunch break, always having a small bite in the corner booth of some diner, fingers wrapped around a warm cup of coffee instead of white-knuckling the strap of your bag in fear.

Fridays were even better.

You told Damien your Friday hours have been extended, telling a lie about reorganising shelves and cataloguing books, a lie he barely acknowledged between lines of ket and dismissive laughter. 

Little did he know, every Friday, Bucky took you somewhere new after work. A different café, a hole-in-the-wall restaurant, once even a trinket shop with creaky wooden floors. Sometimes, he bought you flowers— slipping it into your bag with a casual “Thought you’d like this,” like it wasn’t the kindest thing anyone had done for you in years. Of course, you’d have to throw them away before you got home. It broke your heart to do so every time. 

And every Friday, he asked, “Come back to mine?” He was always hopeful, never demanding.

Sometimes, when you knew Damien would come looking, you said no, and he never pried.

But when you said yes, Bucky brought you home and touched you like you were sacred. His hands never bruised, never hurt. He kissed you like he wanted to give you time, let you set the pace. When he laid you down on his bed, he didn’t take. He gave.

He made love to you like it was an art form, like the curve of your spine and the sound of your gasps were brushstrokes on the masterpiece he was creating. He mapped every inch of you, murmuring things you weren’t sure you deserved to hear— things like beautiful and perfect and mine, if you want to be.

But no matter how good it felt, you never stayed the night.

You’d always force yourself to get up. You kissed him one last time, letting him tuck a stray strand of hair behind your ear.

Bucky never asked why.

He figured you would tell him when you were ready. 

—

This Friday night was different.

Bucky had taken you somewhere nice— a proper restaurant with white tablecloths and candlelight on the table.

It felt too much. Too intimate. Too real.

You didn’t deserve this.

You smoothed your hands down your dress, a simple black number you changed into after work. It was something Damien wouldn’t notice if he caught the scent of someone else’s cologne clinging to the fabric later. You swallowed hard, pushing the thought away.

"You okay, doll?" Bucky asked, always so damn perceptive. It scared you sometimes, how easily he could read you.

You forced a smile. "Yeah. Just...not used to this."

Bucky reached across the table. "I just wanted to do something nice for you," he said. "You deserve it."

You didn’t.

You didn’t deserve him.

Not when you were still crawling into bed with Damien, violent as he may be. 

Your throat tightened. "I...thank you."

Bucky squeezed your hand before pulling back. "I mean, we can go back to coffee and greasy burgers next time."

You laughed, even though it felt like a lie. The waiter came by and you ordered tea. Bucky ordered a beer.

The moment the words left his mouth, something inside you froze.

It was stupid. So stupid. It was just a drink. A normal, casual, everyday thing that normal, casual, everyday people ordered.

But when the waiter returned and set the bottle in front of Bucky, you couldn’t breathe.

You couldn’t even think.

The world blurred at the edges, shrinking down to that bottle, to the way Bucky’s fingers wrapped around it, to the way the liquid moved inside.

He lifted it to his lips.

And suddenly, you weren’t here anymore.

You were at the apartment, with Damien.

Slumped on the couch, a half-empty bottle dangling from his fingers, his head lolling to the side.

Damien.

Hurling the beer bottle across the room, the sound of shattering glass echoing through the apartment.

Damien.

Laughing as he swung it at you like a weapon, the glass catching your shoulder— hurting you.

"Look what you made me do,” he would say.

Your breath hitched. The room felt like he closed in on you.

You had to get out.

Now.

Your chair scraped against the floor as you shoved it back. Bucky blinked. "What—?"

"I have to go." The words came out strangled. Your hands were already shaking.

His brows furrowed in confusion. "What? Why?"

"I—I forgot I needed to pick up laundry."

It was a terrible excuse, but you didn’t care. You were already moving, grabbing your bag, fumbling with the strap as you stumbled toward the door.

"Wait—!"

You didn’t.

You pushed past the tables, past the jazz band that played on.

The air outside was cold, and you didn’t make it far.

Bucky was running after you, calling your name. "Hey—hey, stop."

He placed a hand on your wrist and tugged gently. Always so gentle. "Talk to me."

You shook your head, staring at the sidewalk, at the cracks in the pavement, at anything but him. "It’s nothing. I just—I just need to go."

"Nothing?" His voice was careful now. "Your hands are shaking."

You curled them into fists. "I���m fine."

"You froze the second I took a drink." His voice was soft, like he was afraid of scaring you off. "Are you sure you’re fine?”

You couldn’t.

"Please," you whispered. "Just let it go."

Bucky’s voice cracked when he spoke. "You can’t keep doing this."

Your stomach dropped. "Doing what?"

"Running." His throat bobbed, "From me. From whatever this is."

Your heart raced out of your ribs. "Bucky, I can’t—"

"Not when I’m falling in love with you."

Fuck.

He took a step closer.  "I love you." He said, "And I just want to know if this works."

Your breath hitched.

"Y-you love me?"

"I do." There was no hesitation. No doubt.

It was too much.

Too much, too much, too much.

So you did the only thing you knew how to do.

You ran home.

—

When you got home, Damien was not alone.

A girl—half-naked, barely covered by his shirt—was curled up on the couch, her lipstick smudged.

And Damien was sitting beside her, legs sprawled, a cigarette dangling from his lips. His pupils were wide, red-rimmed, unfocused. He barely even looked surprised to see you.

"Ha!" His laugh was almost giddy. "Thought you’d be gone longer." He exhaled a cloud of smoke, stretching his arms behind his head. "Oh well."

Oh, fuck. 

You should have known.

You should have expected it.

And yet, it still hurt.

It shouldn’t have. It shouldn’t have.

You were supposed to be the cheater. You were the liar. You had no right to be angry.

And yet your anger burned hot and ugly all the same. 

"You—" It got caught in your throat. "Are you fucking kidding me?"

Damien groaned, rolling his eyes, "Oh, don’t start with that shit." He gestured lazily to the girl beside him, barely even looking at her. "She was already here. Not my fault you weren’t."

You were fuming.

Not because you loved him anymore.

Not because you wanted him anymore.

But because he had always done this. Had always taken and taken and taken, had always acted like your pain was just an inconvenience, like your suffering was annoying.

"You don’t even give a fuck, do you?" Your voice trembled. "You don’t even care that I just walked in and found you like this?"

Damien only laughed.

"Why the fuck would I care?" He flicked the cigarette onto the floor, grinding the ember into the carpet with his boot. "You always come back."

Something inside you snapped.

"You are such a piece of shit." The words came out in a snarl.

Once his eyes darkened, it happened fast.

Faster than you could brace for it.

One second, he was laughing, the next—

Crack.

Your head snapped to the side as his palm met your skin with a brutal slap.

The room blurred.

The sting sank deep into your nerves. You could taste copper blooming on your tongue where your teeth had cut into the inside of your cheek.

The girl on the couch barely even flinched.

Damien leaned forward, bracing his elbows on his knees.

"You’ll still come back," Damien murmured, his voice almost affectionate as he traced a lazy finger down neck, reeking of alcohol or coke or ket or whatever he had today. 

Your hands curled into fists. "Go to hell."

He chuckled. "You won’t leave me."

He said it like it was a fact.

"But if you do…" His fingers closed around your wrist, squeezing just enough to make your bones ache. You grunted in pain.

"I’ll find you," he whispered. "And I’ll make sure no one else wants you either."

He let you go. Just like that.

You turned on your heel and walked out, pressing a hand to your burning cheek. You were almost to the stairwell when his voice called after you, sing-song and fake-sweet, "See you soon, babe."

—

It was late. 

You shouldn’t be here.

But you had nowhere else to go.

The door swung open, and there he was.

Bucky was wearing an old hoodie and sweatpants, blinking at you with those ocean-deep blue eyes

And before he could say a word, before you could think, or hesitate, or talk yourself out of it—

You kissed him.

Your fingers fisted in his hoodie, your mouth crashing against his. You were desperate. You were hungry.

You felt him freeze, hands hovering near your waist, like he wasn’t sure if he should touch you, wasn’t sure if this was real.

So you whispered it against his lips, "I love you too." It was the truth.

You heard a gasp from him. 

Then his hands found you, gripping your waist and pulling you into him with a sound that was half a sigh, half a groan. He kissed you back like he couldn’t believe you were finally his.

You barely made it to the living room before you were tangled together. He pressed you down onto the couch, and oh, fuck.

Was this what it’s like to not be taken for granted? Not feeling owned, but treasured?

You could have stayed there forever, but Bucky pulled back just to make sure you were okay.

He froze.

The lights in his apartment were brighter than the hallway, bright enough for him to see.

His thumb brushed against the skin of your cheek, his brows furrowing. "What happened?"

Your stomach churned. "It doesn’t matter."

Bucky’s fingers twitched, his voice lower. "What. Happened.”

You swallowed hard, keeping your eyes trained on his chest. "I fell on the floor."

What an obvious lie.

Then his metal fingers reached up, gently tucking a strand of hair behind your ear.

And you saw it in his face the moment he undeniably noticed the shape of it.

It was a handprint.

His teeth clenched so hard you could hear it.

"Please don’t lie to me." He pleaded.

And just like that, you broke.

"I have a boyfriend," you choked out.

His face changed, but not into anger— no, not yet. He was waiting for a justification.

"You have a boyfriend," he repeated, his voice flat.

You swallowed hard, "Bucky, I—"

"Are you—" His voice was strained, almost heartbroken, "Are you telling me I’m the other man? That all this time, I was—"

He couldn’t finish his words. 

"It’s not like that," you whispered, frantically. "I swear, it’s not—"

"You kissed me." His tone was hoarse. "You told me you loved me."

"I do!" Your grip on his hoodie tightened. "I do, Bucky. Please, just—"

"What the hell have we been doing?" His voice cracked.

You should have told him.

Should have told him sooner.

But you had been too much of a coward.

And now, Bucky—your Bucky—was looking at you like he didn’t even know you as he burned in your eyes.

"He… he hurts me." The words came out in a whisper.

And Bucky froze, body entirely still.

His hands clenched into fists. His throat bobbed as he swallowed.

You forced yourself to keep going, even though you struggled. "He—he hits me. He cheats. He drinks and bumps ket and coke. And I don’t love him anymore. I haven’t for a while, but he threatens me and I—" you let out a deep. "I was scared to leave. I am scared to leave."

Bucky took a deep breath. "Oh," he murmured, realisation in his eyes as he put all the puzzle pieces together— your bruises, why you never stayed over.

"Oh, sweetheart,” he reached for you, and this time, you didn’t flinch.

He pulled you into his chest, arms wrapping around you. His lips pressed against the top of your head, breathing against your hair.

And then, after a long quiet moment, he asked, "What’s his name?"

It took you a long time to answer, but Bucky waited. He didn’t rush you as he rubbed slow circles against your back.

"Damien."

You barely whispered it, like saying it out loud would summon him.

His shoulders went rigid. You heard the faintest whine of his metal arm as his fingers curled into a fist.

"Damien." He repeated it, like he needed to taste the name of the man who had hurt you, like he needed to put a name to his anger.

Your throat was tight. "I’m sorry."

Bucky pulled back just enough to look at you, his hands still firm on your waist. "What the hell are you sorry for?" His voice was rough, but not with anger— he was hurt on your behalf. Grieving on your behalf.

"I should’ve told you," you whispered. "I should’ve—I should’ve left. I just—"

"You were scared." He brushed a strand of hair behind your ear. "Sweetheart, you don’t owe anyone an apology."

His fingers ghosted over your arms, barely touching, like he was afraid you’d flinch.

"You’re safe now," he promised, "I’ve got you."

Your throat closed. Is this what love is supposed to feel like?

Bucky shifted on his feet, glancing toward his kitchen. "Let me take care of you, yeah?" He frowned as his eyes studied your cheek. "You need something for the swelling."

He walked to the cabinet and pulled down a bottle of anti-inflammatory pills, shaking two into his palm before turning back to you.

"Here," he offered, grabbing a water bottle from the counter and unscrewing the cap. "Take these. They’ll help with the pain."

Your chest tightened, lungs locking up.

The little pills sat in his palm, harmless, waiting for you to swallow them. 

But they didn’t feel harmless. 

See, you had done this before.

You had taken something from a man you trusted, swallowed it without question, only to wake up confused, sore, violated.

You had trusted Damien, once, and he had used you.

Bucky noticed your hesitation immediately.

Your hands curled into fists in your lap.

His brow furrowed. "Doll?"

You couldn’t look at him, couldn’t look at the pills.

His breath hitched. "Oh."

When he realised, he felt a shattering kind of grief.

You flinched when he moved, but all he did was slowly place the pills on the table before backing away. 

You hated that you had flinched.

Because it was Bucky. Bucky. The man who had never done anything but love you, who had never given you a reason to fear him, and yet your body had reacted before your mind could catch up. 

“You don’t have to take anything,” he reassured.

He swallowed hard. His hands twitched at his sides, like he wanted to reach for you but didn’t.

"I would never," he said, his voice breaking. "I could never do that to you."

You knew that. Of course you did.

But hearing him say it like the very idea of hurting you made him sick had broken you.

You nodded. "I know."

"Just rest, okay?" he said, quieter now. "I’ll protect you."

Before you could stop yourself, you reached for him.

Bucky barely had time to react before you curled into his chest, pressing yourself against him, burying your face in his hoodie, inhaling the scent of safety.

Carefully, his arms came around you, not too tight. Not too much. Just enough.

You didn’t realize you were crying until his lips brushed the top of your head.

You didn’t know how much time passed before Bucky finally spoke again.

"C’mon, sweetheart," he cooed. "You’re exhausted."

You were. God, you were so tired.

Your body was running on fumes. The adrenaline had burned away, leaving nothing but exhaustion, leaving your limbs heavy, your eyes barely able to stay open.

You let him pull you to your feet, let him guide you to the bedroom, let him peel back the covers and tuck you in.

His hands were gentle as he pulled the blanket up to your chin. He brushed his fingers over your hair, his thumb tracing soft circles against your temple.

Your eyes fluttered shut.

—

At some point in the night, your phone buzzed.

Damien.

Then again.

Then again.

Each vibration rattled the nightstand, You didn’t wake, body curled into the warmth of the blankets he’d wrapped you in. It hurt to even think about when the last time you slept undisturbed was.

His fingers hovered over the phone. He should wake you up. He should let you handle this yourself.

Then it vibrated again. This time, it was a text.

Where the fuck are you?

Another.

I swear to god, if you don’t pick up.

Then another.

I will drag you home myself.

Bucky could feel the rage settling deep in his gut.

Then, the last message came through.

You think you can run? I’ll fucking kill you before I let you leave me.

No.

He wasn’t going to just sit here and ignore it.

He was going to handle this.

He picked up the phone, tapped the screen, and traced the call in seconds. He had done this a thousand times before— for missions, for threats, for people who needed help. 

The results came back quickly. Damien was at your shared apartment.

Then he stood, grabbed the biggest duffel bag, and left after pressing a soft kiss to your temple. 

—

Damien heard the knock on his door.

He groaned from the couch, rubbing at his temples. His head was still swimming from the high. He had barely moved since you had walked out, too fucked up to care. The girl he slept with was long gone. He didn’t even remember her name.

The knocking persisted, harder this time.

“Jesus Christ,” he muttered, stumbling to his feet, the room tilting slightly. He yanked the door open with a scowl. “What—”

Holy. Fucking. Shit.

The Winter Soldier was standing at his door.

Bucky Barnes. The Hero. The assassin. The fucking legend.

Damien gawked, blinking hard. “Whoa.” 

Bucky didn’t wait for him to process. “Move.” He shoved past him and into his apartment.

Damien stumbled back, mouth opening and closing. “Wait—what the fuck—” he barked, rubbing his chest. “Dude, what the hell do you think you’re doing?”

Bucky didn’t answer. He didn’t even spare him a single glance as his metal hand ripped open your closet, yanking out handfuls of clothes and shoving them into the duffel bag. He moved like a soldier in the field— quick and efficient.

He took your laptop. Important Documents. Trinkets. The little necklace you always fiddled with when you were nervous. Everything that mattered. Everything that was yours, everything that you’ve ever talked about. It hurt to see that there wasn't much, that your life fit into the duffel bag. That and he already made up his mind— whatever clothes couldn’t fit in the bag he would buy you tomorrow. 

Because you were never setting foot in this apartment again.

Damien was still watching, bleary-eyed. “Okay, as cool as it is having an Avenger in my place, you can’t just take shit—”

Bucky didn’t even look at him.

“I’m not taking your shit,” he said coldly, zipping the bag shut. “I’m taking hers.”

Damien squinted, then blinked. “Hers? Wait—how do you even know her?”

He should have walked away. He should have just left.

But Damien was still talking.

“Oh my God,” his eyes wide as dinner plates. “Are you fucking her?”

Bucky didn’t say a word. 

Damien fucking grinned. “Oh, I was right, wasn’t I? That bitch was cheating on me.”

Bucky saw red.

Before Damien could react, Bucky’s metal hand shot out and grabbed him by the throat, lifting him clean off the ground.

Damien choked, his hands scrambling against the vibranium fingers squeezing his neck. His legs were kicking air uselessly. 

Bucky pulled him in, their faces inches apart.

“You listen to me,” Bucky said, voice lethal. “You are never going to call her again. You are never going to text her again. You are never going to look for her.” His grip tightened. “You so much as breathe in her direction, and I will find you.”

Damien’s face turned red, veins popping at his temples. He clawed at Bucky’s wrist, making pathetic strangled noises.

Bucky leaned in closer.

���You think you own her?” His voice was a deadly  whisper now. “You think you can hurt her?”

Damien’s mouth opened, gasping. 

“You don’t own shit,” Bucky snarled. “And you will never touch her again.”

Just as Damien’s vision started to go dark, Bucky let go.

He fell to the floor as a heaving mess, clutching his throat.

Bucky adjusted the strap of the bag. Then he stepped over Damien like a rug.

Right before he walked out the door, he glanced back.

“If I ever see you again,” he said. “You won’t be walking away.”

And then he left.

—

By the time Bucky made it back to his apartment, you were still asleep.

He set the bag down quietly. He placed your laptop on the table and folded your clothes neatly before slipping back beside you. 

You curled up to him. 

—

The morning light greeted you when you woke. You blinked the sleep away from your eyes, stretching slightly, and then you smelled it. Warm vanilla. A hint of espresso. It was the unmistakable scent of your favorite iced latte.

A small smile tugged at your lips before you even turned your head. And Bucky was standing beside the bed, phone in one hand, the other carefully setting down a bowl of cereal and the coffee on the nightstand.

It was so normal, so sweet and ordinary, that for a moment, you almost let yourself pretend that life had always been like this. 

But when you saw your laptop, your documents, your clothes—folded neatly on the side, when you saw every little piece of you that had been left behind, you frowned, confused.

You barely heard Bucky’s voice as he finished his call.

“Yeah. Yeah, I appreciate it. I’ll let you know… No, she’s okay. She’s good.” He paused. “Alright. Thanks, Matt.”

The call ended and he slipped his phone into his pocket.

Your throat was dry. “Bucky…?”

He turned to you.

You licked your lips, forcing the words outs. “What happened?”

He shrugged casually.

Like he hadn’t walked into your old apartment in the middle of the night. Like he hadn’t packed up every last thing that belonged to you. Like he hadn’t lifted Damien off the ground with one hand.

“He’s not gonna bother you anymore,” was all he said.

You swallowed, eyes searching his face. “Bucky… what did you do?”

He didn’t answer right away. He sighed, rolling his shoulders. 

“Nothing you have to worry about.”

And the phone call…

“Who were you talking to?” You asked. 

Bucky hesitated. Just for a second. “Murdock & McDuffie.”

That was a law firm.

Your fingers curled around the blankets. “Why?”

“To put together a case,” he said. 

Your lips parted, but no sound came out.

He shifted, voice softer now. “A domestic abuse case.” He continued, “If you decide to press charges.”

“Bucky—”

“You don’t have to,” he said quickly, like he didn’t want to push. “I just—I wanted you to have the option.”

The option.

For so long, you had none.

For so long, Damien had decided everything. What you wore. Where you went. How loud you could speak. How much you could breathe.

You had a choice.

Slowly, you reached for the coffee he had brought you and took a sip. It was perfect, just the way you liked it.

Bucky sat beside you on the bed, gently tucking a loose strand of hair behind your ear.

His eyes looked to your cheek— to the fading imprint that had made a home there. “Does it still hurt?”

You swallowed, lifting your hand to touch the spot, but before you could, Bucky was already there, brushing his thumb lightly over your skin.

“A little,” you admitted. “But… I’m better than I’ve been in a long time.”

A small smile formed on his lips. “Good.”

And then, before you could say anything else, he leaned in.

He kissed your tears, lips pressing softly against the salt-streaked trail on your cheek. And then another kiss—this time against your lips. Slow, steady, like he had all the time in the world.

When he pulled back, his forehead rested against yours.

“I love you,” he whispered.

You cupped his face, fingers tracing the stubble on his jaw. “I love you, too.”

His eyes closed for a moment, like he was letting the words settle before pressing a kiss to your forehead.

“You’re safe,” he promised. “You can do what you want, go where you want. Stay if you want. I don’t ever want you to feel like I’m trapping you.”

A tear slipped down your cheek, and this time, it wasn’t from sadness.

“I know,” you whispered.

Because Bucky was nothing like him.

You had spent so long being controlled, manipulated, made to feel small. But now— now you had a choice.

And you chose him.

You had found love in the arms of a better man.

-end.

Extra notes : I'm posting because this month is my three-year anniversary of being sober, so this one is deeply personal. In some ways, this is a reflection of my past relationships before I met my wonderful partner. I don't really talk about this often, but couple of my exes were like this, and some even played a big part in my history of substance abuse. It is my partner who helped me get sober, and I am forever grateful, and I fucking love him so much. For some reason, I just can't bring myself to write the reader as a recovering addict, but I was able to write about experiencing abuse in a relationship. If you need to vent, my chat is always open. I may not reply quickly but I will talk if you're like me to. Please also refer to this very useful list of resources. If you can, please share more resources in the comments! You are worth so much and loved. <3

General Bucky taglist:

@hotlinepanda @snflwr-vol6 @ruexj283 @2honeybees @read-just-cant

 @shanksstrawhat @mystictf @globetrotter28 @thebuckybarnesvault@average-vibe

@winchestert101 @mystictf @globetrotter28 @shanksstrawhat @scariusaquarius

@reckless007 @hextech-bros @daydreamgoddess14 @96jnie @pono-pura-vida

@buckyslove1917 @notsostrangerthing @flow33didontsmoke @qvynrand @blackbirdwitch22

@torntaltos @seventeen-x @ren-ni @iilsenewman @slayerofthevampire

@hiphip-horray @jbbucketlist @melotyy @ethereal-witch24 @samfunko

@lilteef @hi172826 @pklol @average-vibe @shanksstrawhat

@shower-me-with-roses @athenabarnes @scarwidow @thriving-n-jiving @dilfsaresohot

@helloxgoodbi @undf-stuff

[hhiggs]

Mr. Congressman

The above image does not indicate the reader's physical appearance.

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x Female Reader

Synopsis: After Congressman James Buchanan Barnes buys you a drink at the bar, your night takes a turn for a more passionate one.

Word Count: 7.3k

Warning(s): no use of Y/N. use of the nickname angel and sweetheart. alcohol consumption. lots of flirting. smut (18+ mdni)—dirty talk, so much praising, handjob, vaginal fingering, oral sex (f!receiving), multiple orgasms (reader), unprotected sex (p in v), creampie. lmk if I missed anything!!

Author's Note: I decided to drop this while I'm rewriting the next chapter of Faithfully Yours. I've wanted to write Congressman Bucky for awhile but didn't know what kind of story to make until this idea came upon me. For the record, smut is my kryptonite, and it took a lot of miracle for me to even finish this up. I genuinely have developed a new kind of appreciation for all of you smut writers out there. Anyways, the concept of this story sounded a lot better in my head, but hopefully this isn't that bad for a first attempt and I hope you'll still like it xx don't forget to comment/like/reblog to support :)

Bucky Barnes Masterlist

“Your drink, Ma'am.”

The bartender slides a tall flute across the counter, settling it beside the empty glass of spritzer you downed earlier. It doesn't take long for you to recognize the fruity aroma wafting through the air, the rusty red liquid rising in tiny bubbles as you scrutinize the drink with furrowed brows.

The Minimalist Bar and Lounge is nestled on the ground floor of Rosewood Hotel in Georgetown, Washington, D.C. The bar's interior exudes subtle sophistication, its dim lighting casting amber reflections across the polished mahogany counter. Soft piano jazz hums through the speakers overhead, cruising into the low murmurs of the sparse Thursday night crowd. 

You look up towards the bartender, a middle-aged man with laugh lines creasing his tan skin, and push the glass slightly towards him. “I didn't order this.”

“A gentleman sent it over,” he apprises, tapping his fingers against the counter with a knowing smile. “Says to tell you that you've got an admirer.”

Before you can say more, the bartender gives you a cheeky wink, striding away to whip up an order from another customer.

You drag the slender glass closer, spinning the drink around until the golden liquid at the top simmers into the red. As soon as you take an intrepid sip, the sweet tang of blackcurrant explodes in your mouth, compelling you to hum favorably at the familiar flavor coating your tongue.

You have barely set your glass back down when a deep voice suddenly erupts by your side.

“May I join you?”

The low, rough timbre of the voice sends a shiver down your back, chased away immediately by the warm presence that has settled next to you. Shifting in your seat, you tilt your head and lock eyes with another pair in cerulean, breath hitching in your throat when you take in the scent of fine spices mixing sedulously with bergamot.

Congressman James Buchanan Barnes is a sight to behold within the quiet establishment. With his tall stature and lean muscles stretching taut under the fancy suit, he is bound to attract every thread of attention in the room. The faint gray dusting his stubbled cheeks only adds to the man's overall charm, and as he peers down at you from his full, subjugating height, you can't help but ponder about how none of his pictures ever did his attractiveness justice.

Gathering your composure, you manage a small smile before nodding towards the empty seat beside you. ”Of course.”

The congressman doesn't waste time sliding into the stool, reciting his order towards the bartender with a practiced speech and a methodical gesture of his hand. His whole focus is back on you in a matter of seconds, bright ocean blue eyes taking in your features like curators would a priceless piece of Monet. You burn under his blatant appreciation, trying to mask the crack in your poise by taking another sip of your cocktail. 

“How's the drink?” he asks, the curve of his lips discreet but genuine under the warm lighting.

“It's good.” You set the glass down, tilting your body to the side until your knees nearly touch his. “I gather you're the one who sent it?”

Congressman Barnes doesn't say anything in return. He only continues staring at you—as if nothing else exists in the world at that moment except for the woman sitting in front of him—but the glint of mirth in his pupils tells you everything you need to know.

Your knees bump into his. “Very smooth, Congressman.”

The corner of his lips tilt higher. “Call me Bucky.”

Your eyebrows rise.

Before you can give a response, the bartender returns carrying the congressman's order of a classic Old Fashioned. Congressman Barnes accepts the drink with an easy nod, his fingers curling around the short tumbler as he turns towards you again. 

“It's what my friends call me,” he adds, smirking behind the rim of his glass.

“Is that what we are now?” you muse, eyes flicking twice between his hypnotizing eyes and kissable lips. “Friends?”

The man chuckles. He puts down his glass with a deliberate slowness, each stretch of movements calculated and needlessly arousing. Then, he leans in, just enough to steal the air between the two of you, just enough to make the world beyond to begin blurring around the edges.

“Angel—” his voice dips, the raspy edge floating along your skin, “—we can be whatever you want us to be.”

A shudder runs through your spine. You try convincing yourself that it is due to the chill in the air and the sheer material of your dress, but the simultaneous quickening of your heartbeat, along with the rush of goosebumps across your skin completely banishes that attempt. It was all your body's reaction to Congressman Barnes, and he knows this. He can read you like a goddamn open book—pinpoint the slightest change in your posture, detect the tiniest rise in your pulse, and spot the way your pupils dilate with each second your gaze stays locked on him.

