isthereanymorejello

[isthereanymorejello]

[isthereanymorejello]

my favorite thing about bucky barnes is that sebastian stan chose to walk in a way that shows how heavy bucky’s arm is. like you can see that his metal arm is physically weighing his left side down because of how heavy it is

[isthereanymorejello]

A Thousand Times Before

Pairing: Avenger!Bucky x Avenger!Reader

Summary: Bucky travels to an alternate universe for the sake of a mission. But he doesn’t expect to come face to face with a version of you that loves him, completely and openly. Back in his own world, he is left with a truth he can’t keep to himself anymore.

Word Count: 16.5k

Warnings: alternate universe; multiverse; so much yearning; identity confusion; emotional distress; guilt; self-worth struggles; unintentional non-consensual kiss (non-violent, due to mistaken identity); angst; heartbreak themes; slight mentions of Bucky’s past; self-preservation; self-doubt; Bucky is a man in love

Author’s Note: This ended up being longer than I intended. Anyway, I’d love to hear what you think! Also, I’ve been toying with the idea of writing an alternate version where the roles are flipped. This time the reader travels to another universe where Bucky and your counterpart are already a couple. Let me know if that’s something you’d be interested in reading too! I hope you enjoy ♡

Divider by @cafekitsune ♡

Masterlist

The air smells of memory.

As though someone took the world he knew, put it through a sieve, and rebuilt it with hands that were almost - but not quite - shaking.

Bucky walks slow, even though his boots echo down a corridor that used to be silent. Used to be. In his world, the east wing of the Avenger’s compound is always cold, sterile, mostly unused. Here, the lights are warmer. Someone’s installed those vintage bulbs. They buzz faintly and flicker around.

There is a plant in the hallway. A real one. He steps past it. Looks down. A ceramic pot painted with little sunflowers. A tiny sticker peeling off the side.

This version of the compound is lived-in.

It’s unnerving.

He hates how it makes him breathe more deeply as though he is listening for something it shouldn’t. How everything is just off. The couch in the lounge is turned at a different angle. The vending machine is missing. There is a lavender-scented candle burning on the coffee table.

He doesn’t trust this. He doesn’t trust any of it.

Not the way the ceiling seems too low or how the hallways echo the wrong sound the longer he walks. The floor beneath his boots is almost the same. But almost is what gets people killed. And he’s not in the business of dying again. Not even here. Not even in a world that’s supposed to be some mirror image of his own.

It smells of lemon disinfectant and something faintly floral as though someone sprayed a bottle of room freshener and hoped no one would notice the rot underneath.

He runs his metal fingers along the wall as he walks, lets the vibranium whir quietly against the plaster. Feels the microscopic grooves in the paint.

In his universe, there is a crack near the main stairwell. Sam swears he didn’t do it. Clint insists he did. Here, it’s perfectly smooth. That bothers him more than it should.

He takes in this slightly different world as though maybe this is all some trick of the multiverse, some clever illusion designed to fool the worn-down man with the metal arm and the hundred-year-old ghosts. But the walls are still painted in the same color - off-white, barely warmed by the overheads. The hallway lights flicker golden. As though someone decided the compound shouldn’t feel like a facility. As though someone decided it should feel like home. His breath still fogs faintly in the colder patches of the corridor.

This could still be his universe somehow.

Even though it isn’t.

And even though he doesn’t want it to be.

He never wanted to be part of the mission.

He said no. Loudly. Repeatedly. With many adjectives and lots of glares. It didn’t matter. Fury said he was the only one who could go. That this universe had some piece of tech - some half-mythical Howard Stark prototype that their Stark never got the chance to build.

Something with the potential to rewrite temporal coordinates with precision. To fix anomalies. Maybe even to bring back the ones they lost.

He sat through the debrief like a man sitting on a bomb. Not moving. Not breathing more than he needed to.

And Bucky noticed, the way he always did, that you never ask quite so many questions during debriefing - unless the mission involves him. And this time, it’s only him. So that meant more questions from you. More concern you didn’t even try to mask.

And it made his heart clench.

You asked how they knew this tech even existed in that timeline.

You asked why Tony couldn’t just build it himself to which the man gave you a look.

You asked what would happen if Bucky saw someone he knew. If he saw himself.

You asked what exactly Bucky was going to walk into and what was expected of him.

You asked how much they even knew about this universe.

Steve had exhaled, hands braced against the briefing room table, blue eyes clouded. “We don’t know much,” he admitted. “This universe is close to ours in structure, but details are limited. No major historical deviations. No sign of HYDRA still in power. No active wars. Just small shifts. Choices made differently.”

Bucky had watched your face tighten as if the lack of data itself was a warning.

“SHIELD had a file on it, but nothing concrete,” Steve went on. “Stark’s readings say it’s stable - no time fractures, no reality collapses. Just another version of what we know.”

Bucky had listened, fingers flexing against his metal wrist. Close to theirs, but not the same. And he wonders, not for the first or last time, what choices this other world made for him.

The mission is simple. Locate the prototype. Extract it. Avoid unnecessary contact with variants. And get the hell back before anything breaks - him, the people, the timeline.

Bucky stopped listening entirely after receiving all the information he needed.

He only registered you shifting beside him, and it was the tiniest movement, but he noticed. You always get fidgety when something bothers you. He wanted to say something, reassure you, but he didn’t truly know if he even got this.

He knew you were worried. Knew you were angry. The kind that made your eyes too quiet and your hands too still. The kind that made Bucky feel like he was walking through a house where all the lights had been turned off, but every door was open.

When Dr. Steven Strange opened that portal, you stood in the corner of the room, watching him and giving him that guarded look that said you better come back whole. He couldn’t meet your eyes for too long.

And when the world rippled and bent, and the air shimmered as though it might break, and he stepped forward like a man walking into the sun with his eyes closed, he thought of you.

The stairs groan beneath his boots, familiar but not.

Same wood. Same color. But smoother. As though someone took the time to sand down the scars.

In his universe, the fifth step has a chip where Steve dropped a dumbbell. Everyone tripped on it at least once. Here, it is whole. Perfect. No history at all.

That’s what gets him. The lack of damage. As though this place hasn’t lived the same kind of life.

He reaches the second floor and hesitates.

The hallway is dim. Only the lights overhead are on, flickering just slightly. He hates the buzzing. It’s like something alive and trapped.

He turns left.

Your room is down this hall.

Or - your room in his universe is down this hall. He shouldn’t assume anything. Things are wrong here. Tilted just a few degrees off center. The kind of wrong you don’t see until it’s already unmade you.

But his feet are already moving.

It’s not like he’s planning to go in.

He just wants to look. Maybe see how different this version of you really is. Maybe see how different he is, through your eyes.

He reaches your door at the end of the corridor. It’s cracked open. That’s weird. You usually always have it shut.

Your voice isn’t behind it. You’re not laughing, humming, ranting about something. There is only quiet.

He steps closer.

The doorframe is covered in tiny indentations. Not scratches - these are deliberate. Someone’s been marking height on the trim. Two sets of lines. One lower than the other. Two sets of initials scrawled in black ink. Yours. And his.

He knows it’s yours. Because he knows your height. Like a number carved into his bones.

He’s memorized the space you take up in a room. Not just how tall you are, but the way your presence fills the air.

He knows where your head would rest if you stood beside him. Knows it would reach just beneath his chin. Knows the sound your footsteps make when you enter a room, and how the air shifts when you’re near.

He has painted you in his mind a thousand times before.

Eyes open, eyes closed.

In dreams, in silence.

In the echo of a laugh you left behind on a Tuesday.

He’s mapped you in the kitchen. Measured, in his mind, which cabinets you can stand beneath without hitting your head. Which shelves you can’t reach so he can be there, quietly, to help. So he can hand you that mug you always squint up at, the one you pretend you don’t need.

He knows how your arm swings when you walk.

Knows the rhythm of your stride. Knows your pace.

And sometimes, not often enough to be suspicious, he lets his hand brush yours.

Lets his fingers catch a hint of your warmth.

It’s not an accident.

It never is.

He carries you like a story he hasn’t told yet.

And he is aching, aching, aching to write you down.

Bucky stares at the markings like they might reach out and touch him.

He brushes his fingers against one. The ink smudges slightly under the metal pad of his thumb. Fresh.

He doesn’t understand.

Why would he-?

No. It has to be a coincidence. Just a prank. A weird joke. Someone else with your handwriting, maybe. Another version of him. One who doesn’t carry his past like a loaded gun. Or it’s just some odd inside joke he never got to know about in his own universe.

Bucky moves to step back, but his eyes catch on something else.

To the right of the door, hanging crookedly, is a small, square canvas. Acrylic. Textured.

It’s a painting. He knows it immediately. Your style.

He’s seen you paint a thousand times in silence, your jaw clenched, music too loud in your headphones. You always say you paint when you can’t say something out loud. When the words get stuck in your chest and rot.

This painting is familiar. A half-sky. A steel arm. Fingers open, reaching toward a red string that trails off the edge of the frame.

He knows what it means. He knows you.

But the painting doesn’t belong here. Not like this. It’s intimate. Meant for someone who understands the weight in your throat when you speak through colors.

Someone like him.

His stomach twists.

Maybe it is him.

He doesn’t like that thought. Doesn’t like how it makes his heart trip over itself.

He takes a step into the room because his brain told him to and his body didn’t want to argue. And he stops breathing.

Because you're not there.

But the room is.

The room is here.

And that’s almost worse.

It’s too familiar.

Not identical, not exact, but similar enough to tear him wide open.

The walls are a different color. Now necessarily lights. But just not how he remembers it. The books on the shelf are in new places, different spines, rearranged lives.

But the couch is the same shape, the same worn-out comfort.

The window still drinks in the light the same way - slanted, soft, forgiving.

And there’s a sweater messily folded on your dresser.

A book, face-down on the cushion like someone meant to come back to it.

Like you were just here.

Like maybe, if he stays long enough, you’ll walk back into the frame of this almost-life.

He doesn’t touch anything.

He’s afraid to.

Because this version of the world remembers you.

The shape of your existence lives here - in shadows and coffee rings, in the faint scent of something sweet and floral and you.

He walks the room like an intruder in someone else’s dream, eyes cataloguing the differences, chasing the sameness.

He notices that the cabinet doors hang slightly crooked in the same way.

And for just a moment he swears he hears your voice in the next room.

But it’s only silence, mocking him.

He wants to sit.

He wants to stay.

Wants to believe that if he closes his eyes, you’ll be beside him again.

He knows it isn’t true.

This isn’t his world.

This isn’t his home.

And this isn’t his you.

But the ache doesn’t care about reality.

The ache believes in the melodic sound of your laughter and the empty seat beside him.

There’s a coat draped over the back of a chair.

His coat.

Not one like it.

His.

The leather’s too worn in the same places. The collar stretched where he grips it with his right hand. There’s even the tear near the cuff that you stitched together with dark red thread, muttering that you weren’t a tailor but you’d seen enough war movies to fake it.

He steps inside without meaning to.

The room smells like you.

It’s your scent - soft, unassuming, threaded through with something sweet. Like worn pages and old tea and maybe vanilla.

It’s the same smell that clings to your hoodie when you get closer to each other on cold stakeouts to warm the other. The same one that lingers on your gloves when you pass him something, and he holds them a moment too long just to feel the warmth you left behind.

There’s a mug on the nightstand with faded text that reads I make bad decisions and coffee.

He bought that for you. In his world. As a joke.

You still used it until the handle cracked, and then you glued it back together and kept using it anyway.

He reaches out for it.

Stops.

His hand is shaking.

Bucky turns slowly. And sees the photo.

It’s not framed. Just pinned to a corkboard on the far wall, beneath torn paper scraps and to-do lists written in your handwriting.

It’s the two of you.

He recognizes the background - Coney Island. A bench by the boardwalk. Sunlight in your hair. His arm around your shoulder. His face not looking at the camera, but at you.

You’re laughing. And he looks-

He looks in love.

Like he has everything he ever wanted.

His breath hitches.

He steps back.

Back again.

Like distance might undo the gravity of what he just saw.

His ears are ringing.

None of this makes sense. Not fully.

He is stepping into a space he should not recognize but does.

The walls are a little brighter than in his world. Pale blue. Like the sky on cold days. There’s a candle on the windowsill—burned low and forgotten. Its wax has dripped onto a saucer, hardened into a small, messy sculpture. The bed is half-made. A throw blanket in a tangled heap at the foot of it. He recognizes that blanket. You two fought over it last movie night and then ended up sharing it.

There’s another book lying face-down, this time on the mattress. A knife on the nightstand. A half-written grocery list in your handwriting with his name scrawled at the bottom next to coffee and razor blades and more apples.

He stares at the list too long. At his own name like it sits in the wrong place. Like it’s foreign and familiar all at once.

His heart makes a quiet, traitorous sound in his chest.

He shouldn’t be here.

This isn’t his room. It’s not his place. Not his world. He’s just a shadow slipping through someone else’s life.

The longer he stays, the more it feels like the walls are leaning in.

He has a job.

A mission.

A very, very clear objective and a limited window to complete it in. That’s the only reason he’s here. The only reason he agreed to this whole ridiculous plan.

He doesn’t belong to this life.

He doesn’t belong to you.

Not like this.

Especially not like this.

He steps back. Slow. Controlled. As if the room might lurch and pull him in again, keep him held tight inside the heat of it. The scent of lavender on your pillow. A half-drunk mug of something still faintly warm on the desk. A soft blanket, folded neatly over the back of the couch by the window. Woven wool, pale grey, fraying just at the corners. In his world, that blanket lives in the rec room. He draped it over your slumbering body a few times already after you fell asleep somewhere between the second and third act.

The room creaks as though it knows he’s not supposed to be here.

So he leaves.

Each footfall measured like a soldier retreating from a line of fire. Not because of danger.

Because of what it could mean.

He closes the door behind him. Doesn’t let it latch.

He is leaving your room because he has to.

Because he’s still Bucky Barnes, and he still has something to do with his hands that isn’t letting them hover uselessly over photographs he never shot, or standing in the middle of a space that smells like your skin and wondering how long it would take before he forgot this wasn’t real. Or wasn’t his.

The hallway is still and dim. It breathes around him, too familiar and too wrong all at once. Different lungs, but the same bone structure.

His boots scruff over the same tile. The grooves on the walls are the same, the small imperfections in the paint still visible where someone - Clint, maybe - banged a cart too hard against the corner and then tried to cover it up with exactly the wrong shade of touch-up.

There’s a duffle bag sitting outside the laundry chute with a name tag stitched in crooked red thread: WILSON. Of course. Even this Sam never takes his stuff all the way in.

And there is a vending machine. It stands in the wrong corner, but it too has a post-it note stuck to it - out of order, again, thanks Tony - with a penknife stabbed through it, just like Natasha used to do when the machine ate her protein bar credits.

These things shouldn’t exist here. But they do.

Everything feels so carefully replicated, as though this universe is a reflection cast on rippling water - almost right, except where it wavers.

The picture frames are all straight here. No one’s taped up drawings on the elevator doors. But the dent in the wall by the training room door is still there - Tony left it during a particularly aggressive dodgeball game. And the pillow on the corner of the couch is still upside down. Steve never fixes it.

Someone’s sweatshirt is slung over the railing. Sam’s. Same one he wore for three weeks straight after the Lagos op. It still smells like burned rubber and that weird detergent Sam insists is “eco-friendly but manly.”

The common room has a blanket folded over the arm of the couch.

It’s yours.

You always fold it the same way. Two halves, then thirds, then smoothed flat.

The corners of his mouth twitch. Not a smile. Just muscle memory of one.

He walks slower now. Like he’s afraid he’ll wake something up.

He turns down the south hall, toward the kitchen.

He tells himself it’s for the layout. That he’s retracing steps, building a map in his head, keeping sharp like they trained him to. But really it’s you. It’s always you. He knows you’re here, somewhere, and if he turns the wrong corner too fast he might see you in a way he isn’t ready for. Or worse - see you in a way he’ll never forget.

His hand curls into a fist. Flesh and metal both.

The light changes first.

The kitchen here is bigger. Airier. The windows seem to stretch wider than they should, the frame redone in something softer than steel. Someone left the lights low, warm glimmers buzzing faintly above, full of melancholy chords.

And then he freezes. Everything in him turns to stone.

He stops breathing.

Because there are you.

Standing with your back to him.

You are in fuzzy socks, standing at the counter, shoulders relaxed, a pot simmering on the stove, and a sway in your movements that hit him so hard his throat tightens. You shift your weight slightly, hip against the edge of the counter, your hand rising to tuck your hair behind your ear.

The way the light hits you from behind is exactly the same.

You are moving through a rhythm you don’t know he’s watching.

You’re cooking something - he doesn’t know what, can’t smell it through the barrier of this aching distance - but it all is so heartbreakingly familiar. The tilt of your head as you read the label. The absent little sway in your hips as you stir something in the pan.

It’s domestic.

Effortlessly soft.

The kind of moment he’s never had, but has imagined a thousand times before.

His body goes very still. Maybe if he moves, the moment might shatter.

But it cleaves him open.

Because you move the same.

You move the way you do in his world - as though every room bends slowly toward you. As though you don’t know how much of your soul you leave behind in your trail. As though the air makes space for you because it wants to. Because it has to.

He watches.

Rooted to the floor.

This is doing something brutal to him. Seeing you here like this, in this soft golden kitchen that smells like tomatoes and thyme and something slow-cooked with patience and love, tucked into his shirt as though it doesn’t tear his heart apart.

You’re not just wearing it to steal warmth or tease him, the way you’ve done before in his world - tugging on his hoodie after a long mission, smirking when he raises an eyebrow, pretending it was an accident. You always returned it too quickly. Always laughed too loudly when he was too nonchalant about it. Always looked away too fast.

But here. Here you wear it as though you truly mean to.

Here you stir sauce in his shirt and sway slightly to a song you don’t know you’re humming and taste the spoon as though this is just another Saturday. Here, the shirt is not a stolen thing.

The hem skims your thighs. The collar is stretched slightly. The cotton even moves in your rhythm. His name is ghosted into the shape of you, etched along your silhouette. It’s almost too much. It’s absolutely too much.

Your movements are familiar in the way only time can make a person. And God, you move the same way. The same way. Like the version of you he left behind an hour ago. Fluid. Quiet. Self-contained. You hum under your breath, just barely.

He feels it like a bruise forming under his ribs.

His hand curls at his side. Metal fingers flex.

You don’t see him.

He’s not ready for you to. He knows he shouldn’t let you see him.

Not here. Not like this. Not when you’re standing in a kitchen that looks like the one you always complained was too small, in a shirt that is his - or the other Bucky’s - cooking with your whole body curled in that same subtle tension like you’re thinking about something else entirely.

And for one breathless second, he forgets.

He forgets this isn’t his kitchen.

That this isn’t his world.

That the you standing there isn’t the one who left a hair tie on his wrist last Wednesday.

That you’re not the one who laughed at him for not knowing how to use your espresso machine but then proceeded to teach him with that sweet voice of yours he doesn’t mind drowning in.

But God, he wants to walk across the room. Wants to slide his arms around your waist. Rest his chin on your shoulder. Breathe in your scent and feel your heartbeat under his hands.

Because he’s seen you like this before.

In his own kitchen, in his own universe.

Not often. Just enough to be dangerous.

You, in fuzzy socks. You, humming softly. You, squinting into a pot like it might confess its secrets.
You, looking over your shoulder and catching him staring.

Smirking. Amused. But with a warmth in your eyes.

And now, he just watches.

This version of you doesn’t turn around. Doesn’t feel him standing there, made of want and memory and too much tenderness for a heart that was never meant to carry this much.

He grips the doorframe.

Tries to swallow the pain.

Because this is what he’s always wanted, but it isn’t his.

And it won’t be.

But he can’t stop looking.

He knows he should move. Now.

He’s not supposed to linger.

Not supposed to look.

Not supposed to feel.

He’s a shadow in this world, a breath not meant to be heard. A presence designed to pass unnoticed.

But you-

God.

You are gravity and he is weak against it.

You are the glitch in every rule, the exception in every universe.

And he can’t help it.

He looks.

He stays.

Because there is no version of reality where he walks past you untouched.

You are the only thing in this place that hasn’t changed.

The only thing that feels right.

And that’s the worst part.

Because you feel like home.

And you’re not his.

You might never be.

But he stands there, selfish and still, pretending the silence could make him invisible. Pretending this version of you isn’t real. That your shape, your voice, your hands wouldn’t undo him in ways the war never could.

You reach for the spice rack, standing on your toes just a little, the hem of the oversized shirt lifting slightly. His name is written in the way the fabric hangs off your frame. It’s branded into this whole place.

He watches you like a man watches fire from the other side of glass - warmed, lit, and ruined all at once. You move like morning through him - and he, all dusk and dust, knows he is never meant to touch such light.

You wear that shirt on your shoulders as though it is normal for you. As though you want it to be there.

Bucky watches it stretch across the curves of a body he’s only ever worshiped in dreams.

You still feel like you, he thinks and the thought is so sudden and so violent that he has to step back - just a fraction of an inch, just enough to pretend he didn’t feel it, just enough to pretend it doesn’t mean something.

He doesn’t understand how this version of you still reads like poetry he’s already memorized.

He backs away, so slowly, he wonders if time might forgive him for the moment. For his hesitation to leave.

For the way, he just stands there and watches you as though you are the last good thing in the world.

As though you are the world. His world.

You turn, slow, stirring spoon still in hand. You haven’t seen him yet. You’re focused, brow furrowed just slightly, lower lip caught between your teeth, and he knows he should get the hell away from here.

But he is frozen in place. His muscles aren’t working.

He sees the angle of your cheek, the line of your neck, the quick twitch of your nose as though you’ve caught a scent you know too well.

And then you look up.

You see him.

Bucky’s mind is running on empty cells.

Your whole face changes. Clouds lifting. Sun rising. Your smile is instant. As though seeing him is something your body wants to do.

Everything in you brightens. As though the sun cracked open inside your chest. Your whole body jolts. Just a fraction. In surprise, delight. As though seeing him is something that rearranges the air in your lungs and makes it easier to breathe.

He is not prepared for the way you breathe his name.

“Buck-” your voice is thick with shock and joy and something lighter than either. “You’re back.”

He doesn’t move. Can’t.

The word back rattles in his ears. Echoes. Feels like a lie made of gold. He is not back. He is not yours. Not in this life. Not in this room. Not in the way you somehow seem to think he is.

You don’t give him time to speak. You don’t give him space to even think.

Because you’re already closing the distance between you, fast and sure-footed, and he has just enough sense left in him to realize he should say something, before you launch yourself into his chest, arms flung wide, a soft gasp of excitement still spilling from your mouth.

You collide with him hard and certain and unapologetic, and your arms wind around his neck as though they’ve done this a thousand times. So easy with him. Knowing the shape of him.

He stiffens. Every muscle in his body locks up, heart ricocheting against his ribs. He chokes on his breath.

He’s too overwhelmed with this situation to hug you back. His arms stay frozen at his side. His fingers twitch, trying to reach for you but remembering they shouldn’t.

You’re warm. You’re so warm.

You smell like that candle on your windowsill. Like a version of comfort he hasn’t earned.

“Why didn’t you tell me you were back?” you murmur, voice muffled as you bury yourself into the crook of his neck, full of a joy so honest it makes his entire ribcage squeeze the life out of him. “I thought you were still stuck over there. I was starting to get worried. Were you trying to surprise me? Because you definitely surprised me.”

Bucky can’t speak. He can’t do a single thing and that’s absolutely pathetic. He wants to say something clever or distant or safe, but his mouth is a graveyard and the words are bones. He’s not sure he even remembers how to use them anymore.

Your breath fans across his collarbone, your nose brushing his jaw, and it’s too much.

The feeling of you against him is unbearable. You fit. Of course, you do. His body knows you, even if his brain is screaming that this is wrong, that this is not the life he is living, that this version of you is not his to touch.

But you don’t know that. You don’t hesitate. Your hands slide up his back. One of them tangles in the hair at the nape of his neck. The other rests against the curve of his shoulder. His flesh shoulder.

He feels like glass. Like a single breath could rip him to shreds.

You pull back just enough to look at him.

There is something tender in your eyes. Something known. Something that sees him without flinching. You’re beaming. And he is blinded.

You’re looking at him as though he’s something you loved for years and known down to the marrow.

And then, so quickly, so confidently - you kiss him.

Bucky freezes.

All the air leaves his lungs.

His heart stutters in his chest.

Your lips meet his as though the air between you has gravity, as though you have done this before, soft and sure, knowing how he likes it. You kiss him as though you’ve kissed him a thousand times and a thousand more.

Bucky is a rigid wall, thunderstruck.

But he doesn’t stop you.

He should. He knows he should. The second your hands touched his face, he should have stepped back. Should have told you the truth. Should have warned you that this isn’t him. Not the right one. That the man you think you’re kissing is a ghost wearing someone else’s memories.

But he doesn’t. He lets you. For a heartbreaking moment. Lets his mouth press to yours for the span of a beat and a half. Lets the warmth of you crack the ice he’s been carrying in his chest for too long.

Your lips are warm, soft, sweet, tasting of honey and cinnamon and nostalgia and the imaged version of a dream he’s buried too deep to name, one he’s never dared to reach for but still lingers in his bones. Bucky doesn’t know if he’s breathing or if that became something irrelevant.

He lets you press into him as though the whole world hasn’t changed, as though this you is not a stranger wearing your skin, your voice, your tenderness. And for a second, a small and selfish, shattering second, he melts.

His muscles go slack and his eyes fall closed and the universe falls into place. Your lips on his feel like relief, like the end of war, like something he didn’t earn. He lets himself sink into it, into you.

You kiss him as though you know him. As though you know the hollow places and where they go. As though your body is working off muscle memory forged from love he was never around long enough to deserve.

Your hands are on his face and you’re kissing him as though this means something and he wants to pull away, he does, but not for one split-second. He folds like wax in flames, pliant and helpless under your affection.

His heart stutters - skips, crashes, burns.

Your body is pressing forward as though it’s coming home.

His mouth moves with yours, slow and stunned and melted, like a man learning to breathe in a language he doesn’t speak.

This is what he has imagined. This is what has haunted the spaces behind his eyes when he lets his guard down. He has imagined this. Wondered what your breath would taste like when it caught between your mouths, how your fingers would feel fisted in his hair, how it might feel to be wanted by you - openly, without hesitation, without shame.

But then you whisper against his mouth, soft and breathless and full of joy.

“God, I missed you.”

And everything collapses.

The words strike like ice water down his spine. It’s like being shot. He grows tense again. His eyes snap open. His mind catches up to his heart. The sweetness goes sour in his mouth. The warmth becomes poison under his skin. Because it isn’t real. This isn’t real.

You’re not his.

Not his to kiss. Not his to miss him. Not his to touch him with that bright look in your eyes as though he is part of your story.

You think he’s your Bucky. The one who - as Bucky would imagine - kissed you on every hallway in this place, whenever he could. The one who knows which side of the bed you sleep on. The one who earned your trust, your touch, your history.

And so he breaks the sky.

He pulls away - rips himself out of paradise with shaking hands and a jaw clenched so tight it might snap. The breath that leaves him is ragged, torn.

Every muscle in his body is tight. This is not your kiss. Not yours to give or his to take. Not when you don’t know. Not when you think he’s someone else.

And even though it’s you - your warmth, your voice, your heartbeat fluttering against his chest - it’s not the version of you he’s imagined this with.

And it’s not right.

The guilt punches him all at once, shame and grief and confusion he’s never quite learned to survive. He recoils - not even fully on purpose - but instinct, instinct that tells him he has stolen something you didn’t offer him.

He’s just a stranger behind familiar eyes.

You freeze. Blink at him. Confused. Concerned.

Your smile falters. Disappears.

His chest heaves once, twice, too fast, not able to breathe properly with your taste still caught in his mouth. His hands curl into fists at his side, trying to remember what they are for.

And then he sees it - your worry folding into something smaller, something more ashamed.

And it murders him in slow motion, one heartbeat at a time.

Your hands drop away from his face and flutter against your lips for the smallest second as though maybe you’re the one who crossed a line.

And he watches, helpless, as the light behind your eyes dims.

You take a tiny step back, shoulders inching inwards as though you’re suddenly unsure of yourself.

And then your eyes widen, and the guilt spills out of you now, sharp and immediate.

“Buck, I-” you start, your voice soft and hesitant. “I’m sorry. That was… I shouldn’t have just- I didn’t mean to- God, you probably needed a second to just settle, and I-” you trail off and take another step back as though you think you hurt him.

Your face crumples, not dramatically, not completely. But enough to look a little wounded. Vulnerable in that way you only let him see when no one else is around. Even here. Even in this life that isn’t his.

It’s killing him.

That pain in your eyes. The sheen of doubt and confusion that he put there.

You wrap your arms around yourself, retreating inward, your expression far too close to shame.

His chest caves as though something vital just got torn out, and his body hasn’t caught up yet.

Because even if you are not his - you are you. And hurting you, even by accident, even like this, feels like peeling the skin of his ribs.

He feels it in the hollow beneath his ribs, a wound that won’t stop bleeding.

“No!” he forces out quickly, voice low and rough and all wrong. “Hey- no, no, you didn’t- You weren’t- I’m not-”

But he doesn’t know what to say.

He wants to tell you it’s okay, that you didn’t do anything wrong, that it’s him, it’s all him, it’s always him, it’s never you.

He wants to scream that his bones are made of want, that his blood sings only your name, that he is drowning in everything you don’t know you’ve given him.

But none of this is simple. None of it is clean.

And all he does is stand there.

Breath shaking.

Heart breaking.

Hands curled so tightly to keep from reaching.

Because you didn’t give this kiss to him, not knowing who he was. You gave it to the man you think he is. The man you trust.

And he accepted it anyway. Let it happen. For just a split second, but still, he let himself have it.

He feels sick.

And now you look like you’re folding in on yourself, and all he wants in the world is to pull you close and undo every second of pain.

“I just got excited,” you say timidly, even softer now, eyes dropping to the kitchen counter. “I missed you and I didn’t- I thought you’d- Never mind. I’m sorry.”

You’re already turning away, trying to tuck the moment back into yourself, trying to pretend it didn’t just break the air between you. As though you haven’t just handed him a piece of your heart and watched him flinch from it.

And Bucky feels like the worst kind of monster.

Because it’s not your fault. This version of you, who somehow but clearly loves him, who thought she was greeting the man who has kissed her a thousand times and more. Who thought this was welcome. Who probably counted down the days until he walked through that door.

He knows because he does the same thing although his you and him aren’t even a thing.

Because in his world, you’re his friend. Just that. A friend with soft eyes and sharper wit, someone who argues about popcorn toppings and sings loudly in the kitchen when you know he needs some cheering up. You’ve patched him up after missions. You’ve watched old movies with him in silence, both of you staring too long at the screen and not long enough at each other. You’ve fallen asleep on his shoulder. You’ve tucked his hair behind his ear when it stuck to his cheek after a nightmare. You’ve told him - more than once - that you’re here for him.

But you’ve never kissed him.

You’ve never touched him as though you owned the moment.

You’ve never stood in his clothes and cooked dinner for the version of him who let himself be yours.

And god, he wants to hate this version of himself. This man who found the courage to step forward when he only hovered on the edge. Who earned the right to be held by his dream girl like a homecoming.

And now you are ashamed. Now you are hurt.

Because he couldn’t be the right Bucky.

He steps forward, frantic, needing, desperate to fix it, to say something, anything that would wipe that hurt look off your face.

“No- no, hey,” he rasps, voice frayed. His hands are hovering. He wants to touch you. He wants to hold your face in his palms and make this better. “It’s not your fault. It’s not you. I just… I mean, I didn’t think-” He knows he’s not making this better at all right now.

He sighs, mouth open but language failing him, and he scrubs a hand over his jaw as though he can erase the hesitation you saw there.

You search his face, your eyes too deep.

A trembling nod.

“Okay,” you say. “I just thought- I don’t know what I thought. I was just really happy to see you. But I should’ve given you a moment.”

And there it is.

The softness.

The part of you he has always tried to guard. The one he’d go back to Hydra to protect. The one that makes his chest ache and his hands shake at his sides.

He wants to tell you everything. The truth. The mission. That he’s not the man you think he is.

He almost does.

But his throat is choked up.

“I’m sorry,” you whisper, and that only breaks him in a new way.

Because you think you did something wrong.

“No,” he starts again, firmer this time, softer too. “You don’t need to apologize, sweetheart. I-” he hesitates, and you see it. “I missed you, too.”

He screwed up. Completely.

You bite your lip, unsure. Your eyes flick down to your shirt. His shirt. Not really his shirt. But Bucky’s shirt. You tug at the hem as though it suddenly doesn’t belong to you anymore.

And Bucky knows that this moment will haunt him long after he leaves this world. Long after he goes back to the version of you who wears his hoodies just to tease, who touches him only in passing, who is his friend despite him wishing for you to greet him the same way this you greets her Bucky. For the rest of his life.

You look at him as though he’s a wound.

As though he’s something tender and broken and half-open, and not in the way that frightens you but in the way that makes you reach for the first aid kit. As though you’ve seen the blood already, and you are not afraid to get your hands dirty to make him whole again.

Your voice turns softer now. Maybe trying not to shake the walls around him. Like you’ve already seen him flinch once and you’re afraid of making it happen again. He can hear the thread of caution in your throat, stretched thin with concern.

“Buck,” you say, slow, quiet. “Are you okay?” you ask and it’s not just a question. It’s a doorway. A key turned in a lock he hasn’t let anyone touch. You’re peering through the walls he built up as though you have done it before. Maybe you know all his hiding places. Maybe you’ve kissed every scar on his soul and memorized the way his silences mean different things.

But not this version of him.

Not here. Not now.

And it does something sharp to him.

Because he’s not okay. He is a thousand feet below the surface, lungs full of water and salt and regret. He is standing in a version of his life that is too soft for the callouses on his hands, and you are looking at him as if he means something to you, as if he still matters even after he’s flinched from your kiss, after he’s stood there in a borrowed skin, giving nothing in return.

He wants to say yes. Wants to lie because it would be kinder. Because maybe it would make your forehead smooth out and your mouth curl back up and your shoulders drop from where they’ve crept up near your ears. But the words catch in his throat. He can’t swallow them. He can’t spit them out.

You step closer, slowly now, more careful than before, and the guilt rises more than ever.

“Do you need anything?” you ask, as though you’ve asked him this a thousand times before. “Water? Food? A shower? A-” you falter, “- a second to breathe?”

Your eyes are so gentle he could cry. You’re hurting and you’re still soft with him, still reaching across this invisible crack in the earth, still offering care with both hands like it won’t burn you if he doesn’t take it.

He doesn’t deserve this.

He doesn’t deserve you.

Not when he’s not the man who earned the right to walk through that door and be met with your affection like sunlight. Not when you looked at him like a miracle and he gave you nothing back but a statue.

His hands remain in fists. His chest is too tight. Too small. His own skin is too loud.

“I’m fine,” he answers. Too fast. Too clipped. He regrets it instantly.

Your face drops a little, enough for him to feel it all over again. Another weight, another reminder that he is ruining something delicate, something not meant for him.

“Oh,” you murmur, nodding too quickly, stepping back as though your warmth was a mistake. “Okay.”

And there it is.

That thing he can’t stand.

That thing you do - both of you, all versions of you - when you feel shut out. That pull inward, that retreat behind your own ribs, as though maybe you’d overstepped, and now you need to fold yourself small enough not to take up space.

It crushes him.

Because he made you feel that way.

He made you feel as though you’re making it worse by caring.

He swallows hard, sorrow burning down his throat.

He doesn’t deserve your tenderness. He doesn’t deserve your care. He doesn’t deserve the way you’re moving again, back to the counter, shoulders tense. You’re trying to give him space and comfort in the same breath and it hurts to watch.

You stir something in the pan. Wipe your hands off a towel that looks as though it’s been used too many times. Domestic. Familiar. This life is familiar, too much so, and he is standing in the middle of it like a trespasser.

“I’m almost done here,” you note sweetly, glancing back at him with that look - gentle and worried and wounded. “If you do want something.”

You say it as though you’ve fed him before. As though he likes your cooking. As though this is something you fall into easily, the kitchen your common ground, your voice echoing off the same cabinets.

Bucky can feel his heart cave in.

You’re still looking at him like that. As though he’s someone you’d give your last spoonful of soup to. As though he isn’t just standing there like a coward with your kiss still on his mouth and your concern sitting in the hollow of his chest.

Even when he pulled away, even when he didn’t say a damn word, you didn’t get angry. You didn’t accuse him of anything. You just worried. And you’re still here. Still cooking. Still offering pieces of yourself like they’re nothing when they mean everything.

It makes him feel like a thief.

Because he’s not your Bucky. And he doesn’t know what yours did to earn you, but he can’t possibly live up to it.

His guilt is a creature now - gnawing and breathing heavy in his chest, pacing in circles behind his ribs. He feels it crawling through him, scraping at the back of his throat, making it hard to speak, hard to swallow. You are being careful with him, and all he can think about is how he should have stopped the kiss the second you leaned in.

