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iheartsebstan · 16 days ago

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𝐆𝐨𝐨𝐝 𝐈𝐧𝐭𝐞𝐧𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧𝐬.

𝐃𝐚𝐫𝐤!𝐁𝐮𝐜𝐤𝐲 𝐁𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐞𝐬 𝐱 𝐅𝐞𝐦𝐚𝐥𝐞 𝐑𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐞𝐫. 𝐏𝐚𝐬𝐭 𝐒𝐭𝐞𝐯𝐞 𝐑𝐨𝐠𝐞𝐫𝐬 𝐱 𝐑𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐞𝐫.

𝐒𝐮𝐦𝐦𝐚𝐫𝐲: 𝐁𝐮𝐜𝐤𝐲 𝐦𝐞𝐞𝐭𝐬 𝐮𝐩 𝐰𝐢𝐭𝐡 𝐒𝐭𝐞𝐯𝐞, 𝐚 𝐦𝐨𝐧𝐭𝐡 𝐚𝐟𝐭𝐞𝐫 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐥𝐞𝐟𝐭 𝐡𝐢𝐬 𝐛𝐞𝐬𝐭 𝐟𝐫𝐢𝐞𝐧𝐝.

𝐖𝐨𝐫𝐝 𝐂𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐭: 𝟒𝟕𝟗𝟖

𝐖𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬: 𝐈𝐦𝐩𝐥𝐢𝐞𝐝 𝐩𝐚𝐬𝐭 𝐝𝐨𝐦𝐞𝐬𝐭𝐢𝐜 𝐯𝐢𝐨𝐥𝐞𝐧𝐜𝐞. 𝐈𝐦𝐩𝐥𝐢𝐞𝐝 𝐦𝐮𝐫𝐝𝐞𝐫. 𝐊𝐢𝐝𝐧𝐚𝐩𝐩𝐢𝐧𝐠. 𝐈𝐦𝐩𝐫𝐢𝐬𝐨𝐧𝐦𝐞𝐧𝐭. 𝐒𝐦𝐮𝐭. 𝐃𝐮𝐛 𝐂𝐨𝐧 (𝐭𝐞𝐜𝐡𝐧𝐢𝐜𝐚𝐥𝐥𝐲). 𝐅𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐞𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐠, 𝐨𝐫𝐚𝐥 (𝐟 𝐫𝐞𝐜𝐞𝐢𝐯𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐛𝐫𝐢𝐞𝐟𝐥𝐲). 𝐁𝐮𝐜𝐤𝐲 𝐢𝐬 𝐝𝐞𝐥𝐮𝐬𝐢𝐨𝐧𝐚𝐥 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐒𝐭𝐞𝐯𝐞 𝐢𝐬 𝐚 𝐭𝐰𝐚𝐭 𝐢𝐟 𝐭𝐡𝐨𝐬𝐞 𝐜𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐭 𝐚𝐬 𝐰𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬? 𝟏𝟖+ 𝐎𝐍𝐋𝐘 𝐏𝐋𝐄𝐀𝐒𝐄 𝐀𝐍𝐃 𝐅𝐔𝐂𝐊𝐈𝐍𝐆 𝐓𝐇𝐀𝐍𝐊 𝐘𝐎𝐔!

𝐀𝐮𝐭𝐡𝐨𝐫𝐬 𝐍𝐨𝐭𝐞: 𝐖𝐡𝐞𝐰! 𝐓𝐡𝐢𝐬 𝐢𝐬 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐟𝐢𝐫𝐬𝐭 𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐈’𝐯𝐞 𝐰𝐫𝐢𝐭𝐭𝐞𝐧 𝐢𝐧 𝐬𝐢𝐱 𝐦𝐨𝐧𝐭𝐡𝐬 𝐬𝐨 𝐈 𝐡𝐨𝐩𝐞 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐥𝐢𝐤𝐞 𝐢𝐭! 𝐓𝐡𝐢𝐬 𝐰𝐚𝐬 𝐰𝐫𝐢𝐭𝐭𝐞𝐧 𝐟𝐨𝐫 @ramp-it-up 𝐏𝐫𝐚𝐢𝐬𝐞 𝐌𝐞 𝟓𝐊 𝐜𝐡𝐚𝐥𝐥𝐞𝐧𝐠𝐞, 𝐜𝐨𝐧𝐠𝐫𝐚𝐭𝐮𝐥𝐚𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧𝐬 𝐨𝐧 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐦𝐢𝐥𝐞𝐬𝐭𝐨𝐧𝐞, 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐝𝐞𝐬𝐞𝐫𝐯𝐞 𝐚𝐥𝐥 𝐭𝐡𝐚𝐭 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐦𝐨𝐫𝐞! 𝐀𝐧𝐝 𝐭𝐡𝐚𝐧𝐤 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐭𝐨 @navybrat817 𝐟𝐨𝐫 𝐚𝐥𝐰𝐚𝐲𝐬 𝐡𝐲𝐩𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐦𝐞 𝐮𝐩 𝐰𝐡𝐞𝐧 𝐈 𝐭𝐚𝐥𝐤 𝐭𝐨 𝐡𝐞𝐫 𝐚𝐛𝐨𝐮𝐭 𝐦𝐲 𝐢𝐝𝐞𝐚𝐬 🥰

𝐀𝐬 𝐞𝐯𝐞𝐫, 𝐫𝐞𝐛𝐥𝐨𝐠𝐬 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐜𝐨𝐦𝐦𝐞𝐧𝐭𝐬 𝐚𝐫𝐞 𝐞𝐧𝐜𝐨𝐮𝐫𝐚𝐠𝐞𝐝 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐚𝐝𝐨𝐫𝐞𝐝 𝐬𝐨 𝐩𝐥𝐞𝐚𝐬𝐞 𝐥𝐞𝐭 𝐦𝐞 𝐤𝐧𝐨𝐰 𝐰𝐡𝐚𝐭 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐧𝐤!

Bucky wished he could say he was surprised when he saw that Steve was at the bar with a woman, but if he was honest with himself, he really wasn’t. You might’ve left Steve a short four weeks ago, leaving his friend furious, raging, violent and broken, but Bucky knew Steve. Had known about him for a long time, longer really than he had acknowledged before you came into Steve Rogers’ life. Steve Rogers had always been the nervously charming one between them, even after he’d grown up, his tiny frame filling out with height and muscle that sent most women swooning. He was the type that lured women in, making them think that he was the perfect man, humble and sweet… and then he turned.