He leans even closer, the ghost of his metal fingertips venturing the skin of your knee until he catches the silent gasp in your throat.

It excites him.

Biting your lip, you shuffle slightly to your side to escape his electrifying touch, putting on a pristine smile while pretending as though your composure weren't currently lying in tiny broken shards on the floor.

“Well, Bucky—” your voice is soft, baiting as you reach for your flute on the counter, “—thank you for the drink. How'd you know Kir Royale's my favorite?”

The smirk on Congressman Barnes’—Bucky's—face widens. 

“Simple, sweetheart.” His velvet voice drips with amusement. “I just picked something that suits you the best.”

Bucky's fingers drift along the edge of the bar, brushing against your own hand and pulse point, lingering there as if committing the rhythm of your heart into memory. By the dark flicker in his gaze, you know that he must have caught the stutter in your heartbeat, the indisputable evidence of his infuriating effect on your being.

Without breaking eye contact, Bucky plucks the glass from your grasp, his fingers warm where yours have been.

“Something sweet,” Bucky murmurs, swirling the red liquid before lifting the drink to his lips. He takes a long, unhurried sip, letting the moment stretch, cerulean blue smoldering into your eyes over the rim. “Seductive.” 

He sets the glass back down with a soft clink. Never once taking his attention off you. Tracing his heated gaze over your entire body in a way that sends fire searing through your skin.  

“And dangerous,” he finishes with a husky whisper, heavy with tension and unspoken revelations.

“Dangerous?” Your eyes twinkle. “How am I dangerous?”

Bucky huffs a quiet laugh, flashing you his striking pearly whites. “You kidding me? A woman like you, looking like that.” 

His eyes roam the length of your legs, landing on the skin of your thigh peeking through the slit of your dress, delicate and tempting. Bucky's tongue darts out, wetting his lips as he takes a moment to admire you.

“And that dress—” his eyes dip lower to your chest, drinking in the sight of your exposed collarbones and the shape of your curves, lingering too long as if it were the first time he ever laid eyes upon a woman, “—is the very definition of sin, sweetheart.”

A surge of delight curls your lips as you sway slightly in your seat, letting the dress grip tighter around your frame like a second skin, feeling the material shift just enough to taint Bucky's eyes with something prurient. Your fingers slither down the side of your body, half-conscious of Bucky's heated gaze that seems to map the path of your provocative touch.

“Do you like it? It's new,” you goad coyly, caressing your body through the silk. “I bought it today for a special occasion.”

Bucky's eyes crinkle at the corner, his pupils glistering with intrigue. “Yeah? Like a first date, Angel?” He takes a casual sip of the amber liquid in his glass, his nose scrunching up in thought as he plays along. “Bought it for a boyfriend? A husband, perhaps?” 

You fight off the thrill traveling through your veins and answer, shrugging nonchalantly, “Something like that.”

The tip of Bucky's mouth lifts. “What a lucky bastard,” he says earnestly, eyes drilling into yours as if he wants to bury himself there.

You evade his intense stare, feigning interest at your cocktail instead. “What about you?”

“What about me?”

“Well,” you pause purposefully, studying all of the sharp edges that forge the man sitting in front of you, picturing all of the tenderness that he has concealed beneath the crisp white shirt and that impeccable tux of his. “Are you here on business? Or something else?”

Bucky's eyes wander towards the rows of bottles and liquors lining the wall of the bar, tweaking his bow tie as though just now remembering that it was there in the first place.

“Business,” he replies, straightforward, the pad of his index finger circling the lip of his glass on the counter. But then his eyes fly upward, sealing you in place. “Maybe a bit of pleasure as well.”

You hum, leaning closer until you feel the neckline of your dress flitter recklessly from your skin, divulging parts of you that manage to reclaim Bucky's sole interest. “Is that so?”

His throats bob.

There is no mistaking the whirr of his vibranium arm as the fingers clench, metal plates shifting in tandem with the torrent of desire rushing through Bucky’s mind. He imagines dropping his head to your chest, trailing wet, open-mouthed kisses on the expanse of skin, coaxing gasps and sounds of pleasure from those perfect, alluring lips. He imagines sinking to his knees, running his mouth up the length of your leg until he reaches the one place that would make you quiver and crumble in his mercy. Worshipping at your altar like a madman finally finding the true meaning of religion.

Public decency be damned. 

But before he can open his mouth, before he gets the chance to act on the budding ache tightening his slacks, the ringing coming out of his suit pocket stops him dead in tracks.

Bucky curses.

You study him curiously, taking in the augmenting scowl on his face as he glimpses at the screen of his phone. Nursing your drink, you let your voice soften while asking, “Something urgent?”

“No.” Bucky is quick to answer, shoving the phone back into his pocket like he is eager to be rid of the gadget. “Not at all. Nothing more important than you, Angel.”

The next round of ringing downright betrays his words.

It takes Bucky a copious amount of willpower to not launch the despicable device across the room. He grits his teeth, blue eyes hurling invisible daggers towards the number on the screen, a number belonging to one of the jerk-ass faces with whom he has no intention of doing business at this moment in time. Bucky wishes he could just block the sleazy bastard's number and be done with it.

But he can't.

Because as hard as Bucky tries to shed the new title when he steps out of the confined spaces of his office, at the end of the day, he is not merely Bucky Barnes anymore.

He is Congressman James Buchanan Barnes.

And playing nice with people he would rather punch in the face is, unfortunately, part of the unofficial job description.

Bucky heaves a sigh, running an exasperated palm across his face before his repentant gaze finds yours. 

“I have to—” he pauses, voice thick with guilt and frustration.

Bucky expects you to scowl, to see the same kind of disappointment that is gnawing at him etching on your beautiful face. Instead, all he finds is your effortless smile, the kind that has the power to wage a war or two. It makes something inside him lurch.

“You should take the call, Mr. Congressman.”

You glide out of the comfort of your seat with ease, finishing your drink and collecting your stone-studded clutch in hand. Bucky moves to protest, nearly leaping out of his own seat to prevent you from leaving, but the soothing press of your palm against his chest renders him back in place.

“Finish the call,” you tell him, adamant. Above the counter, your hand skims forward, furtively sliding something under Bucky's own palm before your fingers squeeze his in fervent. “And when you're done, come find me.”

Upon your departure, Bucky turns his hand over, smiling to himself when he sees the key card with a room number scribbled on the paper holder. He examines your retreating figure once his head lifts, consuming the languid sway of your hips, the way your silk dress is clinging to every hard and soft edges that sculpt your captivating figure. 

His body tenses with the urge to follow, to sneak his palm onto the small of your back and guide you towards where he knows this night is leading. But the shrill ringtone of his phone is relentless against his eardrums, ousting the compulsion away, forcing him to tear his gaze off as he answers the call with a clenched jaw.

As he brings the phone to his ear, Bucky's flesh hand flexes around the key card, letting the corner dig into the center of his palm, a silent reminder that the night is far from being over yet.

The clean smell of cotton bedsheets and the tang of lavender air freshener greet you the moment you step into your hotel room. Inside, though, your lungs constrict, yearning instead for the scent of cloves and bergamot that you left behind at the bar alongside the handsome gentleman who possesses it.

Your heels are discarded somewhere in the foyer before you tread indolently towards the bathroom, going to the sink to splash some water on your face, mindful not to mess the makeup you have expertly painted on earlier in the evening. The cold water does little to eliminate the heat on your cheeks, the same one that now travels through your entire body as your skin tingles with the phantom touch of a certain super soldier turned congressman.

It should be illegal—the facile power he holds over you.

The carpet is plush underneath your steps as you exit the bathroom, sauntering towards the balcony and delighting in the breath of late May’s fresh air that hails you when you walk through the sliding doors. Washington, D.C. sprawls out beneath you in a tapestry of scintillating lights and colossal silhouettes. From your vantage point, The Potomac snakes through the city like a ribbon of obsidian, its surface catching the occasional reflection of passing headlights, glinting in contrast against the ink-dark sky. The Capitol's dome gleams in the distance, a beacon of order and principle, while the Washington Monument stands unyielding like a silent sentinel. 

The city buzzes with life even at this hour, cars speeding through the streets and far off laughter resonating from the avenues below. And yet, even with all of its grandeur, the city's view still pales in comparison with the images of him in your mind—the way his blue eyes darkened when he took you in, the way he ignited your body just from a single touch. No matter how much you try to focus on the cityscape, your thoughts inevitably circle back to him: Bucky Barnes. Every time you blink, he is there—braided into the crevasses between your heartbeats, dithering in the warmth still coiled beneath your skin.

As though summoned by the constant notions of him in your head, you catch the unmistakable sound of the front door unlocking, followed closely by the echo of heavy footsteps entering the room.

When you emerge from the balcony, Bucky is already standing in the middle of the lush executive suite, shedding off his tuxedo jacket and bow tie where they end up in a pile above the sofa. He looks up at the sound of the sliding doors being locked, the stress in his shoulders dissipating when his eyes finally find yours. 

Examining him from head to toe, you lean your shoulder against the balcony door and ask, “How was the phone call?”

“Fine,” Bucky answers simply. “I took care of it.”

“Hm. Good.”

The atmosphere desiccates with tension. There is a flame starting in the pit of your stomach, one that you’re trying miserably to quell before it grows into something destructive and menacing. But the way Bucky is looking at you from the distance, so stubborn and piercing, suggests that he already knows what kind of turmoil your body is currently battling with itself.

Clearing your throat, you walk over to the assortment of liquors available in the mini bar, avoiding Bucky’s stare as you ask, “Would you like something to drink?”

Reaching for the undoubtedly expensive wine, you turn it over in your hand, nearly dropping the bottle when Bucky replies, “I don’t know, sweetheart. Kinda craving something else right now.”

Your chest hammers as you listen to the scratch of shoes against the floor, the surrounding temperature rising with each breadth of space Bucky erases with his footsteps. He is a fortress when he finally stands behind you—a man of battle and steel, whose hands have seen bloodshed beyond your wildest nightmares, whose same hands are now ghosting over your arms with a tenderness that tugs at your heartstrings.

Bucky drops his head on the nape of your neck, his breaths spluttering as he grounds himself with a grip around each of your forearms. Your stomach folds at the brush of his plump lips against your skin, the nudge of his nose as he breathes in your scent like it was an appropriate substitute for oxygen.

“What are you doing to me?” he bleats, almost to himself, sucking in a bruise to your pulse point that wrenches a gasp out of your throat.

“Bucky.” You sigh, the bottle of wine long forgotten as it stands lonesome on the counter. Turning in his arms, you are faced instantly with the intense blue of Bucky’s eyes, brimming with a hunger so conspicuous it threatens to consume you whole. You card your fingers through his hair, rejoicing in the gravelly rumble Bucky makes over the simple touch. “I could ask you the same thing.”

In Bucky’s company, the extravagant suite around you feels smaller, as if the walls were closing in to bear witness to the charged moment simmering in the meager space separating you both. Metal fingers sweep your jaw, featherlight yet sizzling, treading carefully before finding purchase on the side of your face. You barely register what is happening before Bucky’s lips are suddenly on yours—kissing you, claiming you, molding against yours in a dance of affection that soon bleeds into desperation. 

Bucky swallows every whimper and plea, his tongue exploring your mouth as if the kiss itself has become his soul's main source of sustenance. His vibranium palm on your cheek is alleviating, but his flesh hand on your waist is rough, gripping tenaciously, pushing you back until your spine is pinned between his imposing frame and the mini bar's counter. His lips teeter away from the kiss to find your jaw, trailing a path down your neck until there is no inch of skin free from the adornment of his marks.

He slots his thigh between your legs, nudging against the place where you yearn for him the most, making you mewl.

“Bucky, please,” you cry out, grinding yourself down on the toned muscles of his thigh.

“Fuck, sweetheart. Can't believe you're wrecked and bothered already,” Bucky muses, eyes drifting downward to drink in the erotic roll of your hips. “And I haven't even started yet.”

You should be embarrassed, should be alarmed by the mess you have become from just a single kiss. But any semblance of self-consciousness in your body evaporates in the blink of an eye, especially when Bucky yanks at the flimsy straps of your gauzy dress without so much as a warning, tearing it clear from your frame and letting it pool in a pathetic heap around your feet.

“Bucky!” you shriek, half from shock and half from the cold air that has suddenly enveloped your skin.

The man only licks his lips. “I'll buy you another one.”

You do not protest after that—not when his eyes rove over you as if you were the long-awaited feast to his ravenous beast. A thrill runs down your spine, satisfaction blooming in your chest at the way his stare lingers on the lacy matching set you so carefully chose to don for the night. It was meant to be a simple indulgence—a cute little thing you bought on a whim after catching a glimpse of it while you were out window shopping with friends—but now, under Bucky’s shameless admiration, the lacy number feels like the most brilliant spending decision you have ever made in life.

“Goddamn, Angel,” Bucky rasps, his teeth sinking down onto his bottom lip. “You sure as hell know how to send a man to their knees.”

“And yet, here you are.” You raise your eyebrows. “Still standing.”

The grin he rewards you is a thousand times brighter than the sun. “Not for long.”

Bucky drops his head lower, trailing open-mouthed kisses across your décolletage, nibbling on the silky skin that borders the line of your lacy bra. He makes quick work unclasping the garment and tossing it to the side, the cool air briskly nipping at your skin before his mouth is back on you once more, lavishing attention on each sensitive peak until you are trembling in his arms.

“Oh, Bucky,” you murmur amorously.

“I know, sweetheart.” He pinches your nipple, forcing you to bite his shoulder to stifle your squeal. “God, you’re one beautiful thing.”

His journey continues southward, across your torso, all the way down to your most private area. Bucky is kneeling before you now—the madman finally paying reverence to his most beloved goddess—and he looks absolutely fucking ecstatic. The sight of him between your legs, mouth-watering and aching to taste, is enough to have your head spinning in anticipation.

“I can smell you.” Bucky groans, sinking his head to press a kiss on your clothed core. The contact sends you spiraling over the precipice. “So fucking pretty. My pretty angel.”

Bucky's hands caress the back of your thighs, the contrast between flesh and metal sending a jolt of electricity through your veins. He dips his head again, this time wrapping his mouth around your mound, and starts eating you out despite the barrier of your panties.

You moan wantonly at his sinful attention, nearly collapsing to the floor if it weren't for Bucky's firm support keeping you upright. He fidgets with the fringe of your underwear, holding the fabric to the side to coat two of his flesh digits with your wetness.

“So wet for me already,” he murmurs, lapping at his soaked fingers with a blissful look across his face. “Tastes like nectar, sweetheart.”

“Bucky,” you whine, pulling at his shoulder-length hair until his blue eyes are locked onto yours. “No teasing.”

The shit-eating grin on his face would have aggravated you if it weren't for how unbelievably gorgeous he looks, kneeling at your mercy.

“Yes, Ma'am.”

Without wasting another second, Bucky lets go of your underwear with a final kiss on your covered clit, standing to his feet and hauling you up in his arms all in one breath. You yelp in surprise, securing your legs around Bucky's waist as he carries you efficiently towards the bed, the delicious friction of his pants compelling your inner walls to tense in ardor, making you crave him even more.

Bucky ensures that your back meets the mattress gently before he withdraws, though your whine of protest stops him before he can go far, your arms reaching for him as he takes your hands with a laugh.

“Eager, are we?” he asks impishly, peppering tiny kisses across your knuckles.

“Only for you, Buck.”

Bucky's smile softens, his lips securing a final kiss on the back of your hand before his deft fingers start undoing the buttons of his shirt. You observe with bated breath as he reveals the muscular panes of his torso, biting your lower lip when his hands begin working on his belt buckle and dress slacks.

Once he is back on you again, this time in nothing but the thin fabric of his boxer, it feels like everything in your life has slid right into place.

“Hi,” Bucky says, breathless, a boyish grin stretching his lips into a charming curve.

“Hi, handsome.”

You wrap your arms around his neck, lugging him down into a heated kiss and relishing in the feeling of metal fingers pinching your hip. Every sensation is amplified as his breath stumbles in your mouth, the softness of his lips contrasting with his metallic touch. Your hand wanders the expanse of skin, exploring the river of veins and the constellation of freckles, drawing random patterns down Bucky's abdomen until you reach the waistband of his drawers.

When your palm slips inside, circling around his hardening length, Bucky stammers into the kiss.

“Angel.” His voice comes out as a guttural moan. “What are you doing?”

“Wanna make you feel good, Buck.” You bury your nose in his temple, kissing the corner of his eye. “Please.”

Bucky barely has time to nod before your fingers scramble to rid him of the last barrier casing his body. His underwear is gone in a swift motion, ditched somewhere in the room through the haze of urgency. 

At last, Bucky is there—above you, all around you, entirely overwhelming in his presence—and the sight of him alone steals the breath from your very lungs. The austere glow of the room carves shadows along the solid lines of his body, every muscle and sinew sculpted into something unreal. His skin is littered by old scars and the passage of time, telling a story that you long to trace and memorize with every subtle scrape of your heart.

He is devastating—an Adonis chiseled not by gentle divinity, but by violence and calamity. And yet he is here, flesh and blood, naked and glorious, a whole man despite history and remorse masticating him bit by bit. And right now, Bucky Barnes is looking at you like you are the only thing in this world tethering him to reality.

Your heart constricts, synchronously with your pussy, catching you somewhere between awe and want as you reach for him once more.

At the first grip of your fingers around his shaft, Bucky lets out a hiss.

“Is this okay?” you ask cautiously.

“God, yes,” Bucky respires, forehead creasing when you give an experimental squeeze around his girth. “Yes, sweetheart, it’s more than okay.”

His rough response motivates you to start pumping.

It doesn't take long for you to settle on a rhythm, moving your hand up and down, twisting and clutching until you are requited with his morose sighs and moans. Bucky is utterly beautiful like this—eyes shut, long hair shielding his face as his hips snap up to meet your depraved ministrations. Each moan that escapes him only drives you to move faster, your own pulse quickening as you feel him unraveling beneath your touch.

When your thumb resolutely swipes over his slit, Bucky's entire body staggers, a shuddering gasp tearing through his throat as he jerks in your grasp.

Your chest inflates with titillation. “You like that?”

“Y-Yes. Oh God,” Bucky stammers, burying his face in your neck when you repeat the movement again, collecting his precum. “Shit, Angel. M’ not gonna last if you keep that up.”

His admission only spurs you on, tightening your grip, encouraging your strokes to grow bolder. Bucky is a mess above you—all ragged breaths and sweat-slicked skin, every muscle in his body coiled like a rubber band on the verge of snapping. It is an addictive view, so intoxicating that you could live off it, spending the rest of your days ravaging him like this.

But before your dream can materialize, a calloused hand clamps around your wrist out of the blue, putting an end to your movements and forcing the thrill in your veins to a halt.

Your forehead knits in confusion as you stare into Bucky’s eyes.

“Gotta stop, sweetheart,” he pants, an easy but wrecked smile embellishing his gorgeous face. “Or else I'd blow before we even get to the good part.”

Heaving a deep sigh, you jut out your bottom lip and sulk. “Is that such a bad thing?”

“Christ, no.” Bucky chuckles. “Another time, I might take you up on that. But tonight?” He ducks his head, stealing a quick kiss that has you seeing stars. “I wanna be inside you when I cum.”

The promise catches you off guard, sending a dash of anticipation through your ribs and into every corner of your being. Bucky's fingers gently unwrap yours from his length, his cock still red and leaking from your recent attention. He regains control in no time, his lips descending upon your skin like a voyager mapping out a sacred route, pressing open-mouthed kisses as he charts a path down the curves of your body.

 His breath is warm against your stomach, each kiss dragging lower, teasing ruthlessly, until his fingers hook into your underwear and strip it away in one hasty, practiced motion. He groans at the sight of you, his voice thick with admiration and something more primal as his mouth lets out a muttered curse. 

“Jesus, sweetheart.” Bucky’s dark lashes flutter, drinking you in. “You’re a damn masterpiece.”

The raw compliment nudges your heart, brewing the fog in your mind until you are nothing but a heap of fire and lust. 

Words fly out of your head as Bucky eats you out like a man starved—licking, sucking, and biting with a desperation that borders on worship. His tongue moves in volitional strokes, alternating between featherlight flicks and deep siphoning of your bundle of nerves. Your fingers twist into Bucky's hair, tugging hard enough to earn a growl, the sound vibrating in pleasurable waves all throughout your body.

As if his current ministrations weren't enough, Bucky suddenly brings his metal fingers to your opening, prodding and unfolding gently, pushing two of his digits in until they are sheathed inside the heat of your weeping hole.

“Holy shit, Angel. Look at ya,” Bucky mutters, watching your walls throb around him as he pushes and retracts his vibrainum hand. The sight alone makes his own hardness twitch. “Soakin’ me like a dam, sweetheart. This all for me?”

“Yes, Bucky. No—ah! N-No one else,” you let out between helpless gasps, grinding despairingly onto Bucky's hand.

Bucky's pupils dilate, his eyes scanning you from head to toe as if immortalizing you into memory. The pace of his fingers is increasing by the minute—scissoring, curling, grasping for that one magical spot that never fails to ruin your whole being. Bucky's mouth returns on you in no time, nibbling and tracing with his tongue, humming heartily with every wrecked sound escaping from your chest.

“S-Shit. Bucky, that feels—mpphh. I'm s-so close—ah!”

The climax crashes into you in a matter of minutes, arriving like a tsunami, abrupt and earth-shattering. Bucky is patient as he guides you through it all, continuing the lazy licks on your clit and the slow pumps of his fingers inside you. He only relents when you begin squirming away from him, whining at the over-sensitivity aching through your bones.

“Are you okay?”

You blink through the mist in your vision, your eyes slowly refocusing on Bucky's concerned face.

He is a perfect picture of debauchery—kneeling on the bed in all of his majestic nudity, remnants of your release coating the nether part of his face. His question should be startling—the way it juxtaposes everything he has done to you thus far. However, Bucky Barnes is no man if he is not a decent one, and you let yourself find solace in that little fact as your lips widen into a smile.

“Bucky.” Your voice is sheer, grated away by the daze of satisfaction that still muddles your mind. “I am fantastic.”

A cheeky grin overtakes Bucky's lips as he crawls up your frame. 

“Fantastic, huh?”

“Hm.” You nod, cloaking his neck with your arms. “You're fantastic.”

Bucky seizes your lips in a kiss, allowing you to taste your own desire on his tongue. Moans spill out of your mouth at the delectable shove of his shaft on your wetness, cherishing the way Bucky returns each roll of your pelvis with his own, his haze-lidded mind reducing the once mighty soldier into a mess of broken whines and crushing rapture.

With a sudden tide of momentum, you push against the formidable wall of his chest, catching Bucky off guard as you send an abrupt shove that sends his back straight to the mattress.

Bucky blinks up at you, stunned, taking in the sight of your body above his, straddling his hips like they were a throne created specifically for you to sit on. His hands instinctively come up to grasp your thighs, fingers flexing against fiery skin as his gaze darkens with an avid yearning.

“Damn,” he breathes, a smirk tugging at the corner of his lips. “Didn’t see that one comin’, sweetheart.”

You brush your mouth against his jaw. “I can’t wait any longer, Bucky. I need you inside me.”

A responding groan rumbles from Bucky's chest the moment you start to sink down, his cock stretching you open, filling you inch by inch until the two of you are joined as one. The world outside ceases to exist as you take him in, your bodies fusing together until there is no distance separating you two, no way of knowing where Bucky ends and you begin. 

You take a speculative roll of your hips, testing the waters, finding your footing before descending on a lascivious, steady tempo. Bucky's hands are explorative on your skin, caressing down your thighs and up your hips, all while mumbling breathy curses and gentle encouragement that crackles down to your hankering core.

"That’s it, Angel," Bucky rasps, his hands squeezing the plush flesh of your backside. "So damn beautiful. Feels like you were made for me.”

“Buckyyy,” you wail, your hands bracing on top the sturdy surface of his chest. “You feel—oh! S-So—uhh—so good.”

Euphoria stumbles past your lips in a concoction of jumbled words, babbling against Bucky's chest while occasionally littering his hard panes with kisses. Every nerve ending in your body is alight, every drag of him inside you a luscious reprieve. Your entire senses are heightened with everything Bucky.

The gallant man beneath you sits up slightly, drawing you down by your neck until your foreheads are wedged against one another.

“You tired, sweetheart?” His voice is the epitome of lust, woven discreetly by a tenderness that threatens to liquefy your bones.

A breathless nod is all you can manage. Before you can fully grasp what is happening, Bucky is already taking control, wrapping you in his embrace and thrusting up into you like there is no tomorrow. Each snap of his hips sends you spiraling closer to the edge, his name spilling from your lips over and over again like a prayer to the moon, the stars, and the universe.

“B-Bucky!” Your voice hitches. “P-Please, I want to—ahh.”

“I know, sweetheart. Come on,” he urges, rough and terse, a drastic contrast to the kiss he presses to your forehead. “Give it to me.”

The pinnacle crashes over your whole being in an explosion of colors and light. A sharp cry tears from your throat as your walls tighten around him, your entire body convulsing while Bucky holds you through it, murmuring praises into your cheek and peppering soft kisses all over your face. You lose track of how long the two of you stay in that position—your face nestled safely in the crook of Bucky's neck, his hands skimming abstract patterns on the dimple of your spine. 

The room is still buzzing in the aftermath of your orgasm when Bucky gently maneuvers you onto your back, switching places with you so that he is now hovering on top of your spent body. A quiet whimper escapes your throat the moment you feel him nudge against your over-sensitive core, the aftershocks still humming through your nerves like the echo of a symphony’s final crescendo.

Bucky notices immediately, his lips curving into a smirk as he brushes a hand down your cheek. “Too much, sweetheart?”

You swallow an empty air, the heat returning to your belly at the way Bucky is looking at you, like he is not nearly done devouring your body, mind, and soul. Still, he waits, his breath warm against your lips as his vibranium fingers stroke slow circles along your outer thigh.

“I know you’ve got one more in you,” he coaxes, sprinkling teasing kisses to your jaw, your throat, and the curve of your shoulder. “But I need to hear you say it, Angel. You want this?”

Despite the delicious ache between your legs—the overstimulation still singing beneath numerous layers of your skin—you don’t hesitate. You thread your fingers through his hair, tugging just enough to make him grunt.

“Yes,” you whisper, breath staggering when he moves his hips against yours. “Please, Bucky. I need you.”

Your confirmation is all he needs.

With a low, unruly sound, Bucky slams back into you, his restraint disintegrating as he buries himself to the hilt. This time, there is no leisure buildup—just raw, unadulterated need that ignites the blood coursing through your arteries. His rhythm is frantic and desperate, his hands bruising your waist like he needs to hold onto something real before he completely loses himself deeper in the bliss.

“Fuck. You're so tight, sweetheart. So warm and wet,” he groans, his forehead dropping against yours. “You feel perfect around me.”

You gasp at the thickness of him, the drag of each ridge of his length against your tender walls. Bucky is pounding relentlessly into you as he chases after his own release; the air between you thick with heat, with the sound of your bodies moving in an erotic, exquisite harmony.

“Oh, Bucky. Feels s-so good. So big.” You meet each of his thrusts eagerly, your body welcoming him as if the two of you were always meant to be one. “That's it. Ah, ah, t-take what you need, baby.”

A ragged moan rips from his throat, his movements turning erratic as he barrels toward the edge. Your walls shudder around him, making him stutter in his rhythm. 

“Grippin’ me like a vice, sweetheart.” Bucky's eyebrows furrow, jaw clenched as his gaze finds yours. “Can't last long. Gonna—fuck. Shit, shit, m’ gonna cum.”

You pull him down into a frenzied kiss, pouring every ounce of your need into him, letting him listen to the way your blood, your organs, and every other thing inside you chant his name like a prayer recited in reckless devotion.

