j23r23

[j23r23]

bucky seeing p0rn for the first time after the dating apps don’t work out👀

I'm deadddd, this was so vague so I just ran with it

The Education Of James Buchanan Barnes

pairing | post!tfatws!bucky x fem!reader

word count | 6.3k words

summary | when dating apps fail him and thirst traps become his downfall, bucky barnes finds himself spiraling down the internet’s most unholy rabbit hole—pornhub.

what starts as horrified research turns into full-blown obsession... especially when you, his sharp-tongued best friend, catch him red-handed and make very sure he lives out every filthy fantasy he’s been hiding.

tags | (18+) MDNI, smut, unprotected sex, rough sex, face sitting, breeding kink dirty talk, roleplay mentions, overstimulation, sexual humor, porn discovery, reader catches bucky watching porn, friends to very horny lovers, reader is a menace, teasing, flustered bucky, dom!bucky, subtle power play, consent is sexy, reader rides his face, doggy style, missionary? i hardly know her, mutual pining (solved by porn), no use of y/n, reader is a problem and bucky loves it, aftercare.

a/n | yeah, I definitely went overboard with this. I hope you freaks enjoy this

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

likes comments and reblogs are much appreciated ✨✨

ᴍᴀsᴛᴇʀʟɪsᴛ

divider by @cafekitsune

You sipped your drink slowly, already biting the inside of your cheek to keep from laughing as Bucky glared into his beer like it had personally betrayed him.

“So,” Sam started, barely hiding his smirk. “How was the date with... what was her name again? Velvet? Vixen?”

“Vesper,” Bucky muttered, dragging a hand down his face. “And she asked if I’d be into choking her with my vibranium arm before we even finished our drinks.”

You snorted into your glass.

Sam leaned forward, grinning. “I mean... was she wrong?”

“Sam.” Bucky’s glare was instant, but mostly performative. “I just met her.”

You glanced at him over your glass, amused. “What app did you find this one on?”

He groaned. “The same one you said was ‘normal.’”

“No one said it was normal,” you said, raising a brow. “I said it was better than Tinder. That’s not a high bar.”

Bucky leaned back with a sigh, looking thoroughly done with the entire 21st century. “I miss when people met at soda shops and asked each other about their families instead of sending... pictures of their genitals.”

Sam barked a laugh. “Aw, poor Grandpa’s overwhelmed by the sex-positive future.”

“You know what’s not positive?” Bucky muttered. “The fact that I Googled ‘how to get back out of the dating app’ and it sent me to a subreddit with people just as confused as I am.”

You exchanged a look with Sam, both of you clearly enjoying this way too much.

“Have you... considered other ways to meet people?” you asked, trying not to grin. “Like not being a digital hermit?”

Bucky looked between the two of you, deadpan. “I’m this close to living in the jungle again.”

Sam raised his glass. “To Bucky Barnes, the only man who can bench-press a car but can’t survive Hinge.”

Bucky slammed his glass down—not hard, but with enough force to earn a side-eye from the bartender.

“I just don’t get it,” he muttered. “I’m trying to talk to these women like a normal person. I say, ‘Hi, how was your day?’ and one of them responds with—” he fumbled with his phone, squinting at the screen, “‘Send me a pic of the arm, baby, I wanna see what’s gonna rearrange my insides.’”

You choked.

Sam full-on cackled, grabbing his chest. “Wait—rearrange her insides? Yo, that’s poetry.”

“She sent a GIF after that,” Bucky went on, staring at the phone like it might explode. “A GIF. Of a hydraulic press crushing a watermelon. What does that mean?”

“I’m gonna die,” you wheezed, nearly spilling your drink. “She wants you to hydraulically press her coochie, Barnes. Come on.”

“I thought she was making a smoothie metaphor!” Bucky snapped. “And then another one asked if I was into CNC. I said I didn’t know what that meant, and she said ‘perfect.’”

Sam wiped a tear from his eye. “Oh my god—Bucky, you’re gonna end up in someone’s kink diary.”

“She sent me a TikTok about edging,” Bucky added, horror slowly overtaking his face. “I thought it was about gardening.”

You completely lost it, head in your arms on the table. “Please stop, I can’t breathe.”

Bucky scowled. “I’m serious! She said she wanted to edge me for hours, and I said that sounded peaceful, like a nice walk—and she sent back forty-seven emojis.”

Sam gasped between wheezes. “You’re getting sexted in hieroglyphics and you think it’s a hike, I’m begging you to never leave the house again.”

Bucky looked between you both, betrayal written across his face. “I survived Hydra. I survived seventy years of brainwashing. But I will not survive being called ‘daddy’ by a woman who lists her job as ‘freelance foot model and energy witch.’”

“Wait—did she have the crystals?” you asked, barely able to form the words.

He nodded grimly. “She said my aura was ‘screaming trauma kink.’”

Sam actually slid off the stool, wheezing on the floor.

He shut the door behind him with a dull thunk, then stood there for a moment in the silence. The kind that pressed in around the edges when no one else was around. Just him, the creak of the old radiator, and the words “rearrange my insides” still echoing in his head like a ghost.

Bucky sighed, tossed his jacket onto the back of a chair, and walked into the kitchen, opening the fridge as if disappointment wouldn’t be waiting there too. One beer left. Great.

He grabbed it, popped the cap off with his metal hand, and made his way over to his laptop.

It sat there on the table like a challenge.

He opened it. The familiar whir kicked on. A sigh slipped through his teeth.

“I fought in two wars,” he muttered to himself. “Survived Hydra. Took down a helicarrier. But this? This is the real enemy.”

He hesitated, fingers hovering over the keyboard.

Then he typed:

"What does CNC mean?"

Enter.

He leaned forward slowly, reading the top search result. Then the second.

His eyebrows pulled together. His mouth fell open just slightly.

"...Consensual non-consent?"

He clicked the link. Read further.

He leaned back in his chair like he’d just been shot.

“Why—why would anyone want that?” he muttered, scandalized. “That’s just... that’s just assault with permission.”

Still, he didn’t close the tab.

He opened a new one instead.

"Edging meaning (not gardening)"

More links. More acronyms. More trauma.

His face contorted in quiet horror as he scanned descriptions, diagrams, tips and techniques.

His beer sat forgotten on the table.

Eventually, he clicked a link that just said “beginner’s guide to porn kinks.” It was a blog. Fairly clinical. Until it wasn’t.

Then he clicked another.

And another.

Until eventually he wound up on a site with thumbnails—little videos with previews. Titles he didn’t fully understand.

He stared at one.

A girl, on her knees, mouth open, eyes wide.

Title: “Training My Pretty Submissive Brat”

He blinked. Then hovered. Clicked.

The video loaded.

He sat still, very still, as it started playing.

And then...

“What the hell—” he whispered.

The guy was talking. Dirty. Commanding.

The girl was moaning like someone had just whispered state secrets in her ear. She was calling him sir. Begging. Crying out when he—

Bucky slammed the spacebar to pause the video, hand clenched on the table.

He stood. Paced.

‘I shouldn’t be watching this,’ he thought, running his hand through his hair. ‘This is wrong. This is not—that’s not—’

He looked back at the screen.

Unpaused.

A few seconds passed.

He sat again.

Watched. Silent. Rigid.

His jaw clenched. His eyes darted across the screen like he was scanning enemy movement.

Then his hand—his metal hand—tapped the edge of the keyboard.

Paused again.

His chest rose and fell.

“I mean… he’s not hurting her,” he thought. “She’s asking for it. She likes it.”

Beat.

“And she’s loud.”

He sat back in his chair, arms crossed over his chest, glaring at the paused screen like it had insulted him personally.

Then he muttered, “Is that what people want now?”

He reopened the search bar.

"How to talk dirty in bed"

The search results hit him like a grenade.

By the third article, his ears were red. His fingers hovered over the trackpad like they didn’t know whether to scroll or just snap the whole laptop in half.

He clicked another video.

This one was slower. More intimate.

The woman straddled the guy’s lap, whispering in his ear. He growled something back, then pushed her down on the bed—

Bucky’s breath caught.

He didn’t even notice his hand moving under the table at first.

Didn’t notice the low groan that slipped from his throat when the man on screen said, “Good girl—just like that.”

He froze. Eyes wide. Mouth dry.

He swallowed hard.

“…I need another beer.”

But he didn’t move.

Didn’t stop watching.

Because something in him had been starved for this. For contact. For control. For someone wanting him, even in fantasy.

The next video autoplayed before he could stop it.

Another couple. This time, softer lighting. Moaning, whispered praise. Her back arched under his touch as he moved slow, deliberate, like every second was sacred.

Bucky swallowed hard.

He sat motionless for a full minute.

Then his hand drifted down.

Hesitant. Awkward.

He undid the button of his jeans, fingers brushing over the bulge in his briefs. The contact was enough to make his breath stutter.

“Jesus,” he whispered.

He shifted in his seat, pushed his jeans down just enough, and curled his hand around himself. Warm skin against cool air. His metal hand clenched uselessly on the table as the other moved slowly, uncertain.

The sounds from the video—soft, rhythmic, intimate—filled the room.

And Bucky gave in.

His eyes didn’t close. He watched—studied—the way the man touched her, held her, spoke to her like she was something precious and filthy all at once.

“Such a good girl,” the man murmured. “Taking all of me. Just like that.”

Bucky bit down on a groan, his hand moving faster now, hips twitching in his seat.

He imagined saying those words.

And then—

He imagined you.

Your voice, sharp and sarcastic, going breathy and soft when he touched you. Your legs around his waist. Your fingers in his hair. Your mouth whispering his name like it meant something.

And that thought—you, under him, with him—wrecked him.

He jerked harder, gritting his teeth, chest rising fast.

A low moan slipped out. Sharp. Uncontrolled.

His head fell back, eyes clenched shut as heat coiled in his gut. His body trembled.

One more stroke—

And he came.

Hard.

He let out a strangled noise, hips lifting off the couch, body seizing as white-hot pleasure shot through him. His hand slowed, milked every last pulse, until the aftershocks faded and all that was left was—

Silence. Reality. Shame.

His breath was harsh in his ears.

The screen was still playing.

The woman moaned, laughing, pulling the man closer.

Bucky stared. Then looked down.

At himself. At the mess.

At the way his hand was still wrapped around his cock, softening now, shame creeping in like a slow burn.

He let go like he’d been scalded.

The aftershocks hadn’t even faded before the guilt hit—cold and immediate.

Not from what he’d watched.

Not even from what he’d done.

But from who he’d seen in his mind while he did it.

You.

You, laughing beside him at the bar. You, rolling your eyes at his brooding. You, calling him “grandpa” and meaning it with affection.

You—beneath him, moaning, touching, giving yourself to him in the fantasy that had just ripped through his body.

His stomach twisted.

He yanked his pants back up, hands clumsy, face burning not with arousal now—but with shame.

“Fuck,” he muttered, pacing, one hand raking through his hair, the other clenching into a fist. “Fuck—what the hell’s wrong with me?”

You were his friend.

You were real.

And he’d just used the idea of you like… like some porn star on a screen.

His jaw tightened. He couldn’t look at the laptop. Couldn’t look at himself. He felt dirty—not because he’d touched himself, but because it felt like a betrayal. A violation of something pure.

He sat down heavily on the edge of the bed, elbows on his knees, head in his hands.

That hadn’t been just need.

That had been you.

And now he didn’t know how the hell he was supposed to look you in the eye again.

A Few Weeks Later

There was a knock at the door.

Three knocks, then a pause.

Then two more.

“Come on, Barnes,” your voice called through the door. “I brought sacrificial offerings.”

Bucky hesitated.

He sat in the dark, boots still on, bruised knuckles resting against his knees. His hoodie clung to him, sweat-damp and rumpled, his mind still halfway in the mission, halfway in the same loop it had been stuck in for weeks.

But it was you.

He got up slowly and opened the door.

You stood there with a paper bag in one hand, a six-pack in the other, grinning like you had zero intention of leaving whether he wanted you to or not.

“You gonna let me in or should I start monologuing like a Bond villain?”

He stepped aside without a word.

You strolled in like you owned the place, already heading to the kitchen with practiced ease.

“Brought dumplings, noodles, and enough alcohol to bleach the taste of both from your soul,” you said, setting things down. “You looked like someone clubbed you with your own metal arm last mission, so—figured I’d play nurse. A sexy, underqualified nurse with boundary issues.”

Bucky closed the door quietly behind you.

“You’re not a nurse,” he muttered.

“Not with that attitude.”

You popped the beers open, handed him one, then flopped onto his couch like you lived there. Legs kicked up, food containers opened without ceremony, your usual grin in place.

He stood a few feet away, beer untouched in his hand.

He hadn’t seen you in weeks—not really. He’d ducked every casual run-in, bailed on team movie nights, even ghosted your texts under the excuse of "needing space." He figured you noticed.

You just hadn’t said anything.

Until now.

You eyed him, casually, between bites. “You gonna sit down or do I need to pull you onto the couch like a Victorian housewife?”

He sat. Slowly. Farther away than usual.

You noticed. Of course you did. But you didn’t call him on it.

Not yet.

Instead, you nudged a container toward him and said, “Eat, soldier. You look like a sad, haunted lumberjack.”

And still—he didn’t say a word.

Because all he could think about, sitting beside you again after a month of silence, was the way your mouth had looked in that fantasy.

The way your voice had sounded moaning his name.

The way he’d used the memory of your real, friendly, teasing self to—

He swallowed thickly.

You kept eating, casual, sharp, familiar.

Exactly how he remembered. Exactly what made it so much worse.

You wiped your fingers on a napkin, leaned back, and gave him a look.

“Alright. You look like you’re two seconds from overthinking yourself into an early grave. Movie time. Something with violence or explosions—your love language.”

Before he could protest, you were already standing and heading toward his desk.

“Wait—” he said, starting to rise, but too slow.

You flipped open his laptop. “Let’s see what Grandpa Barnes has in his—”

“Ah—ahh—yes, please—!”

The moaning hit like a tactical nuke.

You froze.

So did he.

Both of you staring wide-eyed at the screen as the speakers screamed filth into the otherwise silent apartment.

Bucky moved fast.

Too fast.

He lunged over the couch, hand outstretched like he was taking enemy fire.

You dodged.

Smooth, practiced. Years of training paying off.

“No—” he barked, face already crimson, “Please—don’t—!”

“Oh my god—” you laughed, holding the laptop just out of reach. “Is this—is this Pornhub? Are you seriously—you are! You’ve been watching porn, you absolute degenerate.”

He groaned, dragging his hand down his face, mortified.

“Please give me the laptop,” he said, voice low, wounded, like you were holding a hostage.

But you were already clicking the spacebar, pausing the video mid-thrust.

“Oooh,” you said, squinting at the tab title. “‘Brat tamer destroys needy sub’? This is what you’re into?” You looked at him, eyebrows raised. “Bucky.”

“Stop,” he muttered, pacing now, hands on his hips. “I was—researching.”

“Researching what? The anatomy of a throatfuck?” you said, howling with laughter. “Brat tamer—are you even on Tumblr, old man?”

He looked like he wanted the floor to open and consume him.

“Do you know how much I regret every decision that led to this moment?”

You hugged the laptop to your chest dramatically. “I can’t believe you’ve been hiding this. The secrets. The shame. The kinks.”

“Give. It. Back.”

“Nope. Not until we find out if you’ve got a whole ‘rough dom Bucky’ fantasy folder stashed somewhere. You into praise? Degradation? Impact play? Knife play?”

He growled.

Actually growled.

And for half a second, it stopped being funny.

Because the way his eyes locked on you?

That wasn’t embarrassment anymore.

That was heat. Low. Dangerous.

You grinned, too drunk on the chaos to stop.

“Come on, Barnes,” you said, laptop still clutched like a prize. “Own it. You like a little bratty backtalk? You want someone to whimper please while you tell her she’s being a bad girl?”

He was still pacing, but slower now. Controlled. Coiled.

You didn’t notice.

You were too busy poking the bear.

“Is that what you’re into?” you teased, stepping back. “All that repressed soldier shit finally coming out in dirty little commands and throat grips?”

His eyes met yours. Still embarrassed, sure. But behind it? Something sharper. Something hungry.

“Y’know,” you added, tone light, teasing, “I always pegged you as more of a soft dom. Gentle hands. Lots of praise. But this? This is dark. Kinda filthy. Kinda hot.”

That did it. He moved.

Fast.

Faster than he should’ve.

One second, you were smirking with the laptop; the next, it was out of your hands, clattering to the couch. You were against the wall, chest rising, his body a breath away from yours.

His hand planted next to your head.

His voice low. Controlled.

“Enough.”

You stared at him. The air was suddenly thick. Your heart thudded once, hard.

“You think this is a joke?” he asked, eyes burning into you.

Your mouth parted, but no sound came out.

“You think I don’t know you’ve been toying with me since the moment you walked in?”

That teasing smile faltered—just a little.

“You keep pushing,” he murmured, leaning in, breath brushing your jaw. “You laugh, you flirt, you play. But you don’t realize... I’ve thought about you. In ways I shouldn’t.”

You swallowed.

Hard.

“I know what I watched,” he went on, voice rough, low, dangerous. “I know who I imagined.”

Your breath caught.

His eyes dropped to your lips.

Then back up.

And when he spoke again, it wasn’t a threat.

It was a promise.

“You want to see what I’m into?”

You blinked up at him—cornered, caged—but not afraid.

Not even close. Your smile crept back, slower this time. Calculated.

“Oh,” you murmured, tone shifting. “You imagined me?”

Bucky’s jaw tightened.

His silence said everything.

You pushed your palms slowly against his chest, feeling the way his body tensed under your touch. Solid. Barely held together.

You leaned in, lips brushing just beneath his ear.

“So tell me,” you whispered, voice low and coaxing. “If you’ve already pictured it, Barnes... what did I look like?”

He exhaled harshly through his nose.

You didn’t stop.

“What was I doing?” you went on, dragging your fingers down the curve of his chest. “Was I on my knees? Bent over? Did I ride you while you begged for it?”

A choked sound left him—more breath than voice.

You smiled against his neck. “Or do you want to tell me what you were doing to me?”

His hands twitched at his sides.

You could feel it—the war inside him. Guilt, hunger, restraint. And under all of it, the ache.

“Go on, James,” you whispered, using his real name like a secret. “Tell me. What do you like?”

His head dropped forward, forehead nearly touching yours.

A beat passed.

Then another.

And then—

“I want you on top,” he breathed, voice ragged. “I want you to sit on my face and ride it until your legs give out.”

Your eyes fluttered closed for half a second.

That was not the answer you expected first.

His voice deepened, like now that he’d started, he couldn’t stop.

“I want you on your knees, begging. I want to fuck you from behind so deep you forget your own name. I want to feel you come around me and not stop. I want to stay inside you.”

His breath hitched. His hands were fisting at his sides.

“And when I’m done, when you can’t even move anymore—I want to come in you and keep coming until you’re full of me. Until it’s dripping out of you.”

Your thighs clenched instinctively.

Your nails curled tighter into his chest.

And your voice, still low, still teasing—but now breathy, just slightly—said:

“Damn, Barnes. That’s a whole lot of filth for someone who didn’t even know what edging was last month.”

Your last teasing whisper hadn’t even left your lips before Bucky moved.

One second you were pinned between him and the wall, and the next, his hands were on your hips, gripping tight. Then the ground disappeared beneath your feet.

You gasped as he lifted you—easily, effortlessly—hauling you against his chest like you weighed nothing.

“Jesus, Barnes—” you started, but his mouth was already on yours.

It wasn’t a kiss. It was a claim.

Hot, rough, needy—his lips crashed into yours with the force of every filthy thought, every sleepless night, every moment he’d spent imagining your mouth, your body, your sound. His teeth scraped your bottom lip. His tongue pushed past yours. There was no hesitation. Just heat.

You moaned into it, hands threading into his hair, pulling him closer even as he carried you down the hall.

Your back hit the wall once, then the doorframe, and then—

The bed.

He dropped you onto it like a man starved for touch. The mattress creaked beneath you, sheets rumpled and cool against your skin as you propped yourself up on your elbows, breathless and grinning.

Bucky stood at the edge of the bed, looking at you like you were his undoing.

You tilted your head, voice low and mocking.

“Is this the part where you get all commanding, Sergeant? Or are you gonna make me do the work?”

His jaw clenched. He stepped forward. Then dropped his weight onto the bed, climbing over you, hands already at your thighs, dragging you down the sheets toward him.

“I told you not to push,” he growled.

You smiled, voice syrup-sweet.

“And I told you I liked pushing.”

His hands slipped under your shirt, yanking it over your head in one smooth motion. Your bra was next, tossed aside without ceremony. He ducked down immediately, mouth hot against your collarbone, then lower—kissing, biting, devouring.

You gasped, head falling back as his mouth found your breast, tongue circling your nipple before he sucked it between his lips, hard.

And still—you teased.

“Careful, Barnes. Gonna make a mess before you even get inside me.”

He looked up at you.

Eyes wild, hungry, dark.

And then he dragged your jeans down���fast, rough, like he didn’t have the patience for anything else—and crawled up between your legs, pressing his body to yours until there was nothing between you anymore.

“Then shut up,” he growled, grinding against you, his cock thick and hard through his jeans.

“Make me,” you whispered, pulling him down by the collar.

And he did.

His mouth was everywhere—jaw, neck, breasts, stomach—kissing, biting, groaning like he couldn’t get enough, like he didn’t know where to start because he wanted all of you.

Then he pulled back, breathing hard, eyes raking over your body like a man finally allowed to look.

“Get up,” he rasped, voice dark and thick with want.

You blinked up at him, dazed and grinning. “What?”

He sat back on his heels, hands gripping your thighs.

“I said get up,” he repeated. “I want you on my face.”

Your breath caught.

Dead serious.

You didn’t question it. Didn’t tease.

Instead, your lips curved into a slow smile as you shifted, sitting up, climbing over him with fluid, easy confidence.

“As you wish, Sergeant.”

That name hit him like a punch to the chest.

His hands guided you—firm, reverent, needy—until your knees were braced on either side of his head, your body hovering just above his lips.

He looked up at you like a man who’d prayed for this moment.

And then?

He pulled you down.

No hesitation.

Just mouth.

Hot, wet, desperate—he groaned the second he tasted you, tongue already lapping through your folds, lips sealing around your clit like he was starving.

Your head tipped back with a sharp gasp, fingers flying into his hair as your hips bucked against his mouth.

“Fuck—Bucky—”

He growled in response, hands gripping your ass, holding you down, keeping you there.

You rocked against him instinctively, gasping as his tongue flicked and circled, licked and sucked. He was moaning into you, mumbling things you couldn’t even make out—except for one word that hit clear, over and over:

“Mine.”

You looked down at him, eyes wild, mouth open.

His eyes met yours.

Dark. Glazed. Possessed.

You could see the man he used to be—the soldier, the weapon—but right now?

Right now he was just yours.

And you were his.

You couldn’t stop moving.

Couldn’t stop grinding against his mouth, against his tongue, the pleasure slamming through you in waves, harder and sharper with every flick, every suck.

Bucky moaned beneath you, the sound filthy, shameless, needy—like your taste was saving him from something dark and deep and buried.

His hands held you tighter, guiding your hips as you rocked against his mouth, your thighs trembling around his head.

“Fuck—fuck—” you gasped, one hand gripping the headboard, the other buried in his thick, messy hair. “Don’t stop—don’t you dare stop—”

He didn’t.

If anything, he doubled down—lips sealing tighter, tongue working you harder, sloppier, his groans vibrating against your clit like a live wire.

He wanted this.

He wanted to suffocate on you, drown in you.

And you gave it to him.

Because when you looked down, saw those glassy, desperate blue eyes staring up at you, pleading for more, there was no holding back.

The coil snapped.

Your whole body locked as the orgasm ripped through you, sharp and searing, your hips jerking uncontrollably against his mouth.

“Bucky—” you cried, voice cracking, thighs clamping around his head as you came—hard.

He didn’t let go.

He held you there, arms wrapped around your thighs, mouth still working you through it, licking and sucking every shudder, every twitch, like it was a gift.

You collapsed forward, one hand braced on the headboard behind his head, the other still clutching his hair, your body wrecked, shaking, soaked.

And when you finally opened your eyes—chest heaving, heart pounding—you looked down at him.

His lips were wet, chin glistening, eyes blown wide with hunger.

He looked like he could live there. Like he’d happily die there.

And all he said, voice hoarse and full of worship:

“You taste like heaven.”

You were still trembling when he sat up behind you, hands stroking your thighs, your hips, slow and reverent like he needed to remember the feel of you.

“You good?” he rasped, voice wrecked from moaning into you.

You nodded, barely catching your breath, lips curving into a slow smile.

“Still waiting for that doggystyle fantasy to come true, Sergeant.”

That was all it took.

He growled low in his throat, grabbing your hips, flipping you effortlessly onto your stomach. Before you could even laugh, his hands slid under your body and lifted your hips high, chest pressed down into the mattress.

You moaned, the stretch in your spine perfect, delicious.

He leaned over you, his breath hot at your ear.

“This how you want it?”

You arched your back, ass pushing against him. “This is how you want it.”

He growled again—low, deep, possessive.

“Exactly how I want it.”

Then you felt him—his cock, thick and hot, dragging through your soaked folds, the head catching on your entrance.

He didn’t push in yet.

Just rubbed, slow, deliberate, teasing.

You whimpered, tried to push back.

He gripped your hips tighter.

“Not yet,” he murmured. “You’re gonna feel all of it.”

Then—he pushed in.

Slow at first, but deep, the stretch burning in the best way as he filled you, inch by thick, pulsing inch.

“Fuck—” you moaned, hands clutching the sheets as he bottomed out.

He held still once he was fully inside.

Like he was savoring it.

Like this—being buried in you, your body wrapped tight around his—was what he’d been starving for.

Then he moved.

Pulled out halfway.

And slammed back in.

You cried out, the sound muffled by the sheets as he started thrusting, each snap of his hips harder, deeper, rougher than the last.

His hands gripped your waist like you were his anchor.

His rhythm brutal, relentless.

He fucked you like he meant it—like he’d dreamed of this for weeks, like every fantasy had led to this.

You were gasping, moaning, clawing at the bed.

“Look at you,” he panted behind you. “So fucking tight—taking me so good.”

You couldn’t speak.

Could barely breathe.

And when his hand snaked around to rub your clit, you screamed his name.

He didn’t let up.

Just pounded into you harder, faster, until the sound of skin meeting skin filled the room, filthy and loud and perfect.

He was so deep in you.

Deeper than anyone had ever been—physically, yes, but also fully. Like this was where he belonged. Like this was where you belonged.

His hips rolled, the angle perfect, his cock dragging against that sweet spot inside you with every rough, claiming thrust.

And his voice—low, wrecked, filthy—poured right into your ear.

“You like that, sweetheart?” he growled. “You like being on your knees for me?”

You whimpered, nodding, voice breathless.

“Yes, Bucky—fuck—so much.”

He leaned over you, chest flush to your back, still moving inside you—slow now, torturously deep, like he wanted to feel every pulse of you clenching around him.

“Yeah, you do,” he whispered, lips brushing your ear. “My good girl. So fuckin’ wet for me. You were dripping on my face—you know that?”

You moaned, your body shaking, ass pushing back into him.

“I saw you,” he said, his rhythm stuttering just to drag the next thrust out longer. “When I told you to sit on my face? You didn’t even hesitate. You just gave it to me.”

You gasped as his hand slid down your back, curving over your ass, squeezing.

“And now you’re letting me fuck you like this,” he went on. “Taking every inch like a good little cocksleeve. You want me to fill you up, don’t you?”

You shuddered, squeezing around him so tight he groaned.

“Yes,” you panted, shameless. “Fuck, Bucky—fill me up—please—I want it.”

He slammed into you harder, rhythm picking up again, fast and unforgiving.

“That’s it,” he growled. “That’s what I like. You begging. You dripping. You mine.”

You cried out, bracing yourself against the mattress as he drove into you faster now, hand slipping beneath to rub your clit again.

“Say it,” he hissed. “Tell me who you belong to.”

“You,” you choked. “You, Bucky—I’m yours.”

He groaned deep in his throat, thrusts faltering for a beat like the words knocked something loose in him.

Then he grabbed your hair, gently but firm, pulling you up just enough to kiss your neck—bite it—then whisper:

“When I come, I’m gonna stay inside you. Gonna keep you full for hours. Walk around dripping with me.”

You whined, thighs shaking, the pressure building again—faster, sharper.

“Bucky—please—”

His voice was a growl, low and thick with promise.

“Come for me.”

And you did.

Hard.

Your whole body clenched around him, your scream muffled by the sheets as the orgasm ripped through you, sharp and messy, your walls fluttering around his cock.

Your moan was still echoing when he grabbed your waist, pulling you back—up, off the bed, into his lap.

You barely had time to gasp before you were straddling him, his chest pressed flush to your back, his mouth at your neck, and his cock still inside you.

“Not done,” he growled, arms locking around your waist. “Not until I come in you.”

Then he thrust up into you—hard, deep, devastating.

You cried out, your body already overstimulated, every thrust hitting that perfect spot inside you all over again. His hands were everywhere—gripping your hips, spreading your thighs wider, keeping you open for him as he pounded up from beneath you with bruising rhythm.

“Fuck—Bucky—” you whimpered, hands flying back to clutch at his hair, his shoulder, anything.

He was relentless.

Grunting with each thrust, hips snapping up into you, his breath ragged against your ear.

“Feel that?” he rasped. “How deep I am? How you’re still so fuckin’ tight?”

You nodded, moaning, body jerking with every thrust.

“You’re gonna take it,” he hissed. “Every drop. I’m not pullin’ out—you hear me? I’m comin’ inside you.”

“Yes,” you gasped, barely able to speak. “Please—Bucky—fill me up—”

He groaned, deeper than before, thrusts losing rhythm, his grip bruising on your hips as his body started to shake.

“Fuckfuckfuck—gonna come—”

One last thrust—brutal, final—and he buried himself in you, arms tightening, head thrown back as he came hard, deep inside you.

You felt it.

Hot.

Thick.

Flooding you as he groaned your name, holding you tight in his lap, still pulsing inside you.

And he didn’t let go.

Didn’t move.

Just stayed there—buried—chest rising against your back, his breath warm at your neck, whispering,

“You’re mine.”

You collapsed forward onto the bed, body still twitching with aftershocks, breath ragged and uneven. Bucky followed, slow and heavy, staying close, still inside you for a moment longer like he couldn’t stand to let you go just yet.

Eventually, he pulled out with a soft groan.

You whimpered at the loss, hips squirming on instinct.

He stayed behind you for a second, hovering—eyes locked on the way his release slowly dripped out of you, sliding between your thighs and onto the sheets.

You could feel him watching.

You tilted your head back with a lazy grin. “If you’re gonna stare like that, at least have the decency to offer a towel.”

He huffed a rough laugh—half-exhausted, half-stunned. “Sorry. Just... didn’t wanna forget what that looks like.”

You stretched like a cat, all smug satisfaction and afterglow. “Yeah, well. Take a picture next time, Barnes.”

He leaned down, kissed your shoulder—soft, slow, grateful—then flopped beside you, dragging the sheet up over your tangled bodies.

His arm wrapped around your waist, warm and heavy.

Neither of you spoke for a minute.

Just the sound of your breathing slowing. Your bodies cooling.

Then he murmured, voice quiet against your skin, “You’re in my head now.”

You smiled, eyes drifting shut.

“Good,” you whispered. “Took you long enough.”

You lay there, tangled together in the warm quiet, your body still thrumming, skin slick and flushed. Bucky’s arm was wrapped around your waist, his breath slow against the back of your neck, lips occasionally brushing your shoulder like he wasn’t even conscious of doing it.

You grinned.

Couldn’t help it.

“So…” you said, voice casual. “How long you been jerking off to me, Barnes?”

He froze.

You felt the heat bloom off him before he even said a word.

“Don’t.”

Your grin widened. “What? It’s a fair question. Based on how fast you devoured me, I’m guessing… at least a month?”

He groaned into your shoulder. “You’re the worst.”

“I’m right,” you countered. “Don’t think I didn’t catch the way you almost cried when I said ‘as you wish, Sergeant.’ You’ve been unwell.”

He muttered something unintelligible and buried his face in your neck.

You rolled to face him, propped on one elbow, smirking as you traced a line down his chest.

“So, tell me,” you purred. “Now that you’ve got a taste... what do you want to do to me next time?”

His throat bobbed.

You waited.

“I dunno,” he mumbled.

“Oh, you know.” Your nails lightly scratched his ribs. “Come on, be brave. Tell me.”

He grumbled. “You’re gonna use it against me.”

“Correct,” you said sweetly. “Now spill.”

He exhaled slowly, then muttered:

“...Sixty-nine.”

You grinned. “Classic. What else?”

He covered his eyes with one hand. “Breeding.”

Your eyebrows lifted, delight flashing in your eyes. “Oh? Really leaned into the ‘stuff me full, Sarge’ angle, huh?”

“Shut up.”

“I won’t, actually,” you laughed, leaning closer, lips brushing his ear. “Anything else you wanna act out, Barnes? Any other dirty little fantasies you been keeping locked up?”

He hesitated.

Longer this time.

Then—reluctantly, quietly:

“...Roleplay.”

You blinked.

Then broke into a slow, wicked grin. “Okay, now this I need to hear.”

“Nope,” he said immediately, trying to roll away. “That’s enough honesty for one night—”

You climbed on top of him, straddling his hips, pinning him down with a devilish smile. “Tell me if I need to show up next time in a pencil skirt and glasses, or if I should wear that SHIELD catsuit and call you ‘Sir.’”

His eyes snapped open.

And you knew.

You gasped. “Oh my god. You have a thing for the whole ‘secret agent mission gone sideways’ scenario, don’t you?”

He groaned, dragging a hand over his face. “Please stop.”

“You want me to cuff you to a chair and interrogate you,” you went on gleefully. “Or, wait—no—you want to interrogate me.”

“I’m begging.”

You leaned in, lips brushing his ear. “You want me in red lipstick and a wiretap, don’t you?”

“I’m never telling you anything again.”

You leaned down, lips brushing his.

“I’m gonna make all your little roleplay dreams come true,” you whispered.

“Kill me now,” he muttered.

“Nope. Gotta save your energy. You’re not done with me yet.”

You grinned, smug and sated, curling down against his chest, eyes closing as his arm wrapped around you again.

And beneath your cheek, you felt him smile.

[j23r23]

Lovely read, as always 💕

Pietro Maximoff x mutant!fem!reader

Summary: A little misunderstanding almost drives away the one person you feel the safest with.

Genre: hurt and comfort

Warnings: misunderstanding trope, reader is traumatized, reader doesn't have control of her powers, illusions to Hydra's torture, friends to lovers, platonic Bucky Barnes x reader, Pietro is lovesick <3

~ @thewinterv this was based on your Pietro ask from a while back! I really hope you like this 🫶 ! ~

PIETRO MAXIMOFF MASTERLIST

The very first time Pietro saw you, you looked like a fallen angel. 

The day you had arrived, you'd been as quiet as a mouse. You didn't speak to anyone—Pietro wasn't even sure you spoke english. All you did the first week was keep your head down, your gaze away, and your mouth shut.

The large metal cuffs caged around your dainty wrists looked heavy. When Pietro asked Clint why you wore them and he learned it was to dampen a power you couldn't control, a power you hadn't asked for, his heart ached for you. 

In the beginning, you stayed in a room alone and away from everyone. You looked so gloomy, but even behind those saddened eyes, Pietro thought you were the most beautiful woman he'd ever seen. 

Pietro couldn't stay away. It was simply impossible. Afterall, he was never good at minding his own business—ask his sister. 

"Nechte ji na pokoji (Leave her alone)," Wanda kept warning her brother when she would see how he looked at you, but Pietro never listened. 

It started slowly, with little visits to your room. You'd hide, simply staring at him like he would hurt you. It took him a while, many bars of chocolate, and a little show of his own powers, but finally, you opened up to him.

You seemed to like how he could make himself vibrate or how fast he was and Pietro remembers how warm your hand had been when you touched him after he'd vibrated his hand. You sat criss-crossed in front of him, a concentrated and curious look on your face as you watched him. Up close he could see the scars on your skin. His stomach twisted. It reminded him so much of his younger self. Of those years of torture.   

He could only imagine what you'd gone through.

As weeks turned into months, you opened up some more.  

One night, Pietro heard screaming from your room. The entire team had woken up, but Pietro was faster. He sped in, locked the door behind him, and stood in the room as he watched you crawl on the floor, hands cut from your glass of water that had fallen from your bedside table. You were looking for something as you wailed, hands shaking. Pietro knelt beside you, grabbing your wrist, but he recoiled as a jolt of warmth shocked him and caused his arm to throb in pain.

You had burned him. 

You gasped, eyes teary, and he finally understood that we were looking for the metal cuffs. He'd convinced you a week ago that you could control your powers now, that he would help you, but whatever made you scream had sent your powers into a frenzy. It was only a matter of time until you burnt something—most likely yourself.   

Pietro quickly sped to the closet where you keep your cuffs. Gently, he helped them onto your wrists and held your hands as they stopped shaking. The intense warmth vanished. 

"Shh, malá myš (little mouse), you're safe." 

That night, you'd let him hold you for the first time and you hadn't let go since. 

Pietro was worried he might have gone too far. That you're too attached. And yet, imagining himself pulling away hurts more than he'd like to admit. 

You have started to feel more comfortable around the team, which Pietro usually likes, except when it's to see you sitting on the kitchen counter, nursing a cup of hot cocoa, as you chat happily with Bucky. 

Pietro's jaw tightens and he halts near the door, hiding from view. He doesn't know why he hides instead of just joining in on the conversation, but for some reason the sight of you and Bucky standing so close makes him feel sick and he doesn't dare come in. 

"I heard you're close with Pietro, kid," Bucky's voice is light, the smirk obvious in his tone. Your legs dangle from the counter, absentmindedly kicking forwards. Pietro presses his head against the wall. He can't see your expression but he thinks he hears the hint of a smile when you answer. 

"Yeah. We are," you say, sipping your drink. 

"Hm, do you like him?" Bucky asks and Pietro's heart skips. He should walk away. It isn't right to eavesdrop. Wanda would remind him of that if she was here. Still, he doesn't move. 

"Mhmh, he's nice. He's always around me though," you add, a different tone in your voice and insecurities bubble in Pietro's stomach. He knew he was taking things too far. His hands clench. Why hadn't you said anything? Hurt blossoms in his chest and he speeds off, not listening to you finish your answer—

"It's different."

"Different how?" Bucky insists, much too invested. He knows how Pietro feels, everyone does, but you're much harder to understand. The entire team has been dying to know and it was Bucky's turn to ask. After all, you trusted him the most after Pietro. Your circumstances were quite similar. 

You tilt your head, thinking for a moment, and then you beam. "He's different. He makes me feel safe, like I want to be around him all the time."

Bucky chuckles and crosses his arms. "Sounds like you like him," he teases lightly. 

You sip on your drink, considering it. 

"Sounds like you may even love him," he continues, gouging your expression. 

You don't react like Bucky thought you would. You don't deny or ignore your feelings, instead you keep considering his words and when your eyes lock with his, your smile has grown even wider. 

You nod, innocent and cheerful. "Yeah. I think I do."

* * * 

You haven't seen Pietro in three days. He's never in his room when you knock and he's never around the common areas either. Wanda doesn't know anything, or she doesn't want to tell you, and neither does the rest of the team. Your mood has become gloomy. You miss him. 

It's midnight and you're tossing and turning in your bed, unable to cool your body. A horrible side-effect from your powers. Sometimes your body feels like it's on fire. You whimper, sweat beading at your hairline. Pietro's name falls from your lips, desperate. 

Shakily, you stand up. Your vision is blurred, the heat from your palms is intense, and you don't dare touch anything as you stumble down the hall. Your mind is too hazy to think clearly, to find your cuffs and take a cool shower like Pietro always advises. Instead, the only thing on your mind is him. 

You reach his door and call his name. Your throat feels dry and you fall to your knees. You're breathing heavily, your skin burning up.

You're barely aware of someone scooping you in his arms until the icy water from Pietro's personal shower falls down on your skin, soaking your pajamas and causing steam to lift from your skin. Hands cup your cheeks and icy blue eyes fall into your line of vision. 

"What were you thinking?" Pietro's voice is strained. "What have I told you?" 

You blink, taking in his appearance. He's shirtless, goosebumps across his skin as the cold water falls on both of you. He's holding you so close, silver hair sticking to his forehead as his chest rises and falls rapidly. His thumb rubs the skin on your cheekbone. "You have a shower in your bathroom. When this happens, I told you you need to cool yourself down," Pietro's hands fall to your wrists and he frowns. "Where are your cuffs? Y/n, you can't keep misplacing them—"

Your fingers curl around Pietro's wrists instead, the water still falling over you and taming the heat inside you. You pull him closer, wrapping your arms around his shoulders as you cling to him. "Where have you been?" you whimper into his neck, your breathing slowly returning to normal. 

Pietro tenses. "What?"

"I missed you," you admit. Your body temperature is finally lowering. 

Pietro's heart flutters and he reaches for the shower knob, turning off the water. You're both still kneeling on the cool tiles and Pietro pulls you in closer to his chest, his hand resting on the back of your head as he caresses your hair. He feels guilty. He had been ignoring you. 

"I didn't want to overwhelm you," he whispers, still stroking your hair. He helps you up, grabbing towels and wrapping you up. In a blur, he's sat you down on his bed, went to your room, and found your cuffs. Gently, he wraps them around your wrists and smiles up at you. "There will come a time you won't need these, but for now, it's okay that you do. They don't make you weak, okay?"

You nod, looking up at him with wide eyes. You're still stuck on his previous words. "Why would you overwhelm me?"

Pietro joins you on the bed, sitting criss-crossed in front of you. He rubs his neck awkwardly. "I don't wanna be clingy—"

"Why not? I like it," you say quickly.

"Well because I don't want to—wait what?"

You smile softly, fumbling nervously with the cuffs. "I like it. When you're clingy. I like being around you."

Pietro's cheeks turn pink. "You do?"

You nod, reaching for his hands now. "I think I may love you," you admit.

Pietro almost chokes and his face is now crimson. He doesn't even know what to say. He feels like he's in a dream. "You do?" 

You nod and play with his fingers. You're beaming. "Yeah. You're my best friend and more. I love you." You lean in, close to his lips. You're looking at him with such adoration he doesn't know what to think. 