You wouldn’t have kissed him if you knew who he really was.

And still, he wants to say yes.

Wants to sit at the kitchen table as though he belongs. Wants to take the plate you’d hand him and eat every last bite and listen to your stories and pretend just for a moment that this is his.

But it’s not.

It’s yours.

And it’s his job to leave it untouched.

“I’m good,” he lies, voice a gravel-dragged croak.

You pause, spoon in hand, frowning softly.

He hates that look.

That little line between your brows. The tilt of your head. Maybe you know he’s not telling the truth but don’t want to press. Maybe you’d rather hold the silence in your hands than make him bleed more words than he has.

“Okay,” you say again, quiet but still open, still gentle. “Just let me know if that changes.”

And you turn back to your pan, shoulders remaining to stay curled in. Like a window closing just enough to keep the cold out.

And Bucky just stands there.

Mouth dry. Hands shaking. Jaw tight. Chest full of something that feels like grief and guilt and anguish all tangled up in barbed wire.

And you’re cooking for a man who doesn’t exist in your world.

And the worst part - the part that scrapes down the back of his throat - is that he wishes he could deserve you.

He wishes this was real.

He wishes it were him.

He wishes it more than he’s wished for anything in his life since he lost it.

Since he became something else, since he forgot his own name, since his hands were turned against the world, against himself. Since all he’s done is survive.

He watches you like a man starving for sunlight. Terrified it might disappear if he blinks too long.

The way your shoulders move as you stir. The curl of your fingers around the wooden spoon. The tuck of hair behind your ear. The shift of your weight from one foot to the other.

He watches you move like he’s memorizing. As though this is the last time he’ll see you in motion. Like your movements are things he can bottle and carry with him, tucked deep into some pocket where the world can’t steal it. Where time can’t take it. Where even regret has no reach.

Your fingers fuss over something inconsequential now. Adjusting the position of a mug that didn’t need to be moved, opening a drawer, and then closing it again. You’re pretending not to look at him but he sees the way your eyes keep falling over, the way you keep folding and unfolding yourself. You’re waiting. Giving him the space he didn’t ask for and that he doesn’t actually want but knows he should take. Giving him something kinder than he’s ever learned to give himself.

And you are so familiar. You’re the same here. Even in this place that’s slightly sideways and tinted in colors, he doesn’t recognize. You move the same. You speak the same. You care the same way.

Even if your kindness isn’t meant for him.

Even if your kiss was meant for a version of him he doesn’t even understand.

Because this Bucky - the one you seem to love here - he must have done something right. He must have looked at you one day and not looked away. He must have let himself have you. He must have been brave enough to reach for you with both hands and hold on.

Bucky doesn’t know how to be that man.

He wants to be.

But he doesn’t know how.

Not in his own world. Not where he loves you from afar and pretends that’s protection. Where he swallows the way you laugh like it’s medicine and doesn’t let it show on his face. Where he listens to your questions in briefings - always you, always asking the most, as though you know people better than they know themselves - and he lets the sound of your voice guide him through the fog in his head like a rope he can follow back home.

But he never says anything. Never answers unless he has to. Never tells you how often he thinks about you, about your hands and your hair and your smell and the way your eyes find his in a crowd like a lighthouse built just for him.

Because what would he even say?

Hey, I can’t sleep unless I replay the way you laughed when Sam dropped popcorn all over the floor last month. I still have the napkin you folded into a crane at that terrible diner. I know the shape of your handwriting better than my own.

And what would you say to that?

Would you smile?

Would you run?

He doesn’t know. He’ll never know. Because he never asked. Because he never tried.

But this Bucky did.

And now this is the price.

Standing in the compound’s kitchen that smells of roasted garlic and too many things he’s never had. Watching you move around as though this is all so very familiar to you.

He wonders if you’d greet him like this every day if he were yours. If you were his.

If you’d light up like that every time like he was coming come and not just showing up, arms open, voice warm, like there was no place he could be safer than here with you.

If you’d wear his shirts as though they are yours because of what he means to you, not because they are soft or convenient or too clean not to steal.

He aches with the idea of it.

He wants this.

He wants you.

And not just in the sharp pain that lives under his ribs. Not just in the sleepless nights and the imagined conversations. Not just in the way he stares too long when you’re laughing or how he makes excuses to sit beside you on the couch.

He wants this.

You, warm and open and lit up from the inside. You, the way you could be if you saw him like this. If you let yourself. If he ever earned the right for you to let yourself.

But he hasn’t. He knows that.

He’s just your friend. The one you trust with your coffee order and your spare key and the heavy things you don’t want to talk about until 2 am. The one you steal clothes from, but always give them back because they don’t actually belong to you. The one you fall asleep beside during late movies without worrying about what it means because it doesn’t mean anything. Not to you.

Not like it means to him.

And still, he always watches. From doorways. From shadowed corners of rooms that dim the moment you leave them. Not to possess you - but because to look away would be a small death he cannot bear.

You laugh, and he holds the sound like contraband. You glance past him, and he lets it wound him sweetly. He’ll love you like that forever - at a distance, in silence, in awe. A man carved hollow by devotion, wearing his yearning like a prayer no god will answer.

And this version of you belongs to someone.

Even if it’s just a different version of him, it’s not him. Not this one. Not the one still lost in the burden of everything he’s done. The one who still wonders if the blood on his hands will ever wash off. The one who doesn’t know how to be soft.

He doesn’t know what the other Bucky did to deserve this version of you. Doesn’t know how he got so lucky. Doesn’t know what he offered you, what words he spoke when you were doubting yourself, afraid of being too much.

He’s not sure if he even knows this Bucky. It sounds weird as fuck. But maybe he doesn’t. Because it seems impossible to Bucky that this guy actually managed to get his girl. To get you.

Though he sure as hell would start a fight if the other him ever took this for granted. If he ever walked through this kitchen distracted or tired or in a bad mood and missed the way you smile when you think he’s not looking. If he ever left you waiting too long.

Bucky thinks he’d kill to have what that punk has.

And he hates himself for that.

But he can’t help but watch you, and it feels like the axis of something turning. Like time folding in on itself to offer him one brief, borrowed breath of what could have been.

It feels like being kissed by a future he lost, and forgiven by a present he never dared to ask for.

Because he knows that if you knew his thoughts, if you knew what he is feeling right now, you’d feel betrayed. You’d feel wronged. Because this wasn’t yours to give and it wasn’t his to want and now you’re both tangled in something made of shadows and parallel paths that should never have crossed.

But you’re here. And he’s here. And the moment still smells of cinnamon and citrus and something sweet, like safety, like you.

And he can’t stop wanting.

He wants it so badly he feels like a child in his chest. Like a boy in Brooklyn again, heart too big, hands too empty. Wanting something too beautiful for his fingers. Afraid to touch it in case he ruins it.

He wants this kitchen, this quiet, this life. He wants to be the Bucky who you wrap your arms around without thinking. Without hesitation. The one you miss. The one you think about. The one you care about so deeply. The one you kiss without asking because of course he wants you to.

He wants to be the one you light up for.

He wants it so bad it hurts.

But you are too soft for the ruin of his hands. Too bright for the rooms he lives in. You drink from fountains he was never invited to approach, speak in tones that his rusted soul cannot mimic.

And this is gutting him. To know the shape of your intimate kindness, the tilt of your adoring smile, the poetry of your presence - yet remain nothing more than a silent apostle to your orbit.

And maybe that’s why he finally moves. Why he tears himself away, footfalls too loud in the silence, heart thudding wildly in his chest.

He can’t stay here, not with you standing in the soft yellow light looking like everything he’s ever tried not to need.

He clears his throat, tries to make his voice sound normal, even though nothing about him feels human right now.

Your eyes lift to his. Wary. Still warm. Still worried. Still too much.

“I should, uh,” he mutters, nodding toward the hallway. “I’ve gotta take a shower.”

He bites his lip in frustration at himself.

Your lip twitches. Tugs down ever so slightly. It splits him open.

“Okay,” you say, quiet. There is disappointment in your tone, you weren’t able to overshadow. “You’ll tell me if you need anything?”

He nods too fast. Too tight. “Yeah.”

And then he leaves.

Because if he doesn’t, he’s going to do something worse than kiss you back.

He’s going to beg.

And he knows he has already taken too much.

And he needs to turn away.

Because he has something to do.

Because this world isn’t his. And he wasn’t sent here to collect the storyline he’s too afraid to build on his own.

He’s here for a mission.

He wasn’t sent here to linger in your doorway and let his bones dissolve into longing.

He walks away with you still behind him. He feels your gaze on his skin and with every step, it’s like he’s leaving something behind he’ll never quite be able to touch again.

He almost turns around.

Almost says your name.

Almost asks what this Bucky did - how he said it first, how he reached for you, what it took.

But he doesn’t.

Because he doesn’t get to ask.

So he keeps walking, heart in his throat, your taste still on his lips, and the echo of your smile carved into his spine like something sacred he was never meant to keep.

****

“Did you run into anyone while you were there?”

Steve’s question comes as casually as a bomb dropped from the sky.

Voices rise and fall in the conference room - wooden chairs squeaking under shifting weight, pens clicking, someone’s fingers drumming absently on the table.

The room is too bright. The lights overhead white and clinical, burning a little too harshly through his eyes and down into the back of his skull.

The air smells like ozone and burnt coffee. The kind that’s been sitting in the pot too long, scorched at the edges.

Bucky sits at the far end. Back against the chair but not relaxed, never relaxed, spine too straight, jaw too tight, metal fingers tapping once against the glass of his water before he clenches his hand and stills it.

And he knew this was coming.

Knew from the moment Strange opened that cursed slit in the fabric of the universe and Bucky stepped through like he was boarding a train to nowhere. Knew the second he saw your face - your face, but not yours - that this would catch up with him. That this would unravel under fluorescent lights and scrutiny.

Every muscle in his body coiled tighter. A reflex. A learned thing. His mouth is already dry.

The table is crowded with Avengers, coffee cups clinking, files half-open and untouched because no one is really looking at the paper.

The prototype sits in the center of the table, carefully sealed inside one of Tony’s vacuum-shielded cases. A long-forgotten Howard Stark fever dream, something meant to bend energy fields into weaponized gravity. Or something. It doesn’t matter.

They have it. He got it.

But that’s not what anyone is talking about right now.

Not when Sam is already side-eyeing him. Not when Doctor Strange is seated in his dark robes like the warning label on a grenade, fingertips tented, waiting. Not when you’re sitting two chairs down - his version of you - and you’re watching him with that same knitted expression you always wear when something doesn’t sit right.

“Bucky,” Strange says, voice low and still too loud. “I need to know. Did you encounter anyone significant while you were there? Interacting with alternate selves is risky. Prolonged exposure can ripple. If you spoke to someone who knows you-”

“I know the damn rules,” Bucky mutters, sharper than he meant to, and instantly hates the way your brows lift at the sound of it.

He rubs a hand across the back of his neck. Tries to breathe. His body is still holding something that didn’t belong to him. Your smile. Your voice. The feel of your lips, pressed to his like they had every right to be there. Like you knew him.

He can’t stop thinking about you.

He doesn’t want to talk about it.

He dreads talking about it.

“There was someone,” he says, and the room quiets.

You sit a little straighter. Sam leans forward. Even Clint lowers his cup.

He can feel you watching him.

You, his version of you, sitting across the table with your arms crossed and your head tilted just enough to catch the shadows under his eyes. The real you. The only important you. And it’s so difficult to just look at you because he swears there’s a phantom echo still lingering in his chest. Of another you. Of another kitchen full of light.

“Who?” Strange asks.

Bucky exhales slowly, eyes fixed on the table. The grain of it. The scratch just under his knuckle. He imagines digging his fingers into it, splinters biting through skin, anything to ground himself.

“You,” He meets your eyes when he finally says it, and it feels like swallowing gravel. “I saw her.”

You blink.

“You ran into Y/n?” Sam asks, something like a smirk in his voice.

Bucky nods once. It feels like rust grinding his neck.

He can’t look up anymore. Can’t look at you.

He doesn’t need to look to know your breath has caught. He can feel it in the air. The absence of it. Like the moment before thunder.

He pushes through.

“She was there. She saw me.” His jaw clenches, his fists curl under the table.

Bruce exhales, pushing up his glasses. “That’s not ideal.”

Tony makes a sharp noise in his throat.

“Did you talk to her?” Strange inquiries, voice tighter now, more urgent. And Bucky has to refrain himself from wincing.

He sees you shifting in your seat in his peripheral vision.

“Yeah,” he sighs, quieter now. “We, uh- we talked.”

Silence.

Strange’s eyes are boring through him. “How close did you get?”

Sam leans forward. Bucky doesn’t look at him.

You’re staring at him now. Open. Quiet. You haven’t said a word. Your silence feels worse than anything else.

“I don’t think that matters-” Bucky starts, but Strange interrupts.

“It matters exactly. If she saw you, if you talked, if you touched, if anything that could destabilize your emotional tether occurred-”

Bucky laughs, but it’s hollow, breathless. Rotten. “What the hell is an emotional tether?”

“It’s you,” Strange answers simply. “And her. On a metaphysical level. The same person in different timelines can act as anchors. Or explosives.”

“Jesus,” Bucky mumbles, dragging a hand down his face.

His palms won’t stop sweating.

He hasn’t felt this kind of sick since HYDRA used to strap wires to his temples and ask him how many fingers they’d need to break before he forgot his own name.

The conference room is too still. Too sharp. His chair feels wrong under him, too stiff, too narrow. The soft, predictable sound of conversation from earlier has dropped into something tighter. Focused. Hunting.

He doesn’t want to lie. Not about you. Not when you touched him like that. Not when you said his name like that. Not when it almost felt like it could be true.

So he swallows hard and pushes words through his locked jaw.

“She hugged me.”

A pause.

He doesn’t look at anyone. Just the table. That one dent from Steve’s shield. The scratch Clint made with a fork because he talks with his hands. A small, folded paper crane tucked under your fingers. He doesn’t know where you’ve got that from but your fingers are bending the wings back and forth. He doesn’t think you even realize you’re doing it.

“She hugged you?” Sam repeats, brow raised. “Like… greeted you?”

Bucky nods slowly, heart thudding in his ears. “Something like that.” He can feel your gaze like heat pressed against the side of his face and it almost burns to meet it, so he doesn’t.

“What happened before that?” Steve wants to know, eyes narrowing.

“I-” Bucky starts, and then stops, scrubs a hand over his mouth. “I walked into the kitchen. She was cooking something. Then she saw me. She thought I- he- was back. From something. A mission. I don’t know the details.”

“And she hugged you,” Steve adds.

“Yeah,” Bucky sighs.

He doesn’t mean to look at you, but he does. For a second.

And you’re watching him with something unreadable in your eyes. Something still. As though you are trying to understand.

“And you just let her?” Sam presses, not unkind, but relentless in the way only Sam can be. “You didn’t say anything?”

“What do you think I should have said?”

“Well, I don’t know, man-“

“Did I say anything? Or… she?”

It’s your voice.

And it makes his stomach flip.

His eyes snap to you. But you’re not looking at him directly. You look at the edge of his shoulder. The hinge of his jaw. The tension written across his face.

He shifts in his chair. “You- She asked why I hadn’t told her I was coming back. Thought I was surprising her.” His hands are pressed flat against his thighs as though he can keep himself from shaking if he stays grounded.

“And?” Steve asks, too gently.

“She kissed me,” Bucky manages finally, and the room stiffens around him like a held breath. His voice is almost flat now. Hollowed-out. Maybe he’s trying to bleed the memory dry so it stops spreading in his chest.

There is a momentary lapse of silence that feels like someone dropped something delicate and no one wants to be the first to point it out.

Clint exhales slowly, muttering something under it. Sam leans back in his chair, maybe trying to decide if this is funny or devastating. Steve just blinks.

And you go completely still. Not a twitch of movement. Not even your fingers on the paper crane.

“She kissed you?” Natasha says, brows high.

Bucky exhales. Nods.

“What kind of kiss?” Sam blurts, leaning forward again. “A welcome-home kiss? Or a- like a real kiss?”

Steve sighs exasperated.

“No, I mean- we gotta know. This matters.”

His hand is aching. Flesh thumb pressing hard against the knuckle. “It was- not friendly.”

And the room really freezes. Stunned.

Until Sam lets out this sharp, incredulous sort of whistle, and Clint groans, dragging a hand down his face.

You glance down at your lap, jaw clenched, breath held so still it barely moves your chest. And it twists something in Bucky’s stomach, the way you sit there trying to disappear. He’s not sure who it hurts more - you, hearing this, or him, saying it. There is shame curling behind his ears. Shame and something like grief. And it’s all turned inward.

Sam’s eyes narrow. “So she kissed you thinking you were the other Bucky.”

Bucky doesn’t answer. He’s trying to keep still. Trying not to flinch. Trying not to look left. Trying not to look right. Trying not to look at you.

Because he feels the air around you shift like the press of a coming storm. It’s not anger. He knows that heat, and this isn’t it. It’s just quiet and tight and uncomfortable. A subtle withdrawal as though you’ve stepped behind some invisible wall only he can see.

And he hates it.

Bruce clears his throat carefully. “That implies a romantic connection. At least in her mind. Probably in his, too.”

Tony makes a face. “So we’re saying that Barnes and our girl are a thing in that universe.”

“Looks like it,” Natasha muses, eyes sliding toward you.

“Holy shit,” Clint remarks unhelpfully.

They say it so easily. As though this is nothing. As though this doesn’t wreck something fundamental in Bucky’s ribcage.

And suddenly everyone is quiet. Even the noise of the lights seem muted. It’s hot and awkward and strangely intimate.

Bucky stares down at his hands. They look like someone else’s. He can still feel your touch on them. Still feel the heat of your mouth against his. The softness. The way your lips pressed with such intention.

He says nothing.

He feels terrible.

Because a part of him still wants it.

Still aches with it.

Not the kiss. Not the accident.

The life.

That version of himself who gets to love you out loud. Who gets to be yours in daylight, in kitchens, in the moments that don’t demand heroism but just presence. That version of him that doesn’t have to swallow the way your voice makes something flutter in his chest like a broken-winged butterfly. The one who can kiss you because you already know him. Trust him. Want him. Miss him.

He wants that version to exist so badly.

And it makes him feel like a monster.

You’re sitting just far enough to be untouchable, just close enough that he can feel the space between you aching like a wound.

You are you. You are right there. And you don’t even know that in another universe, you loved him so much you ran into his arms without hesitation.

The light from the high windows drips in thin streaks across the long table, catching on Bucky’s knuckles, the tightness of his body.

There’s a long pause.

Then Tony exhales. “Well, that confirms it. Barnes is getting some in another universe.”

“Tony,” Natasha warns lowly.

Tony holds his hands up in mock innocence, but Strange interrupts them, turning to Bucky with a roll of his eyes. His cloak rustles.

“Did you tell her anything?” His voice is edged. “Did she suspect something?”

Bucky doesn’t answer immediately. He shifts in his seat. His back is too straight, and still, and his hands are bracing for something.

“No,” he relents. His voice is raw and rough like gravel pulled from the bottom of a riverbed. “I didn’t tell her anything.”

Strange’s eyes narrow. “Nothing?”

Bucky shakes his head. “Nothing.”

Strange tilts his head slightly. His expression is unreadable. Calculating. “Her behavior. Did she seem disoriented? Odd? Suspicious? I assume you know Y/n well enough to tell if she’s acting off.”

The lump in his throat settles as though it lives there.

“She was hurt,” he admits, and the words punch out of him. “I froze up. She thought she’d done something wrong. But she didn’t suspect anything.”

Across from him, you shift. A small movement. But he feels it in his bones. He looks up. Meets your eyes.

You’re watching him as though you’re trying to learn something about yourself from inside of him.

He swallows hard.

“I didn’t tell her anything,” he says again, and it’s not for Strange this time. It’s for you. “I didn’t compromise anything. I was careful.”

“You were compromised,” Strange says, not unkindly, but without sympathy. “Emotionally. Whether you said something or not.”

Bucky doesn’t argue.

Because yes. He was. He is. He doesn’t even know how to be anything else anymore. His chest still echoes with the memory of your laugh - not your laugh, but close enough to trick him. His arms still remember the shape of your body, the way you buried yourself into him. As though you’d been there a thousand times before and would be a thousand times again.

He wonders what that other you is doing now. If you are still standing in the kitchen, perhaps waiting for him. Still hurt. Still confused. Still so worried.

He wonders what that Bucky is doing now. If he’s back. If he’s home. If you’re in his arms, asking what took him so long. If he knows what he has. If he’s grateful. If he deserves you.

And he wonders too, if you - the you here, right across from him now, quiet and tense and real - will ever look at him that way.

Your eyes are on his and it seems as though you want to say something, as though maybe you’ve been wanting to say something for a while now.

He doesn’t hear the others anymore.

They’re voices in a room, sounds in space, language and logic pressing against the outside of a window he’s no longer looking through.

Because your eyes are on him and they are too open, too careful.

And, unfortunately for him, this is where the hope begins.

Small. Thin. Stupid.

Because there is a version out there who loved him already. Who ran to him as though he was safety and home and joy all wrapped in one reckless heart and it had been so easy for her. Natural, even. Like a reflex. Like a need.

And he has to think that if she could, then maybe you could too.

Maybe - if he just keeps showing up, if he keeps giving you pieces of himself even when it’s terrifying, even when he thinks he has nothing worth offering - maybe you’ll see something in him that you’ll want to keep.

Maybe he’s not beyond that.

Maybe he’s not on the edge of the world after all.

His heart stumbles inside him, a sharp jolt under his ribs, and he realizes too late that his breathing has gone shallow. His palm is sweating. His chest is aching in a way that is not just pain, but hunger, longing, desperate weightless wonder.

Strange is talking. Something about dimensional instability and neural resonance and all that science talk - but Bucky is no longer a soldier at a briefing.

He’s a man staring across a room at the person who has made his worst days survivable, and he’s remembering how it felt to see you in his shirt in a different kitchen, how you stood there with your back to him waiting for him to wrap his arms around you, how your lips tasted like things he should never know but can’t ever forget.

You shift again. Your knee knocks lightly against the leg of the table as you tuck your foot beneath you. And your hair falls forward, soft and a little tangled from the wind that always sneaks through the compound’s side doors. Your lips part, as though maybe you’re going to say something in front of everyone, and he braces for it, all of him going still like a wolf spotting something too delicate to touch.

But you don’t.

You break eye contact and tuck your hair behind your ear as though you caught yourself doing something you shouldn’t.

But Bucky doesn’t stop hoping.

Because he watched you do exactly that in a very different universe. Such a small gesture but it means so much to him.

Because yes, maybe he is not the Bucky she thought she kissed.

He’s not the Bucky who wakes up with you tangled in his sheets.

He’s not the Bucky who lets himself believe he could be loved without earning it first.

But maybe he could become that man.

Maybe if he tries hard enough, he too can get the girl.

Maybe if he works at this more than anything else that matters, you’ll love him too. Not just in some alternate world, but here.

In this one.

In your voice, when you say his name.

In your laugh, when he says something without meaning too.

In your eyes, when you don’t look away.

And he knows he would do anything to earn that.

He would do anything to be enough for you in the only universe that matters.

His fingers twitch. His shoulders square slowly, almost unconsciously, as though some decision has clicked into place without needing permission.

The room is still full. Voices layered over voices like shadows that haven’t realized the sun moved. Chairs creak beneath shifting bodies, Sam’s laughter breaking loose and grating on Bucky’s nerves.

The idiot is grinning, leaning back in his chair as though this whole situation is the best thing to happen this week. “Alternate-universe you is in a relationship, Barnes. What do we think about that, huh?”

“Sounds like he’s living the dream,” Clint mutters, giving Bucky a jab to the arm. “You finally got the girl, Barnes. Took a whole damn reality shift but you got there.”

Someone chuckles. Tony, maybe. Or even Steve. He can’t tell anymore. He can’t hear much over the buzz in his ears, over the sound of his own heart pounding behind his ribs.

“Hell, maybe all our multiverse selves are having better luck,” Sam remarks, amused.

Clint chuckles. “Ah, Barnes just grew a pair.”

“Well, that’s kind of a big deal, isn’t it?” Natasha, calm as ever, lifts one elegant eyebrow.

“Alternate-universe Barnes has game,” Sam says delighted.

“Lucky bastard,” Clint mutters under his breath.

They mean well. They always mean well. This is how they show they care. With ribbing and teeth-bared grins, with shoulders nudged, and things they don’t say louder than the ones they do. It’s how they keep their own wounds in check. How they keep from bleeding all over the carpet.

But Bucky isn’t laughing. He isn’t smiling. His lip twitches but only with frustration at his teammates.

He notices your stillness. The lines around your mouth have gone soft and tight all at once. Your hands are folded too carefully in your lap and your gaze is pinned to the table.

With every mention - every offhand comment, every teasing jab - he can see it.

The way your shoulders stuck in closer to themselves. The way your breath grows quiet and shallow. The way you can’t seem to look at him anymore.

He swallows around it, the sharpness in his throat, but it doesn’t go down.

Everyone else seems to think this is a strange, mildly awkward, maybe slightly endearing detail in a weird mission story.

But Bucky feels sick.

Because he’s seen it on your face. The way the information about the kiss struck you like a misfired bullet. A shadow in your eyes, the small breath that caught in your throat, the way you shifted your legs like you needed to move, to run, to put distance between yourself and what you heard.

God.

He’s such a fool.

A lovesick idiot.

Because he let that brightness curl in his chest. The hope that even though you have every right to feel nothing at all, even though he’s spent so long training himself not to want this, not to wish for things he can’t have - he truly thought that if there was a version of you that looked at him that way, that reached for him without fear, then maybe this version, this you - maybe there was something possible here too.

But now he is watching it close again. Watching you feeling uncomfortable, retreating into yourself, folding inward like the paper crane you left behind. And he knows the fault lines are his. That even his silence can crack things apart.

When the meeting finally breaks - Strange dismissing everyone with a calm nod and a list of inter-dimensional protocols Bucky doesn’t hear - you stand before anyone else. Quiet. Not hurried. Just deliberate.

As though you’ve made a decision.

You don’t look at him. Not once. Just gather your notes and your coffee and the sweater you left draped over the back of the chair.

And you leave.

No goodbye. No glance back. Not even that half-smile you offer when the day has left you tired and the silence between you feels soft instead of loud.

Bucky is on his feet before he realizes it. He ignores Sam calling after him, something about needing to finish signing off the tech. Doesn’t respond to Steve’s “Buck?” Doesn’t glance at Strange, who’s looking at him as though he already knows where this is headed.

All Bucky sees is the hallway.

You, disappearing around the corner, just a whisper of your hair and the sound of your boots against the polished floor. And all he can think is no.

Not like this.

He walks fast, with his pulse in his mouth and panic blooming in his chest.

You’re so graceful even when you’re upset, even when your body is stiff with tension. You carry yourself with that strength that’s always pulled him in, and he hates that he knows it. Hates that he can read you this well, because it means he knows you’re hurting.

He walks fast enough to catch up, to not give himself time to think about it too much. His hands are cold again. The way they get when he’s unsure. When something matters more than he knows how to handle.

“Hey,” he calls out, and his voice comes out too soft. Almost hoarse. “Wait- can you- can we talk?”

You stop. Slow, reluctant. As if the last thing you want to do is this but some piece of you can’t help it.

You don’t turn around at first. You’re breathing hard. He can see your shoulders rise and fall too quickly, your jaw tight, your arms folded across your chest as though you are trying to keep yourself together.

You turn.

And it’s worse than he thought.

Because your eyes are shiny and your expression is made of glass and restraint and you’re biting the inside of your cheek in that way you do when you want to pretend something didn’t bother you.

He hates this. Hates that he did this to you, even accidentally.

But god, you still are beautiful in a way that feels like gravity. Like the ache in his chest could drag the stars down to meet you.

You watch him as though trying not to give too much away.

“Can we talk?” He repeats, breath catching somewhere between hope and despair.

You shrug, not cold, not angry. Just tired. “If you want.”

He steps closer. Not too close. Careful. Always careful with you.

“I know it probably sounded bad in there,” he says, voice rough. “I didn’t want it to come out like that. Like I was… caught up in something.”

“You don’t have to explain yourself, Bucky,” you say quickly, voice too neutral. “You didn’t know. I get it.”

But he wants to explain. Wants to lay it out, piece by bloody piece. Wants you to understand that for a minute there, he forgot how to breathe because of how you looked at him. That he hasn’t stopped thinking about it since.

“I didn’t tell you- I mean, tell her,” he blurts, breathless. “I didn’t tell her who I was. Or where I came from. I didn’t say anything.”

You blink at him. “Okay.”

“She thought I was him. I- I didn’t say anything because I- I wasn’t supposed to engage and I wasn’t planning to. I swear I wasn’t planning to.”

You say nothing. Just stare at him with that sweetly confused expression.

Bucky steps closer. He’s aching, head to toe, something brittle in his chest like cracked glass.

“You kissed me,” he continues, and you bite your lip, looking away, “but I didn’t- I froze. It felt wrong. And when you said you missed me, I panicked. It felt like I was stealing something. From you. From you both.”

He stops. Swallows.

And there it is again. That dangerous spark. That sharp, flickering thing that’s lived inside him ever since he saw that other version of you, ever since your arms wrapped around his neck and your mouth pressed to his and your voice filled his chest with something whole.

He wishes for a version of that hope here, too.

But not if it means breaking you to find it.

You’re watching him with something unreadable in your eyes. He can’t tell if it’s pain or disappointment or confusion or all of it. He just knows it’s tearing him apart.

“I know it wasn’t me she kissed,” he goes on, quiet, every word dragging out of him as if it doesn’t want to be spoken. “And I know it wasn’t you, either. But it made me think that maybe-” He breaks off, exhales. “I know it’s not fair to say it, but-”

“Then don’t.” Your voice is soft when it comes.

And he flinches as though you touched a nerve.

But your face isn’t cruel. It’s sad. Honest. Tired in the way people get when they’re holding too many emotions all at once.

“I’m not her,” you clarify, but there is something fractured in the way you say it, like the words are paper-thin and barely holding shape. “I’m not whatever version of me you saw, whoever she is to you, that’s not me.”

“I know,” he croaks out. Bucky steps closer, just once. Not touching. Not yet. He doesn’t dare.

“No, I don’t think you do.” Your arms unfold slowly, but not in surrender. You gesture at yourself, the smallest movement, but there is steel in it. “She looks like me,” you go on. Your voice is tight. Bitter. It’s not like you. Not how he knows you - the warmth, the patience, the fire and calm and kindness all mixed together. “She sounds like me. But she’s not. She’s not me, Buck.”

And then you turn as if you’re about to go. As though you can’t stand another second of standing still in front of him.

“No- don’t,” he pleads, and before he can stop himself, he reaches. His hand finds your wrist, not tight, not rough, just enough to stop you. “Please.”

You pause again, with an exhale that is sharp and hurt and too loud in the hallway.

He is closer now. Close enough to see how tight you press your mouth together to keep it from trembling. The twitch of pain in your brow, the soft crease between your eyes he knows only shows up when you’re trying really hard not to cry.

Guilt and desperation roll through him, thorough, like a tide pulling everything warm away. It unspools him from the inside.

“What?” There is no weight behind your words. Your voice is worn. Defeated.

Bucks swallows. His voice feels like rust trying to be rain.

“She hugged me. Said she missed me. She kissed me like she’d done it a thousand times before.” His voice is shaking, even if he’s trying not to let it.

“And I didn’t stop her. Not for a second,” he goes on, quiet. “I should’ve. I should’ve pulled away sooner, but I-”

You pull your arm back, but he doesn’t let go.

“Why are you telling me this?” you question him, voice breaking in the middle. “What am I supposed to do with that, Bucky? Be happy for some other version of me?”

There is so much pain in your eyes, so much confusion and hurt and jealousy and heartbreak and it cuts him right through the heart. He feels it bleeding into his organs.

He closes his eyes, forgets how to breathe for a moment.

“I didn’t stop her,” he says lowly, slowly, “because, for a second, it felt like you.”

The silence between you is thick enough to drown in.

Your lips part, but no sound comes out.

“For a second, it felt like something I’ll never have,” he confesses, barely audible now. “And I was selfish. I let it happen. Because it wasn’t just a kiss to me.”

You don’t speak. You don’t move. Your chin trembles.

You look at him as though you want to say something but can’t trust yourself to do it.

“I’ve been trying to bury it,” he admits, voice strained. “This thing in my chest. This want. It’s been there for a long time. And I kept thinking- if I just waited long enough, maybe it would go away. Maybe you’d never have to know. But I saw what it looked like when I had it. When I had you. Even if it wasn’t really you. And I- I didn’t want to come back here and pretend I didn’t feel it anymore.”

You don’t move. Just stand there. Staring at him as if you don’t know what to do with the version of the world he is handing you.

“I’m not asking for anything,” he adds quickly, voice thick and gravelly. “Not expecting anything. I just- I couldn’t let you walk away thinking it didn’t mean anything. Because it did. But not because of that other you.”

Bucky loosens his hold on your wrist the way someone lays a weapon down.

Slowly. Gently. Like an offering. Giving you a choice. A chance to run. A way out, if that’s what you need.

His fingers brush fabric as he lets go, every inch of skin unthreading from yours just another stitch in the fabric holding him together.

He steps back. Not far, but enough. Giving you the room to run if you want to. Because he would never cage you. Not you. Not the girl he’s tried so hard not to need and failed so spectacularly at not loving.

The cold creeps in like a punishment.

He swallows, breath shallow, heart trying to climb out of his chest. He doesn’t look away.

“It meant something,” he breathes, and the words are low but steady, dragged out of some buried part of him where he’s kept the truth folded up too long. “It meant something because I love you.”

The words hang there. Open. Unarmored. His voice doesn’t shake but he feels the quake underneath it. He is already bracing for the ruin of it, for the way your silence might cut him down. It’s too much. He’s too much. Too much and too late and he’s saying it anyway, because what else can he do now, what else is left to do but burn with it.

“I love you. You. Only you,” he repeats, and this time it’s quieter, as if speaking it softer might hurt less if you break him.

He is bracing for your silence. For the recoil. For the slow turning of your back and the slam of a door, he won’t ever be allowed to knock on again.

But you don’t run.

You just stare at him.

Wide glassy eyes, lips parted, your whole face carved out of disbelief. Your chest rises with shallow, trembling breaths, and for a second, it’s like the hallway has no oxygen at all. Just the two of you standing in a vacuum made of shattered timing and aching things laid bare.

You look like someone trying to decide if the ground beneath you is real. If you are dreaming.

And Bucky is not breathing.

Doesn’t know how he will ever take in a breath again.

Then you move.

Fast. Sharp. Certain.

You close the distance between you with a speed that knocks his soul out of him, and before he can even process the intention behind the storm in your eyes, your hands are in his collar and your mouth is on his.

It’s not gentle.

It’s not careful.

You crash into him as though gravity has finally won. As though your body has been held back for too long and now it’s surging forward with years of restraint snapped at the root.

It hits him like an impact. Like a whole damn earthquake disguised as your mouth on his.

He makes a noise - somewhere between shock and surrender - and for the barest second, he is frozen.

He’s still.

Because this is you.

You.

One breathless, startled second he forgets everything - his name, the room, the hallway, the mission, the multiverse - and then he’s moving.

He melts.

His arms are around you in a heartbeat, tight, desperate, finding your waist, your back, the edge of your jaw, greedy and trembling and too careful all at once. He pulls you in, tighter, tighter, one hand threading into your hair, the other locking around your waist.

And then he is kissing you back with everything he has, with everything he’s been holding back, with every version of himself that ever wanted to belong.

He is kissing you back as though he’ll never get the chance again.

His whole body folds into yours, heart slamming into his ribs, mouth pressing against yours, like a question he’s been dying to ask. He kisses you like an apology, like a promise, like he’s been holding his breath for a century and only just remembered how to exhale.

It’s not a careful kiss.

It’s years of aching packed into the space between your lips. It’s soft lips and a metal palm and your nails digging in his jacket and his thumb shaking against your jaw. It’s a kiss that tastes of every unsaid word, every sleepless night, every time he looked at you and wondered what it would feel like to have you.

The second your tongue touches his lower lip, a low and tortured sound rips from somewhere deep in his chest. He answers you with open-mouthed hunger, tilts his head just enough to draw you in deeper, slants his mouth over yours as though he’s living out every dream in which he’s imagined this before.

He feels the warmth of your lips and the way you lean into him, the way you give yourself over completely, and he pulls you even closer, as though he’s trying to kiss every version of you that exists in every universe just to get back to this one. You. Here. Now.

His tongue brushes yours and everything goes tight inside him - his stomach flips, his spine arches ever so slightly, his body not knowing whether to hold steady or fall apart entirely.

Your lips are sweet and urgent and you make a sound - quiet, somewhere between a sigh and a gasp - and it knocks the air in his lungs every which way.