Bucky trembles as he reaches his peak, spilling everything he has to give into the deepest crevice of your heat, his body tensing before melting into a pliable mass above you. A broken moan catches in your throat as the pleasure pummels into you once more, your limbs clinging to him with whatever bit of strength remains in the fragmented pieces of your body.

For a while, there are no words spoken between the two of you. Just the shared intakes of your breaths, the soft press of Bucky’s lips against your temple, and the grounding strokes of his fingers tracing along your skin. 

You shift slightly beneath him, tilting your head up to meet his gaze, and what you find there steals what little breath you have left—something reverent, something vulnerable. His thumb brushes over your cheek before he leans in, capturing your lips in a kiss so gentle and profound, a stark polarity to the frantic passion that has consumed you moments prior.

Bucky exhales a quiet chuckle once he withdraws, resting his forehead on top of yours.

"Christ, Angel," he mutters hoarsely, his voice strained with exhaustion and something unguarded. "You're gonna be the death of me.”

You hum, an appeased smile decorating your lips as you thread your fingers through his damp hair.

When Bucky finally pulls out, the absence of him leaves you aching and remarkably empty. Your body, already boneless from exhaustion, instinctively reaches for him, fingers grazing over his flesh hand in an attempt to search more of the warmth he naturally emits. Bucky chuckles, low and affectionate, his lips pressing a lingering kiss to the clammy skin of your forehead.

"Stay put, sweetheart. Gotta take care of you," he says before putting on his boxer and disappearing into the bathroom.

Bucky returns a moment later with a damp towel in hand. He goes to kneel beside you, his touch reposeful as he cleans you up with a forbearing care.  The first press of the cloth against your sensitive core has you sucking in a breath, a whimper slipping free before you have the mind to stop it from resonating in the air. Bucky’s gaze flicks up at the sound, concern knitting his eyebrows as his hand stills above your pelvis.

“Easy, Angel,” he soothes, trailing a hand up your thigh in a comforting caress. “I know what you're gonna say. But you took me so damn well. Gotta make sure you don’t wake up hating me in the morning.”

You scoff, rolling your eyes despite the fond smile wresting your lips. “Pretty sure I already hate you a little.”

Bucky's responding beam is radiant, his chest deflating in the assurance that you are okay—or at least, okay enough to still have the fire to put him in place—before tossing the used towel onto the floor where it lands with the other discarded fabrics of your clothes.

“Nah,” Bucky shakes his head, flumping beside you on the bed and gathering you in his arms. “You love me.”

You sigh in contentment the second Bucky's arms surround you, keeping you pressed to his side and pulling the covers over both of your satiated bodies. You fit against him like two conjoined puzzle pieces, like you were always destined to lie in each other's arms and slot perfectly into the apertures of each other's lives. Bucky’s flesh hand finds your right palm on his chest, bringing it to his lips to fleck tiny kisses across each knuckle, the matching golden bands wrapped around your ring fingers glinting against one another.

Something in the cerulean blue of his eyes shifts. By the next time you blink, Bucky is already claiming your lips in a kiss so compassionate you fear your heart might burst from the sheer ferocity of it. 

When he pulls back, Bucky is grinning, utterly smitten as he nuzzles his nose to the apple of your cheek.

“Happy anniversary, Angel,” Bucky murmurs, his voice heavy with selfless devotion and helpless exaltation. “I love you.”

A slow smile spreads across your lips, your nose wrinkling in happiness as you return, “Happy anniversary, my love.”

Your wedding bands catch the dim lighting of the bedside table lamp as Bucky laces his fingers through yours—sure and steady, a silent vow renewed without the necessity of spoken words. He exhales deeply, thoroughly at peace, and you let yourself sink into the warmth of his love, knowing with absolute certainty that there is nowhere else in the world you would rather be.

Nowhere but here, in the safety of your husband's arms, where your heart has always meant to stay.

[hhiggs]

This was so good I had to stop reading it and finish the next day because my heart hurt 💔 LOVE IT😍🤩

Meet Me Halfway

Summary : Bucky has to recruit the love of his life to save New York from the void. He doesn't know if she wants to ever see him again, though.

Pairing : Bucky Barnes x reader (she/her) 

Warnings/tags : Thunderbolts* spoilers below the cut!!!!!!! Exes to friends to lovers. Fluff,  angst, reader is a tracker with enhanced senses. Cursing, Trauma. Implied sex. Alcohol consumption. Death(Please let me know if I miss anything!!!)

Requested by : anon 

Word count : 15k whoops

Note : This story touches on the events of Civil War, IW, Endgame, FATWS, BP Wakanda Forever, and Thunderbolts*! I used google translate for the Xhosa, so please let me know if it needs to be corrected. If you’d like to be on the taglist, message me! It gets lost in the comments sometimes. Enjoy!

You were a tracker.

Your body was a weapon, biologically improved by enhanced senses. You could smell a carcass from ten miles away. You could hear a pin drop on the other side of town. Your eyes could track body heat through a crowd of thousands— and it meant you were a hunter in a world full of invisible prey. Some people hunted with tools. You were the tool. 

So, of course Steve Rogers found you when he needed to find a ghost. Steve found you when the world turned on James Buchanan Barnes. 

After the UN bombing in Vienna, when Bucky was framed and every intelligence agency on Earth wanted him in chains or dead, Steve came to you— he heard of you through old SHIELD files— with desperation and a duffel bag full of cash. 

“I need you to find him,” he said. “Before they do.”

You didn’t even hesitate before taking the job. Because even then, before you met Bucky you believed Steve. And more than that, you believed in redemption.

You tracked Bucky down with your senses—following the scent of gunpowder and cold metal, the subtle trail of heat left in his wake, the ragged sound of breath through the cities of Bucharest. 

You found him before the world did and pointed Steve and Sam in the right direction.

— 

By the time the Avengers disbanded, you were a fugitive—hunted by that least half of the world’s government. Helping Steve Rogers had branded you a traitor in their eyes, but you didn’t regret it. Not then. Not now.

When T’Challa offered sanctuary to Bucky, he extended the same offer to you. Wakanda didn’t just take you in; it gave you purpose. In exchange for refuge, you worked for the royal family— tracking those who dared to steal vibranium from the borders and ensuring justice found them before they slipped through the cracks.

Your home was a modest apartment tucked into the east wing of the palace. It was secluded, perfect for someone like you.

—

When Bucky finally woke from the ice and the trigger words were gone, he didn’t know who to trust. The world had changed too much. He had changed too much.

He trusted Queen Ramonda, who always made sure there was room for both of you at the palace table. He trusted Shuri and the Dora Milaje, because they helped him heal his mind. He trusted both you and T’challa, simply because… Steve trusted you. 

He didn’t expect to fall for you, though.

—

At first, Bucky barely spoke. He moved like a shadow through the palace when he even left his little hut at all. 

He was healing, but not whole. Not yet. The arm was gone—torn from him in Siberia, left behind with the rest of Hydra’s wreckage. 

Bucky hadn’t gotten his new arm yet. Shuri insisted they take their time, that his body and mind needed rest before they complicated him with upgrades. It was the right call. But it left him vulnerable in ways he hated. 

For a man who’d lost so much already, it felt like one more cruel subtraction. You noticed how he avoided using his left side. How he winced at imbalance. How he hated needing help.

You didn’t pity him. You just made space for him to breathe. You shared meals together in the palace garden, never pushing for a conversation he wasn’t ready for.

Sometimes, you’d sit and sharpen your blades while he watched the sky. Other days, you’d bring him small things—a worn paperback with dog-eared pages, a piece of fruit from an outreach mission, or a knife he could train with using only one hand.

“You're not trying to fix me,” he said once, more surprised than grateful.

You shrugged. “You’re not broken.”

You started getting really close because of jars. Peanut butter, mostly. Occasionally pickles. Once, a stubborn jar of papaya jam.

You noticed how he hesitated at cabinets, how he didn’t ask for help even when he clearly needed it— especially because he didn’t know how to use just one hand. 

If he needed a jar opened, you’d walk by, say nothing, and twist the lid off. Then you’d leave it on the counter and move on. No questions. No pity. 

Over time, it turned into more than jars.

He started joining you on your patrols—not in an official capacity, just to walk, perhaps to feel the beauty of the world again without being chased. You’d track down potential threats to Wakandan borders—smugglers, black market mercs—and Bucky would wait for you to get back before having his meal. 

He eventually told you about Bucharest in fragments. About Hydra in pieces. In return, you told him about the experiment. Not all of it—just enough for him to understand that you, too, had been shaped into something you didn’t ask to be.

Days passed like water through your fingers.

You trained with him in the early mornings — barefoot in the dirt, palms open, bodies moving like you were learning each other through motion. You’d fight, laugh, fall, rise again.

At night, you sat together under the stars, sharing stories in fragments — half-finished memories neither of you were strong enough to say out loud in full. You learned he liked fruit, that he slept on his side, that he sometimes talked in Russian in his dreams and didn’t realise it.

One night, you asked, “Do you remember who you were, before all of it?”

He hesitated, then shook his head. “I think… I remember who I loved. My sister. Steve. The Howling Commandos. But who I was a long time ago? He’s long gone.”

“He’s not,” you whispered. “You’re him. Just… in pieces.”

He looked at you like you were a miracle.

And one of those days, you fell in love with him. 

You didn’t fall in love all at once. It happened slowly, quietly—like stepping into warm water without realising how deep it’s gotten until you’re already submerged.

You tried not to make too much of it. Tried to keep it buried. But your heart had a mind of its own.

So one afternoon, you found yourself pacing in the royal garden while Nakia and Okoye pruned herbs, and blurted it out before you could stop yourself.

“I think I’m in trouble.”

Okoye raised an eyebrow, “Did you get injured?”

“No,” you said, “but I—“

Nakia interrupted you, a knowing smile curling at the edges of her mouth. “Is this the kind of trouble with blue eyes and long hair?”

“Well, yes, I—“ You groaned, pressing a hand to your face. “—I think I like him.”

Okoye tutted, not unkindly. “You think? I’ve seen the way you look at him like he’s a sunrise after a long night.”

Nakia laughed.

“I’m serious!” you said, trying to sound firm and absolutely failing. “He looks at me like I’m not broken.”

“What is wrong with that?” Okoye asked.

“Because I might believe him.” 

Nakia finally stopped  laughing. Her voice softened. “Sounds like someone sees you the way you’ve always deserved to be seen.”

You didn’t answer her. 

—

Meanwhile, Bucky sat on a sun-warmed bench beside T’Challa, overlooking the city below. After a long silence, Bucky confessed, “I think I’m in trouble.”

T’Challa turned to look at him and raised a brow. “The kind with bullets or feelings?”

“Feelings,” Bucky muttered under his breath. 

“Ah. More dangerous,” T’Challa smiled slightly. “The tracker?”

Bucky blinked. “How the hell does everyone know?”

“You are not subtle, my friend,” T’Challa said, patting him on the shoulder. 

“Yeah,” Bucky chuckled cynically, “Well…”

There was another pause, and then T’Challa spoke softly, “When I was hung up on Nakia, my baba used to tell me Uthando aluyomdlalo; ngumlambo ongenamkhawulo.”

Bucky stared at him for a while, translating in his head. Love is not a game. It is a river with no end.

“You cannot control where it takes you,” T’challa explained, “Only whether you choose to step in.”

Bucky sighed. “I think I already have.”

—

Later, by the lake, the air was still. The moonlight danced on the surface of the water, casting silver over the little hut Bucky called home.

You stood at his door, hands in clenched fists at your sides, heart racing in a way you hadn’t felt since you first got your powers. You knocked, and it was softer than intended— like a question more than a demand.

He opened the door like he’d been expecting you. You didn’t wait. You didn’t explain. You just looked at him and said, “I think I’m in trouble.”

He stepped aside without a word and let you in without a word. “Me too,” he whispered.

Inside the hut, the world seemed a bit quieter.

Bucky stood a few steps away, uncertain. You didn’t move at first. Neither did he.

Then he reached out, slowly, like approaching a wounded animal. His fingers brushed yours. You curled into his touch without thinking. “I— I think,” you choked out the words. “Fuck— I don’t know how to say it or where to begin…”

“Shhh, I know,” he whispered reassuringly, “because I do, too.”

You nodded, throat tight. “I know.”

You had known for a while now. Your senses allowed you to smell the oxytocin in the air when he was around you, to hear his heartbeat quicken when you spent time together, 

He didn’t ask. He didn’t need to. He just stepped closer, forehead resting against yours like it was the only place he belonged. Your fingers traced the curve of his jaw, then slid to the scar marring his shoulder—a mark where his Hydra arm used to bed.

“I’m scared,” he confessed, voice low.

“Me too,” you whispered, your lips trembling.

But then you leaned in, and kissed him.

At first, it was tentative—testing. Then, almost immediately, it turned urgent, like you needed to carve this moment into memory, like you were oxygen to him. 

He kissed you back with desperation, like he was terrified you might vanish if he let go. His hand gripped your waist, pulling you closer until there was no space left, no more hiding. When you finally broke apart, gasping, foreheads pressed, fingers still clinging to each other like anchors, you said it again, softer this time. “I know.”

“Yeah,” he smiled, “I know.”

The next few months unfolded in pieces.

You were his lover, though neither of you used the word much. Labels felt too fragile, too small for what you were building. You sparred in the mornings, slept tangled together some nights. Sometimes you held him through dreams he didn’t remember. Sometimes he held you through memories you couldn’t say out loud.

Neither of you said “I love you.”

You didn’t need to. You showed it in the broken ways people like you do. He cleaned your knives after missions. You kissed the scars on his body without asking where they came from. But in each other, you found peace.

But you did, though you didn’t say it until a year later, When Thanos’ army broke through Wakanda’s barriers.

You stood on the battlefield, shoulder to shoulder with the Dora Milaje. He was beside you, new arm gleaming.

You both knew you might die here.

So just before the charge Bucky turned to you and reached for your hand, calloused fingers threading with yours.

“I love you,” he said.

You looked at him, heart pounding. And in that final moment—when the world outside this little bubble burned and the force field opened—you said it back. “I love you too.”

And then you let go and ran into the fire together.

—

The battle was chaos.

Together, you carved a path through the madness, never far from each other’s side. Each glance was a tether. But when Thanos snapped—

You felt it first. A strange pull in your chest. Like gravity forgot you.

Bucky turned just in time to see you stumble.

“Doll?” He breathed out, voice catching in his throat.

You looked down at your hand— and your fingers were dissolving.

“Hey…” you said softly, like you didn’t want to scare him.

And then— you were gone, carried by the wind.

Bucky’s knees gave out next.

His vision blurred as your hands started to vanish. The world felt far away as he turned to Steve next and said his best friend’s name.

There was no time to be afraid. He just had one last thought— I’m coming with you.

And then— nothing. 

—

Five Years Later.

You came back gasping.

One moment there was nothing—and the next, the battlefield roared around you again. Portals opened. War cried out for soldiers. You ran through it, only searching for one person. You searched the air for his scent, tracked body heat through the crowds looking for Bucky.

When you found him, he grabbed you and pulled you into his arms, and held you so tightly it hurt. But you didn’t care. You buried your face in his shoulder and let yourself feel everything all at once. 

You fought side by side again that day, but even after Thanos was defeated, even after the dust finally settled, the weight on Bucky's shoulders hadn’t lifted.

That night, you and him laid down on a half-collapsed med tent. You were bruised, your leg cut, his knuckles torn open—but you both refused to be separated.

“Bucky,” you said gently as you took his shaking hands. “I’m here.”

He didn’t answer, he just stared blankly at you like you might disappear again.

“Talk to me,” you whispered.

And then— he broke.

His hands grabbed your face and kissed you like he had to prove you were real. Like if he didn’t, the universe might take you away again. His breath was uneven, voice hoarse as he finally spoke, “You turned to dust in front of me.”

You pulled him in, forehead to forehead, hearts thundering between bruised ribs. “We came back.”

“I watched it happen,” he choked. “You looked right at me—and then you were just gone. I—“ 

“I came back,” you repeated, firmer now. “I am here.”

He didn’t ask. He didn’t explain. He just pushed his forehead into your collarbone and let his walls fall. 

And in that surrender, you undressed in a desperate attempt to feel something, anything at all. 

It wasn’t rushed. It wasn’t perfect. His hands shook against your bare skin, yours ached. You kissed the scar at his shoulder where metal met flesh, and he kissed the bruise on your cheekbones as if he could heal it. 

And when you moved together, it was achingly intimate— two ghosts trying to remember how to be alive.

After, he stayed wrapped around you, hand on your stomach, breath finally steady. You ran your fingers through his hair and kissed his temple.

—

You soon learned that you were different people to who you were five years ago. 

You were still yourself—but edged. The senses they’d carved into you had only grown keener in the dust. You could smell grief in the air. Taste the metallic echo of time. You threw yourself into your work because it was the only way you could process anything. You have given more time to your job and less to everyone else in your life because it was the only way to block your demons out. 

And Bucky—God, Bucky.

Maybe it was watching you vanish into nothing. Maybe it was watching Steve choose a life he didn’t get to have. Maybe it was both. Whatever it was, it left him wound tight, walking through the world like it might crumble beneath his feet at any second. He became suffocatingly protective.

Now, he was always checking exits. Watching windows. Reading strangers’ faces. Looking for ghosts with Hydra insignias or familiar flags. Always ready to run.

You soon realised that while you both have survived death, surviving life was harder.

Some nights, he woke drenched in sweat, eyes wide and terrified. Sometimes he dragged you with him—out of bed, into the hall, whispering about danger that wasn’t there. About people who might take you from him again. You held him anyway.

You wrapped your arms around his trembling body.. You whispered to him that he was safe, that you were real. And some nights, he even believed you.

And on the quietest nights, when your pulse thudded steady beneath his hand, you’d say the only promise that mattered, “If we vanish again—we vanish together.”

He would nod against your chest and weep. 

And while your words helped him in the moment, things only got worse. 

He was still obsessed with not losing you again.

He watched you like a man teetering on the edge of a cliff. Always scanning, always planning, always afraid. He checked your comms before you left on a mission. He memorised your schedule like a battle plan. He begged for access to your Kimoyo beads so he could track your movements like a tactician studying the terrain.

It wasn’t protective anymore. It was paranoia.

He wouldn’t sleep if you were out past dark. Would sit by the window, waiting for footsteps or the sound of your key in the lock.

You tried to reason with him—gently, at first. You reminded him who you were, what you could do. 

None of it mattered.

To Bucky, you were breakable simply because you were his.

When he got pardoned, the first thing he said was, “Come with me. Brooklyn. I have to… make amends.”

“Bucky, the Wakandan royal family is extending my contract,” You sighed, kissing the crease between his eyebrows. “They trust me. I’m not leaving that behind.”

He didn’t argue. Not really. He just clenched his teeth and nodded. But you could feel the storm brewing, so you compromised. You would spend three months in Brooklyn with him, then three in Wakanda for work. A split life. 

But even in that compromise, the obsession bled through. Every time you left, he’d call. Text. Ping your locator chip on your kimoyo beads. Just checking, he’d say. Just making sure you’re okay.

It stopped feeling sweet. It started to feel like surveillance.

Sometimes you’d be halfway through a mission—deep in a jungle or in the middle of a compromised crowds—and his name would light up your screen five, six, ten times. His worry grew into desperation. 

You knew he didn’t mean to be cruel. But it didn’t make it easier.

And then one day— it was too much.

You’d just gotten back from a run along the Wakandan border. You were bruised but fine as you walked into your apartment and found your phone flashing with fourteen missed calls and a message that said, “If you don’t answer in five minutes, I’m calling Shuri. I’ll track your signal myself if I have to.”

When you called him, he picked up instantly. “Are you okay? I thought—God, I thought something happened—”

“Bucky,” you snapped. “Stop.”

You were pacing now, your heart hammering harder than it had in the field. “You have got to stop doing this. I am not going to disappear every time I step outside!”

“I just—” he started, but his voice cracked. “I can’t lose you again. I can’t—”

“I’m not yours to lose,” you said, quieter this time.

“I love you,” he whispered.

“I love you too,” you said, softer now. “But this—this isn’t love. This is fear in disguise. You’re watching me like I’m one wrong step away from disappearing, and it’s like you’re still stuck in that moment five years ago.”

“I am,” he said, unbearably honest. “You turned to dust. We can't just pretend that's not real.”

“We turned to dust, Bucky,” you corrected, your voice shaking now. “And we came back. We both did.”

There was a long pause. He just exhaled like the air had been punched from his lungs.

“I don’t want to lose you,” he said again, but this time, it sounded like a prayer. 

You wiped a tear from your cheek and whispered, “Then let me live.”

That night, he promised he’d do better.

He swore he would be on time to his therapy sessions. That he’d let you breathe. That he’d learn how to love you without gripping so tight it left bruises.

And for a while, he did. 

But healing isn't linear, and Bucky Barnes fell back into the spiral like it was a black hole.

Two months later, the calls started again. The check-ins. You’d wake to a dozen voicemails. You’d tell him your mission schedule, but he’d still show up unannounced in Wakanda under some flimsy excuse, saying he just needed to see you, to make sure.

Then the court notices started coming. Missed sessions. Warnings from the state department. Red letters in bold ink.

He wasn’t going to therapy anymore. He was tracking you instead.

When you returned from your latest mission along the southern border, there he was— waiting in your apartment in Wakanda, hands shaking.

“Bucky?” you asked, dropping your gear. “What are you doing here?”

He didn’t answer at first. Just stepped toward you, breathing hard like he’d run the whole way from Brooklyn.

“I tried calling,” he said. “You didn’t answer. You were late reporting in. You weren’t supposed to be gone that long—”

“I was on a stealth mission, James!” you shouted, incredulous. “Do you hear yourself?”

He winced when you used his first name. “I thought you were in trouble.”

“You thought I was in trouble so you hopped a plane, skipped two international borders, and missed court-mandated therapy to come stalk me?!”

“I wasn’t stalking—” he started, but you cut him off, voice shaking.

“Bucky, go to fucking therapy! You are missing mandated sessions to follow me around like I’m going to vanish into smoke again. You’re not okay.”

His eyes flashed with tears building up in the corners. “I’m not okay because the one person who makes me feel safe disappears for weeks at a time without warning!”

“What kind of pressure is that? I am not your fucking safety net!” you finally screamed, though you did not mean to. “I am your girlfriend, not your property.”

He flinched.

“You don’t trust me,” you said, your voice cracking at the seams. “You trust your fear more than me. You trust your obsession more than you trust my skills, my choices, my life.”

“I do trust you—”

“No, you don’t!” you snapped. “If you did, you wouldn’t be here. You’d be in therapy. Not sitting on my damn bed, panicking because I missed a check-in by three hours.”

He looked down. “I just wanted to make sure—”

“I know,” you said softly, bitterly. “I know. And I love you. God, I love you.”

Your voice cracked again, but your words were firm. “But this isn’t love anymore, Bucky. This is control. This is not good for you. Being here? With me? It's hurting both of us.”

Finally, Bucky nodded. Just once.

“Do you think we’ll ever be okay again?” he asked, voice barely audible.

You swallowed the lump in your throat and sat next to him, squeezing his human hand. You didn’t want to do this like this. But the moment you looked at him you knew you couldn’t keep pretending everything was fine and dandy. 

You took a breath.

“This…” you started gently, like saying it softer might hurt less. “This isn’t working.”

He blinked. “What?”

“This,” you said, motioning between you with a shaking hand. “Us. The way it is right now. It’s not working.”

He jerked his hand back, standing up in shock like you’d slapped him. “Wait—what the hell are you saying?”

“I’m saying you left Brooklyn without clearance. Again. You broke parole—again. You’ve got people looking for you.”

“I don’t care about any of that,” he snapped, eyes dark. “You weren’t answering. You were off the grid. What was I supposed to do? Just sit around and wait?”

“Yes,” was all you said. You didn’t need to remind him that he needed to trust you. That he needed to trust your skills. 

His voice was shaking now. “What happened to ‘if we vanish again, we vanish together’?”

You closed your eyes at the words. You’d meant it.

But promises can rot when fed with obsession.

Your voice cracked. “I said that when you could breathe without having to know where I was every second of every day, Bucky.”

He looked down, jaw, hands balled into fists. “I can’t lose you again.”

“And I can’t live like this,” you said, voice strained as you wiped your tears away. “I’m not your leash, and I’m not your cure. You can’t chain yourself to me because you don’t know how to be with yourself.”

His eyes filled with watery tears, and he didn’t speak.

So you did. 

“Please,” you said, “leave by morning. Go home. Check in with Dr. Raynor when you land. If you don’t, they’ll arrest you.”

He opened his mouth, but you shook your head. You couldn’t do another round of argument.

“Don’t,” you whispered. “Don’t make this harder.”

He took a breath, chest heaving like he’d run a marathon just to make it this far. “So that’s it?”

You didn’t answer.

Just stepped up and pressed your hand gently against his chest—where his heart still beat too fast and your enhanced hearing was picking it up too well—and whispered, “Goodbye, Bucky.”

He turned without another word, because anything he said might break you both.

And when the door shut behind him, the silence that followed felt like a funeral.

—

Bucky didn't know where to go, so he wandered and wandered until he sat down on the palace steps, hands shaking, heart swirling like a thunderstorm in his chest. 

He didn’t notice T’Challa approach until the king sat beside him, arms resting on his knees.

For a long while, neither of them spoke. “She told you to leave,” T’Challa said simply. Not unkind, but not sparing.

Bucky’s teeth clenched. “Yeah.”

“She’s right, you know.”

“I don’t want to hear that right now.”

“I know,” T’Challa said. “But I am saying it anyway, my friend.”

Bucky said nothing, fists digging into the vibranium infused staircase step beneath him. T’Challa went on, “You love her. I know. She loves you too. But love twisted by fear is dangerous. You were not protecting her. You were holding her hostage in your panic.”

“I wasn’t—”

“You were,” T’Challa interrupted gently. “And she forgave you for longer than most would. But she cannot carry both her past and yours. You nearly became what you once fought against: control.”

Bucky turned his head away, chest tight. “I didn’t mean to. I just— I couldn’t lose her again.”

“It’s not just you,” T’Challa said softly, “she… she needs space. She’s throwing herself into work, and perhaps that’s how she copes, but she’s becoming… distant. From you. From all of us.”

Bucky’s breath hitched.

“You know I know what it feels like firsthand to come back from being turned to dust.” T’Challa said, “and when we came back, we all changed. I believe you might need time away from each other to first understand how you both have changed.”

Bucky finally looked at him, eyes rimmed with red. “So what, I just pretend none of this happened?”

“No,” T’Challa said. “You leave. You go to therapy. And you become someone who deserves a second chance—not from her. From yourself.”

Then T’Challa stood, brushing nonexistent dust from his robes. He looked down at the man once known as the Winter Soldier— now just a man.

“I will have a jet ready within the hour,” he said. “You will not say goodbye. That would only cause more pain.”

Bucky could only nod. Deep down, T’challa was his friend as much as he was yours. He was looking out for him as much as he was looking out for you. 

—

Bucky didn’t go straight to the jet in the landing pad. 

He walked around first—through the gardens he used to kiss you in, down the quiet stone paths lined with flowering trees. And then, when he couldn’t stall any longer, he found Shuri.

She was in her lab, sleeves rolled up, a smudge of grease on her cheek, working on a new upgrade for the Kimoyo bead system. She didn’t look surprised when she saw him.

He stood just inside the door for a while, fidgeting with the strap of the bag slung over his shoulder. 

“I’m leaving,” he said finally, voice hoarse.

Shuri nodded with a sad smile. “I heard.”

He hesitated. “Can you keep tabs on her for me?” He asked. As soon as the words came out of his mouth, he realised how bad it must’ve sounded. “I’m not asking you to spy on her. I swear.”

That made her pause. She turned to him, brows raised in wary curiosity. “Sounds like you are.”