"I love you as well," he whispers and cups your cheek, your wet hair dropping water onto his hand. He smiles. "Can I show you how much?"

Your eyebrows furrow a moment but then you recall some conversation you'd had with Nat and Wanda, about men and love. You'd spent almost your entire life captured by Hydra so this was all so unknown to you, but something feels right. You think back to their conversation and nod, allowing your eyes to flutter shut so that Pietro can kiss you.

It's soft and sweet and when he pulls away, there is so much love behind his eyes. "You're an angel," he mutters and kisses your forehead. "I won't leave your side again. I promise. You're stuck with me, Princezna (Princess)."

Your lips feel funny from the kiss but you can't help but grin at his words. Hesitantly, you lean and kiss him again, your hands cupping his cheek now, and Pietro kisses you back, pulling you into his lap, thumbs rubbing soothing circles on your hips. 

Despite the cuffs, your body temperature seems to spike again—but this time not for the same reasons. Your hands feel cooler than they've ever felt, but that heat in your gut spreads across your body with every kiss Pietro bestows upon your skin. 

For once, you don't want the heat to disappear.  

[j23r23]

Pretty please 🥺🙏🏻

Bucky & the Ballet Dancer (an imagine)

Don’t ask why I got an idea for a Bucky Barnes x BalletDancer AU while watching the live-action remake of How to Train Your Dragon. The flying sequences were really lovely and Northern Ireland is jaw-droppingly gorgeous.

Anyway, I wrote it as an imagine. Hope that's okay.

--Bucky was never into ballet. Seemed too structured, too stiff, too fancy. He liked going to dance halls and getting sweaty with the other girls, no choreography, just fun. So what if a ballet dancer could go up on her toes? He tossed girls up in the air and caught them on the downswing, shrieking and laughing and eyes bright, desperate for a kiss.

--And then there’s this charity event thing. He’s there with Alexei and Ava, and ready to be bored out of his skull, and there’s little artistic corners or whatever. Piano over here (Becca learned, she was pretty good by the time Bucky left for Europe, he heard she taught in some school for a long time after the war), some street artist doing fast sketches over there (he watches for a while, remembering when Steve would do the same thing on the corner for a nickel). And there’s a ballet trio in another corner.

--He doesn’t intend to watch, but Alexei drags him over, talking about the Bolshoi and power and Baryshnikov. It’s exactly what Bucky expects, all highly choreographed, sharp lines, no soul.

--And then the piano in the background shifts. And so does one of the dancers: she’s controlled, yes, but there’s power in her jumps. This close, Bucky can see the muscles under her skin, the sweat on her brow. The way her hair curls tight at back of her neck. She’s not even looking at him, she’s concentrating, every motion clear and sharp as the knife Bucky keeps next to his skin, even at a fancy party like this one.

--She takes his breath away. He can’t take his eyes off of her. Alexei is loud and appreciative, and goes to congratulate the dancers, wax poetic about their beauty, their grace, their strength, but Bucky… Bucky can’t say a word or take his eyes off of her. Even when she glances at him, briefly, before turning her attention back to Alexei.

--It’s later that Val sidles up to him, and says, “I can introduce you.”

--“No,” says Bucky, and storms away.

--Three nights later, though, he goes to the ballet for the first time, because she’s dancing, and he wants to see if the magic holds, when he’s in the audience and not within arm’s length.

--It does.

--That’s how it starts. He watches. Not every night, but two or three times a week, he’s in the audience, watching. Eyes only for her. She probably has no idea.

--(She knows. Of course she knows. Come on, she’s a dancer, she’s not stupid. The entire company knows. At first, she’s flattered, a bit dismissive: they’ve all had fans of this type before. And then… she’s vaguely annoyed by it. Because he never once waits at the stage door, or sends flowers, or a note asking for her time. And that’s a little creepy, and a little worrying, and she doesn’t like it. Why is he staring like that, every few nights? Why won’t he reach out, if he is so enamoured?)

So what changes?

--There’s a mission, and a hand-to-hand fight, and at one point, someone makes some kind of move that he saw her do. Maybe it’s Yelena, maybe it’s even Bucky himself. Some kind of twisting leap… but he realizes it’s hers. And whatever it is, it worked, to get the guy down, to save the day. And it’s dumb, maybe, but… Bucky suddenly has this urge to tell her about it. See what she’d think. Maybe hear her laugh, pleased.

--So the day after they get back to New York… he goes to the performance. It’s one he’s seen before, so he knows when she leaves the stage in the middle of the second act, she won’t return until curtain call. He slips out of his seat, and makes his way to the backstage area (he’s very good at sneaking places, unseen). And he finds the changing room which she shares with two other dancers.

--Neither of them are there at the moment. She’s alone.

--He slips inside. She doesn’t realize it’s him, she’s fixing the bandages on her toes or something, doesn’t look up, says something like, “Anton, I’m busy.”

--“I’m not Anton.”

--And she looks up. And it’s him, her not-quite-stalker, reflected in the mirror. She holds her breath, eyes wide. “How did you get in here?”

--“Thank you,” he says. Quiet. Sincere. Earnest. “You saved me last night.”

--Her eyes go wide. “I didn’t dance last night.”

--“I did. That jump, with the twist, that you do. Anyway. Thank you. I’m sorry to bother you.”

--She turns in her chair, quickly—but she’s too late. He’s gone.

Anyway, that’s how it begins. What do you think? Should I continue?

[j23r23]

Oh Boys...😭🥴🤤🥹

Reflections (of), Chapter Three

Steve Rogers x Reader x Bucky fic (eventual Stucky); Explicit; Post-Snap Endgame Fix-it. This chapter is 7.6k words; total word count is 24.5k. This fic is now complete; thank you in advance for reading.

Thanks to @buckybarnesfic, @mrsbuckybarnes1917, and @probablybucky for the beta!

Summary:

You know Bucky would want you to find love again after he Vanished in the Blip. You don’t think he meant for you to fall in love with his best friend.

Also available on AO3

Chapter One on Tumblr ~ Chapter Two on Tumblr ~ Tumblr Masterlist of MCU fics

Steve looks terrible. Dark circles under his eyes, exhaustion hanging on his shoulders.

But it’s clear he’s tried: his hair is neatly combed, his clothes are clean and neatly pressed. He even smells good, like he’s come straight from putting on his aftershave, like he’s desperate to make a good impression.

You stare at each other, clinging to the door you’ve opened, while he opens his mouth and closes it again.

“I—” you gasp… and then you fly at him, hitting his chest with your fists. “You coward. You fucking—”

He picks you up, easy as anything, carries you back into the apartment and closes the door softly behind him.

Not saying a word. Not stopping you, either.

“The Compound, I kept seeing footage, all of it gone, and you never—why, Steve, not a fucking word, I didn’t even know if you were alive or dead!”

He holds your shoulders, fingers gentle, breathing as you pummel him, as you shove and fight against the strength in his hands.

“Not a fucking word,” you hiss. “I couldn’t get through to anyone! And Natasha’s gone, and Tony… you could have died, what if it hadn’t worked and I’d lost both of you?”

“I didn’t know how—” says Steve, strangled.

You grab him by the jowls and kiss him.

And to your great relief, he wraps you in his arms, holding you up, letting the force of you shove him back against the wall, letting you rip at the crisp button-down shirt, letting you bite marks into his neck, letting you stake your claim with your tears.

“No,” he says, but he doesn’t stop you. “You can’t… we shouldn’t… you’re my best friend’s wife.”

“I know that,” you hiss into the kiss, every word a wrench from your heart. “But I love you too. And I don’t know what to do, Steve, what do I do with that?”

He pushes you away, eyes red, blinking fast, his fingers finally gripping you tight, the way you know he can. The pain catches your breath in your throat, catches your breath in your chest. It centers you, so that you can see it reflected in the shape of his mouth.

“You forget it,” he says gently. “You forget me.”

You shake your head. “I can’t.”

“You have to.”

“I can’t.”

He closes his eyes, bowing his head. “You can. You will. You’ve got Bucky now. I know I was only ever second-best—”

You shove at him. “I don’t love you less for loving you second!”

“Why do you think we did this?” Steve hisses at you. “I brought back Bucky for you.”

“You asshole!” You slam your fists against his chest. “How dare you… that wasn’t your choice to make. I. Love. Both of you. Do you think I can stop loving you, just because he’s here?”

Your breath catches. “Do you even love me back?”

Steve looks shattered, like he’s about to lose whatever tenuous hold he’s had on equilibrium. “I—”

And then he kisses you, holding you tight, holding you close, as ruthless and demanding a kiss as he’s ever given you, just as he always has from the start.

You clutch at him, fingernails digging in, leaving marks you hope won’t heal. (They will.)

“This has to be the last time,” murmurs Steve into your mouth. (You don’t want it to be.)

You press closer, dig harder, demand more of him, desperate for something, anything that will make the moment last. (Or end.)

“We can’t,” Steve mumbles into your skin.

“Tell me you love me,” you demand.

“I can’t.”

“Tell me you love me.”

“You love him.”

You shove at him with the heels of your hands. “Tell me.”

He growls it into your neck. “Yes, God forgive me, I love—”

“You.”

James’s voice echoes in the room.

You and Steve both go still, blood running cold. Steve’s fingers clutch briefly at your skin before going slack against you.

And you’re grateful that they have, because the next thing you know, James has crossed the room in three strides, yanking Steve out of your arms and slamming him up against the wall so hard that the entire room shakes.

Steve doesn’t even protest when James holds him there, jaw working, swallowing, both of them breathing hard.

“No,” you cry, reaching out for him. “James, let him go.”

“It was you,” says James, his voice rough and deep. “Wasn’t it? The guy she fell for.”

“Yeah,” says Steve, defeated and tired and worn. “Buck, I… it wasn’t—”

“James,” you repeat.

“And you didn’t text her? Tell her what was happening? You didn’t even want to talk to her! Why?”

Steve shakes his head. “I didn’t want to bother—”

“Five years hasn’t made you a better liar, Steve,” snaps James. “Why.”

Steve swallows, glances at you over James’s shoulder, and then looks back at him again. “Because I brought you back for her. What kind of man gets in between a husband and wife, Buck? I’m not going to do that to either of you.”

James breathes hard for a moment. Inhale. Exhale.

“She needed you,” says James, hard and angry. “She loved you, Steve. And you know the worst part, she didn’t tell me a damn thing about you. Wouldn’t, because she knew I wouldn’t press. And the whole time she’s looking at her phone, waiting for this other guy she loves to call her, to text her, to make sure she’s okay? And it’s not just killing her, Stevie, it’s killing me too, because I’m watching the woman I love bein’ hurt by some other guy and there’s not a damn thing I can do about it. And the whole time—it’s you. Do you know what that’s like, hating some guy for loving her and then not even reaching out? I was gonna kill that son-of-a-bitch. And it’s you.”

You sniffle, heart hurting, seeing the way Steve takes every single word like a blow to the face.

“She always loved you, Buck,” he says. “Even when she was with me. She missed you so much. She loved you so much. We talked about you all the time. What kind of man would I be to get in between that? To do anything that might destroy that? I’m not going to do that to either of you. Not when I lost so much getting you back in the first place.”

“I should have known,” James says finally, still brimming with anger. “Every time I brought either of you up… you’d change the subject.”

You swallow, hard. “James…”

“And of course it’d be you,” continues James, still staring at Steve. “Of course it’d have been you. It was always going to be you.”

“No,” says Steve. “Buck. It wasn’t… not until last year. Nothing happened until a year ago.”

“You think that makes it better? You knew what this was going to do to her. And you did it anyway.”

Steve’s eyes spring open. “I’m not gonna apologize for bringing you home.”

“Not that, you fucking idiot. That you’d find a good thing—a great thing—and you’ve fucking run from it. You ran from her just like you ran from me, and tried to tell us it was for our own good.”

Steve’s face is pale, his mouth hanging open. “Buck—”

“Seventy years later and still pulling the same shit.” Bucky’s voice is thick now, shaking with something you don’t think is anger anymore. Or anyway, it’s not all anger. “The second you think you’re gonna get what you want—you run. All those girls you set me up with in Brooklyn. Trying to send me home after K-berg. Dating Peggy—”

Steve’s eyes blaze for a moment. “Don’t bring Peggy into this. I loved her too.”

“Yeah,” says Bucky, bitter. “More than me. And you couldn’t even stay alive for her, could you? No, you had to runnin’ from that, too. No—don’t you fuckin’ turn away from me, Steve! I’m not gonna let you break her heart the way you broke Peggy’s. The way you broke—”

But he doesn’t finish; the words catch in his throat, and Steve stares at him, pale and hurting as badly as you do.

Maybe worse.

It’s too much. Too much history and too much pain and your heart is aching, every part of you is aching, for yourself and for them and you just want to go back.

“Can we just go back to bed?”

Both of them turn to you, chests heaving, lips dry, eyes dark and reddened and damp.

“Please,” you whisper. “I just want to go back to bed. I don’t want to fight anymore. I’m just… I’m so tired. I just… can we? Please?”

Steve lets out a shaking breath. “I don’t think that’s such a good idea.”

“Steve,” says James, shaking.

“No,” says Steve, and takes a step to the door.

But James catches him, left hand tight on Steve’s bicep. His voice is guttural,  pained.

“Steve.” James’s voice is guttural, pained. Your heart sinks. “I’m not letting you walk out that door. Not again.”

You lean against James, whose immediately wraps his right arm around you, drawing you close, soft and secure.

And pulls Steve with the left one, strong and determined. “Stevie,” he says. “Please.”

He sounds young. He sound broken. Two things you’re not sure you’ve ever heard him sound like.

But the way Steve breaks… you know he has.

It takes a thousand breaths.

Steve turns, and takes James’s hand.

And follows you both to bed.

*

You rest between them, safe and secure with warmth on either side.

It’s quiet, their breaths even and soft, your heart not quite torn, not quite whole.

James’s hand in yours.

Steve’s hand on your stomach.

It had been strange and quiet, slipping back into the bed with James, Steve following you a few moments later. None of you had bothered to even turn on the lights, and maybe that made it easier.

You think you’ll never sleep. Because if you wake, everything will be a dream. (You’re not sure which everything you mean.)

But you must, because you wake when the sun is thin through the curtains, with soft touches of fingers and lips on your neck, your clavicle, your breasts. With the rough scratch of a morning chin against the soft skin of your stomach, and you sigh into it, running your free hand through his hair.

Short and soft. Steve.

You open your eyes and see him looking back at you, the blue iris almost entirely blown by his pupils, wide in the dim light. It’s easy to see the pain on his face, the wanting and longing plainer than the guilt you know he still has on his shoulders.

James’s arm is still around your waist. And then it isn’t, as James rolls away, still asleep.

You move into Steve’s arms, pulling his lips down to yours, quiet and desperate and not entirely awake.

It’s a tiny pause, and then he kisses you in turn, as hungry and possessive as he ever is. You barely stifle the groaning sigh as he moves his lips down your neck, past the shirt that hangs loose on your body, to your stomach, bare to his mouth.

He keeps moving down, pulling your sleep pants as he goes, pushing the thin fabric of your panties aside. Your legs fall open with barely a push of his elbows as he spreads your already wet folds, running his fingers between them, slowly opening you to the cool morning air. You’re so slick, his fingers glides easily, light touches, as if he’s reminding himself of what he’s touching.

He touches your clit, a zing of pleasure, and you shift on the bed so you’re on your back, open your eyes to see James still asleep on the pillow next to yours.

You close your eyes again, turning your face up to the ceiling, fingers tightening in Steve’s hair for a brief moment, until he lowers his mouth to your pussy to suckle at your clit, fingers rubbing a continuous loop around.

It’s hard to stifle the cries as he works, his fingers dipping lightly into your cunt to the growing dampness there, everything is wet, soft, sloppy, the sounds of his mouth and your quickening breaths. You want to stop him—you know you should—but you can’t, because you want this, too.

You bite back the moan in your throat, desperate for release, desperate for something to catch the cries in the back of your throat. You love this, the feel of Steve between your legs, but it’s never quite enough; it’s always only half of what you need. It’s always you below, full and warm and loved, and you above, desperate and wanting.

The kiss on your lips, the touch of fingers on your breast, and you can’t hold back the moan. It fills the mouth that covers yours, hand curving around your breast to flick your nipple with a metal thumb. You wrap your free hand at the back of his neck, your fingers tangled in the length of James’s hair, and pant into his kiss.

“God, you’re beautiful,” whispers James.

Steve almost stops, but you cry out and press your fingers to the back of his head, so close to falling.

“I kept wondering,” continues James, a breathy, ragged whisper in your ear. “Never could get a good look at your face like this, when I was in between your legs. Always figured you’d be beautiful, so deep you couldn’t control yourself.”

You’re panting, Steve’s tongue deep inside you, his thumbs spreading you open. But James’s gaze is fixed on you, a smile teasing his lips, so much wanting in his eyes that for a moment, you’re confused, off-center, trembling as he brushes the hair off your brow, damp with sweat.

“What you’d look like, like this, the two of you, together,” whispers James, right before he leans in and kisses your mouth, hungry and sweet.

Steve doesn’t even pause; you spread your legs wider, wanton, and he speeds up, both thumbs deep inside of you as his fingers splay your outer labia wide, clearing the way for his mouth to suckle hard on your clit, taking over every aspect of the impeding, building orgasm, even as James plunges into your mouth, kissing you as deeply and sweetly and completely as he always does.

“Come on, beautiful,” whispers James, “come for us.”

You do: fully, completely, harder than you think you’ve ever come for anyone in your entire life.

Afterwards, you lie in each other’s arms, your lovers on either side of you, catching your breath. So close you feel their heartbeats, their combine breath on your skin, in your air. Not a speck of air between any of you.

It’s the most comfortable you’ve ever been. The most relaxed you’ve ever felt.

What if it doesn’t last?

“I’m scared,” you whisper into their skin.

“Of what?” whispers James.

“Of what happens next.”

It’s quiet for a long moment, but you see them look at each other, over you.

“Us too,” whispers Steve, and somehow, that makes it a little bit easier to bear.

*

“What scares you the most?” asks James.

The kitchen is full of sunlight, the scent of coffee, the sound of eggs sizzling in the pan. The morning so far has been strangely easy; you in the shower, getting dressed alone in the bedroom.

Their voices floating through the closed door to you, unintelligible except for the slow rise and fall of an argument being avoided.

It sends pits of worry through your stomach, into your chest, making your fingers tremble.

But they’re easy with each other when you arrive in the kitchen, easy with you. James kisses you good morning, tactile and loving. Steve sits at the table and squeezes your hand when you sit next to him, smiling briefly before frowning at the cup of coffee in front of him.

James isn’t looking at you when he asks the question; he’s busy with the eggs. But he turns a moment later with a plate piled high, setting it in front of you before sitting on your other side to wait for your answer.

The eggs are perfect, exactly as you like them; scrambled, still soft, on a piece of buttered toast and sprinkled with salt and pepper and chives.

“What if you end up hating each other?” you say, staring at the eggs. “I don’t want to come between you.”

“Won’t happen,” says Steve, staring at the coffee.

“It’s a valid concern,” says James, a little bit sharp. “I’m not saying it would happen, but if she’s worrying about it—”

Steve looks up, sharp. “You think it hasn’t occurred to me?”

“I know it has,” says James, equally sharp. “Or you would have ‘fessed up back in New York.”

You cover your face. “Stop. This is what I’m talking about! You’re already arguing, and it hasn’t even been a half a day!”

“Hey,” says James, softer. He grabs your hands and pulls them down. “This isn’t about you.”

You laugh, incredulous.

“It isn’t,” repeats James firmly. “The problem with having a ninety-year friendship is there’s a lot of water under the bridge. And some of it’s gotten pretty damn stagnant.”

You sniffle. “So, what? Even if I’m knocking old hurts loose, I’m still the one knocking them.”

“Maybe they needed to be knocked,” says James. “Doesn’t mean we’re blaming you for it.”

He looks at Steve, expectantly, but Steve doesn’t look up from his coffee.

“Steve.”

Steve sighs. “Buck’s right. It’s not you.”

He looks up at James. “I couldn’t tell you in New York. What would you have wanted me to say? Hey, Buck, welcome back, it’s been five years and Tony and Nat died so you could be here and oh, by the way, I want to marry your wife.”

Your gasp pulls him up short; he glances at you, face drained of color, before closing his eyes in pain.

“See,” he says quietly. “Nothing good comes of that. Better to let it lie.”

“You want to marry me?” you whisper.

Steve looks up at you, and the look in his eyes… it’s dancing in the rain on a street in the Bronx. It’s laughing as Alpine makes biscuits on his stomach. It’s quiet afternoons looking at art in the Met, and Natasha saying, I’ve never seen him happier.

“Yes. More than anything,” he says, fervently, without hesitation. “The minute I thought you’d say yes.”

“What would you have said, beautiful?” whispers James. Soft, quiet, like he doesn’t have skin in the game.

You want to laugh, to cry, to say something; but no words make it past your teeth.

You squeeze your eyes closed, scared to answer. Scared to lie, scared to tell the truth.

You feel like you’ve been teetering between the two men for the whole of your life, waiting to see where you’ll fall.

“Beautiful,” whispers James, his lips so close to your ear, you feel his breath whisper across your hair. “It’s okay. I already know the answer. Tell him.”

You let out a huff of breath, and turn to Steve, throat thick, eyes red and burning.

“I would have said yes. When you asked. I would have said yes.” You laugh, crying. “I still would say yes, that’s the horrible thing. I want to shove you off the roof for not telling me your dumb time heist plan or letting me know there was a chance of getting James back, and the fact that it worked… I am so angry with you, Steve. I love you so much and I can’t believe you did this, that you brought James back, thinking I would ever in a minute forget you the moment I saw him. And I hate myself because for a minute, I did. I love him and he’s here but I can’t forget you, I couldn’t forget that I love you even if I tried. I can’t stop loving you any more than I could stop loving him. But mostly the reason I’m mad at you is that I’m never going to get to say yes to you now. And I wanted that, Steve, more than anything I wanted to marry you and now I’m never—”

Steve crushes you in a hug and lets you sob into his chest.

But it’s James’s hand on your back, steady, solid.

“I wanted to hear you say it,” Steve says into your hair. “I knew you’d say yes. That’s why I couldn’t tell you about the plan. Because you’d say yes to that too, and it was the wrong question. I wasn’t strong enough to hear it.”

“Idiot,” you sniffle, but you smile as you sit up, a little embarrassed, and wipe at the tears on your cheeks. “You’re such an idiot.”

“Can’t even figure why you love me,” agrees Steve, his mouth quirking a little.

“I don’t, very much, at the moment. You couldn’t even message me, Steve! I didn’t know if you were alive or dead or anything, all I saw was what was on the news and… I was so scared that I’d lost you.”

“That’s what scares me,” says James, and if his voice is quiet, now there’s an edge to it. “That you’re still pulling the same shit you always were.”

Steve drags his gaze from you to James, just over your shoulder. “What shit?”

“This shit, that you do, where you start making decisions without talking to us because you think you know what we want, what we need from you.”

“I do that, huh?”

James presses his hand once against your back, before moving away. “Yeah, you do, you’ve done it all your fuckin’ life. Done what you thought was the right thing without askin’ anyone else about it first. You quit art school to pay the rent, you volunteered to be a science experiment without telling anyone, then in K-berg—”

“I saved your life in K-berg.”

“I know you did, punk. And you still shouldn’t have been there. And don’t even get me started on the Valkyrie, let alone DC or Bucharest. Hell, I’m not even sure why you showed up here, it’d be more your style to take those damn stones back and stay in the past just because you figured we needed the space.”

Steve’s jaw tightens; he looks like he’s trying to swallow but can’t. You stare at him, heart sinking as you push him away, and he falls back down to sit in his chair.

“Fuck,” whispers James. “That was the plan, wasn’t it? You’d’ve gone and buried yourself in the past to avoid the thought you might fuck up whatever future you had planned for us.”

“Is that why you’re here?” you whisper. “To say goodbye?”

Steve looks up at you, eyes red, chest rising and falling.

“Better than having you tell me I’m not wanted anymore,” he says quietly. “Better than watching you with him, knowing what we had, knowing I’m the one who gave him back to you. Knowing I’m the reason you’re not mine anymore.”

“Steve—”

He shakes his head. “I don’t regret it. I’d do it again.” He looks over at James. “It doesn’t matter how far gone you are, what I have to do to get you back. I’ll do it. Every time, and not just for her, Buck. She’s not the only luck you’ve ever had; she’s the only luck you’ve ever kept for yourself, because the rest of it, you spent on me. So I’ll spend the rest of my life making sure I do the same for you.”

James rubs his face with his hand, weary. “You fucking idiot.”

“Don’t,” you say, rough. “You didn’t say I was an idiot for voicing my fear; don’t call him an idiot for his.”

James huffs and shoves back from the table, stomping over to the stove to grab the pan, then to the sink where he begins to wash it, splashing and making as much noise as he can in his frustration.

Your heart twists painfully in your chest. “Shit,” you whisper. “I just got between you, didn’t I?”

James turns the water off. “Yeah,” he says.

“She was trying to protect me,” says Steve.

“You don’t need it, pal.” James turns and leans against the counter. “Clearly I brought the stupid back with me and gave it straight to you.”

“Oh my god,” you groan. “Were you always like this with each other?”

They look at each other for a moment, and then shrug. “Yeah, kinda,” says James.

“Sometimes worse than others,” agrees Steve.

You want to cry or laugh or something; instead you turn from both of them. “Then we’re doomed. If our greatest fear in any of this is each other… why are we even talking about it? What’s the point of any of this?”

But James catches you before you even make it to the door; he pulls you into him and kisses you, warm and tasting faintly of jam and coffee.

You’re on a knife’s edge of crying.

“Because, beautiful,” says James softly. “This could be good. You know how I know?”

You shake your head, sniffling.

“Because I love you. And you love me, and you love him, and he loves you. And god help us both, but I’m pretty sure that punk not drinking his coffee loves me as much as I do him, too.”

James looks over your head at Steve. “Yeah, I’m scared you’re gonna fuck up your end of it, but only because I’m the one who’ll pick up the pieces. What else is new? At least we know I can. And yeah, she’s scared she’ll get in between us, but isn’t that exactly where we want her to be?”

The giggle bubbles in your throat; you lean your head against his chest as he wraps his arm around you.

“As for the other thing,” continues James. “She said she’d marry you.”

“She’s married to you,” says Steve.

“Ways around that, punk, if you need it.”

“You’d—” Steve falters. “Buck. That’s polygamy.”

“I’m sorry,” says James. “What did you think we were discussing, a garden party? And anyway, get your terms straight, what we’re discussing here is polyandry.”

“Did… did you research this?” says Steve, shocked.

“Yeah, I researched this, that’s what I do, you asshole,” says James, thoroughly annoyed now. “Whaddya think an XO’s job is, jeez, Rogers, hand me back the stupid already, or send it to Wilson, clearly your turn is up.”

“No,” you mumble. “I love your shared stupid, I don’t want to marry Sam.”

“Good,” says James, kissing the top of your head. “I don’t want you marrying Sam either. Shit, you gotta eat, beautiful, your shift starts in half an hour.”

“I’ll call in sick.”

“No,” says James gently, walking you back to your chair. He sits you back down carefully. “We said what scared us. Let’s say something easier now. Don’t think, just say it. What do you want?”

“Creamer,” says Steve, staring at his coffee.

James sighs and drops the container in front of him. “Can’t say I didn’t ask for that,” he grumbles, before turning back to you. “You know what I want? Apart from you eating those eggs, anyway. I want you to have every drop of love anyone could ever give you. I want you so full of love, you don’t ever doubt, for a second, that you deserve it.”

You look up at him. “I don’t.”

“Then let us love you, beautiful. Both of us.”

The knot in your throat eases a little. “I want that. You. Both of you. But—”

“No buts,” says James firmly, turning to Steve. “What about you? Other than the creamer.”

“I want to marry her,” says Steve, staring into his coffee.

James gives him a long, hard look, before nodding slowly. “Okay.”

Steve looks up sharply, but James is already on his feet, heading back to the sink. “Buck—you know that means—”

“I don’t know anything what it means,” says James shortly, turning on the water. “Except I asked for what you wanted, and you told me. Finish your eggs, beautiful.”

“What about you, Bucky?” says Steve. “What do you want?”

James looks at him. “I already said.”

“No. You said what you wanted her to have, because you knew it was the only way to get her to admit it’s what she wants, too. But I’m asking. What do you want? Not what you want for her, or even for me. What do you want for you.”

James huffs a laugh. “What I want for me?”

“Yeah.” Steve says it like it’s a challenge. He’s eye to eye with James, but you can see it, somehow, little Stevie Rogers back in Brooklyn, standing up to his best pal Buck.

You stare at James, suddenly nervous and anxious and so curious what he’s going to say.

But James isn’t looking at you. He’s looking right at Steve.

“I want to know what you didn’t say to me that night at Coney Island,” says James finally. “You were going to say something, weren’t you? Before I went to find where the girls went. What were you going to say?”

Steve’s eyes go wide. “I wasn’t going to—”

“Still can't lie worth a damn, Rogers.”

Steve’s jaw works for a moment. “It doesn’t change anything. Not then and not now.”

“What were you going to say?”

“I was going to ask you to stay with me!” snaps Steve, breathing hard. “Not to go looking for the girls and not to leave me alone in New York.”

“Then why the fuck didn’t you?!?!”

“Because I wasn’t what you wanted!” Steve shouts at him. “And you would have stayed Buck, if I’d asked, out of some misplaced sense of loyalty, and it would have ruined you. I was never what you wanted, not in 1942 and not after the serum either.”

“Goddammit, Stevie,” says James—and for all the anger in his voice, brimming under the surface, what you really hear is the pain, the utter exhaustion he’s feeling. “You think I ever cared about that? It’s you, pal. It’s always been you. Whether you’re big or little, it’s you.”

Steve’s face is white as a sheet. “You were so mad—”

“I was mad because you didn’t tell me you were doing it!” snaps James. “You told me you were doing some show, touring the States with a bunch of showgirls, helping with their costumes! Not some pumped-up beefcake science experiment that was shuffled off to the side!”

“I tried to explain!”

“I know you did, you massive punk, you really think I could hear a word? Blood all burnin’ with whatever shit Zola shot in me. I couldn’t remember which way was up half the time.” James lets out a hard breath. “God, Stevie… just… and you ask me what I want? Like you don’t know?”

“I don’t,” says Steve, crossly.

And they stand there, James vibrating with anger and hurt and so many pent-up feelings, nearly a century of them, all desperate for release. Steve aching and wanting and reaching, equally desperate.

You touch James’s hip, and his gaze snaps to you. Your smile is shaky, nearly as much as your voice. “Tell him,” you whisper. “It’s okay. I already know.”

James’s eyes widen as he stares at you, and then his gaze snaps back to Steve.

“I have loved you since I was fourteen years old. I loved you the minute I met you, only I didn’t know it yet. I probably loved you the minute after I was born.

“You want to know what I want? I want you. And her. And I want you to want her and I want her to want you, because I want this, all of us, all of this, my best guy and my best girl on either side for the rest of whatever fucked up life I’ve got left to me. I want you here, Stevie. Not running off somewhere with the stupid, not sacrificing yourself because you think we’re better off without you. We’re not. And I don’t want to be the one leading us there—I don’t want any of us to lead us there, because as far as I’m concerned, we’re all equals in this. And I want to know—really know, that when you're done fighting for us—us—her and me and you—because I know you're never gonna stop doing that—I want to know that you're going to stay.”

Steve moves in one swift step to James, catching the back of his neck in one hand and his shoulder in the other. The kiss is brutal; angry and frustrated, but it looks to you like James meets him halfway, his arms wrapping around Steve’s shoulders, fingers gripping tight and pulling against the back of his shirt before sliding up and into his hair.

You let out a huff, a soft whimper in the back of your throat.

Neither of them notice.

Steve kisses your husband like it’s the last kiss he thinks he’ll ever have. Like he’s taking every press and push and nip that James give him, willingly, welcoming.

And James—who has always been more than gentle with you—gives it to him. He pulls Steve into the kiss; he growls when Steve breaks the kiss to gasp and moan, his head falling back to expose his throat. He leaves small nips along Steve’s neck, and the growls go straight to your heart, straight to your groin, your eyes going wide with surprise and more than a little desire.

Watching your husband take your lover apart… watching your lover let him…

Warmth curls under your skin like a fever. You can barely breathe or think or anything, watching them. It’s almost impossible not to want to touch them, let your fingers drag along their arms and backs, to breathe in their scent, mingled together.

But you can’t move. Your muscles won’t respond. You’re frozen in place even as you burn.

They’re both breathing hard when they finally pull apart, fingers still digging into each other’s skin, pressed together so tightly, you’re not sure there’s room for anything else.

Anyone else.

They’re not looking at you. They’re barely looking at each other, really. James’s eyes are closed, and Steve’s are half-open, reddened like he’s trying not to cry.

Your heart aches. You’re not sure if it’s for you, or them, or all of you.

Steve’s mouth moves; you can’t hear the words, but you hear the whisper of his voice, saying something to James. Who responds, just as quietly. Words only meant for each other.

James’s grip loosens, and Steve’s hands press into his skin, as if to steady him.

They’re not looking at each other. Or you. It’s almost as if… maybe… they’re afraid of what they’ll see.

You take a deep, steadying breath, and slowly sit back down on your chair. Your fingers shake, so much that you have to press them hard into the table top.

“Beautiful?”

James’s voice, steady, quiet. Steadied, you pick up your fork. It sounds loud, scraped against the plate, jarring in the quiet of the kitchen.

“I’m fine,” you say, breathy. “I’m fine. It’s…”

It’s Steve who kneels in front of you, cups your face in his hand to pull your gaze to him. You’re not sure what he sees, but he doesn’t flinch; he examines you carefully, like he’s taking a careful count of every feature.

His eyes are definitely red and wet, his lips are the bright red of having been kissed. But his gaze is steady, and what’s more… calm. Calmer and more settled than you think you’ve ever seen him.

Never seen him happier, Natasha had told you one morning.

You kind of know what she meant. You see it on him, now.

“Thank you,” he says, soft.

You smile, still a bit shaky, heart pounding.

“Room for one more.”

You laugh, pressing your face into his hand. “I have to go work.”

“Skip it,” Steve almost growls.

You laugh again and rest your hand over his. “I can’t. And I shouldn’t. You and James…”

You glance at your husband, where he leans against the counter, head bowed, only glancing at you from beneath his eyelashes, as if he’s worried to stare straight on.

“I don’t know much,” you say softly. “But I know I don’t want the water under your bridge to stay stagnant. You have to talk to each other. Promise me, Steve, you’ll talk to each other.”

“And if it’s more than talk?” blurts out James.

He’s looking at  you now. Or maybe he’s looking at Steve; it’s hard to tell.

You recognize the desire on his face, though. He’s aimed it at you enough times.

But Steve’s in between you now.

“Then I trust you to know what you both need,” you say softly.

“Beautiful—” starts James, but you turn in your chair, away from Steve and James and the pair of them together, and pick up your fork again.

“I need to eat, if I’m going to be on time.”

You only manage about half the eggs, which is a crime, because they’re amazingly good. But your stomach is in knots; you’re not sure how you can even eat anything at all. James doesn’t seem to mind, though; you think he’ll probably finish them off once you leave.

If you leave. You get as far as the foyer, your jacket half zipped, and you aren’t terribly inclined to move much father.

“Second thoughts, beautiful?” says James gently, rubbing your shoulders, kissing your forehead.

“No. Yes. I don’t know.” You glance over at Steve, still sitting on the other side of the kitchen table. He doesn’t look up from the cup of coffee he’s been nursing for the last half hour. “What if…?”

James waits for you to finish, but when it’s clear you won’t, he speaks. “We’ll be here, when you come home again. You know that, right?”

You look back at him, eyes wide and worried.

James lets his fingers drift over your temple, through the tendril of hair that never stays in place. “Go. Get out of this apartment. Breathe fresh air. Help the people out there put their lives back together, so Stevie and I can do the same thing.”

Your heart catches. “Without me.”

James sighs and holds you closer. “What we’re talking about doing together, the three of us? It’s you and me, and it’s you and him, sure. But it’s him and me, too. I love you for standin’ up for him, but we need a little time to work on him and me. We haven’t had a lot of that.”

You nod, pressing your fingers to his chest, feeling the beat of his heart inside. Steady. Certain. His arms around still around you, too, warm and secure. “I know. I’m sorry, I—”

“Hey,” says James, and you pull your eyes back to him. “We haven’t killed each other yet. We ain’t starting now.”

You smile wanly. “I’m not sure that’s as comforting as you think it is.”

He kisses you again. “Gotta give us the space, beautiful, if this is gonna work.”

You nod, because he’s right. But…

You glance at Steve—still not looking at either of you—and then back to James, kissing him soundly on the lips. “I love you. I want this to work.”

“Me too.”

You take a breath. “I want you to work. What you have with each other. You deserve that. Both of you.”

James’s eyes narrow a little. “Beautiful—”

“Whatever you two decide today,” you continue. “It’s okay. I love you both, and I’ll be happy for you.” You turn to where Steve is still in the kitchen, still staring at his coffee. “Did you hear that, Steve? I just want you both to be happy.”

Steve looks up sharply, mouth open in surprise.

James’s hand slides up your neck, to the back of your head, and he gently presses until you’re facing him again.

“You,” says James, firm. “You make us happy. Don’t you dare doubt it for a second.”

The warm bubble fills your chest so fast, your eyes are damp with unshed tears before you can blink them away. “James…”

He kisses you, soft but determined. “We’ll both be here when your shift is done, Beautiful. Don’t take too long coming home on our account, okay?”

You nod. “I’ll come straight back.”

“Good.” He kisses you one more time, then lets you go.

Steve watches as you walk into the kitchen, and you wrap your arms around his shoulders, because he looks like he needs it. He rests his head on your shoulder, tucking in under your chin, and you kiss the part of him you can reach. “I mean it. Whatever happens, I love you.”

“I know,” he says, squeezing your forearm, before letting you go.

*

It’s lunch before you have a chance to look at your phone, and the first thing you notice is that you’ve got over twenty WhatsApp messages waiting for you… in a new group, you and James and Steve together.

Called…

You blush, and tuck the phone a little closer to open the messages.

James: Hey, beautiful. Steve and I wanted to let you know everything’s fine. We’ve talked and we’re going to lunch and we’ll be back in the apartment before you get home. We love you. <Steve Rogers has changed the name of the chat to Two Old Farts and a Pretty Girl.> James: No. We aren’t calling ourselves that. Steve: Fine. <Steve Rogers has changed the name of the chat to One Old Fart, One Handsome Captain, and a Pretty Girl.> James: No. <Steve Rogers has changed the name of the chat to Sex Partners.> <Steve Rogers has changed the name of the chat to XXX.> <Steve Rogers has changed the name of the chat to Spouses.> Steve: Bucky stole my phone for the last one.

The rest of the thread is a series of emojis and gifs, each more bewildering and more confusing than the last; you aren’t sure if you’re reading a series of inside jokes, or attempts to one-up each other, and there’s no rhyme or reason to any of them.

You: I am very confused but I approve of the last group name.

There’s no response back; undoubtedly they’re too busy with their own lunches, or maybe they don’t hear the chime.

You try not to think about why they wouldn’t hear the chime, at first.

And then you do think about why they wouldn’t hear the chime, and it sends such a curl of arousal straight through you that you have to go splash your face with cold water before you go back to work. It doesn’t really help.

What are you afraid of, James had asked. And you’d said, I’m afraid I’ll come in between you.

But what you hadn’t said… what if, when they found each other, there wasn’t room for you at all.

There’s another half dozen messages when you check your phone before leaving the clinic after your shift.

James: Good. I have ideas about that, by the way. Steve: Mine are better. James: We’ll talk when you get home. Nothing bad. Love you. Steve: Love you. You: I’m on my way. Love you, love you, love you. Bucky: Who’s the third love you for? You: You decide.

You walk home with a light step, though your heart starts beating a little harder when you reach the building.

Everything’s fine, James had said.

It’ll be okay, they’d both told you once.

They’d both been lying through their teeth. Maybe not intentionally… but it hadn’t been okay, not for a long while.

You hear the music when you step off the elevator. Faint, a little scratchy, like you’re listening to a record playing. There’s no lyrics, just the music, and it’s not until you reach your door that you realize it’s coming from your apartment.

You unlock and open the door as carefully and quietly as you can, curious what’s going on inside, and as you do, you recognize the song.

…is nothing for me but to love you And the way you look tonight [X]

The music swells a little, but otherwise, the apartment is quiet, a little bit dark, like neither James nor Steve have bothered to turn on the lights since the sun started setting. You close the door behind you, shedding your shoes and jacket, and creep to the living room, which is where you find them.

Never never change Keep that breathless charm Won’t you please arrange it, ‘cause I love you

You lean against the doorframe, watching the pair of them together, lost in their own little world, lost in each other.

Your eyes feel hot again, teary. But it’s good, it must be good, especially when you see Steve’s mouth moving in time with James’s, words unsung except to each other.

You haven’t broken them. You haven’t gotten between them.

The only thing you don’t know… if there’s still space for you.

Someday, when I’m awfully low And the world is cold

James’s eyes open, and a moment later, so do Steve’s.

And they both reach out to you.

I will feel a glow just thinking of you

Every bit of fear in your chest evaporates. Your smile is no doubt dazzling.

So you join them.

And the way you look tonight

“Hello, beautiful,” says James, as Steve nuzzles the back of your neck.

Just the way you look tonight…

Thank you for reading!

Also available on AO3 ~ Tumblr Masterlist of MCU fics

[j23r23]

✩˚ ｡ Masterlist ｡ ˚✩

Here is where you can find all the works I’ve written. All of this currently involves Bucky Barnes, Steve Rogers, and/or Sam Wilson unless specified otherwise. I may branch to other characters later on. Don’t forget to take a look at my Rules! My Waitlist has all my upcoming ideas/projects too. Otherwise, feel free to review My Intro, Carrd, and the rest of my masterlist. Happy reading!!! ♡

Last Updated: 06/17/25

Keys| Fluff ✿ | Angst ⛆ | Dark 𓉸 | Agere ʚɞ | Hurt/Comfort ❦

Word Count| 600-900 ✦ | 1k+ ✪ | 2k+ ꕤ | 3k+ 𖤓 |Favorites ⏾

Series:

✿⛆❦ Whispers of the Gifted (Masterlist) - A collection of different one-shots with reader having different powers or abilities, each in their own universe. (Bucky Barnes x reader) ⏾

✿ Earth’s Mightiest Headache (Masterlist) - A collection of different one-shots with an unhinged reader as a chaotic whirlwind of misplaced confidence, untraceable knowledge, and genuine good intentions. (Bucky Barnes x chaotic!reader) ⏾

⛆ The One You Don’t See (Masterlist) - An ongoing story following you, the quiet presence who keeps everything running, always helping but never truly seen or included.