So even though you’d ghosted his best friend after a year, and Steve had been heartbroken, Bucky couldn’t say he was shocked that he’d moved on so quickly. Steve hadn’t really loved you, had he? Bucky had known that the first time he’d noticed you moving too stiffly, or when you’d started wearing long sleeves in the summer. Steve’s version of love had been violent control that had snapped when you’d left him all alone.

He had to wonder if this new one would survive his friend the way that you did.

“Hey, buddy,” Steve clapped a hand on Bucky’s shoulder, pearly whites blinding in his smile even in the dim light of the bar, “I want to you to meet Mindy,”

“Hey,” the younger woman wiggled manicured fingers at Bucky in a quick wave. She also had bright white teeth, a toothpaste commercial smile. That’s how you had looked before Steve had…

“Hi, Mindy, I’m Bucky,” he held out his left hand deliberately, watched Mindy as she squeezed his hand in a shake, and as her face fell before she could control it. Bucky smirked at the look of shock that ruined that sunny smile, and drew his gloved hand back, “I lost my arm when we were kids. Doesn’t bother you, does it?”

“N-no! Of course not!” Mindy drew herself back up to her diminutive height, looking to Steve quickly, “I’m sorry, I just-”

“Don’t apologise, it’s fine, you didn’t know because Steve didn’t tell you.” Bucky saw the brief scowl on Steve’s face before it was wiped away, and he quickly asked what they wanted to drink. Steve wanted a beer, and asked for a vodka soda for Mindy before she could reply to Bucky,

“Remember your weight goals, honey?”

“Oh, yeah, thanks, Steve!” Mindy grinned up at Bucky when he raised an eyebrow, “I’m going on vacation in a few months with the girls, you know? I want to look beach ready!”

Bucky paid for the drinks, taking a gulp of his before he could reply. Judging by the look on his friend's face, and the way he ordered food for Mindy as well - a salad with no dressing - Steve had already started his controlling behaviour with the girl. She was younger than you by at least ten years, maybe more, and didn't seem to realise the danger. Maybe he would help her before it was too late, like it had been with you.

“Wow, you barely let that food sit on the plate, doll,” Bucky laughed at how quickly you’d eaten the caesar wrap you’d ordered at the diner you’d asked to meet him at, and you’d stuck your tongue out at him childishly,

“Shut up. I’m doing this fasting thing for Steve-”

“For Steve?”

“I- yeah, no, not like that, I mean, it was his idea. We’re both doing it!”

“Uh huh,”

“Anyway, I’m starving today, and as you’re paying, this won’t show up on my bank statement. It’s the perfect crime!” You’d grinned then, not seeing anything wrong with what you’d just said, and then you’d scowled when Bucky brought up the bank statement,

“Yeah, it’s not like he checks religiously or anything, but we’re trying to save up for this vacation next year, and we’re making it a competition to see who can save more, is all,” you’d shrugged, “anyway, you wanted to talk about going halves on a gift for his birthday?”

The subject had been changed and Bucky had let it go. That had been four months into your and Steve’s relationship, and whilst he had felt pretty close to you, it wasn’t close enough to pry further. The fact that you hadn’t replied to any of his texts for weeks afterwards had been the biggest signal to him after that. Steve had pulled you away.

Bucky resolutely hadn’t brought you up during the dinner, but as soon as Mindy left to “powder her nose” - leaving her phone on the table within Steve’s reach of course - Bucky put his cutlery down and caught his friends gaze,

“Really? So quickly?”

Steve didn’t meet Bucky’s eyes, just picked up Mindy’s phone and unlocked it, “What are you talking about, Buck?”

“I’m talking about your new chick - because she looks like she’s barely out of college by the way - what happened to finding Y/N?”

Steve rolled his eyes, before putting Mindy’s phone back on the table, “Mindy is twenty six, I’ll have you know,”

“What an old hag,”

“Don’t play righteous with me, Bucky, I know you wouldn’t say no to getting someone younger if you could,” Steve scoffed, “look, I’m only human, okay? Y/N left me. The bitch left me!”

It was good that Mindy chose that moment to return, because Bucky had just cracked his glass by squeezing it so hard.

“So, how did you guys meet?” Bucky ground out after Mindy had got situated back in her seat. She looked to Steve first, and then smiled eagerly,

“We actually met at this art showcase in Brooklyn, my friend was displaying her art there, and Steve was being so insightful and kind… then he turned those baby blues on me and I melted.”

Bucky fixed his smile to his face. Mindy was describing how Steve had met you.

“Yeah I met the most beautiful woman tonight, Buck, so talented and funny and strong. Her art is incredible, I can’t wait for you to meet her.”

Mindy wasn’t the artist here though. That’s what had eroded the relationship between you and Steve, though Bucky hadn’t realised until too late, he had foolishly thought it was because Steve had been insecure in general. It hadn’t been about that, it had been that you were more successful than Steve at the career he had always dreamed of but hadn’t quite the talent for.

“Do you know what Y/N did, Bucky? She bought me my dream motorcycle! The one I always wanted!” Steve’s voice was quietly passionate, in the way that Bucky knew meant bad news, so he kept his voice even when he answered,

“You’re so lucky to have a girl like that, man. My last girlfriend barely remembered I had a birthday,”

Steve’s glare could blister paint, “She humiliated me in front of my work buddies by doing that. What kind of woman makes more money than her man?”

“It’s the twenty-first century, remember?” Bucky rolled his eyes, flicking through the apps on the TV before settling on Netflix like he always did, “And you met Y/N at her own art show, dumbass, what made you think that she didn’t have her own money?”

Steve flopped down on the couch next to him, thrusting his hand into his hair, and tugging, “I know… I just can’t compete with that, you know? The most I can afford to get her is maybe a mini shopping trip to Barnes and Noble or something. It’s not the same.”

“You’re such an idiot. Women love book stores.” Bucky ignored Steve as he picked a movie, and then went to order food, “You want pepperoni again?”

A week later, Steve had ‘accidentally’ crashed and totaled the bike, and you had fallen down the stairs at home and fractured your wrist. Not long after, you’d moved into Steve’s apartment, and seeing you had become even harder.

Steve smiled an indulgent smile at his clueless girlfriend, “You were the only art I saw that night, baby,”

“Steve!” Mindy simpered, “You’re the sweetest!”

“Uh huh.” Bucky took a large gulp of his drink, looking away as Steve grabbed Mindy’s chin, tilting her head to claim her lips in a possessive kiss that made Bucky’s head pound. “I’m uhhh… that’s a nice meet cute, I guess,”

Steve used to do this to you, if he ever let you out in public of course. He would hold on tight, kiss you and grab at you, claiming you in a way that held nothing of love, and everything of control. The last time Steve had done it - right before you’d finally left Steve alone - his friend had all but undressed you in front of Bucky, and then turned those cold blue eyes on him,

“She’s mine, Buck. You can’t have her, so stop trying.”