“I’m not,” he said again, hands up in surrender. “But I need—I just need to know if she’s hurt. That’s all. If she’s injured. If something happens in the field. Not every move, not every detail, just... if she’s okay.”

Shuri’s eyes softened. “She wants you to move on. You know that, right?”

“I know,” Bucky said quickly. “And I won’t reach out. I won’t interfere. But if something serious happens—if she’s in the med bay or worse—I need to know. I can’t breathe not knowing that.”

Shuri crossed her arms. Studied him.

“You still think it’s love, don’t you?” she asked quietly.

He flinched. “I don’t know what it is anymore. But I know that it’s not trust. Not peace. That’s why I’m leaving.”

She held his eyes for a long time. Then she nodded once. “If she’s ever in danger, you’ll hear from me. That’s all I’ll promise.”

He nodded, relieved. “Thank you.”

Shuri stepped closer, pressing a new set of Kimoyo beads into his palm. “These won’t track her. But they will let you receive encrypted pings if I send one. No contact. Just information.”

Bucky curled his fingers around the beads like they were a lifeline.

“I’ll earn my second chance,” he whispered, almost to himself. “Even if it’s just for me.”

Shuri nodded. And with that, she turned back to her work.

Bucky walked out of the lab with the bracelet tucked into his pocket and boarded the jet alone.

Not with closure. But with a choice to begin again.

—

Six Months Later

You hadn’t meant to watch the news. It was just playing in the corner of the lab, the volume low was meant to be background noise.  

But there he was.

Bucky, onn screen, his hair shorter now, beard shaved. He was standing next to Sam, both of them looking like they’d just walked through hell and come out victorious. 

“Barnes and Wilson led the operation to contain a Flag Smasher attack—”

The footage cut to shaky video: Bucky saving hostages from a burning truck. Sam dropped from above, wings that Shuri gave him expanding in the night sky

You stopped breathing for a second.

Not because he looked good— though he did— but because he looked... different. Lighter. Still sharp around the edges, still Bucky, but not strung so tight he might snap. His shoulders weren’t so hunched. His eyes didn’t carry that haunted glaze you'd come to know too well.

You looked down at your phone, thumb hovering over the screen. Muscle memory had already opened your messages. The text thread was still there.

You started to type. 

Saw you on TV today. You looked—

You paused and backspaced.

Took down some Flag Smashers, huh? Didn’t even trip once. I’m impressed.

Delete.

You looked okay.

No.

You stared at the screen. You wanted to say something small, something kind. Something to let him know you’d seen him, that you still cared.

And then—

“Nope,” Okoye said from behind you.

You jumped, flipping your phone face-down like a teenager caught texting a crush.

Okoye raised an eyebrow, arms crossed in full general-mode. “I know that look. You are thinking about him.”

You sighed, rubbing your forehead. “He looked... better.”

“Good. That is what healing is supposed to look like,” she said, tilting her head. “But do not dishonour that progress by dragging each other back into the fire so soon.”

“I wasn’t going to send it,” you muttered under your breath. 

Okoye gave you a really? look. 

You smiled sheepishly. “Okay, maybe. But just a little.”

She stepped forward, took your phone, and pocketed. “Let him move on. I will take you on patrol,” she said briskly, already walking toward the hangar. “And after, we have tea. And girl talk.”

“Girl talk?” you chuckled, following.

“Yes. I have opinions on your taste in emotionally volatile men. It is time you heard them.”

You laughed despite yourself.

—

One Year Later.

The palace was quieter now that T’Challa was gone.

And grief didn’t move cleanly through your body like it used to. It crept and lingered and collected behind your eyes, in the back of your throat, in the hollow ache of your chest that wouldn’t quite go away.

You’d expected to feel lost. But not like this.

You stood at the balcony outside your quarters, fingers curled around a steaming cup of tea Ayo had forced into your hands. 

You hadn’t slept. Couldn’t eat. Before returning back to your quarters, you stayed with Shuri the entire day today, being present for her and Queen Ramonda.

And then the doorbell chimed.

You opened it to find a small wrapped bundle of flowers on the floor. A delivery slip attached in elegant Wakandan script: With honor and remembrance.

In the bouquet was Snowdrops, winter jasmine, and White hyacinth.

It was a winter bouquet.

Not many people in Wakanda would choose those blooms. Not unless they’d meant something.

It was him. Bucky.

He must’ve contacted his old florist in the city to have it delivered to your wing of the palace. 

You sat on the edge of the bed, the flowers still in your hands, too stunned to cry.

And then, before you even realised what you were doing, your phone was in your lap. You opened the message thread with Bucky. 

You typed, Shuri said she texted you. Said you could come to the funeral. Why didn’t you?

You stared at it. Then, slowly, you deleted it.

Because what would he even say? That he wanted to give you space? That he didn’t know if you wanted to see him? That he sent flowers because showing up would hurt you more?

Maybe he thought the blooms were enough. But they weren’t.

You needed him— a friend who had known T’Challa like you had. Someone who remembered the man like you did— not just the king.

You wanted Bucky to hold you and reminisce about that time you dared T’challa to arm wrestle him. You wanted to laugh about his horrible jokes during harvest. But all you got were flowers.

And wasn’t this what you asked for?

You had told him to let go. To move on. To live his life. And he had.

You wiped at your eyes with the back of your wrist, too tired to be angry. Too empty to cry. Later, you placed the bouquet beside the small altar in the throne room, next to T’Challa’s photo.

A winter gift for a king.

You whispered, "I miss both of you."

—

You didn’t sleep much the year after that.

You didn’t eat much either. Grief gnawed at your gut like hunger, but nothing ever settled. Not even water. Not even rest.

All you had left was work. You helped Wakanda defend itself from foreign attacks, and when the time came, you helped track Riri Williams for Shuri. 

But when Shuri was taken by the Talokan, your sanity was cracked clean in half.

You didn’t feel fear. Or rage. Just focus. Razor-sharp, ice-cold, deadly focus.

You helped Nakia track her— followed her scent through the water, infrared vision scanning jungle heat signatures, nose full of salt and humidity until found her underwater. You got her back.

But then Namor attacked, and Queen Ramonda didn’t make it.

You had to look at one more coffin. One more goodbye to one more person gone who had offered you safety, love, and dignity.

Ramonda had seen both you and Bucky when you came to Wakanda scarred and haunted. She had welcomed you with open arms. And now she was gone too.

At the funeral, you held Shuri up because she was shaking. You held her hand. And when it was over, you took her into your quarters and let her sob into your shoulder for hours

You didn’t cry.

You couldn’t. You had to be strong for her.

That night, your phone buzzed with a message.

Bucky : “You okay?”

That was it.

You stared at it. You read it again. Then again.

Are you okay? 

You almost laughed. As if that was a question that could be answered in a text. As if that was something you could possibly explain.

Your queen was dead. Your sister in everything but blood had just buried both her brother and mother within 14 months. The kingdom you had called home for the past decade was under attack. You hadn't slept in four days. Your body was covered in bruises. And Bucky—the man who had once buried his face in your collarbone and sobbed because he couldn’t bear to lose you—sent a text.

A fucking text. Not even a call. 

You set your phone down and didn’t respond.

You didn’t throw it. You didn’t curse. You didn’t scream. You just... sat there. Numb. 

And that was the first night you drank.

You drank because your hands wouldn’t stop shaking and your mind wouldn’t stop screaming and no mission could numb you enough to silence the memory of T’challa’s last words or Ramonda’s last breath or Shuri’s tears soaking through your shirt.

You didn’t stop after one. You wanted to not feel at all. And when the bottle emptied, you drank again. And the next night. And the one after that.

It didn’t fix anything.

—

A Year Later.

You had buried yourself in fieldwork— back to back missions for Wakanda with little to no rest in between. It dulled the ache of grief, but it never fully faded. You were getting better. Still dying inside, but a little slower now.

You took risks that made even Okoye grit their teeth, but you didn’t care. With Shuri as the new Black Panther and the Midnight Angels at your side, it felt like movement was the only thing keeping you from collapsing. 

You didn’t care if the assignments were dangerous. Maybe you even preferred it that way.

Shuri was adjusting your new visor in her lab when she glanced up casually. “You know your ex is running for Congress?”

You tilted your head, “What?”

She flicked her fingers and brought up a holographic newsfeed. There he was—James Buchanan Barnes. Neatly combed hair in a dark blue suit, sporting a nervous half-smile. He was shaking hands somewhere in New York, surrounded by cameras.

You stared. “Bucky… in politics? Are we sure that’s not a skrull?”

Shuri laughed, brightening the room. “Positive. He filed last week. His campaign’s all over the place—veteran advocacy, post-Blip recovery programs.”

You raised an eyebrow. “Making amends.”

“He always said he wanted to,” she said gently.

You nodded, silent for a second too long. “He’ll do well.”

Shuri studied your expression. “You think?”

You didn’t answer right away. Your eyes stayed on the image—on Bucky’s restrained expression, the way he looked down like he was afraid to take up space.

“Yeah,” you said. “Have you seen that smile? He could charm a whole room without opening his mouth.”

Shuri laughed again. You found yourself smiling too, even if it hurt to do so.

For a while, she was as self-destructive as you. But now, you didn’t know how Shuri carried her own losses so gracefully, how she held herself together. Maybe it was the suit or the legacy. Or maybe she was just stronger. Your method was simpler: run into danger and don’t care if you make it out. It wasn’t healthy. But it was efficient.

Still, your senses were stronger than ever. You have noticed how Shuri’s heartbeat always picked up when you mention Bucky. You always assumed it was because she was worried about you— about the old wounds reopening. 

What you still didn’t know, what she never told you, was that she and Bucky were in constant contact. And after her mother’s death, her updates to him became more detailed, more frequent. Perhaps, it was because you were the closest thing she had to a sister. Perhaps she wanted to keep you safe— and letting Bucky know of your missions meant that if anything were to go wrong, he would be there to help.

She had already lost T’challa and Ramonda. She was not going to lose you, too.

—

Utah. Thunderbolts* timeline.

The gas station was run-down, lit by flickering fluorescent lights and signs buzzing with static. Inside, the team Yelena had apparently nicknamed the Thunderbolts stood in varying degrees of impatience as Bucky took off the last of their restraints.

Yelena rubbed her wrists and shot Bucky a sidelong glance. “So. How are we going to track Bob?”

Bucky didn’t answer immediately. He was already pulling out his phone, lips pressed in a hard line. “Can’t track Mel’s phone,” he muttered under his breath. “Wherever they are, they must have signal jammers.”

“Great,” John said. “And we’re just supposed to... drive and hope we’re going in the right direction?”

Ava narrowed her eyes. “We don't have time. If Val has Bob, there’s no telling—”

Bucky raised a hand. “I… I might know someone nearby who can track a scent halfway across the world.”

Alexei straightened with a hopeful gleam in his eye. “Ah! We are getting reinforcements?” He cracked his knuckles. 

Bucky was already reaching for his phone, hesitation coiling in his chest. His thumb hovered over the screen.

He shouldn't be doing this, right?

Were you ready to see him? After everything? After how you ended things? Did you even want to see him?

He rubbed the back of his neck, trying to shove down the uncertainty clawing at his ribs. 

Focus, Barnes. 

This wasn’t about closure or guilt or anything personal. Civilians could be in danger. And if Sentry project was as dangerous as they said, then they were way past playing it safe.

Even if it was messy. Even if it hurt.

“Something like that,” Bucky muttered, then hit Call—and walked out into the gas station parking lot.

—

Call to Shuri,  Wakandan Secure Channel.

“Bucky,” Shuri answered briskly, “If this is about a replacement arm because the raccoon stole it again—”

“It’s not,” Bucky cut in. “I need hotel information.”

A pause. “For whom?”

“For her.” He didn’t have to say your name. Shuri knew exactly who he meant.

“Why?”

“You told me she was in a joint op with Everett Ross in Salt Lake City. I just need the hotel name, Shuri.”

“That’s classified,” she said, more defensively than she meant. She was willing to give him many things about you, but this might be teetering on a line she wouldn’t cross.

“I wouldn’t ask if it wasn’t urgent. We need to track someone before he levels a city,” Bucky explained, “Please.”

Shuri went quiet, because she knew a call from the White Wolf meant things were getting out of hand. 

—

You smelled him before he knocked.

He smelled like leather and metal. He had that faint, signature scent — like snowmelt clinging to old wood. 

You just finished an intel swap with Everett Ross, and now all you wanted to do was lie down and sleep. That was until you caught a whiff of his scent and you stopped dead in your tracks. 

The knock came a second later.

You took a breath, schooled your expression, and opened the door.

And there he was. James Buchanan Barnes. Standing in a Salt Lake City hotel hallway. 

His hair was longer than you last saw on TV, a little more silver threading through the temples. A black t-shirt that clung to him in all the ways that weren’t fair, leather jacket over it. 

You froze for a moment. 

“Wow… I— you…,” he said, as if he couldn’t help himself. “You’re still as beautiful as the last time I saw you.”

You let out a dry laugh before you could stop yourself, folding your arms. “You showing up uninvited in a hallway in Utah wasn’t exactly how I imagined hearing that.”

Bucky gave you a lopsided little smile — the kind that once made your knees weak. “Yeah, well… surprise?”

You rolled your eyes. But it was hard to ignore how your heartbeat had kicked up. “How did you even know I was here?”

He winced. “Okay, so… don’t be mad.”

“Oh no,” you said, flatly. “Great way to start.”

“I, uh… may have asked Shuri.”

Your brows rose. “You what?”

“Just for updates.”

“Bucky.”

“She didn’t tell me much! Just—like—general stuff. Missions. If you were injured. If you’d… eaten.”

“You’ve been asking my best friend to report on my food intake?”

“Okay, that was one time!”

“You don’t get to be worried anymore,” you cut in ever so gently, and the smile dropped from his face.

“I know,” he said. 

You stared at him, longing pressing under your ribs.

“You could’ve just called,” you said.

He swallowed. “I didn’t think you’d answer.”

“Then why are you here?”

“I…” He ran a hand through his hair. “I needed your help. For something. But part of me… I- I don’t know. I would be lying if I said I didn't want to see you.”

“Well, congratulations.” You rolled your eyes, “You found me.”

He didn’t respond. Just stood there with that goddamn puppy-dog look on his face — the one you used to wake up to. The one that said he still loved you in ways he probably didn’t know how to stop.

The silence stretched thin.

Finally, you sat down on your bed and said, “You weren’t there.”

Sitting down on the armchair across from you, Bucky’s brows pulled together, and he knew instantly what you meant.

“T’Challa,” you said. “Ramonda. You didn’t come. You sent flowers. A text. That’s all.”

“I know.”

“Do you?” Your voice cracked at the edges. “You don’t get it, Bucky. You were family. They loved you.”

“I loved them, too,” he said. “God, I loved them. T’Challa gave me a second chance. Ramonda treated me like a second son. You think it didn’t kill me not to be there?”

“Then why weren’t you?” you asked, quieter now. “Why didn’t you show up?”

He looked away. “Because I knew I’d see you, too.”

Oh. 

He continued, voice rough, eyes fixed on a random point over your shoulder. “I knew I’d see you in white, standing in front of that city that saved both of us. And I knew I wouldn’t be able to hold it together. I couldn’t go to Wakanda to grieve them and be reminded of you. I was already falling apart. I couldn’t break in front of everyone.”

Your breath hitched, just a little.

“You think I didn’t fall apart?” you whispered. “You think I didn’t wake up everyday being reminded of you? That I didn’t carry Shuri when she couldn’t stand even when I missed you?”

He looked back at you, “You are stronger than me.”

“No, Bucky,” You shook your head. “I just showed up.”

He swallowed hard, his chest heaving just slightly.

You stared at each other again — that thick, choking silence drowning you like a wave.

And still… underneath it all, there was love. Frustrated, frayed, unresolved — but alive. 

Bucky leaned forward. “I know I messed up. I know I don’t deserve to ask you for anything.”

You didn’t answer. You just watched him, waiting.

“I’ll stop,” he promised. “The updates. Everything. I’ll leave you alone. I just… need you to do one thing.”

Before you could respond, your nose twitched.

You frowned and sniffed the air, eyes narrowing when your ears picked up four new heartbeats in the vicinity. 

“Bucky,” you said slowly. “Does this have anything to do with the four jackasses currently pressed up against the hallway wall?”

He blinked. “...No?”

You sighed, walked to the front of the room and opened the door.  Yelena, Ava, John, and Alexei all flinched like a bunch of kids caught behind a curtain.

“I told you to wait in the car,” Bucky groaned. 

You crossed your arms at the four extremely guilty faces frozen mid-lean.

Ava, arms crossed like she wasn’t just eavesdropping with laser focus. Yelena, who gave a tiny wave. “Hi.” John, trying very hard to act casual. Alexei was grinning wide. “Ah! She is even more terrifying than Mr. Soldier described! I like her.”

You stared at them. Then at Bucky.

He winced. “...So yeah. About that one thing.”

—

They gave you the rundown on Bob and the Sentry Project—chaotic, riddled with questions and coded language that made you realise that Bucky was right— this was a larger-than-life situation.

It was enough to raise every red flag in your head, and by the end of it, you were just dragging a hand down your face like you were wiping off the last shred of peace you had left.

“Fine,” you muttered, already rerouting your mental map like instinct. You stepped in closer, tilting your head just slightly at the three people who had been in close vicinity to Bob. 

Yelena, John, and  Ava.

You went in close and did a focus inhale through your nose. Your senses lit up. You could smell a thread between them— that must be Bob’s smell. 

You could pick apart the sweat and smoke residue. You could smell the iron-spike scent of stress hormones surging through their blood. You could practically taste the adrenaline.

“Got it,” you said, nodding once.

Then you turned, already moving.

Your pupils contracted as you flipped into the edge of your infrared vision, sweeping the environment in layered pulses of heat and light. People lit up like sketches in flames. Your hearing tuned up next, catching radio chatter three blocks out, the thrum of a drone overhead.

You walked out, and they followed you as you followed the scent straight toward Avengers Tower.

—

Void, New York.

The city was being devoured—block by block, building by building—into a yawning chasm of darkness,a  negative space eating reality alive. It was as if Bob had carved a hole in the fabric of reality and let nothingness bleed through. The skyline blurred at the edges, buildings sucked into the black like paper into flame. 

People were turned into shadows, and what scared you the most was you can’t smell them anymore. You can’t hear them anymore. They… vanished.

You stood on the edge of where Grand Central Station used to be. Bob was in the center of it all—or what was left of him. 

You had found him, and it had gone bad. Catastrophically bad.

Yelena didn’t hesitate. She was the first one to go in. 

The others had followed—Alexei, John, Ava—one by one, swallowed whole by the nothingness.

Now it was just you and Bucky.

The edge of the Void shimmered like a heat mirage, the floor fracturing under it. 

You stared into the nothingness and it looked exactly how you’d felt the day Wakanda lost its king. The day Ramonda breathed her last breath in that throne room. The day you held Shuri’s hand as she lost everything.

And all you could think, selfishly, was how Bucky hadn’t been there.

You swallowed hard, voice barely more than a whisper. “I’m scared.”

Bucky looked at you, eyes softening.

You didn’t know what was on the other side. You didn’t know what you’d see— what the Void would show you, or take from you.

But for the first time in years, the love of your life reached out and took your hand. 

“If we vanish again,” he said quietly, “we vanish together.”

Right. 

Your fingers curled around his, Your voice barely trembled as you said it again, “Together.”

Then you stepped forward and let the Void take you both.

—

Bucky woke up in the snow.

He recognised this place even before he heard the screaming wind, before he looked down and saw his blood soaking into the white ground.

Bucky was twenty-something again—still Sergeant James Barnes. Still just a soldier, a friend, a smartass.

He was watching himself fall. Watching his arm catch on the railing, and breaking on impact. He watched his body spiral and bounce once before settling.

He tried to look away, but he couldn’t.

He remembered waiting for hours for help. No one came.

“I’m sorry,” Bucky whispered, but the younger version didn’t respond. He blinked once more and then stopped moving altogether.

Then, in an attempt to escape this vision, he buried himself in an avalanche of snow.

He woke up in another room. It was his apartment, familiar and claustrophobic at the same time. The curtains were drawn tight, the air thick with the scent of cheap whiskey 

And there he was — himself again. This Bucky was slouched on the floor, back against the wall, surrounded by a graveyard of bottles. Some still full. Most empty. The floor was soaked where he’d dropped one earlier.

He had a bottle pressed to his lips now. He took another long, angry swig. Then another. Then—

Nothing.

No burn. No warmth in his chest. No haze. He roared suddenly, launching the bottle across the room. It shattered against the wall. Glass rained down like glittering snow.

“Why won’t it work?” he shouted, voice hoarse. “Why won’t it fucking work?”

He lurched to his feet, fumbling for another bottle in the kitchen. His hands shook. His breathing was ragged.

“Just let me forget,” he begged, staring at his reflection in the microwave’s glass. “Let me forget. Let me be numb.”

But his body refused. His curse of super soldier metabolism was that he would never let him escape. He would never get drunk ever again.

He threw the next bottle harder. The glass cut his knuckles. He didn’t feel it.

He had only landed from Wakanda twelve hours ago. But this time, he landed with the knowledge that you were not his anymore. And now there was no one to fight with. No one to talk to. No one to hold his hand when the nightmares got bad. No one to anchor him when he spiraled.

He slid down the wall and pressed his forehead to his knees like he could disappear into his own body.

He whispered your name over and over again.

The most devastating part was knowing that he had finally found someone who saw him, and still, somehow, he had driven you away.

He stayed like that for what felt like hours. Days. Maybe he never left that floor at all.

Then — Bucky saw a ripple from a puddle across the room where he had spilled his drink earlier. 

He looked into it, and instead of a reflection, he saw you. 

You were curled up on a couch in another life, in another room. Fingers wrapped around a half-empty bottle. Your head lolling against the armrest, eyes glazed. Laughter bubbled out of your mouth that didn’t belong there — not the happy kind. This laughter was crooked, the kind you used to hide the sobs building beneath your ribs.

The bottle slipped from your fingers and onto the floor.

You were drunk. Not a buzz. Not a haze. You were gone, and it showed.

You started slurring words to no one and between fits of laughter. The makeup smeared across your cheek wasn’t from a night out — it was from wiping away tears with the back of your hand over and over again.

You were wrecked in a way Bucky couldn’t be.

You had the freedom he envied, the escape he was never allowed. You could bury the grief. He had to live with it. And then— he saw what you were clutching in your lap.

It was a photo of You, Bucky, Shuri, and T’challa, taken by Queen Ramonda by the lake, only a couple of days before Thanos attacked. 

You stared at the photo like it might move. Like if you looked hard enough, you could reach through the glossy paper and pull them out.

But they were gone.

T’Challa. Ramonda.

And Bucky.

He hadn’t died, but he wasn’t there either. Not when it mattered.

Your grip on the bottle tightened. And then—suddenly—you screamed. “WHY AREN’T YOU HERE?!”

The words tore out of you like glass, shredding you from the inside out.

You hurled the bottle across the room. It hit a wall, shattered, and splashed liquor across the floor. Your body jolted with it, like you’d thrown a piece of yourself.

And then you just collapsed yourself, rocking back and forth. “My fault,” you whispered over and over again. “My fault. All my fault. My fault.”

Bucky watched from the other side of the reflection, both of you broken in different ways—he, invulnerable and furious that he couldn’t feel the poison work; you, drowning in it.

The grief between you wasn’t just shared.

It was mirrored.

Both of you in your separate corners of the world, drinking like it might erase memory, like it might bring someone back, like it might turn regret into penance.

With a deep breath, he took a leap of faith and stepped into the puddle. 

It felt like falling like leaping off a rooftop with no guarantee of landing, but choosing the fall anyway because it might bring him back to you.

And he was right.

He was there, with the real you. 

You were in that room, in the corner, watching it all play out like a film you couldn’t pause.

That puddle had been more than a doorway. It had been a choice. And he had chosen you.

Bucky knelt down beside you slowly. He didn’t say anything at first. Just pulled you into him.

And for a moment, you didn’t move.

But then his arms wrapped around you, the walls gave in. Your fingers clutched at the back of his jacket and you buried your face into his shoulder.

You stayed like that for a while. 

Then, muffled against him, you said, “I should’ve called.”

He just held you tighter.

You continued. “You gave me flowers. A text. It wasn’t much, but… at least it was something. I didn’t even text back. I didn’t give you anything.”

Bucky pulled back slightly to look at you, his hands still resting gently on your shoulders. “No,” he said. “Don’t apologize. I—” He exhaled slowly, eyes dark and honest. “I was suffocating you. I… I ruined you.”

“You never ruined me, Bucky,” you said. ��You broke my heart. But you never ruined me.”

Silence stretched again — for a while.

“I was scared I’d never see you again,” you admitted, quieter now. “That you’d disappear into some mission and I’d never get to tell you I was still… that I still— fuck… I—” Unable to finish your sentences, looked away instead, chewing the inside of your cheek. Then you asked what had been burning in the back of your throat this whole time: “Are we ever going to be okay again?”

His answer was quiet, immediate. “We already are.” He kissed your temple — not possessive or desperate, just… loving. 

You blinked up at him. “What?”

He smiled. “You’re here. I’m here. We’re talking. Yelling. Holding each other. That’s more than most people get.”

You chuckled, exhaling a shaky breath, forehead resting against his. “So what now?”

“Now?” he murmured. “We get up.”

Your hand slid down his arm and laced your fingers with his. “And what about the end of the world?”

He gave a half-laugh, half-sigh. “Right. That.”

You both stood, like people learning how to walk for the first time again.

He looked at you, wiping a tear from his cheeks. “C’mon,” he said, nodding toward the door. “Let’s go find Bob.”

And this time, you walked out together.

—

Post-Void. New York, again.

You’d done it. You’d pulled Bob out, helped him control the void inside of him. 

And just as the dust started to settle, Val ambushed you all with a press conference. She threw around the word New Avengers like it was already printed across a glossy magazine cover. 

Your phone immediately lit up like a Christmas tree.

Everett Ross: Did my EX-WIFE just put you in the New Avengers lineup? Why did you not tell me this?

You winced. Ex-wife. Of course.

Then, Shuri: ??? What is HAPPENING? Should I have not given Bucky your hotel?

And the kicker came from the current king of Wakanda himself.

M’Baku: Weren’t you on a foreign mission on behalf of Wakanda? You are now on AMERICAN NEWS? Call back immediately.

You groaned and thumbed your phone to Do Not Disturb.

The others were watching you now. Bob was still sitting in the sun. Yelena tried ignoring the cameras with practiced disinterest. 

Beside you, Bucky was catching his breath, hair tousled, jacket streaked with dust. 

“You wanna come back to my place?” he asked, pointing to your phone. “Make the calls from there, if this is too much.”

You blinked. “Don’t you live in D.C. now? Whole Capitol Hill, suit-and-tie Bucky?”

He shrugged, glanced at a hovering drone cam, and flipped it off without changing expression. “Kept my old apartment in Brooklyn. Rent controlled.”

You smirked, though the change in his heartbeat did not go unnoticed. “You’re sentimental.”

“No,” he chuckled. “I’m cheap. But if it helps, the water pressure is still garbage and the radiator still sounds like a haunted typewriter. Just like last time you were there.”

Before you could answer, Alexei called out from behind you. “Can we all come? Team debrief?”

You turned, and shook your head. “Top secret. I’ll find you later.”

Ava lifted a hand lazily. “She’s a tracker. She will.”

She was right. If anyone tried to disappear, you’d have them in an hour.

As you turned away with Bucky at your side, your super-hearing picked up everything. Far behind you, John Walker, never one for subtlety, muttered to someone — probably Yelena, “Twenty bucks says they’re back together by tonight. I mean, do you see how they look at each other?”

You kept walking. Bucky hadn’t heard it — his senses weren’t as sharp as yours, even with the serum.