✿ Shapeshifting Shenanigans (Masterlist) - A collection of different one-shots with a shapeshifter reader causing various mischief, running into precarious situations, and being an absolute menace in feline form.

ʚɞ 𓉸 ⛆ Caged in Comfort (Masterlist)

Two-Parts:

𓉸 Obsessive Love & Devoted Possession - You and Bucky Barnes fall into a quiet but intense obsession with each other. While your love is sweet, watchful, and clingy beneath a gentle surface, Bucky’s affection turns darker and more possessive. (Yandere Bucky Barnes x Yandere!reader) ✪

⛆ Even If You Forget & I’ll Still Love You - After a mission gone wrong, you lose all memory of your relationship with Bucky. Even though it pains him to the core with grief, he stays by your side and quietly swears he’ll always love you no matter what happens. (Bucky Barnes x reader) ꕤ⏾

✿ Out of Time, Into Our Lives & The Days We Built Out of Time - A teen girl suddenly appears at the Avengers compound claiming to be from the future. While she tries to avoid revealing too much, she accidentally and subtly drops hints about her life, her siblings, and the deep bond she shares with you and Bucky Barnes both. (Bucky Barnes x reader) ꕤ

𓉸 Crimson Waters, Stolen Hearts [Part 1] [Part 2] - Captain Bucky Barnes, a feared yet controlled pirate, captures you, the beloved daughter of a powerful trading magnate. But even though he claims it’s only for ransom, his eyes linger too long, his commands soften in your presence, and what began as strategy begins to feel like something he doesn’t want to let go of.

Fics/One-Shots:

✿ ʚɞ Beach Day - You and your caregivers go on a trip to the beach where you have an action-packed day of building sand castles, splashing in the water, and spending time with your daddies. (Stucky x little!reader) 𖤓

⛆ 𓉸 Rewritten - You wake up in a cozy home with no memory of anything. You find your alleged lovers reassuring you that you’ve always lived there and that they’ll stay by your side through this difficult time. However, you can’t seem to shake the feeling that something is wrong. (Dark!Stucky x reader) 𖤓

✿ A Shot of Something More - You’re the closing barista at a campus café. Steve comes in to study, Bucky shows up to tease him, and you. Over time, flirting turns into banter, and late nights turn into something deeper. (College AU! | Steve Rogers x reader x Bucky Barnes) 𖤓

✿ Prank Wars - You and Bucky Barnes start as chaotic, bickering frenemies locked in a prank war filled with glitter bombs, insults, and grudging teamwork before evolving into a sharp-edged romance. (Bucky Barnes x Avenger!reader) 𖤓

✿ Covert Attraction - When S.H.I.E.L.D. pairs Bucky Barnes with you, a sharp-tongued, effortlessly flirtatious field agent, it's supposed to be a simple mission: infiltrate a suspected Hydra front in Prague by posing as a newlywed couple. The assignment is all business until it isn't. (Bucky Barnes x flirty!reader) 𖤓

⛆ Tangled Threads - You’ve always felt the red string of fate for better or worse, but when it finally leads you to Bucky Barnes; both of you avoid each other, too afraid of ruining the other. Over time, the unspoken tension wears you both down until a forced confrontation finally brings the truth out. (Soulmate AU! | Bucky Barnes x reader) 𖤓

⛆❦ The Silence Between Us - When a mission goes wrong and you resort to bad habits, one of the last teammates you expected finds you. (Bucky Barnes x Avengers!reader) ꕤ

⛆ The Solstitial Truce - You met him at the border between realms every solstice, simply watching the stars together. Two entities out of place, bound by quiet conversation and the kind of silence that speaks more than words ever could. (Demon!Bucky Barnes x Angel!reader) ꕤ

⛆❦ Exactly As You Are - You slowly form a tender, deeply emotional relationship with Bucky Barnes. Despite fears of being a burden, he stays, proving with quiet strength and unwavering presence that love doesn’t need to be perfect to be real. (Bucky Barnes x reader) ꕤ⏾

𓉸 Again - You live in a carefully constructed world with Bucky Barnes, unaware he’s been resetting your memories every time you try to leave him. Each time you begin to remember the truth, he gently erases it, cloaking control in affection. To you, it feels like love. To him, it is. (Yandere Bucky Barnes x reader) ꕤ

⛆ The Kind That Leaves - You’re an emotionally distant, nomadic colleague known for disappearing without notice. Bucky Barnes, quiet and observant, notices anyway. He never asks you to stay, but he never stops waiting for you to come back and stay. And, for the first time, you’re starting to wonder if you actually might. (Bucky Barnes x reader) ꕤ

✿ Just a Kiss - In the quiet moments between missions, Bucky Barnes finds clever (and sometimes painful) excuses to spend time with you, the medic who keeps him patched up and grounded. (Flirty!Bucky Barnes x reader) ꕤ

✿ Misfire - Bucky Barnes accidentally botches a summoning ritual, leaving you, a laidback, powerful demon, permanently tethered to him and stranded in the mortal world. (Bucky Barnes x demon!reader) ꕤ

⛆ Until the Ship Went Down - You and Bucky Barnes board the Titanic as newlyweds, leaving behind a life of war and uncertainty in hopes of a peaceful new beginning in America. However, on the fourth night, the illusion of a new life shatters as the Titanic strikes the iceberg. (Titanic AU! | Bucky Barnes x reader) ꕤ⏾

✿ ʚɞ A Little Mess Won’t Hurt - Your caregivers help you try finger painting, noticing your reluctance to create any kind of mess despite your love for art. (Stucky x little!reader) ✪

𓉸 Because He Always Knows - You're close friends with Bucky Barnes, trusting his quiet, protective nature. What you don’t know is that Bucky is secretly obsessed with you. And he’ll do anything to keep you safe, close, and his. (Yandere Bucky Barnes x reader) ✪⏾

✿ ʚɞ ❦ Learning to Ask - When you muster the courage to ask for something, Bucky responds with quiet warmth, holding you close as Steve gently joins in, reminding you that it’s safe to ask for things and even safer to be held. (Stucky x little!reader) ✪

⛆ ʚɞ ❦ Not a Burden - Lately, you’ve been feeling like a burden to your caregivers. It doesn’t take long for Steve and Bucky to notice and reassure you that you’re never a burden to them and you never will be. (Stucky x little!reader) ✪

ʚɞ❦ When They Need You - Steve has been having a rough day, trying to hide his exhaustion from Bucky and you, but you can tell something’s off. In your little headspace, you take it upon yourself to comfort him. (Stucky x little!reader) ✪

✿ Tiny Winged Trouble - When SHIELD accidentally captures you, a fairy, in a jar, Steve and Bucky are tasked with figuring out what you are. You refuse to speak at first, until Steve gives you a cookie. Now they’re stuck with a clingy, stubborn fairy who calls them “Tree” and “Shadow.” (Steve Rogers x fairy!reader x Bucky Barnes) ✪⏾

✿❦ Love Letters in the Smoke - During his rehabilitation, Bucky writes anonymous letters to process his thoughts. One night, he drops one at your circus campfire by mistake. You write back as a pen-pal romance begins. (Bucky Barnes x aerialist!reader) ✪

✿ ʚɞ Toy Store Visit - You go to a toy store with a budget and pick out one new stuffie. Your caregivers gently guide you and remain patient as you carefully choose which stuffed animal or toy to bring home. (Stucky x little!reader) ✪

✿ Escape Room Chaos - You take Steve and Bucky to an escape room for a fun, relaxing evening, but things quickly spiral into chaos. Both somehow ignore the obvious clues in favor of dramatic theories and property damage. You’re just trying to survive until you can successfully escape without a lawsuit. (Steve Rogers x reader x Bucky Barnes) ✪

❦ Tiny Caretaker - Steve returns from a mission injured and emotionally drained. You wordlessly comfort him using small, nature-based gifts. (Steve Rogers x Fairy!Reader x Bucky Barnes) ✪

✿ Surface Tension - You, a curious mermaid gifted with a pendant that lets you walk on land, are pulled into the chaotic lives of Steve Rogers and Bucky Barnes. With saltwater misting systems, sarcastic banter, and growing affection, you slowly find a place and a home with the two super soldiers by your side. (Steve Rogers x mermaid!reader x Bucky Barnes) ✪

ʚɞ ❦ After the Noise - During a meeting, everything becomes too much for you. Your fathers notice instantly, bringing you to a quieter space and reassuring you that you don’t always have to be big. (Stucky x little!reader) ✪

⛆❦ Stay for Everything - After a terrible doctor’s appointment where you were dismissed and invalidated, Bucky doesn’t push you to talk. Instead, he brings you home, quietly cooks your favorite comfort food, and offers gentle presence. (Bucky Barnes x reader) ✪

✿ Wounded Pride - When Bucky overhears you referring to him as not exactly being a badass, he over dramatically makes sure you don’t forget what was said. (Bucky Barnes x reader) ✪⏾

✿ Group Therapy - Tony forces you, Bucky, and Sam into a mandatory group therapy session meant to improve communication, but it quickly devolves into passive-aggressive chaos, exaggerated breathing, and glitter-based threats. (Bucky Barnes x reader x Sam Wilson) ✪

⛆❦ Quiet in the Storm - After experiencing a sudden flashback, you spiral into panic. However, Bucky stays calm and gently grounds you, reminding you that you're safe. He offers comfort without pressure, reassuring you that you're not broken and never have to face things alone. (Bucky Barnes x reader) ✪

[NSFW, MINORS DNI] Yearning Warmth - The first time Bucky initiates something more with you. (Bucky Barnes x reader) ✪

✿⛆❦ Held Without Question - You, struggling with your body image, find comfort and unconditional love in your relationship with Bucky Barnes and Sam Wilson. After a vulnerable moment during a shared bath, they gently reassure you that you are seen, enough, and deeply loved as you are. (Bucky Barnes x reader x Sam Wilson) ✪

ʚɞ ❦ Difficult Morning - You’re having a harder time waking up this morning. Steve Rogers and Bucky Barnes are patient and comforting throughout. (Stucky x little!reader) ✦

✿ ʚɞ Fort Kingdom - You spend a rainy evening with your caregivers, Bucky and Steve, building the ultimate blanket fort. (Stucky x little!reader) ✦

✿ DIY Project - You and your competitive boyfriends attempt to build a bookshelf one day. You have to refrain from laughing as they keep trying to one-up each other. ✦

✿ A Place They Call Home - You become a quiet, comforting presence in Steve’s and Bucky’s lives. They slowly form a deep, romantic bond with you built on quiet moments, mutual care, and unspoken understanding. (Stucky x reader) ✦

✿❦ Picture Perfect - You’ve always loved photography but never dared to try until your boyfriends encourage you to pick up a camera and capture the world through your eyes. (Steve Rogers x reader x Bucky Barnes) ✦

✿ Tiny Wings, Gentle Things - Steve gently teaches you human things like books, buttons, and manners, while Bucky encourages mischief, showing you how to pull harmless pranks around the tower.(Steve Rogers x Fairy!Reader x Bucky Barnes) ✦

✿ Date Prank - You prank your boyfriend Bucky Barnes by texting him not to forget “date night,” even though no such date exists. He panics, thinking he forgot something important, and scrambles to figure out the details. (Bucky Barnes x reader) ✦

✿ Arm Dilemma - Your first time catching Bucky using the dishwasher to wash his metal arm. (Husband!Bucky Barnes x reader) ✦

✿❦ Jealous Fairy - You, a tiny stubborn fairy, gets jealous when a new SHIELD agent starts flirting with Steve. (Steve Rogers x Fairy!Reader x Bucky Barnes) ✦

✿ ʚɞ Sticker Salon - You wake up in little space and decide to run a "Sticker Salon," decorating Steve and Bucky with sparkly stickers while they play along lovingly. Later, they save some of the stickers as keepsakes, reminding you just how loved and treasured you are. (Stucky x little!reader) ✦

Blurbs/Drabbles: 599 words or less.

ʚɞ ❦ Sick Day - You’re sick and your fathers take care of you. (Stucky x little!reader)

✿ Lazy Morning - Snuggled up between your loving boyfriends, you listen quietly as they argue over who is the better cook. (Stucky x reader)

✿ Left Alone with the Air Fryer - You leave him home alone with a new air fryer and strict instructions not to use it. He does it anyways. (Bucky Barnes x reader)

✿ Target Acquired - You go to Target with your supersoldier boyfriend for one item. You never would have thought the man who survived hell and back would succumb to the Target effect. (Bucky Barnes x reader)

✿ Haunted House - You take Bucky to a haunted house. While you add dramatic flare to the experience, he is completely unphased. (Bucky Barnes x reader)

[j23r23]

WORLDS BEST DAD.

dad bucky barnes x fem!reader

WORD COUNT. 1123 SUMMARY. father’s day never used to mean much to bucky until having a family of his own. with another baby on the way, you all enjoy a slow morning in bed giving gifts and appreciating the worlds best dad. [fluff] NOTE. not so keen on my own dad so wanted to make bucky a dad. seems healthy right?

⎯ ☆ ��

This day in particular hadn't meant much to Bucky in a rather long time, the day feeling like a random Sunday in June with no cause for celebration. Though that changed about three years ago when he became the central focal point for the special day: having a daughter and baby on the way to give him a reason to enjoy the occasion. 

Bucky lays at your side, sleeping soundly while you rest against the headboard, hand smoothing large circles over your bump — the act like you were trying to calm your son’s kicking feet. You make a faint sound of unease and your husband’s head whips up from the pillow, eyes attentive despite their struggle to adjust to the bright light of the room.

“Everything okay?” he asks almost immediately, gaze honing in on yours. 

“Yeah,” you assure and smile softly. You bring your other hand to brush over his cheek, thumb swiping over him sweetly. “Want to feel him? He’s kicking like crazy.”

He returns a smile as the reassurance eases his mind and he adjusts, laying back down and resting his temple on his fist. He extends his other hand and you grab his wrist gently, guiding him under your top and to the point of discomfort. Your husband's smile widens with the contact of his hand to your skin and he begins to feel rough taps against his palm.

“I think he’s speaking to you in morse code,” you start, and he peers up to meet your eyes again, showing interest in what you have to say. “I think he’s saying ‘Happy Father’s Day’.”

He grins and lowers his eyes back to your belly, his hand continuing it’s circling despite your son’s seeming to have calmed down. It was as if he just enjoyed the sheer contact of touch, to feel both you and his son in a way so gentle and casual and domestic. And while pregnancy this time around was more taxing on you than the last, the little moments you’d frequently have like this in bed made it worth it — the giant, interfering belly, fatigue and thick, heavy ankles felt worth it.

With your due date closely approaching, it’s important to appreciate these moments of silence, these moments of calm before it all becomes anything but. These minutes you’d share with your lover in the morning with his hand on your bump became part of routine, it became something you’d do every morning. Quite like you hanging onto the quiet before the storm, the storm being your daughter wreaking hyperactive havoc with her awakening.

Like it was anticipated, you hear a noise from the monitor on the nightstand and you pick it up, watching your little girl crawl out of bed with a stuffie in her hand. Within a few short seconds, your bedroom door creeps open, and a short silhouette of your daughter appears through the gap.

“Morning princess,” Bucky smiles as he gestures her over.

“Hi, baby,” you, too, grin, welcoming her.

She paddles her way across the room and to your bed, small, hurried footsteps carrying her closer before she excitedly jumps between the two of you. 

Bucky grunts as he takes the brute force of her landing, though he would much rather the knee to the stomach was on him than you. “Careful with mommy’s tummy,” he reminds softly, and wraps his arms around her — bringing her to lay between so he can smother her face with kisses. 

You watch it play out, loving eyes observing the warming act. And only when it dwindles down and he stops, do you touch her. You smooth over her wild bed head and redirect her attention, nodding to your husband beside her. 

“Do you want to tell daddy what we’re doing today?” you ask, softly jogging her memory. She struggles for a moment and you get closer, whispering beside her ear. “What are we going to make for breakfast?”

“Pancakes,” she exclaims as she sits up, hands beginning to clap at the thought. 

“Pancakes?” Bucky repeats, matching her excited tone like he was entertaining her. “What are we having on them?”

“Gummy bears,” she giggles, her toothy grin visible through her animated expression. “And chocolate, and— and cream, and, and,”

“Candy worms?” you suggest and she turns silent, her head twisting slowly to look at Bucky. 

He notices her questioning glances and decides to play along, keen to humour his little girl. “That’s too far,” his head impishly shakes, pretending not to like the idea.

She mirrors your lover’s reaction, her face grimacing as he mimics a faux face of disgust. “No, mommy.”

You smile as you look between them, suppressing a laugh. “How about jelly beans?”

She takes another minute and turns to look at her dad, silently awaiting his response. He pretends to give it some thought and nods faintly, permitting his approval as a grin widens. 

Your daughter finally agrees with a nod that rather matched that of Bucky’s. Though you reroute conversation, directing it back to the subject of the special day. 

“Should we give daddy his present?” you ask, face lighting up. 

She clambers away from the pair of you and slides off the bed, heading for the gift bag on the floor beside the dresser. She rejoins you moments later with a beaming smile you have never seen shine so bright. 

“What’s this?” Bucky sits up, smile genuine and sincere as he reaches for the pink bag in your daughter’s hand. 

She giggles, watching intently despite her young age. “A doll,” she interrupts, spoiling it before he even has a chance to take it out the bag.

He pulls it out and his smile falters, trying his very best not to laugh and taint the memory. Bucky turns to meet your eyes to figure out a way best to respond, though you’re no use: the hand over mouth a visible tell you were also struggling to compose yourself. 

“That’s so thoughtful," he pauses and looks over the regifted doll. “This is from your room, isn’t it?”

She nods shamelessly. “Do you like it?” she asks, innocent eyes lit wide and huge.

“I love it,” he kisses her forehead. “Thank you, princess.” You watch as he then removes the attached envelope, a saddened grin replacing the cheerful one before as he reads over the face of the card inside — ‘I got the best dad in the world’ printed large and proud on the front beside an ink transfer of her small hand. It was really a warming sight to see him get choked up by it, rather beautiful really, to see his doubts get reassured in real time: that he is a good dad, despite questioning himself not to be.

⎯ ☆ ⎯

[j23r23]

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x fem!reader

Word Count: 6.8k

Summary: Everyone thinks you and Bucky Barnes hate each other. And honestly? You play the part well—sniping, glaring, trading insults like it’s a competitive sport. But Bob knows better. He sees the tension. The bruises. The hoodie thefts. The way you smell like him. While the rest of the team remains oblivious, Bob spirals into conspiracy-mode trying to prove the truth:

You’re totally fucking.

(Spoiler: He’s right.)

Warnings: 18+ Minors DNI, sexual content (oral- f!receiving/m!receiving, face fucking, p in v , unprotected sex, creampie, semi-public setting, praise + degradation, spitting, hair pulling, light choking), secret relationship / enemies-with-benefits dynamic, language, innuendo, possessive Bucky, combat-related bruising, mutual pining, emotional repression, canon-typical chaos with a deeply unhinged team, Bob having a breakdown in real time

A/N: My contribution for Week 1 of “Hot Bucky Summer 2025 Writing Challenge.” Prompt was "Mind Your Own Damn Business" -secret sex/relationship embarrassment denial. Thanks to @buckybarnesevents for hosting this! It's helped me out of my 4 year writing hiatus/funk. If it sucks, I'm sorry.

Bob Reynolds has seen a lot in his life—cosmic annihilation, the multiverse unraveling, John Walker attempting karaoke—still, nothing prepares him for the sheer tension that slinks into the Watchtower kitchen at precisely 8:03 a.m. on a Thursday.

Y/N enters first, hoodie oversized, expression dark, eyes rolling so hard it’s a medical concern. Behind her, Bucky stalks in like a thundercloud in combat boots. The air gets ten degrees colder.

“Did you seriously eat the last protein bar, Barnes?”

Bucky doesn’t even look up from the coffee machine. “Did you seriously label it with your name like you’re twelve?”

You huff. Loudly. “It was the only edible thing in this hellhole.”

“That’s generous,” Bucky says, pouring black coffee into a chipped mug. “I’ve seen better food in prison.”

You flip him off as you yank the fridge open. He smirks without turning around.

Bob, mid-bite of his blueberry Greek yogurt, pauses- his gaze ping-pongs between you two like a Wimbledon final.

Ava is at the counter cutting up a mango. “They’re gonna kill each other one day.”

“They’re gonna fuck each other one day,” Bob mutters.

Yelena snorts. “You wish.”

“I know.” Bob leans forward, conspiratorial. “You guys don’t see it? The unresolved sexual rage? The eye contact? The constant sniping like foreplay?”

“They hate each other,” John says, wandering in. “They make my parents’ divorce look friendly.”

“Exactly!” Bob jabs a spoon in the air. “It’s textbook repression. Mutual loathing is just lust wearing a disguise.”

Yelena rolls her eyes. “You’ve clearly been rereading your mommy blogs again.”

“I’m telling you,” Bob insists. “They’re definitely sneaking around. Probably using the broom closet.”

Ava blinks. “They almost stabbed each other during the debriefing last week.”

Bob shrugs. “So? My ex and I once banged in a Port Authority holding cell during a four-alarm extra-dimensional breach. Conflict is not a barrier; it’s a springboard.”

No one listens. Again.

From the kitchen, Bucky and Y/N’s voices echo:

“If I find out you stole my dry shampoo again—”

“Maybe if you washed your hair more than once a century—”

Bob sighs. “They’re in love.”

John opens a LaCroix. “You need a hobby.”

The knock is rhythmic and coded. Three short, one long.

You’re already on your feet. You unlock the door and open it just wide enough to let him in.

“Nice of you to show up,” you say flatly.

“Got held up,” Bucky mutters, sliding inside. His hair is damp, his black T-shirt clings to his shoulders, and he smells like rain and ruin.

“Did you at least shower this time?” you snap, closing the door.

He backs you up against it with a sharp kiss. “Did you miss me?”

You tug him down by the collar. “Shut up.”

It’s violent, like always—teeth, sweat, bruised lips, hands under clothes with the reverence of war. You bite his throat. He groans against your sternum.

He throws you on the bed like he’s mad at it. He pulls your sleep shorts down like they insulted his mother.

“You’re such a dick,” you gasp as he kisses down your belly.

“And yet, you keep begging for it,” he replies, voice thick with heat.

Bob has no business being awake this early. None. But insomnia’s a bitch, and Sentry’s internal clock never quite got over the whole galactic collapse of linear time thing.

He’s mid-yawn and nursing a protein shake when he spots movement.

Bucky Barnes.

Exiting your room.

Silently.

Hair damp again. T-shirt wrinkled. Hoodie unzipped. And—most damning of all—barefoot.

He glances both ways before padding toward the stairwell. He doesn’t see Bob watching from the shadows near the vending machine like a raccoon.

Bob chokes on his shake.

By the time he stumbles into the kitchen fifteen minutes later, you’re already there—looking suspiciously well-rested, a little too content behind your coffee mug. More damning: you’re wearing a hoodie that is definitely not yours.

“Morning,” Bob says, trying to sound casual but already sweating.

You glance up and sip your coffee. “Debatable.”

He gestures vaguely to the oversized hoodie. “New loungewear?”

You don’t even blink. “Laundry day.”

Bob opens his mouth to call bullshit—but in wanders Yelena, wearing a fuzzy robe with ducks on it. She squints at Bob.

“You look like you saw God.”

“I might’ve,” he mutters.

“Nope,” you cut in smoothly. “He’s just being weird.”

Yelena yawns. “Not news.”

Bob stares at you a second longer. Your expression doesn’t twitch.

"Mind your own damn business, Bob," you grumble.

But the hoodie you’re wearing smells faintly like cedarwood and clove.

Just like Bucky.

By the time you step onto the mat for your mandatory sparring session, you’re keyed up. Not from nerves. From him.

You haven’t seen Bucky since that morning—but you feel him the second he enters the room. He radiates cool disinterest as he circles the mat, expression unreadable, jaw tight.

“Gonna actually try this time?” he calls across the floor.

You roll your eyes. “Wouldn’t want to embarrass you twice in one day.”

His lip curls into something halfway between a grin and a snarl. “Try me.”

You lunge. He meets you halfway.

There’s no real reason for this match to feel different—except it does. Your limbs remember the way his hands felt hours ago, gripping your hips like he couldn’t let go. Your neck still bears the ghost of his mouth.

He pins you twice.

You get him once—but it’s sloppy because you can’t stop thinking about the way he looked between your legs last night like he’d die there happily.

By the fourth round, you’re on the mat, Bucky above you, body tight against yours, both of you panting.

His breath fans over your face as he leans in, voice low.

“Gotta stop letting me on top, sweetheart.”

You scowl. “Fuck you.”

His grin spreads. “Name the time.”

You could kiss him right here. You want to. The mat beneath your back might as well be your bedroom floor. But there are eyes on you.

Ava. John. Alexei. Yelena. Watching. Unknowing.

So, instead, you shove him off and storm out of the training room—ignoring the way your core aches for him again already.

You slam the locker room door and tear off your sweat-soaked tank top, chest heaving, skin still buzzing from sparring.

You’re pissed. You’re pulsing. And your panties are soaked.

You don’t even hear him come in.

But then his voice—low, lethal—right behind you.

“Still sore about losing?”

You whip around.

He’s already shirtless- already stalking closer.

“Get out.”

He doesn’t.

Instead, Bucky grabs your hips, spins you, and slams you back against a locker with a loud metallic clang. You grunt, but your hands are already on his chest, nails dragging down muscle and scar.

“You’re fucking insufferable.”

“You’re fucking dripping,” he growls, sliding his hand between your legs—bold, rough, no teasing. “Jesus. You want to be used, don’t you?”

You whimper as he presses two fingers against your underwear, dragging them firmly over your slick slit.

“Bucky—”

“Shut up and get on the bench.”

You climb up fast—heartbeat pounding, legs trembling.

Your sneakers hit the bench edge with a thud. You don’t even try to take them off.

He doesn’t ask.

He drops to his knees.

He grabs the waistband of your leggings and panties and yanks them down—just to your knees. Enough to expose you. Enough to spread your legs wide despite the fabric constraint.

He palms your thighs, rough and greedy.

“Can’t even wait to get undressed properly, huh?”

Then he’s on you—mouth, tongue, spit—messy and obscene. There is no finesse, just raw hunger. He licks you with purpose, groaning against your clit like it feeds him.

“Fuck, baby. You taste so goddamn good.”

He flattens his tongue and laps through your folds, then pulls back just to spit on your pussy and lick it back up like it’s nothing.

Your head tips back and hits the bench top. Legs shaking. You grab a fistful of his hair.

He moans, grinding against the bench like he’s in pain.

“Ride my face. Go on—show me how bad you need it.”

You do.

Your hips roll helplessly. His tongue flicks your clit just right. You come fast and hard, thighs squeezing his head, hips bucking into his mouth.

But he doesn’t stop.

“One more,” he mutters, licking you lazily. “Then I’ll fuck you full.”

“I—I can’t—”

“Yes, you can.” He sucks your clit. “Be a good girl. Give me another.”

He starts slow. Then faster. Circles. Pressure. Suction. You’re moaning uncontrollably, legs twitching, body jerking against the bench.

“That’s it,” he growls. “Let go. Right here on my fuckin’ tongue.”

You crash into a second orgasm, louder than the first—your whole body seizing, back arching, breath caught. Your legs spasm, your hands claw at his head, and all you can do is sob his name.

You're still trembling when he stands.

Already reaching for him.

He lowers the waistband of his sweats, cock-hard and flushed-springs forward. His hand fists it once—slow, deliberate.

Then he grabs your jaw and taps the tip against your lips.

“Open up, sweetheart.”

You do.

He slides in, inch by inch, groaning when your lips seal around him. He doesn’t hold back. He fucks your throat the way he fights—deep, relentless, needy. Your spit drips down your chin, tears catching in your lashes.

“You’re perfect like this. All mine.”

He pulls out with a pop, spins you, and bends you over the bench.

Pushes in deep. No warning. No hesitation.

“Oh my god—”

He slams into you, each thrust brutal, fantastic. The wet sounds echo through the locker room—slick and filthy. You’re wrecked. Whimpering. His hand finds your clit again, fingers working in tight, practiced circles.

“This pussy was made for me,” he growls. “Say it.”

“It’s yours,” you pant. “Fuck—Bucky, it’s yours—”

“Good girl,” he grunts. “Gonna make you come again. Squeeze my cock while I fill you up.”

You try to shake your head, to say you can’t—

But you do.

The third orgasm drags through you like fire—ripping through nerves, making you cry out into your arm, biting down on your own hand to keep from screaming. You pulse around him, and Bucky loses it.

“Oh fuck—fuck— I’m coming—”

He groans your name like a confession and spills inside you, hips stuttering, cock twitching as he buries himself to the hilt.

You collapse onto the bench, half-conscious, underwear still bunched at your knees, shoes still on, body slick with sweat and come.

He leans over you. Breathes into your neck.

“Still hate me?” he murmurs.

You snort, throat wrecked.

“So fucking much.”

Surveillance Van, 10:47 p.m. Somewhere Outside Newark.

Operation: Dumb Idea in a Tin Can

The Watchtower van is not designed to accomodate six adult superheroes, three duffel bags of illegal tech, one cooler full of energy drinks, and Alexei’s bulk.

It is, however, currently doing all of the above.

Barely.

John is driving like he’s in a Fast & Furious reboot no one asked for. Ava is in the passenger seat, regretting her life choices. Alexei is snoring loudly in the far back, strapped into a folding chair that keeps creaking with every bump.

Yelena, you, Bucky, and Bob are crammed into the middle row—a bench seat that barely qualifies as furniture. Elbow to elbow. Knee to thigh. No escape.

And, of course, the universe decided to make it worse.

“Sorry,” Yelena says, peeling open a third pack of Sour Patch Kids, “but I’m not moving. You two will just have to figure it out.”

Because there are only three seats. And four people.

Which means Bucky ends up on the bench. You end up on Bucky. In his lap. Like it’s no big deal- like you’re not currently remembering how his mouth felt between your legs hours ago.

“Don’t make it weird,” you mutter, refusing to look at him.

He shifts under you, trying to adjust so his belt doesn’t stab into your ass. His voice is low and dangerous in your ear.

“You’re the one clenching.”

“I’m not clenching,” you hiss.

Bob, three inches to your left, is staring at the two of you like he’s watching Bigfoot read poetry. His eyes are enormous.

“No,” he breathes. “No fucking way.”

You glare at him. “What?”

Bob points wildly between you and Bucky. “You’re on his lap.”

“There’s no space, Bob.”

“There’s vibes,” he says, almost in tears. “There’s chemistry. There’s thigh contact and post-orgasm glow, and—you smell like each other!”

Yelena looks up from her candy. “Bob, are you having another psychic episode?”

“I don’t need powers,” he exclaims. “I need justice!”

Bucky shifts beneath you, and oh no, that’s not his belt anymore.

You stiffen. He groans under his breath.

Bob’s jaw drops.

“You’re fucking—”

“BOB.” Yelena, Ava, and John all shout it at once.

“What?” he demands. “They are!”

Ava turns around in her seat. “Bucky and Y/N would rather jump into a vat of lava than sleep together.”

“Yeah,” John adds, swerving unnecessarily. “I once saw her throw a knife at his head.”

“And I caught it,” Bucky says, tone flat.

You casually dig your elbow into his ribs.

Bob slaps a hand on his forehead. “Oh my God. This is the gaslighting of the century. They’re fucking! Why does no one see this?!”

Alexei snorts himself awake in the back. “Who’s fucking?”

“NO ONE,” you and Bucky bark in unison.

Yelena offers Bob a single red Sour Patch Kid like a communion wafer. “Here. Chew. Swallow. Calm.”

Bob takes it. He chews.

He is not calm.

Because Bucky’s hand is still on your hip, just under your jacket, fingers stroking idly over the same spot he kissed this morning. And you’re trying so hard not to squirm.

But Bob sees it.

And Bob knows.

Bob is on a mission. A stupid one, but still—a mission.

He’s got caffeine in his system, righteous fury in his chest, proof in the form of his gut instinct, and one blurry screenshot from the van’s internal cam feed (which he absolutely was not supposed to access, but whatever).

The plan is simple:

Wait until Y/N leaves her room.

Sneak in.

Catch Bucky in her bed.

Scream triumphantly while holding up a Polaroid camera like he’s in Scooby-Doo.

Except—

You leave your room at 7:04 a.m., hair messy, hoodie familiar, coffee in hand, muttering something about how “someone drank the last of the oat milk again” like a war crime just occurred.

Bob watches from behind a potted plant.

Phase One: complete.

He ninja rolls down the hallway and slips into your room as the door clicks slowly shut behind him.

Phase Two: underway.

The lights are off. The bed’s unmade. Curtains drawn. There’s definitely been two people sleeping in it—he can feel it. The air still smells faintly like aftershave and sex.

And then—

From the hallway—

“Bob, get out of my room.”

He screams.

You’re standing in the doorway. Bucky is behind you, hair wet from a shower, towel slung over his shoulder like a damn liar.

“How—how did you—?!” Bob sputters. “I just saw you leave!”

Bucky raises a brow. “She was in the gym. I was in the shower.”

“She was wearing your hoodie.”

“She does that.”

“She smells like you!”

“She likes the way I smell.”

“YOU’RE NOT HELPING!” Bob shrieks, wild-eyed.

You cross your arms. “Bob. Were you hiding in a plant?”

“…no.”

Bucky leans against the doorframe. “You gonna take a picture next time, or are you just gonna sniff the pillows?”

Bob makes a wounded animal noise.

Behind you, Yelena appears with her phone. “I have four angles of this meltdown already.”

“I hate you all,” Bob mutters, slinking out past Bucky, who gives him a condescending pat on the shoulder.

“Maybe next time, champ.”

He’s still here.

You’re lying half on top of him, tangled in sheets, fingers brushing his chest where a faint scar curves toward his ribs.

Bucky is still catching his breath, one arm behind his head, the other resting over your lower back. His thumb strokes your spine without thinking.

For a moment, there’s quiet.

Comfortable. Domestic.

That’s when it hits you.

“You know,” you murmur, “we can’t keep this up forever.”

His thumb stills.

“Sure we can,” he says. “We’re stubborn as hell.”

“I mean it, Buck. Eventually, someone’s going to actually walk in.”

“Bob doesn’t count. He’s two bad days away from full conspiracy string board.”

You smirk, cheek pressed against his chest. “He’s not wrong.”

Silence again. Then:

“I don’t want to hide forever,” you admit, so quiet it barely counts as sound.

Bucky exhales hard. His fingers trail up into your hair.

“Neither do I.”

You shift to look at him. “So what now?”

He leans up to kiss you—gentle this time. Real. Unhidden.

“When we’re ready… we’ll stop pretending.”

You nod.

Then, pull the covers over both your heads when there’s a knock at the door followed by Bob yelling:

“JUST ADMIT IT! I KNOW WHAT I SAW!”

Three Months Ago

You’re half-dressed and fully pissed when the knock comes.

Blood still crusts your knuckles. There’s a raw spot above your ribs where the edge of some bastard’s blade got too close. Your body aches, your temper’s fried, and you’re one bad look away from launching something through the wall.

You expect Yelena. Maybe Ava. Hell, even Bob wouldn’t surprise you.

But when you yank open the door—

It’s Bucky.

And for a second, you blink at him.

Out of everyone—he’s the last person you thought would show up.

Not after the week you’ve had. Not after the way you tore into him on comms mid-mission. Not after you told him to go fuck himself for the millionth time just yesterday.

Yet here he is.

No mask. No sarcasm. Just standing there in the low light, jaw tight, eyes scanning the bruises across your body like he wants to fight someone about it.

“You shouldn’t be alone,” he says quietly.

“I’m not fragile.”

“Didn’t say you were.”

You move to close the door.

He stops it with his hand.

“Let me help.”

You let him in.

You’re in a sports bra and shorts, limbs stiff with pain, temper simmering. He doesn’t say anything as you sit on the bed. Just kneels in front of you and carefully unwraps the gauze on your ribs.

His hands are gentle. Too gentle.

“You’re not gonna break me,” you whisper.

His jaw clenches.

“Don’t test me.”

You lean in. Breath shallow. Heat licking at your spine.

“Then do something about it.”

That’s all it takes.

His mouth is on you. Tongue hot and slick, teeth dragging your bottom lip. He pushes you back onto the bed, kneels over you, kisses your jaw, your collarbone, your ribs—right over the bruises.

“You shouldn’t want this right now,” he rasps, breath shaking. “You should be resting.”

“Don't tell me what I want.”

He growls like you’ve ripped the air out of his lungs.

His fingers hook into the waistband of your shorts. He doesn’t take them off gently—he rips them down your thighs, panties with them. Your legs tremble as he spreads them, eyes locked on your pussy.

“You’re fucking soaked,” he mutters, almost in disbelief. “You were bleeding an hour ago.”

“Still am,” you hiss. “Make it worse.”

He’s still fully dressed. You’re not.

That imbalance suddenly feels unbearable.

Your hands reach for his waistband. He lets you, watching silently, jaw clenched, chest heaving. You undo his belt, unbutton his pants, and drag the zipper down. He’s already hard beneath the fabric—thick, straining.

“You gonna help me out here?” you murmur, voice shaky.

“Yeah,” he says hoarsely. “Yeah, sweetheart.”

He stands up fully, kicks off his boots with a rough thud, and peels off his cargo pants and black boxer briefs in one motion. His cock bounces free—hard, flushed, leaking—and you inhale sharply at the sight.

Then he’s back between your legs. His cock twitches against his abs as he spreads you open and devours you like he hasn’t eaten in days.

He slides two fingers through your folds, groaning low in his throat at how wet you are. His touch lingers, deliberate, spreading your slick up and around your clit with lazy circles that make your stomach flutter.

“Jesus,” he mutters, almost reverent. “You’re dripping.”

His metal hand grips your thigh, thumb digging into the bruised skin as he parts your legs wider. The pain burns sweet. Your hips jerk, chasing his other hand, but he pulls back—just a little.

“No,” he murmurs, voice dark. “Not until I say.”

You whine.

His fingers return, stroking you slow and deep, curling just right, finding that spot that makes you see stars- your breath stutters. Your thighs tremble. Your whole body pulses with heat.

“Keep your eyes on me,” he says, eyes locked on yours. “I want you to see what you do to me.”

You do.

You watch him—his flushed cheeks, parted lips, chest rising and falling hard as his fingers work you open. His cock twitches against his abdomen again, glistening with pre-cum. You want it. Need it. But he takes his time, dragging his fingers out of you to circle your clit again, rubbing faster now.

You cry out. Hips bucking. He doesn’t stop.

“You gonna come for me like this?” he asks, eyes hungry. “On my fingers first?”

You nod, gasping.

“Good girl.”

The orgasm hits sharp—your body locks, thighs shaking, pussy clenching around nothing as heat explodes through your core.

But he doesn’t let up.

He fingers you through it relentlessly, dragging every twitch and gasp from your body until you're wrung out and shaking.

“So fuckin’ gorgeous,” he growls.

Then he finally shifts—grabs your hips, lines himself up, and presses the head of his cock against your entrance. He pauses. Just long enough for you to feel it.

“You ready for me?” he asks, voice wrecked.

“Yes. Please—”

He pushes in slowly. One long, punishing stroke that stretches you open inch by inch. You arch into him, gasping, nails clawing at his shoulders.

“Oh my god—”

“Tightest fuckin’ thing I’ve ever felt,” he groans, panting into your neck. “You were made for this. For me.”

He bottoms out; hips flush to yours, cock buried to the hilt—and stays there. It lets you feel every twitch, every throb.

You both breathe.

And then he starts to move.

He begins slow, but it doesn’t last. Your body pulls him deeper. Your fingers dig into his back. His pace builds—rough, relentless, filthy. The sound of skin slapping, the slick, wet drag of your cunt around him—it’s obscene.

“You feel that?” he grits out. “How you’re milking my cock?”

“Harder,” you beg. “I want to feel it tomorrow.”

He grabs your thigh and hooks it over his shoulder, angling deep. You scream.

“There?” he pants. “Right fucking there?”

You nod. Eyes glassy. Mouth open.

He brings his metal hand to your throat—not tight, just firm. Holding you still and making you take every single inch. You whimper at the sensation.

“God, you make the prettiest noises.”

You come like it hurts.

Your vision whites out, legs seizing, body clenching around him so hard he shouts. You’re still pulsing when he drops his forehead to yours.

“I’m gonna come—fuck, where—?”

“Inside,” you gasp. “Please—fill me up—”

He moans your name like a prayer and empties himself inside you, hips jerking, cock buried deep, body shaking.

Then he collapses on top of you.

For a long time, neither of you speak.

You’re bruised. Battered. Boneless.

He kisses your temple.

“You’re fucking insane,” he says softly.

“You like it.”

“God help me, I do.”

After a while, the gravity of what just happened sinks in. You’re panting, still wrapped around him, still pretending this was just… adrenaline.

It's just stress relief.

Just one time.

He was only trying to check up on you.

He doesn’t pull out right away. He just stays buried inside you, forehead resting against yours, both of you too wrecked to move.

Your pulse is still thudding in your ears when you finally speak.

“Never happened,” you whisper.

He nods against your skin.

“Never again,” he says quietly.

You both lie.

The next morning, Watchtower kitchen

You’re halfway through pouring your coffee when Bob slides up next to you like a nosy gremlin who’s been waiting for this moment all morning.

“So, hypothetically…” he says casually, “if you were hooking up with someone on the team, it wouldn’t be Barnes, right?”

You freeze. The stream of coffee overflows the rim of your mug.

“What?!”

“Relax,” he says, grinning. “Just a question.”

“No, it’s not just a question. It’s slander.”

You whirl to face him. He blinks like you’ve physically assaulted him with your glare.

“Okay,” he says slowly, “now I have to ask—why did you say it like he gave you chlamydia and a Spotify playlist called ‘Metal for Missioning’?”

