keithyp00

[keithyp00]

▄︻デ══━一💥Tension Is A Loaded Gun

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x f!reader

Warnings/Tags: flirty banter, friendship with Sam, slow-burn tension, humor, light angst, found family, soft Bucky, teasing Sam, mentions of past trauma

(MDNI 18+): explicit sexual content, oral sex (f receiving), praise kink, "pussy drunk", vocal, dom/sub, multiple orgasms, aftercare

Word Count:4.1K

Author Note: Hi guys! Sorry I took a hiatus without telling you guys... But I'm back with another spicy one since the last one did so good. So I hope you guys enjoy and I'll try to be back to my normal posting schedule since school is almost over so fingers crossed :)

Please do not copy or translate any of my works. Thank you!

It was too damn hot for Delacroix.

You stood with a rag in one hand and a beer in the other, watching the Wilson family boat bob gently in the water like it had all the time in the world. Salt clung to the air, thick and heavy like the humidity. Your tank top stuck to your skin, damp with sweat and engine grease, and the smell of fish was less offensive now than it had been when you arrived three days ago.

"Hey!" Sam's voice carried from behind you, teasing. "You look like you're about to punch the boat."

"I'm considering it," you muttered, swiping your forearm over your brow. "This damn engine is older than I am."

"Yeah, well, she still works," Sam grinned, hopping onto the deck beside you with the grace of someone who did this whole life. "Unlike some people."

"You're hilarious," you deadpanned.

He held up a hand, placating. "Hey, I'm the one getting shown up by a boat."

You might've flipped him off if the sound of boots on the dock hadn't pulled your attention. Heavy. Familiar.

You didn't need to look up to know who it was.

James Buchanan Barnes.

The first time you met him, you'd been bleeding mission gone sideways, snapping at everyone who tried to help. Except him. He just stared you down, calm and unreadable, before grunting, "You got guts," and stitching you up himself with surgeon's precision.

That was six months ago.

Now, he was walking towards you with his sleeves rolled up, hair messy and short, and a gaze like a loaded weapon.

"Afternoon," he greeted, nodding to you. His voice was always rough, like it had to be dragged out of him.

"Bucky," you returned, trying to ignore the way your stomach flipped.

You weren't sure when it started- maybe during a mission, maybe in a stolen glance, or the time he handed you a towel after a sparring match and his fingers lingered on your like he didn't want to let go. It didn't matter. It built. Quietly. Relentlessly.

And now every time he looked at you, it felt like your bones remembered him.

"Sam," Bucky added, glancing over.

"Barnes," Sam said back with a grin. "Come to supervise or get your hands dirty?"

"That depends," Bucky muttered. "On whether you're gonna keep flirting with the engine or let someone else take a crack."

You choked on your beer and coughed once, hard.

Bucky smirked.

You glanced at him sideways. "You trying to say I'm bad at this?"

"No," he said, stepping closer- close enough that you could feel the heat radiating off him, "Just saying maybe you need some backup."

"You offering?" You raised an eyebrow.

His lips twitched. "Maybe."

There was something dangerous about the way he looked at you, like he wanted to ruin something and was just waiting for your permission.

Sam groaned. "Alright, alright- if you two are gonna eye-fuck each other again, I'm getting the hell outta here."

You whipped around. "Excuse me?"

"Don't 'excuse me' me," he said, already walking away. "I've got two super soldiers trying to out-stubborn each other in 90 degree heat. I'm going to find a fan and some peace."

You turned back toward Bucky slowly, pulse drumming in your ears. He was closer now. Still watching you. Still smirking like he'd won something.

"Wasn't eye-fucking," you said softly, defensively.

"Could've fooled me," he replied, tone low. "You gonna let me help or not?"

You handed him the wrench wordlessly. He took it, brushing your fingers- deliberate, measured, testing.

The two of you worked in silence. You watched his muscles flex under the sun, veins prominent in his arms, and a thin sheen of sweat highlighting every line of him. You shouldn't have noticed. But you did. You always did.

By the time the boat sputtered back to life, it was late afternoon and your patience had frayed into something wild and taut. You turned to thank him- and didn't expect him to be standing so close.

"I can hear your heartbeat," he murmured.

You stilled. "So?"

"It's loud."

"So is yours."

His gaze dipped to your lips.

"I've been thinking about this for weeks," he admitted, voice rough. "How you smell like sweat and steel, and how your mouth tastes like beer when you've been working out in the sun."

"Bucky-"

"Tell me to stop."

You didn't.

Instead, you surged forward and kissed him like you'd been waiting since the first time he stitched you up. It was filthy. Desperate. His hands- one warm, one cold- gripped your hips like he was afraid that you'd vanish.

"Inside," you whispered against his mouth.

He obeyed instantly.

~~~~~

The door slammed shut behind you in Sam's guest room. You barely made it to the bed before Bucky was on you- pressing, growling, teeth grazing the skin of your throat like he'd die if he didn't taste you.

You gasped when he pushed your tank top up, lips dragging down your stomach.

"Fuck, Bucky-"

"I know," he muttered. "I know."

He kissed you like he needed you more than oxygen. And when he pulled your shorts off, his breath caught.

"You're soaked," he whispered. "Already?"

You bit back a sigh, back arching into his touch. "It's cause I've been thinking about you. Every damn night."

He groaned like it hurt him. "You're gonna kill me."

You slightly opened your legs. "Then die happy."

His mouth was on you before you could blink.

It was devastating.

Bucky licked you like he was starving- slow and deep, savoring every reaction like it was a drug. When his tongue circled your clit, your hips bucked up, and he held you down with that metal arm, groaning against you like he was drunk off the taste.

You moaned, breath hitching. "Jesus, Bucky-"

"You taste so fucking good," he growled, tongue sliding through your folds again. "Could eat you for hours."

Your hands found the short locks of his hair, gripping tightly on what you could. "Then do it."

He did.

Again.

And again.

He didn't stop until your legs were trembling around his shoulders and you were sobbing his name like a prayer. And even then, he kept licking- like he needed every drop of you, like nothing else in the world mattered.

"Fuck, doll-" he slurred, eyes glassy, lips slick and swollen. "You're gonna ruin me."

You pulled him up by his hair and kissed him filthy, tasting your slick on his tongue. "Then let me."

~~~~~

Your mouth was on his, and he moaned into the kiss like he'd already forgotten what air was. His lips moved hungrily against yours, slick with the taste of you, and you drank him in like he was the last thing left in a burning world.

He pulled back slightly, panting, eyes dazed and dark.

"You're-" he cut himself off, swallowing hard. "You're gonna be the death of me, doll."

"You keep saying that like it's a bad thing," you whispered, tugging at the hem of his shirt.

He let you pull it off- arms raised, obedient, exposing thick muscle and scars and sweat-slick skin. The heat radiating off him was unbearable. Gorgeous. Alive. He looked like something carved from war and temptation.

"You're shaking," you murmured, brushing your hands across his chest.

His fingers caught your wrist gently, reverently. "You have no idea what you do to me."

"Then show me," you breathed, arching your back to meet his skin.

His lips found yours again, but this time slower. More intense. Like he was memorizing the curve of your lips.

When he pulled away, he looked down at your body like he couldn't believe it was real.

"Lie back for me," he rasped. "I need to see you."

So, you did.

He dragged his metal fingers up your thigh, over your hip, your ribs, your breast. Every inch he touched felt branded. Worshipped.

"You're perfect," he murmured, voice breaking on the word like it physically hurt him to say it. "I've never wanted anything this bad."