You debated pretending you hadn’t either. 

—

You knew before he even unlocked the door that keeping this place wasn’t about rent control.

When it creaked as you walked, the first thing you could smell was remnants of yourself. 

The radiator still coughed in the corner like it was dying. Everything smelled faintly of old wood and clean laundry, and something faintly him — steel and cedar and memory.

Your breath hitched when you saw the shelf to your left still had your copy of Baldwin’s The Fire Next Time, the one Bucky swore he never borrowed.

Your old hoodie — the grey one with the thumb holes — was folded on the arm of the couch like you had just worn it yesterday.

The photos in the frames hadn’t changed. There was one of you and him, laughing in the sunset. One of Bucky, Sam, Steve, and T’challa with you and Shuri making faces while photobombing them. Then, a photo of you, him, Shuri, and T’challa— his copy of the one Ramonda had taken. 

Oh. 

The space was like a museum and a time capsule rolled into one.

You didn’t say anything at first.

You sat down at the kitchen table and pulled out your phone. A stack of voicemails and messages had piled up, still buzzing in the background. The world was catching up to what had just happened — the Void, Val’s PR machine spinning headlines while you were still scrubbing concrete dust out of your hair.

You answered M’Baku first, then Shuri, then Ross. But your eyes kept drifting to the photos, the jacket, the battered mug with the chipped rim that you used to have your coffee in, no matter how much it leaked.

Bucky stayed quiet. 

He didn’t hover. Just leaned against the counter with a mug in his hand that had long since gone cold.

When you finally finished the last call, you let out a deep breath. Your fingers tightened around the edge of the table. Then, you looked at him. “Rent control, huh?” you raised an eyebrow.

He blinked, looking down to his feet.

“You’re full of shit,” you added, gentler this time.

And Bucky chuckled his first real laugh since your reunion. He dropped his head for a second, shaking it slowly. “Yeah,” he said. “I guess I am.”

He stepped a little closer, leaning one hand on the table across from you. His other hand hovered, like he wanted to reach out but didn’t want to break whatever fragile platform you were both standing on.

“I kept thinking I’d throw it all out,” he said. “That I’d come back one day and finally… take it all down. Pack the clothes. Box up the books and mail them to you. But I never did.”

You looked down at your hands. You could feel his eyes on you.

“I think,” he said, quieter now, “that part of me thought… if I kept it all exactly the same, maybe you’d come back.”

Your throat tightened.

He ran a hand through his hair, his voice rough around the edges. “I don’t know how to do this. I’m not… good at this. At any of it. But I don’t want to keep pretending I don’t want you in my life .”

Silence stretched for a long moment.

Finally, you said, “Shuri told me something the other day.”

Bucky straightened a little.

“She was trying to explain quantum entanglement to me. That even when particles are separated by galaxies, they still feel each other. React to each other. Like distance doesn’t matter. Not really.” You met his eyes. “That’s us, isn’t it?”

“Yeah.” Bucky gave you a sad smile, “It’s us.”

You looked around the room again.

“I’m not ready,” you said. “I don’t know how to go back to what we were. I don’t even know if we should.”

“I don’t want what we were,” he said, without hesitation. “I want better.”

You studied him. He looked different than the last time you saw him — older, maybe. Not physically. But his eyes were angry. Less anxious.

You nodded. “Slow,” you said. “We take it slow.”

He looked… relieved. 

He didn’t step closer. He didn’t grab you or kiss you or make some grand statement. Instead, he reached out and gently rested two fingers against the back of your hand, just enough to feel you there.

“Okay,” he said.

And somehow, it was enough.

Not everything was fixed, but for the first time in a long time, you had him back in your life. —

You didn’t know what you expected when you landed in Wakanda. Maybe M’Baku would challenge you to one final sparring match and attempt to win the truth out of you with his bare hands. Maybe Shuri would yell. Maybe Okoye would look at you like a traitor.

But no one raised their voice, and that almost made it worse.

The throne room was still. M’Baku stood tall with his arms crossed. As you stepped forward, you tried to square your shoulders, trying to find the version of yourself that had once stood tall here— not as a visitor, not as a liability, but as someone who helped this nation rebuild from the blip, from the loss of their king, from the loss of their queen.

But your throat was dry. Your heartbeat thrummed in your chest. “I came to explain,” you said, voice thinner than you’d hoped.

“You do not need to,” M’Baku replied, his voice grave but not unkind.

You stopped, stunned by how final he sounded.

He descended the steps from the throne, each footfall echoing through the vibranium coated walls. “I regret to inform you that your contract with Wakanda is terminated,” he said. “Effective immediately.”

You opened your mouth to protest, but he lifted a hand before you could speak.

“You are now aligned with the New Avengers,” he said, reciting an uncomfortable truth. “You report to the CIA’s director. Your loyalties have shifted—by necessity, perhaps, but shifted nonetheless. Wakanda cannot afford blurred lines.”

Fuck. 

“I didn’t ask for the public announcement,” you said as a last line of defence. “Valentina made that move without consulting anyone.”

“And yet the world knows,” M’Baku answered. “Perception, as you know, is reality. The eyes of the world are on you now. And those eyes inevitably turn toward Wakanda.”

You lowered your gaze, heart dropping in your chest. “I understand.”

“But…” he continued, “I want you to know that you were never just a contract to us.”

When he stepped closer, his stance shifted. He wasn’t Wakanda’s king now. He was M’Baku— your sparring partner, your most stubborn friend, the man who once cracked your rib in training and called it ‘bonding.’

“You were family,” he said quietly. “You annoyed me more than any outsider I’ve ever met, and I will miss that more than you can imagine.”

Before you could speak, he pulled you into his arms and… hugged you.

You held onto him—tighter than you meant to. You didn’t want to let go. Wakanda had been more than a mission or a job. It had been your home. It was the place that gave you purpose when the rest of the world had hunted you. And now, with a few words and a king’s goodbye, it was slipping through your fingers.

“You’ll be alright, sister,” he reassured, voice. “You always land on your feet.” He pulled back just enough to smirk. “Like a very ugly cat with no grace.”

You laughed. Or maybe you cried. You weren’t sure.

—

Outside the throne room, Shuri was waiting.

She stood like she’d been pacing with her eyes trained on the floor— but when you appeared, her head snapped up. Okoye was beside her, and even her usual perfect posture had softened.

“I’m sorry,” Shuri said the moment your eyes met, brittle at the edges. “For giving Bucky your location.”

You let out a deep breath and a sad smile ghosted across your face. “Don’t be.”

“He said there was a threat,” she shook her head, stepping closer. “And he wasn’t wrong. But I didn’t know it would end…. like this. I thought I was helping.” Her voice broke slightly. “I thought I was giving you back something you’d lost.”

You shook your head. “You weren’t wrong.”

She didn’t look at all startled by that— as if she knew whatever hole had been carved into you by the loss of Wakanda had immediately been filled by Bucky coming back into your life, by the rest of the team that you found. 

“Every time I hit a wall,” you said, just above a whisper. “I throw myself into work and pretend I don’t need anyone.” Your voice cracked open without permission like a dam that had held too long.

“But maybe…” You glanced down, then up at her. “Maybe it’s time I stop pushing away the people who love me. Maybe it’s time I meet them halfway and let them care for me.” You took her hand, “like you do.”

Shuri stared at you like sunlight through storm clouds— equal parts pride and heartbreak.

“Bucky cares,” she said. “Do not let each other slip away this time.”

You swallowed hard.

Okoye, always watching, always knowing, stepped forward.

“He is better,” she said, almost approvingly. “He has learned how to breathe without you. Perhaps it is precisely the reason you need him again. And he might just remind you that life is not all about survival and contracts— it is meant to be lived.”

You tried to blink away the sudden sting in your eyes. “Okoye…” you managed.

She raised a finger in warning. “Do not make me cry, girl.”

That startled a snorting laugh from Shuri.

You smiled. Just a little.

—

Two days later, Bucky helped you move into Avengers Tower.

He smiled sadly when he spotted your duffel bag on the curb beside a single, battered box.

“That’s it?” he asked, easily lifting the box labeled in your unmistakable handwriting: SENTIMENTAL SHIT.

You raised an eyebrow. “You expected me to have more emotional baggage?”

He let out a small laugh, missing your sense of humour. “I meant literal baggage. But…” he glanced down at the label, the corner of his mouth twitching, “…noted.”

You fell into step beside him, entering the still-mostly-empty tower. The echo of your footsteps followed you down halls that smelled like fresh paint and industrial cleaner. A few rooms were already occupied—Bob’s, Ava’s, and an unnamed office space—but yours was at the far end of the residential floor: a bit secluded, sunlit, and overlooking New York in a way that felt almost too generous.

You dropped your duffel onto the bed with a sigh. He set the box on the desk and stood back, studying in the space like he was mentally filing it away for future reference.

“You alright?” he asked softly.

You shrugged, arms crossing out of reflex. “I guess. Feels… weird.”

“What does?”

“Living out of Wakanda.” You glanced at him. “It’s even weirder being around you like this.”

“Like what?”

“Friends,” you said, with a smile that didn’t quite reach your eyes. “That’s what we are now, right?”

“I guess so.” He gave a gentle laugh, scratching the back of his head. “Friends who know exactly how the other one likes their coffee.”

You smiled for real then. “Friends who have seen each other naked. And cry. And leave.”

His voice was quieter now. “And come back.”

—

Two days later, the tower was silent after midnight.

It didn’t feel like a base yet—more like a draft of a memory— place still deciding what it wanted to be. The lights in the common room were dimmed to an amber gold. Somewhere down the hall, a ventilation unit clicked and sighed like an old house learning how to breathe again.

You couldn’t sleep.

You’d unpacked your bag. Stacked your few books with spines you knew by heart. Hung your jacket on the back of the door and lined up your toiletries with mathematical precision, like symmetry might trick your brain into believing this was home.

But your body didn't buy it yet, So you wandered barefoot down the hallway in an oversized sweatshirt—the same one Bucky had given you all those years ago.

You found him in the common room, curled into one corner of the couch, damp hair curling at the ends from a recent shower and mug of tea cradled between his metal fingers,

He looked up when he saw you. “You too, huh?”

“Sleep is a myth,” you said, plopped onto the cushion beside him. 

He handed you the mug. You didn’t hesitate before sipping— he used to share drinks with you all the time. The tea was warm, chamomile and honey, just the way you used to make it for him when he couldn’t sleep.

You let the heat sink into your palms for a few seconds longer than necessary before handing it back.

“This place is too clean,” you said at last. 

Bucky nodded. “Won’t be for long. Alexei just moved in. Give it two days before something explodes.”

You snorted. “I give it twelve hours.”

That made him laugh, as he leaned his head back against the couch cushion and looked up, like he could see constellations through the ceiling. You looked at him and, for a second, you imagined  you were both back in his hut again, painting stars on the ceiling with glow-in-the-dark stickers and half a bottle of wine.

“Remember that night by the river?” you asked.

His eyes flicked to yours. “The one after T’challa’s birthday dinner?”

You smiled. “Yeah. We dragged the blankets out and tried to sleep under the open sky. You brought out your old army jacket. I stole your pillow.”

He didn’t say anything for a second. Slowly, he reached out, brushing his fingertips across yours. 

—

The next few months passed easily.

You and Bucky slipped back into some old habits. Mornings were for training. Afternoons often ended in sparring sessions and conversation. And in the hours in between, you found each other again and again— sometimes late night tea. Sometimes, you'd leave a book by your door. Sometimes, he’d put in your favourite movie after a stressful day. He never made a big deal out of it, and neither did you. It wasn’t discussed. It simply was.

Of course, the team noticed.

Ava, subtle as a brick, started running a betting pool in the group chat on who would initiate getting back together. She never said who the odds favored, but winked at you every time you entered a room with Bucky in tow.

John grumbled about “weird tension” on mission briefings, mostly because he lost his first bet. Even Bob— still learning how to survive in a household of ex-spies, assassins, and super-soldiers—picked up on it. One morning over coffee, he glanced at you, then at Bucky, then said, completely unprompted, “You breathe easier when he’s around.”

You blinked at him, stunned. He just sipped his coffee and went back to his crossword.

But the real kicker came at breakfast, a few weeks later.

You were barely awake, slouched at the long kitchen island in the tower. Bucky sat beside you, reading news with a tablet in hand.

Yelena walked in, grabbed a banana, and without hesitation said, “So. When are you two getting back together?”

You nearly choked on your tea. Bucky froze mid-scroll. You coughed for a solid ten seconds before managing, hoarsely, “I—what?”

Yelena leaned on the counter. “Please. The movie nights? The sparring together all the time? You are basically together.”

Bucky cleared his throat. “We’re… talking. Taking it slow.”

Yelena squinted at him like he was the world’s worst liar. “Slow like friends slow, or slow like ‘you slept in her room after the Prague mission and thought no one noticed’ slow?”

You could feel the heat rising to your cheeks. Bucky stared at the ceiling like he was considering defenestration.

“I—I didn’t—we didn’t—” you stammered.

“She had a nightmare,” Bucky said valiantly. “I stayed in her armchair.”

Yelena raised her eyebrows. “How noble. You’ll be married by June.”

And with that, she bit into her banana and walked out as if she hadn’t just casually set your entire life on fire before 8 a.m.

You stared at the doorway for a long time before turning to Bucky. “We are never living that down.”

He smiled, just a little. “She’s not wrong, though.”

You tilted your head. “About what?”

He shrugged. “About the slow part not really being all that slow anymore.”

That shut you up, but not in a bad way.

—

The day it had finally happened, though, you’d been in the tower’s comms room, backlit by flickering screens, teeth clenched as you watched the mission feed buffer and skip. Bucky and John were on the field on recon and containment. It should be routine. No reason to worry.

You told yourself it was fine. You knew Bucky could handle himself. You’d said it a hundred times.

But then the feed glitched again. Then John mentioned gunfire and Bucky’s comms went dark.

The jet returned fifteen minutes later, skidding onto the landing pad. You were already waiting there when they brought him in.

Bucky.

His combat suit was torn, blood soaking through the thigh, gashes deep in his side. His vibranium arm was scorched, still hissing faintly from an energy blast. And yet… he was awake. Breathing. He gave you a small smile, somehow, even when the poor nurse wheeled him into the med bay. You ran to follow

He could’ve died. And you weren’t there.

That’s when you saw John.

“You were supposed to watch his six!” you shouted at him before you could even register how much you meant them. “Do you even know what a field partner does, or do you just wing it and hope the super soldiers heal fast enough?”

John blinked, surprised. “Jesus, I didn’t—”

“Don’t!” you snapped. “You were with him! He had your back—where the hell were you?”

“He told me to take the high ground!” John barked, his voice rising. “I didn’t know they had long-range fire!”

“It’s literally your job to know!” Your skin felt like they were on fire now. “Do you even remember the brief? You think because he’s got the Hydra serum he can take every shot for you?”

“Hey.”You heard Bucky say from the bed behind you. “Relax.”

Your head snapped toward him. “Relax?”

He half-winced as a doctor pulled a bullet fragment from his thigh. His breathing was shallow, but the corner of his mouth tugged upward in dry amusement

“Yeah. Relax. You’re doing that thing.”

You narrowed your eyes. “What thing?”

“You sound like me back in the day,” he managed to say, letting his head fall back on the pillow. “God. The role reversal’s kinda scary.”

And just like that, you shut up.

He did used to do this. When you were still together. When it was you on the field and him pacing the halls of the palace like a caged wolf. Every bruise you got, he catalogued. Every mission report, he read twice. When you brushed off injuries, he’d pull you aside and look at you like you'd died and no one told him.

And now here you were, standing over him, boiling over like your heart had been under for years.

“It’s different,” you whispered under your breath. “You were obsessed.”

Bucky opened his eyes again, squinting slightly. “What?”

You could hear the beeping of monitors overwhelming you. You could taste the metallic tang of blood and antiseptic. “You were obsessed,” you said, a bit louder, “I’m freaking out over bullets. You used to freak out over a scratch.”

He gave a nod, not flinching. “Yeah. I know.” He shrugged. “Wasn’t healthy. But I cared.” But then his tone shifted. “And you don’t get to talk to John like that.”

You took a step back, caught off-guard. “Are you serious?”

“He’s not perfect,” he said, matter-of-fact.

“Wow,” John interjected under his breath, “Thanks.” 

Bucky paid him no mind “But he tried. This wasn’t on him.”

You pressed your fingers into your temple, trying to breathe. “I know, I just—I didn’t know what else to do, Buck.”

You looked at him then, and all the fire in your chest dimmed into ash. He looked… tired. Older. Stronger, too. But there was something in his eyes—some flicker of the man you left behind. 

Bucky glanced toward John. “Give us the room when they’re done, yeah?”

John, for once, didn’t argue. He just nodded and backed out, probably relieved.

The door shut with a hiss, and you waited until the doctors had finished stitching him up and giving him the okay to rest before you walked back to his side, a little more tired, a little more human.

You sat on the edge of the bed. Your hand found his immediately, as if it was instinct. His skin was warm and he smelled like bullets and iron, the way it always got when he’d been running on too much adrenaline and too little self-preservation.

“Is this okay?” you asked, voice barely more than a whisper.

He nodded before reaching for you with both hands in that familiar, greedy way he always used to, like he couldn't stand another second without you touching. “C’mere,” he said.

So you climbed carefully onto the too-small mattress beside him, your body curving into his like muscle memory. You avoided the bruised side, settling in close with your head tucked beneath his chin, just where it used to belong. His wrapped his arm around you.

Your palm rested over his chest, right above his heart. It beat steady, and you wondered if it ever really stopped beating for you.

He breathed in your hair. "You always smell like home," he whispered, so quiet you almost missed it.

You watched the little cuts and bruises heal on their own, bit by bit. His lashes fluttered like he was teetering on the edge of sleep — then opened again, just to make sure you were still there.

You stayed tucked beneath his chin for a long while. Eventually, you spoke, your voice muffled into his chest. “I didn’t mean to scream at Walker,” you said with a small laugh. “Or be… so overbearing. Like you used to be.” You peeked up at him with a sideways smile. “Funny, right?”

Bucky chuckled. “I deserved that,” he smiled, rubbing slow circles against your back with his human thumb

You swallowed, then pulled away just enough to look at him properly.

“I just…” You hesitated, choosing your words carefully, like they mattered. Because they did. “For the first time in a long time, work isn’t the most important thing to me.” You reached up and gently brushed your fingers along the edge of the bruise on his cheeks. “You are.”

“I know,” he said, voice rough. “And I… I just wanted you to know I never stop caring — just didn’t know how to care right.”

You both laughed a little at that — sad and sweet, like the punchline to a very old joke.

“Remember that time you hacked into a satellite feed because I missed one check-in?” you teased, smirking.

Bucky groaned, his cheeks turning pink. “Okay, first of all, it was a tactical recon satellite, I didn’t hack it, I borrowed a login.”

“Oh, that makes it better,” you said, eyes sparkling. “You bribed M’Baku with a reservation at a two Michelin Star vegan restaurant just because I didn’t text ‘safe’ fast enough.”

“I was worried,” he shook his head, then, quieter, “You didn’t answer for four hours.”

“I know,” Your brows relaxed again. “I know you were trying to love me. I just… couldn’t let myself be loved like that back then.”

Bucky reached up and tucked a strand of hair behind your ear. “Are you now?”

You smiled, eyes filling up with a puddle of tears.“Well,” you said, voice a little wobbly, “Only if we meet halfway.”

He smiled, and god, it was like the sun rose just for you.

“Okay,” he agreed, leaning in until you could taste the air he breathed.

Just before your lips touched, he stopped. “You sure?” he asked, looking down at your lips.

Your heart was pounding so hard you were sure he could feel it through your chest.

You nodded. “I’m sure.”

He didn’t move yet.

“You sure you’re sure?” he whispered, voice lower now. His fingers had tightened just slightly at your waist, anchoring you there,but he just needed to give you one last chance to run — but you didn’t take it.

“Bucky…” you whispered, and the way you said his name answered everything for him.

“Okay,” he said, more a sigh than a word. “Okay.”

Then he kissed you.

It was heat and hunger that only two people who had been starved of each other, who’d tasted what it was like to be apart and never wanted to go back could feel. His mouth claimed yours like he needed to make sure you were his and you kissed him back just as fiercely, just as desperate to prove that you were.

You curled your fingers into the collar of his tac vest, pulling him closer, and he groaned against your lips. His metal hand slid up your back, and his other hand cupped your cheek and pulled you closer

And he kept saying it between kisses, like a litany, “You’re sure?”

You answered with another kiss. Deeper now, borderline bruising.

“You’re sure?” he asked again

“I’m sure.” Your lips parted on a gasp, and you nodded, forehead pressed to his. “I’m so sure, Buck, I— I never stopped—”

His mouth was on yours again before you could finish, and it didn’t matter. His thumb traced your cheek like he was re-learning you all over again, when he realized he still remembered all the ways you liked to be kissed. When you finally pulled back, breathless, he looked at you like you’ve been to hell and back for him.

“God, I missed this,” he whispered, pressing a kiss to your forehead. “I missed you so bad, doll.”

You smiled, blinking back the tears that weren’t sad at all. “I missed you worse.”

He grinned, all wrecked and completely in love.

You kissed again, gentler this time, remembering how good it felt to be known by each other again.

Which was exactly when the door slid open with a cheerful whoosh.

“—Bucky! I was gonna check on—oh,” came Alexei’s voice, suddenly flat as pancake batter left too long on the griddle.

You froze, lips still an inch from Bucky’s. Your heart leapt straight into your throat, and you turned slowly toward the door, horror across both your faces.

Alexei stood there, blinking once, before giving the slowest nod known to man. His hands were crossed on his chest, looking too smug for his own good.

“Well,” he said, dragging his voice out. “Well. I’m going to tell team it finally happened!”

Bucky let out the deepest, most resigned sigh imaginable and let his head thunk back against the pillow. “Can you please wait until I’m discharged?”

“Nonsense!” Alexei said brightly, already halfway down the hallway. “Ava owes me twenty American dollars. And John will make that face. You know the one.”

You groaned and buried your face in Bucky’s chest, playfully mortified. 

“Back then,” he chuckled, lips brushing your hair, “I would've fought him for interrupting.”

You peeked up at him, “And now?”

He smiled. “Now I’m just glad you’re here.”

-end.

[hhiggs]

“You try’na make me jealous doll?” (Part 4-Final)

Part 1 Part 2 Part 3

Summary: Your day starts with an early morning workout filled with enough sexual tension courtesy of your favourite Super Soldier, Bucky Barnes, to probably last you a lifetime. But when you’ve had way too much to drink at Tony’s party later on, you somehow find yourself outrageously flirting with Sam. Bucky has ignored your signals all night despite what happened in the gym this morning, so you continue knowing that he’s getting seriously worked up about it.

Prompt(s): ‘“It’s not called jealousy when what you want is already yours. It’s called being possessive.”’

‘“You’ve been givin’ signals out all night doll, and you’ve not been sendin’ them Sam’s way. You couldn’t make it less obvious if you tried. You want me.”’

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x Female Reader

Characters: Bucky Barnes, Scott Lang

Feels: Low

Warnings: Bad language, implied smut/sexual implications

Word Count: 1,155

Part: 4/4

A/N: (Not my gif) All my own work , this story and the idea for, is copyrighted to me (@bxckybxrnxs) but I do not own the characters or setting. Sorry for the incredible delay in posting this chapter- it was going nowhere for ages and I apologise profusely, but I’m happy with it now!

“If you’ve been try’na get me fired up all night then it fuckin’ worked doll,” Bucky growled, his lips brushing briefly against your ear as you felt a shot of electricity sparking down your spine. Ambitiously trailing his fingertips down your arm, you watched; hypnotized by his touch, as his hands skimmed over your skin before curling under, wrapping your hand in his.

Ignoring the wolf whistles echoing around the tower, Bucky pushed through the crowd, leading you behind him. Your world was flowing in slow motion, heart beat thudding loud in your ears.

Goosebumps prickled up your arms in anticipation as the two of you reached the elevator. The doors slammed shut almost instantly, leaving you alone at last. He reached out, tapping the floor number both of your rooms were located on with his metal hand, before turning his burning gaze back to you.

Pushing you backwards, you feel his hot breath on your neck, the strong scent of alcohol overpowering; though he wasn’t as intoxicated as you. Your back bumped against the ice cold metal of the elevator, a shocking contrast to the smoldering heat radiating from Bucky.

His hands were placed on either side of your shoulders, finger tips just brushing over your sensitive skin, as the jealous burn still glinted in his darkened eyes. “Don’t you ever step near Wilson dressed like this again,” He growled possessively, finally breaking the building tension.

Stifling a gasp you opened your mouth to reply, “Jealously is a good look on you, Barnes.” You whispered before slowly dragging your teeth across your bottom lip. His jaw tensed as his last name slipped from your lips, and you could barely stop a smirk from crossing your face at his frustrated agitation.

“Maybe I will be spending more time with Sam if it gets you this worked up.” You added, only spraying gasoline onto the raging fire.

You were so tuned into his body that you could almost predict his actions; and the expression of pure lust in his eyes as his lips feverishly connected with yours was going to be burnt into your memory forever. Reacting fiercely, you wrapped your hands around his neck as though trying to pull him in even closer.

Built up tension from weeks of flirtation were forced into the kiss and you could feel his hands drop around your waist, lightly brushing over the thin fabric of your flimsy red dress.

He pulled away from you suddenly, expression of pure hunger still flooding his irises. “It’s not called jealousy when what you want is already yours. It’s called being possessive.” He hissed, his gaze dropping to your chest, once again drinking in your body in the figure hugging dress you had especially chosen for tonight.

“Who says I’m yours?” You whispered, seductive smile slipping back onto your lips as you traced his jawline with your fingertips, his dark, textured stubble only enhancing his stupidly gorgeous face.

“Because I’m a deadly assassin who was highly trained for seventy years to pick up the smallest details. Like whenever I’m in the room your eyes follow my every move; think you’re being subtle about how you feel doll?”

At the mention of the nickname your stomach fluttered in anticipation, “If you keep talking like that I’m not gonna last much longer babe,” You replied, throwing in a nickname of your own with a smirk.

Placing his metal arm next to your shoulder, his other hand trailed down your body, finger tips dancing around the hem of your dress. Pushing his knee towards you, sliding in between your legs, completely taking your breath away as he finally increased the intimacy.

“Fuck, I can practically see your heart beat increase at the sight of me doll. As much as you’re try’in not to show it, your body is telling me you’re mine, and has been since I walked into this damn tower.”

You tilted your chin up to meet his lips again in a moment of confidence, shocking yourself with the passion you eluded. Instantly responding, Bucky aggressively returned your kiss as he easily matched your intensity.

A moan escaped your lips as his nimble fingers hitched up the skirt of your dress, “You don’t know how long I’ve wanted you for Y/n,” leaning in to whisper in your ear, stubble scraping against the sensitive skin of your neck.

A smirk slipped back onto your lips as electricity burned lightly in the paths his fingertips left, “Oh I think I do babe,” You replied innocently, gazing up at him seductively whilst fluttering your lashes at him. “I see you eye fuck me across any room James, I think you need to try and be a little more subtle,” His full name spilled from your lips like pure sin as he clenched his jaw tightly in response.

Determined to entirely captivate him, you trickled your hands down his shirted chest, agonizingly slow. Feeling his breathing shorten, you curled your fingertips into his belt loops, suddenly pulling his hips forwards to rock against yours.

“You’re such a fuckin’ tease doll,” Bucky hissed through clenched teeth at the intense contact, as he was shocked back into action, ferociously recapturing your lips and kissing you as though his life depended on it. Your hands stayed entwined in his belt loops, his slender fingers continuously danced along the tops of your thighs, hiking your dress up much higher than the already short style.

The elevator finally reached the level he’d entered, announcing your arrival with a loud ding, which you both completely failed to hear. As the door slide open, there was a comically loud cough as somebody cleared their throat.  