“Because the idea of me and Bucky Barnes is revolting. Actually physically upsetting. I would rather rub jalapeño juice in my eye than climb that particular mountain.”

Bob snorts into his mug. “Mountain, huh?”

“Don’t. You know what I meant.”

“Do I? Because now I’m picturing it. He’s got, like, hiking vibes. Quiet. Broody. Muscles that suggest upper body endurance—”

“Bob!”

You gesture violently with your coffee mug, sloshing liquid onto the counter. He yelps and jumps back.

“Okay, okay! Jesus! I’m just saying, you reacted real big. Like, Olympic-level denial.”

You cross your arms, scowling. “He’s smug. He’s emotionally constipated. He wipes down his weights like he’s cleaning blood off a murder weapon.”

“Kinda sounds like you’ve been watching him pretty closely.”

“I study my enemies.”

Bob narrows his eyes with the slow intensity of a man who once read a single article on microexpressions and now thinks he’s an FBI profiler.

“Right. And I watch Law & Order reruns for the cinematography.”

You exhale hard enough to blow his spoon off the counter.

“You’re deranged,” you snap, snatching your coffee like it owes you money. “And if you ever suggest that again, I will personally remove your vocal cords with salad tongs.”

Bob raises his hands, eyes wide with mock innocence. “No judgment here. I’m pro-love. I’m just saying—if you ever need to scream into the void after getting railed by Captain Repression, I got noise-canceling headphones.”

You bolt from the kitchen without another word.

As the door swings shut behind you, Bob sips his protein sludge thoughtfully.

“She didn’t say no,” he murmurs.

Present Day

You left your door unlocked. That’s new.

He doesn’t knock. That’s not.

Bucky slips inside like a secret, silent and sure, hoodie unzipped, hair still damp from his shower. You’re sitting cross-legged on the edge of the bed in one of his old shirts, scrolling aimlessly through your comms tablet like you’re not waiting for him.

He closes the door behind him with a soft click.

You don’t look up. “Bob tried to break into my room again.”

“Yeah.” His voice is low and rough around the edges. “I saw the potted plant.”

You finally glance at him. There’s a moment of quiet, thick with everything you’re not saying.

And then you toss the tablet aside.

“Take it off.”

He doesn’t ask what. He never has to.

Bucky shrugs out of the hoodie. Then, the T-shirt. Then steps toward you, slow and steady, eyes dark but not hungry. Not tonight. Something else lives there now—something dangerous.

Something real.

You meet him halfway. Your hands are on his chest, his fingers already slipping under your thighs to lift you onto his hips. But when he lays you down, it’s different.

Softer.

He kisses you like he means it this time. Mouth slow. Reverent. Tongue careful, coaxing rather than conquering.

And when he pushes inside you, it’s not frantic or punishing.

It’s patient.

Like he wants to feel every inch of you, like he’s been thinking about this all damn day, and now that he has you, he’s not rushing a single thing.

You cling to him, fingers digging into his back, legs wrapped around his waist. His body moves above you in long, aching strokes, hips grinding slow and deep. He kisses your neck. Your shoulder. The spot just under your jaw that makes you whimper.

“Tell me you want this,” he breathes.

You exhale shakily. “I want this.”

He cups your face like it’s fragile. Like you’re delicate. He thrusts again—deep, slow—and watches you fall apart beneath him.

You try to hide the way your voice breaks when you say his name. You fail.

His mouth brushes your temple. “I got you.”

It’s too much.

Too good.

Too real.

You come like it’s a confession, nails raking his skin, tears prickling behind your eyes from the sheer weight of it.

He groans your name into your neck as he follows, hips stuttering, breath ragged.

After, you expect him to leave. You always do.

But this time, he doesn’t.

He stays inside you, face buried in your neck, hand stroking your hip slowly—absently.

“Buck,” you whisper. Not asking. Not sure what you’re even trying to say.

He shifts just enough to look at you.

His eyes are soft.

“Stay,” you say, even softer.

He nods.

You don’t talk about it. You shift together under the blanket until his chest is against your back, his arm slung around your waist, his mouth buried in your hair.

You wake up with his arm around your middle.

And for three full seconds, you don’t panic.

His chest is warm against your back. His breath is steady on your shoulder. His legs are tangled with yours under the blanket; his hand splayed just under the hem of your borrowed shirt as if it belonged there.

You don’t panic.

Until you do.

You inhale too sharply, and the shift of your body makes his grip tighten instinctively. He nuzzles your shoulder with a sleepy groan—content, unguarded, soft.

It almost breaks you.

Because this wasn’t supposed to happen, you weren’t supposed to feel anything. Not after the mission. Not after the locker room. Not after the van. Not after last night.

You twist carefully out of his arms and sit on the edge of the bed, head in your hands.

What are you doing?

This wasn’t the plan. The plan was denial. Distraction. Secrecy. You weren’t supposed to let him stay. You weren’t supposed to want him to.

Behind you, Bucky stirs.

You hear the sheets shift. The bed creak. The moment when he realizes you’re not beside him anymore.

“…You okay?”

You nod, even though you’re not. “Yeah. Just… couldn’t sleep.”

He doesn’t press. He doesn’t move. But you feel his eyes on your back.

You can’t look at him. Not yet.

“I should probably shower,” you say, voice tight.

Still no movement behind you.

You stand up too fast. “I’ll meet you in the gym later.”

And then you’re out of the room before he can stop you-slamming the door to your en suite and locking it behind you.

You stir creamer into your coffee with more force than necessary. Across the table, Yelena is watching you like a hawk with a smoothie and zero shame.

“You’re acting weird,” she says.

“I always act weird.”

“No. This is extra weird.”

“I’m fine.”

“You’re avoiding eye contact. Your shirt’s on inside out again. And you flinched when Bob said ‘Bucky’ just now.”

You scowl. “I flinched because Bob was shouting.”

Bob, four tables over, is scribbling notes into what appears to be a handmade conspiracy board folder labeled OPERATION: I’M NOT CRAZY, YOU’RE CRAZY.

He glances up, catches you looking, and points at you with his highlighter. Then, at Bucky, who just walked in.

Then, he mimes a kissy face with his hands.

You nearly drop your coffee.

Yelena smirks. “Oh my God. Bob was right.”

Your head whips toward her. “No, he wasn’t.”

“You’re screwing Bucky.”

“I’m not.”

“You’re in love with Bucky.”

You choke. “I what?!”

Before she can elaborate, Bucky walks past your table—silent, unreadable—but his shoulder brushes yours barely, and his hand casually lifts your coffee mug and takes a sip.

Yelena raises both brows.

You snatch the mug back and glare.

She laughs. “Yep. Screwed.”

He should’ve left.

He knows that.

He always does—slips out before dawn, tugs on his shirt in silence, and shuts her door without a sound. He pretends that the walk back to his room is no different from returning from a night run or a solo recon op.

But last night?

He didn’t move.

Couldn’t.

Something about the way she whispered “stay” like it wasn’t meant to be said out loud—it lodged somewhere in his ribs and took root. So he stayed. Let her curl into him. Let himself feel something other than want.

And now?

He’s fucked.

Because when he woke up, and she wasn’t there, he felt that hollow cold he used to carry during the war. That bone-deep emptiness that always comes right after you realize you’ve let yourself believe in something soft again.

He didn’t even say goodbye. She was gone before he could open his mouth.

He lies there a little too long, staring at the ceiling like it holds answers. It doesn’t. It just reminds him of how many cracks he’s been trying to plaster over in his own goddamn heart.

This isn’t just sex anymore.

And that? That’s the part that scares him.

He sees her in the corridor outside the gym. She’s talking to Yelena—shoulders tight, smile fake, voice doing that light little edge it always gets when she’s deflecting.

She doesn’t see him. Or she pretends not to.

He wants to call her name. He wants to pull her into a supply closet and kiss the fight out of her. He wants to say, 'You don’t have to run. I’m not going anywhere.'

Instead, he watches her walk away.

And for the first time since this whole fucked-up thing started, he thinks:

Maybe I’m the only one who caught feelings.

He takes it out on the heavy bag.

Thirty minutes in, and his knuckles are bruised through the wraps, chest heaving, jaw tight.

He’s not mad at her.

He’s mad at himself—for not knowing where the line is anymore. For not knowing if they’re even on the same page. For staying. For wanting to stay.

He didn’t mean to fall for her.

It was supposed to be controlled burns. Safe explosions. Touch without consequence.

Instead, she lives in his head like a ghost and a wildfire at the same time.

And now?

He wants everything.

Not just her body. Not just her mouth or her smartass remarks or the way she rolls her eyes like it’s a full-time job.

He wants her.

And if he says that out loud—he’s afraid she’ll disappear for good.

You’ve spent the whole day avoiding him.

You trained with Ava, ate lunch with Yelena, and volunteered to help Alexei organize the armory (which he turned into an interpretive dance of Soviet nostalgia, but whatever). You even helped Bob install motion sensors in the hallway “for science.”

Anything to not be alone.

Anything to not be near him.

Because if you’re near him, you’ll feel it again—that weight. That look. That way he touches you like you’re breakable when you used to be indestructible.

But it’s late now.

And there’s nowhere left to hide.

You head back to your room on autopilot, hoodie zipped up to your chin, headphones in. You make it to your door, hand on the knob—

Then freeze.

He’s leaning against the wall across the hall. Arms crossed. Hood up. Eyes sharp.

It's like he’s been waiting all night.

“Hey,” he says quietly.

You pull out one earbud. “Hey.”

Beat.

You try to open your door. “I’m tired.”

He straightens. “So that’s it?”

You pause, fingers still on the doorknob. “What do you want me to say?”

He takes a slow step toward you. “Something.”

You shake your head. “Bucky, we said—”

“I know what we said.”

His voice is rougher now. Not loud. But tight.

You face him fully. “Then why are you standing in my hallway like you’re expecting something different?”

“Because last night didn’t feel like nothing.”

Silence.

You swallow.

“It was a mistake.”

He flinches—barely—but you see it. And it cracks something inside you.

“You stayed,” you whisper, more to yourself than to him. “You weren’t supposed to stay.”

“I wanted to stay… you asked me to stay,” he voice breaks on the last part.

He sweeps a hand across his face, trying to wipe away the exhaustion he feels. “God, don't you get it now?" he questions. "I want more than this cloak-and-dagger bullshit. I want more than sneaking out and pretending we’re still enemies when I can’t even look at you without wanting to tell the whole fucking team I’m yours.”

Your heart’s thudding. Loud. Violent.

“Don’t say that.”

“Why not?”

“Because if you say it—” You falter. “If you say it, I might believe you.”

He steps in close. Close enough that you can smell him. Feel him. Remember everything.

“I already said it,” he murmurs. “Every time I stayed. Every time I touched you like you meant something.”

Your hands curl into fists at your sides. “You’re not supposed to—”

“I do,” he cuts in. “I feel it. And so do you.”

Tears sting your eyes. You shake your head. “I can’t…”

“You already have.”

And that’s it.

That’s the line.

You lunge forward and kiss him—desperate, hot, angry. His hands are on your waist instantly, pulling you into him like he’s afraid you’ll vanish.

You fumble with the door, slam it open, and pull him inside.

You don’t have sex.

Not this time.

You hold him. Let him hold you back. Let his hands anchor you while your heart thuds against his chest like a confession you can’t say yet.

But one thing is clear now.

This isn’t pretend anymore.

The first thing you register when you wake up is warmth.

Not your blankets. Not your pillow.

Bucky.

Wrapped around you like a quilt made of muscle and bad decisions, breathing slow and deep, his mouth barely grazing your bare neck.

The second thing you register?

Voices.

Outside your door.

“…She’s never this late,” Ava is saying.

“Maybe she overslept,” John offers, deadpan. “Y’know, like people do.”

Yelena snorts. “She’s military-trained, you overgrown thumb. She doesn’t oversleep.”

There’s a pause.

Then Bob’s voice, triumphant and entirely too loud:

“Or maybe—just maybe—she’s got a secret snuggle soldier in there.”

You and Bucky freeze simultaneously.

Your eyes meet.

“No sudden movements,” you whisper.

He blinks. “You’re on top of me.”

“Shut up, I’m thinking.”

Outside, Yelena says, “Bob, I swear to God—”

“I told you,” Bob says, louder now. “All the signs were there. Eye contact! Matching bruises! The hoodie incident! And let’s not forget LAPGATE.”

“Oh my God,” you mutter.

There’s a knock.

“HEY,” Bob shouts, full volume. “IF YOU TWO ARE BONING IN THERE, BLINK TWICE.”

“Bob,” Ava hisses. “They can’t blink through a door—”

Before you can respond, Bucky sits up—shirtless, hair a wreck, dog tags glinting in the sunlight—and that’s precisely when the door opens.

Swings. Open.

Because you forgot to lock it.

The team stares.

You freeze, tangled in the blankets.

Bucky’s halfway to standing.

The room still smells like sleep and sex and him.

Nobody speaks.

Yelena is the first to break.

“Oh, holy shit.”

Ava blinks. “Wow.”

John turns around slowly like he’s been exposed to radiation.

Alexei squints. “So you are together?”

Bob is vibrating.

“I WAS RIGHT!” he howls, raising both fists to the ceiling like he’s summoning the gods. “YOU ALL OWE ME A FORMAL APOLOGY AND A SANDWICH.”

“Bob,” you say weakly. “Get out.”

Bucky pinches the bridge of his nose. “Everyone get out.”

John covers his eyes. “I can’t unsee this.”

Yelena takes a photo.

“YELENA—”

“Blackmail insurance,” she says, pocketing her phone. “Love you both. This is disgusting. Please carry on.”

She slams the door.

Silence.

You collapse back into the pillow, dragging the blanket over your head. “We’re gonna die.”

Bucky lies down beside you, sighing hard. “We already did.”

You peek out at him. “So what now?”

He shrugs. “They know.”

You wince. “Do you think they’ll drop it?”

A beat.

From outside the door:

“WHAT’S YOUR SHIP NAME?!”

Bucky groans.

You reach for his hand.

He doesn’t let go.

[j23r23]

ᴄʜᴀᴏꜱ // ᴛᴀɴɢᴇʀɪɴᴇ

My other Tangerine fics. If you have the time.

Tangerine + fem!reader. Cuss words.

You do NOT have permission to repost and/or translate any of my fics.

(I promise I will fix the images I made them at 3 am 😭)

For @g0lden-sky. I love you, and I hope this is what you meant in this ask <3. If it sucks, tell me.

Desc. : You really can't just stop knowing someone.

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"Well, fuck."

He's a strong man, yes, but it's been years.

He's a strong man, yes, but every fibre of his being was angling for a glimpse at you, just one.

Lemon nudged his elbow as if he didn't have fucking eyes. "Wonder what she goes by, now."

"Probably not Lemon.", he scoffed back. "She's probably out of the fucking business, mate, alright? We'll just slip past."

Were you summat boring, a desk job? Or were you a wife? Oh, god, what if he looked down, past the legs of passers-by and there was a ring on your finger, or a child clinging to you?

And so, he looked. He allowed himself a moment, and he scanned you. No child, no ring, no carpal tunnel. You were most likely still in the business. Alright, that's good, because that meant you were a rival, and resentment was an emotion he could work with.

Hate, he could work with. Disdain? Please. Cake-walk.

But whatever this was? The yearn for lost time? He struggled a bit. Wasn't in his training, was it? Thankfully, he walked away unscathed by your presence, one that's usually daggering to him.

Fucking phew. Great. Who cares? He could move on, finish the fucking job and then— "Oi!" Fuck, Lemon.

Weeding through the crowd, practically running, you slipped away from him once more, and he shared a look with his brother.

Tangerine's fists clenched and relaxed. He counted down from ten. He took deep breaths. He licked his lips. He tried not to have a fucking aneurysm.

"What're the chances I've become really fucking handsome now, and she was turned on to the point of fleeing?", asked Lemon, nudging him once again before they followed after you.

When they finally got to you — you did not make it easy — they found themselves staring down the barrel of a gun each, trapped against an abandoned freight elevator. Their hands shot up in surrender — not an easy thing to achieve, so kudos. It's been ages since they'd done that.

"You're not our target."

"Heard that one before."

Tangerine's hand nearly accidentally dropped (dangerous), with how hearing your voice after more than a decade had startlingly affected him. Pathetic, really. But he recovered, clearing his throat. "Well, unless you're an eighty year old bloke called fuckin' Maurice, you're not our target."

Your eyes narrowed — the same eyes he's not sure he's ever quite forgotten — before the guns lowered cautiously, steadily. "You need to off Maurice?"

"He's your target, too?"

Licking your lips, you shook your head, huffing. "Not exactly. 'M just supposed to break into his hotel room, into his safe, and get whatever's in there. AMN."

Any Means Necessary.

Lemon clapped his hands together, startling you and causing you to instinctively raise the gun at him once more. "Whoa. I— I was just about to say that this works out quite nicely, yeah?"

You and Tangerine scoffed at the same time. "How?"

"You'll need him..." — Lemon clicked his tongue and ran a thumb across his throat — "... out of the way. And we're being paid to do that, yeah? Makes sense to work together."

"No, fuck off, mate, not a chance in hell. We do our thing, she does hers.", grumbled Tangerine, yanking at Lemon's elbow. "C'mon."

"Do you really not trust us?", asked Lemon, gently, as though he were calming a bear and not a paranoid assassin with two guns.

Your glare softened, and you shrugged, ardently avoiding eye contact. "Would you?"

"Fair point. But we're not interferin' with each other, though, yeah? Just aidin'. C'mon."

Why you went was a mystery to all parties involved.

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He'd never really noticed how bloody blue his eyes are. Piercing. It's actually offending him, right now. Ugh. But what other choice did he have but to stay in the bathroom and glare at his own reflection after about ten ice cold splashes (and one warm one that he did not like) over his face while you and Lemon guardedly debriefed each other in a hotel room across the floor from the target?

Well. Yeah, he could be out there, where the conversations are being had, but no. He'd have to look at you again.

To be fair, it was his fault, he'd been nothing short of a prick to you the whole way to the hotel, with comments and scoffs at every fucking thing you said, so much so that Lemon had tried to convince you he was just severely sleep-deprived, and all but ordered him to go wash his face or summat.

And so, here he was.

His fingers slid over his jaw and flicked any residual droplets off his face before he sighed, flipping himself off in the unnecessarily swanky mirror. "Bell-end. Bell-end. Knob.", he gritted out, shaking his head.

When had he turned into such a dickhead?

He took another deep breath. Counted down from ten again. Twisting the doorknob, he opened the door.

And what lovelier sight to be met with than the two of you kneeling on opposite ends of the table, glaring over the guns you'd placed there (for a show of good faith) like some sort of hostile, antagonistic coffee date?

"Right, what's all this, then?"

Grunting as he stood, and then laughing for god-knows-what-reason, Lemon thumbed at the door. "I'm doin' recon. Makin' sure he hasn't been tipped off."

"I can do it."

Lemon patted his chest, shouldering past him. "Nah, mate. Dibs."

"Lemon—"

"My codename, by the way.", informed Lemon, grinning back at you with a tiny bow.

"—I will shoot you in the fuckin' mouth."

"Sorry, mate. Dibs is sacred. And so's childhood.", he added, lowering his tone.

He hated this.

He hated when his brother played shrink.

He hated when he started with his stupid Thomas the Tank Engine analogies.

But there was nothing on God's green earth that he hated more than the fact that he couldn't hold his liquor for shit, because he'd lost the drinking game with Lemon.

Which is why he was here in front of you, after twelve years, with the codename Tange-fucking-rine.

Shoot him now.

"I'm Tangerine, if you were wonderin'.", he mumbled, clearing his throat. "What's your codename?" He'd say anything to make sure fucking "Tangerine" wasn't the last thing to ring through the room like a tuning fork.

"Don't have one. I dunno. This time, didn't feel like it."

You looked down, then. What was that about?

"That's unprofessional."

You snorted. "So's collaboration.", you said, gesturing between the two of you, and then at the gun-laden table you were still kneeling in front of.

"Yeah, but collaboration is just dangerous, not stupid-dangerous, like 'no codenames' is."

"With you two, yeah, it is stupid.", you mumbled, searching through the collection of firearms for yours.

"That's why you're sticking to petty theft like a fuckin' Oliver Twist character, and we're quite literally deemed "the best" in the business."

"I'm sorry, Citrus.", you scoffed, standing. "What the fuck do you think my last job was?"

"Pickin' locks?"

"I had to do three cleanups back-to-back, because no one does it like me. A mil' each, easy."

He rolled his eyes. What a fuckin' braggart.

"Geezer's back from the buffet!"

Brilliant.

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"No, no, we've got all the time in the world, we just have a bloody decaying body under our feet, so by all means, take your time."

"Tangerine, shut up, let her do her thing."

"We shoulda just left when we had the chance, instead we're here riskin' our arses because she can't crack into a bloody safe!"

"I'm done, alright?", you hissed, hands covering your eyes as the safe opened, the lights glinting off the contents and practically blinding you.

"Straight out a Tarantino film, innit?", remarked Lemon, whistling lowly, the gold of the safe reflecting in his eyes.

Saluting the body, you slung the backpack you'd stuffed everything into over your shoulder, standing. "Pay my respects to Mr. Maurice for me."

He had to get a fucking grip, honestly. He was barely keeping from screaming at you to stay.

But, no. You were absolute chaos for him, and he was chaos for you. It's best you never saw each other again.

"What was that about?", he murmured, after you left.

"Mm?"

"That one. Absolute piece of work, yeah?", he said, thumbing behind him, at the door you've just walked out of. "Seemed off, though.", he added, offhandedly.

"What, after fifteen years? Yeah, I s'pose she's off. She's different, more like."

"Twelve, and she looks tired."

"And what do I look like, mate? Been walkin' around the fucking floor like a fuckin' guard dog makin' sure this old coot finished his plate at the buffet and gave us enough time to set up ; I'm exhausted. And we've got the flight to bloody Bolivia tonight.", Lemon grumbled, shaking his head.

He couldn't blame Lemon, really. Sure, nostalgia was a thing, but it was one that, for normal people like you and Lemon, would pass in the blink of an eye. But when had Tangerine ever been fucking normal?

"Bit of a legend, was he?", remarked Lemon, flicking at the Rolex on Maurice's wrist. "They don't even make these anymore."

"If you grave-rob, I will fuckin' riot.", he muttered, distractedly.

"Mr. Fancy Pants over here has Marlboros and shite."

Marlboros! Nicotine! Oh, yes! Oh, fuck. Alright. Nicotine.

He hasn't had a cigarette in thirty-six hours, and on top of that, he saw you ; of course he'd be all worked up. No wonder. Alright. He can rest easy now.

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Fresh off seventeen kills and a migraine, Tangerine really did not have time for this absolute bull. Honestly. In the span of, say, two bloody weeks, you'd shown up twice, and he didn't like that.

He used to know you better than the back of his hand, and now?

Both of your hands are painted with unfamiliar scars.

"You gonna go say 'hi'?"

"What, with this thing hangin' off my arm?", he scoffed, gesturing at The Son of the fucking White Death. "I'd rather not parade 'im about, all unconscious-like."

"Mate."

He was still glaring at you, and it took a couple thumps to his shoulder to make him turn. "What?"

"Don't be a James."

"Here we fuckin' go.", mumbled Tangerine, shaking his head. "I swear, this bloke wakes up, you'll find his ears bleedin', 'cause you've been on and on about bloody Thomas The Tank Engine the entire fuckin' journey to Tokyo."

"Listen, James fucked up so much because of one thing. What was it?", asked Lemon, pointing his finger at him, with his other hand on his shoulder like a mentor.

"Bein' low-quality animation?"

"Pride. Pride. He was so bloody proud of his bloody red paint job that he—", he cut himself off, though, rubbing at his nape. "Alright, if there really is somethin' off with her, this is your chance to gloat that you're better at readin' people than me."

Huh.

See, that incentivised him more than being compared to some annoying red, animated train.

~~

"We must stop meetin' like this."

Your head swivelled around, and he's sure he could sort of see the faintest, dimmest hint of the spark he'd seen across from him on the see-saw all those years back...? He couldn't be entirely sure.

You smiled, which was a good sign, but the spark wasn't fully there, and he hated it. You moving to the window seat so he could sit by you, stretching? Proof you weren't a total cunt now that you're all grown up.

"You goin' to Tokyo, then?"

"No, connecting flight to Seoul and then I'm off. The stop before Tokyo.", you added, when he looked at you as if you'd explained it all in Greek.

He nodded, flicking at the headphones on the seat pocket once he wrangled them out of it. "Right."

"You're going to Tokyo?"

"Yeah. Been dragging this poor boy all the way from Bolivia to now bloody São Paulo, and then another connecting flight— god, it's exhausting. His old man's so rich, shouldn't he be gettin' a private jet or summat?", he sighed, his hand rubbing over his eyes in sheer fatigue.

"Wouldn't that be the first place his enemies look, though?"

"How about you stop with the logic, yeah? 'S annoying."

The two of you laughed for a bit, and the nostalgia shot him in the mouth. Didn't seem to for you, though, you were avoiding eye contact like you'd been caught robbing Maurice.

He tried his best to stay patient as you looked out the window, tried to focus on getting his arm off the armrest because the aisles were clogged up with passengers brushing past. He moved to the middle seat. One seat closer to you.

More silence. Why did he let Lemon talk him into this?

He didn't know what to say, but he knew what he wouldn't say. Summat dumb like "you're lookin' well", or "how you been?", or — god forbid — "long time, no see".

"So. What you been doin' all this time?"

God. So much for not being dumb.

A shrug. You were infuriating.

"Me? Lemon and I, we have quite a bit of fun, actually.", he continued. "Made a name for ourselves and that. What about you? You been doin' Burke, I s'pose?"

"Not "doing" Burke, but yeah, he's still my handler.", you chuckled, biting the inside of your cheek. "But just been doin' jobs, y'know? Just... whatever."

"Whatever?", he pushed, furrowing his brows. "Thought you had fun on the job. You alright?"

"'M fine."

Tangerine nodded, fiddling with the headphones again.

"If it was what I said in Dubai, I was just bein' a bastard, tryna get under your skin, and, to be fair, I was cranky 'cause I got no sleep.", he muttered.

"Well then, maybe go to sleep, then. 'S a long flight."

In his own seat, you meant. He could take a hint.

"Wow. Twelve years, and you still don't wanna look back.", he grumbled, standing up to leave.

But he couldn't. Not when you grabbed his wrist.

"What?"

Alright, mate, c'mon, now's your time to shine. Wow her.

"At me. You don't wanna look back at me, maybe see that you're bein' a bit of a bitch."

Alright, not the best start, callin' her a bitch, but it's alright, it's alright, we can recover.

"A bitch? For not wanting t—"

A quick flick of his wrist and suddenly, it was him grabbing yours. "Come with me, yeah?"

He was genuinely lucky you listened.

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"Alright, now that there's no witnesses if one of us bloody kills the other, can you tell me what the fuck's goin' on?"

"Listen, mate, we don't know each other anymore. I'm not about to have some makeshift therapy session in an airplane bathroom because we pinky-promised or summat when we were six!", you whisper-yelled, and all the air was knocked out of him.

The spark. It blazed. It was you —fucking finally — sitting in front of him.

"We actually crossed our hearts, but I won't take that personally.", he muttered, solemnly.

A moment, and he couldn't help the smile (though he was a worthy competitor against it) when you started snickering.

"Fuck, we were corny."

"Yeah.", he agreed, nodding. "But we were also best mates."

"Right."

"Pisses me off, though."

"What?"

"The fact that anytime I hear 'best mate', I'm immediately thinking of — and looking around for — you."

"I thought that was Lemon out there."

"No, he's my brother. Brothers are different, he means so much to me that we have no choice but to get on with each other. You, though.", he huffed.

"Me, though?"

He shook his head, flicking your forehead. "You, though.", he muttered, somehow managing to move closer and hold your jaw with one hand. "You're something else. I have a choice, and I'm still tryin' to get on with you. So get on with it. Spit it out."

"I have a choice, and I don't want to."

Ugh! Could you not back-talk him for once in your fucking life?! Why did he even try? What was even the fucking point?

You'd leave at Seoul, and if you were so inclined, you'd share a handshake or two, he and Lemon would be off with the bloke in Tokyo, and then you'd all be on your merry ways.

As it should be.

But then, a vision. A flash, and suddenly, he was seven years old again, grinning at you after the recruiters came and went.

"We're gettin' adopted."

"We're gettin' recruited.", he reminded. "You did so well."

"I choked, is what I did."

If he thought you seemed vulnerable now, he'd have melted for seven-year-old you.

"No, no, trust me, none of the other girls assembled that gun as fast as you." "You sure?" "I was watching."

He figured that maybe a similar segue may be able to fill in the silence. Even if you didn't respond immediately, at least you'd be stabbed with unsettling nostalgia that got you to open up.

"You were very quick with the gun. Back in Dubai."

Furrowing your brows, you tore your gaze away from the bathroom door and fixed it back up at him. "...Thank you?"

"'S not a compliment. 'S an observation."

"Observations can be compliments."

"Yeah, but not this one.", he shot back. A pause. "You bein' hunted?"

"No." No. Well, that's good. He didn't need to become a target, too.

"I was quick with the gun because it's a high-profile job. 'M not bein' hunted."

He let out a low whistle, nodding as he looked past you for a moment. "Just tryin' to make conversation.", he muttered, running his hands over his face, and then hair, and then suit, and finally deciding on firmly perching them onto the edge of the sink.

"Maybe don't."

When has he ever listened to you?

"Hey. If you could look at me, that'd be fuckin' fantastic. Yeah, there you go. Stop bein' all secretive and fuckin' tell me why you look like you're about to jump off this fuckin' plane."

It's like he'd never changed. Yeah, sure, he's taller, fitter, and the muscles he'd claimed to have when he was thirteen had seemed to take the hint and actually show up, but he's still the annoying little twat that would mock you for having feelings while simultaneously moving hell and back (to the extent of his abilities) to solve your problems for you.

So, for your best mate, you sighed.

"I'm tired, alright?! I feel like shit, and I dunno why! Alright? Probably something in the air."

Something in the air. God, you were getting on his fucking nerves.

He narrowed his eyes at you, staring for a moment, before nodding, reaching into his pocket. "You had any cigs lately?"

What?

"No."

"See, that's a problem, that.", he explained, pointing a ringed finger at you as if he'd just deigned you with the knowledge of the century, and you were supposed to give him your firstborn as thanks. "Nicotine solves half of all that."

The flame flickered in front of his eyes momentarily before he flicked the lighter off, handing the lit cig to you.

"Are you mockin' me?"

Jesus fuck, I'm caring, you absolute twat.

He moved closer still. Gripped your jaw even harder. Used said grip to shake your jaw after each word he said, to prove his point.

"All you are is your job. Your work. You don't think you're even a person anymore, and you're tired of that."

It was adorable, you glaring at him while he shook your jaw.

"Let me go."

"You're not sure who you are, and it scares you, because everyone else seems to."

You hissed his name, his real name, and he nearly dropped his hand from your jaw. The last person to ever utter his name had also been the first person to do so, twelve years later? That's some chaotic shite right there.

"You're terrified that you don't matter. And you're terrified that whatever you wanna do, whatever you wanna make of your life, you'll never fuckin' get it, because you've got Burke and your job on your fuckin' arse all the time. Yeah?"

He had to chill out about Burke. You'd catch on.

Your jaw clenched under his fingers, and the corner of his lip turned up just a tad. "Blink twice if I'm right.", he teased, his forehead nearly on yours.

"Fuck off."

He simpered at the force of your shove. Still no match for his assholic streak, his impishness, the absolute cheek and audacity imbibed in his blood.

"Ah, so I'm right on the fuckin' money, then.", he grinned, rubbing your bottom lip between his fingers, forming a pout. "I'll fuck right off after you admit it."

When you stayed silent, he offered you the cigarette once more.

"I don't smoke. Put that out. 'S not allowed, anyway."

"If it weren't allowed, they wouldn't have this thing over here, now would they?", he asked, tapping at the ashtray on the wall.

And then... look, whatever. He's an idiot. We've established this. He's an idiot, and he's a bit of an arsehole, let's be honest.

He didn't know why he did it, in all honesty. Bathroom's already really fucking cramped, so this was really not the best thing for him to be doin', unless he wanted to induce fucking claustrophobia.

Snogging an already pissed-off assassin in an airplane bathroom was right up there with the dumbest things he'd ever done in his life. For instance, two years ago, having to crash a child's birthday party because of mistaken identity.

"Oi, what—"

What the fuck were you supposed to say to that?!

"Mm? Sorry, couldn't hear you over this snog, sorry? What?", he murmured against your lips. What a bastard!

"What's wrong with y—"

"I was right on the money, wasn't I? As I said, I'll fuck right off if you just admit it."

"FINE!"

"Yeah?"

"Fine! Yeah, sure, fuck off. You might be right."

"Wanna know how I know?"

"Some other member of the Fruit Bowl told you? Grapefruit or Lime, or summat?"

He chuckled at that, his hands on the back of your head, gluing your forehead to his. "No, it's 'cause I know you."

"Oh, please, fuck off, for fuck's sake! Twelve years, you haven't known me, please don't give me that bullshit, how thick d'you think I am?", you hissed.

He liked that you made no move to pull away.

But he didn't like what you'd just said.

His brows furrowed for a moment, and he scoffed, shaking his head. "You're gettin' on my fuckin' tits right now, do you seriously think you can just stop knowing someone?"

"Twelve years is—"

"Nothing. Twelve years is nothing. Fuck. 'M not a sap, but you sure are makin' me out to be one.", he mumbled, his jaw ticking. "Listen, hey. I'm not about to entertain myself with whatever's wrong with you, or anythin'. Just... figured I've got Lemon, if shit goes south, who've you got? Not like Burke is gonna play therapist."

Licking your lips, you looked down. "Fuck off, alright? We've been in here too long. They're gonna think we're shagging in here."

"'S long as we're not smokin', yeah?", he mimicked, gesturing at the ashtray.

"It's not allowed."

"Neither was collaboration, but we did it.", he muttered, with a tiny pat to your cheek before he manoeuvred you to look up at him again. "You'll be fine. Alright? I've gone through this before."

"What'd you do about it?"

God, he was not going to beat the sap allegations, was he?

"Thought about you, alright? Not just you, o'course. Me, you, and then, after he was transferred there, Lemon, too. All of us in that foster home. Figured those three pint-sized-pricks would judge me for thinkin' life is hard now."

"Yeah?"

"Yeah. We're... we're fighters, yeah? Survivors and that. We'll be fine because we have to be. It's our part-time job."

He tilted his head down at you. Whoa. You were actually, seriously thinking about his word vomit.

"Now, back to that fuckin' snog.", he murmured, with a sharp jerk to your jawline with his thumb.

And then, again, unexpected but not unwanted, you found yourself in an airplane bathroom snogging a guy you didn't think you'd ever see again in your adult life, with probably twice the fervour he had. Pathetic.

It's like neither of you never learn. It's all temporary with him.

You'll part ways at Seoul, and he'll go onto Tokyo with that sorry-looking passed-out-kid and you'll probably never cross paths again, but here you both were, kissing like you'll have a thousand more in your life.

Always taking things for granted.

Exactly like he was back at the foster home, always doing what he wanted.

Always pissing you off.

Always knowing you to an annoying extent.

Always being your best mate.

God, pulling away was gonna hurt like a bitch.

[j23r23]

Misfire

Summary: Bucky Barnes accidentally botches a summoning ritual, leaving you, a laidback, powerful demon, permanently tethered to him and stranded in the mortal world. Despite his repeated (and often ridiculous) attempts to send you back, he slowly realizes he doesn’t actually want you gone. (Bucky Barnes x demon!reader)

Word Count: 2.8k+

A/N: Not going to lie, I like this, have been wanting to post this and turn it into something similar to Earth’s Mightiest Headache, exploring different one-shots/scenarios. So, hope you like it too. Happy reading!

Main Masterlist

You weren’t always tied to a former assassin with a vibranium arm and a perpetual scowl, but the universe or more specifically, a botched ritual in a Siberian bunker years ago, had other plans.

It started with a flicker of blood, a page torn from a corrupted HYDRA book, and a young soldier being pumped full of something more arcane than serum. One moment you were lounging in your plane of brimstone and blissful laziness, the next you were being yanked from your hammock by a summoning circle that was mostly duct tape and desperation.

You expected pain, fire, maybe war. What you got was James Buchanan Barnes blinking up at you through a haze of brainwashing and cold, his hand twitching as your eyes met. You didn’t know what he was. He didn’t know what you were. But something latched between you two that day, something binding and unshakeable. You were tethered. Not controlled, not enslaved. Just… summoned. A willing contract. He needed, you delivered. No price beyond your amusement and his begrudging tolerance.

Decades passed and the world changed, but you didn’t. You remained ageless, hellfire-forged and perpetually unimpressed, only appearing when the man muttered your name with that low, gravelly voice that always sounded like he didn’t actually believe you’d show up again.

Which is how you found yourself this evening materializing in a Brooklyn alleyway. Head-first, upside down because the summoning marks were crooked and Bucky had apparently done the entire circle while nursing a bullet wound and an attitude.

You blink slowly, lips parted with a lollipop hanging from the corner of your mouth. “Seriously?”

Bucky, crouched behind a dumpster with a gun in one hand and a half-burned spellbook in the other, gives you the driest look known to mankind. “You’re here, aren’t you?”

You land gracefully if a little exaggerated with a dramatic roll of your shoulders, licking your lollipop with purpose. “I swear, if I get stuck in this dimension for another twelve hours because you couldn’t align your candles properly…”

“I didn’t have candles. I used a car headlight.”

“Of course you did.” You pause, sniff the air. “And you're bleeding again.”

A hail of gunfire cuts off your commentary. Bucky’s head ducks down, jaw tense. “There’s twelve of them. Maybe more. And at least one has something enhanced, might be gamma-based. I need backup.”

You hum, amused. “You didn’t summon a demon for backup. You summoned me because you’re bored, stubborn, and refuse to ask Sam for help.”

He doesn’t deny it.

Rolling your eyes, you flick your wrist, and shadows creep up your spine like living smoke. Horns begin to shimmer at your temples, and a faint glow pulses beneath your skin, ember-like and ancient. You’re not even trying yet. You never do.

“One of these days, Buckaroo,” You tease, conjuring your flaming whip with a snap, “You’re going to learn that sloppy summoning has consequences.”

He huffs, shaking his head as he reloads. “Like what? And, don’t call me that.”

You grin. “Like me deciding to stick around longer than you want me to.”

He freezes for a beat. Then, finally, that half-exasperated smile slips onto his face, the one he only gives you.

“You already do.”

The air crackled as you stepped forward, boots barely making contact with the ground. Smoke curled around your ankles, licking the pavement with a life of its own. The alley reeked of gasoline, gunpowder, and bad decisions. Bucky was crouched beside you, gun steady, his vibranium arm flexed and ready. You, on the other hand, looked like you were headed to brunch.

“Right,” You drawled, stretching your neck with a soft crack. “Let’s ruin some asshole’s night.”

A bullet zipped through the air. You caught it lazily between two fingers and held it up for Bucky to see.

“See? Rude.”

Then, you flicked the bullet back but not with force or aim. Just casual indifference. It whistled through the alley and embedded itself in a tire, exploding the getaway car and sending two mercenaries flying.

Bucky didn’t even blink. “Still a show off, huh?”

“I live to impress you,” You said flatly. “Truly. It’s the fire in my hellish heart.”

Another wave of attackers moved in, and you rolled your shoulders, flames licking your fingertips now. You raised your hand and murmured something ancient and absolutely unnecessary, but damn if it didn’t sound good. The shadows rose behind you, a twisted mirror of your silhouette with horns like daggers and a grin too wide.

You let it lunge forward.

The screams started almost immediately.

You didn’t watch. You leaned against the nearest wall, arms crossed, licking your lollipop again. “So… who were these guys? Discount HYDRA?”

“Black-market bio-enhancers. Trying to harvest my blood for the serum or something again,” Bucky muttered as he aimed and fired cleanly into a crate of stolen weapons, blowing it apart with a boom. “Same old.”

“Wow. You get all the fun gigs.”

The shadow beast tore through three more men before slithering back into your chest like smoke curling into a bottle. You burped, loud and unapologetic.

“Charming,” Bucky said without looking at you.

“I try.”

As the last guy standing, a hulking brute with glowing green veins and a face like a blender accident, charged, Bucky stepped forward to intercept. But you held out a hand.

“I’ve got this one. You’ll break a hip.”

“I’m over a hundred years old.”

“And I’m over nine hundred. Sit down, whippersnapper.”

Before he could reply, you flicked your wrist. A sigil flared under the brute’s feet, and suddenly he was screaming about worms crawling through his brain and snakes in his shoes. You made a mental note to clean up the hallucination spell later… or not. Bucky stepped over him when he dropped like a sack of terror.

“Done?”

You dusted off your sleeves. “Darling, I was barely awake for that.”

Then you clapped once, then twice. The air didn’t shift. The circle beneath your feet didn’t flare back to life. Your tether didn’t pull you back to your plane.

“Huh,” You said.

Bucky turned slowly toward you. “What?”

You turned a slow, deliberate circle in place. “You really did smudge the runes, didn’t you?”

“I was bleeding on the floor!”

“Well now I’m stuck here.”

“How long?”

“Dunno. Could be twelve hours. Could be… forever.”

Bucky’s face did a slow twitch, that tick in his jaw flexing just a bit. “You’re telling me I summoned you wrong and now you’re just… living here?”

You grinned, wide and wicked. “Looks like it.”

A long, painful silence passed between you.

“So,” You said cheerfully, “what’s for dinner?”

-

Bucky had begrudgingly brought you back to his apartment, not wanting some creature from hell roaming the streets. Still, his place was quiet. Too quiet.

You stepped inside like you owned the place because, technically, at the moment, you did. The summoning mishap hadn’t just anchored you to the mortal realm; it had linked you to him. Wherever he was, you were. Until the tether corrected itself or until someone, somewhere, realigned the ritual’s symbols with fresh blood and an offering from a creature rarer than a virgin in Brooklyn.

In the meantime… he had a couch. And a mini-fridge. You could make it work.

You flicked on the lights, grinning when the bulbs sparked and then dimmed to a soft red hue. Much better. Cozy. Sultry. Slightly ominous. Honestly, you were proud.

Behind you, Bucky entered like a man walking into a trap. His boots hit the floor heavy, like he was bracing for chaos.

“I’m not sleeping in the same bed as you,” He said flatly, dropping his gear by the door.