Then he was between your legs again- but this time, his hand replaced his mouth. Two thick fingers slid into you, slow and deep, as his mouth returned to your breast, licking and sucking until you let out a gasp.

"Bucky-"

"Fuck, your pussy has me gone," he groaned, curling his fingers just right. "You feel so good. So fucking wet."

You whined, clawing at his back. "Please- please just-"

He pulled his fingers out and stared at the slick coating them, then sucked them into his mouth with a low groan that made you clench around nothing.

"I'm gonna fuck you now," he said, voice shaking. "And I'm not going to last long. Not after that."

"Then don't," you whispered, hooking your legs around his waist. "Just give it to me."

He lined up and pressed in slow, inch by inch, like he was trying to savor every second.

You both moaned at the stretch- thick and deep, perfect and maddening.

"Oh my God," you gasped. "You're so fucking big."

"You can take it," he panted, gripping your hips. "You're already taking it so well, fuck- look at you."

He bottomed out and stayed there, breathing hard, forehead pressed to yours.

"I'm so deep in you," he whispered. "I can't think. I can't fucking breathe."

You kissed him- needy, messy, lost- and then he started to move.

It was pure filth.

Bucky fucked you like he'd waited years for it. Like he was trying to memorize how you sounded, how you tightened around him, how you begged when he hit just the right spot. The room echoed with skin and breath and the soft, desperate noises he pulled from you.

"I'm never gonna stop thinking about this," he groaned. "How tight you are, how wet. I'm losing my goddamn mind."

"You feel so good," you cried, nails dragging down his back. "You're so deep-"

He grabbed your legs and pushed them back, deeper now, harder, his eyes wild.

"This pussy's got me fucking drunk," he hissed, kissing your throat. "What the fuck are you doing to me?"

You whimpered, high and wrecked. "Then come for me, Bucky. Come inside me. Fill me up."

His rhythm faltered. He buried his face in your neck with a broken moan.

"Oh, fuck- fuck, I'm-"

He came with a groan that sounded like your name and something holy all at once. His hips stuttered, grinding against yours, keeping you full and trembling.

When he finally collapsed on top of you, both of you were shaking- wrecked, breathless, clinging to each other like you'd found something world dying for.

For a moment, all you could hear was the fan whirring overhead and the rush of your heart in your eyes.

Then quietly-

"I wasn't kidding," Bucky murmured, voice hoarse and full of awe. "You've ruined me."

You weakly stroked a hand through his hair. "Good."

~~~~~~

You didn't know how long you stayed like that- entwined, skin pressed to sweat-slick skin, hearts pounding against each other's chests. Every time you shifted beneath him, you felt the slow, sweet drag of him still inside you.

Bucky didn't move.

His face was buried against your neck, lips brushing your skin with every exhale. Like he couldn't stop touching you, even in rest. His metal arm curled under your back, pulling you close with a protectiveness so instinctive it made your heart ache.

Eventually, he lifted his head just enough to meet your gaze.

"You okay?" He murmured, eyes still hazy with the aftermath.

You smiled, thumb brushing sweat from his cheek. "More than okay."

Something flickered in his expression- relief, affection, something unspoken and too big for the space between words. His gaze dropped to your lips. Then lower.

He eased out of you slowly, almost reluctantly. You shivered at the loss, at the soft spill of him, and he kissed your temple like an apology.

"Let me take care of you," he said quietly.

You didn't answer- you just let him go.

Bucky disappeared into the bathroom. When he returned, he had a warmth cloth, a towel, and hands so gentle it nearly broke you. He cleaned you like you were something fragile. Like touching you too roughly would undo everything you'd just given him.

You watched him through heavy-lidded eyes.

No one had ever touched you like that.

Not like you were a body- but a gift.

After, he climbed back into bed, tugging you against his chest. His heartbeat was slower now, but not calm. Still wild beneath the surface.

Your fingers traced the lines of metal and scar along his arm, settling in the dip where synthetic met flesh.

"You always this intense?" You teased gently.

Bucky gave a hoarse laugh. "Not usually. You... you're different I guess."

You looked up. "Different how?"

He paused.

"I've had sex," he said slowly. "But I've never had this. I've never looked at someone and thought, God, if they asked me to stay forever, I'd do it."

Your breath caught. "Bucky-"

"I'm not saying it to scare you," he said quickly. "I just... I've never felt that hungry. That alive. Not even before the war."

You reached for his face and kissed him softly, slow and deep. Like a promise. Like thanks.

He rolled on top of you again, slower this time, cradling your jaw in your hand.

"Can I?" He asked, voice rough.

You nodded.

This time, he moved like he was making love to you. Like he needed to feel every inch of your skin, every breath, every tremble. The kind of slow that makes time dissolve. That leaves you wide open, aching, full of something deeper than just lust.

He held eye contact the whole time.

"You're so beautiful," he whispered. "I don't think I'll ever get enough of this. Of you."

You cried out softly when he hit a deeper angle, legs wrapping around his torso.

He moaned- deep and low- and kissed you again.

No rush. No frenzy.

Just you and Bucky and the long, slow burn of something you could both drown in. When you came again, he held you through it, whispering your name like a prayer. He followed soon after, shaking, his face pressed to your shoulder, his body heavy with need and surrender.

When it was over, he stayed there, still inside you, breathing hard.

Neither of you spoke for a long time.

You didn't need to.

He fell asleep with your fingers laced in his, his arm wrapped tight around your waist.

And when the sun rose over the city, Bucky was still there.

Still holding you like he had nowhere else in the world to be.

~~~~~

The first thing you felt was warmth.

Soft sunlight filtered through the window, casting golden lines across your bare skin. The sheets were twisted around your chest, warm and worn, and the smell of him- clean soap, sweat, and something deeply masculine- lingered on your body like he'd marked you.

Bucky was already awake.

He lay on his side, propped up on one elbow, gazing down at you like you were a dream he didn't quite believe was real. His dark hair was messy, falling over his forehead. The stubble on his jaw looked more dangerous in the light.

But it was his eyes that made your breath hitch.

Soft. Reverent. A little dazed.

"Morning," you rasped, voice hoarse from sleep... and other things.

He smiled, small and crooked. "Hey."

You stretched, and he watched every inch of skin as it moved, the way the sheet shifted down your body to pool beneath your breasts. His tongue darted out, like he was physically stopping himself from kissing you again.

"You're staring," you teased.

He didn't even try to deny it.

"Can you blame me?" He murmured, hand drifting to your waist. "I woke up with you naked beside me, still warm and wrecked from last night."

You flushed, arousal stirring again far too easily. "You're not helping me recover."

"Who said I want you to?" His fingers traced circles on your skin. "I didn't sleep much. Kept waking up just to make sure this wasn't a dream."

You reached for him, pulling him down until his mouth brushed yours. "It wasn't."

He kissed you gently. Once. Then, again, slower.

"Did I hurt you?" He asked quietly against your lips.

Your heart ached at the way he asked it- so careful, so unguarded.

"No," you said, pulling him fully on top of you. "You made me feel... everything."

He pressed his forehead to yours, breathing in deep like he needed to ground himself.

"Good," he said. "Because I don't think I've ever wanted someone this much."

You smiled, thumbing over his bottom lip. "Prove it."

That was all it took.

Bucky rolled his hips into you, half-hard already, his body hungry in that slow, aching way that came from deep affection. From the thrill of knowing you could have more, again, forever.

But before it could go further-

Knock knock knock.