Pushing Bucky away from you in a complete shock reaction, your finger tips went straight for the askew hem of your dress, rearranging it to a level of decency once again as your gaze connected with a sheepish Scott Lang.

“Damn guys- guess I really am late to the party,” He laughed awkwardly, fixing his eyes on the ceiling, as you continued to fumble with your dress in a further attempt to make yourself presentable.

Your body was aching from the lack of contact, itching to throw yourself at Bucky once again.

“I’m so sorry about this Scott,” You apologized, stepping out of the elevator with Bucky quickly following suit, his arm brushing against you, once again sending electricity tingling throughout your body. Letting his fingers fall against yours, he entwined them, rubbing his thumb over yours in circular movements.

Biting your lip to try and withhold any unseemly noises from escaping, you muttered a quick goodbye to Scott as the elevator door closed on his amused face.

As you turned back to Bucky your knowing smirk crept back over your lips, “How about we finish what we started, babe?”

His blue eyes were once again darkened with clouded lust as pulled you into him, “Oh definitely, doll.”

Tags: (Strike through means it won’t let me tag you) @inkyazure @babyblues915 @chamongangae @holycoldcoffee @buckyisloved @and-i-am-here-for-the-food @dogmad0 @katielu-blog @sarahp879 @blackirisposts @annabella789 @farfromjustordinary @radi0active-thoughts @bring-pietro-back-you-cowards @hdthdthdt @edgyroses @making-chocolate-pudding @born2eatrice @phoebe-21-99 @thatonegirljessy99 @cartonmanettedarnay @septic-boye @doewhisper-of-windclan @thepotatointheroom

Everything Tags: (If anyone wants to be added to this list let me know!) @mywinterwolf

[hhiggs]

•·.·´`·.·•• You're Lying (and other things Sam won't stop saying) ••·.·´`·.·•

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x f!reader

Warnings/Tags: language, mild suggestiveness, comedy, romance, light-angst, found family, slow burn payoff, excessive teasing, established relationship, Sam being annoying

Trope: Everyone thinks you're not really dating. You are. No one believes you.

Word Count: 2.0K

Author Note: Guys this is just like my last one, this is to help me mentally prep for an AP exam tomorrow morning so if this is bad I am so sorry. But I hope you enjoy this nonetheless <3

Please do not copy or translate any of my works. Thank you!

You and Bucky were dating.

Like- really dating.

In the 'he's seen you at your absolute worst and still kisses your cheek like he doesn't look at you any differently' kind of way. The 'you keep an extra toothbrush at his place and he makes your coffee how you like it without asking' kind of way. The 'he pulls you into his lap during team movie nights and smiles against your shoulder, murmuring words into your ear like it's not the most dangerous thing he could do' kind of way.

And no one believed you.

Especially not Sam.

"Oh, come one," he said, flatly, as he walked in on you and Bucky curled up on the couch. "This again?"

You blinked. "We're watching Pretty Woman, Sam."

"You're spooning."

"We're affectionate."

"You're not even kissing! He's probably just cold. You know he runs cold. Like a cyborg space lizard or something."

Bucky growled. "Cyborg space-?!"

"Right," Sam interrupted. "Sure. Keep telling people you're dating. I'll be over here living in reality."

You buried your face into Bucky's neck. "I hate him," you mumbled.

"You love him," Bucky corrected with a sigh. "You just want him to validate our relationship."

"I want him to believe in our relationship. There's a difference."

Sam, in the kitchen, called out: "I don't!"

Bucky flipped him off without looking.

~~~~~

The problem wasn't that you and Bucky didn't act like a couple.

The problem was that you didn't act like a normal couple.

You didn't post mushy selfies. You didn't wear matching shirts. You didn't coo pet names across conference tables. You just... existed. Comfortable. Quietly in sync. The kind of romance that felt more like a heartbeat than a firework.

Too subtle for people like Sam Wilson, apparently.

"You didn't even kiss when you got back from that mission," Sam pointed out, a few weeks later. "She was gone for five days, man."

Bucky, polishing a knife, didn't look up. "I kissed her afterward. In private."

"See, that's the problem! You hide it. Makes it look fake."

"I'm sorry," you snapped. "I didn't realize our love life was for public broadcast. Want us to livestream the next one?"

Sam looked delighted. "That's a strong reaction. I hit a nerve. This is faker than Tony's allergy to gluten."

Tony called from down the hall: "It's real, you bastard!"

~~~~~

At first, it was funny.

Then it got exhausting.

You weren't insecure about your relationship- Bucky made sure of that, every day, in a dozen quiet ways. He cooked for you. Kissed your temple. Held your hand under tables. Brushed his thumb along your jaw like it was the most precious part of you.

But still. No one believed it.

Not Nat, who called it "convenient physical proximity."

No Clint, who claimed he'd never seen you kiss with tongue (as id that were a valid benchmark).

Not even Steve, who offered a gentle "Are you sure he's not just emotionally dependent on you?"

It all came to a head one night at a bar.

You'd just finished a mission and everyone was letting off steam. Sam leaned against the bar counter beside you, a shit-eating grin on his face.

"So," he started. "You and Barnes still 'dating'?"

You narrowed your eyes. "Yes."

"Hmm. Okay." He sipped his beer. "So if I leaned in and kissed you right now, he wouldn't deck me?"

You stared at him.

"Try it," Bucky said darkly from behind, voice like cracked gravel.

Sam smiled. "Still not proof."

Bucky grabbed your hand. "You want proof?"

"Bucky-" you warned.

"No, no. He wants a show. Let's give him one."

He yanked you flush against him, hand cupping your jaw, and kissed you.

You melted into it, clutched his shirt, kissed him back with something that sounded like a whimper because Jesus.

Not a polite kiss.

Not a we're-dating-I-swear kiss.

A I-know-every-inch-of-your-mouth-and-I-love-you kiss.

Hot. Possessive. Unapologetic.

When he pulled away, Sam blinked. "...Okay. Damn."

"Believe us now?" Bucky raised a brow.

Sam blinked again. "Not really."

You grabbed a pretzel stick and stabbed it into the foam of Sam's beer. "I hope you step on RedWing."

~~~~~

Even after that, the teasing didn't stop.

Because of course it didn't.

"You probably practiced that," Sam said a few days later.

"What?"

"That kiss. You planned it. Just to throw me off."

Bucky rubbed his temples. "You are the most annoying man I've ever met."

"You're just mad I cracked the code."

"There is no code!"

You yanked open the fridge, pulled out a tub of frosting, and started eating it with a spoon. "I actually cannot live like this."

Sam pointed at the spoon. "See? No real girlfriend would let her boyfriend see that."

"Bucky bought me this frosting."

Bucky looked like he was about to get up and beat the shit out of Sam if he didn't start walking away.

~~~~~

Eventually, you gave up.

Let them believe what they wanted.

You and Bucky still kissed behind closed doors, curled together on the couch, whispered sleepy confessions after long days.

Until-

One night, you got sick.

Really sick. The kind of body-aching, fever-drenched flu that turned you into a grumpy, sniffling, corpse with a bag full of used tissues beside your bed.

And Bucky took care of everything.

He brought you soup. Rubbed your back. Helped you shower when you were too weak to stand. Brushed your hair out of your face. Slept beside you even when you told him not to.

Sam stopped by to check on you and walked in on Bucky holding your hand while you slept, forehead pressed to your wrist like he was praying.

The next morning, there was a small gift basket on your nightstand.

He backed out slowly.

Didn't say anything.

Didn't tease.

Didn't breathe.

"Okay. You win. He loves you. I won't say another word. P.S. Please don't tell anyone I'm capable of this level of sincerity. I have a rep to protect."

From Sam.

With a card.

~~~~~

You- of course- showed Bucky the card.

He smirked. "About damn time."

You kissed him with a smile.

And this time, no one questioned it.

~~~~~

The peace lasted exactly five days.

Five beautiful, uninterrupted days.

No teasing, no smug side-eyes, no Sam accusing you of being part of an elaborate CIA cover operation. Just you, Bucky, some early morning kisses over coffee, and one blessed evening where you somehow convinced him to slow dance in the kitchen to 40s music.

And then Sam broke into your new apartment. One you thought would give you full time peace compared to the Avengers compound.

(he claimed he "used the spare key." You knew he just picked the lock.)

"Morning, lovebirds," he smiled brightly, leaning against the doorframe like this wasn't the worst intrusion since Ross kissed someone else while he and Rachel were on a break.

You stared at him over Bucky's shoulder, still wrapped in his hoodie with sleep-mussed hair and a mug of tea between your palms. "It's 7:13 a.m."

"I brought bagels."

"And chaos."

Sam strolled in. "And relationship advice."

Bucky looked up from the couch, dead-eyed. "Why?"

"Because now that I know you two are the real deal, I gotta make sure you stay real."

You rubbed your temples. "We're not a gas leak, Sam."

"No, but you're both stubborn and weirdly avoidant and emotionally repressed, and frankly, I'm impressed it took me this long to be needed."

Bucky mumbled, "I'd rather be waterboarded."

Sam ignored him and slapped a notebook onto the table. "Step one: scheduled communication check-ins."

"Oh my god-"

~~~~~

You tried ignoring him.

Didn't work.

("It's like Find My iPhone, but romantic," he said. Bucky installed it in twelve seconds.)

Because Sam became relentless. He started showing up with couple's quizzes.

Brought you a deck of 'relationship conversation starters.'

Installed an app on Bucky's phone called 'LoveTracker.'

And worst of all- he documented everything.

"Bucky," he'd say mid-mission, "when was the last time you complimented her non-physically?"

You stared at him. "Non-physically?"

"Yeah. Like her intelligence. Or her moral compass. Or how she hasn't murdered me yet."

Bucky rolled his eyes. "I call her my girl every morning."

"That's possessive endearment, not a compliment."

"I tell her she's smarter than Tony."

~~~~~

Somewhere around Week 3 of Sam's Unsolicited Couples Therapy, something unexpected happened.

But... he also started being kind of helpful.

He stopped being annoying.

(Okay, no. He was definitely still annoying.)

Like the night you and Bucky got into your first real fight.

It wasn't explosive. Just sharp. Quiet. Full of jagged silences.

You'd been on back-to-back missions, and Bucky had started pulling away. Fewer cuddles. More brooding. Less talking. You tried to be patient- God, you tried- but when he snapped at you for asking what was wrong, it all unraveled.

"I'm trying to help," you said, voice trembling.

"I didn't ask for it," he muttered.

The room froze.

You didn't cry.

You never cried in front of him.

But that night, you shut your bedroom door behind you and curled up alone.

But Sam came over first.

Bucky didn't come in.

Not until morning.

~~~~~

He found you on the balcony, hoodie pulled over your knees, cold tea forgotten beside you.

Then, quietly: "You know, when Sarah gets mad at me, I do this thing where I pretend I'm not scared I'll lose her. But I am. I always am."

He didn't say anything at first.

Just sat down next to you, offered a granola bar.

You looked over. "You think Bucky's scared?"

Sam tilted his head. "That man loved you like it's gonna be taken away from him. Like he's holding something he thinks he shouldn't have. So yeah. He's scared."

~~~~~

You didn't cry.

But you breathed.

And it helped.

Bucky apologized that afternoon.

He stood in the doorway, fists clenched, breathing hard like it took everything in him to walk in.

"I'm sorry," he said. "For being a coward. For making you feel like you weren't wanted when you're the only thing I ever want."

You looked at him.

He stepped closer. "I never learned how to let myself be... this happy. It scared the hell out of me. But not as much as losing you."

You opened your arms, and he came apart in them.

That night, Bucky fell asleep with his hand on your heart.

And you whispered, "You're safe with me."

~~~~~

The next morning, Sam dropped off muffins.

"I told you you'd fight eventually," he said smugly.

You grabbed the muffins and shut the door in his face with a smile.

~~~~~

Over time, you adapted.

You didn't expect Sam to be a normal friend, he didn't know how to do that. But you did start to appreciate him as a part of your life. Your weird, overinvolved, chaotic platonic marriage therapist.

One night, you all sat around a campfire during a retreat mission. Quiet stars. Crickets. Steve snoring faintly in the background.

He became your sounding board.

Your crisis texter.

Your sarcastic but loyal brother figure who threatened anyone who looked at you funny and called Bucky 'lover boy' just to watch him twitch.

Sam looked over at you both.

"You know," he said, voice softer than usual, "you're actually really good together."

Bucky looked at him. "Took you long enough."

"Yeah, yeah. Shut up. But I mean it. You make him more human," he said to you. Then, to Bucky: "And you make her feel protected without caging her."

Sam threw a marshmallow at you both. "Don't get soft on me. I'll revoke my own compliment."

You blinked.

Bucky squeezed your hand.

~~~~~

Months later...

You stood at the edge of a field after a joint mission, hair tousled, laughing with Bucky as he pressed a kiss to your forehead.

You smiled to yourself.

Sam walked past, muttering into comms.

"She's in love, he's in denial, and I'm still unpaid for all their therapy."

Which honestly... was kind of perfect.

You were real.

You were loved.

And you had the most chaotic friend group in the world.

[hhiggs]

♡.﹀﹀ Don't Tempt Me ﹀﹀.♡

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x f!reader

Warnings/Tags: rivals?-to-lovers, romantic tension, slow burn, action, banter, fluff, angst, emotional growth, swearing, physical combat training, unresolved sexual tension, swearing, post-trauma discussions, flirting, kissing, possessive!Bucky, reader getting injured

Word Count: 2.2K

Author Note: Hi guys! Thanks for all the kind messages and tags on my last story! Sorry I'm posting this one so late but I was hanging out with friends all weekend so it was worth it. Hope you guys enjoy this one!

Please do not copy or translate any of my works. Thank you!

The first time you met Bucky Barnes, he smiled at you just to piss you off.

You'd been warned. Not that he was dangerous- not anymore- but that he was difficult. Quiet. Cold. Resistant to orders. Still figuring out where he belonged. You understood that. You respected it, even.

What you didn't respect was the cocky little smirk he gave you on day one of combat training.

You stood in the middle of the gym, arms crossed, boots planted wide. You watched him approach like he had nowhere to be, eyes half-lidded and mouth curled into something smug.

"Let me guess," he drawled, stepping onto the mat, "you're the one Stark warned me about."

"I'd be flattered," you said flatly. "But Stark thinks warning people is a waste of breath."

His smirk deepened. "He said you were a waste 'a pain in the ass with a left hook like a truck.'"

You lifted a brow. "And he said you were a reformed assassin with trust issues and a martyr complex."

His jaw twitched.

Bingo.

"Don't worry, Barnes," you added. "I'm not here to fix you. Just teach you how to stop getting stabbed in the ribs."

His grin returned, lazy and infuriating. "That type of training happen often?"

"Only on Tuesdays."

You dropped into a stance. He mirrored you.

The room went quiet. You lunged first. You fought three rounds that morning. You won two. He won one. But the one he won? He grinned afterward. The cocky kind. The kind that said I know I'm good and I know it annoys you.

You were sweating, panting, pressing your knuckles into a bruised rib when he leaned over with a smile on his lips, and said nothing.

"Wipe that smile off your face before I do it for you."

And Bucky Barnes, damn him, smiled wider. "Don't tempt me, sweetheart."

Your jaw clenched so hard your molars ached.

The next punch you threw nearly broke his nose.

~~~~~

That was six months ago.

Six months of shared gym sessions, smartass remarks, trading bruises, flinging insults like knives, pretending the tension between you wasn't slowly, painfully evolving into something electric.

Every look. Every touch. Every shove on the mat that left one of you staring up at the other- panting, sweating, hearts pounding too loud- was another unspoken do something about it.

Neither of you did. Until now. Today, everything goes to hell.

You're late. You storm into the gym half a minute past seven, hair still damp from a shower, tugging your sleeve down your arm as you cross the floor. Bucky's already there. Of course he is. Stretching. Calm. Annoyingly smug.

"You're late," he says, not even turning around.

"You're alive," you shot back. "Color me shocked."

He stands. Turns. Smirks.

You ignore the twist in your stomach.

"You're in a mood," he notes, stepping onto the mat. "What'd I do now?"

You throw your bag to the side. "Breathe."

He chuckles. "Can't help that, doll."

You square up. He follows. His steps are slow, deliberate. He' s gauging you. He always does. Predicts your next move before you can even make it. You hate it. You crave it.

"Ready to get your ass handed to you again?" You ask.

"You gonna cry when I win this time?"

You lunge.

The fight isn't clean. It's fast. Brutal.

There's frustration under your skin- tight, pulsing- and you know he feels it too. Every strike is sharper than it should be. Every block is harsher. You're both pissed. At each other. At yourselves. At whatever's been building for too long without breaking. He grabs your arm mid-swing and twists. You counter. Legs tangle. You both go down hard.

You land on top of him. Chest heaving. Palms flat on his shoulders. And he's smiling. That same goddamn smile from the first day.

"Still think you can take me?" He pants, voice low and mocking.

Your hands tighten around his shirt. You glare. You hate him. You don't hate him. You want to scream.

"Wipe that smile off your face before I do it for you," you snarl.

And this time- He doesn't smile. He flips you. Pins you. And kisses you. It's not gentle. It's desperate.

It's everything you've bitten back in six months- every look, every word, every bruised morning when you touched the place he hit you and smiled because it meant you were worth fighting.

His hands are on your jaw, your waist, your hips. Your fingers tangle in his hair. You bite his lip and he growls. He presses closer, deeper, until you're sure the floor will split open under you.

When he finally pulls back, you're both breathless. Dazed.

"I warned you," he whispered.

You shove him off. Then yank him back. And kiss him again.

~~~~~

Hours pass.

Somehow, you make it out of the gym. Somehow, you make it upstairs. To your room. To your bed. To his body warm and heavy against yours, tracing scares and biting laughter into your neck. You don't sleep. You talk.

He tells you about the nightmares. The guilt. The days he looks in the mirror and still expects to see blood.

You tell him about the pressure. The fear of letting people in. The reason you fight like your life depends on it- because once, it did.

When sleep finally finds you, you're tangled in sheets and each other. And you're smiling.

~~~~~

The next morning, you wake up alone.

Your heart sinks. But there's a note on your nightstand.

"Didn't want to wake you. Got called early. I'll see you at 7 sharp. Don't be late this time, smartass."

You smile. It's your turn now. "Wipe that smile off your face before I do it for you." You whisper it to the empty room. And grin.

~~~~~

The note burns a hole in your nightstand all morning.

You read it five times. Memorize the way his handwriting slants, sharp and confident, like the man himself.

You're not late. You're early.

When he walks into the gym at 6:59, your arms are already crossed. He sees you. He smiles.

You almost punch him again just for the hell of it.

But instead, you say, "You left without saying goodbye."

He tosses his bag to the side. "Didn't want to wake you."

"I would've forgiven you."

He grins, stepping onto the mat. "You forgive me for kissing you?"

You raise a brow. "That depends."

"On what?"

"If you do it again."

His smile drops. Then he crosses the mat in three steps, presses a hand to your waist, and kisses you like it's already been months since the first one.

You let him.

You let him take his time. Let him relearn your mouth, your breath, your heartbeat pressed to his chest like a promise.

When you finally break apart, the gym feels warmer. Brighter. Like something settled between you, the storm giving way to something quieter. Steadier.

You don't fight that day. Not with fists, anyway.

But the fire's still there. Always.

~~~~~

Later that week.

You're out on a recon mission. Standard procedure. Simple target. Easy in, easy out.

Until you trip a wire.

You manage to leap back just in time, narrowly avoiding a spike of shrapnel meant for your neck. It clips your shoulder instead. Burn, sting, sting. Nothing deep. Just a mark.

Still-

By the time you limp back to the quinjet, Bucky is pacing the loading ramp like a caged animal.

He sees the blood on your arm. He snaps.

"Who did that?" He demands.

"Just a misstep."

"That doesn't answer my question."

"Relax, Barnes, it's a scratch-"

"Don't tell me to relax when you walk into my sightline bleeding."

You pause. Stare.

"Your sightline?" You echo, pulse ticking.

His jaw is clenched. His fists, tighter.

The he says, voice low: "I almost lost my mind when I saw you come through the trees. You weren't answering your comms. You weren't responding."

"I didn't-" you swallow. "The wire must've fried the mic. I wasn't ignoring you."

He shakes his head, stepping closer. "You don't get it," he says. "You never fucking get it. You matter now. You matter to me."

The silence that falls between you is thick. Heavy.

Then you whisper, "Try me."

And that's it.

He kisses you again, harder this time. More desperate. His metal hand on your jaw. Your fingers in his jacket. It's less about passion and more about please don't do that again.

When he finally pulls back, breathing ragged, he says it again: "You matter to me."

This time, you believe him.

~~~~~

That night.

He doesn't take you back to your room.

He doesn't take you to his either.

He takes you to the roof.

You sit in the quiet. Side by side. Wrapped in a shared blanket. HIs hand brushes yours and you don't pull away.

Below, the city glows.

Above, the sky is clear. Stars like freckles. Familiar. Infinite.

"I hated you," you say softly.

"I know."

"You were arrogant."

"I was."

"And smug."

"That too."

You glance at him. "Still are."

He huffs a quiet laugh. "You still push my buttons."

You turn to him. "What happens now?"

He doesn't answer right away. Just looks at you with something serious in his eyes. Not fear. Not regret.

Hope.

"Now," he starts, "we try."

Your throat tightens. "You sure?"

"No." He reaches for your hand. Threads your fingers together. "But I want to be."

You squeeze his hand. Hard. Grounding. Real.

"Okay," you whisper. "Then we try."

And for the first time in a long time, neither of you feel like you're fighting anything.

Except maybe sleep.

~~~~~

You were never good at being vulnerable. Neither was Bucky.

So maybe it's poetic that your first mission after becoming something more than biting insults and stolen kisses starts with both of you pretending you aren't terrified of what you might lose.

You're packing light. Comms, knives, a Glock, a couple of zip-ties. Enough to finish the job clean.

But Bucky's watching you like you're made of glass.

"Seriously," you matter, holstering your sidearm. "You're hovering."

"I'm not."

"You're literally standing in my light."

"I'm watching your six."

"We're in a hangar."

"Could be threats."

You raise an eyebrow. "Are the lockers gonna jump me?"

He doesn't smile. Just crosses his arms and says, "I didn't sleep last night."

You freeze. The zipper on your gear bag half-done.

"Why not?"

He looks away. "Had a dream. You didn't come back."

The air stills between you. Quietly, you reach for his hand. Thread your fingers together. You press a kiss to the corner of his jaw and say: "Then stay close."

~~~~~

The mission: Buenos Aires, Argentina

A weapons auction run by a Hydra offshoot.

You and Bucky are posing as buyers.

You're in a slit-legged silk dress, a thigh holster underneath. He's in a black suit with no tie, hair slicked back, expression unreadable.

You've never seen him like this.

But it's the way his hand lingers on your hip that lights a fuse beneath your skin.

"You're staring," you murmur as you scan the auction room, crowded with men in suits and women with clipped accents and greedy eyes.

"Can't help it."

You look up. "Because I'm hot?"

He smirks. "Because I know what's under that dress."

"Focus, Barnes."

"You started it."

~~~~~

Everything goes wrong at exactly 11:17 p.m.

Someone recognizes you. And ex-Hydra handler you left bleeding on a rooftop two years ago.

There's shouting. A gunshot. Then chaos.

You duck behind a table, return fire, heart hammering. The room's a blur of panic and smoke grenades.

Then you hear it:

"Y/N-!"

Bucky.

You spot him across the room, shielding you with his body as bullets ricochet off marble and glass. His eyes find you. Wild. Terrified.

"You okay?"

You nod. "You?"

He doesn't answer. Just pulls you into him and barrels toward the exit.

~~~~~

Outside, later.

You're bleeding. Again. Shoulder wound. Again.

"Of course it's your shoulder again," Bucky mutters as he presses gauze to the wound in the quinjet. "It's like a beacon for bullets."

You hiss through your teeth. "It's not that bad."

He glares. "You almost died."

"I didn't."

"Because I got to you in time."

You blink. His voice is raw. Quiet. Like it costs him something.

Then, softer: "I can't go through that again."

You say nothing. Just reach up and cradle his face with your good hand.

"Then don't let go."

He turns into your palm. "Promise me something," he whispers.

You nod.

"When this mission shit is over- when it's quiet again- I want you to stay."

"Stay where?"

"With me."

~~~~~

Two days later: Brooklyn. His apartment.

You've never been here.

It's small. Clean. Sparse. Like no one's lived in it for long.

You recognize the signs of someone who never planned to stay.

But then he lets you in.

He shows you the bookshelf. The record player. A photo of him and Steve, tucked behind a dog tag.

You linger at the window. "You really meant it?"

He nods, standing behind you.

"Stay?"

"Yeah."

"Even if I'm bad at this?"

He rests his chin on your shoulder. "So am I."

You lean back into him. "I want to try."

"You already are."

"Then keep me," you whisper.

And he does, right there in his arms.

[hhiggs]

Awakened 🌼 (Completed)

Lee Bodecker (The Devil All The Time) x Femme Reader

A year after the sudden death of your husband you find yourself at a loose end, unsure what to do next. You're also learning about your sexuality - your hidden desires and fantasies creeping out now you're no longer playing the role of the good wife. A certain Sheriff in town could be the one to awaken something in you...

Warnings for: Smut, violence, sexual assault, death, murder, rough sexual activity.

Another Lee fic - also available on ao3/Wattpad, posting over here too. Probs my biggest porn with plot fic I’ve written lmao. I can’t help it, Lee just unlocks something filthy in me.

Also just to highlight: there is quite a lot of slut shaming/sexuality shaming in this fic. This is meant to be reflective of a small town during the time period, rather than my own views! One of the themes I'm interested in is women exploring their sexuality and kinks against a society which makes them feel shame for doing so.

If you enjoyed this series and would like to buy me a coffee, here's my Ko-Fi link 💐

🚓

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

[hhiggs]

These last 2 chapters have had my head spinning!

Chapter Thirteen

Lee Bodecker (The Devil All The Time) x Femme Reader

A year after the sudden death of your husband you find yourself at a loose end, unsure what to do next. You're also learning about your sexuality - your hidden desires and fantasies creeping out now you're no longer playing the role of the good wife. A certain Sheriff in town could be the one to awaken something in you.

Series Masterlist

Chapter 14

Warnings: sexual references, references to murder, references to infidelity

Lee laughed sardonically as he wiped himself down.

“What do you mean we’re done?” he glowered, putting his clothes back on.

“I mean we’re over, Lee. Done. I can’t be with a killer” you told him firmly.

Lee stopped in his tracks, staring at you in disbelief.

“You literally just rode my mouth on your kitchen table an' came all over my face, and now you want me out?”

You nodded. “Yes”.

Lee shook his head. “You’re a fuckin’ fruitcake, you know that?” he spat.

You bristled slightly at his words, but held his stare.

“Yeah? Is that what you think?” you asked.

“I do” Lee fired back, his eyes ablaze with anger and the large quantity of whiskey he’d had with dinner.

“You don’t know what the fuck you want, honey. You’re all over the place. You want me to think you’re this quiet little good girl but then you wanna guzzle my cum and have me fuck the shit outta you in public”.

You grimaced, bracing yourself.

“And like I said. I don’t regret what I did. And you don’t either, based on what you were mutterin’ to me up on the table, getting off on talkin’ bout it. You like that I got rid of him and you’re glad that I did”.

You flinched, the truth of his words causing shame to redden your face.

“And you’re too scared to do anythin’ cos you’re worried about what the strangers in this town will say about it. You act like you’re tough and above it all but you’re just a scared little girl. It’s pathetic”.

He was getting in your face now, you could smell the alcohol on his breath. But all he was doing was reigniting your own anger.

“Yeah? Well you’re a fuckin’ brute, Lee” you shouted back at him. “And you lied to me. You took me on dates and acted all normal while you had this big secret hanging over you like it was no big deal”.