You gave him a long, unimpressed look over your shoulder. “Darling, if I wanted your bed, I’d already be in it, probably upside down and lighting candles shaped like your face.”

He made a sound, part snort, part groan and walked past you toward the kitchen.

You helped yourself to his couch, dramatically collapsing backward with your boots still on and your arm draped over your eyes. “You should really invest in a fainting chaise. Or a coffin. Just something with character.”

“I live here, not haunt it.”

“That explains the IKEA furniture.”

He returned with a glass of water and eyed you carefully before tossing you a throw blanket. You caught it with a lazy flick of your tail, yes, your tail, which had recently reappeared now that you were in his domain long enough to let your guard down. It swayed lazily behind you like a bored cat’s.

“Are you always like this?” He asked, finally sitting in the armchair across from you.

You cracked open one eye. “Amazing? Gorgeous? Irresistible?”

“I was going to say annoying.”

You flashed your teeth. “Only to people who don’t drink enough coffee.”

He gave you a long, lingering look. Not distrustful. Just… weighing. Measuring. Then he leaned back, rested his head on the cushion, and finally allowed himself to exhale.

Silence settled between you in a comfortable, yet strange way.

Until the next morning.

Bucky awoke to the smell of eggs, cinnamon, and… sulfur?

He sat up, blinking. For one blessed moment, he thought it was a dream. That he’d hallucinated the summoning gone wrong. That he hadn’t found you were floating two inches off the floor in his kitchen wearing one of his hoodies and frying eggs over a small, hovering fireball.

“Morning, soldier,” You said without looking, tail flicking while you flipped an omelet midair.

He groaned, running a hand over his face. “You can’t just- what are you wearing?”

“You left me unsupervised. This hoodie is now mine. I’ve bonded with it.”

You passed him a plate like this was normal. Like you hadn’t just turned his microwave into a portal that whined every time it ticked down a second.

He took the food. Sat down. Stared at it.

“…You poisoned this, didn’t you?”

You sipped from a coffee mug that said WORLD’S #1 PROBLEM. “No, but I did enchant it. Every bite improves your sarcasm by 5%.”

He hesitated, then ate it anyway.

“…This is actually good.”

“Food by a demon. Duh.”

-

From there, it had only been three days since your magical mishap of a summoning, but for Bucky, it felt like three months. You were still there, living in his apartment like it was your damn vacation home in the mortal realm. You’d rearranged the knives ("for feng shui"), filled his bathtub with lava for “ritual skincare,” and replaced every mirror with ones that whispered compliments. (He only noticed that last one when he looked into the bathroom mirror and it said, “Nice ass, soldier.”)

This morning, Bucky woke up to the scent of coffee and a Latin chant being sung by a chorus of crows outside his window.

He sat up fast. “No.”

You were at the kitchen counter again, spinning a pen with your fingers, your legs up on the table. You were humming something eerie. The pen was levitating. The mug next to you floated lazily midair, steam curling from it in the shape of little hearts. You grinned when you saw him.

“Morning, sunshine. Did you know your neighbor is part-witch? She’s been feeding the crows again.”

He walked past you and downed half the coffee straight from the pot. “I’m sending you back today.”

You didn’t even flinch. “Sure you are.”

“No, I’m serious this time.”

“You said that yesterday. And the day before.”

He gave you a flat look. “You possessed my Roomba.”

“It was lonely.”

“You made it sing.”

“It needed a purpose.”

“I caught it offering tribute to you with screws it pulled out of my wall.”

You shrugged. “Devotion. I’m an icon.”

He ran a hand down his face and dropped into his chair. “Okay. New plan. We’re doing this my way now.”

You perked up. “Ooh. A ritual? Incantations? Should I get the chalk?”

He didn’t answer. An hour later, you were sitting cross-legged in the middle of his living room while Bucky flipped through an old HYDRA spellbook like it was a malfunctioning IKEA manual.

“You have no idea what you’re doing,” You said cheerfully, inspecting your claws.

“I’m improvising.”

“Your last improvisation got me trapped here.”

“Exactly.”

You raised a brow. “Are you trying to undo a summoning… with a reversal spell written in blood, translated through Soviet tech runes, and halfway burned through at the edges?”

“Yes.”

You blinked. “Hot.”

He glared.

With an annoyed grunt, Bucky began drawing the circle again. You watched, amused, as he did his best to align the runes correctly this time. He even lit some candles, actual candles, not headlamps or car headlights, and managed to keep from bleeding on the floor this time.

You were genuinely impressed.

That is, until he finished the final line and shouted, “Begone!”

You didn’t even twitch. You sipped your coffee. “Wow. Harsh.”

The circle flared once… then fizzled out with a sad little pop.

A single puff of smoke rose. A goat sneezed into existence in the corner.

“…Did you summon a goat?” You asked mildly amused.

Bucky stared at it, face blank. “That wasn’t supposed to happen.”

The goat stared back.

You sipped again. “You need help.”

“I’m not asking you.”

“Good, I wasn’t offering.”

He stood and pointed a firm, accusatory finger. “I will get this right.”

“I believe in you,” You said sweetly. “But if you mess up again, there’s a 50% chance I become permanently anchored to your soul and start aging with you.”

Bucky froze.

You grinned.

“Better hurry, soldier.”

-

The next time Bucky tried to banish you, he didn’t do it alone.

He stood in the middle of the Sanctum Sanctorum’s foyer, arms crossed, jaw tight, watching you twirl on the edge of the ancient rug like it was a dance floor. You were humming a tune that definitely hadn’t been heard in this realm since the fall of Babylon, and your tail was flicking in time with the beat. The Sorcerer Supreme was not impressed.

Stephen Strange raised a brow. “You’re sure you want me to banish them?”

“Yes,” Bucky said through clenched teeth.

You pouted from across the room, holding a glowing snow globe filled with miniature screaming souls you’d found on a shelf. “Banishing sounds so cold. Why not just ask me to leave?”

“Because you won’t.”

You gave a little shrug. “I go where I’m wanted.”

“You’re not.”

You smiled. “Yet here I am.”

Strange sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose. “You know this won’t be easy, Barnes. Whatever summoned them tied them to you. It wasn’t just a summoning spell, it was a binding. Old magic. Pre-human, even. You’d need a cleansing ritual, a blood sacrifice, and someone with actual consent from the demon to undo it.”

Bucky looked at you.

You smiled wider and sipped your milkshake you materialized from God knows where. “Nope.”

He blinked. “What do you mean ‘nope’?”

“No consent.” You grinned. “I like Earth. I like your couch. I like your goat. And, let’s be honest, deep down? You like me too.”

“I do not.”

“You made me pancakes.”

“I accidentally made too much batter.”

“You poured mine in the shape of a heart.”

Strange looked between the two of you, clearly rethinking his entire career. “I’m going to pretend I didn’t hear that. Barnes, you have two options: perform the blood-cleansing ceremony yourself, or just… learn to live with it.”

Bucky was already grabbing the grimoire off the table, eyes narrowed. “Fine. I’ll do it myself.”

-

Back at the apartment, you were lounging upside down on the couch again, feet hanging over the back, reading a magazine you’d conjured yourself.

Bucky stomped in with purpose. “I need your blood.”

You flipped a page. “Buy me dinner first.”

“I’m serious.”

“So am I.”

You set the magazine down, tail curling lazily across the armrest. “You think getting rid of me will fix something? What, you afraid I’ll see too much? Get under your skin?”

“I don’t need a demon watching me shower and judging my coffee choices.”

You smirked. “I’ve seen worse. I was summoned to Nero’s bathhouse once. And honestly, your coffee isn’t bad. You could add nutmeg, though.”

He groaned and turned away, but he didn’t say anything else. He just stood there for a long moment, looking at the rune-drenched book in his hands, watching the way your fire didn’t burn his carpet and your presence didn’t wreck his walls.

You were a storm, yes. But a strangely gentle one.

Finally, he muttered, “…You really don’t want to go back?”

You rolled onto your stomach and looked at him properly. The grin dropped, just a little. Your voice was quieter. “Back there, I’m a tool, weapons. Some monster to be bartered and used. Here, I’m… just me.”

He met your eyes, and for once, he didn’t look away.

“Then maybe,” He said slowly with a sigh, like the words weighed more than his metal arm, “You don’t have to go.”

[j23r23]

Fan Fiction as a Form of Active Bibliotherapy – MASTER'S THESIS

Hello there!

My dear friend @cottonfluffballofdoom is writing her master's thesis on the topic of Fan Fiction ("Fan Fiction as a Form of Active Bibliotherapy – The Therapeutic Potential of Fan Fiction"). She's at the stage where she needs to conduct her research.

Would you please consider filling out the survey below? It should take between 10 to 15 minutes. It is anonymous.

Any and all fandoms are welcome -- all that matters is that you're a fanfic reader or a writer.

Please, consider giving this post a boost or forwarding this survey further. All responses count and we'd be truly grateful for your help!

[j23r23]

TABLE SIDE ENTERTAINMENT.

bucky barnes x fem!reader

WORD COUNT. 1067 SUMMARY. your anniversary dinner takes a slight turn when bucky’s team begin to bicker despite best behaviour being asked of them. [fluff] NOTE. tower fic resurgence YEAAA!

⎯ ☆ ⎯

Things were different this year, though not by choice. Rather a small series of events that lead to an unforeseen change. Originally, your plan was to cook for your anniversary dinner like either of you normally would when the date came. You would each alternate between your apartments, taking turns hosting and cooking for the other. 

Two years ago, it was your apartment, the year after, Bucky’s, ultimately meaning this year was yours again. But since your last anniversary hosting, you have taken a roommate, the cost far too much for one person alone in New York. And quite similarly, Bucky was in the same boat as you, living with, not one, but five other roommates now.

And while it was your turn to cook, you were unable to host in your apartment: your roommate planning a get together with friends before even checking with you. Consequently, meaning things had to be rearranged. 

You sit at the dining table, Bucky at the head beside you as you both tentatively poke your forks into your candlelit dinner. It wasn’t quite what you pictured for your third anniversary. 

Despite Bucky having asked for some privacy from his team, they gave him literally anything but. All of them residing in the communal areas just so they could poke their noses into your date.

Off to the side, Yelena and Ava sit on the sofas, stuck in faux conversation as they clean their guns — pretending to occupy themselves, essentially, making themselves look busy. Beside the kitchen counter, John and Bob stand, their attention earnestly caught by a fancy, new, gimmicky kitchen appliance. And how could you forget Alexei, his loud, booming voice making it impossible to lose track of his whereabouts. 

“Where’s mine?” you follow the direction of Alexei’s question and notice him looking around the kitchen disapprovingly, hands theatrical as they lift the lids off the pots and pans.

You hear John and Bob bicker ahead of you, a growing miscommunication becoming all the more evident.

“Wheres the ice cream?” 

“Why would there be ice cream, Bobby?” Walker replies, brows scrunching together as he looks at Bob like he’s an idiot.

“You said you were making a shake,” Bob repeats. 

“Exactly.”

“You put ice cream in a milkshake, why is there no ice cream?”

“Protein shake, Bobby,” he clarifies, gesturing to an array of supplements beside the blender. “Just try it,” John offers.

“You make shakes?” Alexei interrupts, laughing like it was an attempt to mock them. “Crack egg in mouth. Be a man.”

“Ignore him,” John steps in front of the interruption, pushing him aside.

“What flavour is it?”

“It doesn’t matter what flavour it is, just try it.”

“I don’t think I’ll like it.”

“See,” Alexei continues. He recaptures everyone's attention and cracks an egg directly into his mouth. He swallows it hesitantly and lifts his arms, showing off his muscles. “Look how strong.”

You hide an amused smile behind your glass, finding humour in their squabbling. Though Bucky looks far from pleased, he’s clearly rather embarrassed from their failure to fulfil their promise of being good. Who needs dinner and a show when you have a group of enhanced individuals as your entertainment?

“That’s not how you do it, dad,” Yelena joins in, a subtle smirk on her face as she nudges Ava’s side. “You have to eat the shell too.”

“That’s not true,” Alexei exclaims and looks around the group for assurance. “You make joke, Lena. Very funny, HA HA!”

“It is,” Ava adds. 

John looks over to the girls and they nod at him, trying to get him to keep it going. Though he needs no convincing, he was still feeling wounded by the emasculation. And so reaches for the egg carton and pulls out another, smugly dropping it into Alexei’s open hand.

“Try it again,” he nods like it was an act of encouragement and steps aside. “Bucky does it. You want to be like the Winter Soldier, don’t you?”

“Two is a lot, no?” Alexei protests and looks over to Bucky, using him for guidance. 

Bucky doesn’t give enough of a response, though it still holds weight: a simple, short shake of the head as if it was a signal to let him know he was being used as the butt of another joke. He enjoys humour, but not at the sake of others. And sure, yes, Alexei probably deserves it, but it was date night and things were steering way beyond proportion. It needed reigning back in, massively.

“You make fool of me,” Alexei turns to look between the members of the group, an accusatory finger waving at them. “That’s hurtful.”

“Nice one, Buck,” Walker exclaims, irritation evident.

“It was mean,” Bob adds, coming to his defence.

John’s brows pinch together like he’s displeased. “It’s a joke, Bobby.”

“Woah,” Yelena interjects. “You don’t need to shout at him.”

The rest of the group begins to chip in with their own pieces and eventually it turns into indecipherable squabble — all of them trying to speak over the other with their own very important thing to say. You turn to look at Bucky, expecting him to be a puddle of embarrassment and aggravation, though he’s anything but. Instead he’s smiling, a rather sly grin forming as it all descends into chaos around him. 

With the group's attention occupied on being heard, Bucky slips his hand into yours and gestures to the stairs with a short nod of the head. He picks up the glasses from the table with his free hand while you grab the bottle of wine, with yours holding the neck tight as your footsteps begin to pick up — trying to keep up with his brisk, haste movement.

The noise from his team’s arguing slowly dwindles down the further distance you make and you each pause, reaching the door of his bedroom. 

“Did you know that would happen?” you ask, a smile forming that matched his cheeky one downstairs. 

He nods and that same grin resurfaces. He lets go of your hand and reaches for the handle, lingering in place for a moment before he turns to look at you. 

“Happy Anniversary, honey,” he says now that it’s just you two, words gentle and earnest.

You bring a hand to his cheek, thumb swiping over it softly as you lean in, pressing a kiss to his lips. “Happy three years, my love.”

⎯ ☆ ⎯

[j23r23]

Im so sad, its over... But it was wonderful none the less 🥹

The Recipe for Remembering

The Bear AU (Part Sixteen - Last Chapter)

Here to my masterlist!

Pairing: Carmen x Fem! Reader

CW: language, NSFW 18+

Summary: It's the final chapter of this love story!

A/N: I honestly don’t even know where to start… Just thank you. Truly. If you’ve made it all the way here, thank you for sticking with this story — it’s been such a ride, and I’ve loved every second of it. Your support, your messages, your excitement... it’s what kept me going. I’ve felt so inspired and so motivated to tell their story because of you. 🥺 I can only hope this final chapter gives you the closure you deserve — something soft, something full of love. Please let me know what you think; I’d love to hear your thoughts. 💛

Audio Recording — September 3rd  “Okay. It’s… September. Still warm out. Carmen’s in the kitchen, barefoot, making pancakes even though we were supposed to skip breakfast and go out. I think he’s doing it just because he knows I love how the apartment smells after he cooks. I’m recording this because—well, just in case. In case my brain decides to do something dumb again. So I can remind myself. Right now, I’m happy. He makes me happy. I feel safe, and grounded, and weirdly new. But not empty-new. Like I get to be full again, just slowly. With him.” 

After that night in her apartment, they didn’t go back. They didn’t undo anything. Instead, they moved forward—messy, deliberate, hopeful. 

They didn’t talk about the “what ifs” much. Carmen didn’t ask if she remembered anything else, and Y/N stopped pretending she was supposed to. What mattered more were the new habits they built. Morning coffee with music instead of news. Her hands on his back as he cooked. His forehead kisses before she left for her culinary classes—because yeah, she’d signed up for a few to step up her game. Quietly, determinedly. She didn’t want to just remember how it used to be—she wanted to live it. 

And Carmen was learning too. Relearning, actually. Because Y/N wasn’t exactly the same. There were pieces of her now that surprised him—quiet rebellions and subtle softnesses he didn’t remember. Like how she started sleeping with the window cracked open, even in the cold, claiming she needed to hear the city breathing. Or how she suddenly got really into old vinyl records, letting entire albums play out as she cooked or showered, singing along off-key without shame. Or how she cried once, not out of sadness, but because someone gifted her a book she used to love and she didn’t remember the story—only the way the cover felt in her hands. 

It knocked the air out of him, all of it. The wonder. The strangeness. The tenderness. He knew her inside out once. And now he was falling in love all over again—with someone familiar, and still completely new. 

They kept building from there. 

Within a month after their first night Y/N finally moved in with him. Living together settled into a rhythm surprisingly fast. Mornings meant Carmen pressing a coffee mug into her hand before either of them spoke. She liked to sit on the floor near the window, writing in her notebook, scribbling ideas, observations, questions. He’d quietly start breakfast, sometimes asking her to taste a sauce or smell an herb—just to keep her sharp, he said. 

They went to the farmer’s market most weekends. Carmen made it a ritual—walking beside her with canvas bags slung over his shoulder, letting her pick peaches and taste tomatoes off a stall. Sometimes, they’d split a pastry and sit on a bench in silence. Other times, she’d drag him into a deep dive about produce sourcing or seasonal menus, and he’d just listen, eyes on her mouth, nodding. 

The nights that they didn't need to work were sacred. No phones, no talk about schedules unless necessary. Just books, movies, slow dinners. Sometimes they danced in the living room, more because she kind of forced him to. Sometimes they said nothing and just laid tangled up on the couch.  

Carmen had made a vow—silent but sure—not to miss a second. Not anymore. 

Audio Recording — October 12th  “We moved in together last month. I didn’t freak out. I thought I might. Thought it would feel too fast. But it doesn’t. Not with him. We folded my clothes into his drawers and made fun of how many jeans he owns. I kept all of my spices—even the ones he says are redundant. It’s ours now, this space. I can feel it.” 

---- 

It happened on a Wednesday. The kind of evening where the city felt hushed but not quiet—horns in the distance, someone’s music echoing faintly through an open window, the clink of silverware against ceramic. 

Their apartment was a mess. Half-unpacked boxes still lined the walls. There was a pile of clean laundry on the couch, not folded, just… there. Carmen had kicked off his shoes but left them in the middle of the hallway. A pan sat in the sink, soaking. 

Y/N stood barefoot in the kitchen, hair up, wearing one of his old sweatshirts that hung off her shoulder. She was trying to light a candle but the lighter kept giving out. Carmen watched from the doorway, arms crossed, tired and full in the same breath. 

“Lighter’s dead,” she muttered. 

He stepped forward, took it from her hand gently, flicked it twice until the flame caught, and lit the candle. 

“That’s because you don’t talk to it nice,” he said. 

She rolled her eyes. “You’re such a dork.” 

They stood there for a second in the amber glow. She leaned back against the counter. He didn’t move. Just looked at her. Hair frizzed from humidity. Eyes soft. Skin glowing like she'd absorbed the light. 

“What?” she asked, tilting her head. 

“Nothing. Just…” He reached up to push her hair behind her ear. “You are really here.” 

She blinked. “That’s a weird thing to say.” 

“You know what I mean.” 

She did. The candle flickered. The apartment was still a mess. And yet—there was this stillness between them, like they’d finally landed somewhere that held. 

Y/N let out a breath, almost a laugh. Then she said it. Like it had been sitting on her tongue for weeks, waiting for the right kind of quiet. 

“I love you.” 

Carmen’s eyes flicked up fast, but he didn’t speak. He just looked at her, and she could see it—all of it—in his expression. The rush. The ache. The relief. 

“I don’t know how many times I said it before,” she added, voice a little smaller now. “Before the accident, I mean. I don’t know if I ever got it right. But I—” She exhaled. “I feel it now. More than ever.” 

Carmen stepped in close. His hand rested low on her back, thumb tracing lazy circles. “You’ve said it before. A thousand times.” He smiled, a little breathless. “Still never enough.” 

She smiled. 

“Say it again.” 

“I love you, Carmen.” 

He kissed her like the words were a promise. Like hearing them now, in this new version of them, meant they’d been found again. Even better. 

And the crew got to know about them during their housewarming party. 

It wasn’t planned. They hadn’t rehearsed a speech or anything. It just happened—like everything else had between them lately—organic, inevitable. The apartment smelled like roasted garlic and warm bread, the air buzzing with conversation and clinking bottles. The lights were dim, music low, and almost everyone from The Bear was there. Even Sydney. 

She clocked it first. One look at the way Carmen’s hand settled low on Y/N’s back, fingers curling in without hesitation, and she raised an eyebrow. Didn’t say a word—just smirked like she’d known since day one. 

Richie, on the other hand, nearly dropped his beer. "Whoa, whoa, whoa—what the fuck is this?" he blurted, pointing between them. "You two? Seriously? Since when?" 

Carmen slid a glance at Y/N before nodding. "Yeah. We’re together... Since Milan." 

Fak let out a triumphant cheer. “I knew it! You had that ‘I’m-seeing-God-daily’ look, Carmy!” 

Laughter rippled through the room. Natalie smiled slowly, moving in to hug Y/N first, then Carmen. “It’s about time,” she said. “I’m happy for you. Both of you.” 

And just like that, it wasn’t weird. It wasn’t dramatic. Just one of those truths that had been waiting for everyone else to catch up to. 

The apartment filled with warmth and clatter, Fak refilling drinks and Tina dancing in the kitchen with Sugar. At one point, Carmen leaned against the counter, beer in hand, watching Y/N laugh with Ebra and Tina, her face flushed, happy. His expression softened into something unguarded. Like he’d finally found the missing step in a dance he’d been doing blind. 

She was at The Bear every day, stepped back into the kitchen as chef de cuisine. It wasn’t easy. The instincts were still there, deep in her bones, but the memory gaps made certain things harder—timing, sequencing, little tricks she used to pull off without thinking. 

She didn’t let it stop her. 

Instead, she studied harder. Took night courses. Watched tutorials on her phone between prep and service. Asked questions, even when it embarrassed her. She was determined to earn her place again—not because anyone doubted her, but because she refused to coast on who she used to be. 

Carmen helped without overstepping. Reviewed her notes with her at night, sent her old recipes they’d developed together. Pulled her aside during service when she looked overwhelmed, just to ask, “You good?” and give her a second to breathe. He didn’t think she needed to improve—didn’t want her to chase some ghost version of herself—but he understood why she had to try. 

And every time she held the line, ran a smooth service, or improvised something brilliant, it showed. She was building herself back—not into who she was, but into someone stronger. 

---- 

Audio Recording — November 9th  

“Today’s the day. Big family party. Cicero’s birthday. Which means—yeah—I’m meeting Carmen’s mom. He didn’t even want to go, honestly. Said it’d be loud, weird, ‘not fun for anyone involved.’ But I told him I wanted to meet her. That I could handle it. So now I’m dressed like I’m going to war with lasagna and emotional landmines. He’s nervous. Keeps pretending he’s not, but he’s been pacing all morning. I think he’s scared she’ll say something cruel or… or just be her. But I want to see this part of his world. Even the hard parts. Especially the hard parts.” 

The Cicero house was packed—heat rolling off the oven and from the too-many bodies in the kitchen. Music played too loud in the background. Kids screamed in the hallway. Someone dropped a fork and it clattered like a gunshot. 

Carmen stood stiff near the kitchen doorway, one hand around a sweating glass of club soda, the other resting on the small of Y/N’s back. He hadn’t let go since they arrived. 

Y/N could feel how tight he was wound. Every muscle in him pulled taut like he expected the ceiling to cave in. 

“Relax, Bear,” she whispered, nudging him gently. “It’s just family.” 

He didn’t answer, just gave her a look like you don’t know what that word means here. 

And then—her. Donna. 

She moved through the dining room like she still owned it, cigarette smoke clinging to her perfume, eyes sharp even before the first glass of wine. Her gaze locked on Carmen instantly.  

“My baby boy,” Donna announced, arms open, voice already carrying a hint of performance. “Look at you.” 

Carmen managed a smile—brief, tight. “Hi, Ma.” 

She kissed his cheek, then turned to Y/N, giving her a slow once-over. 

“And you must be the new girl.” Not her name. Not his girlfriend. Just the new girl. 

Y/N didn’t flinch. She smiled, polite but unbothered. “Hi. I’m Y/N.” 

Donna’s expression didn’t change. “Wait, what happened to the doctor... What was her name again?” 

“Claire,” Y/N said evenly. “That was the last one. Not in the picture anymore.” 

There was a flicker—just a flicker—of surprise in Donna’s eyes before she glanced her over. 

“I hear you cook,” she said. “That true?” 

“I do. Not like Carmen, but yeah.” 

Donna’s smile curved in a way that didn’t reach her eyes. “Mmh. Just don’t let him get too distracted, sweetheart. Restaurant’s hard enough without love lives dragging it down.” 

Natalie, standing by the drinks, went rigid. 

Carmen glanced between them, jaw tight. “Ma, don’t—” 

“It’s a joke,” Donna said, waving him off with a too-casual flick of her hand. “Jesus, don’t be so sensitive, Carmen.” 

Y/N didn’t blink. Instead, she reached for one of the dishes laid out on the buffet—a glass bowl of pasta salad, bright with lemon and red onion, clearly homemade. 

“This yours?” she asked, scooping a little onto her plate. “Smells amazing.” 

Donna blinked, caught off guard. “Yeah.” 

Y/N took a bite, nodded thoughtfully. “Carmen actually showed me your recipe once. I’ve been dying to try it from the source.” 

Donna blinked again. “Did he?” 

“Yeah, we even talked about maybe—if you’d be okay with it—incorporating it into a Sunday special at the restaurant. Something simple. Personal.” 

Donna’s brows lifted, arms folding like she wasn’t sure whether to be annoyed or pleased. “To me you haven’t said anything yet, Carmen.” 

Y/N glanced at him. His shoulders were drawn tight, like he was bracing for impact. 

So she smiled again, turning back to Donna. 

“Well, then maybe tonight’s the night,” she said lightly. “I’d love to hear what you think we should tweak. Honestly, Carmen thinks it needs less lemon—but I say that’s what makes it yours.” 

There was a pause. Not a silence—people still moved around them, music played low, silver clinked against plates. But the air shifted. 

Donna’s face didn’t soften exactly. But the sharp edge in her expression dulled just slightly. Her gaze dropped to Y/N’s plate. Then back up. 

“Hmph,” she said. “Well, it’s not the real version unless you make it with that shitty old Pyrex I used. Glass gets too cold otherwise.” 

Y/N smiled. “Good to know. You still have it?” 

Donna narrowed her eyes. “Of course I do. What, you think I throw things out?” 

“I’d love to borrow it,” Y/N said, calm and sincere. “Might make all the difference.” 

For the first time, Donna let out something close to a laugh. Short, dry. But not cruel. 

Carmen, still watching, exhaled slowly—almost silently—but Y/N caught it. And so did Natalie, across the room, her shoulders finally dropping as she turned back toward the drinks. 

Donna shook her head, muttering something under her breath that almost sounded like, Jesus, she’s good. Then, louder, “Well. Let’s eat before everything dries out.” 

And just like that, she moved on, calling someone’s name in the other room. 

Carmen didn’t move. Just stood there, watching like the air had shifted and he was still catching up to it. 

Y/N leaned in slightly, voice low. “You okay?” 

He nodded, once. Then again, slower. “Yeah. Just…” His eyes flicked to hers, like he couldn’t quite believe what he’d just seen. “You’re kind of unbelievable.” 

Y/N smiled, bumping his arm with her shoulder. “Told you I could handle it.” 

He let out a breath, finally. It sounded like the first real one in minutes. 

“Yeah,” he said quietly. “I think she likes you.” 

Y/N looked over to where Donna was now holding court with two distant cousins and a half-full glass of wine. “Let’s not go that far,” she said, grinning. “But I’ll take ‘not openly hostile.’” 

---- 

Later that night, the party was long behind them. The apartment was quiet, the hum of the city muted behind shut windows, the only light coming from a flickering streetlamp across the street. Inside, all that could be heard were their ragged breaths, the creak of the bed, the wet sound of skin on skin. 

Y/N lay flat on her stomach, hips lifted just enough to let him move, legs parted and trembling beneath him. Carmen hovered over her, his chest flush to her back, his thrusts deep, slow, intentional. One arm braced beside her head, the other working her clit in slow, devastating circles. 

“F—fuck, baby…” he gasped, his mouth at her shoulder. “So—fuck—you’re just… you’re perfect.” 

She whimpered, head turned to the side, cheek pressed into the pillow. 

“You didn’t have to… I mean tonight, with my mom, you—shit.” He bit down gently at the base of her neck, breath caught. “The way you just… handled it. Handled her.” 

Y/N moaned, the pressure building. “Bear, please…” 

“Yeah, I’m here,” he rasped, hips grinding deeper. “I’m—fuck—I’m here.” 

He broke off again as her breath hitched, her moan rising when his fingers stroked her just right. 

“Shit—shit, baby—don’t—don’t do that, I’m—” His voice cracked. 

Then he stilled. Slid out of her with a breathless groan, hand caressing down her spine as she whimpered at the loss. 

“No,” she protested softly. “Why’d you—?” 

“Just—turn over, baby. Please. I gotta—” His voice broke. “Wanna see you.” 

He flipped her gently, not letting go of her for a second. Her body was flushed and slick, eyes glassy with heat. Carmen guided her legs around his hips, slipped back inside with a low moan that sounded like it hurt. 

“God—Carm—” His forehead dropped to hers. 

“I can’t—” His voice was strangled. “You—at that party, the way you… I watched you, and I—fuck. I couldn’t breathe.” 

She clung to him, breath shaking. “Babe—” 

“I love you,” he said, like it punched out of him. “I fucking love you, I—God, I don’t even—” He kissed her, messy, urgent, barely breathing. “You’re so good to me. Too good. I don’t—don’t deserve this—” 

His hips stuttered, losing rhythm, his forehead pressing tight to hers. 

“Try so hard. Every fucking day. To be better. For you. With you.” 

She cupped his face, grounding him. 

“You are,” she whispered. “You are, babe.” 

“I don’t wanna fuck this up,” he choked out. “I don’t wanna lose you again.” 

“You won’t.” She reached up, fingers stroking his jaw, anchoring him. “I love you. You’re everything.” 

That was it. His control shattered. He groaned, low and broken, and drove into her harder now—desperate, deep, each thrust wild and unfiltered, chasing her into the dark. 

When she came—shaking, gasping his name—he was right there with her, falling apart inside her, holding on like he could burn this moment into his skin. 

And afterward, when their bodies slowed and softened, when he collapsed over her, still inside, still trembling, he didn’t say anything else. 

Didn’t pull out. Didn’t move away. Hands at her waist, lips on her shoulder, like maybe if he held on tight enough, he could keep the whole world still. 

---- 

The apartment smelled like cinnamon and brown butter. Carmen was in the kitchen packing up the dessert—pear and frangipane tart, glossy and perfect—while Y/N sifted through a pile of wrapped gifts, mentally checking her list. 

“Fak, Richie, Nat, Sugar…” she murmured, nudging a red box into the bag. “Carmen…” 

He looked over. “You keep checking mine like I’m hard to shop for.” 

“You are hard to shop for,” she shot back. “But I nailed it this time. You’ll see.” 

He gave her a mock-suspicious look and zipped the pastry box shut. 

Audio Recording — December 24th 

“Okay, Christmas Eve update: I might have gone overboard with the presents. Carmen says we’re gonna need a dolly to carry them all to Nat’s. But everyone’s getting something that made me think of them, so… worth it. He’s in the kitchen now, humming some terrible version of ‘Let It Snow’—I think on purpose. We made dessert together, an there’s flour all over the counter. I kinda hope he cleans it before we leave. I don’t know, it’s just—everything feels good. Like… like I’ve got this little piece of happiness, and I want to freeze it. I’m really happy. I’m excited. And I’m so, so in love with him. I want to remember this version of us. Just in case.” 

She stood in the bathroom now, finishing her eyeliner. The air smelled faintly of cinnamon and Carm’s cologne—he’d just passed behind her a few minutes ago, muttering something about finding a belt. 

He came back in quietly, adjusting his sleeves. 

“You think this works?” he asked, looking down at his shirt. “Not too much?” 

She glanced up. 

And then… stilled. 

The shirt was light blue. Soft plaid. Familiar. 

Her breath hitched. 

“I—I know that shirt.” 

He paused. 

“I gave it to you,” she said slowly, “last Christmas. I remember—I thought it brought out your eyes. I found it at that place by the bridge, the one with the weird windows and the bell over the door. We were walking home and you kept teasing me for being cold but didn’t give me your jacket.” 

She laughed a little, shaky. “You wore it the next morning. You made coffee. You burned your hand on the kettle.” 

Carmen looked at her like the floor had dropped out beneath him. “Yeah,” he said. “That’s right.” 

Y/N’s hands gripped the edge of the sink. Her heart was racing now. 

“Is it… is it all coming back?” she asked, barely above a whisper. Her voice cracked. “Is this it?” 

He reached for her hand gently, grounding her. “I don’t know. But if it is—this is a beginning.” 

She nodded, though her brows were pulled together. “And if it’s not? What if this is all I get?” 

He didn’t hesitate. ““Then it’s still everything.” 

She looked up at him, vulnerable, unsure. 

Carmen squeezed her hand. “You—right now—are enough. I loved who you were. I love who you are. If all I get is this version of us? It’s still everything.” 

He paused, brushing a knuckle gently down her cheek. 

“There’s no recipe for remembering, babe,” he said softly. “No steps. No perfect timing. It just… happens. Or it doesn’t. But either way, I’m not going anywhere.” 

Y/N blinked, and a tear slipped down her cheek before she could stop it. “It’s a spark,” she whispered. “That moment—it’s blurry, but it’s there.” 

Carmen smiled, eyes glassy. “Then that’s something.” 

She nodded again, and this time her smile reached her eyes. “It is.” 

He pulled her into his arms, warm and steady, wrapping her tight against his chest. She sank into it, breathing him in, holding him like he was the only thing anchoring her—and maybe he was. 

They stood there for a long moment, just holding on. Not speaking. Just feeling. 

“Merry Christmas, Carm.” 

His voice cracked just slightly. “Merry Christmas, babe.” 

---- 

The living room glowed with soft yellow light, warm and a little chaotic in the best way. Nat moved from couch to armchair, passing around a tray of cookies shaped like stars and trees. Richie tried to sneak three at once, caught mid-grab by her sharp glare and swatted hand. 

The Christmas tree blinked unevenly in the corner—each ornament different from the next. Some glittered, others were clumsily painted by tiny hands years ago, a few clearly handmade by a child with too much glue and not enough patience. It didn’t match. But it told their story. Every crooked star and scratched bauble was part of this loud, loving, stitched-together family. 

Donna sat on the floor—on the floor—laughing as she tied a red velvet ribbon around her grandson’s head like a crown. He squealed with joy, arms waving, and Donna actually let him smear a cookie across her sweater without flinching. Nat caught the moment from across the room, her eyes going soft. 

And in the center of it all was the pile of wrapping paper, tissue, and ribbons, gifts opened and exclaimed over. 

Everyone had loved theirs—Y/N had made each by hand. A tiny spice box for Tina with labels in her handwriting. A painted frame for Sugar and Pete, with a picture she took of them at Cicero’s party tucked inside. A silly mug for Richie that said “World’s Okayest Cousin.” 

But Carmen’s was the one that made the room go quiet. 

He had opened it slowly, almost reverently: a navy-blue scrapbook, the cover soft at the edges from being handled too many times. Inside, it was filled with Polaroids and taped-in ticket stubs, café napkins, and clipped recipes in her handwriting. The pages told their story — not just the one she remembered, but the one she was still trying to piece together. 

There were photos from Milan — him holding a plate of saffron risotto with a proud, crooked smile; her seated at a tiny table outside, mid-laugh, a glass of white wine in hand. Some from Copenhagen — their bundled silhouettes reflected in the window of a bakery at dawn; Carmen kneeling to tie her boot in a snowy alley while she snapped a photo. 

Then the more recent ones — The Bear, glowing behind them at night; her curled on their living room floor, laughing beside board game; a blurred selfie of the two of them, Carmen half-asleep on their couch, his hand tangled in her hair. 

Some photos had little notes beside them in her handwriting — not full memories, just fragments. Guesses. Hopes. 

“I think we were happy here.”  “I hope you kissed me after this.”  “You look like you loved me.” 

At the back, blank pages waited. A folded card nestled in the pocket read: 

To the boy who never stopped loving me. Thank you for staying. Fill the rest together? 

Carmen didn’t speak at first. He just sat there, the scrapbook open in his lap, thumb grazing the edge of the envelope like it might disappear if he moved too fast. His eyes traced over her notes, lingered on each Polaroid like he was trying to memorize the curve of her smile, the shape of their past. 

When he finally looked up, his gaze was glassy but steady. 

Y/N stood a few steps away, unsure, breath caught halfway in her chest. 

He didn’t say a word. Just reached for her hand and tugged gently — a silent question. 

She came easily, settling into his lap, arms slipping around his shoulders. 

He buried his face in her neck, exhaled slow and deep. Then, soft, against her skin: “This is the best gift ever.” 

Her fingers threaded into his hair. “I tried my best, Carm. Hope you like it.” 

“I love it.” His voice caught. “I love you.”  

Then he kissed her — not urgent, not claiming. Just there. Full of gratitude, of love that had waited and endured. 

Now, she stood across the room, watching him talk quietly with Fak near the kitchen. His profile lit by the golden Christmas lights, sleeves pushed up to his forearms, that same light blue shirt she remembered. 

He looked up. 

Found her across the room. 

And smiled. 

Not the half-smile. Not the guarded one. The real one. The one that said I see you. I’m right here. 

She smiled back, a quiet breath escaping her. The memory still tingled at the back of her mind—not fully formed, but real. A piece of something that belonged to them. 

They didn’t have all the pieces. Not yet. 

But they had this. 

A glance. 

A promise. 

Something steady. 

Something true. 

And for now, it was enough. 

@coffeemin, @huh01011, @mryuyux, @nojamsonmytoast, @just-mj-or-not, @ravenouswild, @hipothetical-introvert, @yousigned-upforthis, @dayluxe, @hello-therree, @you-sunshine, @iloveramensm, @lazygirljulia, @ariiireads, @carmenberzattosgf, @nerawrites, @johnmurphys-sass, @zorrasucia, @j23r23, @sithdaya, @bexxs, @toowastelandtale, @gflrs, @bumb-lesy, @justbecause6, @juulifandom, @daisy-the-quake, @itsmadamehydra, @pfudorqueen, @asuperconfusedgirl, @jingjingyi, @sewerrat7984, @6-noir, @criesinlies, @beingalive1, @sydapril15, @cannonindeez, @smthgsmthgidk, @nommingonfood, @drowsyhobiiiidddd, @ssopeworld, @crazygirlinthisworld, @leminjelly, @carmysprincess, @zoenighshade555, @lostgirl219, @daydream-believer19, @longlivedelusion, @itskybabes-blog, @uwuuuuooo, @reengard, @devoutprincess, @forevercaffeinated-lee, @shannonbelle1457, @writttinggggggggggg, @undf-stuff, @tyferbebe, @spiderstyles04, @almostuniquecherryblossom, @justabovewater20, @silas-aeiou

[j23r23]

I need june 17th now!!!!

Im so sorry @azriona , It took me two days to read it because peanut is having a grow spurt and its mom 25/7 now and i can hardly get shit done....

But this was priority number 2 next to everything else😂

Reflections (of), Chapter Two

Steve Rogers x Reader x Bucky fic (eventual Stucky x Reader); Explicit; Post-Snap Endgame Fix-it. This chapter is 7.2k words; total word count is 24.5k. Chapter Three will be posted on June 17.

Thanks to @buckybarnesfic, @mrsbuckybarnes1917, and @probablybucky for the beta!

Summary:

You know Bucky would want you to find love again after he Vanished in the Blip. You don’t think he meant for you to fall in love with his best friend.

Chapter 1 on AO3 ~ Chapter 2 on AO3 ~ Masterlist of MCU fics on Tumblr

Chapter 1 on Tumblr

You don’t stop moving.

For a full day, you don’t stop moving.

The clinic is in uproar; immunizations are set aside, and the focus is spent on trauma and first-aid. The man who’d fallen from the long-complete construction project wasn’t the only person to have been injured on their Return. Bumps and bruises from people who walked into posts and benches and signs that hadn’t existed five years before. Sprained ankles and wrists from people who’d fallen from now non-existent stairs and wheelchairs and touring buses.

Children who’d Vanished, but their parents had not.

Parents who had Vanished, but their children had not.

Phones that no longer work, their associated numbers given to someone else.

There are reunions all day long. The clinic has long since run out of tissues.

There are scraped knees and elbows all day long. The clinic has long since run out of bandages.

And then… toward the end of the day, you catch a glimpse of the television. Of the news coming out of New York.

Of the Avengers Compound, destroyed. Flattened.

You stare, the swirl of people around you, more people than you’ve had around you in years, your chest rising and falling and rising and falling and…

Steve was in New York.

Steve… what did you do?

“Nurse Barnes!” shouts a doctor. “We need you over here.”

“Coming,” you say, and get back to work.

*

It’s late when you finally head back to the apartment.

There’s no messages on your phone—not from Steve, not from James. Not even from Natasha or Pepper. You’ve sent them, but apart from Pepper’s, the messages haven’t even downloaded to their phones.

And Friday is unresponsive, too. That’s the worst part, that’s the part that makes your blood run cold. The footage has been relentless all day, showing the aerial images of the Avengers Compound, now a blackened, smoldering wreck, unrecognizable.

Steve, please let me know you’re okay. Just a word. Anything.

The afternoon had been horrible enough, the world turned upside-down. People celebrating and grieving in turn. People returned to find their lives in shambles, those they’d left behind having moved on.

James, I… I missed you so much. I still do. And I love you so much, and I don’t know how to tell you—

Every man with dark hair was James.

Every man with blond hair was Steve.

By the end of it, you were barely able to function, between the stress and the worry and the exhaustion.

You rehearse on the walk home. James. I love you, but you died five years ago…

You’d always said you wanted me to move on if you didn’t come back…

I didn’t want to.

I wasn’t going to.