The dinner went by pretty quickly after that, Mindy asked a few questions, showing a charm and wit that Bucky could admit was endearing. No wonder Steve seemed enamoured. Bucky raised an eyebrow when the desert menu came and Steve didn’t say anything when Mindy ordered a triple chocolate brownie. Then he rolled his eyes when Steve pulled Mindy to him on a growl,

“You’ll work those calories off with me later, huh, honey?”

“Oh, you’re bad, Steve!”

“Bad to the bone…er.”

A flush came over Mindy’s cheeks, and Bucky almost felt sorry for her. The feeling didn’t last though, Bucky knew this relationship wasn’t going to last as long as yours had done with Steve.

It had rained whilst they were eating, the sidewalks glittered with it, the cars gliding over the water creating a peaceful kind of music that helped Bucky’s shoulders ease as the three of them stepped out onto the street. As long as Steve was happy, that was all that mattered to Bucky, and he said as much to his friend whilst Mindy got into Steve’s car. Bucky hugged Steve back when he was pulled into a hug, his smile morphing to a grin for brief moment as Steve murmured in his ear,

“Thanks, buddy, Mindy is The One. I don’t care about Y/N anymore. Fuck her if she didn’t see what was right in front of her, I got you, and I got Mindy. What else does a man need?”

Bucky’s face was schooled back into the more gentle smile Steve would expect when he pulled away, and he grasped his shoulder, “Exactly. Like I said, I’m happy for you.”

“What about you?” Steve took a step towards his car, “We need to find you a girl as well.”

Bucky’s stomach did a flip, and apparently his face betrayed his emotions because Steve’s face split into a grin, “You’ve met someone!” he ignored Bucky as he tried to back away from the conversation, grabbing his arm and pulling him back to the car, “Hey, get back here, you can’t leave me hanging like that! You haven’t had a girl in what… five years?”

“Six, actually,” Bucky shrugged, “Look, it’s still really new, I don’t want to jinx it, you know?” He watched as a look came over Steve’s face, as his friend kept his cold blue eyes on him, his smile going icy,

“You know… I always thought you had a thing for Y/N. This ‘new girl’ wouldn’t be her, would it?” Steve’s hand curled into a fist, his knuckles turning bright white against his gold skin, “You know I would kill you both. I’d never forgive you, or her.”

Bucky thought that maybe he should feel scared of that threat, or even upset. Anything, other than the nothing that he felt as he burst into laughter in Steve’s face, clapping him on the back as the tension broke and he joined in, their mirth at the idea of Bucky stealing you away from Steve filling the air,

“C’mon, Steve, as if I’d ever try and steal your girl. You just pushed her too hard, you wanted too much- no, don’t get angry, you know I’m right about this,” Bucky raised an eyebrow at his friend, Steve’s jaw muscle jumping as he ground his teeth together, but he nodded,

“Yeah, I guess.”

“Exactly.” Bucky waved through the windshield at Mindy, and then started backing away from Steve towards the other end of the block where he’d found parking, “Take care of her. Relationships are precious, you don’t know how long they could last.”

Driving out of the city, Bucky had ignored the firetrucks and police cruisers as they zipped past him going in the opposite direction, he had a long drive ahead of him, and he couldn’t afford to not concentrate and get into an accident. He hadn’t told Steve about his new place, he hadn’t told anyone in fact. It was an old place that had been left to him about six months ago by a relative he’d never even heard of. His first thought had been to sell it, take the money and use it to find somewhere closer to the city, but within ten minutes of setting foot inside, Bucky had changed his mind. When the neighbours asked - not that there were many - Bucky had said he was doing it up on the inside, that he was hoping to sell it in the future.

He’d lied.

The basement had been renovated, fitted with a kitchenette, a bathroom and a shower, heating, and air conditioning. The rickety old staircase had been replaced with a much stronger metal one, and the door leading to the main house had a lock that only opened with his fingerprint. There were no windows, and it was so heavily soundproofed that his voice sounded muffled whenever he was in there, and no sound could be heard from outside, Bucky had checked.

He listened now as he pulled up into his driveway, just in case, but it was as quiet as the grave. The people who lived in this small cul-de-sac were all old, this type of area had been up and coming back in the sixties, now it was run down and outdated, just waiting for some developer to come in, tear it all down and start over again, the circle of capitalism in America. Right now though, it was safe.

He brought his to-go box with him as he walked from his car to the porch, whistling a little tune to himself as he unlocked his home. Steve hadn’t even noticed that Bucky had ordered enough for two, he’d been too intense on keeping both beady eyes on Mindy all night, and staring down every other man in the immediate vicinity to pay attention to Bucky. The food had long gone cold, but that was okay, he could warm it up whilst he unwound. His phone pinged as he locked the front door behind him, a notification coming up that made him smile and his heart race. Finally. He almost skipped to the door leading down to the basement, Bucky had been waiting for this moment for over six months in total.

You’d only been in his basement four weeks though.

When this house had suddenly appeared, Bucky knew it was a sign. Things were escalating between you and Steve, he was becoming more dangerous and unhinged, and even though you never said anything to Bucky - you couldn’t with the way Steve watched you and kept you from communicating - Bucky knew you wanted him to save you. It had killed him a little to wait, to take the time to make this place perfect for you, a safe haven for you to wait out the next stage in his plan to have you at his side, but it was all worth it now. His mouth watered at the thought of your reaction to his news. The door was heavy as he opened it, and closed on a whoosh of air. Bucky’s steps were silent down the stairs, the bars surrounding the space coming into view, before he got to the barred gate at the foot of the stairs. The key for the gate was around his neck. It wasn’t about keeping you prisoner, it was about keeping a world that had treated you so badly away from you so you could heal.

The first week had been a shock, you’d fought Bucky so hard that he’d had to restrain you to stop you hurting yourself. He couldn’t blame you for your anger or fear though, not after everything Steve had done to you. It took a few days, but eventually you’d listened to him explain what he’d done. How he’d made it look like you’d left Steve and moved away. How he’d taken all of your art and held it in storage for you. You were safe now with him, could build a better life once everything was in place.

Which, now, it was.