You couldn’t stop now.

“You solve everything with force and violence like a cave man. You wanna talk about what the town think? How about you acting like the heroic community sheriff for them but really you’re a drunk putting bullet holes in your co-workers and fucking whores over at Tecumseh? Imagine if they all knew. What would that do for your re-election chances, huh?”

His jaw ticked and you watched as his face turned to disgust and revulsion. He’d never looked at you quite like that before.

Lee grimaced. He was hurt because he knew you were right, and he wanted to make you feel like he did.

“Why would I need a whore in Tecumseh when I have one right here?” he whispered, raising his palms out defensively.

You staggered back as if you’d been struck, your face screwing up in pain. 

He looked taken aback for a moment as if he was surprised by his own words.

“Wait honey, I-”

He regretted it instantly. He knew that was your insecurity and he used it against you in the heat of the moment. He didn’t even mean it.

“No, you said what you said” you snarled. “Good to know how you really see me, Lee. Truth is finally out”.

“And it’s good to know how you really see me” he countered.

You hesitated. You didn’t really think all that about him. You just said it in the moment because he hurt you and you wanted to hurt him.

But it was too late now. Words were like toothpaste, you can’t put it back in the tube once you’ve squeezed it out.

“Fuck, what am I doing?” you said out loud, your hands clenching at clumps of your hair in exasperation. “What am I doing?! What would Arthur think of me?”

Lee groaned. “Oh fuckin’ Arthur. Arthur this and Arthur that. Easy to be a saint when you’re dead, ain’t it?”

Your mouth fell open in shock. “Lee…Jesus Christ”

“Well I’m right ain’t I? All you ever do is tell me how bad he made you feel. How he made you feel dirty or like a whore for wantin’ to fuck him. Like somehow a wife wantin’ relations with her husband was wrong and you had somethin’ defective within ya. Even though it’s the most natural thing in the world”.

The anguish swept over you, the painful truth of his words felt like a hundred needles all sticking into your skin at once. But he kept going.

“But then you act like he was this golden husband. And yeah he treated you nice overall. But you ain’t supposed to make your wife doubt herself like that. And yeah…I’m a brute. A drunk. I have made mistakes and Lord knows I fucked up my own marriage…but I would never make you feel like that. Never. I always thought you were the most beautiful, wonderful thing…and the fact you wanted to be with me too was like Christmas fuckin' morning every time”.

You closed your eyes as his words stuck in your heart, squeezing your lids tightly shut and desperately trying to fend off the threat of your tears.

“Lee…I-” you started..

“You don’t want me to keep any secrets from you, sweetness? Fine. I got a big one for ya” he said, malice rippling through his words as he leaned closer to you. 

Your eyes opened, wide and nervous as you looked back at him – he reminded you of a crouched lion about to spring out on an oblivious antelope.

“Your saintly dead husband…the one who can do no wrong? Well I know why he was keeping your bed cold at night” he said calmly.

Your face contorted in horror, terrified of what he was going to tell you.

“Lee…no” you pleaded quietly.

“Yes. It all came out when we were doing our enquiries after the accident, you see? He was drivin’ to see some other woman when the crash happened”.

Your head began to spin and you stumbled away from him, crashing into the counter.

“No…” you said softly. Nausea swelled in your stomach and you could feel it rising up your throat.

“Yes” he growled. “She called the station when she read about the crash in the paper and told us everythin’. We had to interview her. They’d been havin’ an affair for months, maybe longer, she was vague. He’d booked the day off work and lied to you about it. We had to tell her to stay the fuck away from the funeral, outta respect for you. We never told you cos we thought you were better off not knowin’. But seein’ as you hate secrets and me lying to you…”

You suddenly vomited onto the kitchen floor and crumpled into a heap, crashing against the sink as you sank to your feet.

“She moved away shortly after. Resettled somewhere in Michigan to start over”.

No. No. Not Arthur.

It all made sense now. His quiet disdain for you towards the end. His refusal to make love to you or even touch in the time leading up to the Event. He was getting it somewhere else. Maybe he had been doing that for years.

Your sobs were quiet as you pulled your knees to your chest, rocking yourself back and forth. Every ounce of pain came rushing out – from the grief of Arthur and the weight of this new revelation, to the pain and trauma of Davey, the guilt over Julie, the horror of seeing this terrible new side of Lee.

Lee sighed heartily, immediately remorseful about what he'd said. Furious at himself for letting his temper and the whiskey carry him away. You had hurt him when you ended things, and what you had said to him, and he had gone on the offensive and lashed out. Like he always did when he was cornered.

“Oh babydoll, I’m so sorry” he said gently, his eyes wet with the beginnings of tears. “Please…I didn’t-”

“Please just go, Lee” you whispered. “Please”.

He hesitated, reaching out to touch you when you spoke again.

“I promise I won’t say anything about Davey, okay? I swear. You don’t have to worry about me, alright? They wouldn’t believe me over you anyway”. Your voice was shaky, wobbling between sobs.

“Sweetness, I don’t care about that I just-”

“I promise. Please” you pleaded.

You looked up at him nervously through your hair with tear stained cheeks and he realised with horror that you were afraid of him. Afraid that he would hurt you to shut you up.

Lee paused. He suddenly felt ashamed.

“I’m sorry, about all of this. I didn’t really mean any of it” he said softly. “I-I love you. I always will”.

He leaned over and kissed you gently on the forehead.

And with that, he left.

[hhiggs]

Chapter Six

Lee Bodecker (The Devil All The Time) x Femme Reader

A year after the sudden death of your husband you find yourself at a loose end, unsure what to do next. You're also learning about your sexuality - your hidden desires and fantasies creeping out now you're no longer playing the role of the good wife. A certain Sheriff in town could be the one to awaken something in you.

Series Masterlist

Chapter 7

Lee had gone back to the station to finish work and you had got to work cleaning yourself up. You had washed your dress which was sweaty from your time in the cell, flecked with mud from the woods and God only knows what else from yourself and Lee combined. You took a long bath, cleansing yourself of the day's deeds – not that you could wash away what you'd done.

As you sat in the bath your mind raced, wondering what this all meant, what you were going to do next. You felt guilt towards Arthur, it felt like a betrayal to do this with another man. In his house, the house he paid for and lived with you. Debasing yourself in his armchair where he had watched TV, writhing against the mouth of another man in his kitchen where he had eaten his meals.

But, Arthur was gone. He was dead. He was never coming back. Living like a nun wouldn't change that. Nothing you did would change that. It had nearly been a year now.

And he'd want you to be happy. You knew he would. He had loved you, and he wouldn't want you spending the next fifty years of your life chaste and lonely, slowly decaying in your modest home like a Knockemstiff Miss Havisham. If it had been you who died, you know you would've wanted him to meet someone new and be happy again.

Could you be happy with Lee?

Maybe.

He certainly made your body happy. It was as if he had discovered a key to your sexuality's cypher, decrypting and unlocking your secrets. You hadn't even really considered the possibility of Lee as a partner, what it would be like to have him come home to you, to cook and clean for him, to share a bed with him. In your mind you had ringfenced him as something physical only.

But maybe?

He wasn't perfect, you knew he had a penchant for booze and if rumours were to be believed then he wasn't a cop keeping on the straight and narrow. And before all this you'd had a nagging feeling about him, like something was wrong.

But he'd treated you well. Mostly. He had been rough with you, demeaned you during your trysts – you had wanted that of course, been aroused by it and bathed in it. But was he like that outside of the bedroom too? Would he disrespect you? Treat you meanly? After years of Arthur's careful affection you're not sure you could handle a man being cruel to you. Despite your stubbornness and occasionally getting carried away with your enthusiasm, you are still quite fragile underneath.

But God, imagine that type of sex for the rest of your life. The thought was dizzying, enticing. Entire weekends spent in bed with Lee, endless orgasms and exploring every sexual curiosity you had stifled with Arthur. It made your head spin.

You laughed out loud at the madness of your thought pattern, getting ahead of yourself as always. You didn't even know Lee and here you were fantasising about a life with him. This was so typically you. The man was divorced, and it was pretty rough going according to the town's whispers, he might not even want to get married again. He might be content with the bachelor life and occasional casual flings with local bored housewives to keep him satisfied. Or maybe women who charged for their services. You would bet good money that you were one of many women he'd taken out in the cruiser for non-police business.

You sighed, sinking into the bath with your eyes closed, your fingers on your temples. All you could do was ride this out and see where it went.

🌼

Lee couldn't get you off his mind.

He was distracted back at the station, making silly mistakes with his paperwork and losing his train of thought. He just kept thinking about the way you'd felt wrapped around him, the sound of your moans in his ears, the mischief on your face as you dripped with his cum.

You were something.

He was thrilled by the duality of you, how innocent and proper you seemed on the surface and then how utterly filthy you were behind closed doors. He liked that nobody else knew what you were capable of, even in their wildest dreams.

It was all for him.

He thought about taking you out in the town, looking pretty on his arm as everyone saw you together. Having a nice dinner and looking respectable, then taking you home and leaving you a quivering mess drenched in your own bodily fluids. Maybe settling down together, him coming home from work to enjoy a home cooked meal and then you sucking him dry as he watches the news with a beer.

Okay, the respectable element may be questioned now that everyone had seen you kicking and spitting at him at the library – but you could work on it.

They'd all be so impressed that he saved the lonely, slightly quirky widow – charming her and making her the Sheriff's nice little wife.

He liked you, too. Not just your mouth. Or your body. But you were sweet. Polite. Also you clearly had a fiery streak within you which kept him on his toes. A nice little wife is fine and all, but he didn't want to get bored, either. And you certainly wouldn't do that.

He wasn't sure what would happen next exactly, but he knew this wouldn't be the end of it. He'd make sure of that.

🌼

Your next shift at the diner came around quickly. You were nervous as you stepped in, tying your apron on and surveying the scene around you. You were grateful that it seemed to be a quiet day with only a few customers milling around. Gina had greeted you with more of a smirk than you would've liked, but she didn't say anything about the library.

There were a few whispers here and there, but nobody was saying anything to your face. And you were used to the whispers, after Arthur. As much as the town loved its gossip, they were also cowardly – doing it in the shadows, too meek to say anything to anyone directly. You kept your head high and pretended you hadn't noticed it, your smile plastered on and your tone sunny. They wouldn't get you down. And you'd give Hell to anyone who tried.

You hadn't heard from Lee. It had been a few days. Probably best to have a bit of space as you still didn't know what it all meant. Still, part of you was disappointed he hadn't called or stopped by. You knew it was silly, he didn't owe you anything, you weren't a couple.

But you couldn't help it.

As if you'd somehow summoned him, he strolled into the diner just as you finished that thought. Your stomach flipped as his bright eyes found you immediately and he tipped his hat to you, smiling. You felt momentarily weak, his gaze was just so penetrating. Your thought about his tongue, his hands...Before you knew it you were making a beeline to him, menu in hand despite the fact he ordered the same thing every time. You realised you were looking at him with gooey eyes and anyone could've seen, but you didn't care. It was as if he was pulling you towards him like a powerful magnet.

Gina intercepted you at the last second, her body a barrier between you and Lee.

"Don't worry sugar, y'know I always handle the Sheriff" she said sweetly, taking the menu from your hand. "And he knows exactly what he wants, so don't you worry about any o'this".

Your face dropped but you realised you had no reason to challenge her, unless you wanted to raise suspicions of course.

"Oh right...of course. Sorry Gina, I guess I just forgot today" you said awkwardly.

Gina laughed and turned to Lee as you trudged back to the kitchen. You looked back at him over your shoulder and caught him glaring back at you over Gina. His brow was furrowed, his smile had faded. Was he...annoyed? It was hard to say.

You kept an eye on him after that, looking for a rare moment Gina wasn't hovering around him to go say hello but she barely let up. If you didn't know any better you'd think she was tethered to him and could only walk a few feet in either direction. You huffed in annoyance.

Then a large group came in and kept you busy with complicated orders and substitutions and complaints about how much ice was in their drinks. It was a family you recognised but couldn't place their names. You were run off your feet, rushing around trying to keep them happy despite it being impossible to meet their ridiculous demands. Stiffed you on the tip too, of course. They always did. You made a mental note to spit in their iced teas next time they came in.

You finally got a chance to check on Lee and your face burned when you saw what he'd been up to in your absence. Gina was sitting on his side of the booth, a finger twirling in her hair as she giggled and tapped him affectionately on the shoulder. Whatever he was telling her must've been hilarious because her giggles got louder and their bodies got closer. Lee was smiling away, clearly lapping up the attention and egging her on.

You felt anger rising from within, suddenly feeling stifled by the heat of the kitchen. You pulled your apron off and flung it behind the counter as you shot out towards the front door.

"Gina, I'm gonna take my break – that last table wiped me out" you sniped as you walked by without looking at them.

"Okay 'hon" replied Gina, clearly oblivious to your annoyance.

The cool Autumn air was a godsend, you needed to get out of there, marching round to the back of the building for some privacy. Christ, what was going on with you? Were you jealous? You knew you were being ridiculous. Gina and Lee could flirt with whoever they wanted. But still, you were so angry. How dare Lee do that right in front of you?

You were suddenly struck by the realisation that Gina had probably had a trip in the Sheriff's cruiser too at some point. Of course she had. Maybe still did. She was always all over him and cordoned him off in the diner like a prized museum exhibit. She may have been with him last night for all you knew. How stupid could you be? To think you were daydreaming about marrying him. God, you really were an idiot. One of many in a rotation of loose bimbos who all thought you were the Sheriff's special gal.

You sighed, leaning your head back against the bricked wall of the diner and closing your eyes. You needed to get a grip.

"Nap time already, babydoll?" came a voice from nearby.

Your eyes flew open. Lee, of course. You crossed your arms trying to appear unfazed while your heart beat out of your chest.

"I'm just taking my break, Lee" you replied deadpan, not meeting his gaze. You could see him in the corner of your eye, his hands on his hips as he watched you.

"In that case - can you spare a few minutes for me?" he asked as he stalked towards you, his voice low and teasing.

You sighed as his hands met your waist, as much as you wanted him you couldn't fight the jealousy you had bubbling inside.

"Or maybe you could ask Gina?" you spat as you wrenched his hands off of you.

Lee laughed, unperturbed by your annoyance. "And why would I ask Gina?" he whispered, lowering his face to meet yours.

You shrugged, keeping your eyes on the ground. "Well you seemed pretty close in there.

Lee lifted your chin with a finger and did a mock gasp. "Don't tell me you're jealous babydoll?" he asked as his thumb stroked your cheek, his voice dripping with amusement. The idea of you jealous and feeling possessive of him was absolutely mouth-watering, his ego was inflating in real time.

You shrugged. "Not jealous...just...clearly there are a lot of girls around town you could have a few minutes with". You had tried to sound casual but it came out much whinier than you'd planned.

Lee laughed again and he continued to stroke your face attentively. 

"Sweetheart...don't get all pouty. Gina means nothing to me, we fooled around a few years back and she has a little bit of a crush on me is all. You're my best girl".

You blush, raising your eyes to meet his gaze. Embarrassed for him to see you like this. Needy and pathetic.

But Lee loves it. Your desire for him just fuels him.

"Yeah?" you ask shyly.

"Yeah" he responds, his voice silky. He kisses your collarbone and you gasp quietly at how good it feels.

"You miss me honey?" he asks, his hand running up your thigh, skimming under your uniform. "That it? You missin' me and feelin' jealous? Have I been neglectin' you? That's so bad of me. Need t'make it up t'you".

You can only moan as his fingers gravitate to your panties, slipping inside of you. You look around urgently but fortunately there is nobody else around, nobody really comes back here except staff and Gina is busy holding down the fort. You rest your head in the crook of his neck.

"Well, it seems she missed me" he coos, feeling the moisture on his digits as your pussy moulds around him.

"Lee..." you whine, shuddering. "I gotta get back to work" you plead.

"Uh huh..." he says gently, dipping his fingers even deeper within you. Your knees begin to crumple as you whine. "Well, I'd never keep a gal from her work".

He roughly yanks his fingers from you and you mewl pitifully at the loss.

"How about I come by and see you tonight, huh?" he asks. "After my shift? Make you feel better hmm? Help keep your jealousy at bay?"

You smile up at him bashfully, nodding with gusto.

He smiles back, "there she is".

He gives you a short, sweet kiss. "And until then, 'hon, I've got a taste to keep me going".

He lifts the hand from under your skirt and begins to suck on the fingers like he'd just finished a fine meal. You gasp, your eyes glazing over with lust.

"Mmm. Delicious" he winks, running a finger under his nose. "And I'll be able to smell you on me all shift to keep me tied over".

You stare at him with stars in your eyes, entranced by him.

He leans over to you, his voice low in your ear, "Make sure you limber up before I get there, babydoll" he warns. "It's gonna be quite a workout" he teases.

You nod rapidly, smiling at him as you turn to go back inside.

He delivers a short spank to your behind as you pass him which makes you yelp.

As you step back indoors and retrieve your apron, you can already feel how drenched your panties are.

[hhiggs]

You Are A Hero

Summary: Bucky comes home to you after the events of Thunderbolts* in need of some comfort.

Pairing: Bucky Barnes (post Thunderbolts*) X reader. No use of y/n. She/her pronouns.

Warnings/tags: just fluff and kissing, slight discussion of Bucky’s past trauma.

Note: This is my first fic ever, I’m terrified to post it. So I apologize in advance for any horrible grammar, typos, or just bad writing.

You were in the kitchen cleaning up after making dinner when you heard a motorcycle pull into the driveway. That was one of your favorite sounds because it meant Bucky was home and safe. The front door was opening as you walked into the entryway. There he stood in his black T-shirt and tactical gear. You smiled at him as you wiped your hand on a dish towel. Silently wondering where his helmet and jacket had ended up. Bucky didn’t pause or speak as he entered. He walked towards you with what can only be described as a man on a mission. He dropped his tactical belt with a swift motion and without a care as he reached for you.

“Welcome home soldi-”

was all you could get out before Bucky’s hands cupped your face and he kissed your lips. His normal tenderness was replaced with a desperation that took you by surprise. His lips moved feverishly against yours while his hands held your face steady. His tongue brushed against your lips begging for permission. With the dish towel quickly tossed to the side and forgotten, the familiar haze began to creep into your mind as your body caught up to Bucky’s intentions. Soon his hands were tilting your head upwards as his mouth hungrily descended down your neck, nipping and sucking, as he went.

“Bucky”

You softly moaned as he hit that sensitive spot underneath your ear.

“Say that again.”

Bucky softly demanded as he returned to your face. Not pausing in his mission to slowly devour you.

“Bucky”

You said, against his lips. Always more than happy to follow orders, as his lips and tongue continued to make all the butterflies in your stomach awaken and your blood heat to a familiar level. Bucky guided your arms around his neck.

“Jump baby.”

Bucky said as his hands slid down your body to your thighs. You jumped, and Bucky began to carry you towards the bedroom you shared. As he carried you, he rained kisses down the other side of your neck. Soon a feeling began to cut through the fog created by Bucky’s affection. Something wasn’t quite right; Bucky was very much a look in my eyes type of lover. It had always been longing gazes and eye contact with you two. He hasn’t looked me in the eye once, you thought .

“Bucky, baby, look at me.”

You said as he sucked on your neck and entered the bedroom. He didn’t stop but began to nuzzle under your chin, softly pressing kisses to the underside.

“Bucky. Look. At. Me.”

Your voice more stern as you tapped his back, knowing you were about to reach the bed.

“Stop.”

Bucky instantly froze at the word, his head still tucked under your chin. Holding you directly above the bed but unmoving.

“Please, just look at me.”

You tilted your head down to whisper in his ear as your hands moved into his hair. His hesitation made your heart stutter with anxiety. Knowing how he liked to hide and lock himself away when something was wrong rather than cause you to worry.

“James.”

You feel Bucky’s muscles relax at the name.

“Please.”

Bucky slowly lifts his head and looks at you. Your heart shatters as you see tears brimming in his eyes. The lines on his face that you love to trace are deeply etched in a way that lets you know something happened. As Bucky’s eyes linger on yours, he slowly lowers you, and your feet touch the floor. His head hanging down with hair falling forward, you cup his jawline, looking up at him.

“How bad?”

You ask simply.

“I just had to face some things I haven’t thought about in a while.”

Bucky says softly as his eyes drop to the floor. You didn’t need to speak; you knew he would open up when he was ready. So you wait and stroked his cheek with your thumb. Bucky slowly raises his eyes and looked at you with a tenderness that could melt you to your very core.

“I had to face …..my worst moments. The fall, Hydra, Steve.”

He pauses like it physically hurts to say the next thing.

“And, that night, with you.”

He shook his head. Slowly standing to full height, he placed his hands over yours and removed them from his face. You instantly knew the memory as you watched Bucky step out of your grasp and turn, beginning to pace.

“We’ve gone over this, baby. I’m fine; you weren’t yourself; the nightmare caused that reaction.”

“See, you say it, and I know you mean it, but. If I wouldn’t have realized. What I almost…”

Bucky ran his hands through his hair, pulling at the ends in frustration.

You step towards him and reach out, first taking his flesh hand and then his metal one.

“I know you, James Buchanan Barnes. You may think you hide little bits and pieces from me behind your walls, but nope, I see you.”

The resentment begins to melt from his frame, and a small smile plays at the corner of his lips.

“You would never intentionally hurt me, ever. Now hear me loud and clear when I say this.”

For dramatic effect, you squeeze both his hands and raise your eyebrows, putting on the serious face that Bucky often laughs at and calls adorable.

“You are a hero. A true, save-the-day, play-the-theme-song, girls-screaming-your-name-as-you-pass-by hero. As much as we hate Valentina, that’s one thing she got right. You are an Avenger, my love. I can’t wait to see all the good that you will continue to do. You were too hot to be a Senator anyway.”

You smile up at the man you love, reaching on your tiptoes to kiss his cheek. Bucky smiles and wraps his arms around you, pulling you flush up against him.

“Well, after that speech, how can a fella not feel special?”

Bucky chuckles as he nuzzles into your neck, making you laugh as he tickles you with his stubbly cheek. Raising his head, you see a familiar mischievous glint in his eye.

“Although there’s really only one girl I’d like to make scream my name.”

He lowers his gaze, and your body instantly ignites.

“Oh, really?”

You attempt to answer casually, knowing what’s about to happen.

“Mmmhhhmmm.”

Bucky responds as he lifts you and carries you to the bed, preparing to show you just how much you mean to him.

[hhiggs]

My Alpha

This is kind of a long one shot (5619 words!), but I thought I'd try my hand at the ABO!/Omegaverse. Hope you like it!

Being an omega wasn’t always a bad thing.  At least that’s what she told herself repeatedly as she religiously took hormone blocking birth control pills and wore scent blockers on the daily.  Y/N hadn’t had a heat in years and wasn’t planning on letting up any time soon.  She had started working as a personal assistant for the Avengers under Tony Stark years before, going through the Sokovia Accords debacle, surviving the Blip, losing Natasha, Tony, Steve, T'Challa, and all the other strange and traumatic things that happened during her tenure.  She had denied her biology to get this job, not wanting it to affect her performance or be a target while being surrounded by literal super Alphas in this field.  And as hard as the job was, she loved it.

One of the greatest highlights was gaining Bucky Barnes as a friend.  While other Alphas she had come across were domineering, he was compassionate and kind.  He very rarely lost his composure like others did during high pressure situations in missions, and never fought over who was in charge.  He was incredibly careful to make sure everyone around him felt comfortable in his presence.  After finally shaking the Winter Soldier programming he didn’t want to ever lose control of himself again, and with the super soldier serum messing with his hormones to the extent that he was nearly feral during ruts, he would isolate himself away to keep her and others safe.  

Y/N felt like she could talk to him about anything, and he felt the same.  She was his sanctuary after rough missions, one of the few people that could break him out of a deep depressive state or the nightmares that still plagued him.  He knew she was an Omega but could barely smell her because of her blockers, which he both loved and hated.  Loved because it made it so they could be friends without the weird biological dynamics getting in the way, and hated because he was super curious about what her scent was.  They had fallen for each other long ago, but were both too afraid to do anything about it.

As they both relaxed during a rare weekend off they got on the topic of Omega versus Alpha traits.  “I get it, Alphas can be rough, but don’t you want to mate someday?  Find someone special to settle down with?  Maybe have a family?”

She sighed.  “Of course I do, Buck.”

“Then what are you afraid of?” he asked gently.

“Not having a clear choice,” she answered simply, giving him a sharp look.  “I don’t want my biology to decide my fate.  So many Omegas get stuck being mated with bad Alphas because their heats were uncontrollable and the Alpha wouldn’t take no for an answer.  I know that I’m predestined to be a nurturer.  Hell, that’s what my job is now, taking care of all of you guys!  But I should get to choose who I end up with based on love, not by body’s reactions.” Bucky nodded in understanding, looking down at his intertwined hands.  “Do you want to settle down someday?”

“Yeah,” he said quietly.  “I just don’t know how it would work out.  This job…my past.  It all points towards disaster at any given time.”

She slid over to him, wrapping her arms around his shoulders awkwardly as she sat next to him.  “You deserve a happy ever after, Bucky.”

“You do, too, you know,” he reminded her, resting his head on top of hers.

“Mmh, maybe someday,” she said wistfully as she undid her embrace and leaned back against the couch.

“So, anyways,” he cleared his throat.  “Is it true that Omegas have a better sense of smell than Alphas or Betas?  Like you can pick up on others’ scents and identify them really well?”

She laughed.  “Yes, it’s true.”

“Really?  Okay, what does…” he scanned the room as other Avengers milled in and out.  “Peter.  What does Spidey smell like?” He tested her, watching her expectantly.

She took a look at Peter across the room, her nose slightly flaring as she took in a whiff from his direction.  “He always smells like fresh bagels to me.  You know the smell of just-baked bread?  Kinda like that.  Mixed with a little bit of hazelnut.”

Bucky looked at her in awe.  “Yeah I kinda get that off of him.  Alphas can smell and track scents but not to that level.”

“Hm, that’s interesting,” she said as her eyebrows furrowed.  

“Now how about Sam?” he asked excitedly, hoping it would be something not so pleasant he could tease him about.

“Ha, Sam is Cajun seasoning with a sweet lemony undertone.  Like really well done seafood,” she answered quickly with a smile on her face, knowing Bucky would be disappointed in that answer.

Bucky frowned as he thought about who to ask of next.  “Okay, how about…Steve?” He knew it was a long shot.  Steve had been gone for a few years now, so she probably wouldn’t remember.  But she gave him a soft smile.

“Steve was smoky, like fireworks.  A summer night that ends with warm apple crisp and melting vanilla ice cream on top,” she said as she stared out the window, a dazed look in her eyes as she remembered him.

“Wow…” Bucky whispered.  “I always got the fireworks, and something like a picnic.  But now that you say it, yeah, apple with vanilla.”

“Yep, he was truly all American,” she winked at him.

He laughed as he turned towards her on the couch.  “How about, um…me?”

She gazed at him, her expression softening as her nose flared again and she huffed out the breath she’d taken.  “Smoky, like Steve, but different.”

“Like gunpowder?” he asked suddenly, his eyes searching hers.  He had been told that before and was hoping they were wrong.

“No, not gunpowder.  More like…” she sniffed again but frowned.  “Do you mind if I…?” she gestured her finger from herself to him.

“Yeah, go ahead,” he said, opening himself up for her to scoot closer to him.  She leaned in towards his neck, the best place to scent someone, and breathed in a slow sniff of him.  She closed her eyes.

“Campfire.  A campfire on the beach.  And the smell of the ocean after it rains,” she said resolutely, opening her eyes to look at him.  Their faces were close as he stared at her.  “But no, not gunpowder,” she reassured him.

“That’s good,” he breathed, his eyes shifting from her eyes down to her lips and back.

Her eyes suddenly widened, her brow furrowing and she pulled herself away quickly.  “I, um…I need to go…excuse me,” she said hurriedly before she jumped off the couch and power-walked down the hall towards her room.