But I… I couldn’t help it.

I’m so sorry, I don’t know what—

You’re not sure what you’ll find when you arrive at the apartment. Part of you hopes that you’ll find one of them inside, waiting. Better than previous residents, anyway, newly Returned and confused.

But the apartment is quiet, exactly as you left it. Maybe Tony’s owned it so long, there wouldn’t have been anyone in it. It’s one spot of relief in an otherwise horrifically emotional day.

You sit on the couch and close your eyes and wait for the tears. Wait for the hysterics. But all you can manage are a few deep breaths.

The rip sounds like your heart being torn in two.

But no—it’s a circle of fire, and destruction on the other side, and stepping through is…

“Hey, beautiful,” says James, exactly like you forgot he sounded.

There’s dirt on the edges of his face, like he’d tried to clean it off and did a terrible job of it. There’s a cut on his forehead that’s bled through the bandage. Exhaustion on the corners of his eyes, but his smile bursts through, warm and sure and relieved.

Every doubt and question you’ve had is immediately left with your coat on the floor, and you step into his arms, smelling the newly-familiar scent of him, feeling the briefly unfamiliar grip of metal against your back. You fit against him, and it doesn’t take more than a moment for your body to mold itself to his.

Smoke and ash and leather and sweat. He’s warm, and the stubble on his cheeks catches on your hair, pulling it from its bun, scratching against your scalp. You can’t stop trembling, touching him, moving your hands on every part of his body.

“Hey, there, it’s fine, I’m fine,” James murmurs. “Never felt a thing.”

“Liar,” you gasp, pulling back and touching the bandage on his forehead gently. “What happened?”

“Halfway to healed already.”

You pull it off anyway; he’s not entirely wrong, but you frown anyway at the ragged bits of skin that haven’t quite matched up. “Did you even clean it first? You can still get a scar, you know.”

“I wasn’t the worst off.” But he follows you, hand tight in yours, as you drag him into the kitchen to sit on the bar stool while you assemble what you’ll need.

The kitchen falls quiet as you dampen a cloth to clean the area, but you know James hasn’t stopped staring at you. You let him; it’s his favorite pastime, or was before.

You’re gently dabbing at the dirt, straight up into his hairline, when he speaks in a soft whisper.

“I was right.”

“About what?”

“Always said you were more beautiful by the day, and here you are, not one day later, and you’re the most beautiful I’ve ever seen.”

Your chest seizes and your chin trembles. “Your morning was five years ago, James.”

“Yeah. Proves me right.”

You shake your head. “I’ve got grey in my hair.”

He reaches up and catches your cheek in his flesh hand. There’s grit on his fingers, and when you touch the back of his hand, you can feel the scabs where the skin’s been broken and recently healed.

“Beautiful,” he says firmly. Something in your chest eases, new-old hurt and loss remembered. Hearing his voice is like coming home.

It’s so easy to lean in and kiss him. Chapped lips that sting against your skin, mouth that tastes like smoke and whiskey.

“Say it again,” you whimper into his mouth, rubbing your thumb along his cheek.

“Beautiful,” he whispers, like he was the one who missed you, he was the one who’d lived five years without hearing the endearment echo. “Beautiful, beautiful.”

He lifts you in his arms and carries you from the kitchen, spinning a little in the unfamiliar apartment.

“Where do you want me, beautiful?” he says into the kiss, laughing when you wave wildly behind you—hopefully in the direction of the bedroom.

The whole world is James, settling you on the bed, hands on your skin, under your clothes, stripping you both until you’re naked against each other. Every scar is just as you remember it; every plane of his chest and curve of his hip, the weight of his cock in your hand, the join of metal arm to scarred tissue of his shoulder.

His mouth on your breasts, his thigh between your legs, the rush of pleasure that curls in your stomach, the warmth wetness as he presses against your sex.

“No,” you whimper, “James, I—”

“Let me love you, beautiful. It’s been too long.”

You groan and throw your head back, because he’s not wrong, and every touch of his fingers is a caress, is reverent, is love and care and devotion.

Every press of his lips is a promise, an apology you never thought you’d get for something that was never his fault in the first place.

He kisses you, soft and sweet, and it’s impossible not to push up into it, desperate and wanting and deep in your heart, scared for the person you’ve become in his absence.

“Shh, love,” he soothes you, rolling so that he covers you, holding you down, trying to calm the anxious nerves that have you bucking up against him, pushing him and trying to get him to move faster, press harder, take you instead of the soft, gentle loving that he’s always given you before.

“Please, please,” you groan, desperate. “I need… it’s been so long—”

“All right, all right,” he says, startled into speeding up, into holding you down as he slides into you, kisses and suckles at your neck, fingers pressing a little harder into your breasts.

It’s good. It’s not quite right… but it’s good, it fills an ache in you that you’d forgotten you had, the way he cherishes you, the way he kisses down your neck and soothes the marks he hasn’t left on your body.

You shove him, flip him onto his back; he laughs with a joyful, “Easy, tiger!” that makes you want to growl at him.

But even then, he takes the rough kiss you give him, easing it into something softer, sweeter, his fingers in your hair, soothing the confusion and worry away, leaving you a trembling, fragile thing in his arms, a gentle lover caressing the familiar curves and planes of his body, the slide of his body into yours.

It’s slow, it matches the ache of your heart and the brightness of your remembered desire. You’re crying long before you come, long before he wipes the tears away, snuggled in his arms, catching your breath as your body trembles after its release.

Darkness has fallen outside; the only light spills in from the open doorway to the outer rooms of the apartment. James maps your body in soft touches, running his fingers over every curve, surely cataloguing every difference five years has left on you.

You stretch and move to let him look, fingers walking their path from your stomach, past your breasts, across your shoulders, down your arms, to twine between your fingers, where they pause to run up and down every one.

He circles your bare ring finger, and you tuck your head in the crook of his neck.

“It’s in New York,” you murmur into his skin. “It was too hard to look at it every day.”

“I’ll put it back on you when we go home,” he says, reassuring. “Unless…”

You go still, and he does too, until he shifts to look at you quietly.

“You took it off for someone else.”

You try to smile, because of course, he can read you so well. “I took it off before him, though.”

He nods, breathing deep. “Did you fall in love with him?”

You close your eyes, and squeeze them when the instant memory is too painful. “I thought I did. Thought he loved me, too. Except…”

James exhales slow. “Someone come back for him, too?”

Your laugh is wry. “You could say that, yeah. Haven’t heard from him all day. I’m not entirely sure what I’d say, so maybe it’s better that way?”

“No,” says James quietly, as though it’s not even a consideration. As though he’s condemning the unknown man, sight unseen. “I’m sorry, beautiful. He could have at least reached out.”

You nod, letting his sympathy settle on your skin. It feels like sorrow, like mourning. Like warmth.

“Do I still have a chance, with you?”

Your eyes fly open. “James—”

“We can take it slow,” he continues. “Because I love you as much now as I did this morning. And I’m hoping you don’t love me five years less.”

You shake your head. “You are such an idiot,” you grumble, pulling him into your kiss, feeling his arms wrap around you, holding you tight. “I missed you every. day. And I love you every day, so don’t even think for a minute that you have to start at the beginning.”

“Good,” he whispers into your mouth, and he loves you all over again.

*

It’s later. So much later:

“You saw the footage of the Compound?”

You nod, your mouth going dry. Suddenly afraid of what he might tell you, who’s waiting for you back in New York.

“Not sure how much of it is left under the rubble,” continues James. “But I don’t think it’s a lot.”

Part of you relaxes, just enough. “Oh. I… ah, I moved. I’ve got an apartment in the Bronx. The ring’s there. And Alpine.”

“Al,” says James. “He’s okay?”

“Yeah. I texted with the neighbors earlier, he’s fine. They’ve got him. Lived in the building the last decade, no one’s trying to reclaim their place.”

“That happening?”

You nod. “Someone’s in mine now. Ted says they’re good people, though, I told him to let them know they can stay for a while. Just not to hock my stuff.”

James slides his fingers down the side of your hand, around your wrist down your arm, up to your face. “Just you and Al, huh? In that apartment, in the Bronx?”

He’ll hear your heart speed up. You nod. “Just him and me.”

“Not your new guy?”

You shake your head. “No.”

“Al hate him too much?”

You giggle. “Al loves him.”

“Traitor,” says James into your hair, and you laugh against his shoulder. “Starting to rethink what I always told you, about moving on if I ever kicked it.”

You lift your head to look at him, but he’s got a wry smile on his face.

“I mean, if you picked some asshole who can’t even bother picking up a phone when I show up again.”

“He’s probably busy,” you whisper.

“Still an asshole,” says James firmly, rubbing his thumb under your cheek, brushing the hair back from your face. “You cryin’, beautiful?”

“You were dead.”

“Not the first time,” he says, because he’s a jerk and you love him. “Came back that time, too, though.”

You laugh and bury your face in his neck again, wrapping your arms tight around him. “I’ve got grey hair.”

“I’ll dye mine to match and finally look my age.”

“I’ve got love-handles now.”

“Something for me to hold onto, good.”

“I’m in perimenopause, James, it’s awful.”

“Saves on birth control,” says James reasonably. “Come on, doll, let me look at you.”

You squeeze him, afraid to let go. “No. What if you disappear again?”

“Won’t happen. Thanos is gone for good this time.”

There’s a catch in his voice, and you shift, your heart hurting even more. “I know. Thor killed him, five years ago.”

“Yeah.” James’s voice is rough. “I don’t have the whole story. But he was there too, when Bruce Snapped us back.”

“Bruce? Oh my god…”

“He’s fine. He’ll be fine.”

As if there’s someone who won’t be.

Your heart twists. “Who…?”

But James doesn’t say anything.

And now you do pull away, staring horrified at James’s face. “James. Who?”

James swallows, hard.

And you know. Or you think you do.

You shake him. “Who,” you nearly shout.

“Natasha,” he says, strangled.

Your heart falls, catches itself, falls again.

“I don’t know how, except she did it to get us back, somewhere off-world. And—”

Your heart stops again, waiting.

“Stark. He snapped so Thanos and his army would Vanish. They’re gone. They’re not coming back.”

You slump against him, heart still hammering hard. “Poor Pepper. And Morgan, oh no.”

“Yeah.” He kisses your head as you squeeze your eyes closed, afraid to ask any more. “I’m sorry it took so long. But Steve said you were safe here, and there were a lot of people trying to get where they were needed more—”

Steve.

“Steve’s okay?” you say, your voice trembling.

“Yeah.” James laughs, incredulous. “You know he used Mjolnir? Swingin’ it around like the punk’s been able to pick it up all along. Damndest thing I ever saw.”

You laugh, relieved, exhausted, teary.

“Only who is worthy!” Thor had laughed that evening in the Tower, the last evening in the Tower, and Steve had smiled quietly after his try, not that he’d been able to budge it, either.

“Steve had that Strange doc send me here as soon as he could,” James continues. “He said you’d want to see me.”

“That jerk,” you whisper, ready to cry.

“Was he wrong?”

“No,” you mumble into his skin, even as he wraps his arms around you, soft hushing in your ear, kisses along your hair and your neck and your shoulder. His hands roaming up and down your back, rolling so that he covers youagainwith the body you remember now, every scar and mark beloved and only barely forgotten.

Because that’s the horrible, wretched, truth of it:

You love him. You still love James, you still want him next to you, in you. You twine your fingers with his and cry out when he slides into you again, moves against you as if he still cherishes you, still thinks of you as only his.

Steve wasn’t wrong.

And most of the time, you love how well Steve knows you, but right now, you hate it, too. Because Steve knew you’d want to see James immediately, that he sent James to you, without another word, the moment he could.

That he’s giving you this space to be together.

That he’s apparently said nothing to James, except that you were safe, that you’d be waiting.

“Love you, love you, love you,” murmurs James to you, over and over, and you…

“Love you,” you whisper back, and every word is as true now as it was five years before.

It’s good. It’s not quite right… but it’s good, it fills an ache in you that you’d forgotten you had, the way he cherishes you, the way he kisses down your neck and soothes the marks he hasn’t left on your body.

And soothed… you sleep.

*

The world is still upside-down in the morning.

International travel is a mess; so many of the Returned are displaced, without their identifying documents, without homes, without money. Some don’t have families waiting.

Some don’t have anything waiting.

You wake to James’s voice in the outer room, and you’re so disorientated that it takes a moment to remember you’re in a borrowed apartment in Canberra, and not your old apartment in the Compound, five years before.

You listen as you wrap yourself in a blanket and pad out to the living room to see James on the landline, talking as he stares out the window.

“…makes sense. We’re safe here, anyway. Yeah. I don’t know, I’ll have to ask her about it. She said there was someone in her place already.”

You sit on the couch behind him, tucking your feet under the blanket, unable to take your eyes off him. He’s dressed lightly; the tight black t-shirt he wears under his uniform jacket, his tactical pants, no socks, belt loose.

And he’s showered; his hair is damp, as is the back of his shirt where the water dripped.

“I don’t know, would she even want me at the funeral? I mean, I’d understand if she didn’t. Well, ask her, you big lug, you’ve got words, use them.”

It occurs to you, with a start, that he might be younger than you now. Sort of, anyway, if you strip away the frozen years, not that he ever does. If he was a hundred and one when he Vanished, and it’s five years on… is he a hundred and six now? Or would he still be a hundred and one?

“Okay, Stevie, we’ll sit tight. Yeah. I’ll tell her. Thanks.”

Your breath catches at Steve’s name, and you almost speak, asking for the phone—but James ends the call before you can, and turns to you.

“Hey, beautiful, good morning. Did I wake you?”

You shake your head. “What’s going on?”

James sighs and drops the phone on the nearest surface, running his hand over his hair as he comes to join you. “Steve wanted to give me an update on New York. Stark’s funeral is next week, but he’s not sure he can get Strange’s help getting us home that fast, and the airlines are a mess.”

“I should be there,” you say. “Pepper’s the one who gave me this job. And this is their apartment. SI’s apartment, anyway.”

James pulls you close. “Then we’ll get you there, however we have to.” He’s quiet. “Steve sounded exhausted. I don’t think he’s slept the last week, let alone last night.”

You turn your face into James’s chest, breathe in the scent still lingering on his shirt. Ash and smoke and sweat, because your heart is twisting for Steve, worrying about him, where he’d even have spent the night, with the Compound destroyed…

Mourning Tony and Natasha alone. Trying to navigate the growing public anger about what the Avengers did and didn’t do to prevent or cause what’s happening now. And doing it all knowing you’re on the other side of the world, where he’s sent your husband back to you.

Nothing else. Not a single word, not a sign, nothing.

James’s arms circle you, holding you close. “Self-destructive punk. Could swear he sent me here just so I wouldn’t be there to force him to sleep a few hours.”

You laugh—or try to, because it’s too close to crying.

“Hey, shh,” soothes James, stroking your hair. “Bet Wilson does it for me, anyway.”

“Sam’s back?”

“Yeah, Sam’s back.” James presses a kiss to your hair, and then another. And then another. “How many of these do you have, anyway.”

“James, are you kissing my grey hairs?”

“Nope.” He drops two more kisses.

“You are.”

“Can’t help it. Little late if you were trying to match the old arm, though.”

“James.”

He pushes you back down on the couch, kissing down your face from your temple to your neck. You sigh into the kisses, soft and secure and safe. “I have work.”

He groans in the back of his throat, then kisses your mouth. “When?”

“Ten?”

“Not for hours,” he says, satisfied, and keeps moving down, down, down, down…

You come on his tongue, sunlight streaming in through the windows, hands in his hair, his name on your lips.

And when you’re well away from the apartment, nearly at work, you look at your phone.

No new messages.

Your heart, newly healed, breaks again.

*

That evening, you and James go shopping, so he can wear something other than his tactical gear. You aren’t the only ones purchasing full sets of clothes for bewildered, shocked Returnees.

The grocery store is equally strange, people purchasing formula for babies gone longer than they were alive. Exclaiming over how much milk a teenaged boy will drink in a single sitting. Shocked by what isn’t on the shelves, even more so to hear of shortages lasting years. Buying cakes in celebration, and grumbling when it turns out their preferred chip flavor has been discontinued.

James flinches when the fireworks start, his arm already over your shoulder as you walk back to the apartment. You put your arm around his waist and give him a gentle squeeze.

“You okay?”

“Yeah,” he says. “Not too bad from here, anyway.”

It’s distant enough that the bangs aren’t much more than gentle pops, but you can see the flashes of color between the buildings, several miles away. They’re pretty enough, and you almost find yourself heading toward them, before James’s arm pulls you back.

“Sorry,” he says, a bit sheepish, and you shrug and shake your head, returning to him. “We can go watch, if you want.”

“No,” you tell him, snuggling back under his arm. “Just… I forgot.”

He’s quiet as you continue walking, but not for long. “He hasn’t called yet, has he?”

You breathe deep. “No. He hasn’t.”

James nods quietly. “Do you want to call him?”

“Yes. No. I don’t know. What if he doesn’t respond?”

“Then he’s an asshole and you’ll have your answer,” says James without preamble.

“Anyway, it doesn’t matter,” you say. “I have you. That’s all I need.”

James squeezes his arm around you and kisses the top of your head, but it’s a full half block before he speaks again. “Were there a lot of fireworks? The last five years?”

“Yeah. I mean, not more than usual. Less, really, because production went down, so it was harder to get them. Harder to ship them. Harder to set them off, too, ‘cause half the people who knew how were gone, and half the firefighters who could keep it safe were gone, too.”

James is quiet, walking, his head bowed. Thinking, you’re sure.

“Does… does it feel like five years?” you ask, careful.

“It never did,” he says. “Every time I came out of cryo, it felt like I’d just closed my eyes for a second. Until I left the facility, and saw the clothes on people. The hairstyles. Listened to the music.”

He glances around the street; it looks normal to you, apart from being Australia, anyway. The voices and the laughter, even the music floating down from the parties being hosted in the apartments above.

“The clothes are the same,” he continues. “And the hair. But I haven’t heard a song I recognize yet.”

You laugh. “How many songs have you heard in the last day?”

“Enough to know none of ‘em are any good for dancing,” grumbles James, but he pulls you into his arms anyway, because the song fades into the next. “Well. This one’s not bad.”

You smile and rest your head on his chest, fingers curled around his metal hand as you sway to the familiar tune.

Well. Familiar to you, if not to him.

“This one’s mostly danceable,” you murmur.

For a while there, it was rough But lately, I’ve been doin’ better Than the last four cold Decembers I recall… [X]

“Not bad, so far,” agrees James, wrapping his flesh arm a little tighter around you. His voice is a little absent, like he’s listening to the words, and you let him, because it’s nice, the way you’re swaying together, the music softly floating down your heads.

And I thank God every day For the girl he sent my way…

“I still see you,” he says, somewhat abruptly, still swaying with you.

You turn your face to look up at him. “Huh?”

“You. You say you’ve changed, the last five years, and I know you have, I see it on you. But… I still see the woman I fell in love with in you. The woman I married. The woman I still want beside me. The only thing that didn’t change in the last five years was me.”

But there’s no man as terrified As the man who stands to lose you

“James—”

“You were doin’ fine without me, beautiful. Do you even still want me in your life? Because I’m… I didn’t change with you. And maybe—”

Oh please, I hope I don’t lose you…

Up on your toes, hand at the back of his neck, pulling him down into the kiss. The swaying stilled, your lips as full of reassurance and love and want as you can possibly make them.

You don’t know if it’s enough, only that your heart is hurting, maybe as hard as his is, given the way he tightens his hold around you, kisses you back with as much verve and desperation as you feel yourself.

“I missed you every. day,” you tell him, shoving every word through the knot in your throat, because you have to make sure he hears it. “Can you still love me, if I’m so different?”

He kisses you again, lifting you into the kiss so your toes only graze the pavement. “Not that different,” he says, ragged. “Not to me.”

“I am though.”

“No.”

“I’ll change back.” You don’t know where the words come from—and once they’re said, you aren’t even sure if you mean them.

“No,” he says, rougher, the kiss turning almost feral in a way you don’t really recognize.

Not from him, anyway.

But it’s enough to reassure you, you don’t have to make good on the suggestion, and that eases the horror of having said them.

There’s a wolf whistle that floats down to the street along with the music. “Aw, yeah, get it, man!” yells someone, and you both break the kiss in surprise. You start laughing almost immediately. “Which one of you came back?”

“He did,” you call up.

“Then take him home, girl!” yells another voice from the same window. “Show ‘em how much you missed him!”

“That’s the plan!” James yells back up to them before grinning at you.

You don’t run back to the apartment building, but you don’t dally, either. Hand in hand, stopping for smiles and kisses, and when you finally fall into each other in the dark of the bedroom, you waste no time in pulling off his shirt, his pants, everything, shoving him onto the bed as he laughs.

“I like the new you,” he breathes as you crawl over him, wrapping his hand around your head and drawing you in for a kiss.

“I like the old you,” you tell him, working your way down from his mouth to his neck, his chest, his stomach, his dick, already warm and thick and straining for you. His hand stays where it is, tangled in your hair, as you suck him off, just to hear the groans and gasps.

“Beautiful, I—”

“Just doing what I’m told,” you say sweetly, before sucking him back in again.

Fuck, you think he whispers, right before he comes in the back of your throat. Too much, really; he’s laughing when he draws you up to kiss you, even as you’re wiping your mouth and coughing, like he doesn’t care that he’s kissing himself off your lips.

Afterwards, lying in each other’s arms, drowsy and sated and muscles pleasantly entwined:

“Five years or five minutes,” says James softly into your skin, “I can’t imagine a version of you I wouldn’t love and want beside me.”

You tuck your face into his chest, unable to speak.

“But seeing as how you aren’t convinced, maybe we should do it this way,” he continues, and shifts until he sitting up in the bed next to you.

“I’m not exactly opposed to how we just did it.”

“Not what I meant, beautiful.” He holds out his hand, as if to offer it for a shake. “Hi. I’m James Buchanan Barnes, ex-assassin and current—well, probably current, I haven’t been on the payroll for a while so maybe I’m unemployed. Anyway, former Avenger. And you are?”

You laugh, reaching to shake his hand. “Your wife?”

He nudges you with his foot, and you laugh, sitting up and tucking the sheet around your chest, which makes James raise an eyebrow.

“None of that,” you say haughtily. “I don’t sleep with anyone on the first date, and you don’t even know my name, Mr. Barnes.”

James grins at you, shaking your hand. “Sure I do. Says Nurse Barnes right there on your nametag.”

“And I certainly don’t sleep with patients.”

“Oh,” says James, amused, leaning in a little closer to you. “Good thing I never get sick.”

“Mr. Barnes, are you asking me out on a date?”

“I’ve been told I’m very charming, Nurse Barnes.”

“I don’t think I fall for charming,” you say, leaning in to him.

“Guess I’ll have to try something else, then.” James’s voice is more breath than anything; eyes already at half mast, a smile on his face. You can’t stop smiling at him, and he knows it.

You can’t help but lean closer in—and he knows that, too. You’re falling, all over again.

You’re not sure you ever stopped, exactly. Just… paused. For five years.

“Can’t wait to see what you’ve got planned, Mr. Barnes,” you say, loving the sparkle in his eyes, the smile on his lips, the scent of his skin. “Since I don’t date patients.”

“Do you marry them?”

“Well.”

“Yeah?”

“Maybe once.”

“Good to know,” says James, right before he pulls you in for a kiss.

*

You overhear James on the phone when you wake up the next morning, but you’re already running late so you jump into the shower and dress before going to investigate.

James is still on the phone when you come out, standing by the windows and laughing. You smile, because he looks so happy and relaxed in the sunlight. You stop and just stare at him for a moment, committing the image to memory.

“Oh, hey, beautiful,” says James, his eyes lighting up even more when he sees you. “Stevie, she’s awake now, if you want to—”

Your heart hammers in your chest; the tips of your fingers grow cold.

Talking to Steve… what could you possibly even say?

Thanks for sending my husband to me, we’ve been having loads of sex and I don’t feel the least bit guilty about any of it, actually, because clearly this is what you wanted, you big jerk. Or did I not mean anything to you at all?

But it doesn’t matter, because James’s face falls almost instantly. “Oh, sure. No, that’s fine, go find out what’s going on. Yeah. Talk to you later, pal.”

Your heart slows, and you head into the kitchen, mostly so James won’t see the way your hands are shaking. “Everything okay?” you call over your shoulder.

“Yeah, just something with the funerals,” says James, following you. “He’s trying to make sure we can get back in time. Might have to pull a few strings. Do a few favors for Strange.”

You nod as you pour yourself a coffee. “I heard from SI, they said we can stay here for another two weeks at least, but they’re not sure after that.”

“Hopefully won’t be that long. I’m supposed to head to the embassy today, though, try to get a temporary passport, just in case we end up flying commercial.”

“Ugh.” You wrap your arms around his waist. “I’m sorry, that’s going to be a nightmare and a half.”

“At least I won’t have too much trouble proving my identity.” He kisses your head. “Steve said he stopped by your place to check on Alpine.”

You stiffen—and the moment you realize you have, you back away before James can notice. “Oh. That was nice of him.”

“Said the couple in your place are taking good care of it. A little shell-shocked, but that’s kind of par for the course, I gather.”

You nod, stirring the sugar into your coffee and taking too big of a sip of the too-hot drink.

“Is everything okay between you two?”

“Sure. Why wouldn’t it be?”

“Well. Just feels a little like you’re avoiding one another.”

You scoff. “He’s in New York, I’m in Australia. It’s not like we can exactly run into each other on the street, Jamie.”

James doesn’t say anything; when you turn around again, he’s giving you one of his looks, the sort that says he’s willing to wait out your stubbornness.

“And even when I’m home, he’s up at the Compound and I’m in the city,” you continue firmly. “We’re both busy, he’s got his work and I’ve got mine. And we’re always traveling. We might have lunch if he���s in the city, and maybe I see him if I’m visiting Pepper at the cabin, but…”

You shrug. “We have our own lives.”

Which is why he wanted me to move to the Compound. And then he reversed the Snap and sent you here, so maybe he changed his mind about that. About me.

“I guess I had this idea you’d have helped each other,” says James slowly.

“He did. He helped move me and Alpine when I couldn’t stay at the Compound anymore. And he checked in on me, made sure I was okay.” You set down your coffee cup and go to James, wrapping your arms around him. “We weren’t ignoring each other, I promise.”

“So you’re not avoiding him.”

“I don’t know why I would,” you say, burying your face in his chest. “He’s your best friend. I’m your wife. It’s not like we ever hated each other.”

Very much the opposite, in fact.

James wraps his arms around you. “Guess I don’t like the idea of you being alone the last five years.”

“I wasn’t. I had Alpine.”

“And some asshole who hasn’t even called you yet.”

You’re quiet and still against him. “Please… please don’t. He has his reasons.”

James sighs and kisses the top of your head. “Sorry.”

He sounds it, too. You squeeze your arms around him, a bit tighter.

“Alpine start liking you better, though?”

“Nope.”

James laughs, and kisses you, and you both head out shortly afterwards: you to the clinic, and he to the embassy.

You wait until you’re in the nurse’s lounge, where there’s no windows and no one to see, before you check your phone.

No new messages. You push down the hurt and the anger and the frustration, put the phone back in your purse, and go to do your job.

*

“Okay, but… what does James say?” asks your sister when you’re done with the crying part of the telephone call. You’d be embarrassed having this call in the middle of Canberra as you walk home, except it feels like every other person on the street is also having the same call, private conversations that are only private from people who Returned to find their lives wildly out of context from what they’d known before. “You did tell him, didn’t you?”

“Of course I didn’t tell him,” you hiss at her. “Steve didn’t tell him.”

“He’s your husband!”

“Steve’s his best friend! And he’s the one responsible for all of this—”

“I knew it! I knew they had something to do with this—”

You groan and rub your forehead. “Rache…”

“Oh, come on, the Compound’s a pile of ash, and there’s a movement to deify Tony Stark. It doesn’t take a genius,” snaps Rachel.

“I don’t actually know anything, okay.”

“Say that again.”

“Shut up.”

“Honey, you have to got to talk to him.”

“Which one?”

“Well, both of them, preferably. What’s Steve’s excuse for not saying anything?”

“I don’t know.”

“Didn’t you ask?”

“No! He hasn’t said anything since before the Return. The last message I got was from five days ago and it was a picture of the tacos he had for dinner.”

“Shit,” breathes Rachel.

“I know.”

“I liked him.”

You sigh and slump over the railing over the bridge. “I know.”

There’s a voice from Rachel’s end, and you listen to the muffled conversation she has while you try to get your own thoughts in order.

“Okay, I’m back, sorry.”

“It’s fine. How’s Elliot?”

“Confused and scared and really angry, which I guess makes sense, his little brother and sister are each a head taller than him now, and instead of being the oldest, he’s the baby. He keeps asking where they are even when they’re right there, because he doesn’t recognize them. And they don’t even really remember him. I’ve been trying to find a therapist but surprise, surprise, they’re booked solid for the next century.”

“Poor kid,” you muse. “Let me ask around, maybe Pepper can help.”

“She has enough to deal with,” says Rachel. “Elliot knows his Uncle Bucky Vanished, too, though, I think he’d like to see him. Just to know not everyone’s changed. Assuming you guys are still a thing, anyway.”

Your heart seizes. “Wha—why wouldn’t we be a thing? What’s that supposed to mean? We’re married, Rache.”

“I know that, but—”

“You were my maid of honor—”

“I know. But that was five years ago, sis, and you were two seconds from moving in with Steve Rogers.”

“I still love James,” you say, angry. “That hasn’t changed.”

“Okay,” says Rachel, sounding reasonable, which is possibly her most annoying trait.

“Just because I was dating Steve doesn’t mean I’m going to dump James!”

“Yeah, got that.”

“I mean, Steve hasn’t even contacted me—he’s the one who told James how to find me!”

“Mm-hmm.”

“You are being way too supportive right now,” you hiss. “Why are you suddenly agreeing with everything I’m saying? What aren’t you saying, Rachel?!?”

“Just… you haven’t told Bucky about dating Steve, is all. It’s a little like you think you have to hide it.”

“Uh, because maybe telling my ex-assassin husband that while he was dead, I fell for his best friend is maybe not the best idea?”

“Which is why you have to tell him. He’s going to figure it out the minute you and Steve are back in the same room together, because you are both shit liars.”

“Fuck,” you whisper, knowing it’s true.

“You know he wouldn’t hurt either of you, anyway.”

“I cheated on James with his best friend. What kind of person am I?”

“Honey. He was gone, okay? Whatever happened between you and Steve… that wasn’t cheating, because Bucky wasn’t there to be cheated on. That was just… life. But you have to talk to him. Both of them.”

Your sigh is shaky, riddled with unshed tears. “What if he doesn’t see it that way?”

Rachel is quiet for a moment. “Well. Then I make good on that shovel talk, I guess.”

You burst into teary laughter. “Rache. You did not give Bucky Barnes a shovel talk.”

“I sure as hell did. And he believed me, too. Even gave me a knife to use.”

“He didn’t!”

“Honey, I love you. Even if your current life is straight out of Penthouse Letters right now.”

“Oh my god.”

“But you have to talk to them. And then, whatever happens, come home. Okay?”

“Okay,” you whisper.

“And give that man five years of hugs and kisses from all of us, okay?”

“Same to Elliot. Same to you.”

James pokes his head out from the kitchen when you come into the apartment ten minutes later. “Hey! I was beginning to get worried.”

“Rachel called, I guess I slowed down to talk to her.”

“Yeah? How’s she?”

“Good. Stressed.” You slowly take off your coat. “Elliot’s having a hard time adjusting.”

“Poor kid.” James doesn’t look up from the pan. “The other two—I didn’t even really recognize them in those pictures you showed me. They’re so big. Is it awful that Elliot still being four makes me feel better?”

You wrap your arms around him from behind and press your nose into his spine. “No. I think he’s the same. Rachel says he’s been asking for you.”

“We’ll go visit as soon as we can leave,” promises James, right as he flicks the stovetop off and turns to kiss you. “Hungry?”

“No,” you tell him, and you slide your hand into his jeans before kissing him back.

*

It’s late, or it’s early, you’re not sure which.

But James sleeps in the bed, and you’re in the living room, sitting by the window, staring at your phone, where the last message from Steve came in a week ago. A picture of tacos, just like you told Rachel.

Wish you were here to steal one, he’d written with the picture.

Maybe he hasn’t written to you.

But you haven’t written to him, either.

You take a breath, and type.

We need to talk. Please, Steve.

*

It’s almost exactly twenty-four hours later when there’s a knock on the door. You might not have even heard it, except you’re awake again, sitting by the window, staring at your too-quiet phone while James sleeps in the next room.

You open the door, heart pounding, to see Steve waiting on the other side.

Chapter Three will be posted on Tuesday, June 17.

Also available on AO3 ~ Masterlist of MCU fics

[j23r23]

Just chefs kiss 😘👌🏻

The Menu Masterlist

Breakfast 🥐

Lunch 🥧

Take Out 🥡

Coffee 🍵

Dinner 🍽️

Midnight Snack 🍯

Brunch 🥞

Please note, may contain sugar. Don't forget to tip your hostess with reblogs and ALWAYS ask for second helpings!

Main Masterlist

Bucky Barnes Masterlist

[j23r23]

Intrigued by the summary, reblogging to read later!

Dangerously Close Masterlist

Bucky Barnes x Reader

Summary: Bucky & Y/N are undeniably attracted to each other. Seemingly the only way these two are getting together is with some extreme meddling.

Themes: mutual pining, teasing teammates, possessive Bucky, Thunderbolts chaos, friends-to-lovers-but-stupid about it, pining (a lot)

🔴 MINORS DNI 🔴 Warnings: 18+ content, eventual smut, dirty talk, praise kink, jealousy, soft aftercare, pwp, piv sex, unprotected sex

📌 Sign Up for TAGLIST

Chapter 1 - Part I | Part II | Part III

Chapter 2 - Part I | Part II | Part III

Chapter 3 - Part I | Part II | Part III

Epilogue

[j23r23]

Okey I've just read it...

Holy mother of fanfiction 😱

I'm reading sentence by sentence and it just keeps getting better and better and funny and sweet and real in-between and it pulls on my heart strings and i open up my calendar to see when the 10th is and its another week of waiting for the next chapter i just.... *screaming into the void because im feeling so many emotions and rocking back and forth because i cant wait that long*

Reflections (of), Chapter 1

Steve Rogers x Reader x Bucky fic (eventual Stucky); Explicit; Post-Snap Endgame Fix-it. This chapter is 9.8k words; total word count is 24.5k. Chapter Two will be posted on June 10; Chapter Three will be posted on June 17.

Thanks to @buckybarnesfic, @mrsbuckybarnes1917, and @probablybucky for the beta!

Summary:

You know Bucky would want you to find love again after he Vanished in the Blip. You don’t think he meant for you to fall in love with his best friend.

Also available on AO3 ~ Masterlist of MCU fics

“It’ll be okay,” says James, as if the battle on the outskirts of Wakanda’s capital city, above the protective dome, hasn’t already begun.

The metal of his left hand is cool on the back of your neck, his forehead pressed to yours, so close you feel him vibrate from anticipation. Your eyes are closed, you struggle to keep your fear at bay; you twist your fingers in the straps at his shoulders.

He kisses you, quickly. If you hold tight enough, maybe he won’t go.

Not that you would stop him. You’d made your own promises, after all, when you married him.

“It’ll be okay,” he says again, as Sam yells for him to hurry. “Just gimme a minute, Wilson!”

“Kiss her when it’s over!” Sam yells back.

James squeezes the back of your neck, gentle, and you give him a nod, pressing your lips together tight, smiling as best you can, because of all the promises you made, it’s the hardest to keep.

Smile when I go, beautiful, and I’ll carry it with me ‘til I come back.

He goes, running after Sam, and you head straight back into the basement of the Eternal City’s Medical Center, where children cry into their mothers’ shoulders, the injured groan and clutch bleeding limbs, other nurses assessing the wounded and trying desperately to help with what limited resources are available under the battle.

“Nurse Barnes!” shouts one of the doctors, and you answer, every time.

You bandage and soothe, hand out medications and pain-killers, help those with worse injuries to the doctors, and you’ve lost track of time when the person under your fingers turns to ash.

When the person next to them turns to ash.

When the screaming and moaning and crying changes tone, leaving confusion in its wake.

It’ll be okay, James had said. Reassuring. Comforting.

But it’s Steve who finds you so many hours later, where you sit numb on the steps of the Medical Center, waiting for your husband to come back with your smile.

Steve stops, several steps down, eye-level so you can see exactly the haunting that rests on his shoulders, the way his mouth opens and closes and he has no words.

You shake your head and pull the cardigan closer around you, curling in on yourself.

It’ll be okay, James whispered into your hair.

Steve sits heavily next to you, and you cry into the dust on his chest, the only chill the dampness of his tears in your hair.

It’ll be okay, your husband had promised. It’ll be okay.

It’s a lie.

*

Six months later

“Come on, Alpine,” you groan, flat on your stomach on the floor as you try to coax the beast out from under your bed.

“You okay?” asks Steve, poking his head through the door.

“He won’t come out,” you grumble, as Alpine wails pitifully.

“Want me to lift the bed so you can grab him?”

You drop your head onto your arms. “No. Ugh. Maybe I’ll just leave him here.”

Steve joins you on the floor; Alpine lets out another long, protracted Mrrrroooooow. It sounds exactly like your heart crying.

“He’s waiting for James,” you say to the floor. The words echo back at you. “He doesn’t understand.”

“I don’t think anyone does,” says Steve quietly. He’s not close enough to touch, but you feel the warmth from his skin, just out of reach.

You swallow and take a deep breath, looking up at James’s cat. “Please, Al. I miss him too.”

Alpine slowly creeps out to you, but when you reach for him, he swipes and catches your wrist in his claws. You yelp and pull back, but Steve is fast; he grabs the cat by the scruff of his fluffy white neck, and pulls him out.

Along with one of James’s shirts, dusty and crumpled from where it’d undoubtedly been dragged by Alpine under the bed.

“Oh, Al,” you sniffle, opening the carrier so Steve can drop the cat in. Once it’s zipped up—cat and shirt both enclosed—you sit in the center of the floor and cover your face with your hands.

“Okay, let’s see those scratches,” says Steve.

“It’s fine. Barely stings,” you mumble.

Steve doesn’t say anything; but a few minutes later he’s returned with the antibacterial cream and a damp washcloth. You let him clean the wound—it’s barely bleeding, just a few open scratches—and then apply the cream.

“Doesn’t even need a bandage,” you say, pulling your sleeve back down over it. “I better get going if I want to be in the city before dark.”

Steve nods. “Sure you don’t want me to come with you?”

“It’s fine,” you tell him, standing up. Steve stands, too. “Come over when I’ve got everything set up.”

He nods, and looks around the empty room. “I wish you’d change your mind.”

You shake your head. “I can’t stay, Steve. I don’t belong here. Not really.”

Not without James, anyway.

“You always belong here.”

You give him a shaky smile. “Don’t be a stranger.”

“Never,” says Steve, and wraps you in a hug.

*

He visits, once. Briefly. You have an awkward dinner, and he spends most of the time giving Alpine scritches, and he leaves, neither of you feeling particularly better for the company.

You don’t see him again for three years.

*

[Three years later]

Hospitals don’t change much. Regardless of the age of the tech, assuming it exists at all, or the language spoken in its halls, all hospitals have the same smell, the same sounds, the same injuries, the world over.

You should know; you’ve been to more of them than you can count on three pairs of hands. This particular hospital, a tiny one in the middle of Wales, is more like the field hospitals you’ve been to in Africa and South America than anything you’d expect to see in what most would consider a developed European nation. Nothing high-tech, signs in a language you don’t understand, but the same copper scent of blood and antiseptic, and the same children with crooked grins who either burst into tears or glare at you stoically when you administer the immunizations that will keep them healthy.

Their adults are endlessly cheerful, despite the dark circles under their eyes. Loss and heartache and a determination to make the best of things, to find some meaning in being left alive. You recognize it from the mirror every morning.

Some things never change. Including your inability to look where you’re going, which is why you take one step out of the nurse’s lounge and into another body in the hall on your way back to work.

“Sorry, sorry,” you say, hustling past, not really recognizing him.

But then, who would expect to hear Steve Rogers call your name in a pediatric ward in southern Wales, three and a half years after the Snap?

It takes a moment, blinking hard, before you laugh, surprised, staring at him. “Steve?”

“What are you doing here?” he asks, his own surprise melting into a grin.

“I should ask you the same thing,” you say, walking back to him.

“Mine collapse,” he says, and that’s when you catch the whiff off him; sulfur and earth, explosives and a few other things besides. “We were called in to help rescue the folks trapped.”

James would have told you how many they’d lost, but Steve doesn’t seem inclined to continue.

“Nursing lend-lease,” you tell him. “I’m here as part of an immunization effort.”

Steve’s eyebrows shoot up. “Pepper was saying something about that—”

You nod. “She’s the one who recruited me for it.”

“You guys do good work.”

“So do you.” Your supervisor calls your name from down the hall. “Sorry, I have to get back to work. It was good seeing you.”

“Yeah,” says Steve. “Same.”

It’s strange, walking away from him. Your heart thuds in your chest, your blood roars in your ears, and it’s a few minutes before you’re able to concentrate on the kids again.

It’s been forever since you thought about Steve Rogers. And seeing him again… it ought to hurt, looking at him, remembering how close you’d all been once, how you’d cried and mourned in each other’s arms.

Instead, all you feel is wistful. And a little bit guilty, because you’d both promised to keep in touch, and then… you hadn’t.

Just as much your fault as his, though. Even if it would have been terrible, at first. It wouldn’t have stayed that way forever. And you’d have the comfort of each other now, instead of awkward conversations in the middle of a hospital corridor.

So when you get back to your hotel that night and see Steve in the lobby, standing up from where he’s been waiting on one of the sofas near the fireplace… you grin.

“How’d you find me?” you say, unable to keep the delight from your voice.

“State secret,” says Steve.

It takes half of dinner before you’ve caught each other up on the last three years. What’s happened with the rest of the team, where you’ve travelled and the people you’ve met.

“How’s Alpine?” Steve asks when the table’s cleared of everything but the coffee.

“Good, healthy. The neighbors keep an eye on him while I travel. Honestly, I think half the reason I go is because that first day I’m back, he doesn’t leave me for a second. It’s like having a pet who actually likes me.”

Steve laughs—which you think probably shocks him, given how he stops abruptly and looks guilty about it.