“Hey, sweetheart, I have the best news, c’mere,”

“Bucky, you’re home!” You wore the sundress he liked best on you, and a smile that could light up even this sunless space. He’d installed lights that were supposed to mimic the sun rising and setting, but he could tell by the pallor of your skin that it wasn’t really helping and your sleep schedule was still off. It didn’t matter, by tomorrow morning, you could come into the main body of the house with him, into the garden. Bucky breathed in your scent as you wrapped your arms around his neck eagerly, his own going around your waist and squeezing,

“Wow, what did I do to deserve this, doll?”

“I just missed you, is all, you smell great, Bucky,” your nose pressed to his neck, your lips like feathers just fluttering against his skin enough to make him shiver, “what’s the good news?”

Your voice was husky, Bucky felt himself harden inside his pants. He hadn’t touched you, even though he really wanted to. He’d been scrupulous in making you trust him, in making you understand that he wasn’t Steve, he wouldn’t force you to do anything you didn’t want to do. The most he’d done is stroked himself to completion over the CCTV camera images that he watched when you were alone, but you didn’t know about those. Your resolve was weakening though, he could tell. More and more recently you’d been the one to initiate touching. You’d been wearing the dresses instead of the t-shirts and jeans. Even your laundry was full of the lace and silk and satin underwear he’d picked out, and not the plain cotton. Now, with what he��d just found out, you’d fall even further into his arms-

“Bucky?”

He pulled away, a smile on his face, and handed you his phone, watching as your eyes darted to the screen and the news bulletin on there. There was no signal down here of course, but he’d downloaded the video, and screenshot the relevant threads he’d seen online. Frown lines appeared on your face, Bucky’s heart jackhammered behind his ribcage, his breath stolen from his lungs when you turned tear filled eyes on him,

“That was Steve’s car?” Bucky nodded slowly, watching you carefully as you took it in. How Steve’s car had blown up, what looked like a freak accident as he’d started the motor, sending him and Mindy into a fiery death. Bucky felt bad about Mindy, the poor girl hadn’t deserved it, not really, but this was better. Steve couldn’t hurt her anymore, and most importantly, he couldn’t hurt you.

You could really be his now. In the sunlight.

“You… you killed him?”

“You would never be safe if he’d stayed around, doll,” Bucky tentatively put his hand on your shoulder, breathed out a relieved breath when you didn’t pull away, “He would’ve found you eventually, hurt you for leaving him-”

“I didn’t leave Steve, you took me-”

“To save you! He was hurting you!”

You wipe at the tears coating your eyelashes, “And this other person in the car?”

Bucky felt his face heat at the condemnation in your voice, “She… he was hurting her too. I didn’t want to, but it’s better this way, for her and for us- I mean for you…”

He waited. It felt like an eternity, but Bucky waited for your reaction. Would you scream? Yell? Celebrate with him? Would you hate him for what he’s done and never forgive him? Would you never talk to him again? If you asked now, would he let you out? Bucky didn’t know the answer to that last one, he didn’t want to think about it. Steve was dead, Bucky had planted the device on his car before he’d gone into the restaurant knowing full well that this would be the last meal he ever shared with him, but it didn’t matter because it was all for you.

Now though, you wouldn’t need his protection. Could he let you leave?

The terrifying question was banished from his head when you suddenly reared up, and threw yourself into his arms, your lips pressing to his in a desperate hunger that almost shocked Bucky.

Thankfully, instinct took over, and he kissed you back, pausing only long enough to pull away, close his hand over your throat, look into your eyes, “Doll?”

“No one has ever taken care of me like that, Bucky. Loved me enough to protect me like that.” He could feel the frantic beat of your pulse beneath his palm, and realised he needed these fingers to feel other softer places sooner rather than later. Your eyes, irises swallowed by your pupils, went heavy lidded as his own gaze dropped to your lips, “Touch me, Bucky. I want you to.”

Bucky swallowed, leaned back in to kiss you deeply, savouring the taste of you on his tongue. He wanted to take his time, eat you up small bite by small bite, but he was a starving man in front of an all too eager banquet, he couldn’t take too long seducing you or he’d explode.

He dropped his right hand to the front of your skirt, inching it up your thighs, holding your gaze as he took your hand and brought it to the front, “Hold your dress up for me, doll,”

“Yes, sir,”

Bucky groaned, kissing you again… then he gently tapped the inside of your thigh, opening your legs just enough that he could push his hand in between, glide two fingers over the fabric of your panties, and to the swollen nub of your clit, “God… you’re wet already, doll?”

“I’ve been thinking about you all day, Bucky, knowing that you’ve been thinking about me as well, I- oh!” Your words choke off when he glides his middle finger underneath the fabric, sliding home inside you on a smooth push. Your fingers grasp onto his wrist, almost enough to hurt, making Bucky smile against your neck,

“You want another finger, doll?”

“I-”

Bucky pulls out instead, going to his knees before pulling down your underwear in one swift move, he uses his metal fingers to spread your lower lips, then he follows through on his question, sinking two fingers into your tight cunt, and using his thumb to rub circles against your clit,

“Every inch of you is perfect, and you’re all mine,” Bucky paused to press a kiss to your clit, flicking it with his tongue eagerly, “You were made for this. Made for me.”

“Bucky-”

“It’s okay, doll, let yourself go, you’re beautiful, I can’t wait to see you fall apart…” Bucky said everything in a stream of love that he couldn’t hold back, everything that he’s ever wanted to say to you since he first met you, everything he knew Steve would never say as he brutalised and battered you. Bucky would never allow any hurt like that to come to you again. He would worship the ground you walked on if you would only let him. When you came on a desperate cry of his name, Bucky helped you ride it out, fucking you gently with his fingers, rising to kiss your tears away,

“Hey… don’t cry, baby,”

“I’m… please, Bucky, I can’t wait any longer…” You forcefully brush your tears away, pulling at his shirt until it fell from his shoulders on a heap on the ground, “Please, I need you inside me.”

When Bucky tried to tug at your dress, bring it up and over your shoulders, you push him off, “Later, I want you, only you… take your time on me later.”

“So eager for my cock, doll, it’s a good thing that I’ve been as desperate for you as well,” Bucky pushed down his pants, hooking your leg around his waist as he pushed you back against the table in the centre of the room. His cock slid through your folds, you’re warm and wet and desperate… and then he sinks home inside you, the thrust slow, almost agonising, you’re much tighter than he expected, “Is this okay? I’m not hurting you?”

“No… keep going… I want this, I want you, I want you, I want you…” you pull him closer, Bucky barely realised that it was by the key on his necklace, he was too caught up in feeling your lips on his, your legs wrapped tight around his waist, your grip on the key so strong that he couldn’t pull away-

The pain in his side was surprisingly subtle. For a brief and glorious moment, Bucky thought it was indigestion, he almost blushed in embarrassment - he finally gets the girl of his dreams on his dick, and his gut causes problems.