“Wait, Y/N, are you okay?” Bucky stood from the couch as he watched her leave.

“Yeah!  I’ll talk to you later!” she yelled back without looking, her voice sounded strained.

“What the hell?” he asked himself quietly, looking around him like something had jumped out and spooked her.

Once she was out of sight she ran to her room and had Friday bolt the door.  She doubled over in pain and clutched her stomach.  “No way,” she moaned as she reached for her phone and called for help.

“Hey you, how are ya?” Bruce asked when he answered the call.

“Bruce,” her voice was pained as she held in another moan.  “I need help, something’s wrong.”

“What?  What’s going on?” he sounded worried, the rustling of papers and beeping from a screen by him going off.

“It feels…like a heat?  But that’s not possible, right?  We made sure of it,” she grunted as another cramp shot through her abdomen, and just as suddenly as it all started, it suddenly stopped, leaving her gasping.  “Wait, now it stopped?  What the hell is happening?”

“Come down to the lab, right now.  We’ll get you tested.”

She didn’t need to be told twice as she hung up and crept out of her room towards the elevator.  She was able to get in and down to the lab a few floors away without being caught by Bucky or anybody else.  She ran into the lab in a panic.  Bruce was already setting up the medical bay in the back with everything needed to do a check-up, some vials next to the other instruments.

“Hey, let’s take some blood and see what’s going on,” he called out to her when he heard the doors slide open.  She jogged to the bed and hopped up on it, taking off her cardigan so he could access the veins in her arm better.  After a quick routine check up he took a few vials of her blood then stepped out towards all the equipment he had for medical and scientific tests.  

He worked silently as she sat there deep in thought.  It can’t be, she tried to reassure herself.  I’ve been so careful.  Not missed a single pill ever.  This can’t be happening.  After about an hour Bruce came back with a screen in his hand, his eyebrows hung low over his eyes and a frown on his face.

“Y/N, it’s…it’s not working anymore,” he said softly, his eyes sad and confused as he looked at her.

“What do you mean?” she asked hesitantly, her eyes widening.

“The hormone blockers, the pills…your body isn’t responding to them anymore.  Your hormones are syncing back to normal Omega levels.  Your heats are going to come back.”

“No, no no no no no…NO Bruce!  I can’t.  Please, there’s gotta be another pill to try, a shot, an implant, something?  Anything, please?” she began to cry.  

“I’m sorry Y/N.  We already got you the best blockers that are available out there.  If your body is weaning off of them it means your biology is taking over, probably because you’re getting older and it’s fighting back to have a chance at mating.  I’m so sorry,” he showed her the hormone levels on a chart on the screen, pointing out the differences and then setting it down.  “There’s nothing I can do.  Nothing you can do but prepare yourself for it to start again.  And your first one is probably going to be brutal after avoiding them for so long.  You’ll need help–”

“NO!  No, I can’t do this.  I can’t ask some random Alpha for help.  This isn’t fair!” she cried harder, hiding her face in her hands.  Bruce patted her on the back, trying to help ease her pain by giving off a calming scent.  He was also an Omega and knew how much this meant to her.  

“It will be alright, Y/N.  You have friends here who will help you without making it awkward between you and them, or won’t immediately try mating with you during your heat.  They’re good Alphas.  They won’t hurt you or take advantage of you,” he promised.

She tried to calm the loud beating of her heart that was wringing in her ears, a panic attack trying to settle deep in her bones that she was fighting back.  “How long do I have until it comes?” she sighed as she sniffled.

“I don’t know, I��m sorry.  With it being so long since you last had one it could be next week or it could be in a couple of months,” he answered gravely.

“Ugh, great,” she laughed as she wiped her tears away.  “No choice, whatsoever.  My body ultimately got to decide for me after all.  Wonderful,” she spat as she jumped down off the bed.  “Thank you, Bruce, for testing.  I just…I need to go sleep this off, I don’t know,” she said, giving him a quick hug and then leaving the lab.  

She took the elevator back up to her floor, her eyes stinging from the hot tears still slowly falling down.  Her heat was coming back, and with a vengeance.  She would need help.  Who would she ask?  Any of the unmated superhero Alphas would probably say yes, though she knew she only wanted one.  But how could she ask this of him?  And if he did help, how could she go on with their friendship as if nothing had happened between them afterwards?

The elevator opened and she trudged into the common room.  The floor was already dark as twilight set in and everyone had split off to their rooms.  She slipped into the kitchen since she missed dinner while down in the lab to grab something to eat, although she wasn’t particularly hungry.  As she made herself a sandwich she turned to grab a knife then saw a figure in the corner at the dining table.

“Jesus!  Fuck, Bucky you scared me,” she gasped, holding a hand over her heart.

“Sorry, honey,” he grunted as he sat watching her.  “Why are you crying?”

She stiffened as she looked at him, trying to act nonchalant as she grabbed the knife and turned back to her sandwich.  “I’m not, I’m just tired,” she waved him off, quickly cutting the sandwich and putting the ingredients and dishes away to escape.

“Don’t lie to me Y/N.  What’s wrong?” he stood, walking towards her.  She reached for the refrigerator door to get a drink, which he quickly shut and stared her down.  She wouldn’t look him in the eye.

“Come on Buck, I just need a drink,” she complained as she tried to open the door again, reaching for the handle.  Bucky grabbed her wrist firmly and leaned in towards her.

“What’s wrong Y/N?  You ran away earlier and now you smell…off,” he said, searching her eyes as his nose flared at the scent she was radiating.  His frown deepened and his eyes looked worried.  “Why are you afraid?  Was it me?  Did I do something wrong?”

“No!  Oh no, Bucky, it’s not you,” she said, her eyes widening.  “It’s me, it’s just…” her eyes welled up with tears again, spilling onto her cheeks as she sucked in a sharp breath.  “It’s me,” she sobbed, leaning forward til her forehead rested against his chest.

“Oh honey,” Bucky sighed.  He put his hands under her armpits and lifted her onto the counter so she was eye level with him.  She wrapped her arms around his neck and hid her face in his shoulder, crying harder as he enveloped her, his hands rubbing up and down her back as he whispered reassuring words to her.  They sat holding each other for a while, Bucky letting her cry it out and Y/N relishing the comfort.  As her cries died down and her grip loosened around his neck he pulled back.

“Tell me what’s wrong, please?  You’re breaking an old man’s heart,” he pleaded, hating to see her hurting so much.

Y/N chuckled at him calling himself an old man as she wiped her nose with her sleeve.  Bucky held her face in his hands and wiped her tears away with his thumbs.  She let herself enjoy his touch before she sniffled and finally looked up at him.

“When I was talking to you earlier, I felt this weird pain,” she explained quietly.  Bucky nodded, listening intently as he held her face still.  “That’s why I ran out.  I went to Bruce’s lab to test me because it felt like…like a heat,” she sniffled again, looking down at her lap.  Bucky nodded again, his hands releasing her face and reaching for her hands to hold.  “I haven’t had one in years.”  This surprised him.  He knew there were new ways of birth control for Omegas now, giving them a lot more options than to just mate and reproduce and take care of their Alphas and pups like the old days, which he thought was great.  He just didn’t realize it could be for so long.  “And now, apparently, the hormone blockers aren’t working anymore,” she gripped his fingers tightly.  “My body is rejecting them, weaning off of them and reverting back to normal hormone levels.  My heat is coming,” she sucked in another sharp breath.  “I don’t know when, but he said it’s going to be brutal since I’ve been avoiding them for so long.  He said I’ll need help and…and I don’t know what to do.”  Her voice shook as she looked up at him again.  “I’m scared,” she whispered.

Bucky could feel her panic and gave off what he hoped was a calming scent.  It seemed to help as her eyes fluttered shut and her shoulders visibly relaxed.  The Alpha in him hummed in satisfaction as he swept his thumbs over her knuckles.  “You don’t need to be scared, Y/N.  It’s going to be okay,” he tried to placate her.  “Listen, I know earlier you said you wanted a choice, and now your body’s not giving you one.”  She nodded, a few more tears slipping out the sides of her eyes.  “I…I can help you,” he said, gulping back the lump in his throat.  Her eyes snapped up to him, a look of shock on her face.  “I know that I’m offering something kinda crazy.  But I promise you I won’t hurt you, I won’t make you court me if you don’t want to, and I won’t forcibly mate with you.”  He looked her deep in her eyes to try to get her to understand.  “But I’d be honored to help you.”

Y/N couldn’t quite believe what she was hearing.  She had wanted to ask him and now he was offering himself for her to get through this first heat.  She licked her lips and contemplated it.  “I just don’t want it to ruin our friendship,” she sniffed again, her eyes searching his face for hesitation.

“It won’t,” he said earnestly.  

“...Okay,” she agreed.  

Bucky smiled as he squeezed her fingers.  “Okay.”

“Thank you, Bucky.  You’re a good Alpha,” she thanked him, lifting his hands up and kissing his knuckles.

His eyes fluttered shut and he cleared his throat.  “You should probably not call me that, at least not right now.”

Her eyes widened.  “Oh!  God, I’m sorry.  I didn’t mean–”

“It’s okay, honey, it’s fine,” he chuckled.  “Whenever it hits you, just call me, and I’ll be there.”

She gave him a warm smile in appreciation.  They were playing with fire, and they both knew it deep down, but were denying it heavily.

***

Y/N could feel her hormones changing her body and mind.  Bruce had advised against wearing scent blockers as well to help her body fully adjust and hopefully not cause as much pain during her upcoming heat, and that was the first thing she noticed.  The Alphas around her, who would normally just give her a friendly greeting or a smile, now watched her hungrily through narrow eyes, giving tight smiles as their noses flared as she passed by.  It made her self-conscious enough to ask Bucky one day, “Do I smell bad?”

Bucky looked away from the book he was reading as she plopped next to him on the couch in the common room again, lifting her feet up to rest on his lap.  She was touching him a lot more lately.  “What do you mean?”

“Do I smell bad?  Omegas can’t really smell themselves very well, and since I took off the scent blockers I’ve been…watched,” she looked around the room warily.  Bucky’s eyes swept across the other Alphas in the room, noting how they were all giving off territorial scents as they tracked her.  He sat up straight, facing each one until they caught his eye and gave off a warning rumble deep in his chest, his eyes flashing dangerously.  They each quickly retreated, shamefully turning back towards their previous tasks.  The air around Y/N seemed to lift and she felt like she could breathe again.  “Thank you, Bucky.”

He sat back on the couch, grabbing his book with one hand and mindlessly rubbing her feet with the other.  “No need to thank me, honey.  And no, you don’t smell bad.  You smell like chai.”

“Chai?” Y/N scoffed.

“Yeah, chai with…” he reached a hand out and grabbed her wrist, bringing it up to his nose and inhaling deeply.  Her eyes widened comically at his brashness in scenting her so publicly.  “Pumpkin.  Chai and pumpkin.  Like Autumn,” he concluded, setting her wrist down and then rubbing her feet again.  He said it so casually that she just stared at him dumbfounded.  

It got worse as the weeks went on.  Her emotions were haywire, one minute she was calm and cool and the next she was agitated and easily crying at anything.  She was nesting anxiously, rearranging her room and her desk in her office, constantly carrying around a large fuzzy cardigan or blanket with her.  Her joints were sore, especially in her hips.  She found herself eating all the time.  Bruce had her come down to the lab each week to check her levels, each time warning her it could happen any day now.  

A month and a half later on a Friday night the team got together for a movie night.  They decided on watching the first Avatar, a movie Bucky hadn’t yet seen.  As it played Y/N kept fidgeting next to him, adjusting her sitting position, wringing her hands in her lap, taking deep breaths periodically.  A scene began of two of the characters connecting in a tree garden and Sam yelled out, “Alien tree sex!”  Everyone laughed but Y/N bolted out of the room.  Bucky watched her run down to her room and shut her door.

He quietly got up and followed her.  He could tell just by her scent changing these last few weeks and how it was getting stronger, the chai smell getting spicier, that her heat was fast approaching.  She had been very touchy with him, following him around and staying close whenever they were in the same room.  He had no claim to her, but it was evident to everyone to stay away from her, otherwise they’d get a growl from him.  He was growing more excited by the day, trying to remind himself that he was just helping out a friend, not staking any claim or bond.  

When he reached her door he pressed his ear against it, listening for her.  He heard her heart rate picking up and her breathing became labored.  He could also smell her, more potent, spicy, the scent of unmated Omega making his hormones sing and call out for her.  A deep rumble emitted from his chest as he felt his cock hardening.  He knocked on her door.

“Y/N,” he called out, just loud enough for her to hear.  A soft moan came from the other side.  His eyelids shut tight at the sound.  It was time.  “I’m coming in,” he warned before opening the door.  He stepped inside and was hit with the scent full force, making his eyes and mouth water simultaneously.  Y/N was laying in the nest she built on her bed in the fetal position, one hand on her stomach and the other in between her legs, not yet touching herself but keeping pressure against her core.  “Honey…” he groaned as he locked the door behind himself and walked towards the bed.

“Alpha,” she breathed, her brow furrowed and eyes shut tight.  A cramp wracked through her whole body and she yelped in pain.  “It’s starting.  It hurts…hurts so bad,” she cried as she could feel a small gush of slick pour from her pussy as her body recognized the Alpha in the room.

“It’s gonna be okay, honey, I’m here,” he cooed at her, reaching his hand out and running his fingers along her leg from her ankle to her thigh.  “Let’s get you out of these, huh?” he said while lifting the hem of her shorts up slightly.  She nodded and blindly started pulling at her clothes.  Bucky helped her strip out of her layers then undressed himself, giving her naked body an appreciative glance.  He lay behind her on the bed, cocooning her in his arms and leaning his head into the crook of her neck and scenting her.  He could feel himself getting drunk off of her heat.  She was sending him into an early rut as his hips rocked against her ass slowly.  Y/N keened at that, her back arching and pushing her ass into his crotch further.  He moaned at the sensation, his arms tightening around her.  “Shh, Omega.  I got you,” he said as his voice dropped further, the Alpha coming through more prominently now.

“Bucky…” she sighed, her hands gripping his arms around her.  “Please…Alpha please,” she begged, her legs shaking as another cramp hit her.

Bucky moaned at the sound of his name said that way coming from her lips.  He started to lick and suck and kiss at the scent gland on her throat, making her gasp loudly.  His scent mixed with hers, and they quickly got lost in each other.  His hands found her breasts and massaged them firmly, his fingers tweaking her nipples and making her hips buck back into him again.  He twisted her body around to face him.  She quickly molded herself back to him, hiking her leg up and over his hip, her hands scratching down his chest.  He tried to remind himself one last time that this was just a friend helping a friend.  Then she kissed him.

The kiss broke the dam of hesitancy he was holding to desperately.  He quickly responded, his mouth opening and their tongues tangling as they tasted each other.  Bucky climbed on top of her, his knees forcing hers apart.  His fingers probed her lower lips, finding her clit and giving it all his attention.  Y/N’s hips writhed as he riled her up.  She watched his fingers dip into her, making her breath stutter.  She was already dripping for him so he plunged two fingers into her, thrusting them in and out while his thumb rubbed and flicked her clit.  

“Fuck Alpha,” she groaned.  “Just like that, shit!”

Bucky smiled as she cursed, her legs shaking against his.  She reached down and took his cock in her hand, giving him lazy pumps as he got her closer to her release.  He huffed a sharp breath.  “Damn, honey, oooh that’s good,” he said lowly.  “Give it to me, love, come on, you can do it.  Be such a good Omega for me,” he encouraged her as he curled his fingers as deep as he could reach.  

The tension in her core finally snapped, her first orgasm ripping through her at lightning speed, squirting slick all over his hand and his hips.  She let out a guttural moan, the sound reverberating through the air, making the Alpha inside of him scream to claim her.  He had to physically restrain himself as he pulled his fingers out of her.  She smiled as she watched him with hooded eyes.  He put his wet fingers in his mouth and licked them clean of her slick, his eyes rolling back at the taste.

“Alpha please, I need you.  Bucky, I want your big cock inside me…please!” Y/N begged again.  Normally it would embarrass her to be acting like this, she would have never dreamed of speaking to Bucky this way.  But they were beyond the point of no return.

“Condom first, Omega,” he reminded her in his authoritative voice.  “As much as I’d love to fill you up, I don’t think that’s what you want just yet.”

Y/N pouted, but the first orgasm had helped clear her brain a little bit, and pointed to the nightstand next to the bed.  Bucky quickly reached over and pulled open the top drawer, finding the box and pulling a few of them out.  He unwrapped one and slipped it on himself before settling back between her legs, backing up a little bit.  “Present, please, Omega.”

Y/N twisted herself onto her stomach, lifting her hips high and pressing the side of her face into the bed.  Bucky almost whimpered at the sight of her sweet pussy, seeing the way he had made her drip with slick, the skin softly puckering in anticipation.  “Prettiest pussy I’ve ever seen Y/N, goddamn,” he whispered huskily.  She preened at his praise, her ass raising a little higher.  He gave her ass a quick slap, making her yelp and shiver.  “You ready?” he asked, making sure she was still wanting this.

“Yes, please Alpha, Bucky…please!”

“You’re so sexy when you beg,” he slapped her ass again, then grabbed her hips and aimed himself at her entrance.  He slowly pushed in the tip of his cock, the fat head catching just past her lower lips, making them both groan.  He kept pushing until he was fully seated inside her, letting her adjust to his size.  Y/N was keening again, a high pitched tone ringing through the air.  After a moment she wriggled her hips, silently asking him to thrust.  A deep growl emanated from Bucky’s throat and he pulled back until it was just the tip inside, then snapped his hips back into her hard. 

Y/N was making the sweetest noises he’d ever heard as he pummeled his cock into her.  She whimpered and moaned, making him hook an arm around her hips and lay his stomach across her back, quick huffs of his breath warming her shoulder.  He could feel her walls fluttering around him, making the rhythm of his hips stutter.  “Fuck, honey, you gonna cum?”  She nodded as her moans got louder.  He flipped her back over onto her back so he could watch her release, leaving barely any room between them as he hovered over her.  Her hands wound around the back of his neck, scratching his scalp with her nails.  “Goddammit, do that again,” he heard himself whimpering this time.  She scratched from the top of his head down to his neck and pulled him in for another kiss.

He reached between their bodies and started flicking her clit as he chased his own high.  “Bucky, oh my God,” she squealed against his lips as her back arched and her legs clung to his hips.  “Yes, yes, yes, shit…mark me.”

Bucky didn’t stop thrusting but tensed at her words.  “No, Y/N, you don’t want that.”

“Yes, I do, with you, Bucky,” she gasped.

“Omega,” he warned her, his eyes flashing.  “We can talk about that when I’m not balls deep inside you.”

Y/N tensed at his Alpha command, her legs loosening around him.  “I want you to be my Alpha, my mate.”

“God fucking dammit,” Bucky stopped thrusting and leaned on his elbows above her.  “Y/N, listen to me, you don’t want that.  You said you wanted a clear choice, remember?”  Y/N was silent and wide eyed as she watched him, slightly nodding her head.  “This isn’t a clear choice.  Your first heat in how many years?  It’s your hormones talking, honey.  And believe me, I’d love to mark you, claim you, bond and mate with you.  Stuff you full of me,” he thrust again, making her eyes roll back, “and breed you with my pups.  But we can talk about all that later.  Right now, I’m here to help you through this, because you’re my best friend, and…I’m ridiculously in love with you.”  He finally said it.  “I want to be yours, and I want you to be mine.  But when it’s both of us with clear heads and a clear choice.  Okay?”

Y/N’s eyes were watery as she listened to him.  “You’re in love with me?”

Bucky huffed a laugh, “Is that all you got out of that?”

She shook her head, “No, but it’s the most important thing.  I’m in love with you.”

He smiled wide and leaned down to give a quick kiss to her nose.  “Can I continue now?”

She nodded again, and he gave her another thrust to get her going again.  Her slick started to make squelching noises as he picked up the pace again, his knot starting to catch at her entrance, his hand reaching to her clit again and trailing kisses down her throat to her scent gland, licking and sucking at it again.

“One day, if you’ll have me, I’ll bite this pretty neck,” he moaned in her ear as her fingers dug into his back.  “Make you mine.”

“Yours, all yours, Bucky…Alpha,” Y/N groaned, leaning her head up and scenting him back.  Her soft lips and her tongue against his gland had his eyes rolling in his head again and his fingers gripping her hips harshly.  “That’s right.  Mine.  Mine…mine,” he thrusted harder and faster, angling her hips up to hit deeper.

Y/N screamed his name as she finally came, her hands digging into the flesh between his neck and shoulder, scratching his scent gland and making him see stars as he came with a yell, his knot fully inflating and latching him to her as she nearly squeezed the dear life out of him.  He fell on top of her, and she held him as he calmed down, both of them panting and sweaty.  

A heady scent filled the air, a smell that screamed satisfied mates.  Bucky pulled himself to his side, holding her close so it wouldn’t hurt her to move with him, and covered them with the blankets from her nest.  Y/N was delirious after this first round of her heat, her head lolling with exhaustion.  “Rest, Omega.  We’ve still got a few days, and forever after that.”

She smiled sleepily, “Hmmm, my Alpha.”

[hhiggs]

Their Little Spitfire

Pairing: Avenger!Steve Rogers x Avenger!Bucky Barnes x female Avenger!Reader

Word Count: 1.2k

Content: suggestive behavior, will update as needed

A/N: This doesn't follow a particular timeline. Just for shits, giggles, and self-indulgence.

Synopsis: Steve & Bucky take an interest in the new girl. And she's full of surprises.

This is part one.

Part two in progress.

“Someone looks like a little slut today,” Bucky says under his breath as he refills his coffee mug.

You scoff, feigning offense, clutching your hand to your chest in mock horror.

He takes a sip from the steaming cup with a smirk. Steve walks into the kitchen at that moment and eyes you curiously. “What’s the occasion? Trying to seduce a warlord?” 

“This old thing?” You tease, gesturing to your ivory silk negligee. “I sleep in this all the time. You two have just never paid attention.”

“Well, we’re paying attention now,” Bucky jokes darkly, looking at Steve with a laugh. Steve chuckles back, grabbing a mug from the cupboard. You open the fridge and purposely bend over further than necessary to reach the milk. Steve inhales sharply at the sight of you without underwear while Bucky swallows too much coffee. 

“You boys okay?” You ask with a smirk, knowing they just got an eyeful.

“We’re fine. Nothing we haven’t seen before,” Bucky says stoically.

“Oh, that’s right. You’re both, like, old men,” you say with a look of disgust, adding milk to your coffee.

Steve speaks up first, “Physically, we’re in our prime. Technically, yes, we are older, but…”

“Dirty. Old. Men,” you repeat, sipping your coffee with a raised brow.

Bucky puts his mug in the sink, “Seems like you wanted us to see, honey…”

You glance down at Bucky’s grey sweats, “And it seems like you enjoyed looking.” You wink at them both and saunter off toward your room, looking forward to a hot shower. You hear them both talking in the kitchen as you retreat, but can’t make out what they’re saying.

After your shower, you get dressed in your workout gear and head downstairs to the gym. It’s Tuesday - hand-to-hand combat day. You are still getting used to the schedule and team dynamics here in the tower being the newbie, but you feel confident and strong as you walk into the gym. The bulletin board to the right has fresh combat assignments pinned to it. You’re assigned to Wanda… and Bucky. Ugh.

Steve and Bucky step into the ring first and you watch as they go toe-to-toe. Sweat drips down Steve’s temple and Bucky smiles as he lands a punch to Steve’s ribs. Steve grunts and hits him back in the side. After a while, Steve is declared the winner by a small margin. You watch Nat and Wanda fight next, and Nat takes her down swiftly and surely.

“You ready, trouble?” Bucky asks from the ring, eyeing you.

You roll your eyes and slide in under the ropes, giving him a challenging stare.

“Don’t worry, I’ll go easy on ya,” he says with a smug grin.

“You wouldn’t dare, Barnes,” you seethe, stepping up to him so you’re chest to chest.

“I’d snap you in half in a second,” he whispers down his nose at you.

“At least buy me dinner first,” you tease as you land a sharp elbow into his stomach. He steps back, a challenging look on his face.

“Fine, half pint, but you asked for it,” he says as he flips you over on your back and walks around you puffing out his chest. You lie there for a moment catching your breath and decide to play dirty.

“Ow, ow… I think you hurt me,” you whimper, holding your shoulder like it’s injured.

He leans down so he’s on his knees beside you and his eyes grow wide and concerned, “Shit, you okay? I’m sorry.”

You grin at him devilishly before taking him down onto his back in one motion, pinning his arms up and away from his body under your knees, “You gotta be quicker than that, baby.” You stand up and catch Steve gazing at you darkly. He starts to clap.

Bucky stands up and huffs, smoothing his shirt. If looks could kill…

“Good job,” Steve says from the gym floor. “Sorry, Buck, but she got you.”

Bucky walks by you and whispers under his breath, “Rematch tonight. I’ll find you.”

You shiver at the thought and exit the ring with a shit-eating grin. You’d bested Barnes. 

Later that night after a team dinner, you go for a run around the compound, needing to blow off some steam and have some time to yourself. Your headphones are blasting your favorite playlist and the earth feels solid and steady under your feet as your lungs fill with fresh air. A flash of white passes you and you jump, but then realize it’s only Steve, lapping you for the first of countless times. He slows down and circles back to you, waving. You take out an earbud.

“Hey,” you say through a deep breath, starting to walk.

“I’m sorry about this morning,” he offers, a blush creeping into his cheeks.

“Oh? Why?” You ask curiously.

“It wasn’t respectful. The comment I made about you seducing a warlord,” he explains.

You laugh, “Well, maybe I was about to. You don’t know who my targets are all the time.”

He laughs and runs a hand over his neck, “Well, either way. We’re part of a team, and I just wanted to apologize.”

“No apology needed,” you wave it off. “Let’s run.”

Steve nods and slows down his pace so you can run together. When you finish up you both walk back into the main living area of the compound together. Your face is flushed and your breathing is heavy. You spot Bucky immediately on the couch wearing athletic shorts and nothing else. He sits up a bit as you walk in. 

“You start without me?” He asks, looking at Steve. You watch Steve’s eyes widen as he shakes his head.

“What’s that?” You ask Bucky. “Start without you?”

“Yeah… it was just a joke,” he shrugs, looking down.

“Yeah? Explain it,” you say, crossing your arms.

Steve and Bucky both look at each other but remain silent. You watch Bucky shift on the couch, lightly tugging at his shorts and it clicks into place. You look around the communal room and see that you’re the only three here at the moment.

“Oh, I think I get it!” You say with a fake giggle. Bucky and Steve still don’t say anything, but they both look at you. 

“Doubt it,” Bucky retorts, rolling his eyes.

“You boys want to fuck the new girl, huh?” You ask, taking your hair from the ponytail and shaking it loose.

“Woah-we…” Steve starts, but you cut him off and look at Bucky. 

“Barnes?” You ask. “Am I right? You two old guys want to take turns with me?”

“Jesus,” Steve mutters, raking a hand through his hair.

“Yes,” Bucky finally spits out. 

“Thank God. I thought you’d never ask,” you reply with a wink to both of them. Bucky stands up from the couch immediately and walks over to you and Steve before leading the way up to his room.

His room is dark - like him. Dark bedding, curtains drawn, and a closet full of black. 

“Listen,” Bucky starts, closing the bedroom door behind him, “we’re in charge here.” He gestures to him and Steve.

“Oh, you boys are cute,” you muse, kicking off your shoes. “I’m going to use your shower. Why don’t you guys warm each other up? I’ll be out in a few.”

Bucky’s jaw drops and he looks at Steve, whose eyebrows are on their way to the ceiling. They both watch you walk to Bucky’s bathroom and shut the door behind you.

Taglist:

@ruexj283

@sebastianstan0813