"Hey!" Sam's voice cut through the room like a blade. "You decent or do I need to bleach my eyes out?!"

You both froze.

Bucky let out a groan so deep it could've shaken the bed frame. He buried his face in your chest like it might erase reality.

You bit back a laugh. "You didn't tell him?"

"I told him I was crashing here," Bucky muttered into your skin. "I didn't tell him I was doing it naked with the woman he told me not to flirt with."

You raised an eyebrow. "He told you that?"

"Oh yeah. First week I met you, actually."

"Was that before or after you imagined my legs over your shoulders?"

Bucky gave you a look. "Before."

You laughed, swatting his chest. "You're so dead."

"Only if he hears you moaning my name again." He kissed the corner of your mouth, teasing, smug. "Though if he busts in, we could just show him what he's missing."

"BUCKY!"

"What? I'm kidding. Mostly."

You grabbed a pillow and hit him with it, giggling.

From the hallway, Sam shouted, "If you two don't open up, I'll call Shuri!"

That sobered Bucky immediately. "Oh my god, get dressed."

You were both still laughing as you scrambled to throw on clothes, Bucky kissing your shoulder every few seconds, unable to stop touching you even in the rush. He looked happier than you'd ever seen him- wild-haired, grinning, flushed with affection.

As you pulled on your shirt, he stopped you.

"Wait."

You turned, breath catching at the softness in his gaze.

He stepped forward and kissed your forehead, then your cheek, then your lips.

"I meant what I said," he muttered. "About staying."

You smiled. "So stay."

~~~~~

"So." Sam sipped his orange juice slowly, eyes flicking between you and Bucky over the rim of his glass. "Either you both got laid last night or one of you suddenly discovered how to smile."

Bucky didn't even flinch. He just cut into his stack of pancakes like Sam hadn't just called him out in the middle of a bustling cafe. You tried to hide your grin behind your coffee.

"We slept fine," you said, the most noncommittal answer possible.

Sam narrowed his eyes. "Uh huh. And I'm Steve Rodgers."

Bucky's mouth quirked.

You gently kicked his shin under the table. Don't.

He kicked back. What? I didn't say anything.

But you could see it all over his face- how different he looked this morning. Relaxed. Confident. Still riding the high of having you fall apart under him twice. His hand rested on your thigh under the table, completely unapologetic.

Sam caught the way you shifted in your seat and raised an eyebrow. "You good?"

"Great," you said, supping your coffee.

Bucky smirked wider and you shot him a glare.

Sam leaned back. "Well, I hope you stretched first. She's flexible, but if you throw your back out again, I'm not taking you to physical therapy."

You choked on your drink.

Bucky, the bastard that he was, didn't even blink. "Appreciate your concern."

It was a miracle you made it through the meal without combusting.

But it didn't end there.

Under the table, Bucky's thumb traced slow circles on the inside of your thigh. Every time you spoke, every time you laughed at something Sam said, his fingers crept a little higher. Teasing. Possessive.

You leaned into him when Sam got up to grab more napkins.

"Are you trying to kill me?"

Bucky tilted his head, voice a soft purr against your ear. "Trying to remind you that I'm still thinking about last night. About how wet you were. How you were begging."

You inhaled sharply.

"If you keep touching me," you said, voice low, "I'm going to drag you into that bathroom and ride you until you forget your name."

His pupils dilated so fast you saw it happen.

"Be right back," Bucky said suddenly, standing so quickly his chair scraped the floor.

You blinked, stunned. "Wait-"

He grabbed your wrist as he passed.

"Bathroom. Now."

~~~~~

You barely got the door locked before he had you pressed against it, mouth on your throat, hands already under your shirt.

"This is insane," you gasped, fumbling at his belt.

"Uh-huh," Bucky agreed, dragging his hand up your thigh. "I need you, sweetheart."

You didn't even try to argue.

He lifted you effortlessly, one hand on your ass, the other steadying you as he lined up and slid inside in one deep, slick stroke. You moaned into his mouth, nails digging into his shoulders as he filled you again- so thick, so perfect, so Bucky.

"God, I missed this already," he growled, thrusting up into you. "Missed being inside you. You feel so- Fuck- so good, doll."

You clung to him, your body already trembling.

It was fast. Desperate. Raw.

You came around him with a rush, gasping into his shoulder, and Bucky followed with a strangled groan, spilling inside you with a shudder.

Afterward, he held you close, forehead pressed to yours, both of you breathing hard.

"We're so bad at brunch," you whispered.

"Worth it."

~~~~~

Back at the table, Sam returned to find your seats empty. He looked around and sighed.

Then texted you:

Both of you hydrate. You're not very subtle, you know. Unbelievable.

You never lived it down.

But judging by the way Bucky kissed you hand under the table when you returned- and the stupid grin that wouldn't leave your face- you wouldn't have changed a thing.

[keithyp00]

・┆✦ʚ♡ Ghost Code ♡ɞ✦ ┆・

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x f!ex-hydra!reader

Warnings/Tags: mentions of: violence, trauma/PTSD, torture and experimentation and mind-control. brief mention of attempted suicide. nightmares, depression, mentions of Hydra, mild blood, slow burn romance, healing, hurt/comfort

Word Count: 3.0K

Author Note: Hello guys! Sorry I didn't post last night as well as sorry for posting this one so late :/. I hope you enjoy this one even though it's kind of a cliche but this has been in my drafts for a while and I finally had the inspiration to finish it so :)

Please do not copy or translate any of my works. Thank you!

The cold didn't bother you anymore.

You couldn't remember when it stopped mattering, when the numbness in your bones became part of your biology. When your cells are rewritten and twisted under needles and coercion, things like climate and comfort lose their meaning. So, when you stood barefoot in a puddle of melted snow at the edge of a collapsed Soviet-era bunker in Belarus, you didn't flinch.

You just waited.

Waited for orders. Waited for the voice in your head that no longer came.

Because they're all dead now, you had to remind yourself that. Hydra is dead. You're free.

But freedom didn't feel like freedom. It felt like silence. Unfamiliar. Heavy. Cold.

Your name had once been Y/N. At least, you thought it was. You whispered it sometimes at night, tracing the sound with your breath like prayer. But in the long decades trapped in cryo between missions, you'd been called other things: Asset 12. Variant Echo. The Mirror.

A design parallel to the Winter Soldier, but different. Meant to compliment him, control him. If Bucky Barnes had been Hydra's precision scalpel, you had been the hammer.

The serum had worked. They made sure of that. Strength, agility, rapid cellular regeneration. But Hydra didn't stop at making you strong. No. They made you lethal.

They gave you Reflection. That's what Dr. Kravchenko called it. A mimic-based neural weapon: if you saw someone use a skill, technique, or power, you could duplicate it- perfectly. Temporarily. Sometimes for seconds. Sometimes hours. The longer you watched, the longer you could hold it.

You'd once copied a telekinetic asset for sixteen minutes before your brain hemorrhaged.

Worth it, they said.

Because when you fought, you moved like them- like anyone. Like everyone.

And they sent you after ghosts. Targets like Barnes. Untraceable. Untouchable. Unstoppable.

You saw him once. Back in '89. He didn't remember. But you did. You'd never forget the look in his eyes. Not rage. Not purpose. Just- hollowness. The kind you can only wear after losing everything you never knew you had.

It was the same expression you saw in the mirror every morning.

~~~~~

It was Sam who found you first.