His mouth moves faster when your fingers curl into him tighter and tug him closer, dragging him under. His metal fingers are splayed over the small of your back, and his flesh fingers are tangling at the nape of your neck, holding you still as his tongue licks into your mouth, gentle but full of everything he’s feeling.

He moans softly into you, doesn’t even realize it’s happening until he feels the sound buzz against your lips. His pulse is pounding in his ears. His knees feel untrustworthy. There is heat spreading through his chest, through his limbs, and he wants to live in this moment forever, suspended in the place where you chose him.

When you finally pull back, your lips are swollen, flushed. He presses his forehead to yours just enough to breathe, but not enough to let you go. Never that.

His hands are on your face. His thumbs brush under your eyes. His breath shudders out against your lips.

When he opens his eyes, slowly, he is met with yours. Glistening and wide and so full of feeling it almost floors him.

He stares at you as though he’s seeing the sun rise for the first time.

“I love you too,” you breathe against him.

Bucky shivers.

It lands like a heartbeat he forgot to hope for.

Pleasure surges through his veins, straight to his heart. His eyes fall shut, lost in it.

And something in him tells him he will hear this at least a thousand times, maybe even more, if he’s lucky.

“I loved her not for the way she danced with my angels, but for the way the sound of her name could silence my demons.”

- Christopher Poindexter

[isthereanymorejello]

“But if you forget to reblog Madame Zeroni, you and your family will be cursed for always and eternity.”

[isthereanymorejello]

Winter's Child

Summary: Bucky Barnes x fe!Reader -> You and your daughter live across the hall from Bucky. However, one night when your daughter won't settle, you turn to him for help.

Disclaimer: A lot of fluff, angst, hurt/comfort vibes. This is also a long fic. Bucky is not a step-dad but a dad who steps up. Brief mentions of abandonment, heavy on the Found Family, cute fluffy date moments between Reader and Bucky. Yelena and Kate being a duo, slight swearing. Not fully proof read.

You were at your wits end. At least, you thought you were until a handwritten letter slipped under your door at nine am on the dot a week ago. 

A noise complaint. 

You were a single, new mom of one. And instead of helping, three of your neighbours – two of whom had children of their own – decided to file a noise complaint against you. 

First, it was sleepless nights with a newborn. Then it was three weeks of convincing male doctors that your baby was, in fact, sick and it wasn’t you just being dramatic. And now…it was teething. 

You’d barely had a minute to yourself in several months. Family helped you where they could, but one night was all they would do in terms of babysitting. 

You had five piles of laundry that either needed washing, drying, folding or putting away. Your apartment was over-run with household chores that needed doing, you felt like you were on auto-pilot as you moved through your home. 

And every time you’d just get your baby to sleep, someone upstairs decided that it was time for yet another rearrangement of furniture because it didn’t fit the ‘movement’ of his vibe. 

“What?” You were practically crying yourself. “What is it? I’ve tried everything. Please, just tell me what to do. Please.”

Nothing was working. You didn’t want another noise complaint in fear of someone suggesting you should move out. It took years for you to find a safe place that was within walking distance of a good school. 

Obviously, you’d planned the whole ‘having a baby’ thing happening differently than being single and alone the whole time. But it was the quiet moments, the moments where your baby laughed and smiled that made your heart lighten a little. 

But at two am, exhausted and desperate – that was not one of those moments. 

You’d never know why – you could only ever guess - but an idea popped into your head. And you could only pray it would work. 

Bucky had just closed his front door when someone knocked on it. It was hurried and for a moment, he felt for his side-arm. 

But when the knock was followed by a baby’s cry, he lowered his hand. By the time he opened the door, he was greeted with you - his neighbour. 

“I’m so sorry, I really really am-”

You looked like Hell. Bucky had been on a ten day mission in Serbia and had the crap kicked out of him twice – and somehow you looked worse. 

“But she won’t stop crying and I don’t know what to do. I don’t want another noise complaint or to be kicked out. I know this is really rude and I am sorry but, please. Is there-”

Bucky stepped forward and scooped the baby from your arms for a moment. He held her up, letting her little legs dangle in the air for a moment whilst he checked her over. 

It was like he’d performed some kind of miracle. 

Your baby had stopped crying. 

Bucky could see you in the corner of his eye. It looked like a weight had been lifted off your shoulders, only to come crashing back down. 

“How do you do that?”

Bucky shrugged with a small smile as he cradled your baby in his arms. “I had kid sisters growing up. Ma was always run off her feet.”

“I’m really sorry about this, Bucky.”

He just shook his head. “Don’t be. You said you got a noise complaint?”

You nodded, leaning against the wall beside his door. “A week ago. Someone slipped it under my door. I wouldn’t blame you if you wanted to sign it, I’ve not exactly been a quiet neighbour these last few months.”

Bucky shook his head. “You’re doing your best. Ignore the noise complaint. If you get any more, give them to me, I’ll get it sorted.”

“No, you don’t-”

“If they’d bothered to help, then someone might be able to say they're just in their complaint. But they haven’t. So nothing is right about it. Want me to put her down?”

You nodded. “Yeah, I’ll show you.”

As Bucky walked inside your apartment, cradling your sleeping daughter in his arms, you couldn’t help but feel guilty. You were her mom. You should be able to do it without having to knock on your neighbour’s door in the middle of the night. 

And you knew it wasn’t the first time he’d helped you, either. 

At six months pregnant when she was kicking you like she was about to be the next World’s Greatest Football player, you had to pause outside your door, leaving your grocery bags on the floor for a moment. 

Bucky had just left his apartment when he saw you. In your small exchange, which most of your conversations were, you helped him press his hand to your stomach. 

It was one big kick. 

“Kid, you’ve gotta be nice to your mom,” Bucky had warned. 

The kicks stopped. 

Bucky had also helped when your baby was five months old. You were carrying her on your hip whilst balancing the baby bag and two bags of groceries. Bucky had just, again, left his apartment when he asked if you needed any help. 

“Can you hold her for a second?”

Bucky took her without question and the soft babbles had turned into quiet solitude as she laid her head on his shoulder. Bucky also took one of the grocery bags from you as you searched for your door key. 

Once you’d thrown everything inside the door, you took your baby back who, within the space of sixty seconds, had grown rather attached to your neighbour. 

Which was also clear in the way her little fists held onto his shirt as he carefully lowered her into her crib. 

“I’m really sorry about this.”

Bucky shook his head. “Don’t be. I’m happy to help.”

If Bucky was being honest, he was more than happy to help. When he’d first moved in, a lot of the tenants in the building had avoided him. A few even complained about him living there considering he was an ex-assassin. And he couldn’t blame them. He still blamed himself sometimes. 

But you were one of the few that didn’t treat him like that. You treated him like he was just an average human living across the hall from you. So, helping you and your daughter where you asked him to – it gave him another sense of normalcy. 

Something he found to be very rare in his line of work. 

“You know, if you ever need help, all you have to do is ask.” Bucky told you as you walked him to the door. 

You shook your head. “I already feel bad asking you to help me get her to sleep.”

Bucky turned on his heel and looked at you. “You don’t have to feel bad about that. You’re a mom trying to do it all. You’re allowed to ask for help, Y/n.”

That still didn’t stop the guilt, though. 

You’d opted to have the baby on your own. There had been other options, but they just simply were options you didn’t want to take. You’d chosen to do it on your own, which meant continuing to do it on your own. 

“Thank you, Bucky. For everything you’ve done so far.”

You bid him goodnight, feeling the continuing guilt settle in your stomach but gratitude wash over your home. Your baby was fast asleep, and for the first time in months, you got a full night’s sleep. 

When you woke up, you checked on your daughter to find her still fast asleep. So, you took the time you had to finish cleaning your apartment. 

You were folding the third pile of clean laundry when someone knocked on your door. When you answered it, you stalled for a moment. 

“Bucky, what are you-”

“I know you’re not gonna ask unless you’re out of options, so I’m giving you an option to take,” he told you. “When you need help, or need a break, call me.” 

He handed you a post-it note with his phone number on. 

“Bucky, I can’t-”

“Yes, you can. And I want you to.” Bucky pressed. “You’re one of the few people outside of my job that treats me like a person. And, just because you’re a mom, doesn’t mean you should constantly be treated like one. You’re a person, too, Y/n. You deserve the help.”

You were completely shocked. Bucky was…an Avenger. He was someone who helped save the world, twice. But he was offering to help you and your baby. 

You lowered the post-it note. “Would you have any idea how to fix a kitchen cupboard?”

Bucky smiled, feeling a wave of relief wash over him that you were actually asking. 

He nodded, “Let me get my tools.”

Your brows furrowed. “You have tools?”

He laughed, “I have tools.”

What you thought was just going to be an afternoon turned into two years of frequent help – even when you never asked – and a growing friendship. 

The routine of helping you and your daughter also helped Bucky. It helped ground him after a tough mission. One that, if he went home alone, would be playing over in his mind until the nightmares all mixed into one. 

Even the team noticed the change in Bucky. He seemed lighter, happier and calmer. But the only one who knew the truth behind the change was Sam. Mainly because he’d seen the photo on Bucky’s desk at work. 

A picture of himself, you and a toddler who was holding the camera. 

“You should invite them over for dinner,” Sam told him one afternoon. 

“You think so?”

Sam nodded, taking the beer from Bucky. “Yeah, why not? She’s been your neighbour for years. I know you’ve had a crush on her, for like, ever.”

“I don’t have a crush-”

“You’ve got a crush.” Sam told him. “And, it’s about time we meet your future wife.”

“Sam.”

Sam just laughed. “Oh, come on, man. You know I’m right. I’ve seen the way you look at your phone when she calls you. I’ve also seen the look on your face when you find out it’s her daughter wanting to update you about her day. What a two year old has going on in her life, other than apple sauce packets, is beyond me.”

“She went on her first playdate and helped someone make friends. It was a big day for her.”

“Ha, see! Buck – accept it or deny it, they’re your family. Which makes them ours, too.”

Bucky sighed. “I’ll ask, but if she says no-”

“Then we’ll let it slide.”

Bucky pulled his phone from his pocket. “And you’ll make sure Kate doesn’t stalk her online.”

Sam held up his hands. “You have my word.”

Thankfully for everyone involved, you agreed. A week later, you were unbuckling your daughter from her car seat whilst she tried to scramble away and towards the crowd of Avengers who were laughing and chatting over a barbeque. 

That was when a small pair of lungs squealed at the top of their voice, “Bucky!”

Your daughter was running, ignoring your call of being careful before she fell, towards her favourite person. And you had to admit, aside from your daughter, he was yours, too. 

You watched as Bucky stopped his conversation with Sam Wilson and turned to jog towards your daughter. By the time they reached each other, Bucky lifted her into the air as she squealed with more happiness. 

“Hey, firecracker. How was pre-school?”

“Good!”

Resting her on his arm, Bucky talked to her and waited for you to reach him. “Really? You gonna tell me about it?”

You smiled, “Only if you want your ears to fall off.”

Bucky chuckled. “Didn’t need them anyway.” 

You stopped just short of him and he led the way over to the table that was still being set up. “Come on, I’ll introduce you to everybody.”

You’d had anxiety for a week over agreeing to the BBQ. What would they think? Would they hate you? Would it be awkward? 

But after twenty minutes, everything felt…normal. You helped a very chatting Kate Bishop and a calmer Laura Bishop set the table for the multitude of Avengers and kids that were attending the BBQ. 

People hugged, laughed, asked as many questions as they could – most of them coming from your daughter who, despite attaching herself to Bucky for most of the day, wanted to know everything she could about everyone she was with. 

And they answered every one of her questions. 

By the time the stars were peeking out behind the few clouds that remained in the sky, your daughter waddled her way over to you from where Kate had let her back onto her feet, and you picked her up. 

As you finished your conversation with Natasha, you started packing away what you could with a sleeping child on your shoulder when Tony appeared. 

“Why don’t you stay? You should stay. We’ve got plenty of room and the roads can be dangerous, really, at night. You should stay.”

You tried to shake your head, but Natasha stood. “Just say yes before he says he found a fault with your car.”

“That’s a generous offer, Mr Stark-”

“Tony, please. And don’t sweat it. Come on, I’ll show you.”

You don’t remember agreeing but somewhere between Tony showing you inside to the compound and a sudden new message alert that a scan of your car had resulted in a few, rather dangerous faults being found, you were putting your daughter to be at the Avengers Compound. 

And then you were being led back into the living area where everyone was sitting around the coffee table talking. And the only available spot left was right beside Bucky. 

He sat you beside him with ease. Too much ease to be normal between friends. Not that you were complaining. There was safety with Bucky, in a way you couldn’t describe. 

Of course, when you felt his fingers trace up and down your arm lightly, you felt your cheeks heat. But you still felt safe. Not so nervous where you felt like running in the opposite direction, but nervous enough to enjoy being with him. 

And after an hour or so, Yelena walked back inside with a little hand holding onto her finger. 

“Someone wanted to join the party,” Yelena said as she led your daughter over to you where she climbed into yours, and technically, Bucky’s lap. 

Bucky smoothed down the back of her hair as she rubbed her eyes. 

“Don’t you want to go to sleep, honey?”

She shook her head, and pouted. “No. Not without you and Bucky.”

Bucky smiled softly, “C’mere, kiddo.”

Leaning over, your daughter settled herself between you and Bucky before leaning her head against his side. 

“Okay, that is way too cute,” Kate said as she pulled out her phone and snapped a few pictures. 

As conversations started up again, your daughter fell into a deep sleep against Bucky. Something you almost did yourself until you managed to gain enough energy to lift yourself from the sofa and carry your child back to bed. 

Bucky followed you, his palm warm on your lower back as he led you down the dimly lit hallways.

However, by the time you woke up in the morning and went to check on your daughter, you found her bed empty. But just as the anxiety that you tried to keep calm spiked in your chest, a voice spoke inside the room. 

“Your daughter is currently interrogating Mr Wilson on his preference of breakfast cereal.”

You relaxed a little. “Of course, she is.”

You were slow to round the corner into the kitchen, wanting to watch your daughter for a few moments. Bucky was right in her nickname; firecracker. She was like some kind of professional quizzer. 

It amazed you some days, at how head-strong she was for such a young age. But you wouldn’t change her for the world. 

Slowly, you lean against the kitchen counter beside your daughter, listening to her explain to Sam about how cheerios were better than eggs, Sam softly arguing back. 

Little did you know, her arguing with Sam would become a frequent image in your own home. 

It seemed, for as much as your daughter had fallen in love with the Avengers, they had fallen in love with her and each one of her questions. You started to see Sam at Bucky’s apartment more often, Yelena and Kate would show up at the park when you’d take your daughter out for the day, your daughter’s preschool also started to get a little more funding here and there throughout her school year. 

And on the days where Bucky would offer to pick her up from school when your work ran over, they would turn into sleepover nights at the Compound since you couldn’t pry your daughter from their arms no matter how hard you tried. 

Eventually, you started to feel like family to them. They loved your daughter like one of their own, and she loved them right back. If anyone at school said that Captain America was less cool than Iron Man, or that Kate wasn’t the better Hawkeye or that anyone on the team wasn’t as cool as your daughter thought they were; she would defend them to her last breath. 

But the one she defended most passionately was Bucky. How he wasn’t scary but actually really kind and funny, even if he was grumpy sometimes. And how his metal arm was like having a normal one – he could still feel everything the same. Almost. 

She even drew him in all of her pictures when it came to her art class. Which, one day, turned into a list of questions which she just so happened to ask out loud one morning when Bucky had just made her breakfast. 

“Are you like my dad?”

Everyone in the kitchen stopped what they were doing to look at your daughter. But her gaze was focused on her breakfast and the picture she’d made at school the day before. 

“Why do you ask, honey?” You asked her softly, leaning down beside her. 

“Because Jeremy said I couldn’t have a ‘Bucky’. I had a mommy, so I needed a daddy, too.”

You felt your heart sink a little in your chest. “Honey…” 

You didn’t quite know what to say. Her biological dad hadn’t been in the picture since he’d seen the positive pregnancy test on your bathroom counter. 

“Jeremy was wrong.”

“He was?” 

You nodded. “Yeah. Look around you, baby girl. I know you don’t exactly have a daddy, but you do have people that love you.”

That was when your daughter looked around to the other people in the kitchen for reassurance. They all agreed that Jeremy was wrong. 

“Truth is, honey, maybe not everyone has a daddy, but not everyone has a ‘Bucky’ either.”

Steve smiled, “And that makes you extra special, kid.”

Your daughter smiled  before turning around in her stool and hopping down before walking over to Bucky who picked her up instantly. 

She hugged him around his neck. “I love you.”

Bucky was on the edge of tears. “Love you, too, firecracker.”

Later that night, Bucky put her to bed whilst you finished up in the kitchen. You’d offered to make dinner but since half of them got called out on a mission and Bucky was already being used as a human pillow for your four year old, Kate took his place on the mission. 

So, you’d packed the dinner into different take-away containers and stocked them into the fridge and freezer, along with a couple of post-it notes on how long to reheat. 

You were wiping down the counters when Bucky walked back inside. 

“She okay?”

“Out like a light,” Bucky smiled. “Mind if I ask you something?”

You nodded. “Always.”

“Earlier…when she asked me…what happened to her dad?”

You stopped cleaning for a moment before you took a breath. 

Bucky had lived across the hall from you for a while, even before you were pregnant. But he’d never seen someone in your life long enough to consider they would be your partner. 

“We’d been dating for a couple months, but since he lived closer to my workplace, I stayed at his house more often than he did mine. His house was also closer to his work, so it meant we could spend longer together in bed. Pretty sure it was one of those mornings when I got caught…” You took your time, and Bucky let you. 

If you had told him you didn’t want to talk about it, he would have backed off and waited. You didn’t have to tell him anything, but he was glad you were. 

“But, as we hit the three month mark, I started getting a weird feeling. More than I ever have before. Woman’s intuition told me he wasn’t exactly staying loyal. But it felt like more than that, so…I took a test. The minute he saw the two lines he told me he was seeing someone else and that he didn’t want to know about me or the baby, ever. I’ve never heard from him since.”

Bucky couldn’t feel his blood boil. First, a guy who was with you…he let you go. He strayed, cheated and let you go. And then, he abandoned you when you would have needed him the most, and finally…he didn’t even want to meet you or your little firecracker. 

“Well, that’s technically a lie. I heard from some cheap-shot lawyer of his after I sent him some pictures of his daughter’s birth. Just one of her in a hospital onesie and a little hat that one of the nurses had knitted for her. She was so little,” you smiled as you thought back to those first moments where you held her and heard her cry. 

“What did the lawyer say?”

“That he was giving up all parental rights. He wanted to make sure, as far as the law knew, he didn’t have a daughter.”

“He’s…something I would say if there wasn’t a four year old sleeping down the hallway.”

You chuckled. It was nice to know someone was just as angry, if not more so, at the thought of someone not wanting to know your daughter. 

“I guess I was kind of lucky in a way, though.”

Bucky looked up at you from the counter. 

“If he did want to know her, she might not have had you. I might not have…I probably would have moved closer, for the baby’s sake.”

Bucky let the breath go from his lungs. “God, I can’t imagine not having you both in my life.”

You smiled, “Luckily, you don’t have to. We’re both lucky to have you, Bucky. And I’m glad we do.”

Bucky smiled back at you, his heart rate increasing just that little bit more. He managed to look away before you caught the flush in his cheeks. 

A few months later, you were at home finishing up your third load of washing for the week when someone knocked at your door. 

“Kate? Yelena?”

Kate’s expression held nothing but relief as she turned around and faced the door when you answered. “Oh, thank god.”

“What’s going on?” You asked them as they walked into your home. Yelena was carrying several different garment bags whilst Kate carried two more and dragged a small make-up trolly behind her. 

“We need your help.”

“What on earth for?”

You closed the door, balancing the laundry basket on your hip as they turned around to face you. 

“We need you to attend Pepper’s gala tonight.”

“What- Why?”

Kate looked at Yelena who nodded. 

“Because you do.”

“Girls, I’m gonna need a better explanation than that.”

Yelena rolled her eyes as she dropped the bags onto the sofa. “God, you’re such a mom.”

“Yelena.”

Yelena just fixed her hair. “We need you to be someone’s date.”

“Can I ask who this someone is?”

“It’s-”

“No.” Yelena cut Kate off. “You can’t know because it’s a surprise. So, enough questions. Give me that.” 

Yelena took the laundry basket from you and pushed you along down the hallway. Meanwhile, she pulled out the worn hair tie from your hair. 

“Yeah, you need to get washed first. Use your fancy stuff.”

“Yelena-”

“Go, now. Please.”

You gave a small huff as you got into the bathroom. “Fine. But only because you said please.”

Yelena smiled before she shut the door. “Thank you.”

By the time you’d finished your everything shower, along with the fancier shampoo you tended to save for dates and nights out – a shampoo that’s only use was before parent-teacher meetings, or any place you had to look like you hadn’t been up half the night reading parenting books. 

You were rushed into your guest bedroom where Yelena sat you down at the vanity desk. Meanwhile, Kate was lying with your daughter on the bed, looking through different eyeshadow colours, naming them all. 

“Katie knows a lot of colours, momma.”

Kate smiled. “I really do. Hey, you know what this one is called?”

Your daughter shook her head. 

“Aquamarine.”

“Aq…aquaamarr-”

“Aquamarine,” Kate repeated a little slower and your daughter copied. 

An hour and many more unanswered questions later, Yelena had finished your hair whilst Kate was helping you apply your make-up. 

You had been planning a quiet night in. More than likely, it would have ended with you watching the last half an hour of a Disney movie alone whilst your daughter snored herself to sleep on the sofa. 

“Okay, dress time.”

Kate stood and opened up each garment bag. “Which one?” She asked your daughter. 

“Don’t I get to pick?”

“You don’t know the plan, momma.” Your almost five year old, told you. 

“There’s a plan?”

Kate shrugged. “There’s always a plan.”

It took a total of seven minutes and a game of ‘left or right’ to decide on your dress. A floor length gown with a high slit up one leg. There was a soft shimmer to the fabric like you’d been spritzed with body glitter beforehand.  

All three girls gasped as you stepped out from behind your dressing divider. 

“Wow, momma,” your daughter seemed mesmerised. “You look beautiful like the stars.”

You smiled, “Thank you, babygirl.” Then you turned to the two elders. “Will you answer my questions now?”

They smiled, like they knew something you didn’t. But before you could get your answers, someone knocked on the door. 

“I’ll get it!” Your daughter sprung from the bed, quickly followed by Yelena. 

“You really do look beautiful, Y/n.”

You smiled. “Kate, what’s going on?”

She just smiled back. “You’ll see.”

As you tightened your shoes a little, you heard your daughter call out for you. 

“You can come out now, momma!”

And as you did, it was like your breath had been taken from you. 

By your door, Bucky was standing wearing a tux. You’d always known he was handsome, but there was just something about a man in a tux…

You felt yourself smile as you walked closer. “I thought you were away-”

“I know, I was. But…I managed to finish early. You look…” Bucky was lost for words. Or maybe he had too many. 

Stunning, gorgeous, beautiful, breathtaking…

“She looks beautiful like stars,” your daughter jumped in. And he had to agree. 

“You’re right, firecracker. You look beautiful like stars.”

You blushed and smiled. “Thank you.”

Then Yelena jumped in. “Right, off you go.”

“What?”

“Don’t worry,” she pushed you both towards the door as Kate opened it. “We’ll make sure the little firecracker gets to bed before you’re home. She’ll be safe. She’s with two avengers.”

You knew that was true. But, you also knew there was a chance they wouldn’t be safe. Yelena was a trained spy, but Kate? Kate would crack under the pressure of your little girl's thousand and ten questions questionnaire. 

Before you knew it, you were being waltzed inside of the venue that had been rented out by Pepper’s company for the charity gala. All the while, holding onto Bucky’s hand and arm. 

“This is a lot of people,” you whispered to him. 

“We only have to show our faces for an hour. Two max. Then we can ditch.”

“Wouldn’t have taken you for a ditcher,” you told him, a little surprise in your voice. 

He chuckled. “No. Ma would have killed me for skipping school, not that I ever did. I actually enjoyed it. It was fun when Steve wasn’t getting his ass kicked. But, for things like this? It’s not my favourite thing in the world.”

You shrugged. You couldn’t blame him. It was lovely; getting ready, witnessing Bucky in a tux for the first time, feeling a little less guilty about leaving your daughter for the night. But there were a lot of people. People who you didn’t know. And you doubted Bucky knew, either. 

“But it’s better having you here with me.”

You whipped your gaze away from the crystal chandeliers, to your date. You covered the butterflies in your stomach with a soft smile. 

Before you could say anything, someone called your name. And then Bucky’s. 

It was Pepper. 

She introduced you both to different people before she was called away by someone else. 

Although it was a lot, it was easier having Bucky by your side. It was rare his hand ever left yours. At one point, his fingers had intertwined with yours and there was no way you were going to cut that off. 

By the second turn of the venue, looking at the items that were going to be auctioned off for charity, you and Bucky tried to sneak away from the crowd for a while. Only, you were caught in a conversation with a couple who – despite their fortune and education – didn’t know when to end a conversation. 

Half way through their very boring conversation, a thought passed through your head. Bucky could have fucked you right there and then, and they still would have carried on the conversation. 

But you pushed that thought away as quickly as it came. Although, it did try to resurface every ten minutes, when Bucky’s other hand would warm your lower back, your other hip or, briefly, the top of the slit in your dress. 

“We really should be going.”

You and Bucky managed to escape. But only for ten minutes. Because the couple were coming back. 

“Shit,” you swore under your breath. But Bucky beat you to it. “Fuck-”

You were pulled down a small corridor that led to the back of another room filled with  items up for auction, before being pulled into the smaller, darkened alcove in the wall. 

The couple passed you both right by, without being noticed. 

In the confined space, you and Bucky stayed as quiet as you could. Your hands were on his chest, letting you know that you weren’t alone with the rapid heartbeat in your ears. Though, his was a little calmer than your own. 

His own hands remained fixed on your hips, holding you steady on your feet. For a split second, he shifted and his knee brushed your inner thigh. 

You bit your lip and closed your eyes. 

Then you felt his hands lightly trace up your body. Your breath hitched. 

“Is everything okay?” Bucky asked you, his voice in a soft whisper by the shell of your ear. 

You nodded and answered quietly. “It’s fine.”

With Bucky’s gaze on you, you started to realise just how small the alcove was. The scent of his cologne was intricately lodging itself into your mind – any time you’d smell that scent, you’d been pulled right back into the alcove. 

Then, with a breathy chuckle, he smiled. “Want to get out of here?”

No. 

“Think the coast is clear?”

Please don’t be.

Bucky peered around the corner before he turned back and nodded. 

“Let’s go.”

Let’s stay. 

With Bucky’s hand in yours, he swiftly got you both out of the venue unnoticed. It wasn’t until you were half way down the block, and Bucky was laying his jacket over your shoulders, that you realised you’d forgotten your coat. 

“But, you’ll get cold.”

Bucky just smiled. “I’ve got the serum. I can’t get cold, doll.”

“Really?”

“Really,” he assured you. 

And for a while, you both just talked. About the night, about the couple that couldn’t seem to take a hint and the fact Bucky had come back early. 

And then he asked you to dance.

“There’s no music.”

“We don’t need music. Come on.”

The street was completely empty. A couple of street lamps lit the way, and every once in a while, a taxi would drive down the main road ahead. But other than that, it was just you and Bucky. 

“Is this what you used to do?” You asked him after a few moments. “Take a girl out, ask her to dance under the streetlights with you. Bet you were a real heartbreaker.”

Bucky chuckled softly. “Maybe. Just a little. But if this was a date, I would have done this-” Bucky softly dipped you in his arms. “By now.”

He was slow to bring you back to your feet, your forehead against his, your lungs in need of some air despite already being outside. 

His palm burned a little on your back. You just wished it would make a permanent mark. 

“Does that make this a date now?”

“I don’t know. I’d like it to be,” he admitted to you, honestly. “If I asked you on one, officially, would you say yes?”

“I wouldn’t want to lose you, Bucky.”

“I promise you won’t. If it goes badly, we can laugh about it later. Just, say yes?”

It took you a short moment, but you nodded. “Okay. Yes.”

Bucky walked you back home. And by the time you opened up your door, you walked in to find Kate, Yelena and your daughter all fast asleep on the sofa, the bright colours of the Disney Princess film flashing across their faces. 

“Do you want to get her out of the tangle?” You asked Bucky. “I would but I’m afraid to get a fist to my face.”

Bucky chuckled, softly closing the door as he nodded. Even he knew how it was when trying to wake Kate up. She was a fighter until she opened her eyes and realised who was trying to get her up. 

Bucky got your daughter out with ease and carried her to bed, leaving you to deal with the two sleeping Avengers. 

Meanwhile, down the hall as he laid her in her bed, she woke up briefly. 

“Did you ask her?”

Bucky brushed the baby hairs that had fallen from the braids in her hair. He smiled, “Yeah, I did.”

“Did she say yes?”

He nodded. “She said yes.”

She gave a tired cheer before he kissed her head and tucked her in. “Get some sleep, kiddo.”

The moment she rolled over, she was snoring. And just as Bucky passed the guest bedroom, he could hear two more sets of snoring coming from inside. 

You crept out of the room and softly clicked the door shut. From there, you and Bucky took your time walking back to the front door. 

“About this date-”

“We don’t have to rush anything,” he told you. “If you don’t feel comfortable-”

You smiled. “I was just gonna ask if you’re free on Sunday.”

Bucky was a little surprised but smiled. “I’m free on Sunday. I’ll pick you up at ten?”

It was definitely the earliest date you’d been on. 

“There’s a place I want to show you.”

You nodded, “Okay.”

After picking you up on his motorcycle, Bucky drove an hour out of the city to a small town. The entire main street was taken over by a farmer’s market. There were smaller stalls with different homemade items. 

You and Bucky ended up picking up a few things for a make-shift picnic in the park before he took you to the local watering hole where a live band was playing and people’s shoes were scuffing the wooden floor from dancing. 

“How did you find this place?”

“Barton told me about it.” Bucky told you. “Him and Laura passed through it once before, so I decided to come and check it out. I’ve wanted to show you ever since, but each time I came to tell you, something came up at work so I wouldn’t have been here to show you.”

“But now you are.”

“Now I am,” he told you before he took your hand. “Come with me.”

“Where are we going?”

“We’re dancing.”

It was a small two-step, nothing major. But for you, it felt like everything. Being in his arms again – you knew there would never be another place where you would feel this safe. Feeling his hand in yours, seeing the blush creep up on his cheeks each time you looked at him. 

Slowly, the rest of the room disappeared. The music from the band became nothing more than background noise and the only person you could see was Bucky. 

And when you closed your eyes, and felt his lips against yours, the only thing you could feel was him. 

The light breeze that wafted past the barn doors disappeared, the air of apple pie and ice cold lemonade disappeared from your skin.

The only thing that soaked its way into your bones was the feeling of him. His hand in yours, his other at your opposite hip, holding you flush against him, his belt buckle making a small impression behind the fabric of your outfit. 

It was more than you ever dreamt of. 

The Talk came two weeks later. The one that neither you and Bucky had mentioned, but had to be done. Because it wasn’t just both of you in the relationship, if you were going to continue. 

Your daughter was involved, too. 

“She loves you, Bucky.”

“And I’ll never want to see her hurt, either,” he finished. “I never want to hurt either of you, ever.”

“I know.”

“So, we take it slow,” he offered. “But I think we should involve her, too. You come as a package deal, and I don’t want to ignore that.”

You gave him a small smile. There had been plenty of one-stop dates who had ignored that fact, plenty who had wanted you to come as a single package. 

Bucky was the first. 

So, a few weeks later, when a knock came to your door, your daughter beat you to the door and opened it to find Bucky. 

“Bucky!” 

Your daughter ran for his legs and wrapped her arms around them before she let go and he bent down. 

“Why are you here?”

Bucky looked from your daughter, up to you with a half cocked smile. “I’m here to give you these.”

Behind his back, Bucky pulled out two bouquets of flowers. One was a little bigger than the second. 

He presented the smaller bunch to your daughter before he stood to his full height and handed you the bigger section. 

“And these are for you.”

“Thank you.”

Bucky crouched back down to your daughter. “And I was hoping that you and your mom would want to come with me for the day.”

“Where?”

“It’s a surprise.”

“Okay!” Your daughter turned around and ran back inside. 

“Careful, honey. Put your flowers in the kitchen, I’ll put them in some water!”

“Okay!” She yelled back before going to her bedroom to get her shoes. 

With the coast clear, Bucky leaned in and pressed three light kisses to your lips. 

“You didn’t have to do this, you know.”

“I know, but I wanted to.”

Bucky closed the door as he entered and you walked into your kitchen to run the tap for some water. 

“So, where are we going?”

He smiled. “It’s a surprise.”

“From me, too?”

He nodded. 

Two minutes later, your daughter came running back down the hall. Bucky managed to scoop her up before she tripped down the small step. 

“Got my shoes!”

“Firecracker?”

“Yes?”

“Your shoes are on the wrong feet, honey,” he told her. She looked down, very confused. 

Bucky popped her on the kitchen island before offering to fix them. Swinging her feet, she nodded. 

As you placed the flowers inside of a vase, finding a smaller one for your daughter’s; you watched as Bucky taught her a trick to always remember her left and right before he reached into one of the cupboard draws and pulled out a small sheet of stickers. 

“When the star touches, then you know they’re on the right feet.”

“So cool.”

A little under an hour later, your daughter was on Bucky’s shoulders, looking with amazement at all the artifacts in the museum. You could see her little brain working overtime to find out all the answers to every question she had, knowing she was going to be telling Kate and Yelena all about it in a few days time. 

After lunch and the second half of the tour, you heard your daughter gasp before she took your hand and dragged you down the hall. 

Secretly having been holding Bucky’s hand, you pulled him with you. 

“Slow down, honey. Where are we going?”

“Come on, you gotta see! Come on!”

By the time you both found yourself in the exhibit room, you looked around and realised why she had seemed so excited. 

The entire thing was dedicated to Captain America. 

“Look, momma. It’s Steve!”

You picked your daughter up and carried her over. “That’s right, honey.”

“Look, Bucky. It’s you.”

Bucky smiled. “That’s me.”

“Why is it not got colours?”

Bucky chuckled. “Because it’s from the 1940s.”

Your daughter watched, puzzled, as a small clip of Bucky and Steve laughing played on the big screen. 

“That’s over 90 years ago.”

“Wow, that’s old.”

You and Bucky chuckled lightly, just before your daughter wiggled her way out of your arms. The moment her feet were planted on the floor, she ran over to the small window where people were standing on the scale. 

The picture didn’t even move. 

“Come here, firecracker.” Bucky scooped your daughter up in his arms and planted himself on the scale. The picture changed and you watched as your daughter looked at herself in uniform. 

However, for a glimpse, you caught Bucky’s face in the reflection. 

You’d seen plenty of pictures, news segments, documentaries and home videos of Bucky both in and out of uniform, back in the 40s. But there was just something in that moment that it hit you- 

Bucky had lived that life. He’d seen that world. If you had met him on the streets of Brooklyn over ninety years ago, you would have been watching him getting shipped out to England. 

“Okay, where to next?”

“Hmm, over there! Come on, momma!”

The little voice, filled to the brim with excitement, broke you out of your trance long enough for you to follow after them. 

However, hours later; long after Bucky had carried your daughter from her car seat and up the steps and into your apartment. You surprised him. 

He was in your kitchen, waiting for the kettle to boil as you got dressed into your home clothes. But, when you returned and he felt his heart light up at seeing you as you, he was shocked. 

You hugged him. 

He held back the laugh in his chest. “What’s this for?”

“Just because,” you told him. 

Then you kissed him. 

“And that?”

“That was because I love you.”

Bucky faulted for a moment. He didn’t want to come off too excited in case he’d heard wrong. 

“You love me?”

You nodded. “I love you. I’m in love with you. I have been for a long time, but seeing you today…it just hit me. And I wanted to tell you.”

Then he smiled, keeping his hands on your hips as he pulled you closer. “I’m glad, because I’m in love with you, too.”

A smile broke onto your face before it was kissed away by him, his hands pulling you flush against his body. 

It had taken years for you to realise, and even longer to work up the courage to tell him. 

Who knew all it took was a family trip to the museum? 

Thankfully, those family trips started to become more frequent. As did the solo and family dates you, Bucky and your daughter went on. 

But, for Bucky, nothing beat the date night you and he had after the parent-teacher meeting you both attended just a little under a year of dating. 

It was in that meeting that the teacher gushed over how far your daughter had come in the last year, how incredible her artwork was and how they were looking at moving her up a couple of reading grades. 

Although Bucky wasn’t there to create your daughter, or there to cut the cord. She was like him in so many ways, it was scary. 

The pouting face when she was tired, the overly cute aggressive face she gave when she was getting competitive. And then there was her love for school. Steve had shown you some of Bucky’s old school reports. 