But then another sharp pain, this one agonising enough to make him gasp and pull away. He barely had time to see the bloody piece of metal in your hand before he fell to his knees in front of you. Bucky tried to say your name, confusion and pain lancing through him, but you step away, running somewhere behind him on a sob.

It’s funny. Even after you’ve stabbed him, all he wants to do is hold you as you cry.

Your feet come back into his line of sight, he’s on his back now but Bucky doesn’t remember falling there. You’re wearing the jeans he picked out underneath the sundress spotted with his blood, and it looks like you’ve stolen his boots, laced severely so they don’t fall off. His hand, coated blood red, reaches up to you as you lean down over him, for a wonderful moment he thinks that you’re going to try and hold him. He’s very cold now…

But no, you yank off the key around his neck on a grunt.

“I’m leaving now, Bucky. I’m taking your car, and I’ll call the police after a few miles head start. They’ll find you and arrest you, and you’ll get to a hospital. You should live.”

Bucky closes his eyes, a smile on his face, “You can’t leave me, doll… you need a fingerprint…” his voice is slurred, he’s pretty sure that the police won’t be in time but it doesn’t matter because you can’t go anywhere anyway, “You’re… stupid for this… doll-”

“I’m not the stupid one, Bucky,” you’re grunting as you talk, Bucky hears groaning and scraping, watches as the bed is dragged closer. The heavy, metal, square edged bed frame that seemed like a good idea at the time, “you’re the idiot who kidnapped me instead of just helping me,”

“I did help you… you’re safe…”

“I’m a captive in a room with cameras. Yeah, I found them, you didn’t even try to hide them because you only see me as an object, just like Steve.” You look down at him, a sneer on your face, “You didn’t even realise I’d pulled metal out of that staircase, or that I’d been sharpening it on this bed. Idiot.”

“Y/N-”

“Shut up. Or don’t. No one can hear you scream down here, I know, I’ve tried.”

With that, you lifted and dropped the frame above his wrist.

Bucky must’ve passed out, because when he wakes, you’re pulling the gate closed behind you, the key in one hand and his own severed appendage in your other. Part of him wishes that his dead hand won’t work, you’ll be forced to stay down here with him, die with him. He could change the settings on the door so his prosthetic will work instead, but - no. You’d thought of that too. His left arm was mangled as well, as useless as his mutilated right.

“I love you, Y/N… Y/N?”

You don’t answer. The door is closed, this time on him.

304 notes · View notes

iheartsebstan · 23 days ago

Text

Five Seconds, Five Years (Part I)

header from: pinterest

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x Reader

Summary: Bucky Barnes proposed just days before the world ended — afraid he might never get another chance. Then he vanished in Wakanda. Five years later, he’s at your door — unchanged, while your whole life has moved on. Some love survives time. But what happens when life doesn’t wait?

Disclaimer: Heavy emotional angst, pre-Blip tension, mentions of impending war, proposal made under fear of death, sudden character disappearance (Blip), ambiguous loss, spiraling grief, trauma resurfacing, no body or closure, emotional collapse, breakdown depicted in detail, survivor’s guilt, mentions of Steve Rogers relaying death news. **This story stretches between several timelines in MCU (only loosely, not to be strictly following the year gaps)

Word Count: 4,543

The morning started with a light shower of rain.

You watched the droplets race each other down the windowpane, your breath fogging the glass as you leaned against the frame. Then—two soft knocks. You didn’t need to look. You already knew.

“Hi, doll,” Bucky said, voice low and warm with something close to reverence.

His hair was slightly damp from the spring rain, curling around his ears in a way that always made your fingers twitch to brush it back. His hoodie was soft and old, the sleeves bunched around his forearms—one solid and familiar, the other sleeve empty, folded and pinned neatly at the elbow. He looked tired—not in the physical sense, but in the bone-deep way someone looks after wading through ghosts every day. But he smiled for you. A small, worn smile that still made something in your chest ache with love.

You stepped aside without a word, letting him in, and he walked in with the quiet of someone who knew exactly where he was going. The apartment hadn’t changed. Same lamp with the crooked shade. Same couch where you both had fallen asleep watching movies at 2AM. Same coffee table with the scratch he’d accidentally left with the blunt corner of his missing arm that first night you kissed.

He dropped his overnight bag beside the door, exhaled slowly, then turned to you.

“Still like chamomile?” he asked softly.

“Still need it to sleep,” you replied.

And just like that, like every visit before this, he melted into the space like he belonged. Because he did.

—

He never stayed long.

A few days at most—just long enough to fold himself back into the quiet corners of your life, like he’d never left. Just long enough to remind you what peace felt like in the shape of his hands.

Wakanda was still healing him—carefully, gently, methodically. Shuri had done the impossible, reworking HYDRA’s programming strand by strand. But even she said: healing isn’t a machine you can fix. It’s something you relearn, every day.

So he came back to New York when the shadows got too loud. When he needed something no vibranium tech could replicate. You.

He told you once, on one of those nights when he curled into your sheets like a man too big for peace, that he didn’t remember what love felt like before you. Only that with you, it was quiet. Safe.

“You don’t pull me out of the dark,” he said. “You just sit with me in it.”

You had no idea how much that would come to mean.

—

The night he proposed, there was fear in the sky.

You tasted it in the wind, felt it in his kiss—like the world was holding its breath, and he was holding you in case it collapsed.

He held you longer that night. Kissed you slower. Touched you like he was tracing every line of a goodbye letter he hadn’t written yet. You were half-asleep on the couch, your leg draped over his, one of his hands resting gently on your thigh while the city pulsed beyond the window. Everything felt like static—like something just out of reach was about to break.

Then he pulled a small velvet box from the pocket of his hoodie.

“I know this isn’t perfect,” he said. “It’s not candlelight or champagne. But I’ve spent so much of my life losing time—and I won’t risk losing this moment.”

He slid down to one knee, right there in the living room, ring in one hand, his other hand cupping your cheek.

“If I go… and I don’t make it back… I need to know I at least asked.”

“Marry me,” he said. “Let me go into whatever’s coming knowing I finally did something for me. For us.”

Your tears soaked his collar as you nodded yes and whispered, “Come back to me. I’ll be here. For you—always.”

—

You stood on the fire escape with your back to his chest, the city humming below.

It felt like a goodbye disguised as a promise. And you let yourself believe there’d be another hello.