Well, not exactly. The mission was to dismantle the last of Hydra's remaining data catches buried in Kazakhstan. Your cryo pod had been sealed in the basement of an outpost, hooked to a nuclear-powered AI set to wake you if anyone came close.

The AI failed.

You woke anyway.

And you ran.

No orders. No handlers. No conditioning. Just you.

Three months passed. You stole, hid, slept in forests, watched cities from rooftops. Sometimes, you thought about walking into traffic or starving yourself just to stop feeling like a weapon on standby.

Then Sam found you.

He didn't try to capture you. He just sat on a bench. Talked. Waited. Like you were some injured animal that might get curious enough to come close.

"I'm not who they say I was," you'd whispered to him one night on a park bench in Budapest. "But I'm not someone else either."

"You don't need to be," he said. "You just need time. A name. And some space to find your own damn way."

He was your first friend.

~~~~~

That's how you met Barnes.

By then, Bucky was trying. He was healing- sort of. Therapy, small apartments, government tracking. He was mostly quiet, all awkward silences and apologies that he never actually voiced.

You both met in Sam's kitchen in D.C.

"You don't have to be afraid of me," you said first.

Bucky didn't look at you. Just stared at the cup in his hand. "I'm not."

You tilted your head. "But you recognize me."

His jaw clenched. "I remember missions. Flashes. The file that said you were dead."

"I thought the same about you."

When your eyes met, it wasn't hostile. It was tragic. A mirror, held too long between two people who only saw ghosts looking back.

~~~~~

You didn't get along, not a first.

He was guilt-ridden and private. You were feral in grief and defensive as hell. You trained at the same facility Sam brought you to. You'd spar with agents while Bucky glared from a chosen corner, arms crossed.

You fought like Natasha. Like Steve. Like him.

He hated watching it.

Because it reminded him of what you both were.

But one day, he asked.

"How long can you copy it?"

"Depends. Ten minutes max if I'm moving.

"And if I don't stop moving?"

"Then neither will I."

You fought for fourteen minutes straight. You passed out. He caught you.

~~~~~

Your second real conversation wasn't much of one.

It was a stakeout- low-tier arms dealer connected to Hydra. You and Bucky sat in silence, rain drumming on the rooftop above you.

"You ever sleep?" You asked.

"No."

You nodded. "Me neither."

"...Nightmares?"

"Worse."

He glanced over.

"Dreams where I'm happy," you said. "And then I wake up, and I remember I'm still here."

For once, he didn't offer advice, He just listened. Stayed.

That was enough.

~~~~~

Months passed. You learned to coexist. Then to fight side by side. Then to talk.

One night, after a mission gone sideways in Morocco, Bucky found you on the edge of a crumbling rooftop.

He sat next to you, soaked in blood and silence.

"I read your file," he said. "Everything they did to you. How many times they rewrote your brain."

You didn't respond.

He looked over. "You still think you're their weapon?"

"I was," you said. "That's all I've ever been."

Bucky shook his head. "Not anymore."

"How can you say that?"

"Because I was one too."

You finally looked at him.

"And you're still here," he added. "Still trying. That's not something weapons do."

~~~~~

The first time he touched your hand, it was an accident.

The first time he held it, it wasn't.

It happened during a debrief. Sam was scolding you- again- for going off mission parameters and nearly getting yourselves killed. You were still shaking. Your fingers curled tight into the seams of your jacket, jaw clenched hard enough to ache.

The Bucky's gloved hand slid over yours.

You didn't flinch. And you didn't let go.

~~~~~

You had your name again now. Y/N.

A home, sort of. Sam helped you set it up in a tiny brownstone three blocks from the river. You painted the walls yourself, picked a couch that didn't match anything, bought a toaster you didn't know how to use.

Bucky stopped by sometimes.

At first, it was to check in.

Then, it wasn't.

You learned that he liked his coffee black and that he never sat with his back to the door. That he liked books but didn't finish them. That he kept your photo on his nightstand- not a romantic one, just a snapshot Sam had taken when you were laughing, wind in your hair.

He said it reminded him that healing didn't always have to hurt.

~~~~~

You kissed once.

It wasn't planned.

You were hiding out in a safehouse, bodies aching, blood drying, adrenaline fading. He was patching up your arm, quiet and focused. You looked up and saw the concentration in his eyes, the way his brow furrowed just slightly when he was worried.

"Why do you care so much?" You asked.

He paused. Met your gaze. "Because I know what it means to feel unworthy of being saved."

Your breath caught.

He leaned forward- slowly, like you might bolt. You didn't.

The kiss was tentative. Warm. Painfully human.

You didn't know if it meant more. But it meant something.

~~~~~

You still dreamed of cold tiles and screaming metal.

Of numbers.

Of pain.

But now, when you woke, there were sometimes texts. From Sam.

Or a knock on your door. From Bucky.

And for the first time in your fragmented life, you didn't feel like a weapon on standby.

You felt like a person.

A broken one, yes. But not beyond repair.

Not anymore.

~~~~~

The knock on your door came at 2:17 a.m.

You were already awake.

The nightmares had been merciless that week- so vivid you could still smell gun oil and blood in your sheets. You'd taken to sitting on the floor in the corner of your bedroom with a knife in hand, your back pressed against the wall, knees pulled to your chest.

But when the knock came, you didn't move right away.

Because you knew it was him.

"Y/N," Bucky's voice was low, muffled through the door. "It's me."

Of course it was.

You dropped the blade, crossed the room, and unlocked the door without a word.

He looked like he hadn't slept either.

"You okay?" He asked.

You nodded, but he gave you that look- the one that said he knew you were lying.

"I had a dream," you admitted. "Not mine. One they gave me. The kind where I wake up and forget that it's over."

He didn't speak. Just stepped in and closed the door behind him.

You didn't expect the way he reached for you- not rough, not rushed, but deliberate. His hands touched your face, cradled your jaw, thumbs tracing the line of your cheekbones like he was grounding himself.

"I hate when you look like this," he said. "Like you're still trapped."

You swallowed hard. "I feel like I am."

"You're not."

Then he kissed you.

No hesitation this time. No chaos.

Just warmth. Gentle pressure. A silent promise.

You melted into it. Let yourself cling. Let yourself believe that maybe, just maybe, there was a version of you that wasn't just created for destruction.

He pulled back slowly, his forehead resting against yours.

"I don't want to be afraid to want something good," he whispered.

"You think I'm something good?" You whispered back.

He nodded. "You're the only thing that doesn't make me feel like a monster anymore."

~~~~~

You didn't sleep much that night. But not for the reason that people would assume.

You laid on the couch in your living room, your legs draped over his, your fingers tracing the metal of his vibranium arm while he stared up at the ceiling.

"You know," you started, "I used to think if I ever felt this close to someone, I'd ruin it. Or they'd ruin me."

"Maybe we're both already ruined," Bucky murmured. "But maybe we're still worth loving anyway."

You laughed softly. "You're getting good at this therapy thing."

"I stopped going."

"Why?"

"Because I talk more with you than I ever did with Dr. Raynor."

Your chest tightened. You turned, tucked yourself into his side, and closed your eyes.

"Okay," you said. "Then keep talking."

And he did.

He told you about the time he lost Steve in the war, and how he still dreamed of chasing him through fire. About the way he still couldn't sleep in a bed some nights, and how his neighbor's cat made him cry once by sitting on his porch for three hours straight.

You listened. And you told him things, too.

About the weight of mimicry. How sometimes you didn't know which movements were yours anymore.