Your daughter was starting to get the same. 

Maybe Bucky wasn’t your daughter’s father by birth, but he was her dad in every way that counted. He dried the tears, cleaned the grazed knees, carried her sleeping frame to bed. 

And after that parent-teacher meeting, it was going to become official. 

He had proposed and you said yes. 

And when your daughter had found out the next morning when you and Bucky went to pick her up from the compound, where Sam and Yelena had been put on babysitting duty, she cried. 

“Can I call you my daddy now?”

Through your own happy tears, you watched Bucky’s own fall. He was hugging your daughter just as tight as she was holding onto him. 

“I’d love nothing more, firecracker.”

[isthereanymorejello]

[isthereanymorejello]

[isthereanymorejello]

i want 50 avengers tower fanfics of the thunderbolts on my desk by morning do you hear me

[isthereanymorejello]

I NEED all of them biblically🙂‍↕️

[isthereanymorejello]

tower fics are so back baby

[isthereanymorejello]

what does it mean?!?!?!

“... maybe subconsciously he's growing his hair out hoping someone will object. Bucky is just trying to get someone to pay attention.”

[isthereanymorejello]

ahhhhhhhhhhhhhhh!

the plan ; robert 'bob' floyd

fandom: top gun

pairing: bob x reader

summary: the squad are all pretty sure that bob has a thing for you, but you're not convinced, so you hatch a plan to tease him within an inch of his life until he snaps

notes: i fear i may never again experience as much joy as i did while writing this... guys, it was so much fun! i know it's long, but it's full of tension and pining and heat, please give it a read! i actually love this so much, and i hope you do too, so please let me know what you think!!! i literally fell in love with bob while writing this, the lewis pullman spiral is spiralling

warnings: swearing, big dick energy, movie references (the princess bride, the ugly truth, star wars), bob's big dick, tension, lots of horniness (18+ ONLY MDNI), italics, huge dick energy, jealousy, bob is secretly cut, emotional warfare but it's fun, and did i mention bob's massive dick? (let me know if i missed anything)

word count: 21143

your callsign is sunny

It wasn’t long after the uranium mission that Dagger Squad was asked to stay on North Island and train as an elite, mission-focused unit under Maverick’s command. Not that anyone had to be asked—most of the squad was more than happy to be reassigned and stick together. 

Once everything was finalised and the official special operations squadron was born, the first thing most of you did was move out of the barracks. You needed more space—both physically, and from each other—and, frankly, something that didn’t reek of stale socks and floor polish. 

You and Natasha thought you’d hit the jackpot when you found a two-bedroom apartment right by the beach, with a spacious open-plan living area and not one, but two balconies. It was perfect. You could hardly believe it. Full of natural light, and just far enough from the boys you already spent too much time with—training, flying, doing push-ups every time someone pissed off Maverick. 

It was meant to be. 

Until the apartment across the hall went up for lease. 

And that’s how you failed to escape the boys entirely. Reuben and Mickey spotted the sign while helping you move in, and before you knew it, they were neighbours—closer than ever and almost impossible to get off your couch. 

A knock at the door draws your attention from the TV, and Natasha pauses mid-step on her way from the kitchen—bowl of popcorn in hand. 

“Ten bucks says it’s Fanboy,” she says, a smirk tugging at the corner of her mouth. 

You know that Mickey is stuck on overtime tonight—punishment from Maverick for mouthing off during a fly drill this morning. Natasha, however, hadn’t been in the air with you and clearly wasn’t listening on comms. 

Your eyes flick to the door and back to her. “Deal.” 

She drops the bowl on the coffee table and doubles back, swinging the door open. 

“Ugh,” she sighs. “It’s you.” 

Reuben blinks, his smile faltering as his brow creases. “Nice to see you too, Phoenix.” 

She heads back to the couch, Reuben trailing behind. 

“Why’d you knock?” she asks. “It’s always open.” 

“Wasn’t the other day.” 

You sit up straighter, rolling your eyes. “That’s because it was two a.m. and I was home alone—sleeping.” 

Natasha drops onto the couch, a little closer to you than before to make room for Reuben. “Do we seriously not have boundaries anymore?” she asks him. “What could you possibly need at two in the morning?” 

He plucks the popcorn bowl off the table and settles it in his lap. “Fanboy really wanted to watch The Princess Bride, but Netflix logged us out and we couldn’t remember the password.” 

You lean across Natasha for a handful of popcorn. “Then get your own Netflix account, you fucking freeloaders.” 

Reuben gives you a wounded look. “Okay, rude.” 

You roll your eyes again and flop back against the couch, shoving a handful of popcorn into your mouth. 

“What’s got your panties in a twist?” he asks, peering at you from Natasha’s other side. 

Natasha snorts but keeps her eyes on the TV. 

“Nothing,” you mutter. “My panties are perfectly untwisted.” 

Reuben chuckles and shifts his gaze to the screen. “Then maybe someone should twist them up—get some of that tension out.” 

You flip him off without even glancing his way, your scowl still locked on the TV. He just laughs again, and Natasha shoots you a sidelong, knowing smirk. 

Twenty minutes later—and after Reuben has all but annihilated the popcorn—the front door swings open and Mickey breezes in, making a beeline for the fridge. 

“Have you guys eaten?” he calls out. “Because I’m starving. I skipped lunch and Mav still kept me back.” He grabs a beer and spins to face the living room. “Isn’t that, like, illegal? Something about duty of care? I’m about to pass out, and it wasn’t even my fault I got held back. Hangman was the one mouthing off—I just told him where to stick it. But no, now Mav’s all professional, like he’s a real CO with a stick up his ass. Honestly? I liked him better before.” 

He yanks open a drawer, fishes out the bottle opener, and cracks the beer. “Anyway,” he says, glancing up at the three of you, “pizza?” 

A long beat of silence stretches through the apartment as you all stare at him. 

“Jesus Christ, Mick,” Reuben mutters. “Take a fucking breath.” 

Mickey just shrugs, heading into the living room. “What?” 

He drops onto the floor—figuring the couch is already squishy enough—and sets his beer on the coffee table before reaching for the remote. 

“No one’s watching this, right?” he asks—not that it matters. 

He doesn’t wait for a response—just clicks a few buttons and starts scrolling through Netflix. Frustration simmers under your skin, because yes, you were watching that, but you bite your tongue. You know you’re in a bad mood, and it’s not worth taking it out on your friends. No matter how irritating they can be. 

He finally lands on The Princess Bride and makes a satisfied little hum as he hits play. Then he tosses the remote back onto the table, picks up his beer, and leans back against the couch—his elbow jabbing your knee in the process. Your glass, balanced loosely on your leg, sloshes and spills cold liquid onto your lap. 

“Whoops,” Mickey says, glancing back at you. “My bad.” 

“Uh oh,” Natasha mutters, scooting slightly away from you. 

“Seriously, Mickey?” you snap, eyes narrowing. “Could you not act like a clumsy lapdog for five fucking seconds?” 

His eyes go wide at your tone. 

“How the hell did you even get into the navy?” you bite, rising from the couch. “You’ve got the spatial awareness of a drunk oaf and the grace of a newborn deer on ice.” 

You storm into the kitchen, slam your half-empty glass on the counter, and tear off a wad of paper towels. 

“Very descriptive insults,” Reuben mutters. 

Natasha lets out a dry laugh. “Yeah, that’s how you know she’s in a mood.” 

“Why?” Mickey asks, cautiously glancing toward you. 

You shoot him a glare over the kitchen island, dabbing paper towel at the top of your thigh. 

“Bob didn’t talk to her today,” Natasha says. “Like, at all.” 

“Ohhh,” Reuben and Mickey sigh in unison, the sound laced with realisation. 

You toss the damp towel into the sink before turning toward the fridge and yanking it open, bottles rattling. 

“To be fair,” Reuben offers, “you two were on different drills today. He probably just didn’t get the chance.” 

You whirl around, beer in hand, glare sharp. “He asked Phoenix if she wanted to go for a run tomorrow morning—while I was standing right there.” 

You shut the fridge with more force than necessary, then yank open the cutlery drawer and grab the bottle opener. 

“Oh yeah,” Mickey adds. “He asked me too. Wants to do the Coronado Island Loop.” 

You pop the cap off your beer and let it clatter to the floor. “Great. That’s great. Thanks, Mick. Love knowing I was the only one not invited.” 

Natasha sighs, her eyes following you as you trudge back toward the lounge. “I told you—he probably just didn’t think you were interested. When have you ever wanted to go running?” 

Reuben nods. “Yeah, you hate when Mav makes us run laps. You’re always the first to complain.” 

You flop down into your spot and take a long pull from your beer, eyes on the screen. “Yeah, well,” you mutter, “he could’ve asked.” 

“You could’ve spoken up,” Natasha points out. 

You roll your eyes. “Yeah, and invite myself to something I deliberately wasn’t invited to? No thanks.” 

Mickey shakes his head. “Bob wouldn’t leave you out on purpose. He’s too nice.” 

“Exactly,” Reuben says. “It’s Bob. He probably just got awkward about it.” 

You scowl and gesture to Natasha. “He asked Phoenix.” 

“Yeah, but that’s Phoenix,” Mickey says. “They’re crammed together in the cockpit almost all day, every day. She doesn’t make him nervous.” 

You scoff and sink further into the couch. “I do not make him nervous.” 

Natasha sighs again. “Yes. You do. I’ve told you before.” 

“And I don’t believe you,” you say, despite the warmth creeping into your cheeks. “You’re always saying Bob has a thing for me, but I don’t see it. Wouldn’t he actually talk to me if he liked me?” 

“It’s Bob,” Reuben repeats. “He’s not like the rest of us.” 

“Exactly,” Natasha says. “He’s polite and respectful. Way better than the rest.” 

Mickey turns from the TV, shooting her a wounded look. “Ouch.” 

Reuben shrugs. “She’s right. That’s why we can’t tease him about it. We can’t even ask him if he likes you—though we’re pretty sure.” 

You roll your eyes. “How can you be sure when he’s never admitted it?” 

“Oh, it’s so obvious,” Mickey says with a giggle. “He gets all googly-eyed whenever you’re around.” 

You shoot him a sceptical look, brows furrowed. “I don’t see it.” 

“Well, of course he’s not going to let you catch him staring,” Reuben says, a smirk tugging at his lips. “He’s a gentleman.” 

“Yeah, and he’s not stupid,” Natasha adds. 

“But whenever you’re not paying attention,” Mickey continues, “his eyes are glued to you, like a magnet.” 

You roll your eyes, determined to seem unconvinced, even though you can feel the warmth rising in your cheeks. 

“Oh, and every time you’re brought up in conversation,” Reuben says, “he’s locked in.” 

“Unless we’re talking about you and another guy,” Natasha adds with a knowing look “Then he gets all huffy and weird.” 

You snort a laugh before taking another sip of your beer. 

“Why don’t you just ask him out?” Mickey suggests. “Put us all out of our misery. Bob will stop being so awkward, and you’ll stop being so—” He stops when you shoot him a glare. 

“So what, Mick?” 

He turns his gaze back to the TV, muttering, “Moody.” 

You scoff. “Yeah, okay. So, I’m just supposed to believe you guys when I haven’t actually seen any of these so-called signs myself?” 

Reuben and Mickey nod, but Natasha just watches. 

“I’m not doing that,” you say flatly. “I’m not asking him out just to be humiliated.” 

The conversation dies as you turn your attention back to the movie, taking another generous sip of beer. Mickey pulls out his phone to order pizza, and Reuben heads to the fridge for another round of beers. 

You keep your eyes locked on the TV, even though you’re barely watching. Instead, your mind is replaying the day, wondering if you missed the part where it was ‘so obvious’ that Bob has a crush on you. 

It’s hard not to agree with Reuben when he says, ‘It’s Bob,’ because it just is. He’s nice, considerate, raised to respect women and the navy. He’s the perfect officer and the perfect gentleman, and that’s half the reason you’re so damn attracted to him. A gorgeous guy with manners and respect to spare? Yes, please. 

But, God, sometimes you wish he was just a little more basic. A little more in touch with his primal side, instead of always using the higher-functioning part of his brain that most guys don’t even know exists. You’ve never even heard Bob say a woman is attractive, let alone spew some of the caveman shit that comes out of Jake’s mouth. 

And yeah, sure, you could ask him out. He might even say yes, just to be polite. But you don’t want to put that kind of pressure on him or the squad. Him dating you out of pity would be worse than flat-out rejection. 

An hour later, full of pizza and halfway through your fourth beer, you’re curled up with your head on Natasha's shoulder while The Ugly Truth plays on the TV—Mickey’s latest pick. 

“Man, what’s with you and romantic comedies?” Reuben asks, nose wrinkling as he watches Katherine Heigl flail on-screen. 

Mickey shrugs. “Don’t judge. Maybe I’m feeling a little lonely lately.” 

“Aww, Mick,” you coo, voice dripping mock-sympathy. “Better get used to it. You’re going to be alone forever.” 

His head snaps toward you, a scowl forming. “Okay, Miss-I-Refuse-To-Ask-Out-A-Guy-Who’s-Clearly-Into-Me-Because-I’m-Terrified-of-Rejection.” 

A smirk tugs at your mouth. “That was way too long to sting.” 

“Whatever.” He rolls his eyes. “You’re mean when you’re not getting laid.” 

“Hey!” you gasp. “How do you know I’m not?” 

There’s a beat—a static moment where you realise you’ve just fucked up—before they all burst out laughing. And even you can’t help joining in, despite the embarrassed flush crawling across your chest. 

Then suddenly, Natasha jerks upright, knocking your head off her shoulder. Her laughter halts as she stares wide-eyed at the screen, lips parted in a gasp. “Holy shit. I have an idea.” 

“An idea?” Reuben echoes, brows lifting. 

“Yes!” She turns to you, eyes sparkling with mischief. “I know how we’re going to get Bob to admit it.” 

Mickey swivels on the floor to face her. “Admit what?” 

Reuben rolls his eyes. “That he likes Sunny. Duh.” 

“Oh.” Mickey glances your way, then back at Natasha. “How?” 

“He’s only human, right?” she says, and both boys nod. “It’s obvious he likes her—he’s just too damn respectful. He probably thinks she’s out of her league. Or he’s worried about dating someone in the squad. But deep down? He’s still a guy. He has the same thoughts, the same... tendencies. He’s just better at hiding them.” 

Mickey snorts. “Oh yeah. If the way he looks at Sunny in a bikini is anything to go by, he’s definitely got those thoughts.” 

You shoot him a glare. “Don’t be gross.” 

“No, he’s right,” Natasha says quickly. “I hate it, but he’s right. Every time we’re at the beach and you’re half-naked, he looks like he’s barely holding it together.” 

You try to keep your face neutral, but your heart is thudding too fast against your ribs. 

“Wait,” Reuben says, leaning forward. “I think you’re onto something. Like when she squeezes into the booth at the bar and hovers over his lap for a second—he looks like he’s about to combust.” 

“Exactly!” Natasha exclaims. “That’s it. That’s what we need to do—we need to make him snap.” 

You narrow your eyes, ignoring the spark of adrenaline beginning to curl in your gut. “Okay... but how?” 

Natasha turns toward you, her eyes wide and full of focus. The same look she wears just before take-off. “You need to... tease him. Really make him suffer.” 

Mickey’s grin turns wicked. “Oh, this could work.” 

Your brow lifts. “Tease him how?” 

“Tempt him,” Reuben says, matching Mickey’s grin. “Push every button. Get close. Make him want you so badly he can’t hide it anymore.” 

You snort. “So, seduce him?” 

“Worse,” Natasha says. “You’re going to give this man the worst case of blue balls in naval history.” 

Both Mickey and Reuben flinch. 

“He’s going to end up in the hospital with a permanent boner,” Natasha adds, mischief blazing in her eyes. “Crying. On. His. Knees.” 

“Bob’s a good man,” Reuben says solemnly. “He’s respectful. Polite. Sensible. And we’re gonna have to break him.” 

“We?” you repeat, pulse racing. 

“Exactly,” Natasha nods. “If this were any other guy, you could get it done in a day. But Bob? Bob’s built different. If we want to unleash his inner caveman? It’s going to take a team.” 

Your stomach flips, anticipation stirring beneath your skin. 

“It won’t be easy,” Mickey says, his smirk returning. “But it will be fun.” 

“Sunny,” Reuben says, locking eyes with you. “Are you in or are you out?” 

That spark of adrenaline snaps through you like a live wire. 

You nod. “Okay. I’m in.” 

- 

The plan is simple. Straightforward. One objective. Everyone's clear on it. It’s been mapped out and set into motion—now all you have to do is play your part. Which is probably why your heart is hammering against your sternum like a damn war drum. 

“I don’t know, Nat,” you mutter as the two of you walk across the crunchy morning grass. “This feels wrong.” 

“What does?” she asks. “The thong or the plan?” 

You roll your eyes. “Both.” 

“Well, suck it up. There’s no backing down now.” 

You squeeze your eyes shut and take a deep breath. Then you release it and reel yourself in. She’s right. You can’t be a chicken forever—and it’s not like you’re doing anything overtly humiliating. Besides, you’ve got a team at your back, and they’re not going to let you crash and burn. 

Last night, Natasha had texted Bob to let him know she was inviting you on the morning run. He’d replied with a simple thumbs up—something you found a little rude, but the boys insisted he only sends that when he doesn’t know what else to say. Which, apparently, is a good sign. 

This morning, you’d dug deep into your underwear drawer for a lacy black thong you bought a few years ago—back when you were more optimistic about your sex life. You pulled it on, despite the discomfort, and borrowed a pair of light blue workout tights from Natasha. Yep, that’s a black thong under pale blue, skin-tight leggings. 

“Without being creepy,” Mickey says from a few paces behind, “the plan is looking really good from back here.” 

You shoot him a scowl over your shoulder as Reuben smacks his arm, even though he’s wearing the same mischievous grin. 

The four of you wait at a picnic table in the park where you’d agreed to meet, and it doesn’t take long before you spot Bob walking across the grass—dark grey sweats and an oversized U.S. Navy hoodie, his hands tucked firmly into the front pocket. Quite possibly the most innocent, basic outfit he could’ve worn—a ridiculous contrast to yours—and yet you still find yourself thinking wildly inappropriate thoughts. 

About what’s under those sweats. About how good they’d look on your bedroom floor. 

Even the soft smile on his lips as he approaches makes you want to scream. How is one man such pure, soft boyfriend material... yet still manages to awaken your most primal instincts? It doesn’t make any sense. 

“Hey,” he says, eyes skimming over each of you before settling on Natasha. “We ready?” 

Natasha nods, and the five of you start walking off the grass toward the footpath before breaking into a jog. She and Bob take the lead while you hang back, with Reuben and Mickey flanking you like a private escort. Exactly as planned. You might be trying to fluster Bob, but you don’t need half of Coronado getting a look at your underwear—hence the two-man protection detail. 

Two kilometres later, you all stop for a quick stretch. Bob wanders off toward a water fountain, and you seize the opportunity to move up beside Natasha, placing yourself at the front of the group. Again—exactly according to plan. 

When Bob returns and joins in on Reuben and Mickey’s conversation, you and Natasha shuffle a little closer. She props one foot up on the bench, leaning into the stretch as she gives a subtle nod—the signal to begin. 

You let out a shaky breath, then slip on your best cool-and-confident facade. 

“I’m never doing this again,” you say to Nat—loud enough for the boys to hear. 

“I’m just gonna get a quick drink,” Reuben announces, conveniently cutting off their conversation. Right on cue. 

Mickey busies himself with stretching, leaving Bob to ‘accidentally’ overhear what comes next. 

“What?” Natasha asks. “Running? I told you you’d hate it.” 

“No,” you reply, pretending to lower your voice—even though you don’t. “Wearing a fucking thong.” 

She snorts, the laugh surprisingly genuine. Either she’s a fantastic actress, or she’s thoroughly enjoying herself. 

“Why are you wearing a thong?” 

You roll your eyes, falling deeper into the role. “Because I forgot to do my laundry and it was all I had left.” 

She snickers. “Well, have fun on the next eight kilometres.” 

“Oh yeah,” you sigh, “can’t wait.” 

You glance casually over your shoulder—and bingo. Bob’s face is bright red. His lips are slightly parted. And he’s blatantly staring at your ass like it’s the final clue to finding the national treasure—and Nicholas Cage is depending on him. 

Beside him, Mickey looks like he’s about to lose it. 

“Ready to keep going?” Reuben asks, walking back up—perfect timing. 

Everyone nods, and Bob clears his throat, licking his lips quickly. “Yep. Let’s go.” 

You and Natasha take off first, keeping yourselves in the lead. 

Every few minutes, you glance back—and without fail, Bob is staring. Each time, it sends your heart skittering, your cheeks heating, and your thoughts wandering into very unholy territory. 

Maybe your friends have been right all along. Maybe he does like you. Maybe this will actually work. 

By the seventh kilometre—with only three more to go—Bob looks like he’s hanging by a thread. He ditched his hoodie about two k’s ago, tying it around his waist. His hair his clinging to his forehead, damp with sweat, and his glasses are fogging up slightly near the bridge of his nose. 

You glance over your shoulder and give him a small smile. His lips pop open and he immediately averts his eyes, focusing instead on the pavement beneath his feet. You turn back, grinning to yourself, and that’s when he picks up his pace and jogs past both you and Natasha. 

Natasha nearly bursts out laughing, but she smacks a hand to her face, pretending to wipe the sweat from her upper lip. She shoots you a sideways look and a smirk—and the two of you push forward to flank Bob, jogging on either side of him. 

“Hey,” Natasha says, more than a little breathless. “You trying to make this a competition?” 

Bob shakes his head, eyes locked on the path ahead. “Nope. Just staying focused.” 

“What’s so distracting back there?” she asks, fighting a smirk. 

“Is Fanboy being a pest?” you add, giving yourself a layer of plausible deniability—just in case he starts to suspect anything. 

Bob’s gaze flicks to you, then drops briefly to your chest before snapping forward again. “Yeah,” he says, voice uneven. “He’s breathing like Darth Vader.” 

“Hey!” Mickey calls from behind. “I’m not deaf!” 

The five of you share a short, breathless laugh before settling into a comfortable silence. You’re thoroughly exhausted now and decide to give Bob a break for the last few kilometres—merciful, maybe, but also strategic. 

Soon enough, the group slows to a walk as the café marking the end of your run comes into view. 

“Thank God,” Mickey gasps. “I’m starving.” 

“You’re always hungry,” you mutter, shooting him a flat look. 

The café is busier than expected, and you’re about to start crafting a subtle excuse to avoid going in when Reuben steps up behind you and unzips his jacket. 

“Cover your ass up, Sunny,” he says, smirking. “For fuck’s sake.” 

You try—and fail—to suppress your grin as he hands you the jacket. You roll your eyes and tie it around your waist, grateful for the cover. 

Once you’re feeling a little more decent, the group heads inside to order breakfast and find a table out back on the patio. The food and coffee arrive quickly, and soon everyone is digging in, quiet with post-run hunger. Though judging by how often Bob’s eyes keep darting toward you, his appetite might not be entirely food-related. 

“So,” Mickey says through a mouthful of bacon, “are we finishing the Star Wars marathon this weekend, or what?” 

Bob perks up instantly, eyes going bright, the usual stormy blue softening into something more sky-coloured. “Yes. Tomorrow night?” 

Reuben frowns. “But that’s Sunday.” 

“Mav gave us Monday off,” Natasha chimes in. “Weekend rotation, remember?” 

“Oh, right.” Reuben nods. “Yeah, I’m in.” 

“How many are left?” Natasha asks. 

“Six,” Mickey replies. “Not including spin-offs.” 

“We’re not getting through six in one night,” you point out. “We’ll be lucky to finish the prequels.” 

“Unless…” he says, his eyes gleaming with mischief as they flick between everyone at the table, “we had a sleepover.” 

You snort into your coffee before taking a sip, expecting someone—probably Natasha or Reuben—to shut the idea down. But instead, their faces light up with the same devious smirk that Mickey is wearing. 

“We could,” Natasha says casually. “I think it’d be fun.” 

Bob blinks at her. “You do?” 

She nods. “Yeah. Why not? We could play some drinking games and not worry about getting home.” 

“Drinking games!” Reuben echoes with excitement. “You’re a genius, Phoenix.” 

With the way their eyes keep bouncing between you and Bob, it’s clear now: they’re scheming again. Plotting the next phase of Operation Bob's Blue Balls—and your pulse is already quickening with anticipation. 

“We could do it at my place,” Bob offers, earnest as ever. “I’ve got a spare room. Plenty of space.” 

Reuben grins. “What a great idea, Bob.” 

Bob glances around at his grinning friends, the smile on his face tinged with uncertainty. He has no clue what he’s just agreed to. 

- 

“Did you pack sexy PJs?” Natasha asks, her fingers drumming against the steering wheel. 

You roll your eyes. “I don’t own any sexy PJs.” 

She shoots you a sly smirk before her gaze flicks back to the road, her silence thick with something unspoken—as if she already has a plan to remedy your lack of Victoria’s Secret-worthy sleepwear. 

Bob’s apartment isn’t far from yours. In fact, none of you live all that far from each other, but tonight, the distance doesn’t seem to matter. No—the real reason for tonight’s sleepover is something far more sinister. 

You know you’re the last to arrive, not just from the cars parked along the street, but from the group chat where Mickey has been demanding you hurry up so he can order dinner. Your heart beats in your throat as you ride the elevator up, and the ding when it reaches Bob’s level startles you more than it should. 

Natasha’s smirk stays plastered on her face until she knocks on the door, and the second it swings open, with Bob standing there, she’s all business. 

“Hey,” she says casually, walking past him like she’s been here a thousand times. 

A stab of jealousy twists in your stomach—completely unwarranted but sharp nonetheless. Has Natasha been here a lot? 

“Hi,” you mutter, offering Bob a small smile as you follow Nat inside. 

There’s a chorus of hellos from the squad scattered around the living room. Bradley lounges across the two-seater couch furthest from the door, and Mickey is sprawled in a bean bag beside him, grinning like a kid in a candy store. Jake and Javy are tangled together on one end of the three-seater couch, probably having just finished fighting over the remote. And then there’s Reuben, sitting in the middle, with Natasha plopping down beside him. 

“Guess I’ll take the floor,” you mutter, dropping your bag beside the pile of everyone else’s stuff. 

“That’s alright,” Jake says with his usual cocky grin, “You can sit on Bobby’s lap for a bit of comfort.” 

Heat floods your cheeks, but you refuse to let him see the effect of his words. Instead, you roll your eyes and flip him off, then plop down onto the makeshift nest of cushions and blankets on the floor. 

Bob reappears from the kitchen with another round of beers, while Mickey takes orders for dinner. Then Bob settles down beside you, his arm brushing yours just enough to send a sparks crackling across your skin. A moment later, Jake hits play on The Phantom Menace, and the room settles into a comfortable, albeit charged, quiet. 

It doesn’t take long before Jake groans that he’s bored, and Reuben’s eyes immediately flick toward Natasha—like they’d both seen this coming from a mile away. 

“We could play a game,” Mickey offers, all too innocently. 

“Yes,” Jake grins, already invested. “Let’s play a game.” 

“What game?” Javy asks. 

Reuben opens his mouth, but Jake beats him to it. “Truth or Dare, obviously.” 

Natasha snorts and slaps a hand over her mouth, but not before you catch it. That was exactly what Reuben had been about to suggest—and Jake is walking right into whatever scheme they’ve cooked up. 

“How old are you?” Bradley asks Jake, brows furrowing. 

“Not as old as you, Grandpa,” Jake fires back. “But you could at least pretend to enjoy fun.” 

Bradley rolls his eyes but shrugs. “Fine.” 

Everyone else falls in line, shifting around until you’ve all formed a lopsided circle on the floor, your back half-angled toward the movie. Jake claps his hands together like the ringmaster of a circus—which might not be far off from what this night is about to become. 

“Alright. If you’re a chicken and won’t answer the truth or do the dare, you drink. Simple. I’ll go first.” He zeroes in on Bob—poor, unsuspecting Bob, who clearly just wanted to enjoy some Star Wars in peace. “Bob. Truth or Dare?” 

“Truth,” Bob says, almost too quickly. 

Jake leans forward with a shit-eating grin. “Who would you rather go on a date with—Phoenix or Sunny?” 

You choke on nothing, smothering the sound behind your hand and pretending it’s just a casual cough. 

Heat blooms across Bob’s cheeks and starts creeping up to the tips of his ears. He glances your way—just for a beat—then over at Natasha, and your stomach knots. Is he seriously having to think about this? Have your friends been totally misreading Bob this whole time? 

Then, after a moment of hesitation, Bob simply lifts his beer and takes a long sip. 

Jake groans. “Ugh, lame.” 

“Don’t worry, Bob,” Javy says with a laugh. “That was a trap. There was no right answer.” 

Bob chuckles—a low, rough sound right next to you that sends goosebumps up your arms. “I know,” he says, voice deceptively casual. Then he shifts his gaze toward Mickey. “Fanboy. Truth or Dare?” 

Mickey’s face lights up. “Dare.” 

Bob smiles—and for the first time tonight, it’s almost a smirk. There’s something sharp beneath the usual softness, and it makes your stomach flip. 

“Text the last person you hooked up with ‘thinking about you’—no context. And you can't reply until tomorrow.” 

Mickey’s grin drops. “What the fuck, man?” 

Bob just shrugs, raising his beer like it’s a toast. “You picked dare.” Then he brings the bottle to his lips and takes a generous swig. 

And holy shit—you might actually combust from the sight alone. Bob being just a little cocky. Bob utterly destroying Mickey with zero remorse. You know there’s a darker edge beneath that quiet, boy-next-door act. You know he’s got a mean streak. And God, you want to find it. Pull it out of him and ask—beg—for him to do things you can’t even say out loud. 

The group erupts into cackles as Mickey reluctantly pulls out his phone, Reuben peering over his shoulder to make sure he follows through. 

“There,” Mickey mutters, tossing the phone face-down on the floor. “You better watch your back.” 

But Bob doesn’t flinch. He just sits there, calm and collected, with that damn smirk still tugging at the corner of his mouth. 

When you finally tear your gaze away from him, you find Mickey’s eyes locked on you—an evil grin stretched across his face. “Sunny,” he says, voice smooth as silk. “Truth or Dare?” 

You steel your nerves, unsure of what’s coming but already sensing the trap. “Dare,” you reply, trying to keep your voice steady. 

Mickey’s grin widens, tipping his head forward like some sinister villain—and you just walked straight into his web. “Google a dirty line from Fifty Shades of Grey... and whisper it slowly in Bob’s ear.” 

Jake snorts, his face twisted with amusement, and the rest of the group follows—dissolving into fits of laughter. All but Bob, who’s already choking on his beer, turning an even deeper shade of red before you’ve even touched your phone. 

You blink, eyes going wide. “Are you serious?” 

“Oh, I’m very serious,” Mickey replies, practically vibrating with excitement. “And no laughing. You have to sell it.” 

You lock eyes with Mickey, your death-glare sharp as your hands shake slightly while you pick up your phone. Then, you reluctantly tap the search bar and type in ‘dirty line from Fifty Shades of Grey.’ Before you realize what’s happening, Natasha leans over your shoulder. 

“Ooh,” she giggles, pointing at the screen. “That one.” 

You glance up at Bob, your expression a mix of apology and warning. He looks much less confident than before, his lips parted, cheeks flushed, blue eyes wide behind his glasses. His throat bobs as he swallows, and a small part of you—one that feels dangerous—stirs with excitement. 

The room falls into eerie silence, and you realize that Jake has paused the movie. All eyes are on you as you shuffle closer to Bob, getting onto your knees beside him. You plant one hand on his thigh to steady yourself, and you feel the muscles in his leg twitch at your touch. 

His breath hitches, his whole body going rigid. 

You lean in close, your lips barely brushing the shell of his ear as you murmur, “I want your hands on me. Your mouth. I want to feel you everywhere until I forget my own name.” 

A beat of silence stretches, and then Bob exhales sharply, his hand tightening around his beer bottle as if it’s the only thing keeping him tethered to Earth. 

“Jesus Christ,” Jake mutters under his breath. 

“Holy shit,” Reuben says, breaking into laughter. 

Mickey is howling, pounding his fist against the beanbag. “Worth it! So worth it!” 

You slowly pull back, biting back a grin as you settle back into your spot like nothing happened. Bob, however, is still stuck in the mental tailspin you just launched him into, blinking hard and adjusting his glasses like he needs a whole system reset. 

You meet his eyes, and for the briefest second, you see it—buried beneath the shock and heat—that glint of hunger. 

God help you, you're not making it out of tonight alive. 

The game moves on, but you can’t quiet your mind. You’re stuck on the way Bob’s thigh had felt beneath your palm, the way the muscles shifted under your touch. You can’t stop replaying the brush of your lips near his ear, the hitch in his breath, or the way he’d smelled—clean, warm, intoxicating. You don’t just want to fuck this man—you want to ruin him. You want him panting and wrecked, bruised and breathless, oversensitive and spent. There are things you want to ask of him that would guarantee you a one-way ticket to hell. But if he said yes—if he gave you those things—it’d be worth it. 

You’ve never wanted a man the way you want him, and it’s starting to feel like a genuine threat to your well-being. 

“Bob,” Natasha says, her voice snapping you back to reality, “Truth or Dare?” 

You’re not sure how many turns you’ve missed, but Bradley and Reuben seem to have swapped shirts, and there’s a bottle of tequila on the table that definitely wasn’t there earlier. 

“Dare,” Bob replies, seemingly recovered from your whispered indecency. 

Natasha grins. “I dare you to pick someone in this room to do a body shot off of—excluding me.” 

Your heart stutters at the last part. Did she say that because she thought he’d pick her? Would he have? Out of comfort, knowing it wouldn’t mean anything—or for some other reason? 

You shake the thought off quickly and join the group’s laughter, mentally scolding yourself for the jealous spiral. 

“Seriously, Phoenix?” Bob sighs, his brows knit. 

She just shrugs, laughing. “You picked dare.” 

He tips his head back and groans, giving you a perfect view of the long line of his throat, the sharp bob of his Adam’s apple as he swallows. 

“Come on, man,” Jake chuckles, “There’s only one clear choice.” 

Your cheeks flush as Jake nods toward you, green eyes sparkling like he’s the one about to do the dare. 

“As if you’re not going to pick Sunny,” Javy adds, watching as Bob’s eyes slowly scan the room. 

Then his gaze lands on you—soft, but laced with something heavier. Something simmering. 

He licks his lips, and you can’t stop yourself from imagining them on your skin. Imagining his tongue dragging over your body, slow and deliberate. The salt from your collarbone, your abdomen… or maybe lower—right above the waistband of your pants. Would he use the glass? Or would he press his mouth to your stomach, lips sealing around your navel, tongue lapping up the tequila while you tremble beneath him? 

Then the lime—between your lips, waiting for him. His mouth brushing yours as he leans in, breath mingling, tasting more than just the fruit. You imagine the sharp burst of citrus, the tease of contact, tequila heat still slick on his tongue. He’d bite down, lips grazing yours, and it would wreck you more than any kiss ever could. 

“Hangman,” Bob says suddenly, his gaze locked on the man across the circle—who now looks a lot less smug and a lot more stunned. 

Jake’s brows shoot up. “Me?” 

The room erupts into laughter. Bradley throws his head back, already fumbling for his phone to record whatever chaos is about to unfold. Mickey nearly falls over, gripping the bean bag for dear life, and Javy is doubled over, laughing so hard he can’t catch a breath. 

“Why would you do this to me?” Jake gasps, eyes wide. 

“You said there was only one clear option,” Bob replies evenly, the ghost of a smirk tugging at his mouth. “I agree.” 

“You bitch,” Jake mutters. 

“Oh, this is so much better than what I thought was going to happen,” Natasha says. “Shirt off, Bagman. Let’s go.” 

“This could be considered assault,” Jake mutters as he sits forward on the couch. 

“Then press charges,” Bradley says, half-choking on a laugh. “But let him finish first.” 

Natasha bolts to the kitchen for lime and salt, and the rest of the group scrambles to clear space on the lounge like they’re prepping for surgery. Jake peels off his shirt with the theatrics of a martyr, glaring at each of his cackling friends. 

Bob, meanwhile, looks cool as ever—far more composed than Jake. And maybe that’s the point. Picking you would’ve set the room on fire. Picking someone else would’ve gotten laughs. But picking Hangman? That’s just cruel and perfect—and from the slow curl of a smirk on Bob’s lips, he knows it. 

“Let’s go, Seresin,” Natasha says, reappearing with lime in one hand, salt in the other. 

Jake lies back with exaggerated misery, like a man about to be sacrificed at the altar. “I swear to God, Floyd, if you do anything weird with your mouth-” 

“I won’t,” Bob says, calm and unbothered. “Unless you want me to.” 

Your stomach somersaults. He didn’t even look at you—but somehow, it still feels like the line was meant for you. Like he knows exactly what he does to you, without even trying. 