He didn’t say much that morning. Just pressed his lips against your shoulder. Just held your hand like it was the only thing keeping him together.

Before he left, he turned to you one last time, eyes impossibly soft.

“After this… if there’s still a world left—let’s get out of here,” he murmured, his voice low, steady. “Seoul, maybe. You always said you wanted to see the Han River.”

You blinked at him, caught off guard. “You remember that?”

He nodded, smiling softly. “You used to watch those Korean dramas in bed. Said you loved the way it looked—couples walking under cherry blossoms by the river, taking the KTX cross-country like it was something sacred. You said the peace there felt… quiet. Not empty.”

Your heart clenched. “I was learning the language. Thought if I really wanted to understand it all—the place, the people—I’d have to go live it. Not just dream it.”

“Then let’s live it,” he whispered. “I want peace. But more than that… I want you in peace.”

You kissed him once more.

You didn’t know it would be the last.

—

You didn’t see him disappear.

You weren’t even awake when it happened. The sun had barely risen over New York when your phone buzzed—once. Then again. Then relentlessly. The group chat with Sam. News alerts. A voicemail from Nat with no words, just labored breathing and distant shouting.

You sat up slowly, still in his hoodie, the ring box on your nightstand untouched from the night before.

Then came the knock.

Three times. Firm, deliberate.

You already knew.

You opened the door and found Steve standing there. Still in his suit. Mud on his boots. A small tear in the shoulder of his uniform. His shield wasn’t with him. His eyes were red-rimmed, jaw clenched so hard it ticked like a clock.

“Can I come in?” he asked softly.

You stepped back.

He moved like someone walking through wet cement—slow, deliberate, as though every step hurt. He looked around your apartment like it was sacred ground, his gaze falling on the framed photo of you and Bucky laughing in Central Park. He swallowed hard and finally sat on the edge of the armchair.

And then he said it.

“He’s gone.”

The words hit you like a blunt object. Not a stab—there was no blood. Just the absence of breath. Like your lungs forgot how to work.

“It was fast. Dust,” Steve said. “Just… dust.”

You didn’t respond. You just stared. Not at him. Not at anything.

Steve rubbed a hand over his face. “Before the battle… he pulled me aside. Gave me this.”

From his pocket, Steve pulled out a small, worn notebook. You recognized it immediately. Bucky’s.

“He told me… if anything happened to him, if he didn’t come back… I was to find you. He wrote your name on the first page. Your number. Said, ‘She’s the only thing that ever made me feel like a man again. Please tell her I didn’t walk away.’”

Your knees buckled.

Steve caught you, arms strong and shaking all at once, pulling you gently to the floor.

“I’m so sorry.”

You weren’t crying. Not yet. You were too numb. The room spun in tight, slow circles.

“I need to see it,” you whispered.

Steve hesitated—then nodded.

He opened the notebook to the first page.

There, scrawled in Bucky’s neat, all-caps handwriting:

IF I DON’T MAKE IT BACK—CALL HER. TELL HER I WAS THINKING OF HER. TELL HER I DIDN’T RUN. TELL HER I LOVE HER.

Beneath it—your name. Your number. A little drawing. A tiny heart.

That’s when the screaming started.

—

You didn’t remember hitting the floor, but you remembered the sound of your scream.

Not human. Not you. Something primal, something that ripped through your throat and shattered into the walls around you. Your voice cracked. Broke. The notebook hit the floor. The ring box fell from the nightstand and landed with a hollow, damning thud.

You barely heard Steve calling your name. Felt his hands on your shoulders, grounding you, holding you like Bucky once did. You clawed at the couch cushions, the carpet, your own skin.

You begged. Pleaded. Not for God. Not for mercy. Just for one more second.

But there was no body.

No goodbye.

No grave.

Just dust on the wind and the weight of a love that had no ending.

You didn’t dream for weeks after that.

You couldn’t.

Because in every dream, he came back.

And in every one, he left again.

—

The first three days, you didn’t move from the couch.

The world around you buzzed in static—television left on, reports playing on loop. People screaming in airports. Planes crashing. Children disappearing from classrooms mid-laugh. It didn’t feel real. Nothing did.

You watched the news like a zombie. Not for information—you already knew the only part that mattered. But some stubborn part of you hoped someone, somewhere, would say his name. Would tell you they made a mistake. That he wasn’t among the dead.

But the screen stayed silent. And you did too.

—

By the fourth day, the calls started.

Steve again. Sam. Natasha. Even Bruce. You didn’t answer any of them. Not because you were angry—because the thought of speaking felt unbearable. Like it would make it real.

You didn’t want reality.

You wanted Bucky’s half-finished mug on the counter. You wanted the hoodie he left draped on the kitchen chair to still smell like him. You wanted his voice—gruff and low and quiet when he called you doll—to echo in the hallway again.

You slept on the floor.

It was cold there, under the window, but you didn’t care. The bed still had the dent where he last lay. The sheets still smelled like the skin between his neck and collarbone. You couldn’t touch it. You couldn’t bear to lie there and know you’d wake up alone.

You left the lights off. You didn’t eat. You stopped checking the time.

—

Your body broke before your mind did.

On Day Six, you collapsed in the hallway—halfway between the kitchen and the bathroom. Hunger, dehydration, grief. You woke up with the side of your face pressed to the tile and vomit dried in your hair.

You didn’t bother showering.

—

The ring box sat on the coffee table like a tombstone.

You couldn’t look at it.

Sometimes you swore it moved. That the air around it bent a little—like the force of your grief made it magnetic. But maybe that was just the fever setting in.

By Day Ten, the plants in the apartment had all died. You hadn’t watered them. Hadn’t opened the windows. You couldn’t stand the idea of fresh air. What was the point of anything growing if he wasn’t around to see it?

—

The fridge smelled like something rotting. You ignored it.

Instead, you sat on the kitchen floor in the same clothes from the week before. A loose shirt that smelled like Bucky and a pair of sweats with a hole in the knee. You held his dog tags in your fist so tightly, they left deep red grooves in your palm.

You thought about drinking.

The bottle of whiskey in the cabinet had dust on it—he’d been the one to stop you from spiraling back in those first months together. Always said he didn’t want to erase pain anymore. Just learn how to hold it.

You opened the cap. Brought it to your lips.

And stopped.

Not because you had willpower.

Because you knew it wouldn’t work.

There was no numbness strong enough to kill what was eating you.

—

The world outside moved on.

People rioted. Protested. Some fell into religion. Some into madness.

You fell into silence.

Your voice, when you finally spoke again, was raw. Dry. You tested it in the mirror one night like it was a broken instrument.