And how his were the only hands you let touch you without flinching.

~~~~~

Your first mission together after that night was a blur of bullets, sweat, and unspoken tension.

You were sent to intercept a rogue lab in Lithuania, one that was housing modified versions of the serum. Most of the intel was useless. The building was a maze. Enemies were prepared. It should have gone sideways.

But it didn't.

Because you moved like one body.

You fought with his patterns, he mirrored yours. You covered each other's blind spots. At one point, you took a hit meant for him- caught a knife to the ribs.

He panicked.

"Y/N-"

"I'm fine," you gritted out, blood soaking your shirt.

"You're not fine."

He scooped you up before you could argue, carried you through the smoke and fire like she weighed nothing.

You didn't protest.

Didn't want to.

~~~~~

Later, in the extraction van, you leaned into him while Sam drove.

"You're warm," you mumbled.

"You're bleeding." Bucky shot back, but his arm curled tighter around you.

"You kissed me."

"I remember."

You looked up at him. "Do it again."

He did. Right there, in the back of the stolen van with Sam sighing heavily and muttering something about gross super-soldier PDA.

~~~~~

That night, he stayed with you.

You didn't speak much.

But in bed, his hand found yours beneath the blanket. Your fingers tangled, like wires, old and frayed but still carrying a current.

You could feel it.

The ache of maybe, The sting of something real.

~~~~~

Weeks passed.

It didn't fizzle out.

It deepened.

He started keeping a toothbrush at your place. You brought him black coffee and cinnamon rolls. You shared books and swapped stories they hadn't told anyone else.

He never said 'I love you.'

Neither did you.

Not yet.

But every time you woke up screaming and he was there to hold you- every time he caught your hand in the middle of a fight just to remind you he was real- it felt like the words were already there.

Waiting.

~~~~~

One night, they were sitting on your fire escape, legs dangling into the dark.

You glanced at him. "Bucky?"

"Yeah?"

"If they could undo all of this- everything in your head, everything you've done- would you let them?"

He didn't answer right away.

Then, slowly: "Not if it meant forgetting you."

You didn't cry. Not then. But you let yourself reach for his hand.

And this time, you held on tight.

~~~~~

Sam caught you in the kitchen at 9 a.m. on a Sunday.

"Jesus Christ," he said, stepping backward like he'd walked into an actual crime scene. "You could've warned me. That's my coffee table, man."

Bucky didn't flinch. Just kept pouring coffee into two chipped mugs like nothing had happened.

You, however, looked properly mortified from where you sat on the counter, wearing one of Bucky's henleys and exactly none of your own shame.

"Relax," you said coolly, hopping down. "We didn't touch the table. That's where your magazines go."

Sam narrowed his eyes. "I don't trust either of you."

"You never did," Bucky deadpanned.

"Because I know you. You're a disaster in a leather jacket. And you-" he pointed at you, "- you were built in a Hydra basement and somehow still think I can't take you in a fight."

"Because you can't," you said, hiding a grin behind your mug. "But I appreciate the confidence."

Sam groaned and walked away, muttering something about 'therapy bills' and 'ruined upholstery.'

~~~~~

You were a team now.

An official one.

After Lithuania, Fury approved your for joint deployment when needed- Winter and Warden, as Sam jokingly referred to you.

Your skills were brutal, efficient, too well-matched. And though no one said it aloud, people noticed you always returned from missions in one piece.

Together.

~~~~~

One evening after a quiet recon in Estonia, you returned to Louisiana to lay low. Sam insisted.

"You need a break," he said. "Both of you. And I need help fixing my sister's boat."

You looked at Bucky. "You ever fix a boat?"

"I fought a Nazi on one in 1943. Same thing."

Sam laughed from the front seat. "You're both idiots."

~~~~~

You worked on the boat all afternoon. Your power- and experimental Hydra derivative of the Super Soldier Serum- let you manipulate kinetic energy through your body like an amplifier. In close combat, it turned you into a living weapon. But today?

Today, you used it to lift the engine block with a flick of your fingers.

Sam stared at you, casually walked with the engine block propped on your shoulder. "I take back everything I ever said. You are a gift."

Bucky sat back on the dock, shirt halfway unbuttoned, oil on his metal fingers, watching you like you'd hung the sun.

And Sam noticed.

"You're gonna tell her?" He asked under his breath.

Bucky didn't look away. "Tell her what?"

"That you're in love with her, you emotionally repressed snowman."

Bucky's lip twitched. "I don't know if she's ready."

Sam elbowed him. "Maybe. But you are."

~~~~~

Later, after dinner, when the docks had quieted and the air had turned sweet with salt and pine, you found him sitting on the deck of the boat.

Alone.

Moonlight silvered his profile.

"Should I be worried?" You asked gently. "You look like you're about to brood yourself into another century?"

He smiled, barely. "Come here."

You walked to him slowly. Sat beside him. He reached for your hand like it was second nature now.

"I used to think," he started, "that I didn't really deserve this."

"This?"

"You. The peace. The softness. All of it."

You leaned into his shoulder. "I used to think that I was too broken to love anyone."

His arm slipped around you.

"We were wrong."

You nodded. "We were."

A pause.

Then- quiet, raw-

"I love you, Y/N."

You stilled.

Not because you didn't feel it. But because you did. So much you could barely breathe.

"I love you too, Bucky."

And the way he kissed you after that wasn't like your first, or your second.

It was slow. Reverent. A kiss from someone who had lost everything once and had finally found his place to land.

~~~~~

The next morning, Sam walked in on you again- fully clothed, curled up together under a blanket on the couch, fast asleep.

He stared for a long beat.

Then pulled out his phone.

Snapped a photo.

"Blackmail," he said to himself with satisfaction. "Priceless."

~~~~~

Later that day, you caught him smirking.

"You're up to something."

He shrugged. "Just enjoying your domestic villain redemption arc."

You rolled your eyes. "You're so lucky I like you, Wilson."

He grinned. "Yeah, yeah. Just make sure you keep that cyborg wrapped around your finger. He's better now, you know."

You glanced toward Bucky- standing at the grill, trying, and successfully, flipping burgers with his vibranium hand while muttering curses under his breath.

"I know," you said softly. "So am I."

[keithyp00]

‧₊˚✧𝄞 Just One Dance 𝄞‎✧˚₊‧

Pairing: Steve Kemp x f!reader

Warnings/Tags: dark romance, psychological tension & manipulation, slow-burn intimacy, implied past captivity, morally ambiguous dynamics, dark undertones masked by romantic softness, implied intimacy/sex

Word Count: 2.1K

Author Note: Good afternoon or morning of whatever for you guys! This is an experimental one-shot for me and it won't be going onto the masterlist unless I decide that it does well enough to post another few :) BUT, for those of you that are reading my stories for the first time, please go check out my Bucky Barnes fics cuz I'm really proud of them. Thank you!

Please do not copy or translate any of my works. Thank you!

The music plays softly from the old record player in the corner of the room- something jazzy, low, warm like honey. Steve hums along under his breath, eyes cast downward as he arranges the last few bites of dinner on your plate. The air smells like butter and seared meat, rosemary wafting from the skillet like a comfort you no longer trust.

You sit at the table, fingers curled around the wine glass he poured for you, watching him move with precise ease. He's barefoot. His sleeves are rolled. His lips twitch upward, like he knows you're watching.

You hate how good he looks like this. Like a man. Not a monster.

"Do you like it?" He asks, gesturing to the food he plated for you.

You nod. "It's good."