Bob Floyd is fucking smooth when he wants to be. 

The room falls eerily quiet as Bob kneels beside the couch, one hand braced on the cushion beneath Jake’s body, the other holding the tequila bottle. He looks serene—like he’s preparing for a sacred ritual rather than licking salt off another man’s chest. 

“This is happening,” Mickey whispers, wide-eyed. “This is actually happening.” 

“Focus, Bob,” Natasha says solemnly, holding the shot glass as he pours the tequila. “We believe in you.” 

Bob sets the bottle down and leans toward Jake slowly, both hands now braced on the couch as he lowers his head to the other man’s chest. The room is absolutely silent, save for the soft rustle of fabric and the charged hush of everyone holding their breath. 

Jake stares straight up, completely stiff. “Don’t look at me while you do it.” 

“I’m not,” Bob says, deadpan. 

He dips his head and licks the salt clean off Jake’s skin. Jake jerks like he’s been hit with a defibrillator. 

“Oh my God,” Javy whispers, clutching his chest. “This is the best thing I’ve ever witnessed.” 

Natasha hands Bob the shot, and he tosses it back like he’s sampling a fine whiskey. Then he turns to the lime Natasha has jammed between Jake’s clenched teeth. 

“Don’t you dare,” Jake warns. 

“I’m just following instructions,” Bob replies calmly, and leans in. 

There’s a ridiculous half-second where it looks like they’re about to kiss—and everyone knows it. You bite your fist to keep from bursting out laughing… or something else entirely. Because Bob? Cool as ice. Smooth as ever. He doesn’t even flinch as his mouth brushes Jake’s, teeth clamping down on the lime and tugging it free. 

Jake makes a choked sound halfway between outrage and existential crisis. 

Then the room explodes. 

Bradley nearly falls off the lounge, still recording, laughter shaking his whole body. Natasha collapses into Javy’s lap, practically wheezing. Mickey is making noises like he’s being exorcised, and you’re on the brink of tears, shoulders shaking with laughter as Bob calmly returns to his seat, lime in hand, mouth twisted slightly at the tartness. 

Jake bolts upright, wiping his mouth. “I need therapy.” 

Bob frowns. “You needed therapy before that.” 

“Yeah,” Jake spits, yanking his shirt back on. “Well, now I need more.” 

You’re not sure you’ve ever felt it before—and you definitely don’t plan on voicing it—but right now, you are incredibly fucking jealous of Jake Seresin. 

It takes a while, but eventually the group settles down and the game fizzles out—mostly thanks to Jake’s relentless sulking. Not long after, Mickey gets a notification that the food is nearly delivered, and everyone jumps into action to clear the table and grab what’s needed for dinner. 

Less than ten minutes later, you’re all crowded around the coffee table, shovelling Chinese food into your mouths and stealing bites off each other’s plates. Jake’s sour mood has mostly vanished, and everyone is focused on the final battle of the movie playing out on-screen. 

By the time the credits start rolling, most of the food is gone. You and Natasha start carting plates, bowls, and empty containers into the kitchen while the guys finish polishing off their meals, scraping the last of the food off their plates and into their mouths.  

“Did I mention I brought dessert?” Reuben pipes up, eyeing you as you stack a few plates in one hand. 

You raise a brow. “Are you about to make a gross joke?” 

“No,” he laughs, shaking his head. “You know Barb, down the hall?” 

“Neighbour Barb with the yappy chihuahua?” 

He nods. “Yeah. She bakes, like… the most amazing stuff.” 

You narrow your eyes, plates now balanced in both hands. “Do I even want to know how you know this?” 

Mickey answers for him, talking around a mouthful of Mongolian beef. “Because we’re nice to our neighbours.” 

You give him a disgusted look before turning back to Reuben. “Okay. Get to the point.” 

He grins, a smug twist playing at the corner of his mouth. “She made a huge batch of cream pies—I mean, puffs. So she brought some over, and I brought them here. They’re to die for.” 

Your eyes widen almost imperceptibly—but Reuben catches it, and you can see the spark of amusement flash across his face. 

“Have you ever had a cream pie, Sunny?” Mickey asks, beaming up at you with sauce smeared on his face. 

Jake and Javy snort, and behind you—you swear you hear Bob snicker. 

“Yes, Mick,” you bite out. “I’ve had a cream puff.” 

You turn sharply back toward the kitchen, but not before catching the small smirk on Bob’s lips, his cheeks pink as he spoons another mouthful of kung pao chicken into his mouth. 

“That’s not what I asked!” Mickey calls after you, giggling like a grade-schooler. 

You roll your eyes and drop the plates by the sink, where Natasha and Bradley are already washing up. 

“Lookin’ a little red there, Floyd,” Reuben teases, his voice carrying from the living room to the kitchen. 

It’s the chicken,” Bob replies quickly—but there’s something in his voice that makes a stupid, lovesick grin spread across your face. 

Once everything is washed up and everyone has returned to the living room, Jake hits play on the next film. You’re back on the floor, this time with your back pressed to the couch beneath Natasha, who’s curled up with her legs tucked beneath her, leaving you space to lean. Bob is further away now, sprawled on his back across a fluffy blanket, a cluster of pillows beneath his head, hands folded neatly over his stomach. 

You try to keep your eyes on the screen—it really shouldn’t be that hard with both Hayden Christensen and Ewan McGregor to enjoy—but your gaze keeps drifting to Bob. He looks so content, so cute, his lips tipped into a soft half-smile and his blue eyes sparkling behind his glasses. There’s something about him that turns your brain to absolute mush, and you still can’t figure out what. 

Maybe it’s the dichotomy of him. How sweet and quiet he is—some might even say shy, but you know better. He’s just overwhelmingly nice, with a pretty face to match. And yet, you have to remind yourself that this man is in the navy. He’s not spineless—in fact, he’s the total opposite. He’s sharp and quick-witted, strong both mentally and physically. There’s not a single thing about him that’s weak, yet he lets people assume otherwise. 

Maybe it’s confidence. The kind that doesn’t need to be loud. He doesn’t care what people think or say. Not that he isn’t awkward sometimes—he definitely can be—but that’s more about being introverted. He doesn’t need to show off or run his mouth like Jake. He doesn’t need to fly like an idiot to prove himself. He’s just Bob. He knows who he is, and he’s not apologetic about it. 

What is it they call that? 

Oh yeah… big dick energy. 

Your eyes drift down his torso, lingering briefly on his hands—the way his long fingers are laced together—before continuing down to the waistband of his dark blue joggers. There’s a bulge in his lap. A notable one. And a slight outline continuing down the left leg of his pants… 

Wait. That’s like… kind of huge. 

A hard nudge to your shoulder startles you, and you whip around to see Natasha staring at you. Her eyes are wide, her lips pulled into a smirk—half disbelieving, half smug. 

Stop staring, she mouths. 

You press your lips together to hold back a laugh, a little giddy from your fourth—or maybe fifth—beer. Your face feels warm, and you know if you keep looking at Nat, you’ll start laughing, so you quickly turn back to the movie. 

“Okay,” Mickey pipes up, scrambling out of the beanbag and to his feet, “who wants cream puffs?” 

“Only if you serve them warm and full,” Jake shoots back. 

The room erupts—half groans, half childish laughter. Mickey just snorts and disappears into the kitchen, Reuben trailing behind him. A few minutes later, they return, each holding a heaping plate stacked with warm, golden cream puffs. 

“Fair warning,” Reuben says, setting one down on the table, “these things are insane. Like... dangerously good.” 

You grab one without hesitation���soft, golden, still warm to the touch. It’s dusted in powdered sugar and practically bursting with cream. You bite into it and—holy hell—the taste explodes in your mouth. Sweet. Rich. Ridiculously creamy. You moan without meaning to, eyes fluttering shut. 

“Oh, wow,” you say around a mouthful. “That’s... actually insane.” 

The group hums and laughs in agreement, but you barely notice. You take another bite—bigger this time—and it squishes a little too easily in your hand. Cream oozes out the side, trailing down your chin and, with an audible plop, lands squarely between your breasts. 

“Oh, shit,” you mutter, trying to swipe the cream away—but all you manage to do is smear it further. 

There’s a beat of silence, and even the movie playing in the background seems to go quiet. 

“Jesus Christ,” Reuben says, somewhere between impressed and scandalised. “You sure you don’t need a minute alone with that thing?” 

Laughter rumbles around you, and only when you look up do you realise how provocative that just was—the heat in your cheeks deepening. But then your eyes catch on Bob. 

He’s not laughing. He’s not even blinking. 

The lazy smile he wore earlier? Gone. He’s sitting upright now, shoulders tense, jaw clenched. His gaze is locked on you like he forgot what movie is playing, what day it is—hell, maybe even his own name. 

“Floyd?” Mickey nudges his leg with a foot. “You good?” 

Bob jolts slightly, as if waking from a trance. He coughs, shifts, and yanks the blanket from the floor to cover his lap—too quickly to be casual. 

“They, uh...” he clears his throat, voice rough. “They look really good.” 

Your stomach swoops as he leans forward, still holding the blanket tight in place, and reaches for a cream puff from the plate right in front of you—still avoiding your eyes entirely. 

Natasha leans in from behind, her voice low. “You are killing him.” 

You press your lips together to hide your grin, eyes flicking back to Bob—who’s now doing everything in his power not to look in your direction. 

The cream puffs disappear in what has to be a record amount of time. You’re pretty sure you watched Javy inhale at least four, and there was an unnecessarily loud argument between Mickey and Bradley over the last one, which ended in a begrudging decision to split it. 

The rest of the movie plays out without incident, and afterward, everyone decides to change into their PJs for the final film of the night. You’re honestly surprised everyone has made it to movie number three, but you’re not complaining. 

The boys start rummaging through their bags, swapping out jeans for boxers or stretchy pajama pants while Natasha grabs her bag and disappears into the bathroom. You keep your eyes glued to your phone screen to avoid catching a glimpse of something you definitely don’t want to see—because these boys? They have no shame. 

“You can change in my room if you want,” Bob offers. 

You glance up, making sure to keep your eyes fixed on him, because just a little to the left is where Jake is still mid-change. 

“Yeah?” 

Bob nods, a small smile tugging at his lips as he gestures down the short hallway past the kitchen. “It’s the door just after the bathroom.” 

“Thanks,” you mutter, pushing to your feet and grabbing your bag as you slip past the others—now teasing Mickey about his choice of boxers. 

The door is open just a crack, and your heart thuds a little harder than it should as you ease it the rest of the way. The smell hits first—clean and warm, with a twist of vanilla that makes you want to wrap yourself in it and never leave. 

You flick on the light and shut the door behind you, dropping your bag to the floor. You know you should just get changed, but… you can’t help it. You’ve only been to Bob’s apartment a couple times before—once to help him move in (because of course the whole squad helped), and once with Natasha to pick him up before a night out. But never in here. Never in his room. 

It’s almost unusually tidy, but that’s navy life for you. His bed is made neatly, topped with a soft baby blue duvet, coordinated beige and cream pillows, and a throw blanket folded at the foot. It’s a little faded and looks handmade, like something passed down through generations. 

On one side of the room, a bookshelf houses a quiet little collection of well-loved paperbacks, a few aviation manuals, and a line of model planes—some pristine and precise, others clearly glued together by a much younger version of him. A framed photo of a beaming, pint-sized Bob in oversized glasses sits on the dresser, nestled between a small baseball trophy and a display of navy challenge coins. 

A pair of worn sneakers sits neatly by the door, and his uniform jacket hangs off the closet handle, the door slightly ajar. The name tag catches just enough light to pull your eyes toward it. Everything about the room feels like him—modest, thoughtful, quietly proud. It’s the kind of unintentional intimacy that makes you feel like you’ve slipped behind the curtain and gotten a glimpse of the real Bob. 

And somehow… that makes your chest ache. It’s just a room. But it feels so much like him—like you could curl up in here with him for hours, doing nothing but talking and dreaming. Getting lost in each other. Letting the rest of the world wait. And then, later, getting tangled together. Soft kisses, whispered pleas, gentle moans—slow and unhurried, learning one another’s bodies until you know each other better than you know yourselves. 

You shake your head hard and take a breath. You’ve already been in here too long. Pull it together. 

You crouch beside your bag and pull out your pajamas—soft lounge shorts and a matching long-sleeved shirt. It’s nothing special, but a step up from your usual: an old, food-stained navy tee and nothing but underwear. 

You change quickly and shove your clothes into your bag before leaving the room. The lounge room has quieted down, everyone now back in their seats—except for Mickey and Bob, who are in the kitchen grabbing another round of drinks. 

Jake hits play as soon as they return, and everyone settles in again. There’s less chatter now, probably because of how late it’s gotten. Bradley is almost definitely asleep, eyes half-shut on the two-seater, while Mickey is having the time of his life seeing how many of Bradley’s fingers he can get stuck in the top of his beer bottle. 

Natasha is curled up behind you, her head resting on Reuben’s shoulder, and his blinks are getting longer and slower by the second. Jake is surprisingly alert and invested in the film, but Javy looks like his head might lull back at any moment. And Bob—Bob is still wide awake, his eyes sparkling with interest as he watches the screen. 

Halfway through the film, Mickey pushes to his feet and offers another round of drinks, prompting a few sleepy murmurs of ‘yes’ from the others. 

“I’ll help,” you offer, stretching as you rise from the floor and follow him into the kitchen. 

You open the fridge and start pulling out beers while Mickey pops the tops off. But when you close the fridge and turn back around, you spot Reuben—now suddenly very awake—watching Mickey with intent. He’s wearing that little smirk that always means trouble, clearly trying to telepathically communicate something to his WSO. 

Your brow furrows as you glance between them, trying to decode the silent exchange. Mickey looks equally confused for a second... but then realisation dawns and a wicked grin curls onto his face. 

He turns to you and mutters, “Sorry about this.” But he doesn’t sound even remotely apologetic. 

Your frown deepens. “What are you-” 

But you don’t get to finish the question before he starts shaking the beer bottle in his hand. 

“Mick—!” you cry, just as he pops the top off and sprays you with beer. 

You shriek, throwing your hands in front of your face like that’ll somehow stop the onslaught. But it doesn’t. You’re soaked. 

“What the hell, Fanboy?” Reuben calls from the living room, as if this wasn’t entirely his doing. 

“Mickey!” you shout, dropping your arms and glaring at him. 

“Whoops,” he says with a grin. “My bad.” 

Natasha snorts and smacks a hand over her mouth. “Sorry. It’s not funny.” 

“Wow, Fanboy,” Jake pipes up, the smirk in his voice unmistakable. “Is that the first time you’ve made a girl wet?” 

Mickey glares—or tries to. He’s way too pleased with himself for it to land properly. 

“Hey, Floyd,” Reuben calls, “you got any spare clothes for Sunny?” 

Bob is already looking at you, lips parted and cheeks flushed. He swallows hard before turning to Reuben and nodding. “Yeah, of course.” Then he stands, eyes flicking back to you. “Do you want to shower?” 

Mickey gasps, scandalised. “Robert Floyd, are you propositioning her?” 

Bob’s blush deepens, colouring his neck and the tips of his ears, but he doesn’t look particularly ashamed. He looks… flushed. Hot. Close to unravelling. His glare cuts back to Mickey, sharper than usual, a little too dark to be playful. And then his gaze shifts back to you—specifically, your chest. 

You follow his line of sight and immediately wrap an arm around yourself. Your nipples are pebbled beneath your shirt, the damp fabric clinging in all the worst ways. Or the best—if you ask Bob Floyd. 

“Yes,” you say tightly. “A shower would be good.” 

The room dissolves into quiet laughter as you follow Bob down the hall. He slips into his room for a moment, then returns with a folded towel and some clothes stacked neatly on top. 

“Here,” he says, offering them to you. “Take as long as you want. You can use whatever’s in there. Not that there’s much.” 

He dips his head—blush still firmly in place—and heads back to the living room. 

You stare after him for a second, dumbfounded. He got embarrassed about his lack of shower products? That’s what embarrassed him? Not the full-body, post-beer-shower eye-fucking he just gave you? 

You close the bathroom door behind you and lean against it, exhaling hard. You’re buzzing. Overstimulated. Untouched and on fire. You feel like you’re being edged and then abandoned, left to squirm. You’re so sensitive it hurts. Bob is teasing you just as much as you’re teasing him—those glances, the heat behind his eyes, the way his mouth hangs open like he wants to say something but never does. 

You might’ve thought you were playing a game, but Bob Floyd is about to kill you without even realising it. 

You strip quickly, trying not to dwell on the fact that you’re naked in Bob’s apartment. You keep the water on the cooler side—a half-hearted attempt to wash away the heat still simmering under your skin. But it doesn’t help. You shower fast and step out even faster, wrapping yourself in the towel Bob gave you. It’s fluffy, soft, and smells just like him—which makes that spot deep behind your hipbones ache. 

You dry off in record time, then turn to the small pile of clothes on the vanity—Bob’s clothes. Your hands tremble slightly as you lift the satin boxers, dark blue with little white stars, and slide them up your legs. Then the shirt: a worn white tee with a faded Star Wars logo across the chest. 

His scent wraps around you the second you slide it over your head—oversized and impossibly soft against your warm skin. You try not to focus on the rasp of cotton against your nipples. God, if he ever actually touches you, you might just combust. 

You take a deep breath, trying to calm the fire burning low in your belly, then scoop up your beer-soaked clothes and open the bathroom door—steam spilling into the hallway as you step out. 

"Finally," Mickey says, popping up in front of you like he’s been waiting, holding out a plastic bag. 

You blink. “What?” 

“For your clothes,” he says simply. 

“Oh.” You take it and shove the damp material inside. 

His gaze dips—just for a beat—before sliding back up. Then he grins, gives you a cheeky wink, and turns back toward the lounge room. You follow, every eye lifting to you the second you reappear. Warmth floods your cheeks. You’re in Bob’s clothes. Bob's boxers. Bob's shirt. 

“Can we play the movie now?” Jake whines, oblivious to the tension humming through the room. “It was just getting good.” 

You nod, unable to speak, your gaze already locked with Bob’s. 

His eyes rake down your body, slow and deliberate. He takes in the curve of your neck, the slope of your shoulder, the hang of his shirt against your chest. His gaze catches there, as if he can see straight through the fabric, then continues its journey down to the hem. The shorts are barely visible beneath the shirt, and judging by the heat in his eyes, he might be wondering why you're wearing pants at all. 

You shift under the weight of his stare, hyper-aware of every inch of fabric against your skin—of how suddenly hot the room feels. Jake presses play, but no one is watching the screen. Every pair of eyes bounces between you and Bob, waiting—expecting—something to happen. 

Bob looks wrecked. His hands are clenched at his sides, knuckles white, jaw tight. Like he has to physically hold himself back. 

Natasha clears her throat, startling you more than it should. You tear your gaze away and flash her a sheepish smile before finally forcing yourself to move, padding back to your spot on the floor. 

Even then, you can feel Bob’s eyes tracking every step. 

The rest of the movie plays out in near silence, broken only by the soft snoring that eventually starts up from Bradley and Javy. It takes a while for you to settle, but you finally curl up on the floor with a pillow hugged to your chest, watching Anakin fall apart on-screen and become Darth Vader. 

Jake is the only one still fully invested in the film. Even Bob seems distracted now, his eyes flicking toward you more often than the TV. He shifts in place, uncomfortable, dragging the blanket higher across his lap and holding it like a lifeline. You try not to smirk. 

You think you know what might be going on under there… but you’re not about to assume. It couldn't possibly be just because you’re wearing his clothes. 

…Right? 

Eventually, the credits start rolling and everyone begins to stir. 

“Where am I sleeping?” Mickey asks, already eyeing Bob like he’s got plans. 

Bob shrugs. “Wherever. There’s the couches and a couple beds in the spare room, but someone’ll have to sleep with me.” 

“I think Rooster’s good here,” Jake says, glancing at the man awkwardly passed out on the two-seater couch. “I’ll take this one.” 

“I’ll sleep with you, Bobby,” Javy says through a yawn, stretching so wide his joints pop. 

“Damn it,” Mickey mutters as he walks past, bumping your shoulder with his. “Missed opportunity.” 

You roll your eyes but can’t help feeling a twinge of disappointment. You know damn well you wouldn’t get any sleep next to Bob—not when he smells like that, looks like that, and keeps looking at you the way he does. So it’s probably for the best, but still, the thought lingers. 

Everyone takes turns brushing their teeth and shuffling off to bed. You end up in the fold-out bed with Natasha in the spare room, while Reuben and Mickey claim the air mattress on the floor. Apparently, there’s no escaping these boys—not even for one night. 

Mumbled goodnights fade into rustling fabric and shifting limbs, then finally, silence. 

Too much silence. 

You lie on your back, eyes on the ceiling, thoughts screaming through your head like they’re in a race. You should be tired—your body aches—but your brain refuses to shut up. You toss the blanket off, overheated, but even with the cooler air, your skin feels flushed. You roll to your side, careful not to jostle Natasha on the creaky mattress, but nothing helps. 

You glance down at the boys, both snoring with their mouths open, and finally sigh. Swinging your legs off the bed, you wriggle out of Bob’s shorts, thinking maybe it’ll help. You don’t usually sleep in pants anyway. 

It doesn’t. 

Ten minutes later, you quietly slip off the bed and tiptoe toward the door, easing it open with practiced care to avoid the squeaky hinges. Then you turn down the hallway, barefoot and warm-skinned, and pad into the kitchen. 

The hem of Bob’s shirt brushes against your bare thighs, stoking the fire already simmering between them as you stop in front of the fridge and pull the door open. A cool flood of light spills across the kitchen tiles. You grab a bottle of water and twist off the cap, stepping back and tipping it to your lips. But the cold rush does nothing to cool the heat thrumming beneath your skin. 

“You always walk around other people’s places half naked?” 

You choke, almost spilling water down your chin as you turn toward the voice—that low, raspy sound that makes your skin prickle and your spine snap straight. 

Bob stands at the edge of the kitchen, leaning casually against the far counter—but there’s nothing relaxed about the way he holds himself. In the dim glow of the fridge light, he looks almost ethereal. His eyes are sharp, lit with something that borders on pain—hunger, maybe, or full-blown starvation—and his arms are crossed over his bare chest. 

Yeah. Bob Floyd is shirtless. 

You register a flicker of jealousy for Javy—the man who gets to sleep next to this—but you don’t let yourself linger on it. Not when Bob is standing right there in nothing but a pair of loose boxers, the fabric doing nothing to hide the impressive shape beneath. 

You don’t know if it’s because he’s a little turned on or just blessed, but damn. 

“You okay?” he asks, though it doesn’t sound like a real question—because he already knows the answer. 

No. No, you’re not. 

You clear your throat, dragging your eyes back up to his. “Yeah, I—uh-” 

Your words falter when his gaze drops to your legs. There’s something almost reverent in the way he looks at you—like he’s trying to memorise every inch. His eyes drag slowly up your bare thighs, pausing at the hem of his shirt before gliding over your waist and stopping at your chest, where your nipples are clearly outlined beneath the thin cotton. 

The heat of his stare burns hotter than any touch. 

“Couldn’t sleep?” he asks, voice quiet, like he’s just making conversation. Like he has no idea what he’s doing to you. 

He pushes off the counter and walks straight toward you—slow, but sure. He stops right in front of the fridge, close enough that if you moved even a breath closer, you’d feel your nipples graze his skin. 

You take a step back—barely. Just enough to let him slip past you. 

He nods slightly—a silent thanks—and ducks into the fridge for his own water. When he shuts the door, the kitchen is plunged into darkness, save for dim moonlight filtering in from the far windows—but you can still see him. His outline, the dips and curves of his lean torso, the tilt of his head as he tips the bottle back and drinks. 

You watch his throat move with every swallow, your lips parting slightly, craving his skin on your tongue. You don’t move. You don’t breathe. You just stand there, watching. 

When he finishes, he turns to the sink and drops the empty bottle in before bracing both hands against the bench. His chin dips toward his chest, and you see the rise and fall of his shoulders as he exhales—hard. 

Before you can stop yourself, your feet carry you forward until you’re beside him, your bare arm brushing against his. You place your own bottle in the sink, then turn toward him and lean your hip against the counter. 

“Bob,” you whisper. 

Every sound in the apartment feels louder now—the faint snores, the creak of the floorboards, your own heartbeat thrumming in your ears. 

He looks at you, only turning his head, not his body. “Don’t—” he says softly. “Don’t say my name like that.” 

You frown, sliding your hand over his. His grip tightens on the bench like he’s anchoring himself. 

“Like what?” you ask softly. 

“Like you want me,” he murmurs. His voice is thick—rough around the edges like it’s been scraped raw. Like he's holding something back with every laboured breath. 

You press closer, your chest against his arm. The contact is electric. Your skin separated only by a whisper of cotton—his cotton. 

“Bob,” you breathe, a little desperate now. 

He exhales sharply and drops his gaze to the sink again, like something there might help him. “This isn’t…” His jaw flexes. “We can’t do this.” 

“Do what?” you ask, playing innocent, even as your fingers trail lightly up his arm. 

You can feel your chest rising and falling faster than it should, your breasts pressing against his arm like some wanton, starry-eyed girl. But you can’t bring yourself to step away. Every inch of you is on fire, every nerve ending singed and tingling. You want him to turn around and take you—bend you over the counter and make you scream his name. Who gives a fuck who’s listening... or watching. You just want Bob. You want him to know how much you want him, how deeply you need him. How desperate he makes you without even trying. 

“Do you have any idea,” he whispers, finally turning to face you fully, “what you do to me?” 

You feel it—hard and thick—pressing against your lower belly. There’s no mistaking it now. 

“Bob…” Your voice is a sigh, wrecked and begging. 

He catches your wrist, his grip firm, nearly bruising. His eyes are wild as they search your face—from your eyes to your lips, down to your chest, and back again—like he’s torn between reason and ruin. 

You hold still. Waiting. Daring. Wanting him to snap. 

But then... he’s gone—his warmth, his scent, the burning look in his eyes. All of it, gone in a breath. 

“Goodnight,” he mutters, so low you barely hear it before the soft click of his bedroom door… and then the snap of the lock. 

You’re left standing there, chest heaving, skin burning. Your eyes sting with unshed tears, and your mind is a mess. What the fuck just happened? Your panties are damp, and your chest aches like you've been torn in two. You want to cry, but you also want to break down his door. How dare he build you up like that? Look at you like that, talk to you like that—and then just walk away. 

It takes several minutes before you can move, your legs shaky, your mind racing. You stumble back to the spare room, collapse into bed, and stare at the ceiling, flat on your back—Bob’s shirt clinging to your skin. 

You don’t sleep. Not at all. 

- 

“He what?” Natasha’s eyes go impossibly wide. “And then he just—he left?” 

You nod slowly, keeping your eyes fixed on your lunch. The mess hall is loud enough to muffle your conversation—one you should’ve had yesterday but couldn’t summon the strength for. So here you are, in the middle of the hall, with the boys a couple tables over, surrounded by lieutenants you don’t know—blissfully unaware of your current crisis. 

“Yeah,” you sigh, stabbing at another piece of pasta you don’t plan to eat. 

You haven’t eaten much in the last twenty-four hours—not since the run-in with Bob. Everything feels bland now, drained of colour and taste, too dull to bother with. Anything that isn’t Bob just feels lacking, and you're starting to worry that one moment—one heated, breathless moment—has completely ruined you. 

“That’s insane,” Natasha mutters. “That’s so... not Bob. How could he be so—I don’t know... rude? I just—I have no words.” 

You shrug one shoulder. “It wasn’t rude. He just seemed... confused, I guess. And I don’t blame him. If I’m not what he wants, then-” 

“Stop right there,” Mickey interrupts, sliding into the chair beside you. 

Reuben drops into the seat next to Natasha, eyeing your tray of food. 

“Sorry,” he says, reaching across the table to steal your apple. “We couldn’t get away any faster.” 

You glance past Mickey, down the row of tables, and catch Bob’s eyes on you—just for a second—before he quickly looks away. Bradley, Jake, and Javy are still deep in conversation with the other guys, oblivious. Bob seems to be the only one noticing Reuben and Mickey’s absence. 

“Start again,” Mickey says. “From the beginning. We knew something happened.” 

Natasha snorts around a mouthful of pasta, and you sigh, knowing there’s no point arguing. They’d get it out of you one way or another. 

Twenty minutes later, when you finally finish recapping the story for the second time, Natasha taps her watch and nods toward the exit. “We better get back before Mav, or he’ll keep us late tonight.” 

Mickey’s brows are nearly touching as he processes everything you’ve said. “What does he mean, ‘you can’t do this’? He clearly wanted to—so why didn’t he?” 

You pick up your tray and follow Natasha toward the return station. “Your guess is as good as mine.” 

“I mean,” Reuben says, brows furrowed, “you said he was... at attention, right?” 

You blow a half-hearted laugh through your nose. “Yeah.” 

“So he definitely wanted to,” he says as the four of you exit the mess hall. “I just can’t think of why he wouldn’t go for it.” 

“I think it’s because you’re in the same squad,” Natasha offers. “He’s probably worried it’ll get weird—or worse, if it doesn’t work out.” 

You roll your eyes as you cross the hot concrete, heading back to the hangar. “But we’re both adults. Why can’t he just sack up and fuck me, and we’ll worry about the consequences later?” 

Your voice comes out louder than you meant, and you don’t miss the odd looks a few passing officers send your way. 

Reuben chuckles. “Maybe you should just say that to him.” 

“No,” Natasha says, turning toward you with a mischievous glint in her eye. “I’ve got a better idea. Call it Plan B or whatever, but now... we’re bringing out the big guns.” 

“So Sunny pressing her tits against him wasn’t the big guns?” Mickey quips with a grin. 

You smack him lightly across the chest before looking back to Natasha. “I doubt anything will work at this point, but... I’m curious. What’s the idea?” 

“How’s your gag reflex?” she asks, tilting her head thoughtfully. 

You rear back, eyebrows raised—and both Reuben and Mickey choke on laughter. 

Natasha sighs, rolling her eyes. “Not like that. I mean you’re going to need a strong stomach and a Juilliard degree to pull this off.” 

You frown, slowing just slightly as the hangar looms into view. “Okay...” 

She straightens up and faces forward, a proud smirk tugging at her mouth and her chin tilted high. “We’re going to make Bob jealous.” 

- 

Out of Mickey and Reuben, you all collectively decided that Reuben was the more convincing option. Not that you don’t think Mickey’s gorgeous—you do, and so does he—but his acting skills are questionable at best. You at least have a little more faith in Reuben’s ability to fake flirt without making it weird. 

The plan is simple. Convince Bob that he’s lost his shot—or that he’s just about to. Make it clear you’re happy to move on. If he wants you... well, now he’s going to have to fight for it. Because tempting him wasn’t enough—apparently—you need to dig deeper. Tap into something primal and pull it to the surface. Exploit what lingers under the skin of every man: jealousy and competition. 

You’re going to make this a game he can’t afford to lose. 

“You ready for Phase Two?” Natasha asks as you cross the base, the sun still barely above the horizon. 

You take a deep breath of fresh morning air. “Let’s do it.” 

She and Mickey take off ahead of you and Reuben to arrive in the training room first. It’s a known fact that Bob is always ridiculously early—so you know he’ll already be there. You hang back with Reuben, rehashing the plan and trying to get used to flirting with him without cracking up. 

At exactly ten past six, Natasha texts you to give the green light—no doubt having casually pointed out to Bob that you’re not with her, which you always are. 

“What if he doesn’t care?” you ask Reuben softly as you climb the stairs. 

He rolls his eyes like you’ve said something utterly insane. “He’ll care, trust me. He might be Bob, but he’s still a guy. And he’s obviously down bad for you—just needs a little push.” 

You snort. “Little?” 

Reuben chuckles. “Okay, more than a little. It’s Bob.” 

You laugh too, quietly, and then steel yourself as you reach the door—slipping on your game face. You glance at Reuben, catching the smirk tugging at his mouth. 

Then you both nod. It’s show time. 

“So, you’re saying eye contact makes it better?” he asks as you step through the door, voice pitched perfectly. 

You nod, casual but with a hint of something else. “Yep. A thousand times better. And bonus points if you know where to put your hands.” 

He raises a brow, lips twitching. “Where do I put my hands?” 

You giggle, soft and flirty, pausing a few steps into the room. “How about I show you later?” 

His grin breaks loose. “Promise?” 

“Promise.” 

You head toward the rows of seats, sliding into your usual behind Natasha—not missing the way Bob’s gaze locks onto you like he’s been caught mid-thought. His head swivels as Reuben sits beside you instead of next to Mickey. 

“See,” Reuben says, leaning in a little, “all these years I thought speed was the key. But you’re saying it’s finesse?” 

“Oh, definitely finesse,” you say, holding his eyes. “Go too hard and too fast, and it’s just... messy. Sloppy. Unimpressive.” 

Reuben licks his lips, his eyes flicking sideways to Bob—just for a second. “So, you’re offering me private lessons?” 

You lower your voice slightly, knowing it’s still perfectly audible to the rest of the room. “Depends. Can you follow instruction without getting too flustered?” 

Reuben’s grin sharpens. “I don’t fluster, sweetheart. I excel under pressure.” 

You pause, your pulse a little too quick—partly from Bob’s stare, which he’s not even trying to hide now, and partly from the fact that yeah, it’s been a while. And if this whole plan does blow up in your face... well, Reuben doesn’t seem like the worst option for a little stress relief. 

You fight down a laugh at the idea and finally drag your gaze toward the front of the room. Bob—just one row ahead—snaps his eyes forward like he’s been caught eavesdropping, but the bright red of his cheeks, the tight set of his shoulders, and the way his jaw flexes say it all. He’s tense. He’s listening. And he’s absolutely not okay. 

A moment later, Maverick strolls in, completely oblivious to the emotional warfare brewing right beneath his nose. 

The rest of the week passes in much the same way. Each evening, you regroup with your friends to scheme and strategize, brainstorming new antics to pull off the next day. Nothing over-the-top—just enough to catch Bob’s eye. 

On Wednesday, you get Reuben to help you into your flight suit. You both time it perfectly: he exits the locker room just ahead of Bob, and you appear a second later, flashing a flirty grin before asking sweetly for his help. You giggle and call him a sweetheart while Bob nearly trips over his own feet, glancing back with a clenched jaw and a look that could burn a hole through steel. 

Thursday morning, Reuben brings you a coffee—exactly how you like it—straight to the briefing room. You proclaim, not so quietly, that he’s giving total boyfriend material before he drops into the seat beside you and you both giggle over a (completely fabricated) inside joke. 

That afternoon, during a short break between drills and the next briefing, he offers you a bite of his protein bar. You take it right from his hand, licking your lips and throwing him an innocent little wink before sauntering off like it’s nothing. 

By Friday, Natasha warns you that the others are starting to notice. But you’re in too deep to pull back now—not when Bob looks like he’s about to unravel. He’s been tighter than ever, watching you like a hawk, eyes dark and stormy instead of their usual calm denim blue. You’re close. So close. And honestly? You’re kind of having a little too much fun. 

That afternoon, during post-flight checks, Reuben sidles up behind you under the guise of pointing out something ‘mechanical’ on your jet. You’re not actually doing anything with it, but that doesn’t stop him from standing unnecessarily close, guiding your hand with his as he gestures toward something supposedly critical. The two of you are seconds from cracking up, but Bob doesn’t know that. Bob, from all the way across the hangar, looks frozen—eyes locked, breath held, jaw tight—as Reuben presses flush against your back. 

Natasha really shouldn’t be enjoying this as much as she is, but honestly? She can’t help it. It’s too damn entertaining. 

“Hey,” she says, nodding at Bob as she approaches. “You good?” 

He blinks, then turns his sharp gaze on her, jaw tight. “Yeah.” 

She snorts. “That was very convincing.” 

He rolls his eyes and turns robotically back to the maintenance logs he’d been filling out. 

Natasha glances at the paperwork, noting the hard press of his pen and the uneven ticks and crosses—some scribbled over multiple times—down the checkbox column. 

“Wow,” she mutters, raising a brow. “You sure you earned your pen licence? Or should you still be on pencils?” 

Bob’s blue eyes flick up, darker than usual beneath his furrowed brow. “Ha. Ha.” 

“Okay,” she says, biting back the laugh rising in her throat. “So, bad day?” 

“Bad week,” Bob grumbles. 

Natasha nods slowly. “Well, hey, why don’t we fix that by hitting up The Hard Deck tonight?” 

He snaps the logbook shut and tucks the pen into his pocket. “Pass.” 

“Oh, come on,” she sighs. “It might make you feel better.” 

His eyes flick toward you again, watching as you and Reuben dissolve into giggles beside your jet. 

“I doubt it.” 

“Sunny’ll be there,” Natasha says, her voice light and teasing. 

Bob doesn’t respond. Just keeps packing up his things—every motion a little too sharp, a little too fast. 

Natasha exhales. “Come on, dude. Just come for one drink—it doesn’t have to be beer. Blow off some steam. If you hate it, you can bail early. But it won’t be the same without you.” 