“Bucky.”

It cracked in half.

—

You didn’t leave the apartment for three weeks.

When you finally did—just to get milk, just to do something normal—you ended up on your knees in the middle of the sidewalk three blocks away. Some man passed you and smiled the way Bucky used to. And that was all it took.

You screamed. Sobbed. Clutched the concrete like it would split open and deliver him back to you.

A woman called 911. You told the paramedic you didn’t need a hospital.

You just needed him.

—

You stopped wearing your engagement ring. But you didn’t take it off either.

Instead, you threaded it through your necklace and wore it under your shirt. It dug into your chest when you lay down. Bruised your skin. But you kept it there.

Because pain, at least, reminded you that you hadn’t died with him.

Not completely.

—

You weren’t even sure how you got there.

One moment, you were standing in your kitchen, clutching a mug you hadn’t touched in days. The next, you were staring at a blank clipboard in a community center basement that smelled like old coffee and damp carpet.

Someone must have signed you up.

Sam, maybe. Steve.

You didn’t ask.

You just sat in a plastic chair at the far end of the circle, your hoodie drawn up, sleeves long enough to hide your shaking hands. The metal folding chair felt cold through your clothes. You hadn’t spoken to anyone in almost a week.

The room was too bright. Too quiet. You hated it.

—

A woman with kind eyes and a voice like a lullaby welcomed the group. She said her name was Jess. She offered tissues before anyone even spoke. As if she already knew.

Around you, strangers began to talk.

A man with graying temples spoke first. He lost his husband. Just vanished while brushing his teeth.

A mother next. Her little boy turned to ash in a park sandbox.

A teenager. His twin sister. Gone mid-laugh.

You couldn’t listen.

Because everything sounded like static.

Because all you could hear—all your brain let you hear—was him.

—

“You chew your pen when you’re anxious.”

Your lips curled slightly. Not in a smile—just recognition. You looked down.

You were chewing your pen. The same way Bucky used to tease you about.

Your hands trembled. You slid the pen across the floor, out of reach.

“Let me do the dishes. You cooked.”

You closed your eyes. Your throat ached.

You could still hear him humming while he cleaned. That stupid 1940s jazz that you pretended to hate.

You remembered standing in the kitchen doorway watching him wash the plates—one-armed, stubborn, slow—until you came up behind him, wrapped your arms around his waist and kissed the center of his back.

He always laughed when you did that. Said it tickled.

“I like this one on you,” he murmured once, thumbing the hem of your sweater.

It was the sweater you were wearing now.

You curled your fists into it. Pulled the sleeves over your palms like armor.

—

You hadn’t realized tears were spilling down your cheeks until someone passed you a tissue.

You didn’t look at them. You just nodded, quietly, and held the tissue in your lap like it was glass.

—

You still hadn’t spoken.

And you wouldn’t. Not that day.

But someone sat beside you.

Not close enough to crowd you. Not far enough to feel like pity.

A man. Taller than most in the room. Wide shoulders. He said nothing. He didn’t stare. He didn’t fidget.

He just… sat.

His presence felt like a dim light in a locked room. Not enough to see by. But enough to remind you the dark wouldn’t last forever.

You caught his name once—said soft during introductions, almost like he hated saying it aloud.

You didn’t remember the name.

But you remembered his eyes.

They didn’t flinch when he saw your pain.

And for the first time in weeks, you didn’t feel invisible.

—

You didn’t plan to come back.

After that first session, you walked out into the gray drizzle of early fall and told yourself, That was it. Enough pretending. Enough people watching me fall apart.

But the next Thursday, you were there again.

Same plastic chair. Same empty hands. Same hollow ache under your ribs.

And so was he.

He never spoke first. Never leaned in. He was just… there.

Somehow, that was enough.

His name, you learned slowly, was Dean. He used to be a museum archivist. Lost his wife in the Snap—said it casually, like someone talking about bad weather. But you noticed the way his voice dipped when he said her name. Like he was still trying to hold onto it without cracking.

He never asked about Bucky. Not even once.

But when the others spoke of their losses, he never looked away from you. Like he knew yours ran deeper than words could reach.

—

Week three, he brought two mugs of chamomile tea into the session.

One slid toward you on the table without a word.

You stared at it for almost five minutes before lifting it with trembling hands.

“Thank you,” you whispered.

Your first words in the group.

His only reply was a soft nod, like your voice was a fragile thing he didn’t want to scare away.

—

Your flashbacks to Bucky changed, slowly.

They used to come all at once—bright, vivid, crushing. The way his stubble felt against your neck. The way he’d lean his head against your shoulder without speaking, just breathing you in. The little notes he used to leave on post-its: Got groceries. Love you. Don’t forget your umbrella.

Now, the memories drifted in more quietly.

Softer.

You still heard his voice sometimes. Still caught the scent of his cologne on strangers in passing. Still reached for your phone on bad nights, forgetting—for just a second—that he couldn’t answer anymore.

But it hurt less.

And the guilt of that hurt in a whole new way.

—

One Thursday, weeks later, the group had to shift to a smaller room.

You ended up sitting closer to Dean than usual. Shoulder to shoulder.

You could feel the warmth of his arm through your sleeve. He didn’t move. Neither did you.

That night, walking home, your brain played a memory of Bucky helping you carry groceries—laughing as a bag ripped and apples rolled down the sidewalk.

You smiled, faintly.

Then you realized you hadn’t cried that day.

And you sat on the edge of your bathtub later that night, shaking.

Not because you missed Bucky.

But because you were starting to feel okay again—and that felt like betrayal.

—

A month passed. Then two.

Dean started walking you to the Metro. You didn’t ask him to.

One day, it rained.

You stopped under a shared umbrella, both of you damp and breathless from laughing—the first real laugh you’d had in months.

You looked up and caught Dean watching you, his expression unreadable.

Not romantic.

Not pitying.

Just… present.

Present in a way you hadn’t let yourself be for a very long time.

—

One night, after a particularly raw session, he spoke first.

“You know… when she vanished, I didn’t want to survive it.”

You turned to him, startled by the honesty.

He shrugged. “But then I realized… she’d kill me if I didn’t try.”

Your throat clenched. You looked at your lap.

“He used to say the same thing,” you whispered. “About me.”

Dean didn’t press.

Just walked a little closer that night.

—

By the time winter came, you could walk through your apartment without flinching.

You still had Bucky’s things.

You still wore his ring on a necklace.

But you didn’t collapse every time you looked at the spot where he used to sit.

Sometimes, you even caught yourself humming in the kitchen again.