"You always say that." He chuckles and leans on the back of the chair across from you. "But you barely eat."

You glance down at the plate, then back at him. "Still working on trust."

His smile falters. Just for a second. Then it's back, polished and gentle. "Fair enough."

He walks over to the record player and adjusts the volume slightly. The room seems smaller now. Softer. You take another sip of wine just to try and keep your hands busy.

Then, unexpectedly, he turns and reaches out a hand.

"Dance with me."

Your eyes flick to his. "What?"

He shrugs. "Just one dance."

You stare at him for a moment, stunned by how calm he sounds. As if asking you to slow dance in his kitchen isn't completely deranged. As if he didn't once keep you locked in a place with no windows and bring you meals like he was a lover instead of a captor.

He doesn't retract his hand.

"Steve..."

"One song," he says. "I won't touch you again after. Unless you ask."

There's something so sincere in his face that it unsettles you more than any knife ever could.

You set your glass down and slowly stand. Your hand slips into his.

His palm is warm, large, fingers gentle as they curve around yours. He brings you close, but not too close. His other hand rests lightly on your waist, not gripping, just there. Like he's testing his own restraint.

You sway together in the kitchen's dim lighting. The record crackles. He's humming again- quiet, tuneful, careful.

The silence between you stretches, filled only with the music and the soft shift of your breath. He's looking at you like you're fragile. Or precious. You can't decide which one scares you more.

"I used to dream about this," he murmurs.

You tilt your head. "Dancing with someone in your kitchen?"

He chuckles. "No. I mean... being seen. Being known. And still being wanted."

You don't reply. Your stomach twists. But you don't stop dancing.

His thumb brushes against the back of your hand. "I know I'm not... forgiven," he starts. "But I like to think I could be something else now. For you."

The words slide under your skin like silk, leaving something sticky behind.

"Why me?" You ask quietly.

Steve's gaze lowers, his smile wistful. "Because you stayed."

You feel the weight of that. The implication. The truth: you could've left. He let you. A long time ago.

But something kept you here. Some part of you wanted to understand him. Wanted to know the shape of that monster- and what was left underneath it.

The song fades to its last few notes. Steve releases your hand just as he had promised.

But you don't step back.

He watches you, cautious hope flickering in his expression like the last light before dusk.

You rest your palm against his chest, where you can feel his heart thudding- fast, anxious.

His hand rises to cover yours, fingers trembling just barely.

"I don't know what this is," you whisper.

"Me neither," he says.

The record starts another song. A softer one. Slower.

You close your eyes and rest your forehead against his shoulder.

And this time, he doesn't ask. He just pulls you close.

~~~~~

The second song begins. Slower, older- something soulful that sounds like it was meant for this exact moment, vinyl and dim lighting.

Steve holds you like he's afraid to break something. One hand at the small of your back, the other gently cradling your wrist where it rests against his chest. His body is tense, but his touch is reverent. Worshipful. Like he can't believe you're still here.

Neither can you.

His breath stirs the hair near your ear. "You smell like jasmine."

You blink. "It's the soap."

"I like it," he murmurs. "It suits you."

His voice has that low, soothing lilt he uses when he wants to disarm you. You know it well. You also know you've let him. Again. You let him pull you into this- this almost-romance. This illusion of safety that only works because you stopped asking what was real.

His fingers slide up your back, slowly, until they rest between your shoulder blades.

"I've changed," he whispers.

You laugh softly- too softly to sound bitter. "You say that a lot."

He leans back slightly to look at you. His eyes are clear. Open. The kind of look he gives you when he's not trying to seduce you, but reach you.

"I'm not asking you to forget," he says. "Just... to see me now."

"I do," you murmur. "That's the problem."

The music pulses, low and rhythmic. You're too close now. His body is warm against yours. Familiar.

You feel the moment shift- when the air thickens and something unspoken hums beneath your skin.

He leans in just slightly, his nose brushing against your temple, down to your cheek. "You want me to stop?"

Your breath hitches. "Do you want me to say yes?"

He smiles- but it's not smug. It's soft. Like a secret. "No," he admits. "But I will."

He doesn't move. He doesn't kiss you. He just waits.

And that's what breaks you.

Because this man- who once stole everything from you- is giving you the choice now.

And you hate that part of you that wants to give in.

So you do.

You lean in and press your lips to his- tentative, searching, unsure.

He exhales shakily, like he's been holding his breath for years, His hand comes up to your jaw, thumb caressing your cheek, and he kisses you back like he's starved- but careful. Like he doesn't want to scare you. Like this moment is sacred.

When you finally pull away, you rest your forehead against his.

"I'm still mad at you," you whisper.

"I know," he breathes. "I'm mad at me too."

Silence. His chest rises and falls beneath your palm. The music fades into the background, barely audible now.

"I don't forgive you," you add.

He nods. "I'm not asking you to."

Another beat.

"But you're staying with me tonight, aren't you?"

You close your eyes. "Yes," you whisper. "I am."

~~~~~

The house is quiet when he leads you upstairs.

He doesn't rush. Doesn't touch you unless you offer it. His presence is magnetic, his gaze stealing glances every few steps like he's afraid you'll vanish. You feel it too- that edge, that thrill beneath your skin. This shouldn't be happening. And yet here you are, trailing after a man who once broke you open, now wanting him to put his hands on your skin like it would fix something.

You stop in the doorway to his bedroom.

It's tidy. Warm-toned. The bed is made with crisp white sheets, blankets pulled tight like he's trying to convince himself he's a clean man now. There's a single lamp lit by the nightstand, casting golden light across the room.

Steve turns to you. His eyes sweep over your face like he's memorizing it.

"You can sleep here," he says quietly. "I'll take the couch if you want."

You don't answer. Instead, you take a step forward. Then another.

You're in front of him now, close enough to smell the cologne on his collarbone again and the ghost of wine on his breath. He still hasn't touched you.

You slide your fingers up his chest, slowly, until your hands cup the sides of his neck where it meets his jawbone.

His throat works around a swallow. "Are you sure?"

You nod. "Don't make me ask again."

And then he kisses you- this time with heat.

His hands move to your waist, pulling you flush against him. Your fingers knot in the soft fabric of his shirt, pulling him closer, greedier than you expected to be. It's dizzying, how easily your body remembers him. How quickly you crave the warmth of him, the safety he imitates so well.

He walks you back towards the bed, kissing you like he's half-drunk on it, like you're the first taste of something he doesn't deserve. When your knees hit the mattress, he pauses.

"I need to take care of you," he murmurs, eyes searching yours. "Let me."

You nod, breathless.

He helps you onto the bed like you're fragile, like the intimacy is an offering instead of a right. His hands slide under your shirt, slow and reverent. Every inch of skin he uncovers is met with his mouth, his tongue, his breath- worship instead of lust. He traces over old marks- marks he's left from the precision of a scalpel- with something that feels like regret and kisses your collarbone like he's trying to rewrite the memory of every hurting you.

And you- god- you let him.

You arch into him, your body aching with a hunger that has nothing to do with pleasure and everything to do with being seen. Desired. Chosen in a way that's almost too gentle for the past you share.

His mouth finds yours again, deeper this time, and you whisper his name against his lips like a warning.

"Steve."

He stills, forehead resting against yours. "Say the word and I'll stop."

You search his eyes. He means it. You could break this spell. You could walk away.

But you don't.