He takes a breath and closes his eyes for a beat before letting it out slow. “Fine. One drink.” 

Natasha grins, her eyes sparkling even in the dimming light of the hangar. “Perfect.” 

Later that night, Natasha drives the four of you—Reuben and Mickey included—to the bar. Everyone else agreed to meet there, and she insisted on driving so you could have a few drinks. Not just to loosen up for another round of torturing poor Bob, but to actually let loose a little. She can tell this whole thing is winding you up, and she figures a few beers and a night with friends might help ease the tension—and the guilt—and maybe even the gnawing fear that this whole plan could blow up in your face. 

“Nat, are you sure this dress isn’t too short?” you ask, holding the hem down against the curve of your ass as you follow her toward the main entry door. “I haven’t worn it in years.” 

“There’s no such thing as too short,” Mickey says, deadpan. 

You roll your eyes and step inside, into the warm glow of golden lighting and the low hum of half-drunk conversation. You let go of your dress now that there’s no breeze threatening to lift it, and try to relax, even with the strange sensation of bare legs in public. You’re used to flight suits, not feeling this on display. 

“Ready to put on your best performance yet?” Reuben murmurs, slinging an arm over your shoulder. 

You take a deep breath, feeling it rattle faintly in your chest. “Let’s do this thing.” 

Natasha shoots you a wink over her shoulder, already striding confidently across the bar, her gaze locked on the usual booth where the rest of your friends are waiting. 

There’s a chorus of greetings as the four of you approach, and you all grin and wave, waiting as Bradley, Jake, Javy, and Bob shuffle around to make room. Natasha pointedly takes the spot beside Bob, with Mickey sliding in next to her. You claim the seat beside Jake—which puts Reuben on your other side. Just as planned. 

It’s a little squishy, but after so many nights like this, none of you really notice. Except Bob. He’s noticed tonight. His eyes are locked on the way your side is pressed to Reuben’s, his arm is slung casually over the back of the booth, fingers just barely grazing your shoulder. 

“He looks like he wants to kill me,” Reuben whispers in your ear, low enough that you can barely hear him over the chatter of the bar. “Pretend I said something funny. Laugh like you’ve got a secret.” 

You blink slowly, resisting the urge to roll your eyes, and let out a soft giggle as you lean toward him just a little. 

“You’re a pretty good actress,” he mutters before pulling back slightly. 

You glance up at him through your lashes, feeling more at ease with the close proximity after the past week. Then you straighten your spine and lean in, your lips grazing his jaw as you whisper in his ear. 

“You’re annoying.” 

He chuckles quietly, though you know he really wants to snort and smack you on the shoulder. You’re both enjoying this just a little too much, getting a kick out of your undercover roles. 

When you turn back to the rest of the group, Natasha is very deliberately not looking at you—and you know it’s because she’ll laugh if she does. Mickey, on the other hand, is watching with wide eyes, as is Javy. Jake and Bradley are still arguing about something on your other side, and Bob… Bob still looks like he’s ready to commit first-degree murder. 

“Drink?” Reuben asks after a beat, his smile smooth. 

You nod. “Absolutely. I’ll help you.” 

You both stand and offer a round to the rest of the table, most of whom accept—which makes it less suspicious that you’re going together. At the bar, you make sure to stand just a little closer than necessary as he orders a round of the usual from Penny. 

“Are you sure we’re not pushing it?” you ask, your voice laced with quiet worry. 

Reuben shakes his head. “Nah, not yet.” 

You frown. “Yet?” 

“He’ll snap one way or another,” he says, leaning casually against the bar. “He’ll either lose it and blow up over something totally unrelated—and that’s when we’ll know we’ve gone too far. Or he’ll wake the fuck up and fight for what he wants.” 

You open your mouth to voice another concern, but Penny is already sliding the tray of drinks across the bar. Reuben thanks her with an easy smile as you grab the two beers that didn’t fit, flashing her your own grateful grin before following him back to the table. 

When you set the beers down, you feel the neckline of your dress slip just a little lower. Your eyes flick up to see if anyone’s noticed—and of course… Bob. His gaze is dark and locked on your chest, clearly able to see right down your dress. He doesn’t hesitate, doesn’t even try to look away. He just stares. 

But then he blinks and glances aside, not flustered or ashamed—just determined not to meet your eyes. 

You straighten up and clear your throat. “I’m just going to duck to the bathroom.” 

Then you turn and begin weaving your way through the bar, desperate for a moment to yourself—even though you haven’t been here that long—and to check that you don’t look completely ridiculous in the dress Natasha convinced you to wear. 

You take your time in the stall, then rinse your hands under the cool water for a little longer than necessary. When you glance at your reflection in the full-length mirror, you’re surprised—and a little impressed. Because damn… you do look good. Maybe this dress deserves to see the light of day more often. And if Bob’s stare is anything to go by, it’s definitely not a bad idea. 

You take a deep breath before pushing open the bathroom door, ready to continue your little charade—but you barely make it a few steps before someone blocks your path. You blink and stumble, stopping short before you run right into him. 

You sigh when you realise who it is, that cocky smirk etched across his face. “What do you want, Hangman?” 

“I want to know what’s going on.” 

Your pulse spikes, but you do your best to keep your expression calm. “What do you mean?” 

“Between you and Payback,” he says, narrowing his green eyes. “Because I know that’s not real.” 

Your breath catches—too quickly—giving you away as your gaze flicks to the side. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.” 

He rolls his eyes and leans in slightly, keeping the conversation low and private in the hum of the bar. “Don’t try to gaslight me, Sunny. I’m not an idiot. I know Phoenix is in on it—because of course she is—and Fanboy too, judging by the way he giggles every time you and Payback so much as look at each other.” He quirks a brow, daring you to challenge him. “The only reason Coyote hasn’t said anything is because he’s too polite, and Rooster hasn’t noticed because he’s too wrapped up in his own shit.” 

You cross your arms and narrow your eyes, matching his bravado. “You missed one.” 

He frowns. “What?” 

“You listed all the members of the squad… except one.” 

“Right,” he chuckles dryly. “Bob. That’s the funny thing, because ever since we got to this island, you’ve been starry-eyed over Floyd, and he’s either too clueless to notice or too stupid to ask you out.” He pauses, letting it sink in, then leans just a bit closer. “Which is exactly why I’m not buying whatever you and Payback have been trying to sell this past week.” 

You stare at each other for a beat, both stubborn and scowling, waiting for the other to fold first. 

Then you sigh. “Okay, fine. But you have to swear yourself to secrecy.” 

His smirk stretches into a full grin. “I knew it.” 

“Swear it.” 

“Okay, okay,” he says, holding up a hand. “I swear. I won’t even tell Coyote, and my pillow won’t hear a thing about it.” 

You nod. “Good. Now come over and pretend to pick a song so this doesn’t look suspicious.” 

You grab his wrist and tug him toward the jukebox, leaning over it and pretending to scroll through options while you give him a quick summary of Operation Bob’s Blue Balls—leaving out a few of the more... intimate details. 

“So there,” you finish. “It’s underhanded and immature, but that’s what’s going on.” 

His expression barely shifts the entire time, just the usual entertained glint in his eye and that ever-present smirk. 

“Underhanded and immature?” he says. “I’m surprised I wasn’t in on this sooner.” 

You roll your eyes. 

“I want in.” 

You blink, brow furrowed. “What?” 

“I want to help,” he says, plainly. 

You narrow your eyes, sceptical. “Why?” 

He sighs and braces one hand on the jukebox, leaning in like he’s about to reveal some classified information. “Believe it or not, I’m not the worst guy in the world. I have a few ideas, and I think you two would be cute together.” He pauses, then adds in a quieter voice, “Besides, I’ve been going through a bit of a dry spell, and I figure helping other people get laid might buy me some good karma.” 

You snort softly as he pulls back, his cheeks faintly pink. 

“Alright,” you say. “You can help. But nothing obvious and nothing stupid. The last thing I need is Bob figuring this out and hating me for it.” 

He rolls his eyes, that signature smirk firmly back in place. “Bob could never hate you. But I’ll be subtle.” 

“Good.” You glance past his shoulder toward the booth across the bar. “We better get back before they get suspicious.” 

“Wait,” he stops you with a hand on your shoulder. “One more question.” 

You raise your brows, prompting him to go on. 

“When you fantasise about Bob, is he the top or the bottom? Because I just think you should manage your expectations—ow!” 

He winces, rubbing the spot on his chest where you smacked him, watching you with a wounded look as you shove past with an exasperated sigh. 

Great. Now Hangman is involved... 

You spend the rest of the night practically glued to Reuben’s side, as planned. But now you’re a little on edge. You keep half an ear tuned to Jake’s voice, waiting to see when he might strike—and what he might say when he does. You trust him not to blow the whole thing, but you’re more than a little nervous about what his version of ‘helping’ might actually look like. 

“Another drink?” Reuben asks, just as you finish the last of your third beer. 

You nod, a bit too eagerly. “Yes, please. Maybe something stronger this time.” 

He chuckles and slides out of the booth, offering his hand. You take it, letting him guide you up toward the bar. You’re so wrapped up in your thoughts that you barely register the feel of his hand slipping from yours and settling at the small of your back, his thumb rubbing slow, comforting circles there. 

But Bob notices. 

And Jake notices Bob noticing—taking special joy in the way Bob’s hand tightens around his bottle of Coke, knuckles going white. 

Jake clears his throat and casts a glance toward the bar, leaning forward slightly. “They’re cute, don’t you think?” 

There’s a beat of silence as Bob swallows—hard—and Natasha just blinks, clearly trying to catch up. Then the lightbulb goes off, and a wicked grin stretches across her lips. 

“Yeah,” she says, her eyes following Jake’s. “I think they’d make a good couple.” 

Bob snorts. Actually snorts. But he keeps his gaze fixed on the label he’s been picking at on his bottle. 

Natasha arches a brow. “Something funny?” 

Bob shakes his head. “No.” 

“Really?” Jake presses, grinning. “Could’ve sworn you just laughed, Floyd.” 

“It wasn’t a laugh,” Bob mutters. “More of a… breath.” 

“Oh, a breath,” Natasha echoes, clearly amused. “Because it sounded suspiciously like judgment.” 

“Or jealousy,” Jake adds, leaning back with a smug grin. 

Bob’s gaze flicks to the bar—and to you—then just as quickly snaps away. “I don’t care who she dates.” 

Natasha hums, fighting a smirk as she lifts her beer to her lips, “Didn’t say you did.” 

Shortly after you and Reuben return to the table, giggling like idiots, Bob leaves. He mutters something about not feeling well and ducks out before even saying a proper goodbye. Part of you feels wrecked with guilt—but another part… is quietly hopeful. Because Bob isn’t like this. He’s good at regulating his emotions, even better at staying calm under pressure—he’s a fighter pilot, for God’s sake. But this? This is different. He’s never stormed out on the brink of losing control. Sure, he can get a little frustrated sometimes, maybe throw a snarky comment—usually at Jake when he pushes too far—but that’s as far as it goes. 

If you didn’t know any better, you’d say he’s starting to unravel… 

You spend most of the next day on the couch with the aircon blasting, while Natasha works through some paperwork at the kitchen table. It’s too hot to go outside, and you’re too distracted to do anything that requires even an ounce of brainpower. So instead, you let your mind rot with cartoons, obsessively checking your phone for signs of life in the group chat. 

“I can’t believe Hangman is in on this now,” Natasha mutters, not even glancing up from her papers. 

You sigh and roll from your side onto your back, staring up at the ceiling. “I can’t believe he hasn’t cracked yet. If the roles were reversed, I’d be like a feral cat in heat by now.” 

She snorts and lifts her head, flashing you an amused smirk. “You were already like a feral cat in heat for that man. Hence this whole situation.” 

You laugh softly. “Yeah, not wrong.” 

Your head drops to the side as you half-watch the TV screen, until the apartment door swings open with a dramatic gust of air. 

“I hate to say it,” Mickey says as he breezes in, eyes wide, “but the man is a genius.” 

Reuben follows close behind, and then Jake—grinning like he just solved world peace. 

“Oh, God,” Natasha mutters. “They’re multiplying.” 

“I don’t know why you didn’t come to me sooner,” Jake says, strolling toward the couch. “I’m the king of seduction.” 

You sit up, curling into the corner to make room for Reuben and Jake as Mickey heads straight for the fridge. 

“I wouldn’t go that far,” you mutter, narrowing your eyes at him. 

“Just wait until you hear the plan,” Reuben says, practically buzzing. “It’s perfect.” 

Intrigued now, Natasha gathers her papers into one neat pile and joins you on the lounge. “Alright, Bagman. Let’s hear it.” 

Jake’s eyes sparkle with mischief as he settles in beside Reuben. “Tomorrow, we’re going to the beach.” 

“You’re already way off,” you cut in. “Bob won’t agree to hang out again. Not after last night.” 

Natasha nods. “She’s right. He needs to cool off before we wind him up again.” 

“Absolutely not,” Jake snaps, brow furrowed. “You need to strike while the iron’s hot. You need to push his fucking limits.” 

Mickey appears from the kitchen, a bag of pretzels already open in his hand. 

Natasha frowns. “Okay, but how? He won’t agree to go if he thinks Sunny and Payback will be there.” 

Jake grins. “Which is exactly why he’s going to think they won’t be there.” 

“You want us to lie?” you ask. 

He gives you a flat look. “After all this emotional warfare, now you’re drawing the line at lying?” 

You shrink back slightly. “I guess not.” 

“Exactly.” He leans forward, elbows braced on his knees, hands clasped. “So—I’ll pitch the idea in the group chat. Sunny, you reply immediately that you’re busy—before Bob gets a chance to decline. Then Payback says something vague, like he might come or might not. That way, it looks like low numbers. And if Bob says no, the rest of us can guilt-trip him into coming. Which he will, as long as he thinks you’re not going to be there.” 

Natasha tilts her head. “So... she will be there though?” 

“Yes,” Jake says. “Just not right away. Give him time to relax, have some fun. We’ll play games—I’ll rile everyone up and get that competitive energy going.” 

Everyone nods along, faces weirdly serious, like this is some highly classified mission briefing. 

“Then, you two show up together,” Jake continues, gesturing to you and Reuben. “It’ll throw Bob off, but we won’t give him a chance to leave. We’ll keep the games going. Something with contact. You need to get right up in his space. Go all in. Because then... you’re going to knock him off his feet.” 

“Literally,” Mickey mumbles, chewing a mouthful of pretzels. 

You frown. “What?” 

“Bump into him,” Jake says. “Literally knock him over. Skin-to-skin contact. I’ve seen the way he looks at you in a swimsuit—it’s borderline pornographic. Touching him? It’ll fry what’s left of his self-control. And then, when there’s a moment—just a second where you could apologise for being too competitive or whatever... you’re going to say something that makes him snap.” 

You lean in, heart pounding now. “What am I going to say?” 

- 

The sun is high and brutal in the sky, and you’re already sweating—even though you’re still sitting in Reuben’s car with the aircon blasting. 

“Do you really think this is going to work?” you ask, nervously bouncing your knee. 

Reuben snorts. “If it doesn’t, the man isn’t human.” 

“I feel bad,” you mutter, eyes scanning the stretch of gold sand through the windshield. 

“You won’t feel bad when you finally see what’s in his pants,” Reuben says, barely paying attention as he scrolls through his phone. 

Your eyes go wide and your head whips toward him. “So it is huge? I wasn’t just imagining that?” 

He chuckles and looks up. “Oh yeah, he’s big. Like... big big. I remember the first time in the locker room—no one’s trying to look, obviously, that’s just not the vibe—but... damn. We couldn’t not look. Then everyone lost it. I think Hangman nearly cried.” 

You press your lips together, trying to hold back a grin, but it’s no use—your cheeks are on fire, and your whole face feels like it's bright red. 

“Damn,” you murmur, turning your gaze back to the front as your heart slams against your ribs. 

Reuben laughs again, then cuts the engine, killing the aircon. “Alright. Pull yourself together. It’s go time.” 

You climb out of the car and immediately wince at the lick of heat curling across your skin. It’s blistering—almost hostile—but at least you’re at the beach. Worst-case scenario? You’ll drown yourself in the ocean. Just walk into the surf and keep going. No one would blame you. 

“Relax,” Reuben says, sliding a hand into yours like this is nothing. “This is going to work. Hangman might be insane, but I’m pretty sure it’s because he’s an evil genius.” 

You roll your eyes, exhale hard, then square your shoulders and lift your chin. 

You let Reuben lead you onto the sand, legs already working overtime to stay steady in the heat-softened grains. You can hear the chaos before you see it. Shouts and thuds echo over the sand as your friends tumble and crash around in a messy game of what looks like overgrown keepy-uppies. 

“No hands!” Javy yells, just as Mickey swats the ball to avoid a direct hit to the face. 

“Damn it, Fanboy!” Jake shouts. “You’re giving away points.” 

Mickey drops his hands to his knees, panting. “Can we play literally any other game? I hate this.” 

“You only hate it ‘cause you suck at it,” Natasha says, catching the ball like it’s second nature and bringing the game to a halt. 

You swear you can see Mickey roll his eyes from here. You and Reuben are still on approach, trudging through the soft sand, unnoticed—so far. 

“What about football?” Jake offers, tossing the round ball aside and already pulling a proper football from their pile of gear. “Dog-fight football?” 

“Three versus three?” Javy asks, sceptical. 

“What about four v. four?” Reuben calls, hand cupped to amplify his voice. 

Everyone turns, and there’s a beat of stillness as they clock you. Then Natasha flashes a wide grin beneath her sunglasses, and Jake’s face lights up like a very satisfied evil villain—his plan falling perfectly into place. 

“Well, if it ain’t Sunny and Payback!” he calls, spinning the football lazily in one hand. “You two done playing your own games already?” 

You ignore the jab and focus on not rolling your ankle in the damn sand. At the pile of bags, you stop to drop your stuff and hesitate at the button of your shorts. 

Jake’s eyes are practically gleaming. “How about a swim to cool off first?” 

Reuben strips his shirt with a single tug. “You read my mind, Seresin.” 

The guys—already in their swim trunks—bolt for the water, crashing into the surf in a chaotic stampede. Natasha peels off her shirt and shorts, shoots you a wink, and strolls in after them like she owns the ocean. 

Reuben doesn’t say anything before he leaves you, but he gives a barely-there nod—directed past your shoulder. 

You don’t need to turn around to know who it’s aimed at. 

Bob’s still standing where he was when the game fizzled out, statuesque. His hair is tousled and his lips parted just enough to make your stomach flip. You’re at least ten feet away, but you can see the rise and fall of his chest—too fast, too hard. But he’s not out of breath. He’s not flustered. 

He’s furious. 

And those blue eyes? Laser-locked on you. His entire focus narrowed like a sniper sight. Not a blink. Not a breath wasted on anyone but you. 

You swallow and force your body into motion, unbuttoning your shorts and shimmying out of them before pulling your loose shirt over your head. You drop your clothes on Natasha’s pile and turn toward the water, steady on the lumpy sand. 

And then you hit the firm part—wet, packed, perfect footing—and you dig in. Hips swaying, deliberate and lethal. 

You don’t need to look back. You can feel the heat of his stare on every inch of exposed skin. It’s scorching. Possessive. Almost punishing. Like if he could touch you right now, he’d brand you. 

Hangman might be a genius after all. 

You hit the water with a sigh, not even hesitating before diving beneath a wave before it can knock you off your feet. It’s the perfect temperature—delicious against your too-hot skin. 

You dive under the next wave, cool saltwater rushing over your body, and come up laughing as you slick your hair back. Natasha is standing beside you, arms outstretched as the water laps at her waist, her eyes fixed on the shore. 

You wade closer, smirking. “Did you see his face?” you ask breathlessly, heart still pounding from the walk down the beach—or maybe from the way Bob had looked at you like he was plotting your murder. “I thought he was going to spontaneously combust.” 

She doesn’t answer. Just keeps staring past you. 

You frown as her jaw goes slack and her brows creep up, sunglasses slipping down her nose as she stares at something on the shore—expression caught somewhere between shock and awe. 

You freeze. “What?” 

She still doesn’t speak—just tips her chin the slightest bit, silently gesturing toward whatever has her stunned. 

You twist around. 

And promptly forget how to breathe. 

Bob Floyd is pulling his shirt over his head. 

Bob Floyd, the man who never takes his shirt off. The man who wears it in the ocean and somehow isn’t bothered by the soaking wet material clinging to his body like a second skin. 

And holy shit. 

It’s glorious. 

Sure, you’ve seen him shirtless before. Once. That night. But that was in the dark—his body tense, your mind scrambled, neither of you thinking clearly enough to appreciate what was right in front of you. 

But in the light of day? 

Alabaster skin. Broad shoulders. Deep-cut abs like he walked straight off the set of a Marvel movie. Lean muscle rippling across his chest and arms in a way that feels criminal on someone so quiet and careful. Droplets of sweat cling to his torso like even the heat doesn’t want to let him go. 

The sudden silence behind you confirms it—everyone else is staring too. 

You blink, dumbfounded, mouth dry. “That’s illegal.” 

Natasha huffs out a laugh like she’s short-circuiting. “I mean, I knew he was strong but—wow.” 

You swallow. Hard. “I think I’m going to pass out.” 

Your eyes follow him as he drops his shirt and turns toward the water, cutting through the waves like they’re nothing. He doesn’t glance at any of you. Just keeps his gaze locked on the horizon, jaw set tight, his body moving with single-minded purpose. 

Before you can say something—or even blink—a surge of water smacks you in the face. 

But it’s not a wave. 

You cough and splutter, wiping the salt from your eyes and checking to make sure your sunglasses are still intact. When your vision clears, Jake is standing right in front of you. 

“Wipe the drool off your chin,” he says, deadpan. “You’re supposed to be teasing him.” 

You narrow your eyes, resisting the urge to shove him aside and keep watching Bob. “How did all of you know how cut that man is and not tell me?” 

Jake blinks, thrown for a beat, then grins like the devil. “Wait—you’re mad because we didn’t tell you how ripped Bob is?” 

You nod, arms crossing tight over your chest. “Correct.” 

He lets out a disbelieving chuckle, shaking his head. “Well if that’s got you steamed, you’re gonna be beside yourself when you find out he’s got a massive-” 

“I know,” you cut in smoothly, a wicked smirk curling at your lips. “Payback told me.” 

Jake gapes at you, brows knitting—but before he can get another word out, you shove his shoulder and send him sprawling into the water. 

When he resurfaces, sputtering and grinning, he points at you like a man on a mission—then lunges. 

You squeal, laughing as he barrels toward you, sending up waves in every direction. The two of you splash around like kids, Jake playing it up—grabbing you, poking at your sides, both of you pretending to wrestle. All for show. Because you both know Bob is watching. 

Eventually, the others join in, playful chaos erupting around you. And before long, you’re panting and breathless, dragging yourself back to shore, your cheeks and chest aching from laughter. 

Everyone settles for a few minutes, drinking from their water bottles and trying to knock water from their ears. But then Jake stands up, football in hand and a wicked smirk on his lips, ready to commence Operation Bob’s Blue Balls – Phase Three: Straddle and Conquer. 

“All right, I’ll pick teams,” he announces. 

Normally, this would cause an uproar. But since most of you are in on the plan, everyone just nods in agreement. 

“Phoenix, Payback, Bob,” he says. “You’re with me. The rest of you are on Rooster’s team.” 

You narrow your eyes and cock your hip—it would seem strange if you didn’t challenge Jake just a little. “Why are you two always team captains?” 

He winks. “Because we’re the best.” 

You roll your eyes and turn away, joining the huddle with your teammates as Bradley and Javy argue over what your game plan should be. 

After a few minutes of strategizing, the game kicks off. You’ve never loved dog-fight football—not like some of the others—mostly because it can get a little rough. But today… it’s more than just a game. It’s a full-blown performance. 

You hang back for a bit, letting Jake and Bradley rile each other up and fire up their teams. Bob is still shirtless, which is a tactical advantage he isn’t even aware of—because every time he has the ball, every time he runs or blocks or is just generally in your line of sight, your knees wobble. 

You’ve nearly forgotten what you’re supposed to be doing when Reuben jumps in front of you and snags the ball before you can—thrown by a very disappointed-looking Javy. 

“Getting tired, Sunny?” Reuben teases, his grin smug. “I’m just getting started.” 

Right. The plan. Flirting. Banter. Teasing Bob. 

You step closer, slowing the game down a touch as you stretch onto your toes and drop your voice—but not too low. “Tired? Please. I’m still waiting for you to make me sweat.” 

There’s a beat where you worry Reuben might break, might laugh—high on adrenaline and endorphins. 

But then Jake hollers, “Cut it out, you two! Save the dirty talk for the bedroom!” 

And the game is back on. 

The sun beats down mercilessly, making every flexed muscle shine, every drop of sweat slide in slow, glistening trails. The sand is hot beneath your feet, but it’s nothing compared to the heat building as you and Reuben turn the game into one of Bob’s personal nightmares. 

You dart to the left, brushing past Reuben with a smug grin, your fingertips dragging across his chest like you’re checking his heart rate. 

“C’mon, hotshot,” you tease. “You could try a little harder.” 

He laughs—low and amused—but gives chase, throwing a hand around your waist as you pivot. It’s all too easy to make it look a little too intimate, a little too tight. He lifts you off the ground to ‘block’ your goal and your head falls back in a laugh that’s just shy of indecent. 

And Bob sees everything. 

You feel it—his stare like hot coals dragged across your skin. When you glance up between plays, he’s standing at the edge of the group, jaw tight, shoulders tense, hands flexing like they’re ready to throw a punch. His eyes follow your every move like he’s marking a target, and if looks could kill, Reuben would already be six feet under. 

You catch a toss, and Reuben crashes into you to intercept, spinning you both until you fall together into the sand. You land side by side, giggling like idiots—some might even say lovesick idiots. 

He pushes up first and grins down at you, tipping his head suggestively. “Need a hand?” 

“Oh, I don’t mind being on my back,” you say sweetly, just loud enough for everyone to hear. 

You take Reuben’s hand and let him haul you off the ground, pulling you into his body just a little more than necessary. 

“Damn, Sunny,” Jake calls from the other side of the makeshift field. “Takin’ a few hits today. Hope it doesn’t affect your game.” 

You scoff, rolling your eyes dramatically as you dust sand off your body like everyone else paid to watch. “You know I like it rough, Hangman.” 

There’s a chorus of oohs and a whistle from Mickey, laughter rippling through the group. 

Except Bob, of course. He’s suddenly very interested in the sand, eyes locked on the ground—even though his rigid posture is telling you everything you need to know. 

The game revs up again, and after a few scuffles, you snag the ball off a fumbled toss and break into a sprint, cutting across the sand with laser focus. Reuben’s behind you, winded, and the others are tangled up with the second ball—leaving only one person standing in your way. 

Bob. 

“Stop her!” Jake shouts, too far behind to intercept. 

Bob plants his feet like he’s ready to block—muscles tensing, arms coiled. It’s almost enough to distract you. But you’re feeling competitive. A little reckless. And you’re seconds from a goal. 

He hesitates when your eyes lock, just long enough for your wicked grin to register as you blow past him and skid to a halt—well over the line. 

Your team erupts into cheers behind you, and you throw your hands up, chest heaving as you catch your breath. When you turn back around, he’s still watching you—eyes wide. 

You flash him a slow smile as you walk past, brushing close enough to feel the heat rolling off his skin. 

“Don’t worry, Lieutenant,” you murmur. “I’ll go easy on you next time.” 

After a breather and a drink of water, everyone lines up for another play. Jake and Bradley drop the footballs into the sand, crouched and ready. Jake turns his head your way and gives you a subtle nod. 

This is it. 

Your heart thunders behind your ribs as you sprint and block and laugh along with the others. The competition hasn’t cooled—everyone is still hungry. Even Bob has snapped into focus, finally playing like it matters instead of just standing there watching. 

And for a moment, it is just fun. No schemes, no strategy. Just friends, shouting and stumbling and laughing too hard to score. 

But then the ball is in your hands again—and it’s time. 

Bob is on defence—Jake made sure of that. You just have to get past him again. Or at least… make it look like you’re trying. 

You tear forward. Jake is already behind you, Natasha lunges and misses by a breath, and Reuben very dramatically wipes out in the sand. 

It’s just Bob now. 

He sets his stance, head tipped down in focus. He’s going to stop you this time. Poor thing. He has no idea that’s exactly the plan. 

You charge, feet kicking up sand, heart in your throat. His eyes widen just a second before you collide—your body slamming into his with just enough force to topple you both. 

The ball flies from your hand as you hit the sand hard, clutching at whatever you can—his shoulders, his arms, solid and warm beneath your grip. You spit sand from your mouth and sit up fast—only to freeze, breath caught in your throat. 

You’re straddling him. Hips locked against his. Chest heaving. His hands on your waist. 

You don’t move. 

You’re both panting. The air between you buzzes like static, and everywhere your skin touches his feels sunburnt and alive. His blue eyes are locked on yours—wild and stunned. Bright enough to drown in. 

Your chest rises and falls with ragged breath, but you stay put. 

“Does this count?” you ask, voice low and rough with adrenaline. 

His lips are parted, soft and pink, breath coming in short bursts. His curls are wild, tangled with sand, and his glasses—crooked from the fall—are still somehow on. He looks wrecked. Shattered. Like you’ve stolen every coherent thought out of his head. His gaze flickers—searching your face, desperate not to meet your eyes. 

You lean in just a little. 

“If anyone else looked at me like that, I’d probably kiss them,” you murmur, squeezing your thighs around his waist. Then you bring your mouth dangerously close to his ear. “But we can’t do that... right?” 

His breath catches—and his eyes finally snap to yours. 

They’re wide and stormy now, brows drawn tight. He doesn’t breathe. He just looks. His mouth parts a little further, and you can see it all happening behind his eyes—every thought, every realisation. 

Everything falls into place—the flirting, the giggling, the deliberate touches, the stolen glances. All of it. You’ve been baiting him. This whole time. 

Before you can say anything else—before you can blink or breathe— 

He snaps. 

He flips you, smooth and fast, moving your body like you weigh nothing. Suddenly, you’re on your back, pressed into the sand, and he’s the one on top—straddling you, his weight holding you down. 

And the look in his eyes could burn the sky. 

He leans in, gaze sweeping over your face—your lips, your eyes, the pulse at your throat. He watches it thrum, just for a second. 

You’re frozen beneath him. Every nerve on fire. Every inch of your body sparking. Your lungs are screaming for air, but you don’t know how to breathe. You can’t think. You can barely feel anything except him. 

His breath ghosts your lips as he whispers, “Oh, you’re in trouble now.” 

And then he kisses you. 

Hard. 

It’s not careful. It’s not sweet. It’s months of tension and stolen glances and aching want—every second of restraint finally unravelling in a dizzy, reckless crash. His mouth claims yours like he’s starving, like he’s waited too long and can’t wait another second. 

His chest presses into yours, slick with sweat and dusted with sand, and you arch into it with a gasp. He groans against your mouth, a low, broken sound that feels like fire in your veins. You can feel every inch of him—solid and hot and so hard against your hip, unmistakable and unignorable. 

You shift beneath him, dragging your leg up around his waist, just enough to tease. His breath hitches, and then he’s kissing you deeper, hungrier, like the noise you just pulled from him unspooled something he can’t reel back in. 

You claw at his back—muscles tense and trembling under your fingers—trying to pull him closer when there’s no space left between you. The kiss turns feverish, tongues sliding, lips parting in desperate sync. You’re panting into each other’s mouths, completely lost. 

There’s sand in your hair, in your mouth, sticking to your sweat-slick skin, but none of it matters. All that matters is the way he moves against you, the way he feels—like every bit of control he’d been clinging to has shattered. 

When he finally tears his mouth from yours, he doesn’t go far. His forehead drops to yours, both of you gasping. He’s pink-cheeked and wide-eyed, lips swollen, pupils blown. 

“Jesus Christ,” he mutters, voice wrecked, “you’re gonna kill me.” 

And the way he says it—like a confession, like a prayer—makes you want to do it all over again. 

“YES!" Mickey shouts, loud enough for all of North Island to hear. 

Your friends erupt into cheers and screams, laughter lacing their gleeful proclamations as they jump and dance just a few feet away. 

“Well, fuck me,” Jake drawls. “That was the hottest thing I’ve ever seen.” 

You both slowly—reluctantly—turn your heads toward the noise. 

“I can’t believe it worked,” Reuben mutters, grinning wide, eyes sparkling. “Phase Three actually worked.” 

You’re still pinned beneath Bob as they all close in, every face lit up with smug satisfaction. 

“You named it?” Bob asks, closing his eyes as his cheeks somehow grow even hotter. 

“Oh yeah,” Mickey says, beaming with pride. “Operation Bob’s Blue Balls. Phase One was the run and the sleepover. Phase Two, Reuben. And this—” he gestures wildly at the two of you tangled in the sand, “this is Phase Three: Straddle and Conquer.” 

Bob makes a noise. Somewhere between a strangled groan and a whispered prayer for death. 

“You planned this?” he rasps, forehead dropping against yours again like he might just burrow into the sand and disappear. 

Reuben shrugs, all innocence. “Worked like a charm.” 

“Honestly,” Natasha adds, “we were starting to think you’d never get there. So… you’re welcome.” 

You bury your face in Bob’s shoulder, mortified. He’s burning up beneath your hands—still—and breathing like he just ran a mile with you on his back. 

Jake snickers. “Glad we could help you two get laid.” 

“We haven’t—!” Bob blurts, redder than a stop sign. 

You slap a hand over his mouth, grinning wickedly now despite the embarrassment. “Yet.” 

There’s a beat—a millisecond of silence—before they all burst out laughing again. 

Mickey curls over, clutching his stomach. Reuben walks away, cackling with his head tipped back. Natasha mutters, “Jesus Christ,” but she’s definitely smirking, and Jake claps his hands once as he says, “God bless the U.S. Navy.” 

Bob drops his face into the crook of your neck and groans again, muffled, “I hate all of you.” 

“Even me?” you ask, voice soft and teasing. 

He lifts his head, chuckling softly. “No. But for all that? You’re definitely still in trouble.” 

You lick your lips. “There’s no place I’d rather be.” 

He sighs like you’re actively trying to kill him, then sits up and pushes to his feet—only to glance down at the massive bulge in his shorts, which looks borderline painful. 

“Shit.” 

You scramble up after him, stepping in close and pressing your body to his, barely able to contain your giggles as you shield him from the rest of the beach. 

“Need a minute?” you tease, laughter lacing every word. 

His eyes flash—dark, hungry. “You and I are gonna need more than a minute to deal with this.” 

Heat floods your face and pools between your legs, thick and insistent. 

“But,” he says, glancing toward the water, “I’m just gonna go for a quick swim.” 

You nod, eyes wide and dreamy, watching him from beneath your lashes like an absolute idiot in love. 

And he looks at you like you hung the sun. Like you’re everything. It’s enough to make your heart stutter and your pulse race. He has no business being this beautiful—this sinful—a perfect contradiction of sweetness and respect, with just enough hunger in him, just enough darkness, that you know you’ll be walking funny tomorrow. 

And probably for the next few weeks while you learn how to handle his massive dick. 

“Don’t look at me like that,” he mutters, a shy smile curling his lips. “You’re making it worse.” 

Your jaw drops. “It gets bigger?” 

He laughs, then leans in to press a kiss to your open mouth—chaste, but lingering. Like it physically pains him to pull away. But he does. And when he flashes you that boyish smile—equal parts sexy and shy—it knocks the breath out of you. 

Then he turns and jogs toward the water. 

It takes you more than a minute to remember how to move—how to function—but eventually, you manage to drag yourself back to the others, who are still laughing and chatting like the beach hasn’t just tilted sideways. 

Natasha passes you your water bottle. “What’s Bob doing?” 

You glance over your shoulder, catching sight of him ducking under a wave. A smile tugs at your lips. 

“Cooling off.” 

END.

[isthereanymorejello]

Birds of a Feather

Summary : You and Bucky were already in a committed relationship when you both fall in love with Sam. What happens when Joaquin comes into the picture and starts questioning his sexuality?

Pairing : Bucky Barnes x fem!reader x Sam Wilson x Joaquin Torres

Warnings/tags : She/her pronouns are used for the reader, everyone is bisexual (yay!), Steamy fluff, sex is a big theme, alcohol consumption, questioning sexuality, hidden romance, everyone is very much in love with everyone, mild CABNW spoilers.

Word Count : 14.5k

Notes : I found this so precious to write! I've tagged my general Bucky masterlist here, and I know it's different from my usual bucky x reader pairing, so apologies if this isn't what you signed up for! I don't plan on making too many more of this because I end up going overboard and making it longer than intended oops. Enjoy!

Special mention : @tea-writes19 has an incredible social media au on this pairing and I can't stop thinking about it so I had to write this lol.

You and Bucky were married.

It wasn’t something either of you had planned for, not in the grand sense. There was no elaborate proposal, no guest list, no flowers or rehearsed first dance. There was just the two of you, standing side by side in a quiet town hall. No one else was there. No flowers, no vows prepared in advance. 