You found yourself craving chamomile tea.

Not because it reminded you of him—but because it reminded you of you.

—

It wasn’t dramatic. There were no rose petals, no hidden photographers, no gasping onlookers.

It was quiet. Barely even romantic.

It happened on a Sunday.

You were walking back from the flower stall near the corner café—the one that had slowly become “yours.” Dean had picked up your favorite blend from the tiny tea shop on 12th. You had daisies in one hand, his in the other, and the sky had that late-spring haze that made everything feel softer than it really was.

It wasn’t a special day.

But it was a peaceful one.

And that was rare enough to feel sacred.

—

He stopped walking.

You turned when you noticed the gentle tug on your fingers.

Dean’s expression was unreadable—not nervous, not trembling. Just… full. Full of something warm and earnest.

“Hey,” he said gently. “Can I ask you something?”

You blinked. “Of course.”

“Not because I expect anything. Not because I need an answer right now. But just because I’ve been thinking about it.”

Your heart started to flutter. You knew. You knew what this was.

He reached into his coat pocket. Pulled out a box—small, worn, simple.

But you didn’t open it.

You stepped back.

Just an inch.

The shift in your eyes told him everything.

“Dean,” you said, voice tight, “there are still memories of him. Bucky. They’re everywhere. In my apartment. In my closet. In my head.”

You looked down, fidgeting with the necklace around your neck. The one with the first ring. His ring.

“Some days I still hear his voice. Some mornings I wake up reaching for him before I remember he’s not there.”

Your throat caught. You didn’t even notice the tears starting to gather.

“I don’t know if I can give you… a clean slate.”

Dean didn’t flinch.

He nodded, slowly, with something like relief in his eyes.

“I know,” he said. “I never expected you to.”

He stepped closer, took your hands again, and gently turned them over in his.

“You’re not letting him go. Just like I haven’t let her go, either.”

You looked up sharply.

Dean gave a soft smile. Not sad. Just real.

“She’s still here sometimes. When I make coffee in the French press. When I take the long way home past the bookstore she loved.”

“Grief doesn’t end,” he said. “It just… softens. Changes shape. We don’t bury them. We carry them. That’s what love does.”

You stood in silence for a long moment.

You thought about Bucky. The first time he’d told you he loved you. The way his laugh shook his shoulders. The promise of Seoul.

You thought about Dean, sitting beside you in silence every Thursday. Making space for your pain. Never trying to fix you. Just being there.

“You’re not a replacement,” you whispered.

“And you’re not broken,” he replied.

Then he held the box up.

“No pressure. No timeline. Just… maybe this could be our next chapter. One that we write slowly. With room for everything that came before.”

You opened the box.

Inside—a ring of pale gold, delicate, nothing flashy.

But there was a tiny engraving inside.

“Still here.”

Your lip trembled.

You nodded.

He didn’t slip the ring on your finger yet. He let you take it.

You slid it on, next to the weight of the one around your neck.

Two loves. Two lives.

And somehow, still, yours.

—

It happened in a blink.

One second, Bucky was in Wakanda—the dirt thick under his boots, the scent of fire and blood hanging in the air. He’d just raised his rifle. Just started to call out to Steve.

And then—the wind shifted.

The trees looked different. Taller. Lusher. Greener. The sky above was brighter, fuller. The battlefield was… gone.

There were birds singing.

Not screams. Not gunfire.

Just birdsong.

He spun around.

The spear Okoye had thrown was rusting in the grass. The ship that hovered above had long since vanished. There was no dust on his fingers. No ash on his coat. He checked his arm—the new vibranium still intact, just like it had been before he vanished.

But the world had changed.

He felt it.

Like walking into a memory too old to trust.

“Steve?” he called, breath shaky. “Sam?”

No one answered.

He didn’t waste time.

He got back to New York the fastest way he could—everything was a blur of panic and fire beneath his ribs. There was no time to understand. Not yet.

He had to find you.

He had to come home.

—

The sun had already begun to set when he reached your building.

That familiar stoop. The cracked step on the left. The faded welcome mat with the crooked “O.” It was all the same.

He climbed the stairs two at a time. His boots felt too loud. His heartbeat louder.

Then he stood at your door.

His hand trembled.

He knocked—twice. Just like always.

—

Inside, you were plating the steak.

The pan still sizzled on the stove. Garlic, rosemary, butter—the smell rich and comforting, spreading through the apartment like a warm blanket. Dean was rinsing the salad in the kitchen sink, humming softly under his breath.

It had been a good day.

You wore his hoodie. Your hair was up in that casual way Bucky used to love—but now Dean did, too. It was domestic. It was safe. It was… yours.

The knock made your head lift.

Two knocks.

You froze.

It couldn’t be. That rhythm—it was etched into your bones.

You stepped toward the door.

Dean looked over, still smiling. “Expecting someone?”

“No,” you said softly. “I… I don’t know.”

You opened the door.

—

And there he stood.

Bucky Barnes.

Same shoulders. Same eyes. Same hair—curling at the ends, messy from the wind.

He was breathing like he’d run the whole way.

Your mouth parted but no words came out. The hallway felt too narrow. Too real.

“Doll,” he whispered, voice rough and broken. “It’s you. It’s really—”

Then he stopped.

Because Dean appeared behind you.

He wrapped his arms around your waist, kissed your shoulder casually, unaware of the hurricane that stood outside.

“Hey, babe—who’s—?”

His voice trailed off as he looked up.

Saw the man in the doorway.

Saw your face.

“Bucky,” you said.

A whisper. A gasp. A prayer.

—

The world tilted.

Bucky’s eyes dropped to Dean’s hands around your waist. To the ring on your finger. To your body, five years older.

He stumbled back a step.

You reached out instinctively—and stopped yourself.

He looked like he’d been gutted.

“You’re… older,” he said quietly. “How long—?”

“Five years,” you said, voice trembling. “It’s been five years.”

He blinked. Once. Twice.

“It was five seconds for me.”

His voice cracked down the middle.

Dean slowly, gently let go of your waist. He didn’t speak. He didn’t have to. The pain on Bucky’s face said everything.

“I came back for you,” Bucky said. “I came home.”

Then he shook his head.

“But someone already did.”

You couldn’t speak.

Your hands were shaking.

Bucky took another step back.

“I thought… I thought I’d walk in, and you’d be waiting.”

A faint, broken laugh escaped his throat. It wasn’t humor. It was disbelief. It was the kind of laugh you make when the world plays its cruelest card.

“I was just a few seconds too late,” he whispered.

And then he turned.

And walked away.

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