You take his hand and guide it back to your skin. "Don't stop."

~~~~~

The room is quiet.

The kind of quiet that only happens when both bodies are spent- when nothing else needs to be said, at least for the moment. The lamp still glows dimly, casting soft light across tangled sheets and bare skin. Your breath is finally evening out, and Steve is beside you, laying on his side, head propped on one hand as he watches you like you'll disappear if he blinks.

He reaches over slowly and brushes a thumb across your cheekbone, knuckles grazing your temple. "You okay?"

His voice is gentle. Careful. You can hear the fear under it- fear of the answer, fear of how far he pushed without knowing. Because even now, after everything, he still doesn't trust himself.

You nod. "Yeah."

He studies you for a long moment. "You sure?"

You turn your head to face him. The way he's looking at you- it's too soft for someone like him. Too human. It makes your chest ache in a way you don't want to admit.

"I wouldn't have stayed if I wasn't," you say quietly.

That seems to settle something in him. His hand falls to the mattress between you. You think he might try to pull you closer, but he doesn't. He stays right there, like he's giving you space even though every part of him is leaning toward you.

You roll to your side and mirror his position. The silence stretches. This kind of silence used to terrify you- with him, especially. But now it just... feels. Heavy. Unspoken.

"You still think about it?" You ask, voice barely above a whisper.

His jaw clenches. "Every day."

You look at him, searching for the lie- but it's not there. His eyes are clear and quiet and full of that raw honesty that only seems to come out after midnight.

"I hated you," you admit, throat tightening. "For a long time."

"I know."

"I wanted to forget your name."

"I wanted to forget it too."

The confession hangs in the air between you. You're not sure who reaches first, but eventually your fingers find his beneath the sheets. He laces them together without hesitation.

"I don't know what this is," you say.

He nods. A silent agreement before speaking. "I think I'd like to find out."

You glance down at his hand in yours. "Even if it's not clean?"

His voice is rough when he answers. "Especially then."

You close your eyes. Let yourself breathe. Let yourself feel. His warmth, The steadiness of his hand. The crackling, tentative thing that might be healing- or might be burning everything down all over again.

But for now, it's quiet. And you're here. And so is he.

And that's enough.

[keithyp00]

❭❭─ღSoft Targets ღ─➣

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x f!super-solider!reader

Warnings/Tags: slow burn, friends?-to-lovers, action, comfort, fluff, mentions of past trauma, violence, spice, angst, tension, possessiveness, praise

MDNI (18+): explicit sexual content (m/f), fingering, unprotected sex, oral (f receiving), dominant!Bucky, praise kink, mild jealousy, emotional vulnerability

Word Count: 2.0K

Featuring Sam Wilson and Joaquin Torres

Author Note: Hi! Nothing important for me to note here but I did wanna ask an opinion! I just rewatched Fresh last night and I was curious if any of you guys would be interested in me posting some crazy one-shots about Steve Kemp (because I really wanna write a psychotic reader). But let me know! This is also my first time posting smut so-

Please do not copy or translate any of my works. Thank you!

You had been many things- a ghost, a weapon, a cautionary tale. But around Sam and Joaquin, you were just... Y/N. Grumpy when tired. Deadly before coffee on some days. And the only one among them that could snipe a moving target while quoting Schopenhauer. (The philosopher of pessimism.)

Which is why you instantly knew something was up the second you walked into the hangar.

Sam was pacing near the quinjet, arms crossed, wearing that specific smirk that always preceded chaos. Joaquin stood beside him, poorly hiding a shit-eating grin behind a tablet.

"No," you said without preamble, tossing your bag down with a loud thud.

Sam blinked, innocent. "No, what?"

"Whatever it is you're planning."

Joaquin chimed in, "Okay but- hypothetically- if we were trying to set you up with someone..."

"I'd kill you where you stand."

"Romantic," Sam deadpanned. "You and Bucky are a match made in hell."

You raised a brow. "We share a mission report from Latvia and very similar trauma. That's not chemistry, that's a war crime."

"Still hot," Joaquin mumbled, scrolling.

"I hate you both."

They grinned in unison. You were doomed.

~~~~~

You didn't expect to see Bucky Barnes again, not really. Not in the civilian sense.

The last time your paths crossed was a mess of cold air, Hydra bunkers, a muscle memory soaked in blood. You remembered snow crunching under boots, steel eyes across a ruined hallway. No bullets fired. Just a pause. A flicker of recognition. Then silence.

Now he stood in the compound kitchen, sleeves rolled, frowning at the coffee machine like it insulted his lineage.

He looked up as you entered, gaze sharpening- then softening.

"Y/N."

"Barnes."

A breath of quiet passed between you. Not cold. Not tense. Just... suspended.

"You cut your hair," he said.

"You grew a conscience."

He let out a quiet breath, one that resembled a chuckle. "Mostly."

Something in your chest unfurled. Carefully.

~~~~~

Sam and Joaquin were anything but subtle.

Suddenly, you found yourself paired with Bucky for everything- training, briefings, field ops, even debrief dinners. Once, you found a copy of your favorite book tucked in your locker- annotated in Bucky's handwriting. The next day, Joaquin 'accidentally' left your hoodie at Bucky's place.

When you showed up to get it, you found the hoodie folded neatly beside two glasses and an unopened bottle of whiskey. A Post-It note stuck to the neck, which read: Stay. Talk. He's not as grumpy as he pretends. -S.

You stayed. And honestly, neither of you talked much, but the silence between you didn't ache the way it used to. It felt like space. Like breath.

Like peace.

~~~~~

The mission in Krakow wasn't supposed to be complicated.

Infiltrate. Extract. Burn it down.

You moved like shadows- silent, lethal. You disarmed a guard with one twist, snapped a lock, cleared the corridor. When Bucky fell in beside you, you didn't flinch. You moved like mirrors, and you had forgotten how easy it could be, trusting someone to have your back.

He grunted as a bullet grazed his shoulder. "You always show off this much?"

You smirked. "Only when you're watching."

By the time the lab was in ruins, and the hostages were evacuated, you were both bleeding and breathless, leaning against the alley wall under sodium-yellow lights.

"You saved me in there," he said quietly.

"You saved me first," you replied.

He looked at you, eyes scanning like he wanted to memorize the whole shape of you. "You ever get tired of being used like a weapon?" He asked.

"All the time," you whispered.

He nodded, then reached out- slowly- and brushed a strand of hair behind your ear. "You're more than that," he stated. "You always were."

~~~~~

He started showing up.

Sometimes with takeout. Sometimes with a book. Once with a cat.

"I thought you didn't like animals," you said with a smile.

"I don't, but cats are an exception. You just looked like you needed someone who doesn't expect anything from you."

"You mean besides you?"

He smiled. small and self-deprecating. "I don't expect anything either."

That night, you sat on the floor, knees touched, the fluffy white cat- whom you named Alpine- curled in your lap and his voice low beside you as he explained his nightmares, things he had never shared with anyone else.

When he asked you what your worst one was, you answered with honesty: "The one where I'm still in that lab. But this time... I want to stay."

He didn't speak. Just took your hand and held it like it was something fragile.

Like you were.

~~~~~

It happened in the quiet, like most important things do.

A mission gone wrong. Rain falling in sheets. You made it out- barely- and sat in the transport van soaked and silent.

You turned toward him, eyes searching. He looked at you like he was already yours.

"You ever wonder," you started, voice low, "what we'd be if none of this happened?"

He didn't hesitate. "I'd still find you."

You kissed him then. Not hard. Not desperate. Just... sure.