It was simple, just like you always wanted.

You had met in Wakanda, both of you seeking refuge in your own way. Bucky was healing from Hydra, trying to piece together a life without orders or missions. You were a former S.H.I.E.L.D. agent caught in the crossfire of a world that had turned itself upside down after the fall of the agency. You had been on the run after helping Steve during the Sokovia accords, too many enemies on your trail, too many burned bridges. When King T’challa had offered you sanctuary in exchange for training the Dora Milaje on international relations, you accepted immediately.

And in Wakanda, you found Bucky. Or maybe he found you.

He was different then— quieter, less sarcastic but no less charming, still learning how to breathe in a world where he wasn’t being controlled. You were wary of each other at first, like two wounded animals circling each other. But then he smiled at you for the first time, and you realised time had a way of making you both kind. Soon, you were spending every morning together sorting hay under Wakandan sunrise. Soon, you were spending afternoons sitting by the river, your fingers tracing over Bucky’s palm as he told you stories of Brooklyn, of who he used to be before the war, before everything. 

Then, during a training session, you found yourself being much closer to him, breath hitching, something more than just adrenaline coursing through your veins. He had you pinned beneath him, metal fingers wrapped around your wrists. When you noticed his chest rising and falling against yours, suddenly there was no air left in the room.

You should have moved. He should have let go.

Instead, you pulled his shirt down and kissed him, and he kissed you back like a man starved.

Soon, you’d spend most evenings whispering his name like a prayer as he peppered love into your body, and every night falling asleep to the sound of his breathing. 

Then, Thanos came and went, and you were both dusted. 

When you came back to a world trying to move on from the five years you did not get to experience, he asked if you wanted to get married. 

You said yes.

You didn’t need a grand declaration. You just needed each other.

So you walked into a town hall, signed the papers, and exchanged simple silver bands. You didn’t have guests, you didn’t have a reception. All you needed was Bucky’s hand in yours, thumb brushing over your knuckles as you whispered “I do” to each other. 

The clerk barely looked up as he stamped the papers, but none of it mattered when Bucky kissed you like it was the only thing keeping him tethered to this earth. When he pulled away, there were tears on both your cheeks. “You’re my home,” he whispered.

You kissed him again, pulling his suit by the collar. His arms tightened around your waist, hand cool through the thin fabric of your dress.

That night, while lying together in bed under the sheets, Bucky pulled you close, kissed your wedding band, and murmured against your lips, “Mrs. Barnes.”

You had never loved anyone more.

And that didn’t change until years later.

—

After everything that happened with Karli and the Flag Smashers and the struggle over the shield, you and Bucky found yourselves spending more and more time with Sam.

At first, it felt like friendship, bonding over beers on Sam’s dock, lazy afternoons spent fixing up the boat, and training sessions that turned into wrestling matches in the dirt. 

You and Bucky liked him. You and Bucky trusted him. You and Bucky both admired the way he had learned to carry the shield with both pride and caution. You loved the way he made the day brighter, the way he challenged Bucky, softened his rough edges. He was the first person besides you to ever coax a laugh out of Bucky that sounded young— you imagined it was reminiscent of the boy who existed before the war. And Sam was the only person who looked at you like he actually saw you, not just as Bucky’s wife, not just as another former agent he could use.

It was supposed to be just friendship.

But then you started noticing the way Bucky’s eyes lingered on Sam when he wasn’t looking. You noticed that you liked the way Sam’s hands rested on your waist when the three of you were spending a day at the pool together. One night, you caught yourself wondering what it would be like if you let yourselves cross that line.

But you were in a monogamous relationship. And you and Bucky love each other more than anything in the world, right?

You knew Bucky was bi— he’d told you years ago in hushed voices during a particularly memorable Wakandan night, fingers trailing along your spine, wondering if the confession would scare you off.

"It wasn’t like now," he’d whisper against your shoulder. "There weren’t words for it back then. But Steve... Steve and the other howling commandos knew. They… they helped— we helped each other work our feelings out.”

You’d kissed him slowly that night, licking the salt off old wounds.

"I love all the pieces of you, darling. Even the ones you’re still figuring out."

So you knew it was a possibility. 

One evening, after a little too much liquor as you straddled your husband’s lap, you spoke the thought aloud. 

"We should have a threesome," you said casually, like you weren’t setting a match to gasoline.

Bucky choked on his own tongue. He coughed, eyes as wide as dinner plates as his brow furrowed like he wasn’t sure he’d heard you right. "What?"

You shrugged, pretending your heart wasn’t racing. "With Sam," you clarified. "We trust him. It could be… fun."

Bucky laid his hands on your waist, gripping it carefully. "You’re serious?”

"Yeah,” you nodded, “Just sex. No strings."

Bucky took a deep breath, his fingers twitching as he considered it. You could see the way his mind worked through it— how his initial shock gave way to intrigue, how he let himself imagine it. 

And then, slowly, a smile formed at the corner of his lips. “You think he’d go for it?"

You giggled, touching the tip of your nose to his. "Only one way to find out."

—

Sam said yes without hesitation.

"Thought you’d never ask," he teased, almost as if he’d been hoping for this.

He had his signature smirk in place, but there had been a deeper warmth in his dark brown eyes.

That night, you were supposed to just fuck.

But it was so much more than that.

The first time Sam touched you, his mouth hot against your neck, it didn’t feel like just sex. It felt like worship.

And when you looked over and saw your husband watching with parted lips, something ignited in you.

How could it be just sex, when Sam's hands traced over your skin like he was memorizing every curve? How could it be just sex, when Bucky kissed your neck, metal arm holding you in place as Sam’s mouth peppered bites on your thighs until it was dangerously close to where you really wanted him to be?

How could it be just sex when you heard the small, surprised sound that left Bucky’s throat when Sam kissed Bucky for the first time? When your husband melted into his touch, when before he let himself take, he let Sam have?

How could it be just sex when Bucky pressed his forehead to Sam’s shoulder when he came undone, when Sam gasped your name like it was the only word that mattered?

How could it be just sex when desire warped into utter intoxication?

Because when it was over, when the sweat cooled and the breathing evened, when you lay tangled together in your bed— you felt it.

Something had changed.

Sam’s arm was slung lazily over your waist, his fingers brushing against Bucky’s human fingers.

Bucky’s eyes stayed on him, softly taking the sight of his best friend in. 

Because it wasn’t just sex, was it?

—

It wasn’t until weeks later—when the longing felt suffocating—that you and Bucky finally talked about it. 

It was late. The world outside your window was still, and you could hear the faint sounds of the city thrumming in the distance. You laid together in bed, Bucky’s fingers trailing over your bare hip, his brow furrowed in thought.

"I think I’m in love with Sam."

Bucky said it like a confession, like it was a sin. His metal fingers gripped yours beneath the covers, bracing for impact, bracing for you to shout at him, for accusations of betrayal.

"Me too,” you said, heart hammering in your chest.

Bucky’s eyes snapped toward you, startled like he hadn’t even considered that you might feel the same.

"But I still love you," you rushed to say, almost panicked. "I don't—“

He cut you off with a chaste kiss on your lips. "I know." He whispered gently, “I still love you too."

You stared at the ceiling together, holding hands, trying to untangle the knot of love and fear twisting inside you. 

“I— it’s always been just us. I’ve never— I’ve never considered this before,” you admitted. "I don't know how… I… I don’t know what to do.”

"I know,” He sighed, thumbs brushing over your knuckles, “I don’t want to lose you, doll.”

“But I don't want to lose him,” you said.

"Me neither."

You turned your head to meet his eyes, pulse thundering in your ears.

"Maybe…” Bucky started after a beat of silence, biting his lip, “Maybe we don't have to choose."

Your mouth gave way to the smallest, most vulnerable smile. “Maybe we don't."

—

Telling Sam was terrifying.

You sat him down one evening, the three of you alone on the porch of his family’s house in Delacroix, cicadas humming in the distance. 

Bucky's metal fingers tapped restlessly against his thigh, your knees twitching as you tried to calm yourself down. 

"You guys are acting weird," Sam said, narrowing his eyes. "What’s going on?"

You opened your mouth—then promptly forgot how to speak.

You, who very rarely ran out of words, were struggling to get your thoughts out? Sam thought that was weird.

"Y’all about to tell me you’re pregnant or something?" he joked, hoping to ease the tension.

You let out a shy laugh, nerves bubbling over. "Oh god, no."

Bucky cleared his throat. "It’s about us. And you."

Sam’s brows furrowed slightly. "What about us?"

Your eyes fluttered closed as you said it, as if you couldn’t handle the rejection. "We’re in love with you."

Sam blinked once. Then twice. 

His mouth opened. Then shut.

"You—" He glanced between the two of you like he'd misheard. "Both of you?"

"Yeah," Bucky said quietly.

Sam’s chest rose and fell quicker than before. “I—" He stumbled over his words. "I’ve been in love with you two for months."

Oh?

"But you're married." He continued, voice cracking on the word, looking toward your ring. He was scared he’d ruin you both. "I didn't— I didn't know if it would work."

Bucky didn’t answer him. Instead, he leaned forward and kissed him.

It was slow but sure, one hand cradling the back of Sam’s head, pinky resting on the nape of his neck. 

Sam let out a broken sigh from the back of his throat and kissed him back, his hands curling on Bucky's shirt.

You reached out, taking both of their hands in yours. “See?" you murmured.

They both broke away and turned to you, breathless and eyes half-lidded.

"It works," you whispered.

Bucky squeezed your fingers. Sam's thumb brushed over your knuckles.

"We'll make it work,” you insisted.

And when Sam leaned in to kiss you next, his lips tasted like hope. 

—

A couple months later, when Sam properly introduced Joaquin to you and Bucky, he tried not to overthink it. Sure, he’d met you both during the whole ordeal with the Flag Smashers, but back then, Sam hadn’t been this close to either of you. Over the past year, though, Joaquin had noticed that Sam had grown fonder of you and Bucky, and, by extension, so had he.

Now, you and Bucky were always around— either at Sam’s side or waiting at the finish line. Joaquin figured you were a package deal, two of Sam’s closest friends, part of his inner circle. What he hadn’t realised at the time was just how much that circle would come to include him, too.

The first time all of you hung out together, he’d been a little intimidated (not that he’d admit it out loud). You were quick-witted and formidable. You carried yourself with the kind of confidence that made people either want to follow you or prove themselves to you, and Joaquin wasn’t quite sure which category he fell into. 

Then there was Bucky. And, well, Joaquin wasn’t stupid. Bucky was James Buchanan Barnes, the infamous former Winter Soldier. That alone was enough to make anyone nervous.

But, when Joaquin looked at Bucky, he never really saw that. Maybe at first, when Bucky was still a little closed off, but that changed. He warmed up to Joaquin the same way you had— because you and Bucky took your cues from Sam, and Sam trusted Joaquin.

The three of you didn’t become friends all at once, but looking back, Joaquin couldn’t pinpoint when it exactly happened.

It started with training. Joaquin would show up at Sam’s place or meet Bucky at the gym, where he’d get his ass handed to him repeatedly. Training with Sam was a bit more predictable, it was always about technique and strategy, but training with Bucky was something else entirely. 

Bucky fought like someone who had spent years learning how to survive, and Joaquin learned quickly that if Bucky put you on the ground, you stayed there.

Then it was casual conversations after training, then late-night talks on Sam’s dock, with you sitting between him and Bucky, lazily swinging your feet over the edge.

One night, after taking a particularly brutal hit to the ribs (metal arm and super soldier serum— not fair), Joaquin had limped back to your and Bucky’s place.

When you saw him hurt, you sighed, grabbed him by the wrist, and pulled him into the kitchen. “Come on, you idiot."

Joaquin had blinked as you lifted his shirt and shoved a cold pack into his hands and made him sit at the table.

"You didn’t have to—"

"Shut up and hold that against your ribs before you end up with a bruise the size of Texas," you interrupted, already rummaging through the cabinets for bruising ailments.

Then Bucky walked in, towel around his neck with a raised eyebrow. “You alright?"

You shot your husband an exasperated look, scolding him. "Just patching him up because you don’t know your own strength."

Bucky frowned, his eyes now drawn to Joaquin’s ribs. "Shit, you didn’t tell me."

Joaquin had waved it off since he definitely pretended it didn’t hurt at the time. Bucky just sighed, wiping off the beads of condensation on his skin with his towel.

"I’m sorry," Bucky muttered.

And that’s when Joaquin realised, you and Bucky weren’t just helping him because he was a teammate or because Sam had vouched for him. You two were… taking care of him. 

The proof was in the cold pack in his hands, the way Bucky had frowned at his bruises and muttered an endless string of apology. It was instinctive, like he was yours to look after.

After that, he had ended up spending just as much time with you and Bucky as he did with Sam, and it wasn’t weird.

He was your friend.

He just wished—maybe, sometimes—that was all he wanted.

—

Then, one night, you, Bucky, and Sam sat him down and told him the truth.

Joaquin already knew you and Bucky were married, so that wasn’t a surprise. What was a surprise was that you were also dating Sam. And that Sam was also dating Bucky.

Oh.

Oh.

So that’s why you were all so close.

Joaquin had just assumed Sam was a really good friend to you both. But no, this was something else entirely.

"We trust you with this," you told him. You had been tired of having to pull your affections from Sam when he was around, and Bucky was sick of not being able to touch his boyfriend the way he wanted to among friends. You needed him to know.

“But please don’t tell the world about us,” Sam said.  

Joaquin nodded. He understood.

Bucky was running for Congress. You were his very public wife. Sam was Captain America, and he didn’t need the media attention on his personal life. Sam was your and Bucky’s little secret.

Now, Joaquin knew.

Which was a problem because—oh, God—he had only realised last week that he had a massive crush on you.

It was bad enough when you were just married to the former Winter Soldier. But now he was learning that you were also dating Captain America? And Captain America was also dating the former Winter Soldier?

Joaquin was so screwed.

—

After weeks of harbouring his secret crush on you, Joaquin tried to convince himself he wasn’t jealous.

Jealousy was bitter and ugly, and that wasn’t what he felt when he looked at you, at Bucky, at Sam. He didn't feel resentment or envy— what he felt was awfully close to longing.

He knew what the three of you were, what you had. You were a closed polycule, a unit that didn’t have space for anyone else. And Joaquin was just a friend on the outside looking in.

On Bucky’s campaign trail, the world only saw part of the picture. They saw Bucky and you in love, holding hands in public, attending events together, stealing kisses when you thought the cameras weren't looking. You and Bucky were the perfect couple. You were polished and composed, just the way the press liked it.

What they didn’t see was the way Sam slotted between you just as easily. They didn’t see how Bucky and Sam bickered playfully, fought like soldiers, and kissed like they were making up for lost time. They didn’t see the way you leaned instinctively into Sam’s touch, how he steadied you with a hand on your lower back while he whispered something that made you smile like it was just the two of you in the room.

But Joaquin saw it.

He saw it now, sitting on Sam’s dining table, a mug in his grip as he watched the three of you in the kitchen.

Ever since you had trusted him with your secret, you’d all been a little different around him. You all had been more relaxed, more authentic. You were no longer careful distancing from Sam, no more subtly maneuvering to hide what should have been obvious. And yet, Joaquin had remained just a friend.

Still, none of you ever made him feel like an outsider. The three of you had this way of pulling him in platonically, making sure he never felt left behind. He knew there was a line and where the line was, but you made damn sure he never felt like he was standing on the other side of it alone.

Tonight, you were cooking for him— or, at least, trying to. The three of you had invited Joaquin over more after his crash on Celestial Island, and even though he was mostly fine now, Sam insisted that he should take the time off and be among friends.

Now, Sam had his arms wrapped around your waist, smiling against the side of your head as you tried to swat him away with a wooden spoon. Bucky was at the stove with his sleeves rolled up, stirring something in a pan. That told Joaquin that he was the real cook in the relationship.

Joaquin didn’t even realise he was staring until Sam caught him. "You good over there, Torres?"

Joaquin blinked, shaking himself out of it. "Huh? Yeah. Yeah, I’m good."

Sam shrugged and turned back to the counter.

Joaquin wasn't lying. Even with the longing in his chest, even though he wanted  things he wasn’t allowed to want— he was happy.

Happy to have more people in his life who gave a damn.

But you—God, you were just you.

You laughed too loud and loved too hard. You could outshoot and outfight more than half the guys he knew, and still, you looked at Bucky and Sam like they hung the damn moon for you. You loved them without hesitation, like holding back wasn’t an option, like your love wasn’t a zero sum game. You knew them— their edges, their scars, their flaws— and you chose them every single day.

So why, of all people, did he have to fall for you?

Not that it mattered, anyway. It wasn’t like he could do anything about it.

You were with Bucky. And with Sam. And Bucky was with Sam, too. The three of you fit together so effortlessly, like very specific puzzle pieces clicking into place. And Joaquin would never be a piece of that puzzle. 

He was happy for you, for all of you. He wouldn’t screw that up for anything.

So he shoved his feelings down. He ignored it. He buried it beneath his stupid jokes. For now, the comfort of knowing he belonged in your life was enough, even if it wasn’t in the way he secretly wanted.

"Joaquin."

He heard you say, your voice pulling him back to reality.

He blinked up at you, suddenly aware that you were standing next to him, holding out a plate. You smiled, nudging it toward him.

"Here," you said. "Before Sam eats your portion."

"Hey," Sam said, eating pasta straight out of Bucky's pan, mouth half-full.

Joaquin huffed a laugh, taking the plate. "Thank you."

And then you sat down beside him, closer than you probably realised, close enough to be tempting, torturous. He forced himself not to look, not to breathe your scent in, not to want.

Then Bucky sat onto your other side, pressing an easy kiss to your temple like it was second nature. Sam, not to be outdone, leaned over and kissed the crown of your head before settling into the seat across from you, giving Bucky a cheeky smirk like yeah, I’m kissing her too, what of it?

Joaquin’s heart ached.

Fuck, they were so affectionate with you and each other, so unfiltered. You gave each other love so freely, that it didn't feel limited, it felt shared. It was as natural as breathing.

He was fine.

This was fine.

And maybe one day, it wouldn’t hurt so much.

—

After Joaquin left that night, Sam and Bucky found themselves outside, on the steps of Sam’s back patio. They were sitting close to each other, just as they liked it. The night air was warm and humid and salty, the distant sound of waves crashing against the shore. Everything around them felt peaceful, like the world was holding its breath while waiting for a conversation that neither of them had yet figured out how to start.

Bucky shifted, leaning more comfortably against Sam’s side. Even after a year, Sam’s heart still fluttered at how natural it felt to have Bucky right there with him. He let out a quiet hum, running his fingers through Bucky’s soft hair. It was something they did often, a small but affectionate act that always made Bucky relax after a long day. Bucky sighed at the touch, tilting his head just slightly into Sam’s hand, seeking more of the comfort Sam always seemed to offer so effortlessly.

"Joaquin's got a crush on her," Bucky mentioned carefully.

Sam smiled, pressing a kiss to the top of Bucky’s head. "Obviously." His lips lingered against Bucky’s hair before he glanced through the open door toward the kitchen, where you stood by the sink, pouring yourself a glass of water. The kitchen light bathed you in a golden light catching in the strands of your hair. It made you look almost holy. "Look at her,” Sam continued, “How could he not?"

Bucky let out a hum in agreement. Then, his voice grew quieter, almost wistful. "He’s not too bad himself."

Sam raised an eyebrow, glancing at Bucky, a knowing smile forming on his lips. "Oh?"

Bucky shrugged casually. Too casually. "The other night, at Isaiah’s? He looked… good."

Sam couldn’t help but agree. Joaquin had been… magnetic that night. He had been every night since. He remembered his pressed shirt with sleeves rolled up to his forearm, he remembered that easy smile that had caught Sam’s attention in ways he hadn’t fully understood then, but now… talking about him with his boyfriend… he saw the picture much clearer.

Joaquin had fit into their world so seamlessly, his presence felt so natural that Sam found himself drawn to him in ways he wasn’t entirely prepared for.

"I know what you mean," Sam admitted, more to himself than to Bucky.

Bucky didn’t miss the slight squeak in Sam’s usually deep voice. He had noticed it too, how they were starting to feel something more for him, how they were both beginning to see Joaquin in a new light. But Bucky wasn’t sure how much Sam was ready to admit it—so he went straight to the point, "You think he’s bi, honey?"

Sam hesitated, then shrugged as he answered, "Hell if I know,” he considered for a moment. “Maybe?"

Even as he said it, Sam’s mind raced with possibilities. They’d never had a conversation like this before— was this what you and Bucky felt when they were thinking about him? And even though he wasn't sure where it would lead, it was hard to ignore the way Joaquin’s presence had started to affect them both.

Bucky hummed. "We could ask,” he added, a little more playfully.

Sam let out a quiet laugh, but the thought didn’t feel as funny as it should have. It wasn’t just playful curiosity—it was an invitation. It felt inevitable now, and Sam wasn’t sure if that scared him or excited him. He looked at Bucky, noticing how he seemed to be leaning toward him even more now, as if to reassure him, just because we are having this conversation, doesn't mean I love you any less. 

Sam’s fingers tightened slightly around Bucky’s locks.

A sigh escaped Sam’s lips as he leaned his head against Bucky’s. "It’s not just a crush, is it?" he murmured, half to himself, half to Bucky.

"No,” Bucky said, “I don’t think so."

That was as far as the conversation got before you joined them outside, glass of water in hand.

You paused when you saw them, smiling before leaning down to press a soft kiss to Sam’s forehead first, then Bucky’s. Sam’s fingers curled gently around your wrist as you pulled away.

"What are we talking about?" you asked, sitting yourself onto the step below them.

Sam stiffened, like he was measuring his words, trying to decide how to say what was on his mind. Then, finally, he sighed.

"Be honest," he said, "You know Joaquin’s getting close… to us."

Your brows furrowed slightly. "Yeah. He’s our friend."

Sam gave a tentative smile. "That’s not what I meant."

And suddenly, you knew exactly where this conversation was going.

You should’ve known it was coming. Maybe a part of you had been waiting for it, maybe avoiding it, pretending it wasn’t something you’d have to deal with eventually. But now,you had nowhere to run from it.

Bucky was watching you closely, waiting to see how you’d react. Sam, always the level-headed one, studied your face, looking for some kind of tell, some kind of hesitation, or maybe an unspoken thought you hadn’t even admitted to yourself yet.

You set your glass down and breathed out.

"Do you have feelings for him, too?" Sam asked gently.

Your stomach twisted.

You hadn’t let yourself think about that. Not really.

Joaquin was Joaquin. He was bright-eyed and kind-hearted, always quick with his jokes, always looking at you like— like you weren’t just the sum of your past actions.

And lately, you’d caught yourself looking back.

You bit the inside of your cheek. "I…" You hesitated, feeling their attention on you. "I think… maybe."

Bucky tilted his head, considering. "Yes maybe, or no maybe?"

You huffed, leaning back on Bucky’s thigh. "Yes maybe."

Bucky chuckled, like that answer didn’t surprise him. Like he’d known before you did.

"He’s… I mean, yeah, he’s great," you continued, "He’s sweet, and kind, and—" You sighed, shaking your head. "But we're closed. I know that. He knows that."

Bucky’s expression didn’t change. "We didn’t think about this before either," he pointed out.

You shook your head. "That was different."

"Was it?" Sam asked

You opened your mouth— then closed it.

It wasn’t different. Sam was the happiest accident you’ve ever stumbled upon in your and Bucky’s life. Maybe… Maybe Joaquin was one, too.

Bucky leaned forward, bracing his elbows on his knees. "It’s just something to think about."

Sam’s fingers began idly toying with the back of your shirt. "We don’t have to make any decisions."

Bucky nodded. "And we don’t even know if he wants this."

That was true. Even if you wanted it—even if the thought of Joaquin felt right—it didn’t mean he did.

And if he didn’t… Well, then this conversation would be nothing more than a hopeful what-if between the three of you.

—

Soon enough, Bucky won his seat in congress.

It didn’t come as a surprise— at least, not to anyone who knew him. The man was stubborn as hell, and once he set his sights on something, there was no stopping him.

Naturally, a celebration was in order.

“Hey, Torres,” Sam called out, gently putting a hand on Joaquin’s shoulder as they stepped off the training mat. Joaquin was still catching his breath, sweat sticking to the back of his neck, but Sam, of course, looked infuriatingly calm, as if he hadn’t just wiped the floor with him for the past hour.

“You coming to Bucky’s party tomorrow?”

Joaquin blinked. “Uh—yeah, I guess. If I’m invited.”

“Of course,” Sam gave him a flat stare. “Bucky actually likes you.”

Joaquin let out a breathless laugh. “And here I thought you were the one who liked me.”

Sam smiled with a teasing glint in his eye. “I tolerate you.” He was joking, of course. “Bucky’s the one who—well.” he stopped himself, then winked at him. “Just dress nice.”

Joaquin’s heart did this weird little flutter in his chest.

Oh?

That was new.

It was probably just exhaustion, right? Just adrenaline winding down. That was all.

Because he was straight.

And he had a crush on you.

You, who were both Sam’s girlfriend and Bucky’s wife. Joaquin had spent an embarrassing amount of time trying to rationalise his feelings, trying to convince himself it wasn’t that bad, even though it was already so wrong on so many levels.

And now, his heart had the audacity to flutter over Sam’s stupid wink?

Nope. Nope. Not happening.

He was not unpacking that.

So Joaquin did what Joaquin did best. He laughed it off, rolled his eyes, and told himself to let it go.

—

By the time Joaquin arrived, the party was in full swing.

Your and Bucky’s house was alive with conversation and laughter, music blending in with the sound with the clinking of glasses. The air smelled of expensive whiskey and catered hors d'oeuvres, but it wasn't suffocating. 

Clint Barton was there, chatting with Isaiah Bradley. Jen Walters was mid-laugh at something Bruce Banner had said. A few high-profile donors were scattered about, but Joaquin did not care.

Because his eyes were on you.

You were effortlessly moving through your living room, restocking drinks, checking on the catering, making sure every guest was comfortable— all while looking stunning in that dress that hugged your waist just right.

You were being the congressman elect’s perfect wife, the perfect hostess. 

Joaquin wanted to talk to you so badly. He needed something to feed his stupid crush, maybe just a moment of your attention, but every time he got close, someone else needed you.

So he resigned himself to mingling.

And then there was Bucky.

He was relaxed, lounging near his home bar with a glass of whiskey in hand, looking completely at ease in his perfectly tailored suit. The sleeves were rolled up just enough to reveal the gleaming metal of his left arm. He looked good, the kind of good that turned heads.

Last night, Sam and you had told him to enjoy tonight, to relax. You won, the hard work is over. We got this party under control, darling. Bucky had kissed you both in bed just the night before, murmuring something about feeling undeserving, and you and Sam had made it your mission to remind him otherwise.

Joaquin was nursing his own drink when Bucky appeared by his side.

"You clean up nice, Torres," Bucky said smoothly.

Joaquin laughed quietly, tugging at his collar. "Sam told me to dress nice."

Bucky’s smile widened. "Glad he did."

Joaquin blinked. There was something about the way Bucky said it that made his skin prickle.

He cleared his throat, shuffling his feet awkwardly. "This whole congressman thing suits you,” he tried joking to ease the tension, “Think you’ll get drunk with power?"

Bucky tilted his head. "Depends. You gonna let me boss you around?"

Joaquin snorted, rolling his eyes. "Not a chance."

"Shame," Bucky sipped his whiskey. "You’d look good following orders."

Joaquin nearly choked on his drink. Bucky grinned like he’d been waiting for that reaction.

Joaquin scrambled for something to say, something normal, but his brain had gone blank. This was Bucky. War hero. Former assassin. Sam’s boyfriend. Your husband. His friend.

And was he… flirting? With him?

Joaquin swallowed, trying to ignore the heat creeping up his neck. "You—uh—you been practicing your politician charm on people, or is this just for me?"

Bucky scanned him from head to toe, before he leaned in just slightly. "Maybe I just like seeing you flustered."

Oh.

Joaquin forced a laugh, but it came out weaker than he intended. He was straight, right? He had a crush on you. You were why his heart was tripping over itself. Not Bucky. 

As the night went on, Joaquin felt like he was running a degree too hot. 

It wasn’t like Joaquin was drunk. Tipsy, maybe. Just enough for his limbs to feel loose, for the usual filter in his brain to thin out. He had switched to tequila early on. Bucky, meanwhile, nursed his whiskey like it was some sacred ritual, even though he couldn't get drunk, even if he tried.

Still, somehow, they kept gravitating toward each other.

It wasn’t obvious—not too obvious. Bucky was smooth like that. Every glance, every brush of fingers when he handed Joaquin a drink, every low chuckle into the rim of his whiskey glass all felt like something.

"Why, you shy tonight?" Bucky asked, voice pitched just low enough for him, “You’re usually the one talking your ass off.”

"I just—" He glanced around. A few people were near, engaged in their own conversations. For Bucky’s sake, he couldn’t risk being overheard. He cleared his throat, then continued. "You’re the congressman now, Bucky. You’re the one who’s supposed to be talking."

Bucky smirked, swirling the whiskey in his glass. "Don’t need to talk when I got your attention."

Joaquin blinked. His chest felt too tight, his heartbeat too off-rhythm. It’s just the tequila. He told himself. Just the atmosphere. He was being fun, that was all. Just going with the flow. "Mine?"

Bucky took a slow sip before responding, eyes lingering on Joaquin’s mouth just a second too long. "Mm-hmm. You keep looking at me like that, Torres, people are gonna start talking."

Joaquin’s stomach did a weird little flip.

"I—" He started, then stopped. Swallowed. Joaquin straightened his posture, trying to play it cool. "I wasn't looking at you,” he said, but he knew that was a lie.

"Sure you weren’t," Bucky chuckled.

Joaquin breathed out, and from some deeply misguided instinct, downed the rest of his tequila like it might reset his brain. It didn’t. It burned all the way down, but it didn’t do a damn thing to cool the heat creeping up his neck.

Bucky just watched him as his adam’s apple bobbed, and that alone made it worse.

"You always drink tequila this fast, or am I making you nervous?"

Joaquin coughed. "I—no. I mean—maybe." His face was burning. He fumbled for the nearest distraction, then blurted out his first defense, even though he knew it wouldn't make any sense. "I mean—I’m straight. I think."

Bucky tilted his head, studying him. He casually leaned in just enough that Joaquin could smell the whiskey on his breath. "You think?"

Joaquin stared at him, heart pounding.

Bucky chuckled, the sound full of mischief. "That’s cute."

Joaquin nearly short-circuited on the spot. 

When Bucky realised there might be a chance he was making him uncomfortable, he casually rested his human hand on his shoulder, squeezing briefly before stepping back. "Relax, Torres. Just messin’ with you."

Joaquin exhaled, relieved and… disappointed?

Oh.

That was new.

—

From across the room, you and Sam were both in host mode, running through the mental checklist that kept the party flowing smoothly.

“Dessert’s ready?” Sam asked.

“Should be coming out in the next ten minutes,” you confirmed, brushing a hand over his arm as you glanced toward the kitchen.

“Drinks stocked?”

“I just checked. We’re good.”

Sam nodded in approval, then leaned in slightly. “Think Bucky’s doing okay?”

You had to momentarily pause your train of thought when you saw exactly where Bucky was and what he was doing.

Or rather, who he was doing it to.

Joaquin Torres.

The poor guy looked about two seconds away from spontaneous combustion, gripping his empty glass like it might somehow stop him from turning red. Bucky, on the other hand, was the picture of confidence, clearly enjoying himself far more than a simple conversation warranted.

You and Sam exchanged a look.

Across the room, Bucky was leaning in close to Joaquin, voice low, fingers brushing ever so casually along his forearm. Joaquin was flushed, shifting slightly where he sat, biting his lip like he wasn’t sure whether he wanted to lean in or bolt.

"He’s having fun without us," you huffed, being fake-annoyed.

Sam let out a low chuckle and leaned down discreetly. "We can have fun too, sweetheart," he murmured, his lips brushing the shell of your ear. "Did you say we have ten minutes till dessert?"

Your eyes darted back to Bucky, catching the exact moment he noticed the two of you.

He took a slow sip of his drink, never breaking eye contact. When he pulled the glass away, he licked a stray drop from his bottom lip, and you knew him enough to know what he was thinking without him ever having to say anything. Go on. Bucky seemed to say with his eyes. I’ll find you two later. Let me have my fun with Joaquin first.

Sam saw it too. He let out a quiet, satisfied hum.

And then he was quietly tugging you toward the stairs. 

By the time he pulled you into the dimly lit guest bathroom and locked the door behind you, his lips were on yours. You needed to be quick, after all.

—

As soon as Bucky walked him home that night, Joaquin shut the door. He couldn’t stand seeing his pretty fucking face anymore.

He downed a glass of water, then another, trying to sober up— only to realize he hadn’t even been that drunk to begin with.

Shit.

With a sigh, he ran a bath.

Sinking into the warm water, he watched steam curl around him. The party had been a mistake. He’d gone there thinking about you— hoping for just one moment alone, a shared laugh, something to feed this thing he wasn’t supposed to have.

But you’d been busy being Bucky’s perfect wife in the eyes of the public, spending most of the night with Sam, making sure everything ran smoothly for Bucky, because you both just loved him so much.

And then… Bucky.

Joaquin groaned, dragging a wet hand down his face.

"You’d look good following orders," Bucky had said.

Now, lying in the tub, water lapping at his chest, he hated how that moment kept replaying in his head. Hated how, somewhere between thinking about you and trying to enjoy the bath, his thoughts kept drifting back to him. 

His fingers flexed against the rim of the tub.

He was straight. Right? He had a crush on you.

So why the hell cant he get Bucky fucking Barnes out of his mind?

—

The next time Joaquin saw any of you again, it was Sam. He had agreed to meet him for training.

He was barely ten minutes in, and he was already sweating.

He wasn’t sure if it was the brutal summer heat, the way he hadn’t been sleeping nearly enough lately, or the way Sam looked in a sleeveless shirt as he wrapped his hands in tape, veins standing out along his forearms, shoulders glistening with sweat (it was probably all three).

Wait. What?

No. Nope. 

Focus, Torres.

"You tired?” Sam teased, tossing him a pair of gloves.

Joaquin barely caught them, tightening the straps a little too hard. "I’m fine."

Sam hummed, but he was unconvinced. 

Then he stepped into the sparring ring, rolling his shoulders, stretching his neck, looking too damn confident, like he knew Joaquin was hiding something.

Joaquin stepped in after him and adjusted his stance.

He needed this. He needed something to knock his brain back into place, to sweat out whatever the hell had been going on with him lately.

He needed to fight.

They circled each other. By now, Joaquin knew better than to rush in too soon— Sam was fast, and he was an incredibly intelligent fighter, always studying for an opening. 

Joaquin struck in the form of a quick jab, but it came weaker than usual. It shouldn't come as a surprise, his mind was… elsewhere. Sam dodged easily. 

"That all you got?" Sam grinned.

Joaquin scowled playfully. He went for a real hit when he feinted left to swing right.

Sam dodged again. 

Then Sam came at him fast. Joaquin barely had time to block the first hit before another came, clean against his side. He gasped, stumbling back, but Sam didn’t let up. 

He took another step forward, pressing him back.

Joaquin stretched his jaw and bit down his frustration.

He had to focus.

He forced himself to move, ducking under a swing, trying to regain control, but Sam was already there, waiting for him.

They grappled, breath coming harder, closer, closer—

When Joaquin tried to gain the upper hand, Sam flipped Joaquin over his shoulder.

Joaquin hit the mat hard, air punched from his lungs. But before he could even think about reacting, before he could get his bearings, before he could breathe— Sam was on him.

Joaquin froze.

Sam had him pinned, one knee wedged between his thighs, one forearm braced across his chest. Their faces were only inches apart.

And suddenly, Joaquin had a very different problem.

Sam’s chest rose and fell with steady breath, muscles flexing as he kept Joaquin trapped beneath him. Joaquin’s heart raced— too fast, too erratic, and he hated how he couldn’t tell if it was from exertion or it was because of Sam.

His stomach flipped.

His mouth went dry.

His body reacted in ways he prayed to god Sam didn’t notice. And oh shit, his knee was so close to his thighs that there was no way he didn’t notice.

What the fuck?

Panic started clawing up his throat. He needed to say something, anything—needed to break whatever the hell this was. And before he could stop himself, before he could even think, the words tumbled out in a frantic rush:

"Don’ttellanyoneandIdon’twanttocauseanytrouble,but—your boyfriend flirted with me last week."

He could feel Sam’s breath hitch.

Joaquin’s stomach plummeted. Oh, shit. Oh shit. He’d just made the worst mistake of his life, hadn’t he? Sam was going to be mad—at him, at Bucky, at something—

And then Sam grinned.

A smug, knowing, shit-eating grin that Joaquin hated that he adored so much.

"Yeah?" Sam’s voice dipped lower.