“S’okay,” you tell him. “It’s funny.”

“Have you—?” He swallows. “Met anyone.”

You shake your head. “No. I mean. Yeah. Went on a couple of dates here and there. There was one guy, but… nothing really came out of it.” You pause, flipping your fork over and over. “I know James would want me to move on. And it’s not that I wouldn’t want to find love again. Just… I don’t know.”

“None of them were right.”

“Yeah,” you agree, and drop the fork one last time. “What about you?”

Steve shrugs. “I didn’t lose anyone.”

“Steve. That’s bullshit and you know it.”

“Not like you did.”

“Doesn’t make it less bullshit.” You stare at him; but he doesn’t meet your eyes. In fact, it feels like he’s not even looking up from his coffee, and his jaw is so tight with tension and pain that your heart aches. “Steve,” you say gently. “You lost your best friend twice. How isn’t that bullshit?”

He goes utterly, completely still. You think he stops breathing for a moment, and then it all comes out in a rush.

“Not sure he was really mine when he came back, though. He had you.”

Now he looks up at you, but there’s no accusation in his eyes, no anger, no recrimination.

Just… acceptance, and a whole mess of sorrow you recognize, which quickly turns to something else, something like guilt.

“Hey, it’s okay,” he says, and he reaches for your hand, gripping it tightly. “He needed you a lot more than I ever needed him. You have no idea how glad I am that he found you. I’m not sure I would have ever found him at all, if you hadn’t found him first.”

The breath catches in your throat. “Steve,” you choke out. “He loved you. He loved you so much.”

“I know. And he loved you too.”

You choke and wipe at your eyes. “Such an asshole. He ruined us for anyone else.”

Steve laughs, softly, quietly, barely a laugh at all, but he squeezes your hand again. And then, without any pause, he continues, “I’m sorry I never called.”

The abrupt non-sequitur catches you off-guard. James, you think, would have paused, looked away, bit his lip. But Steve plunges right in, without pause. You give him a wan smile. “I never called you, either.”

“Bucky would have my hide for it, though.”

You shake your head, wondering how you were both thinking of him at the same time. “I think he’d understand. But he’d probably be mad at both of us.”

“Not at you. He’d save it all up for me.”

“Maybe. He’d be madder at me for leaving Alpine alone so much, honestly.”

“It’s stupid, maybe. I think I miss that cat.”

“You can have him,” you suggest, a wicked glint in your eye, and Steve laughs—the first real laugh you think you’ve heard from him all night.

It’s nice. It’s warmth in your chest, and not just because of memories of years past. But you get the idea that Steve hasn’t laughed like that in a long time, because his shoulders relax and there’s a lightness in his eyes afterwards that for the first time all evening, doesn’t look guilty.

You did that. Well. You and Alpine, anyway.

“When are you back in New York, I’ll come pick him up.”

“Two weeks, I think? I can text you, if your number’s the same.”

“It is.”

He walks you back to your hotel, and it’s only awkward saying goodnight for a moment.

But you go to sleep, and the coldness of the bed doesn’t feel quite so empty.

*

Two days after you text Steve on your return, there’s a knock on your door. Alpine is yowling before you even step into the foyer, and sure enough, Steve’s on the other side.

“I think he remembers me,” says Steve, staring wide-eyed as Alpine literally claws his way up Steve’s jeans and into Steve’s arms, yelling his disappointment and frustration right into Steve’s face.

You can’t stop laughing; it’s the funniest thing you’ve seen in your life.

“Come to the Met with me,” says Steve, following you into the apartment. “They’ve reopened the Impressionists wing.”

“I heard,” you say, trying to unhook Alpine. It takes some concentrated effort, and by the end Alpine’s yowling and you and Steve are both giggling uncontrollably.

“Guess he missed me.”

“Stupid cat,” you tell him, kissing him on the top of his head. “Maybe I should give you to Steve, you sure like him better.”

“I’ll take him,” says Steve, “but after the museum.”

You can’t remember the last time you were at the Met—before the Snap, definitely. Maybe before you’d even met James or Steve. It’s a lot like how you remember, except less crowded. That’s true of everywhere, though. The cafeteria is closed, the gift shop’s closed, and the admission fee is still waived.

The art is still beautiful. So is the building. So is the entire afternoon, you and Steve wandering together and separately, breaking apart only to find each other again. Starting and stopping conversations like they’ve never paused.

It’s easy. It’s comfortable. And you somehow slide from a museum visit to dinner, and then Steve’s waving you goodbye when you head back upstairs to your apartment and angry cat.

You left your new cat, you text him later.

Knew I forgot something, writes Steve.

*

It goes on like that. Steve comes into the city every couple of weeks, detaches an increasingly annoyed Alpine, and then you both head into the city. To visit a reopened museum. Or see a remounted play. Or go to Ellis Island.

Or, once, a walk through the part of Brooklyn Steve remembers best, which is hysterical and terrible for the same reasons, but ultimately, cathartic for both of you.

Sometimes you talk about James. Sometimes you don’t. Steve jokes about taking Alpine with him—but you both know he won’t. Maybe even Alpine knows it.

For a long time, you dreaded coming back to New York. The city that always reminds you of James, the quiet of the apartment he never knew.

You don’t dread it anymore, because now coming back to New York means seeing Steve.

Steve, who was James’s best friend. James’s more, once. Except now, he’s yours.

You don’t always see him in New York; your schedules don’t always align. But you meet up in Tokyo once, and another time, Steve takes you to a café in Paris that has the most amazing croissants you’ve ever tasted.

And always, always, Steve walks you home, no matter the hour, and he leaves you at the door to your apartment building, waiting until it’s closed behind you before turning and heading back to wherever he’s left his car. He never comes up with you, not once.

But you never ask, either. You aren’t sure why.

(Later, you think you maybe knew. And maybe he did, too.)

New York City still doesn’t sleep. But it’s not nearly as awake and alive in the dark of night as it used to be. Instead of vibrant, active, exciting in the wee hours, it’s the sit-in-a-cozy-chair, reading a book and drinking tea sort of awake. Undesired but graciously accepted insomnia, you think, which is why you and Steve keep your voices hushed as you walk home, discussing the musical you’ve just seen.

“I still can’t believe you didn’t see the original run,” you tell him. “You were in New York, and it was right. There.”

“Broke and in Brooklyn,” says Steve, amused. “Besides, it’s not like there was anyone willing to go with me, Bucky was already with the army somewhere.”

“You could have gone by yourself!”

“Better with someone else. Anyway, I heard the songs on the radio, why pay good money to see ‘em in person?”

You groan and sigh longingly, leaning against his arm. “So jealous. Imagine if they played Hamilton on the radio now. I’d be in heaven.”

“There’s this incredible thing in the future, it’s called the internet. I hear you can find music on it and play it anytime you want.”

“Asshole,” you say lightly as he grins at you.

And then, mostly because you want to see if you can make Steve blush—not to mention, you’re feeling strangely buoyant and cheerful after your favorite musical—you start singing and pretending to dance around him.

“Everything’s up to date in Kansas City…”

Steve laughs, watching you. “Would’ve been interesting to see the original,” he says. “If only to compare it to now.”

You take his hand and use him as a somewhat unwilling prop, as you pretend that he’s spinning you around. “You knew the girl who played Laurey in first revival in the 1950s, actually.”

“What?” says Steve, startled. “Who?”

“Maisie Northrop. She was on the USO tour with you, or at least she claimed to be.”

“Maisie Northrop. Huh. She always said she wanted to give Broadway a try. You know Maisie was the reason I didn’t trip over my own feet on that tour.”

You give him a shove. “Move, Rogers, let’s see what Maisie taught you.”

Steve laughs. “Uh. Not dancing.”

Your mouth drops open, shocked. “Steve. What would James have thought.”

“Bucky,” says Steve, with a devilish glint to his eyes, “thought it was the funniest damn thing he’d heard in years. Kept asking me if she was part of the plan.”

You laugh, and yelp when Steve suddenly wraps his arms around you and starts dancing with you in earnest.

“Well,” you say, “you are famed for having a plan. Theoretically.”

“Never had much of a plan for that, though.” Steve still looks lost in thought, which goes well with his dancing style (or lack thereof). “Couldn’t really, back then. And I’m not entirely sure Maisie was looking for commitment from anyone but a Broadway stage. I liked the play.”

You narrow your eyes at him. “You frowned for the entire second act.”

“I was waiting for another ballet break,” he says.

You swat his arm. “Dream ballet, and it’s probably the most famous ballet sequence in musical theatre.”

“Ah, of course.” His face scrunches in thought; it’s adorable. “Felt bad for that Jud character, though.”

“He tried to kill Curly.”

“Buck tried to kill me, once. I forgave him.”

“That’s different.”

“Maybe. That song of his, though. The storm. The bed. The mouse on the floor. The anger behind it… I don’t know. Keeps swirling in my head.” [X]

You shuffle a little closer, or maybe he pulls you in a little more as you continue swaying back and forth. “They cut that one from the movie version. And a lot of the stage versions, too. I guess people didn’t like thinking of the villain as an actual person.”

“Easier to hate them, when they’re not.”

“I guess that’s what makes his story a tragedy, you know? He’s in love with Laurey but he can’t even really see that she’s scared to death of him.”

“I don’t know about that,” says Steve slowly. “I think he got it, at the end there, right before he tried to kill Curly. I was watching, there was something on his face. I think that’s why he attacked; he just kind of… lost his mind there, for a moment. Love’ll do that to a person.”

“Turn someone into a killer?”

“I meant… push them into doing things they wouldn’t normally do. Sometimes it’s good things, like trying new foods or new experiences. Or moving onto bases with a bunch of super heroes.”

You laugh, and he smiles.

“And sometimes it means pushing away from people you wanted to keep close,” continues Steve quietly. “So you end up losing the person you really wanted to keep in the first place.”

You stop dancing, staring up at Steve.

Who’s looking at you, his expression open and honest… and wistful.

Like he’s looking at something he think he might have lost once.

“I—” you stammer. “Steve…”

But he pulls you, or maybe pushes you, and then you’re dancing again, but your heart thumps in your chest, and you’re far too aware of his hand at the small of your back.

“That’s not the earworm, though,” says Steve.

“It’s not?”

“Can’t get that stupid surrey song out of my head.”

You laugh—it’s tension release more than anything. “Well, they say you should sing an earworm to get it out of your head, you know.”

Just for that, he spins you out, and you almost lose your footing before he spins you back in again.

So maybe you can be forgiven for teasing him. “Chicks and ducks and geese better scurry…” [X]

“What are you doing?”

“When I take you out in my surrey...”

“Stop that.”

“When I take you out in my surrey with the fringe on top.”

“This counts as torture, you know,” says Steve seriously.

“No, it doesn’t. The wheels are yeller, the upholstery’s brown…”

“I’ll make a recommendation to the World Council. They respect me, they’ll listen.”

“Only sometimes. The dashboard’s made out of pleather!”

“Those aren’t even the right words!”

“Says who?”

He taps his head. “Eidetic memory.”

“Prove it,” you challenge him.

He rolls his eyes. “I can see the stars gettin’ blurry.”

“There you go,” you say, pleased. “Driving slowly home in the surrey.”

“You skipped a line again,” says Steve.

You snort. “Now you’re just making it up,” you say, just as a large raindrop plops on your cheek.

When you look up to the sky, it opens, and the rain comes crashing down.

“Oh, shit,” you say, because the rain is cold, even for July. The drops are enormous, too, and so thick and fast that you’re soaked through to the skin almost immediately. Even so, Steve grabs your hand and pulls you through the storm to the nearest awning.

“Dammit,” he sighs, “I should have known that was coming.”

“What, eidetic memory and an innate weather vane?”

He shakes his head. “You couldn’t smell it on the air?”

“Not above the trash in the alley, no.”

Steve cranes his neck to peer up. “I don’t think it’s going to break soon, and we’re half a block from your apartment. Do you want to run for it?”

“Why not? I’m already soaked.”

He grabs your hand and you both dive back into the storm. The sidewalk is full of puddles, and soon enough, you’re splashing through them, sodden socks in sodden shoes, kicking up water with every step.

It reminds you of another musical, and soon, you’re singing as you go. “Da da da da, dum-de da da da da.” [X]

Steve looks back at you.

“Singing in the rain,” you sing at him, laughing.

And he breaks into a grin. “I know this one.”

“I’m just singing in the rain…”

And to your great surprise, he sings back at you. His voice a little warbly, and rough, like he hasn’t sung since 1944. Which maybe he hasn’t. “What a glorious feeling, I’m happy again.”

Gene Kelly’s career is safe from Steve Rogers, but you couldn’t care less. You kick a little water at him, and he hops off the pavement into the street and then back again. You follow, and you’re giggling harder than you’re singing, but it’s not like either of you can get any wetter than you are already.

It’s more Fred and Ginger, anyway, the way you’re dancing down the sidewalk, Steve leading you through twirls and sashays. If anyone’s looking out their windows—and they might, the rain’s falling so fast and hard it’s undoubtedly woken someone up—they’ll probably think you’re both drunk as skunks and heading straight for pneumonia.

You laugh when he picks you up, because it really is straight out of Fred and Ginger’s playbook, so he does it again, laughing himself.

And a third time, but this time, he stumbles over a crack in the sidewalk, and instead of space between you, he’s pulled you closer to him, so that his arms are around your waist, holding you next to his body, looking up at you as if the rain isn’t cascading down onto his face, dripping from your hair.

Your hands on his shoulders holding yourself up.

Your heart pounding as you stare down into his eyes, looking up at you exactly the same way Jud looked at Laurey on the stage, just a few hours before.

“I stopped calling you,” whispers Steve. “Because wanting you hurt too much.”

You hold your breath, eyes wide. “Does it still hurt?”

“No,” says Steve. “And I’ve stopped listening to the part of me that says I shouldn’t look at you.”

Your heart jumps in your chest; he doesn’t break eye contact, not once.

“That I shouldn’t stand this close to you,” he continues, as he loosens his hold on you, letting you slide down his chest, inch by inch, closer and closer, until you’re face to face with him, feet still inches from the ground.

Your heart’s pounding hard, double-time—until you realize it’s not your heart you feel pounding. It’s his.

“That I shouldn’t dance all night with you.” A whisper, so soft you can barely hear it; it’s almost a prayer, a pleaded request.

You want to speak. You want to say something, anything. His name. An answer.

He kisses you before you can.

His lips are cold, but his mouth is hot, melting into you as his arms shift around you. Your head spins, circles, twists, but you lean into the warmth of him, fingers skim up his shoulders, past his neck to his cheeks, trembling and shivering in the cool rain, slick with water that drips from his hair.

He’s still breathing hard, chest rising and falling. The only thing that pulls you apart is the crash of thunder overhead.

His lips are swollen, eyes wide with shock and desire.

There’s another crash, a flash of lightning, and you’re running, both of you, hand in hand, through the raindrops, until he catches you again, pushes you against the lamppost, and kisses you again, your cheeks cradled in his hands, cold skin against cold skin against hot breath, hungry, desperate, searching kisses that trail down from your mouth to your neck, where he sucks sharp bites into your skin.

“Steve,” you gasp. “People will see—”

“Let ‘em,” he growls, but pulls away to look at you. “Unless—”

You grab his hand. “Home.”

He follows you, running through the drops, hand tight on yours, until you land on the doorstep to your building, struggling to press the keys in the right order for access. A difficult task, with Steve’s hands on your hips, his mouth on the back of your neck, his body pressed up against you so close you can feel his hardness at the small of your back.

You both tumble into the tiny foyer, slamming against the wall as he lifts you again, kissing you as you wrap your legs around his waist.

“Tell me you want this,” he gasps.

“Oh my god, read the room, Rogers,” you groan, throwing your head back against the wall. He laughs, and goes straight up the stairs without putting you down.

The moment you’re in your apartment, the clothes start to… well, not fly, exactly. They drop, damp and heavy with rain, onto the floor, in a wet trail all the way from the door to your bedroom, where Steve drops you so that he can strip himself of the rest of his clothes.

You’re about to yank off your underwear—it’s the only thing left on you—when he speaks again, but his eyes, hungry, watching you.

“Wait.”

You pause, your fingers still in your waistband, and you hold your breath as he strips off his socks and drops them on the floor before pulling down his boxer briefs.

Your heart speeds up a little. He’s enormous, his cock thick and red, a pearl of precum on the tip, nestled in dark golden, almost red curls. Your breathing speeds up a little, and maybe he notices, the slow way he leans over you on the bed, one knee outside of yours, leaning in to kiss your lips, mouth warmer now.

“Condom?” he growls against your mouth.

“Pill,” you reply shakily, leaning back against the bed, breath stuttering in your throat and your chest. “I haven’t… in a while…”

“Good,” he says, right as his fingers loop your underwear next to yours. He opens his mouth against your lips when he rips them off, the thin fabric tearing away easily. “Last chance, if you want me to stop.”

You surge up and kiss him, hungry, your pussy aching as you spread your legs and try to pull him down on top of you. He comes easily, groaning as he wraps you in his arms, sliding his body between yours, his cockhead pressing against your sex, not quite finding its mark, but sending frissons of pleasure and pressure through every nerve.

You cry out, throwing back your head, and he nuzzles the skin below your ear, your neck, your shoulder. Rough, demanding, rude kisses that send sharp spikes of pain and pleasure with every touch, which is how you realize he’s nipping you with every one of them, pulling gently at tiny holds of skin, his fingers rough on your nipples.

“You’re already so wet,” he growls into you, and your stomach twists at the roughness in his voice, how deep and dark he sounds. Feral, almost. It makes feel wild, wanton, like you want to throw your limbs wide and let him have you in any way he likes. You widen your legs, and he responds, looping your knees over his elbows until you curl, your pussy high off the mattress, perfectly positioned to take his cock.

Which still isn’t at the right angle, despite his frustrated growls. You reach down to help, and the moment you line it up, he plunges into you, so fast your fingers are nearly sucked in with it, trapped in the wet folds, your finger pressed up against your own clit as you cry out.

“That’s it,” he breathes into your ear, “take all of me in, touch yourself. I wanna hear you scream.”

And eventually… you do, coming harder than you’ve come in years, coming apart, coming over and over, until he stills and shakes and groans your name into your skin, filling you so full of himself that you’ll never be without him in some part of you again.

*

It’s later, after you’ve both dozed in each other’s arms, skin sticky with sweat and still warm from what’s passed between you, that you shift on the bed and look up to find him gazing at you.

Quietly. Thoughtfully. Like this was always going to happen, you and he together.

Maybe it was. It feels like it, anyway. His arms are still around you, one of your legs tucked between his, his cock still thick, if softened, and pressed against your hip. His thumb rubs against your arm, and you reach up to rub at his cheek, at the bit of water you think might be a tear, but turns out to be rain still running rivulets from his hair.

It doesn’t feel wrong. It feels… comfortable. Like you’re both where you’re supposed to be.

It’s quiet, though it’s still raining outside, the drops hitting the window in a steady pattern. The intensity of the storm comes in waves, and you’re in a lull now. A little like lovemaking. A little like grief.

“Penny for your thoughts,” says Steve, his voice no longer the roughly hewn desire from before. Calm and quiet, like lying in each other’s arms isn’t new.

“How long?”

“How long what?”

“That you’ve wanted this.”

His finger rubs your arm, once then twice, before he answers. “I don’t know. A long time. Longer than you probably think.”

You rest your head on his arm. It’s not nearly as chiseled as the pictures would have you believe. “Before the Snap?”

He’s quiet, looking at you. Steady. “Yeah. Before the Snap. Before a lot of things.”

You nod, feeling his skin pull under your head. “You never said.”

“Never had reason to.” And then, after a moment, “Never thought it’d matter.”

“Why wouldn’t it matter?”

“Well, for one thing, you were married to my best friend. For another…” He shrugs. “You were happy. I didn’t want to change that.”

You breathe, watching him, wondering what’s going on in his head.

Wondering if you even want to know, the question you almost ask.

“He knew,” says Steve quietly, answering it anyway. “Maybe not the whole of it, but… he knew.”

You nod, blinking back the sudden rush of heat in your eyes. You finger the damp strands of hair back from Steve’s temple. “Do you believe in heaven?”

His eyes widen a little; you’ve actually surprised him. “If you’re asking if I believe he’s watching us right now—”

You shrug, a little sheepish.

“I want to think he’d be happy for us.”

You smile, a little. “Yeah?”

“Well. Happy for you. Me, he’d have notes.”

You giggle, ducking your head into his chest. “He’d cover it all with grumbling. All gruff, playing like he’s annoyed so we don’t catch on.”

Steve chuckles too, tightening his arms around you and kissing your hair as you snuggle in. Whispering, a breath of air that lifts the locks. “You okay?”

“I’m okay,” you whisper back. “You?”

“I’m okay,” he says, and kisses you, rolling you to your back. “I’m more than okay,” he murmurs into your mouth, spreading your legs with his knees, sliding back into you as smoothly as if he’d never left.

*

Your time with Steve changes shape—but only slightly, like you’ve been leading up to this stage all along and didn’t realize it.

(You did realize it. You just refused to think about it.)

You text him when you return to New York, and he comes into the city and knocks on your door. Alpine greets him the same as always, and he jokes how he’ll steal the cat back to the Compound.

But now, instead of heading straight out, you head straight to the bedroom to make love and talk and breathe in each other’s skin, before you go on whatever adventure he has planned.

He comes up to your apartment afterwards, too. And he stays until morning, when he wakes up with Alpine sleeping on his back, as if the cat is determined that he stays exactly where he is.

“Are you going to tell the others?” you ask one morning, after a few months.

“Do you want me to?”

You twist your fingers around his. “I don’t know. I’m worried about what they’ll think.”

“I think…” Steve presses his lips together. “Natasha will be happy for us. She’ll give me the third degree, probably try to talk me out of it, but only because she wants to ferret out how sure I am, not because she thinks I need talking out of anything. Bruce’ll be glad. Tony… I don’t know. It’s been a while.”

“Pepper knows.”

Steve raises an eyebrow, and you give him a pointed look while tapping the love bite on your collarbone.

“Oh,” he says, not even sheepish about it. “Well. If she’s told Tony, he hasn’t sent me any scathing memes about it, so he’s probably okay.”

You snort softly. “Probably thinks I’ve leveled up.”

“I wasn’t going to put it that way.”

“James would have.”

“Yeah, well,” says Steve, tucking you closer, “I would have yelled at him about it, too, told him to stop selling himself short.”

“You’re the short one, pal,” you say, dropping your voice to mimic James’s. “Who gave you permission to grow so tall anyway?”

Steve chuckles and kisses your forehead before sighing into your skin. “Shit, I miss him so much it hurts sometimes.”

“Me too,” you mumble, squeezing Steve tight. “He’d yell at us both for that.”

Steve tilts your mouth up to meet his, a slow, loving sort of kiss. Not that he’s said as much, that he loves you… but you know it anyway. The easy way you talk about James, the easy way he sits beside you both.

“I want to tell them,” Steve says into your mouth. “I want to bring you back to the Compound. Show you what we’ve done, what we’re doing. The world’s so much bigger now.”

You draw back. “I… I don’t know.”

Steve’s face falls.

“No, I mean. Tell them. It’s fine. They should know; I want them to know. But… I don’t know if I want to go back to the Compound, Steve. It’s hard enough being in the city, without James. It’s dumb, you know sometimes I think I see him? Out of the corner of my eye. Except it’s just another guy with his hair in a bun, or wearing a black leather jacket. Or a black leather glove with a bit of gold to it. Feels like, if I went back to the Compound, he’d be there too.”

Steve doesn’t say anything, but you see the sympathy in his eyes, and you know he understands. “Think about it.”

You nod. You will. Later. When you aren’t faced with ghosts.

You’re faced with the Black Widow first, though, standing on the other side of your door first thing the next morning. She hands you a steaming matcha latte and a pastry bag, marches in and kicks the door shut before going to sit at the table with her own cup of tea.

“Did you already give Steve the third degree?” you ask, because she looks the part, with Alpine having immediately jumped up on her lap, curled up to sleep as he purrs contentedly under her pets. “And now it’s my turn?”

“Steve didn’t get a matcha latte,” says Natasha reasonably.

You sit across from her. “I am never, ever going to stop missing James,” you tell her, before the sob catches in your throat and you can’t say another word. You squeeze your eyes shut to stop the tears—you can’t cry in front of a Widow, she’d let you live it down but she wouldn’t forget—and it’s a few minutes of hard breathing to control yourself while you listen to the crackle of the pastry bag as she unpacks the carbs inside.

You open your eyes and breathe, fixing your focus on Natasha. “But he’s gone. And he’s never coming back. And I—” You swallow. “Steve isn’t a rebound. You should know that.”

“I do,” says Natasha.

“I really did try, about two years ago.”

“Marcus,” says Natasha, and your eyes widen.

“How did you—?”

Natasha shrugs and takes a bite of raspberry Danish. You sigh.

“Fine. Well, it didn’t work. I wasn’t ready. Or maybe he just wasn’t right.”

“The second,” says Natasha. “He married about four months ago. In Vegas.”

“Huh,” you say.

“To an Elvis impersonator,” adds Natasha.

Your mouth drops open, and you snap it closed. “That’s… that explains a lot, actually.”

Natasha shoves the bag closer to you, and you grab the plain croissant.

“I was going to visit you a month ago,” says Natasha, like she would have crawled through your window in the dead of night and made it look like a completely natural death. “Except. He was happy.”

Your heart bounces a little at that, hopeful. “He was?”

She smiles softly. “Happier than I’ve seen him in over four years.”

“Oh.”

Nat grabs another piece of Danish. “Gotta admit, I’ve seen you happier, though.”

“Well,” you say. “It’s not every day a Widow shows up at my door before breakfast and hands me a matcha latte and tells me she thought about killing me in my sleep last month.”

“I would have woken you up first. It’s no fun if you don’t see the realization in their eyes.”

“Not helping, Nat.”

Nat grins and changes the subject, to Morgan Stark’s latest witticisms, to the most recent gossip out of Wakanda, to your impressions of the political situation in Costa Rica and who you saw on your last mission there.

“I don’t think Clint even recognized me,” you say quietly. “I thought about trying to catch him, maybe talk to him a little, but—”

“Better you didn’t,” says Nat quietly, staring at her folded hands. “He probably would have disappeared entirely.”

“He’s not living rough,” you tell her. “I was able to convince the doctor who saw him that he was an old friend gone missing—I guess that’s been pretty common after the Snap. He’s using an obvious fake name, but he didn’t show signs of malnutrition, he said he’s up on all his immunizations, and he wasn’t… it doesn’t look like he’s using anything. Drugs, I mean.”

Nat nods slowly, taking it in, even if she’s not meeting your eyes.

“Clint’s okay, Nat,” you say gently. “He’s… I don’t know what he’s doing. The doc said it didn’t look like a first break, and he complained of tinnitus sometimes, but… he’s okay.”

Nat takes a breath and nods again. “I think the only bone Clint hasn’t broken at least once is one of his ribs.”

“Then he’ll know better than most how to take care of it.”

“But will he?” she says wryly and you both smile at each other. “Thanks. For trying to follow him, anyway.”

You nod. “I wish I’d been able to just talk to him. Tell him we miss him.”

“I will. Eventually.” Nat squeezes her hands once, then lets them go as she stands and starts to gather the trash. “You should come up and visit us.”

“I…”

“Pepper comes every Saturday with Morgan. You can get your Morganisms first hand.”

You bite your lips together. “I don’t know.”

Nat rests a hand on your shoulder from behind you. “Try,” she says softly.

He’d want you to be happy, she doesn’t say, but you hear it, because you know it’s true.

It’ll be okay, James told you, hand on the back of your neck.

“Maybe,” you say, and lock the door behind her with a little extra force, knowing she’ll hear it, knowing it’ll make her smile.

*

You go.

Of course you go.

And it’s hard.

Of course it’s hard.

But it’s also not, because Morgan is funny and sweet and drags you from room to room, like you’ve never been there before, excited to show you everything and tell you why it’s useful and important. She knows every person who works there, every nook and cranny of every room. She doesn’t stop talking, not for a moment, and it takes three chocolate chip cookies before she leaves you to breathe on the patio outside, a full two hours after you arrive.

“Sorry about her,” says Steve, like it’s his fault. Which it is; he’s the one who introduced you as my special friend. “She’s a force of nature.”

“She’s three,” you tell him. “I think it comes with the territory.”

Steve watches you for a moment before speaking. “Are you okay here?”

You nod. “You repainted.”

“Among other things.”

“Could maybe replace a few lights, though. It’s really dark in places.”

Steve shrugs. “There’s shortages. Didn’t seem worth the effort of finding the right wattage. And neither Nat nor I care so much.”

You get it. You look out on the field. “I forgot how quiet it is up here.”

“Tony says the same thing. Not that it isn’t quiet at the cabin, but… it’s different here.”

“It was always quiet at the cabin,” you say softly.

“I think that’s it,” agrees Steve, taking you by the shoulders. “Seriously. You’re all right?”

You nod. “I don’t… I don’t see James here. I thought I would.”

“Is that okay?”

“I don’t know,” you admit. “I guess… I was so convinced I would, I think I started to look forward to it? And so far…”

“So far, you haven’t, and you’re disappointed,” Steve finishes for you, rubbing his hands along your arms.

“Yeah.” You laugh. “I mean, I guess he was never where you looked for him, either, all those years. Figures he’d be doing the same thing to me now even after he’s gone.”

Steve smiles thinly.

“I’m glad you came. Even if it’s not what you expected.”

“Me too,” you tell him, right as Morgan comes running, and nearly knocks you over.

It’s a few days before you see Pepper again, as you’re collecting your passport with its freshly pasted visas for the next tour in Northern Africa. Twenty-four days, five countries, and hopefully another part of the world fully vaccinated against major diseases.

“It was good seeing you over the weekend,” says Pepper. “Morgan couldn’t stop talking about you.”

You smile. “She’s amazing, Pepper.”

Pepper folds her hands on the table and smiles at you. “I’m really happy for you both. And I think James would be, too.”

It’s funny.

The whole team knows now.

But this is the first time any of them have said the words.

Tears prick at your eyes, but you don’t have to force the smile in the slightest.

“I hope so.”

*

“I want to show you something,” says Steve a few months later, just after Morgan and Pepper have gone home, when the sun’s reaching the tops of the spring-green trees, while Natasha is slipping away to one of her inevitable conference calls about the state of the world.

“Okay,” you agree, and take his offered hand to follow him into the building.

You think he’s going to lead you into one of the workspaces; instead, he leads you to the living area again, through the common lounge and kitchen, back to where you know the private areas are.

Where you’d lived with James, once. Where Nat and Steve still reside.

“Steve…”

“It’s okay,” he tells you, and stops at a door. “Go in.”

You stare at the door. “I don’t remember whose this was.”

“No one’s,” Steve tells you. “Well. Kind of a combination of Vision’s and Wanda’s. We’ve been doing some remodeling.”

You open the door.

It’s beautiful. Clean, open-plan, with an amazing view of the sunset in the distance. It has that new apartment smell, too, fresh paint and new furniture, pine-scented cleaners. Soft colors and low lights, and you run your hand along the back of the couch, which looks utterly comfortable, ready for snuggling under a blanket while the fire roars in the fireplace nearby.

“This is nice,” you tell Steve, standing in the doorway. “Way better than the dorm-style studios you had before.”

“Two bedrooms,” he tells you. “Two baths. One with a really big tub and an even bigger shower.”

You laugh. “Overachiever, much?”

“Well. Tony’s always saying, go big or go home. I figured… why not both?”

You stop and glance up at him. “Both?”

He walks into the room and takes your hands. “Yeah. Move in here with me.”

You stare at him, eyes wide. “Steve…”

“For Alpine, if not me,” adds Steve. “You know he misses this place.”

You close your eyes and shake your head, laughing. “Foul play, Rogers.”

“It’s been almost a year. And I’m tired of only seeing you once in a while. We lost so many people, and there’s no guarantees in life. I want to see you every day that I’ve got left. Move back here. Even if you don’t want me in this space with you. Just… be here.”

You swallow, hard.

“Think about it. How long are you going to be in Southeast Asia?”

“Five weeks,” you whisper.

He nods. “Tell you what. I don’t want to hear your answer for at least five weeks. Even if you know what you want tomorrow, you don’t tell me until the day you come home, okay? Whether home’s here or the Bronx.”

You smile, and punch him lightly on the shoulder. “This is just a ploy to get me out of the Bronx, isn’t it?”

“Could’ve moved to Brooklyn.”

You reach up on your toes to kiss him, and he takes full advantage, picking you up easily and holding you close, deepening the kiss until you’re yanking at his shirt.

“I mean,” you say breathlessly, “we should probably at least try it out first. What if the bedroom’s not sexy enough, you know?”

“Good point,” agrees Steve, his eyes already crossing.

*

It’s late, or maybe early, when you get back out of bed again. Full dark, anyway, and you try to get dressed with a minimum of light, until Steve turns it on anyway.

“Leaving?”

You turn and nod as you shimmy into your jeans. “Flight’s at eight out of JFK.”

He nods and swings out of bed to kiss you. “You smell good.”

“Had to check the water pressure, you know. You smell like sex.”

“Had to check the bed,” he murmurs into your mouth. “How’s the water pressure?”

“Not bad. How was the bed?”

“Perfect.”

You let him kiss you, relishing the feel of his naked body next to your clothed one.

“Don’t stay in bed with me,” says Steve, huskily, “your body next to mine.” [X]

You laugh and kiss him again, dragging your fingernails against his scalp in a way that makes his eyelids flutter closed. “Don’t smile and fondle me,” you tease him right back, “or I’m going to miss this flight.”

“That is a terrible rhyme and not how the song goes at all.”

You grin and kiss him again. “I love you.”

“Love you too.”

“I’ll text when we land.”

“I’ll be watching.”

It’s quiet, driving away from the Compound, only the stars overhead, and the road leading to the main gates is empty and winding. You wait, somewhat impatiently, for them to finish opening, thinking about Steve’s offer, listening to Diana Ross sing longingly against a strangely futuristic background.

Reflections of… the way life used to be… reflections of… the love you had for me… [X]

You’d done this drive a thousand times before, living with James, going into the city to work until it became too much and Bruce offered you a job instead.

You’d left, thinking you’d never return.

And now… all you can think about is the man you’re leaving in bed behind you, just as you did before. Except a different bed… a different Compound… a different man.

The road on the other side of the gates is almost as empty as the road inside. Except for a car coming towards, and for a moment, you think you recognize the driver, but then he’s gone, and you’re on the highway headed into the city.

It’s not until you’re boarding the plane that you think of who the driver reminded you of. Scott Lang, Ant-man… who disappeared with the rest of them five years before.

Imagination again, you think, and board the plane to Bangkok.

*

[One month later]

It’s morning in Canberra, Australia. There’s a cool crispness in the air that spells fall, which is weird, since it’s May, but you kinda like the topsy-turveyness of it. It goes well with the Hamilton soundtrack playing on your earbuds.

The world turned upside-down… [X]

The streets are mostly empty, save for a few other walkers. There’s no one on the road; one of the clinic's doctors told you that cars have been banned in the city limits for the last three years, after the gas shortages. It’s nice. Quiet.

You’ve picked your coffee from the café, and you’re half a block from the clinic when it happens.

There’s a rush of wind, picking up a few stray papers to send them in a swirl.

You look up just in time to see the ash coalesce into a person, right in front of you, too close to stop walking, and you step into her so fast that you knock her down.

“I’m so sorry,” you gasp, reaching down to help her up. “Are you—”

She’s shivering.

She’s dressed in shorts and a t-shirt, completely inappropriate to the cool temperatures. She’s sunburned. She’s got a baby bag over her shoulder, and a frantic look in her eyes.

“It’s fine, I’m fine. Where’s Maeve?” she says, every word more frantic.

There’s shouting around you. There’s shrieking.

“Who’s Maeve?” you ask.

“My baby. Where’s my baby? She was right here, oh shit, did her pram roll into traffic?”

“What traffic,” but the lady’s up and gone, moving to the street, calling out for her child.

And then you see…

There’s people.

Everywhere. Dressed for summer, shouting and calling for others.

Sitting in the street, standing up and rubbing their backs like they’ve fallen onto the pavement. Some are bruised, some are limping, like they fell so hard from such a height that they’ve sprained their ankles or wrists on the asphalt.

“Help!” screams someone. “He’s bleeding, he’s hurt!”

You run. The guy on the pavement groans, blood everywhere, dressed in construction gear and a hard-hat—not that that it helped, not with the way he’s landed, with the amount of blood pooling under him.

Not that it makes sense. There’s no construction happening on that building.

 “I’m a nurse, what happened?”

“I don’t know, he just… fell!” says the man, frantic.

“Are they doing construction here?” you say, ripping of your coat to help staunch the flow of blood.

“Not for years,” says the man, shaking. “Not since…”

His eyes go waxy.

His phone rings.

You’re still working when he answers it, but you hear it in his voice. The shake. The grief. The shock.

“Jan? Is… are you… oh God.”

You want to sit down.

You want to scream.

You want to pull your own phone out of your pocket.

The world turned upside-down…

But the man whose blood is on your fingers fell from a construction project that ended five years ago and no longer exists, and he’s dying because of blood loss and blunt force trauma, and there’s a woman dressed for summer who’s screaming for her daughter who’s in kindergarten and won’t remember her mother.

And James…

And Steve…

Your heart beats so loudly, you hear it echo in your head.

“Hey, hey,” you say to the man, shaking his arm. “I know. Okay, I get it. I lost people too. But he needs help. Please, I need you to call 000. Now.”

“Jan, don’t move,” says the man, staring at you. “I’ll be there as soon as I can. I love you I love you I love you so much.”

And then he hangs up, and does what you’ve asked. Once he’s been assured that the ambulance is on its way, he offers you his phone.

“Do you need to call anyone?”

James, you think, immediately. And then, inexplicably, think of Steve at the same time.

Your heart drops a little, staring at the phone. But you shake your head anyway.

“He won’t have his phone on him. Go. Find your Jan.”

He nods, glances at the injured man, and runs.

You look down at the man, and think of James, somewhere in Wakanda, confused and looking for you in all the wrong places. Already you hear the sirens of the ambulance coming.

“Oh, god, Steve, what did you do?”

Chapter Two will be posted on Tuesday, June 10.

Also available on AO3 ~ Masterlist of MCU fics

[j23r23]

Reblogging to read later!!!!

Can't wait 🤩

Reflections (of), Chapter 1

Steve Rogers x Reader x Bucky fic (eventual Stucky); Explicit; Post-Snap Endgame Fix-it. This chapter is 9.8k words; total word count is 24.5k. Chapter Two will be posted on June 10; Chapter Three will be posted on June 17.

Thanks to @buckybarnesfic, @mrsbuckybarnes1917, and @probablybucky for the beta!

Summary:

You know Bucky would want you to find love again after he Vanished in the Blip. You don’t think he meant for you to fall in love with his best friend.

Also available on AO3 ~ Masterlist of MCU fics

“It’ll be okay,” says James, as if the battle on the outskirts of Wakanda’s capital city, above the protective dome, hasn’t already begun.

The metal of his left hand is cool on the back of your neck, his forehead pressed to yours, so close you feel him vibrate from anticipation. Your eyes are closed, you struggle to keep your fear at bay; you twist your fingers in the straps at his shoulders.

He kisses you, quickly. If you hold tight enough, maybe he won’t go.

Not that you would stop him. You’d made your own promises, after all, when you married him.

“It’ll be okay,” he says again, as Sam yells for him to hurry. “Just gimme a minute, Wilson!”

“Kiss her when it’s over!” Sam yells back.

James squeezes the back of your neck, gentle, and you give him a nod, pressing your lips together tight, smiling as best you can, because of all the promises you made, it’s the hardest to keep.

Smile when I go, beautiful, and I’ll carry it with me ‘til I come back.

He goes, running after Sam, and you head straight back into the basement of the Eternal City’s Medical Center, where children cry into their mothers’ shoulders, the injured groan and clutch bleeding limbs, other nurses assessing the wounded and trying desperately to help with what limited resources are available under the battle.

“Nurse Barnes!” shouts one of the doctors, and you answer, every time.

You bandage and soothe, hand out medications and pain-killers, help those with worse injuries to the doctors, and you’ve lost track of time when the person under your fingers turns to ash.

When the person next to them turns to ash.

When the screaming and moaning and crying changes tone, leaving confusion in its wake.

It’ll be okay, James had said. Reassuring. Comforting.

But it’s Steve who finds you so many hours later, where you sit numb on the steps of the Medical Center, waiting for your husband to come back with your smile.

Steve stops, several steps down, eye-level so you can see exactly the haunting that rests on his shoulders, the way his mouth opens and closes and he has no words.

You shake your head and pull the cardigan closer around you, curling in on yourself.

It’ll be okay, James whispered into your hair.

Steve sits heavily next to you, and you cry into the dust on his chest, the only chill the dampness of his tears in your hair.

It’ll be okay, your husband had promised. It’ll be okay.

It’s a lie.

*

Six months later

“Come on, Alpine,” you groan, flat on your stomach on the floor as you try to coax the beast out from under your bed.

“You okay?” asks Steve, poking his head through the door.

“He won’t come out,” you grumble, as Alpine wails pitifully.

“Want me to lift the bed so you can grab him?”

You drop your head onto your arms. “No. Ugh. Maybe I’ll just leave him here.”

Steve joins you on the floor; Alpine lets out another long, protracted Mrrrroooooow. It sounds exactly like your heart crying.

“He’s waiting for James,” you say to the floor. The words echo back at you. “He doesn’t understand.”

“I don’t think anyone does,” says Steve quietly. He’s not close enough to touch, but you feel the warmth from his skin, just out of reach.

You swallow and take a deep breath, looking up at James’s cat. “Please, Al. I miss him too.”

Alpine slowly creeps out to you, but when you reach for him, he swipes and catches your wrist in his claws. You yelp and pull back, but Steve is fast; he grabs the cat by the scruff of his fluffy white neck, and pulls him out.

Along with one of James’s shirts, dusty and crumpled from where it’d undoubtedly been dragged by Alpine under the bed.

“Oh, Al,” you sniffle, opening the carrier so Steve can drop the cat in. Once it’s zipped up—cat and shirt both enclosed—you sit in the center of the floor and cover your face with your hands.

“Okay, let’s see those scratches,” says Steve.

“It’s fine. Barely stings,” you mumble.