Joaquin barely had time to regret opening his mouth before Sam shifted, pressing down just slightly. The added pressure sent sparks dancing up Joaquin’s spine, especially when his knee dug harder into Joaquin’s thigh, his arm pressing firmer against his chest, keeping him right there.

"And?" Sam asked.

His brain short-circuited. "And—what do you mean and?! That’s—"

"You didn’t notice?" Sam asked, tilting his head just slightly.

Joaquin’s stomach tightened. "Notice what?"

And then Sam abruptly rolled off him with a chuckle, climbing to his feet like nothing had just happened.

Joaquin laid there, staring at the ceiling, struggling to piece himself back together.

What the hell—

"I’ve been flirting with you, too," Sam teased, shaking his head as he grabbed his water bottle. He took a slow sip, watching with a way too amused smile for someone who’d just flipped his entire world upside down. “You like my boyfriend better than me or something?” He teased. 

Joaquin scrambled to his feet, chest still heaving, and started pacing— because what the hell was he supposed to do with this?

"I—"

Sam leaned in just slightly. "Let me spell it out for you," his voice lowered. "We all have a thing for you."

Joaquin stopped breathing.

"You’re—You’re telling me… a-all three of you—?"

Sam nodded, nonchalant. "We’ve been talking about it for a while now. Realised we all wanted to do something about it."

Joaquin stared blankly. You, who he had always had a crush on, and Sam and Bucky…. "What the fuck?"

Sam laughed, as if he was expecting this. "That’s one reaction."

Joaquin dragged a hand through his hair. This was—this was too much. He had barely wrapped his head around last week, and now— Sam was still watching him. Still gauging him.

Joaquin swallowed hard.

"Did you like it?" Sam asked, more empathetic now, more curious than flirty. "When Bucky flirted with you?"

Joaquin’s stomach dropped. His mouth opened. Then closed. Then— "Maybe."

The word slipped out before he could stop it.

Sam hummed almost in approval. He wiped his face with a towel like this was just another normal conversation. Like they weren’t standing here, balancing on the edge of something Joaquin did not know how to handle.

"You don’t have to figure it out alone," Sam offered. "We can help. Talk it out."

Joaquin shook his head, frantic. "No. No, I’m—" He clenched his jaw. "I’m straight." He insisted.

Sam just shrugged. "Okay." He didn’t believe that for a second.

Then, just like that, he turned and walked away, like they’d been talking about the weather.

Joaquin made the mistake of watching him go.

The way his back muscles flexed beneath his shirt. The way his arms shifted as he tossed the towel over his shoulder. The way he moved, so effortless, powerful, commanding.

And it hit him.

Sam was hot.

Sam was really fucking hot.

Wait.

Joaquin panicked.

"Help me." The words came out before he could stop them, barely more than a breathless plea.

Sam paused. He turned back with the gentle smile he’d seen him use in counseling. "You sure?"

Joaquin swallowed. He wasn’t sure of anything right now. But his pulse was racing, his skin felt too hot, and the look in Sam’s eyes— 

Yeah. He was looking at Sam in a very different way than he had ever before.

"Yeah," he admitted, voice barely above a whisper. "I think I need it."

"Alright," Sam nodded. "Come to dinner."

—

That night, Sam brought Joaquin over.

It wasn’t anything fancy, just the four of you at home, sharing a meal at the table. But from the moment Joaquin stepped inside, he felt it in the air: anticipation. It made his skin prickle, his heart pound a little too hard against his ribs. This wasn’t just dinner.

And he wasn’t wrong.

As soon as you set the plates down and took your seat between Bucky and Sam, your eyes flickered to Joaquin— curious, knowing, but kind. “So,” you said, a teasing lilt in your voice, “Sam says you had a bit of a crisis today.”

Joaquin stiffened. His stomach plummeted. “He told you already?”

Bucky shrugged, reaching for the bread. “Of course.”

Across the table, Sam grinned like he was enjoying every second of Joaquin’s slow-motion humiliation. “What, you thought I wouldn’t tell my partners that our favorite bird boy is questioning his entire life?”

Joaquin groaned, burying his face in his hands. “Kill me.”

Bucky’s hand landed on his shoulder, firm and steady. A grounding weight. “Relax.”

You leaned in slightly, resting your elbow on the table. “Wanna talk about it?”

Joaquin swallowed, forcing himself to sit up straighter. He should’ve felt more nervous, more exposed, but there was something about the way the three of you watched him—open, expectant, but without pressure—that made his shoulders ease.

So, he exhaled and forced the words out.

“I, uh—I don’t know what the hell’s happening to me.” He ran a hand through his hair, fingers tugging anxiously at the strands. “I thought I was straight. Always have been. But then last week, Bucky was… I don’t know, Bucky-ing me, and I liked it? And then today, Sam said things and—” He gestured wildly at Sam, like that explained everything. “—look at him! He’s stupidly hot! And now I don’t know what to do with myself.”

Sam wiggled his eyebrows. “So you do think I’m hot.”

Joaquin gulped.

Bucky chuckled, finally withdrawing his hand from Joaquin’s shoulder. “You’re gonna be fine.”

You nodded. “Questioning your sexuality can be confusing, but it doesn’t have to be scary.” A glance at Sam, then at Bucky. “We’ve all been there.”

Joaquin’s brows furrowed. He looked between the three of you. “Yeah?”

Sam leaned back in his chair, smirking. “I thought I was straight for way too long, too. Then I met Bucky, and it was like—” He snapped his fingers. “That.”

Bucky snorted. “You took your time getting there.”

Sam shot him a look. “Excuse me for needing a minute to process wanting to jump my best friend.”

Joaquin blinked. “Oh my god.”

You laughed, shaking your head before your expression softened. “I’m bi, too. But the people who matter most to me are all sitting at this table, and they just happen to be men.” You gestured between Sam and Bucky. “Labels help some people, but you don’t have to have everything figured out tonight. You just have to let yourself feel what you feel, and see where it leads.”

Joaquin sat with that.

For a moment, no one spoke. The air weighted, but not in a suffocating way. More like a weighted blanket, warm and comforting. He wasn’t sure he had an answer yet—wasn’t sure he was ready for an answer—but sitting here, surrounded by the three of you, he was in the right place.

He swallowed hard, glancing between you, Sam, and Bucky. 

Joaquin exhaled sharply. “So… what now?”

Sam shrugged. “Now? We eat. We talk. You figure things out at your own pace.”

Bucky leaned back in his chair, arms crossed over his chest, expression calm and certain. “No pressure at all. You don’t have to do anything you don’t want to.”

You nodded, voice gentle. “Sam didn’t bring you here to sleep with us.” There was something steady in the way you spoke, something that made Joaquin’s pulse slow, just a little. “We just wanted to give you space to talk through it. No expectations. No rush.”

Joaquin felt the tension in his chest loosen.

This wasn’t what he expected. He’d spent all day wrapped up in his own head, spiraling through worst-case scenarios, second-guessing every reaction, every what-if and holy shit and am I losing my mind—

But here, with the three of you, it didn’t feel scary.

It just felt… possible.

Joaquin let out a breath and shook his head, a small, wry smile tugging at his lips.

You laughed, the sound bright and warm, and something in his chest unclenched.

Maybe he wasn’t ready to name this yet. Maybe he didn’t have to.

Maybe—for the first time—he was okay letting himself try to feel it.

—

The next month or so was when the process of dissecting Joaquin’s emotions began.

Sam, Bucky, and you had always been affectionate with each other. He always noticed the lingering touches, the casual cuddles, kisses pressed to temples and knuckles. Joaquin had been on the outskirts of that at first, watching, absorbing, trying to understand where he fit in, if he could fit in.

But when you all agreed for him to trial this relationship, everyone made space for him.

You invited him more often than you already did— movie nights on the couch where he ended up wedged between you and Sam, long walks where Bucky would sling an arm around his shoulders when no one was looking, brunches where Sam would pass him coffee with a wink. None of it felt forced. None of it felt like he was being pushed into something before he was ready.

It was just… there.

He didn’t realise how much he wanted it until it was.

None of it ever crossed a line. None of it ever felt like too much.

And yet, every time, it made his heart trip over itself.

He was still figuring out this thing he felt, this fondness when he looked at the three of you. The first few weeks were spent carefully cataloging every reaction, every flutter in his chest, every flip in his stomach, trying to determine what was what.

Slowly, he found himself initiating the affection— leaning into Sam on the couch, knocking Bucky’s knees under the dinner table, brushing his fingers against your wrist in passing.

You three were pleasantly surprised, but still patient. You let him sit with his feelings, let him test the waters at his own pace.

And then one night, he decided he was ready to wade in just a little deeper.

You were all at home, relaxing on the carpeted floor around table after a competitive game of Monopoly. The lights were dim, the air smelling of whatever candle you had burning. Joaquin was tucked between Bucky and Sam, you curled against Bucky’s other side, and it should have felt overwhelming. It should have.

He swallowed hard, and before he could think better of it, he blurted out, “Can I—”

Three heads turned toward him.

He cleared his throat, his hands curling into fists against his thighs. “Can I—uh.” He exhaled hard through his nose. “Can I kiss you? I just want to see how it feels.”

Then Sam sat up fully. “Yeah,” he said simply. “C’mere.”

Joaquin hesitated, pulse hammering, but then Sam leaned in first, closing the space patiently. The kiss was brief. Just a press of lips.

But something flipped in Joaquin’s stomach anyway.

When he pulled back, his breath was uneven. Sam watched him carefully, waiting. Giving him space to pull away completely if he needed to.

But Joaquin didn’t.

Instead, he turned to Bucky next.

Bucky chuckled, shaking his head fondly before tilting his chin up, meeting Joaquin halfway. His lips were warm, just the barest brush, but it made something in Joaquin’s chest go tight.

Then, finally, he turned to you. 

“You don’t have to,” you assured him.

“I want to,” Joaquin said, and he meant it.

So he kissed you, just as softly as the others. When he pulled back, he let out a shaky breath.

He glanced between the three of you. His heart was racing, and everything felt so unfamiliar, yet so good.

“It’s nice,” he admitted.

For the first time, he didn’t feel the need to overanalyse it. Didn’t feel the urge to pick it apart, to categorize, to define.

It was just…nice. 

—

A week later, he found himself at your place again.

This time, it was for a movie night—nothing fancy, just the four of you curled up on the couch, like it had always been this way. 

Over the week, he had shared more chaste kisses with you, Bucky, and Sam, but it was never more than that. It was just a peck— the lips, on the nose, on the cheeks, on their brows. It was… innocent.

But in the last couple of days, he found himself drowning in more sinful thoughts, because fuck, once he started coming to terms with his emotions, he realised he was so down bad for all three of you.

It was pathetic, really. He blushed when he caught himself staring at Bucky’s hands when he passed him the popcorn, when Sam leaned in close to whisper a joke in his ear, when you stretched out beside him, your crop top riding up high. 

Joaquin felt like he was vibrating out of his skin. He didn’t even know what the movie  was about— he was too busy being hyper-aware of everything else.

Then, you stretched again with a sigh, turning to him with an amused smile. “You better head out, Joaquin,” you said. “We’ve got plans.”

Plans.

It didn’t take a genius to figure out what you meant.

And yet, none of you had ever extended that invitation to him—not because you didn’t want to, but because you refused to push him before he was ready. Because none of you wanted him to feel like he had to take that step. Because you trusted him to tell you when he was ready.

Maybe…

Joaquin swallowed, his heartbeat a little too loud in his ears. 

He should go. 

That was the whole point of tonight—just another trial run. He should say goodnight and walk out that door.

But instead he said, “What if I want to stay?” 

Bucky’s head tilted slightly as a smirk tugged at the corner of his mouth. “And watch?”

Joaquin’s throat went dry. He could feel all three pairs of eyes on him, the tension building up in his spine.

He forced himself to meet his eyes. “And try,” he corrected. 

There was just a skip of silence. 

Then Sam grinned. “Yeah?”

Joaquin nodded, head spinning. “Yeah.”

Bucky’s smile deepened. You bit your lip, excitement sparking in your eyes.

You smiled at him, shifting closer until your knees were on either side of his thighs. Joaquin swallowed hard, his hands hovering above your waist. His breath hitched when you leaned in, lips just barely brushing against his.

"You want me first, baby?" you asked. "Ease you into it?"

Joaquin let out a tiny moan at the sight of you on top of him, nodding. Yes.

Because as much as he wanted all of you equally, you were the one he'd been fighting feelings for the longest. 

So when you kissed him– differently this time, not chaste, not short, but with fire in your lungs— it was like something inside him finally clicked into place.

Your lips were soft, comforting and he groaned against your mouth as his hands finally gripped your hips. You kissed him deeply, guiding him through it, giving him time to adjust, to feel. And god, did he feel. 

The texture of your skin, the taste of your lips, the way you sighed into him— he was already dizzy, already overwhelmed in the best way possible.

Then, out of the corner of his eye, he caught movement.

Joaquin broke the kiss, breathless, just in time to see them.

Bucky and Sam, lips pressing together like they’d done this a million times before. And maybe they had, but he hadn’t seen it— not like this, not up close, knowing where it would eventually lead.

Joaquin’s heart was begging to be let out of his ribcage.

He barely had time to process before Bucky pulled away from Sam, glancing at him. "Enjoying the view?"

Joaquin huffed out a breathless laugh. "Mmmhmm,” he said.

You grinned, brushing your lips over his again. "Good," you murmured. "You're gonna love it even more when you're in it."

Joaquin wasn’t sure if he had it in him to survive this. But damn, was he gonna try.

Joaquin barely had a second to catch his breath before you nudged him gently, guiding him toward Sam. His heart was pounding so hard he was sure they could all hear it, but he didn't even resist.

And then—oh.

Sam's lips were on his, confident and insistent, tasting like whatever wine he'd sipped on earlier. Joaquin gasped against his mouth, how naturally different it was with lust than it was when he was just trying it out. 

Then, just as he was starting to melt into it, he felt you shift towards Bucky. 

Bucky’s hands were suddenly on your waist, dragging you closer, his mouth finding the weak spot on the curve of your neck. Joaquin heard you sigh as Bucky’s lips moved on you, teeth grazing skin.

And then Bucky's hand was slipping under your shirt, fingers tracing the warm skin of your stomach.

Joaquin groaned into Sam’s mouth, overwhelmed, overstimulated, unsure of what to focus on— Sam’s kiss, your soft sounds, the way Bucky’s hands mapped out your body like he already knew every inch of you by heart.

He just wanted more.

Joaquin barely had time to process the words—"My turn," it came from Bucky’s mouth—before he was being pulled in.

Bucky's hand was at the back of his neck, fingers curling just enough to send a shiver down his spine. Joaquin barely had a second to think before Bucky kissed him.

And—fuck.

It was different from Sam, different from you. Where you had been gentle and Sam had been playfully confident, Bucky was sure, he was deep. His lips moved against Joaquin’s like he already knew exactly how he liked to be kissed, how to make him part his lips just enough for Bucky to lick into his mouth.

Joaquin groaned, gripping Bucky’s shoulders to keep himself steady.

Your body was still there, pressing on his side. He didn’t even realise Sam had taken off your shirt. But then he felt you move, your lips ghosting along his jaw as if to encourage him: this is good, let go. Feel it. Feel us.

And he did.

Then Sam’s hands were on him too, sliding up his chest, fingers teasing along the hem of his shirt. Joaquin barely had time to react before Sam’s lips added yours, brushing along the other side of his jaw, down the column of his throat.

It was too much and not enough all at once.

Joaquin gasped into Bucky’s mouth, overwhelmed, hands grasping at something—Bucky’s shirt, Sam’s wrist, the curve of your waist—desperate to ground himself.

Bucky pulled back just enough to smirk against his lips. 

“Good?” He heard Sam ask, thumb brushing the nape of his neck. 

Joaquin breathed out shakily, “Yeah.”

You giggled and tugged Bucky’s shirt off as he lifted you effortlessly, just enough to shift your position before laying you back down between Joaquin’s thighs. 

The new position sent a shiver down your spine, anticipation growing low in your torso.

Joaquin's hands hesitated for a brief moment while he was taking the sight of you in, before settling around your waist, fingers splayed. Bucky leaned in, his breath warm against your ear as he murmured, “Comfortable, doll?”

A contented sigh escaped you as you tilted your head, nuzzling against his beard. “Always, darling.”

Sam, watching from beside Joaquin, made quick work of his own shirt, muscles flexing as he helped Joaquin tug his off as well. Joaquin was still getting used to all of this, still figuring things out the logistics of it, but judging by the hungry look in his eyes and the way his breath hitched when Sam gripped your thigh and pulled you flush against him, told you he was very much here for it.

“Honey,” you pouted at Sam, expecting something from him. He only chuckled and kissed you as his hand slid higher up your leg. Joaquin could only watch, mesmerised as his own hands tightened around you like he was torn between staying still and pulling you impossibly closer.

Bucky, now kneeling at the edge of the couch, traced his hands up yours and Joaquin’s calves, pressing soft kisses to the inside of his clothed knee before dragging his lips higher. His voice was low, filled with want. “Still good, babe?” The question was meant for Joaquin.

“Mmhm,” Joaquin hummed, his voice raspier than before, a little more breathless. 

You leaned back into Joaquin, sighing as Sam’s lips trailed down your chin. You felt worshipped, the three of them surrounding you, touch seeping into your skin like they wanted to consume you.

And then Bucky and Sam were stripping the rest of your clothes away, their hands reverent, their mouths pressing open-mouthed kisses along newly bared skin. Before he knew it, they were also eagerly discarded whatever was left on them. Joaquin followed their lead— he was eager now, fumbling with the button of his trousers, desperate to shed the last layers keeping him from all of you.

The night had barely begun, and already, it felt magical. 

And it was only going to get more interesting.

—

Joaquin woke up before anyone else.

Or maybe he hadn't really slept at all—just drifted in and out of consciousness.

He was too comfortable, too wrapped up in everything that had happened the night before. Every time he stirred, someone was there— your arm draped over his stomach, Bucky’s chest at his back, Sam’s leg thrown carelessly over all three of you like he owned the bed.

It was… nice. Scary, but nice.

So, naturally, when the first light of dusk came, he ran.

Not literally, but his nerves had him slipping out of bed, tugging on the first pair of sweats he could find (Sam’s) and making his way to the kitchen. He needed something to do, something to keep his hands busy, something to keep him from getting overwhelmed.

Which was how he ended up standing at the counter, aggressively mixing muffin batter like his life depended on it.

Because— what the hell now?

Last night had been—fuck, there wasn’t even a word that could possibly describe what he experienced last night. It had been overwhelming in the best way and hot and kind and so good, so much. Joaquin had felt wanted, pulled apart in the best of ways, held and cherished and utterly wrecked. He had been greedy—so fucking greedy— needy, desperate, and the three of you had given it to him. 

Fuck, he had asked and asked and asked, and you, Sam, and Bucky had answered with hands, with mouths, with bodies. And in return, he had given everything he had. He was so eager to please, eager to prove he belonged there. 

And he felt like he did. 

But now, in the light of day, reality settled in. 

Was he part of this now? Was this a thing? Or had it just been sex?

He wouldn’t be mad if that’s all it was—but the thought of going back to just being a friend made his chest ache, his heart break, just a little.

Joaquin had been testing boundaries for a while now, pushing to see how far he could go without falling. But this was a line he couldn’t uncross.

He was so lost in his own thoughts that he didn’t hear anyone come out of the bedroom until a deep voice rumbled behind him.

“You stress-baking, babe?”

He turned to find Bucky leaning against the doorway. His hair was a mess, all soft waves from sleep, and he hadn’t bothered with a shirt, which was unfair.

Joaquin scrambled to collect himself. “Wha—no,” he said quickly. Then, “…Maybe.”

Bucky padded over, peering into the bowl. “What are we working with?”

“Muffins.”

“Muffins.”

Joaquin nodded. “To say thanks.”

Bucky arched an eyebrow. “For what?”

Joaquin blinked. “Uh. Y’know. Last night.”

Bucky hummed, leaning an elbow on the counter. “You think you need to thank us?”

Joaquin hesitated. “I mean… don’t I?”

Before Bucky could answer, another voice chimed in.

“If anything, we should be thanking you.”

Joaquin turned to find Sam walking in. He was smiling that gorgeous smile of his. 

Bucky chuckled, nudging him lightly. “You think too much.”

Joaquin found himself overwhelmed. Again. “Yeah, I know—but I just—” He gestured vaguely between the three of them. “What is this? Was last night just—was it casual? Or am I, like…” He swallowed hard. “Am I in this now?”

Silence stretched for a beat. Joaquin’s heart pounded.

“You wanna be?” Sam asked.

Joaquin exhaled shakily. “I— …yes,” he admitted, voice barely above a whisper.

You finally stumbled out of the bedroom, still half-asleep, wearing Joaquin’s shirt and Bucky’s boxers, and one of Sam’s ridiculously oversized pairs of slippers—because apparently, you’d given up on matching anything. You blinked blearily at the scene in front of you: Joaquin standing at the kitchen counter, looking somewhere between nervous and overwhelmed, Bucky beside him, and Sam trying to sneakily steal muffin batter.

“What’s going on?” you mumbled, cursing to yourself. Why did you have to fall in love with not one, not two, but three early risers?

“Morning, doll,” Bucky greeted, “We’re just talking. Joaquin wants in.”

You squinted. “Hmm??”

Joaquin turned bright red.

Sam, ever the enabler, wrapped an arm around Joaquin’s waist. “Figured we should talk about it.”

You yawned, padding over and stealing a piece of muffin batter for yourself. “Yeah, okay. Let’s talk about it. After coffee.”

—

You made all three of your boys coffee while the muffins baked. You’d been doing this for Bucky for years and Sam for more than a year—but now there was Joaquin, and that was new. He had never stayed the night before, so you didn’t know his habits in the morning, yet. 

Bucky’s was black, no sugar. Sam pretended he liked it that way too, but you knew he secretly enjoyed a little cream when no one was looking. Joaquin was an unknown variable, but you had a hunch he was a sugar-and-cream kind of guy.

So when you set their mugs down—one black, one pretending to be, and one lightly sweetened—you watched Joaquin.

He blinked down at the cup, took a tentative sip, and then made a pleased noise before looking up at you, eyes round with wonder.

“You—how’d you know?”

You grinned. “Lucky guess.”

Sam pulled you in and kissed your knuckles, “She’s just great at this.”

You hopped onto the counter. “Alright. Let’s talk about it.”

Joaquin’s grip tightened around the mug. “I—um.” He licked his lips, eyes flicking between the three of you. “I don’t—I mean, I do know what I’m trying to say, I just—”

Bucky leaned forward, resting his arms on the counter. “It’s okay. Take your time.”

Joaquin swallowed hard. Then, almost too quietly, he whispered, “I think I’m in love with you. All of you.”

Your heart flipped, warmth blooming in your chest.

“Joaquin,” you called, and when he finally looked at you, you gave him the softest of smiles. “I think I’m in love with you too.”

Bucky hummed with a satisfied grin. “Hm.”

Joaquin turned his startled eyes toward him. “H-Hm?”

Sam exhaled through his nose, shaking his head fondly. “Yeah. Hm.”

Joaquin blinked rapidly, like his brain was still trying to process what that meant.

Bucky chuckled, kissing his temple. “Means I love you too.”

Joaquin made the smallest, most overwhelmed little noise, like the words had stunned him.

“We do. We’ve been talking about it for a while now,” Sam said, “and… I do. I love you.” Then, unable to help himself, reached out and ran a finger through his hair to ruffle. “God, you’re cute.”

Bucky nodded, resting his elbows on the counter. “But let’s be clear about what ‘this’ is.”

Joaquin glanced down at his coffee. “I—I know this isn’t an open thing.”

“Right,” Bucky said. “This is a closed polycule. We’re not dating outside of this unless everyone agrees.” His kind eyes were on him again. “Are you sure you’re committing to that?”

Joaquin’s eyes only widened like Bucky had just offered him the world.

“I—yeah,” he said, almost breathless. “I want to.”

Bucky hummed approvingly. “Good answer.”

—

The muffins were finally done, and by then, the tension had melted into the thrilling feeling of a new relationship. 

Music played softly from the record player —something old and slow—and before you even realized what was happening, Bucky was pulling you away from the counter, swaying you gently in the kitchen.

You laughed, looping your arms around his neck. “What’re you doing?”

Bucky smirked. “Dancing with my wife.”

Sam huffed jokingly from where he was still lounging with Joaquin. “Excuse me, why am I not being danced with?”

Bucky grinned and reached out a hand. “Then get over here, Captain.”

Sam stepped up beside Bucky, his hands easily finding his hip. You, completely unbothered, just adjusted to make room for him, and suddenly you were swaying together, the three of you moving in the kitchen like you’d been doing this forever.

Joaquin watched, eyes wide with something like wonder.

You caught him staring and smiled. “C’mon, babe. You’re part of this now.”

Joaquin hesitated—just for a second—before stepping forward and joining you. 

You giggled, reaching up to caress his cheeks. “You’re gonna fit in just fine.”

Joaquin made a happy noise and melted into it, and then, suddenly, he was surrounded—Bucky behind him, Sam in front, you right beside him, arms tangling, feeling comfort all around.

And when you all leaned in—pressing little kisses to his cheeks, his forehead, his nose—he just laughed, happy, because he really was exactly where he was meant to be.

—

Only a couple months later, you four were invited to your first public event together. And while you, Sam and Bucky were practiced in sneaking around events, it was Joaquin’s first real test of avoiding cameras.

Bucky and you were the congressman and wife. Sam was here as Captain America, Joaquin as his second-in-command. No one questioned why you were all near each other, why you gravitated into the same orbit. It made sense for the four of you to be close.

They just didn’t really know how close. 

The state gala was polished and grand, as expected. It was full of the kind of bullshit small talk that meant nothing but looked good on camera. 

Bucky was ever the charming congressman, his hand always lingering on your back. This was the image everyone knew.

But the real thrill of the night was in the details.

You felt it once every in a while Sam’s fingers skimmed over your hip when no one was looking. Then Joaquin’s eyes would find yours every time your hand brushed his. Still, Bucky squeezed your hip possessively when some young hotshot got a little too interested in you. Anyone that wasn’t him, Sam, or Joaquin wasn’t allowed to so much as look at you. 

And of course, you weren’t necessarily the center of attention. 

Sam’s hand lingered just a little too long on the small of Joaquin’s back when he guided him through the crowd. Joaquin’s eyes locked onto Bucky’s mouth every time he took a sip of his drink. And Bucky, ever the composed public figure, let his fingers trail down his arm.

This was exhilarating.

—

The first time someone was pulled aside, it was you.

Sam found you mid-conversation with some diplomat’s wife. He leaned in, all smiles and charm. “’Scuse me, Mrs. Barnes,” he said, “your presence is required elsewhere.”

A thrill shot down your spine, but you only smiled, excusing yourself as Sam’s hand found your elbow, guiding you away.

“You’re enjoying this,” you whispered once you were out of earshot.

Sam shrugged. “A little.”

He pulled you out into the secluded garden, his body pressing you against the wall.

“Gotta say,” he said, voice dropping almost an octave, “you look real good tonight, sweetheart.”

You grinned, fingers curling into his tie, tugging him down. “So do you, captain.”

So he kissed you. It was long enough to feel your mouth moving against his, but not nearly as long as you usually had. Still, it was enough to leave Sam chuckling against your lips before pulling away.

“I’ll be coming back for more later,” he promised.

—

The second time, it was Joaquin.

You had barely made it back to Bucky’s side when you felt someone hovering behind you.

You turned—and found Joaquin looking down at you with his dark eyes, nervous but wanting. He was still getting used to this, after all. 

“Can—” He licked his lips, glancing around as if someone might notice him talking to you. “Can we—just for a second?”

Bucky chuckled under his breath, refilling his drink. “Go ahead.”

Joaquin swallowed hard before tugging at your wrist and leading you away.

You didn’t make it far. The moment you were tucked behind a towering column, Joaquin’s hands landed on your waist.

“I can’t believe we’re doing this,” he whispered, breathless.

You smiled, brushing your fingers over his cheek. “How’s it feel?”

Joaquin chuckled, eyes flickering down to your lips. “Like… the best kind of secret.”

Then his mouth was on yours, unsure at first, but the moment you melted into him, he made a quiet, needy little noise and pulled you closer.

Your lips started trailing down his jaw when the sound of laughter from nearby forced you apart, and Joaquin buried his face in your shoulder, flustered beyond belief.

“You're is gonna be the death of me, cariño,” he mumbled.

You laughed, pressing a kiss to his temple. “We’ll take care of you later, babe.”

—

The third time, it wasn’t you. 

You had returned to the party, sitting beside Bucky, watching the room with mild amusement—until your eyes landed on them.

Joaquin had been fidgeting all night, glancing at Bucky, glancing at you, like he didn’t quite know what to do with himself.

Apparently, Sam had decided to fix that.

You saw it happen. Sam leaned in at the bar, muttering something (probably dirty) into his ear. Joaquin’s mouth parted slightly, eyes wide.

Then Sam touched him, a guiding hand at the small of his back. Joaquin practically melted as Sam whisked him off away to find some empty conference room.

When they made it, the door had barely clicked shut before Sam had Joaquin pressed against it.

“You've been looking at me all night like you wanted something,” Sam’s lips were grazing the shell of Joaquin’s ear. “So what is it, Lieutenant?”

Joaquin swallowed hard, fingers curling into Sam’s biceps. “You.”

He chuckled, pressing a kiss to the side of Joaquin’s neck. Sam’s hands were teasing at the hem of Joaquin’s jacket, hooking in his belt loops, when they heard a knock at the door.

They broke apart instantly. 

“You in there, Cap?” came a voice from the other side. It sounded like one of the other congressmen Sam was friendly enough with. 

Sam smoothed his hands down Joaquin’s chest like he was fixing his uniform—but really, it was just an excuse to touch him.

“Yeah,” Sam called, voice perfectly steady. “Me and Torres were just going over some mission details.”

Joaquin swallowed a laugh, tugging his jacket back into place as Sam adjusted his tie.

—

The fourth time, it was Sam.

Bucky wasn’t as subtle about it as he should be. One moment, Sam was chatting with some government official, and the next, Bucky was on his side. 

“Excuse me,” Bucky said gruffly, “need to talk to him.”

Sam smiled politely but followed Bucky anyway. It was amusing, really. How everyone thought their relationship was purely platonic.

“You know, usually when someone steals me away, they at least try to be sneaky.”

Bucky ignored him, finally arriving in the deserted hallway he was looking for. 

“You been teasin’ them both all night, honey,” Bucky placed his metal hand on his hip, “but not me.”

Sam raised a brow. “You jealous, darlin’?”

Bucky rolled his eyes but didn’t deny it. Instead, he pressed in closer, his breath warm against Sam’s lips. “Just wanted my turn,” he admitted, fingers curling into the lapels of Sam’s jacket.

Sam grinned, tilting his chin up slightly. “Then take it.”

Bucky did.

He kissed Sam slowly, savouring the way Sam’s fingers curled around his bicep. When Bucky finally pulled back, Sam looked annoyingly smug.

—

The fifth time, it was Joaquin.

He had been lingering close to you and Bucky all night, like he was waiting for something but didn’t quite know how to ask for it. 

Even after a couple of months, he still found Bucky the most intimidating.

Bucky knew that.

So when he caught Joaquin’s eye from across the room and noticed no one was paying attention, he held out his hand. Joaquin blinked, setting his drink down and slipping his fingers into Bucky’s palm.

You noticed that they were being a little too obvious, so you took matters into your own hands. You ���accidentally” bumped into one of the smug politicians who kept voting against every bill Bucky proposed, sending a glass of red wine spilling down the front of his white suit.

The man shouted in outrage and you offered a saccharine apology, distracting the crowd just long enough for Bucky to slip outside with Joaquin.

Before disappearing onto the balcony, Bucky mouthed, thank you.

Joaquin let out a deep breath as soon as they were alone. “Did I look that desperate?”

“Not desperate,” Bucky corrected, “Just… waiting.”

Joaquin swallowed, glancing at him. “And now?”

Bucky brushed a hand along his skin, tilting his chin up just a little. “Now I’m done making you wait.”

Joaquin barely had time to take a breath before Bucky kissed him gently like he was making a promise.

When they finally pulled apart, Joaquin was breathless and a little dazed. “That was worth the wait.”

—

The last time, it was Bucky.

You had just finished a conversation with some senator when Bucky, who just got back from the balcony, leaned in. “Bathroom. Now.”

You gulped, a wicked grin tugging at your lips. “Bossy,” you joked.

He huffed, faking being annoyed at your resistance. “Go.”

You didn’t even think twice.

You slipped away, barely making it to the lavish bathroom before he spun you around and pressed you against the cool marble countertop.

“Can’t resist anymore, doll,” Bucky murmured against your skin.

Before you could respond, his lips were on yours. It was hot, desperate, he stole your breath away.

Then the door opened.

Joaquin gasped. Sam laughed.

“Knew we’d find you in here.”

Bucky shrugged. “Took you long enough.”

Joaquin looked like he finally understood what was happening. “Are we—are we—?”

Sam sighed dramatically, rolling his shoulders. “Well, I was gonna be patient, but…”

Then he stepped forward, grabbing Bucky by the tie, kissing him. 

After he pulled away, Bucky, the smug bastard, reached out and yanked Joaquin right into it.

Joaquin let out the softest little gasp against Bucky’s lips, going pliant in an instant.

You bit your lip, watching, heat pooling low in your stomach. “I should leave you three alone.”

Sam turned, “Don’t you dare.”

And then you were in it, pressed between them, with stolen kisses, limbs tangling, the thrill of secrecy making it all the more addicting.

No one knew. No one had any idea.

This was just yours. 

—

While sneaking around in public was fun, where you all truly loved was behind closed doors. It was the private moments—the ones that made your love feel intimate.

Joaquin had settled into it well over the past three months. It still caught him off guard sometimes, how easy it was to belong to all of you.

But he still had no idea what was happening today. 

He had just finished a long morning shift at base, expecting to come home, maybe shower, maybe crash on his couch for a while before heading to yours and Bucky’s place—because, let’s be honest, that’s where he and Sam always ended up anyway.

But the moment he unlocked his front door, something smelled rich and buttery.

His house smelled good. 

Joaquin frowned. He knew for a fact he hadn’t left anything in the oven. He hadn’t even used his oven in days (since you had a better one that didn’t have a wonky thermostat). 

“Uh… hello?” he called, stepping inside with caution,

Then he saw you standing in his kitchen, pulling a tray of muffins out of the oven.

He saw Sam, leaning against the counter and preparing drinks dimples deep as he smiled at him.

He saw Bucky, setting the table—his table, in his home— with little decorations. 

Joaquin’s brain almost completely went into shut down.

“What—?” He blinked, still standing in the doorway. “What are you doing?”

You laughed, setting the muffins down with a gentle clatter. “Celebrating.”

Joaquin’s mouth opened, then closed. He knew he wasn’t missing a birthday. Was he missing a holiday? It wasn’t Valentine’s Day, right? “Uh… celebrating what?”

Sam chuckled. “Three months, babe.”

Joaquin stared. Oh.

Bucky smiled at him, arms crossing over his chest. “Three months of putting up with our bullshit.”

Joaquin’s cheeks flushed instantly, ears burning.

He looked at the table— at the little spread you’d put together. It was nothing too fancy, just muffins, coffee, a candle that was probably stolen from your kitchen, along with some little recycled decorations you kept in your top drawer. 

He loved this, looking at you three, standing there in his space, in his home, looking at him like he mattered.

“You—” His voice wobbled, so he cleared his throat, “You guys didn’t have to do all this.”

“We wanted to,” you said, stepping closer. “Because you’re ours.”

Sam, unable to resist, reached over and tugged Joaquin forward, pressing a firm kiss to his temple.

Joaquin relaxed into the touch.

Bucky chuckled, wrapping an arm around his waist, pressing a kiss to his other temple.

Joaquin let out something close to a whine, face burning, but he didn’t pull away.

And then you kissed the tip of his nose, and—god help him—he actually giggled.

Bucky chuckled. “You feelin’ celebrated yet?”

Joaquin let out a helpless laugh, tucking his face against Sam’s chest. “Yeah,” he whispered. “I do.”

And when all three of you pulled him in tighter with love wrapped around him like something vast and endless, he knew—

This was the closest to heaven he had ever been.

–end.

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

[isthereanymorejello]

if 2024 sam wilson met 2014 sam wilson i fear it would be one of the funniest things ever

2024 sam: “so yeah, we help save the world and overcome many challenges as well as become captain america and go on to inspire millions despite the odds. also steve is lowkey dead and nat sacrificed herself”

2014 sam:

2014 sam: and the guy who ripped out the steering wheel on the highway?

2024 sam: congress

[isthereanymorejello]

[isthereanymorejello]

I need all of yall to watch doctor odyssey right now so bad bc it makes my poly heart so happy and i need it to get renewed

[isthereanymorejello]

I was accidentally 15 one time and basically there’s Problems forever because of this