Steve doesn’t say anything; but a few minutes later he’s returned with the antibacterial cream and a damp washcloth. You let him clean the wound—it’s barely bleeding, just a few open scratches—and then apply the cream.

“Doesn’t even need a bandage,” you say, pulling your sleeve back down over it. “I better get going if I want to be in the city before dark.”

Steve nods. “Sure you don’t want me to come with you?”

“It’s fine,” you tell him, standing up. Steve stands, too. “Come over when I’ve got everything set up.”

He nods, and looks around the empty room. “I wish you’d change your mind.”

You shake your head. “I can’t stay, Steve. I don’t belong here. Not really.”

Not without James, anyway.

“You always belong here.”

You give him a shaky smile. “Don’t be a stranger.”

“Never,” says Steve, and wraps you in a hug.

*

He visits, once. Briefly. You have an awkward dinner, and he spends most of the time giving Alpine scritches, and he leaves, neither of you feeling particularly better for the company.

You don’t see him again for three years.

*

[Three years later]

Hospitals don’t change much. Regardless of the age of the tech, assuming it exists at all, or the language spoken in its halls, all hospitals have the same smell, the same sounds, the same injuries, the world over.

You should know; you’ve been to more of them than you can count on three pairs of hands. This particular hospital, a tiny one in the middle of Wales, is more like the field hospitals you’ve been to in Africa and South America than anything you’d expect to see in what most would consider a developed European nation. Nothing high-tech, signs in a language you don’t understand, but the same copper scent of blood and antiseptic, and the same children with crooked grins who either burst into tears or glare at you stoically when you administer the immunizations that will keep them healthy.

Their adults are endlessly cheerful, despite the dark circles under their eyes. Loss and heartache and a determination to make the best of things, to find some meaning in being left alive. You recognize it from the mirror every morning.

Some things never change. Including your inability to look where you’re going, which is why you take one step out of the nurse’s lounge and into another body in the hall on your way back to work.

“Sorry, sorry,” you say, hustling past, not really recognizing him.

But then, who would expect to hear Steve Rogers call your name in a pediatric ward in southern Wales, three and a half years after the Snap?

It takes a moment, blinking hard, before you laugh, surprised, staring at him. “Steve?”

“What are you doing here?” he asks, his own surprise melting into a grin.

“I should ask you the same thing,” you say, walking back to him.

“Mine collapse,” he says, and that’s when you catch the whiff off him; sulfur and earth, explosives and a few other things besides. “We were called in to help rescue the folks trapped.”

James would have told you how many they’d lost, but Steve doesn’t seem inclined to continue.

“Nursing lend-lease,” you tell him. “I’m here as part of an immunization effort.”

Steve’s eyebrows shoot up. “Pepper was saying something about that—”

You nod. “She’s the one who recruited me for it.”

“You guys do good work.”

“So do you.” Your supervisor calls your name from down the hall. “Sorry, I have to get back to work. It was good seeing you.”

“Yeah,” says Steve. “Same.”

It’s strange, walking away from him. Your heart thuds in your chest, your blood roars in your ears, and it’s a few minutes before you’re able to concentrate on the kids again.

It’s been forever since you thought about Steve Rogers. And seeing him again… it ought to hurt, looking at him, remembering how close you’d all been once, how you’d cried and mourned in each other’s arms.

Instead, all you feel is wistful. And a little bit guilty, because you’d both promised to keep in touch, and then… you hadn’t.

Just as much your fault as his, though. Even if it would have been terrible, at first. It wouldn’t have stayed that way forever. And you’d have the comfort of each other now, instead of awkward conversations in the middle of a hospital corridor.

So when you get back to your hotel that night and see Steve in the lobby, standing up from where he’s been waiting on one of the sofas near the fireplace… you grin.

“How’d you find me?” you say, unable to keep the delight from your voice.

“State secret,” says Steve.

It takes half of dinner before you’ve caught each other up on the last three years. What’s happened with the rest of the team, where you’ve travelled and the people you’ve met.

“How’s Alpine?” Steve asks when the table’s cleared of everything but the coffee.

“Good, healthy. The neighbors keep an eye on him while I travel. Honestly, I think half the reason I go is because that first day I’m back, he doesn’t leave me for a second. It’s like having a pet who actually likes me.”

Steve laughs—which you think probably shocks him, given how he stops abruptly and looks guilty about it.

“S’okay,” you tell him. “It’s funny.”

“Have you—?” He swallows. “Met anyone.”

You shake your head. “No. I mean. Yeah. Went on a couple of dates here and there. There was one guy, but… nothing really came out of it.” You pause, flipping your fork over and over. “I know James would want me to move on. And it’s not that I wouldn’t want to find love again. Just… I don’t know.”

“None of them were right.”

“Yeah,” you agree, and drop the fork one last time. “What about you?”

Steve shrugs. “I didn’t lose anyone.”

“Steve. That’s bullshit and you know it.”

“Not like you did.”

“Doesn’t make it less bullshit.” You stare at him; but he doesn’t meet your eyes. In fact, it feels like he’s not even looking up from his coffee, and his jaw is so tight with tension and pain that your heart aches. “Steve,” you say gently. “You lost your best friend twice. How isn’t that bullshit?”

He goes utterly, completely still. You think he stops breathing for a moment, and then it all comes out in a rush.

“Not sure he was really mine when he came back, though. He had you.”

Now he looks up at you, but there’s no accusation in his eyes, no anger, no recrimination.

Just… acceptance, and a whole mess of sorrow you recognize, which quickly turns to something else, something like guilt.

“Hey, it’s okay,” he says, and he reaches for your hand, gripping it tightly. “He needed you a lot more than I ever needed him. You have no idea how glad I am that he found you. I’m not sure I would have ever found him at all, if you hadn’t found him first.”

The breath catches in your throat. “Steve,” you choke out. “He loved you. He loved you so much.”

“I know. And he loved you too.”

You choke and wipe at your eyes. “Such an asshole. He ruined us for anyone else.”

Steve laughs, softly, quietly, barely a laugh at all, but he squeezes your hand again. And then, without any pause, he continues, “I’m sorry I never called.”

The abrupt non-sequitur catches you off-guard. James, you think, would have paused, looked away, bit his lip. But Steve plunges right in, without pause. You give him a wan smile. “I never called you, either.”

“Bucky would have my hide for it, though.”

You shake your head, wondering how you were both thinking of him at the same time. “I think he’d understand. But he’d probably be mad at both of us.”

“Not at you. He’d save it all up for me.”

“Maybe. He’d be madder at me for leaving Alpine alone so much, honestly.”

“It’s stupid, maybe. I think I miss that cat.”

“You can have him,” you suggest, a wicked glint in your eye, and Steve laughs—the first real laugh you think you’ve heard from him all night.

It’s nice. It’s warmth in your chest, and not just because of memories of years past. But you get the idea that Steve hasn’t laughed like that in a long time, because his shoulders relax and there’s a lightness in his eyes afterwards that for the first time all evening, doesn’t look guilty.

You did that. Well. You and Alpine, anyway.

“When are you back in New York, I’ll come pick him up.”

“Two weeks, I think? I can text you, if your number’s the same.”

“It is.”

He walks you back to your hotel, and it’s only awkward saying goodnight for a moment.

But you go to sleep, and the coldness of the bed doesn’t feel quite so empty.

*

Two days after you text Steve on your return, there’s a knock on your door. Alpine is yowling before you even step into the foyer, and sure enough, Steve’s on the other side.

“I think he remembers me,” says Steve, staring wide-eyed as Alpine literally claws his way up Steve’s jeans and into Steve’s arms, yelling his disappointment and frustration right into Steve’s face.

You can’t stop laughing; it’s the funniest thing you’ve seen in your life.

“Come to the Met with me,” says Steve, following you into the apartment. “They’ve reopened the Impressionists wing.”

“I heard,” you say, trying to unhook Alpine. It takes some concentrated effort, and by the end Alpine’s yowling and you and Steve are both giggling uncontrollably.

“Guess he missed me.”

“Stupid cat,” you tell him, kissing him on the top of his head. “Maybe I should give you to Steve, you sure like him better.”

“I’ll take him,” says Steve, “but after the museum.”

You can’t remember the last time you were at the Met—before the Snap, definitely. Maybe before you’d even met James or Steve. It’s a lot like how you remember, except less crowded. That’s true of everywhere, though. The cafeteria is closed, the gift shop’s closed, and the admission fee is still waived.

The art is still beautiful. So is the building. So is the entire afternoon, you and Steve wandering together and separately, breaking apart only to find each other again. Starting and stopping conversations like they’ve never paused.

It’s easy. It’s comfortable. And you somehow slide from a museum visit to dinner, and then Steve’s waving you goodbye when you head back upstairs to your apartment and angry cat.

You left your new cat, you text him later.

Knew I forgot something, writes Steve.

*

It goes on like that. Steve comes into the city every couple of weeks, detaches an increasingly annoyed Alpine, and then you both head into the city. To visit a reopened museum. Or see a remounted play. Or go to Ellis Island.

Or, once, a walk through the part of Brooklyn Steve remembers best, which is hysterical and terrible for the same reasons, but ultimately, cathartic for both of you.

Sometimes you talk about James. Sometimes you don’t. Steve jokes about taking Alpine with him—but you both know he won’t. Maybe even Alpine knows it.

For a long time, you dreaded coming back to New York. The city that always reminds you of James, the quiet of the apartment he never knew.

You don’t dread it anymore, because now coming back to New York means seeing Steve.

Steve, who was James’s best friend. James’s more, once. Except now, he’s yours.

You don’t always see him in New York; your schedules don’t always align. But you meet up in Tokyo once, and another time, Steve takes you to a café in Paris that has the most amazing croissants you’ve ever tasted.

And always, always, Steve walks you home, no matter the hour, and he leaves you at the door to your apartment building, waiting until it’s closed behind you before turning and heading back to wherever he’s left his car. He never comes up with you, not once.

But you never ask, either. You aren’t sure why.

(Later, you think you maybe knew. And maybe he did, too.)

New York City still doesn’t sleep. But it’s not nearly as awake and alive in the dark of night as it used to be. Instead of vibrant, active, exciting in the wee hours, it’s the sit-in-a-cozy-chair, reading a book and drinking tea sort of awake. Undesired but graciously accepted insomnia, you think, which is why you and Steve keep your voices hushed as you walk home, discussing the musical you’ve just seen.

“I still can’t believe you didn’t see the original run,” you tell him. “You were in New York, and it was right. There.”

“Broke and in Brooklyn,” says Steve, amused. “Besides, it’s not like there was anyone willing to go with me, Bucky was already with the army somewhere.”

“You could have gone by yourself!”

“Better with someone else. Anyway, I heard the songs on the radio, why pay good money to see ‘em in person?”

You groan and sigh longingly, leaning against his arm. “So jealous. Imagine if they played Hamilton on the radio now. I’d be in heaven.”

“There’s this incredible thing in the future, it’s called the internet. I hear you can find music on it and play it anytime you want.”

“Asshole,” you say lightly as he grins at you.

And then, mostly because you want to see if you can make Steve blush—not to mention, you’re feeling strangely buoyant and cheerful after your favorite musical—you start singing and pretending to dance around him.

“Everything’s up to date in Kansas City…”

Steve laughs, watching you. “Would’ve been interesting to see the original,” he says. “If only to compare it to now.”

You take his hand and use him as a somewhat unwilling prop, as you pretend that he’s spinning you around. “You knew the girl who played Laurey in first revival in the 1950s, actually.”

“What?” says Steve, startled. “Who?”

“Maisie Northrop. She was on the USO tour with you, or at least she claimed to be.”

“Maisie Northrop. Huh. She always said she wanted to give Broadway a try. You know Maisie was the reason I didn’t trip over my own feet on that tour.”

You give him a shove. “Move, Rogers, let’s see what Maisie taught you.”

Steve laughs. “Uh. Not dancing.”

Your mouth drops open, shocked. “Steve. What would James have thought.”

“Bucky,” says Steve, with a devilish glint to his eyes, “thought it was the funniest damn thing he’d heard in years. Kept asking me if she was part of the plan.”

You laugh, and yelp when Steve suddenly wraps his arms around you and starts dancing with you in earnest.

“Well,” you say, “you are famed for having a plan. Theoretically.”

“Never had much of a plan for that, though.” Steve still looks lost in thought, which goes well with his dancing style (or lack thereof). “Couldn’t really, back then. And I’m not entirely sure Maisie was looking for commitment from anyone but a Broadway stage. I liked the play.”

You narrow your eyes at him. “You frowned for the entire second act.”

“I was waiting for another ballet break,” he says.

You swat his arm. “Dream ballet, and it’s probably the most famous ballet sequence in musical theatre.”

“Ah, of course.” His face scrunches in thought; it’s adorable. “Felt bad for that Jud character, though.”

“He tried to kill Curly.”

“Buck tried to kill me, once. I forgave him.”

“That’s different.”

“Maybe. That song of his, though. The storm. The bed. The mouse on the floor. The anger behind it… I don’t know. Keeps swirling in my head.” [X]

You shuffle a little closer, or maybe he pulls you in a little more as you continue swaying back and forth. “They cut that one from the movie version. And a lot of the stage versions, too. I guess people didn’t like thinking of the villain as an actual person.”

“Easier to hate them, when they’re not.”

“I guess that’s what makes his story a tragedy, you know? He’s in love with Laurey but he can’t even really see that she’s scared to death of him.”

“I don’t know about that,” says Steve slowly. “I think he got it, at the end there, right before he tried to kill Curly. I was watching, there was something on his face. I think that’s why he attacked; he just kind of… lost his mind there, for a moment. Love’ll do that to a person.”

“Turn someone into a killer?”

“I meant… push them into doing things they wouldn’t normally do. Sometimes it’s good things, like trying new foods or new experiences. Or moving onto bases with a bunch of super heroes.”

You laugh, and he smiles.

“And sometimes it means pushing away from people you wanted to keep close,” continues Steve quietly. “So you end up losing the person you really wanted to keep in the first place.”

You stop dancing, staring up at Steve.

Who’s looking at you, his expression open and honest… and wistful.

Like he’s looking at something he think he might have lost once.

“I—” you stammer. “Steve…”

But he pulls you, or maybe pushes you, and then you’re dancing again, but your heart thumps in your chest, and you’re far too aware of his hand at the small of your back.

“That’s not the earworm, though,” says Steve.

“It’s not?”

“Can’t get that stupid surrey song out of my head.”

You laugh—it’s tension release more than anything. “Well, they say you should sing an earworm to get it out of your head, you know.”

Just for that, he spins you out, and you almost lose your footing before he spins you back in again.

So maybe you can be forgiven for teasing him. “Chicks and ducks and geese better scurry…” [X]

“What are you doing?”

“When I take you out in my surrey...”

“Stop that.”

“When I take you out in my surrey with the fringe on top.”

“This counts as torture, you know,” says Steve seriously.

“No, it doesn’t. The wheels are yeller, the upholstery’s brown…”

“I’ll make a recommendation to the World Council. They respect me, they’ll listen.”

“Only sometimes. The dashboard’s made out of pleather!”

“Those aren’t even the right words!”

“Says who?”

He taps his head. “Eidetic memory.”

“Prove it,” you challenge him.

He rolls his eyes. “I can see the stars gettin’ blurry.”

“There you go,” you say, pleased. “Driving slowly home in the surrey.”

“You skipped a line again,” says Steve.

You snort. “Now you’re just making it up,” you say, just as a large raindrop plops on your cheek.

When you look up to the sky, it opens, and the rain comes crashing down.

“Oh, shit,” you say, because the rain is cold, even for July. The drops are enormous, too, and so thick and fast that you’re soaked through to the skin almost immediately. Even so, Steve grabs your hand and pulls you through the storm to the nearest awning.

“Dammit,” he sighs, “I should have known that was coming.”

“What, eidetic memory and an innate weather vane?”

He shakes his head. “You couldn’t smell it on the air?”

“Not above the trash in the alley, no.”

Steve cranes his neck to peer up. “I don’t think it’s going to break soon, and we’re half a block from your apartment. Do you want to run for it?”

“Why not? I’m already soaked.”

He grabs your hand and you both dive back into the storm. The sidewalk is full of puddles, and soon enough, you’re splashing through them, sodden socks in sodden shoes, kicking up water with every step.

It reminds you of another musical, and soon, you’re singing as you go. “Da da da da, dum-de da da da da.” [X]

Steve looks back at you.

“Singing in the rain,” you sing at him, laughing.

And he breaks into a grin. “I know this one.”

“I’m just singing in the rain…”

And to your great surprise, he sings back at you. His voice a little warbly, and rough, like he hasn’t sung since 1944. Which maybe he hasn’t. “What a glorious feeling, I’m happy again.”

Gene Kelly’s career is safe from Steve Rogers, but you couldn’t care less. You kick a little water at him, and he hops off the pavement into the street and then back again. You follow, and you’re giggling harder than you’re singing, but it’s not like either of you can get any wetter than you are already.

It’s more Fred and Ginger, anyway, the way you’re dancing down the sidewalk, Steve leading you through twirls and sashays. If anyone’s looking out their windows—and they might, the rain’s falling so fast and hard it’s undoubtedly woken someone up—they’ll probably think you’re both drunk as skunks and heading straight for pneumonia.

You laugh when he picks you up, because it really is straight out of Fred and Ginger’s playbook, so he does it again, laughing himself.

And a third time, but this time, he stumbles over a crack in the sidewalk, and instead of space between you, he’s pulled you closer to him, so that his arms are around your waist, holding you next to his body, looking up at you as if the rain isn’t cascading down onto his face, dripping from your hair.

Your hands on his shoulders holding yourself up.

Your heart pounding as you stare down into his eyes, looking up at you exactly the same way Jud looked at Laurey on the stage, just a few hours before.

“I stopped calling you,” whispers Steve. “Because wanting you hurt too much.”

You hold your breath, eyes wide. “Does it still hurt?”

“No,” says Steve. “And I’ve stopped listening to the part of me that says I shouldn’t look at you.”

Your heart jumps in your chest; he doesn’t break eye contact, not once.

“That I shouldn’t stand this close to you,” he continues, as he loosens his hold on you, letting you slide down his chest, inch by inch, closer and closer, until you’re face to face with him, feet still inches from the ground.

Your heart’s pounding hard, double-time—until you realize it’s not your heart you feel pounding. It’s his.

“That I shouldn’t dance all night with you.” A whisper, so soft you can barely hear it; it’s almost a prayer, a pleaded request.

You want to speak. You want to say something, anything. His name. An answer.

He kisses you before you can.

His lips are cold, but his mouth is hot, melting into you as his arms shift around you. Your head spins, circles, twists, but you lean into the warmth of him, fingers skim up his shoulders, past his neck to his cheeks, trembling and shivering in the cool rain, slick with water that drips from his hair.

He’s still breathing hard, chest rising and falling. The only thing that pulls you apart is the crash of thunder overhead.

His lips are swollen, eyes wide with shock and desire.

There’s another crash, a flash of lightning, and you’re running, both of you, hand in hand, through the raindrops, until he catches you again, pushes you against the lamppost, and kisses you again, your cheeks cradled in his hands, cold skin against cold skin against hot breath, hungry, desperate, searching kisses that trail down from your mouth to your neck, where he sucks sharp bites into your skin.

“Steve,” you gasp. “People will see—”

“Let ‘em,” he growls, but pulls away to look at you. “Unless—”

You grab his hand. “Home.”

He follows you, running through the drops, hand tight on yours, until you land on the doorstep to your building, struggling to press the keys in the right order for access. A difficult task, with Steve’s hands on your hips, his mouth on the back of your neck, his body pressed up against you so close you can feel his hardness at the small of your back.

You both tumble into the tiny foyer, slamming against the wall as he lifts you again, kissing you as you wrap your legs around his waist.

“Tell me you want this,” he gasps.

“Oh my god, read the room, Rogers,” you groan, throwing your head back against the wall. He laughs, and goes straight up the stairs without putting you down.

The moment you’re in your apartment, the clothes start to… well, not fly, exactly. They drop, damp and heavy with rain, onto the floor, in a wet trail all the way from the door to your bedroom, where Steve drops you so that he can strip himself of the rest of his clothes.

You’re about to yank off your underwear—it’s the only thing left on you—when he speaks again, but his eyes, hungry, watching you.

“Wait.”

You pause, your fingers still in your waistband, and you hold your breath as he strips off his socks and drops them on the floor before pulling down his boxer briefs.

Your heart speeds up a little. He’s enormous, his cock thick and red, a pearl of precum on the tip, nestled in dark golden, almost red curls. Your breathing speeds up a little, and maybe he notices, the slow way he leans over you on the bed, one knee outside of yours, leaning in to kiss your lips, mouth warmer now.

“Condom?” he growls against your mouth.

“Pill,” you reply shakily, leaning back against the bed, breath stuttering in your throat and your chest. “I haven’t… in a while…”

“Good,” he says, right as his fingers loop your underwear next to yours. He opens his mouth against your lips when he rips them off, the thin fabric tearing away easily. “Last chance, if you want me to stop.”

You surge up and kiss him, hungry, your pussy aching as you spread your legs and try to pull him down on top of you. He comes easily, groaning as he wraps you in his arms, sliding his body between yours, his cockhead pressing against your sex, not quite finding its mark, but sending frissons of pleasure and pressure through every nerve.

You cry out, throwing back your head, and he nuzzles the skin below your ear, your neck, your shoulder. Rough, demanding, rude kisses that send sharp spikes of pain and pleasure with every touch, which is how you realize he’s nipping you with every one of them, pulling gently at tiny holds of skin, his fingers rough on your nipples.

“You’re already so wet,” he growls into you, and your stomach twists at the roughness in his voice, how deep and dark he sounds. Feral, almost. It makes feel wild, wanton, like you want to throw your limbs wide and let him have you in any way he likes. You widen your legs, and he responds, looping your knees over his elbows until you curl, your pussy high off the mattress, perfectly positioned to take his cock.

Which still isn’t at the right angle, despite his frustrated growls. You reach down to help, and the moment you line it up, he plunges into you, so fast your fingers are nearly sucked in with it, trapped in the wet folds, your finger pressed up against your own clit as you cry out.

“That’s it,” he breathes into your ear, “take all of me in, touch yourself. I wanna hear you scream.”

And eventually… you do, coming harder than you’ve come in years, coming apart, coming over and over, until he stills and shakes and groans your name into your skin, filling you so full of himself that you’ll never be without him in some part of you again.

*

It’s later, after you’ve both dozed in each other’s arms, skin sticky with sweat and still warm from what’s passed between you, that you shift on the bed and look up to find him gazing at you.

Quietly. Thoughtfully. Like this was always going to happen, you and he together.

Maybe it was. It feels like it, anyway. His arms are still around you, one of your legs tucked between his, his cock still thick, if softened, and pressed against your hip. His thumb rubs against your arm, and you reach up to rub at his cheek, at the bit of water you think might be a tear, but turns out to be rain still running rivulets from his hair.

It doesn’t feel wrong. It feels… comfortable. Like you’re both where you’re supposed to be.

It’s quiet, though it’s still raining outside, the drops hitting the window in a steady pattern. The intensity of the storm comes in waves, and you’re in a lull now. A little like lovemaking. A little like grief.

“Penny for your thoughts,” says Steve, his voice no longer the roughly hewn desire from before. Calm and quiet, like lying in each other’s arms isn’t new.

“How long?”

“How long what?”

“That you’ve wanted this.”

His finger rubs your arm, once then twice, before he answers. “I don’t know. A long time. Longer than you probably think.”

You rest your head on his arm. It’s not nearly as chiseled as the pictures would have you believe. “Before the Snap?”

He’s quiet, looking at you. Steady. “Yeah. Before the Snap. Before a lot of things.”

You nod, feeling his skin pull under your head. “You never said.”

“Never had reason to.” And then, after a moment, “Never thought it’d matter.”

“Why wouldn’t it matter?”

“Well, for one thing, you were married to my best friend. For another…” He shrugs. “You were happy. I didn’t want to change that.”

You breathe, watching him, wondering what’s going on in his head.

Wondering if you even want to know, the question you almost ask.

“He knew,” says Steve quietly, answering it anyway. “Maybe not the whole of it, but… he knew.”

You nod, blinking back the sudden rush of heat in your eyes. You finger the damp strands of hair back from Steve’s temple. “Do you believe in heaven?”

His eyes widen a little; you’ve actually surprised him. “If you’re asking if I believe he’s watching us right now—”

You shrug, a little sheepish.

“I want to think he’d be happy for us.”

You smile, a little. “Yeah?”

“Well. Happy for you. Me, he’d have notes.”

You giggle, ducking your head into his chest. “He’d cover it all with grumbling. All gruff, playing like he’s annoyed so we don’t catch on.”

Steve chuckles too, tightening his arms around you and kissing your hair as you snuggle in. Whispering, a breath of air that lifts the locks. “You okay?”

“I’m okay,” you whisper back. “You?”

“I’m okay,” he says, and kisses you, rolling you to your back. “I’m more than okay,” he murmurs into your mouth, spreading your legs with his knees, sliding back into you as smoothly as if he’d never left.

*

Your time with Steve changes shape—but only slightly, like you’ve been leading up to this stage all along and didn’t realize it.

(You did realize it. You just refused to think about it.)

You text him when you return to New York, and he comes into the city and knocks on your door. Alpine greets him the same as always, and he jokes how he’ll steal the cat back to the Compound.

But now, instead of heading straight out, you head straight to the bedroom to make love and talk and breathe in each other’s skin, before you go on whatever adventure he has planned.

He comes up to your apartment afterwards, too. And he stays until morning, when he wakes up with Alpine sleeping on his back, as if the cat is determined that he stays exactly where he is.

“Are you going to tell the others?” you ask one morning, after a few months.

“Do you want me to?”

You twist your fingers around his. “I don’t know. I’m worried about what they’ll think.”

“I think…” Steve presses his lips together. “Natasha will be happy for us. She’ll give me the third degree, probably try to talk me out of it, but only because she wants to ferret out how sure I am, not because she thinks I need talking out of anything. Bruce’ll be glad. Tony… I don’t know. It’s been a while.”

“Pepper knows.”

Steve raises an eyebrow, and you give him a pointed look while tapping the love bite on your collarbone.

“Oh,” he says, not even sheepish about it. “Well. If she’s told Tony, he hasn’t sent me any scathing memes about it, so he’s probably okay.”

You snort softly. “Probably thinks I’ve leveled up.”

“I wasn’t going to put it that way.”

“James would have.”

“Yeah, well,” says Steve, tucking you closer, “I would have yelled at him about it, too, told him to stop selling himself short.”

“You’re the short one, pal,” you say, dropping your voice to mimic James’s. “Who gave you permission to grow so tall anyway?”

Steve chuckles and kisses your forehead before sighing into your skin. “Shit, I miss him so much it hurts sometimes.”

“Me too,” you mumble, squeezing Steve tight. “He’d yell at us both for that.”

Steve tilts your mouth up to meet his, a slow, loving sort of kiss. Not that he’s said as much, that he loves you… but you know it anyway. The easy way you talk about James, the easy way he sits beside you both.

“I want to tell them,” Steve says into your mouth. “I want to bring you back to the Compound. Show you what we’ve done, what we’re doing. The world’s so much bigger now.”

You draw back. “I… I don’t know.”

Steve’s face falls.

“No, I mean. Tell them. It’s fine. They should know; I want them to know. But… I don’t know if I want to go back to the Compound, Steve. It’s hard enough being in the city, without James. It’s dumb, you know sometimes I think I see him? Out of the corner of my eye. Except it’s just another guy with his hair in a bun, or wearing a black leather jacket. Or a black leather glove with a bit of gold to it. Feels like, if I went back to the Compound, he’d be there too.”

Steve doesn’t say anything, but you see the sympathy in his eyes, and you know he understands. “Think about it.”

You nod. You will. Later. When you aren’t faced with ghosts.

You’re faced with the Black Widow first, though, standing on the other side of your door first thing the next morning. She hands you a steaming matcha latte and a pastry bag, marches in and kicks the door shut before going to sit at the table with her own cup of tea.

“Did you already give Steve the third degree?” you ask, because she looks the part, with Alpine having immediately jumped up on her lap, curled up to sleep as he purrs contentedly under her pets. “And now it’s my turn?”

“Steve didn’t get a matcha latte,” says Natasha reasonably.

You sit across from her. “I am never, ever going to stop missing James,” you tell her, before the sob catches in your throat and you can’t say another word. You squeeze your eyes shut to stop the tears—you can’t cry in front of a Widow, she’d let you live it down but she wouldn’t forget—and it’s a few minutes of hard breathing to control yourself while you listen to the crackle of the pastry bag as she unpacks the carbs inside.

You open your eyes and breathe, fixing your focus on Natasha. “But he’s gone. And he’s never coming back. And I—” You swallow. “Steve isn’t a rebound. You should know that.”

“I do,” says Natasha.

“I really did try, about two years ago.”

“Marcus,” says Natasha, and your eyes widen.

“How did you—?”

Natasha shrugs and takes a bite of raspberry Danish. You sigh.

“Fine. Well, it didn’t work. I wasn’t ready. Or maybe he just wasn’t right.”

“The second,” says Natasha. “He married about four months ago. In Vegas.”

“Huh,” you say.

“To an Elvis impersonator,” adds Natasha.

Your mouth drops open, and you snap it closed. “That’s… that explains a lot, actually.”

Natasha shoves the bag closer to you, and you grab the plain croissant.

“I was going to visit you a month ago,” says Natasha, like she would have crawled through your window in the dead of night and made it look like a completely natural death. “Except. He was happy.”

Your heart bounces a little at that, hopeful. “He was?”

She smiles softly. “Happier than I’ve seen him in over four years.”

“Oh.”

Nat grabs another piece of Danish. “Gotta admit, I’ve seen you happier, though.”

“Well,” you say. “It’s not every day a Widow shows up at my door before breakfast and hands me a matcha latte and tells me she thought about killing me in my sleep last month.”

“I would have woken you up first. It’s no fun if you don’t see the realization in their eyes.”

“Not helping, Nat.”

Nat grins and changes the subject, to Morgan Stark’s latest witticisms, to the most recent gossip out of Wakanda, to your impressions of the political situation in Costa Rica and who you saw on your last mission there.

“I don’t think Clint even recognized me,” you say quietly. “I thought about trying to catch him, maybe talk to him a little, but—”

“Better you didn’t,” says Nat quietly, staring at her folded hands. “He probably would have disappeared entirely.”

“He’s not living rough,” you tell her. “I was able to convince the doctor who saw him that he was an old friend gone missing—I guess that’s been pretty common after the Snap. He’s using an obvious fake name, but he didn’t show signs of malnutrition, he said he’s up on all his immunizations, and he wasn’t… it doesn’t look like he’s using anything. Drugs, I mean.”

Nat nods slowly, taking it in, even if she’s not meeting your eyes.

“Clint’s okay, Nat,” you say gently. “He’s… I don’t know what he’s doing. The doc said it didn’t look like a first break, and he complained of tinnitus sometimes, but… he’s okay.”

Nat takes a breath and nods again. “I think the only bone Clint hasn’t broken at least once is one of his ribs.”

“Then he’ll know better than most how to take care of it.”

“But will he?” she says wryly and you both smile at each other. “Thanks. For trying to follow him, anyway.”

You nod. “I wish I’d been able to just talk to him. Tell him we miss him.”

“I will. Eventually.” Nat squeezes her hands once, then lets them go as she stands and starts to gather the trash. “You should come up and visit us.”

“I…”

“Pepper comes every Saturday with Morgan. You can get your Morganisms first hand.”

You bite your lips together. “I don’t know.”

Nat rests a hand on your shoulder from behind you. “Try,” she says softly.

He’d want you to be happy, she doesn’t say, but you hear it, because you know it’s true.

It’ll be okay, James told you, hand on the back of your neck.

“Maybe,” you say, and lock the door behind her with a little extra force, knowing she’ll hear it, knowing it’ll make her smile.

*

You go.

Of course you go.

And it’s hard.

Of course it’s hard.

But it’s also not, because Morgan is funny and sweet and drags you from room to room, like you’ve never been there before, excited to show you everything and tell you why it’s useful and important. She knows every person who works there, every nook and cranny of every room. She doesn’t stop talking, not for a moment, and it takes three chocolate chip cookies before she leaves you to breathe on the patio outside, a full two hours after you arrive.

“Sorry about her,” says Steve, like it’s his fault. Which it is; he’s the one who introduced you as my special friend. “She’s a force of nature.”

“She’s three,” you tell him. “I think it comes with the territory.”

Steve watches you for a moment before speaking. “Are you okay here?”

You nod. “You repainted.”

“Among other things.”

“Could maybe replace a few lights, though. It’s really dark in places.”

Steve shrugs. “There’s shortages. Didn’t seem worth the effort of finding the right wattage. And neither Nat nor I care so much.”

You get it. You look out on the field. “I forgot how quiet it is up here.”

“Tony says the same thing. Not that it isn’t quiet at the cabin, but… it’s different here.”

“It was always quiet at the cabin,” you say softly.

“I think that’s it,” agrees Steve, taking you by the shoulders. “Seriously. You’re all right?”

You nod. “I don’t… I don’t see James here. I thought I would.”

“Is that okay?”

“I don’t know,” you admit. “I guess… I was so convinced I would, I think I started to look forward to it? And so far…”

“So far, you haven’t, and you’re disappointed,” Steve finishes for you, rubbing his hands along your arms.

“Yeah.” You laugh. “I mean, I guess he was never where you looked for him, either, all those years. Figures he’d be doing the same thing to me now even after he’s gone.”

Steve smiles thinly.

“I’m glad you came. Even if it’s not what you expected.”

“Me too,” you tell him, right as Morgan comes running, and nearly knocks you over.

It’s a few days before you see Pepper again, as you’re collecting your passport with its freshly pasted visas for the next tour in Northern Africa. Twenty-four days, five countries, and hopefully another part of the world fully vaccinated against major diseases.

“It was good seeing you over the weekend,” says Pepper. “Morgan couldn’t stop talking about you.”

You smile. “She’s amazing, Pepper.”

Pepper folds her hands on the table and smiles at you. “I’m really happy for you both. And I think James would be, too.”

It’s funny.

The whole team knows now.

But this is the first time any of them have said the words.

Tears prick at your eyes, but you don’t have to force the smile in the slightest.

“I hope so.”

*

“I want to show you something,” says Steve a few months later, just after Morgan and Pepper have gone home, when the sun’s reaching the tops of the spring-green trees, while Natasha is slipping away to one of her inevitable conference calls about the state of the world.

“Okay,” you agree, and take his offered hand to follow him into the building.

You think he’s going to lead you into one of the workspaces; instead, he leads you to the living area again, through the common lounge and kitchen, back to where you know the private areas are.

Where you’d lived with James, once. Where Nat and Steve still reside.

“Steve…”

“It’s okay,” he tells you, and stops at a door. “Go in.”

You stare at the door. “I don’t remember whose this was.”

“No one’s,” Steve tells you. “Well. Kind of a combination of Vision’s and Wanda’s. We’ve been doing some remodeling.”

You open the door.

It’s beautiful. Clean, open-plan, with an amazing view of the sunset in the distance. It has that new apartment smell, too, fresh paint and new furniture, pine-scented cleaners. Soft colors and low lights, and you run your hand along the back of the couch, which looks utterly comfortable, ready for snuggling under a blanket while the fire roars in the fireplace nearby.

“This is nice,” you tell Steve, standing in the doorway. “Way better than the dorm-style studios you had before.”

“Two bedrooms,” he tells you. “Two baths. One with a really big tub and an even bigger shower.”

You laugh. “Overachiever, much?”

“Well. Tony’s always saying, go big or go home. I figured… why not both?”

You stop and glance up at him. “Both?”

He walks into the room and takes your hands. “Yeah. Move in here with me.”

You stare at him, eyes wide. “Steve…”

“For Alpine, if not me,” adds Steve. “You know he misses this place.”

You close your eyes and shake your head, laughing. “Foul play, Rogers.”

“It’s been almost a year. And I’m tired of only seeing you once in a while. We lost so many people, and there’s no guarantees in life. I want to see you every day that I’ve got left. Move back here. Even if you don’t want me in this space with you. Just… be here.”

You swallow, hard.

“Think about it. How long are you going to be in Southeast Asia?”

“Five weeks,” you whisper.

He nods. “Tell you what. I don’t want to hear your answer for at least five weeks. Even if you know what you want tomorrow, you don’t tell me until the day you come home, okay? Whether home’s here or the Bronx.”

You smile, and punch him lightly on the shoulder. “This is just a ploy to get me out of the Bronx, isn’t it?”

“Could’ve moved to Brooklyn.”

You reach up on your toes to kiss him, and he takes full advantage, picking you up easily and holding you close, deepening the kiss until you’re yanking at his shirt.

“I mean,” you say breathlessly, “we should probably at least try it out first. What if the bedroom’s not sexy enough, you know?”

“Good point,” agrees Steve, his eyes already crossing.

*

It’s late, or maybe early, when you get back out of bed again. Full dark, anyway, and you try to get dressed with a minimum of light, until Steve turns it on anyway.

“Leaving?”

You turn and nod as you shimmy into your jeans. “Flight’s at eight out of JFK.”

He nods and swings out of bed to kiss you. “You smell good.”

“Had to check the water pressure, you know. You smell like sex.”

“Had to check the bed,” he murmurs into your mouth. “How’s the water pressure?”

“Not bad. How was the bed?”

“Perfect.”

You let him kiss you, relishing the feel of his naked body next to your clothed one.

“Don’t stay in bed with me,” says Steve, huskily, “your body next to mine.” [X]

You laugh and kiss him again, dragging your fingernails against his scalp in a way that makes his eyelids flutter closed. “Don’t smile and fondle me,” you tease him right back, “or I’m going to miss this flight.”

“That is a terrible rhyme and not how the song goes at all.”

You grin and kiss him again. “I love you.”

“Love you too.”

“I’ll text when we land.”

“I’ll be watching.”

It’s quiet, driving away from the Compound, only the stars overhead, and the road leading to the main gates is empty and winding. You wait, somewhat impatiently, for them to finish opening, thinking about Steve’s offer, listening to Diana Ross sing longingly against a strangely futuristic background.

Reflections of… the way life used to be… reflections of… the love you had for me… [X]

You’d done this drive a thousand times before, living with James, going into the city to work until it became too much and Bruce offered you a job instead.

You’d left, thinking you’d never return.

And now… all you can think about is the man you’re leaving in bed behind you, just as you did before. Except a different bed… a different Compound… a different man.

The road on the other side of the gates is almost as empty as the road inside. Except for a car coming towards, and for a moment, you think you recognize the driver, but then he’s gone, and you’re on the highway headed into the city.

It’s not until you’re boarding the plane that you think of who the driver reminded you of. Scott Lang, Ant-man… who disappeared with the rest of them five years before.

Imagination again, you think, and board the plane to Bangkok.

*

[One month later]

It’s morning in Canberra, Australia. There’s a cool crispness in the air that spells fall, which is weird, since it’s May, but you kinda like the topsy-turveyness of it. It goes well with the Hamilton soundtrack playing on your earbuds.

The world turned upside-down… [X]

The streets are mostly empty, save for a few other walkers. There’s no one on the road; one of the clinic's doctors told you that cars have been banned in the city limits for the last three years, after the gas shortages. It’s nice. Quiet.

You’ve picked your coffee from the café, and you’re half a block from the clinic when it happens.

There’s a rush of wind, picking up a few stray papers to send them in a swirl.

You look up just in time to see the ash coalesce into a person, right in front of you, too close to stop walking, and you step into her so fast that you knock her down.

“I’m so sorry,” you gasp, reaching down to help her up. “Are you—”

She’s shivering.

She’s dressed in shorts and a t-shirt, completely inappropriate to the cool temperatures. She’s sunburned. She’s got a baby bag over her shoulder, and a frantic look in her eyes.

“It’s fine, I’m fine. Where’s Maeve?” she says, every word more frantic.

There’s shouting around you. There’s shrieking.

“Who’s Maeve?” you ask.

“My baby. Where’s my baby? She was right here, oh shit, did her pram roll into traffic?”

“What traffic,” but the lady’s up and gone, moving to the street, calling out for her child.

And then you see…

There’s people.

Everywhere. Dressed for summer, shouting and calling for others.

Sitting in the street, standing up and rubbing their backs like they’ve fallen onto the pavement. Some are bruised, some are limping, like they fell so hard from such a height that they’ve sprained their ankles or wrists on the asphalt.

“Help!” screams someone. “He’s bleeding, he’s hurt!”

You run. The guy on the pavement groans, blood everywhere, dressed in construction gear and a hard-hat—not that that it helped, not with the way he’s landed, with the amount of blood pooling under him.

Not that it makes sense. There’s no construction happening on that building.

 “I’m a nurse, what happened?”

“I don’t know, he just… fell!” says the man, frantic.

“Are they doing construction here?” you say, ripping of your coat to help staunch the flow of blood.

“Not for years,” says the man, shaking. “Not since…”

His eyes go waxy.

His phone rings.

You’re still working when he answers it, but you hear it in his voice. The shake. The grief. The shock.

“Jan? Is… are you… oh God.”

You want to sit down.

You want to scream.

You want to pull your own phone out of your pocket.

The world turned upside-down…

But the man whose blood is on your fingers fell from a construction project that ended five years ago and no longer exists, and he’s dying because of blood loss and blunt force trauma, and there’s a woman dressed for summer who’s screaming for her daughter who’s in kindergarten and won’t remember her mother.

And James…

And Steve…

Your heart beats so loudly, you hear it echo in your head.

“Hey, hey,” you say to the man, shaking his arm. “I know. Okay, I get it. I lost people too. But he needs help. Please, I need you to call 000. Now.”

“Jan, don’t move,” says the man, staring at you. “I’ll be there as soon as I can. I love you I love you I love you so much.”

And then he hangs up, and does what you’ve asked. Once he’s been assured that the ambulance is on its way, he offers you his phone.

“Do you need to call anyone?”

James, you think, immediately. And then, inexplicably, think of Steve at the same time.

Your heart drops a little, staring at the phone. But you shake your head anyway.

“He won’t have his phone on him. Go. Find your Jan.”

He nods, glances at the injured man, and runs.

You look down at the man, and think of James, somewhere in Wakanda, confused and looking for you in all the wrong places. Already you hear the sirens of the ambulance coming.

“Oh, god, Steve, what did you do?”

Chapter Two will be posted on Tuesday, June 10.

Also available on AO3 ~ Masterlist of MCU fics