It was soft. Anchored. The kind of kiss you give someone when you're finally ready to feel again.

~~~~~

Sam leaned against the doorframe of the training room, arms folded.

"So. You and Barnes."

You didn't look up from the punching bag. "You want a thank-you or a medal?"

"I'll take both," he said smugly. Joaquin fist-bumped him behind your back.

Bucky walked in a few seconds later, shirt clinging to him post-shower. He stopped beside you, handed you a towel, and pressed a quick kiss to the side of your head.

Sam nearly dropped his water bottle. "God, you're publicly affectionate."

You smirked. "Don't make me kick you."

Joaquin clapped once. "It worked, though. Admit it."

You looked up at Bucky. He smiled, shy and warm and real.

"Yeah," you said softly. "It did."

~~~~~

That night, curled against Bucky's side, you let yourself believe in softness. In second chances. In the idea that maybe, just maybe, there was more to you than your kill count or combat record.

Bucky brushed his fingers down your spine and whispered, "You're not a weapon."

You looked up at him. "Then what am I?"

He smiled. "Someone I want to come home to."

~~~~~

Several Days Later

The apartment was quiet. Only the soft hum of rain against the windows filled the silence.

You were standing in his living room, soaked and bruised, tactical gear clinging to your skin like a second layer you hadn't yet learned to shed. Your lip was bleeding. A shallow gash trailed down your bicep.

Bucky hadn't set a word since you left the quinjet.

You watched him from the corner of your eyes as you peeled off your jacket, wincing slightly at the pull of a forming bruise. He hadn't even looked at you.

"You're mad at me," you said finally.

He dropped his gloves on the kitchen counter like he was trying not to throw them. "You think?"

You raised a brow. "I disarmed the bombs."

"You disarmed three bombs, alone, with no backup. You didn't even tell us you went inside the building."

"It was the fastest option."

"It was reckless."

"It worked."

"It could've gotten you killed."

That made you pause. You turned fully toward him now. His voice hadn't raised, but the heat in it was undeniable- burning with something sharper than anger.

Something closer to fear.

Your voice lowered. "Is that really what's bothering you?"

He finally met your eyes- and something in his expression made your breath catch.

"You think I'd survive watching you die?"

Your heart stuttered. "Bucky-"

Before you could say anything more, he was in front of you.

He closed the distance in one stride, and then he was kissing you- desperate, hard, unyielding.

And you kissed him back just as fiercely, blood singing, nerves sparking to life. His hands gripped your waist, pulling you against him. You could feel how tightly coiled he was beneath the surface. He wasn't angry. He was unraveling.

~~~~~

"Bedroom," he growled against your lips. "Now."

You stumbled backward as he advanced, pulling your shirt over your head before you even reached the hallway. His eyes dropped to your chest- he hesitated for half a second when he saw the bruises already blooming there.

His voice was low. Rough. "You let them touch you?"

"They tried," you whispered.

That was all he needed.

He grabbed your hips, lifted you like you weighed nothing, and carried you to the bed. He laid you down carefully, reverently, then stripped off your boots and pants like it was a mission all its own. His eyes roamed over every mark, every scar.

"You don't get to be careless," he murmured, metal hand tracing the side of your thigh. "Not when you belong to me."

You gasped, hips arching into his touch. "Then show me."

He growled- actually growled- and then dropped to his knees at the edge of the bed. "Legs up."

You obeyed instantly, spreading for him.

He didn't hesitate- he leaned in, tongue flicking slowly through your folds, groaning when he tasted you. One of his hands pinned your hips, the older sliding up to spread you wider.

"Oh, fuck- Bucky," you moaned, hand fisting in his hair.

He worked you slowly at first- long, deep licks, sucking gently on your clit until you were trembling. But when you started to squirm, when your thighs started to close around his head- he got mean.

He slid two fingers inside you and crooked them just right. His tongue didn't stop moving. He kept going until you were writhing, breathless, mouth open in a silent scream as you came hard around his fingers.

He didn't let up. He licked you through it, humming like he could get drunk off the taste of your alone.

When you finally came down, you were panting, flushed, wrecked.

He stood and kissed you- deep and filthy- letting you taste yourself on his lips.

"Still mad?" You asked breathlessly.

"I haven't even started."

~~~~~

He stripped down fast- ripping off his shirt, his pants, everything. Your eyes trailed down his chest, his arms, the glint of metal and scars. But it was the look in his eyes that stole your remaining breath.

Dark. Desperate. Dangerous.

"You're mine," he said again, voice like gravel. "Say it."

"I'm yours."

He dragged the head of his cock through your folds, teasing you with slow rolls of his hips. You were still slick, still fluttering from your previous orgasm.

"Beg."

"Bucky-"

He nudged the tip inside. Your breath hitched.

"Beg for it, doll."

You shuddered. "Please. I want you. I need you."

That was enough.

He slammed into you with one thrust- deep and full, making you cry out. You clutched at his shoulders as he set a brutal pace, hips slapping against yours, the sound obscene in what was once a quiet room.

You wrapped your legs around him, pulling him deeper, tighter, closer.

He kissed you- sloppy, desperate, teeth grazing your lips. HIs hand found your throat, not squeezing, just holding- just claiming.

"You feel too good," he groaned. "Like you were made for me."

You gasped, nails digging into his back. "Harder," you whispered.

He obeyed.

He fucked you like he was punishing you- for the mission, for scaring him, for making him feel anything at all. And you took it, crying out with every thrust, drunk on the way he filled you.

And when you started to clench again, your walls fluttering around him, he lost it.

"Come for me," he said, voice guttural. "I wanna feel you lose it."

You did- with a cry that tore from your throat, back arching, body shaking as you came around him.

And he followed- burying himself deep, groaning your name as he spilled inside you.

~~~~~

Then you lay together, sweat-slick and breathing hard.

You traced lazy circles on his chest. "Still mad?"

He looked down at you, lips twitching into a betraying half-smile. "Always."

"Good," you whispered. "Means you care."

He turned on his side and kissed you slowly, sweetly. Letting the softness he'd been holding back all night finally rise to the surface. "I care more than I know what to do with," he said against your lips.

You smiled, curling into him. "Then we'll figure it out."

He held you close, like you were the only thing anchoring him to the world.

And for the first time in a long time, he let himself believe he might deserve it.

[keithyp00]

✯¸.•´*¨`*• Earth Angel (Would You Be Mine?) •*`¨*`•.¸✯

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x f!reader

Warnings/Tags: romance, fluff, a dash of melancholy, implied intimacy, nudity, emotional vulnerability, mentions of trauma, comfort, domestic!Bucky, established relationship, lazy-mornings

Song Inspiration: Earth Angel by The Penguins (cover done by Connie Francis)

Word Count: 2.4K

Author Note: Hi guys! I know my posting schedule kinda got messed for for the weekend but I'm back to normal! I hope you guys enjoy this one, and it was my first ever request from @glorpalicious, so thank you so much! And I have another fun one coming tomorrow!

Please do not copy or translate any of my works. Thank you!

You heard the music long before you saw him.

The soft static of vinyl filled the cabin, smooth and laced with nostalgia. The kind of song that felt like lace curtains and sunlit rooms. Earth Angel crooned through the wooden walls, fragile and pleading. You paused on the porch, snow clinging to your coat. A curious smile played on your lips as you cracked open the door and stepped into what felt like a memory.

There he was, standing in the center of the room like he's stepped straight out of the 1940s.

Bucky Barnes.

Your James 'Bucky' Barnes.

He didn't hear you at first, too lost in the sound of that haunting melody. His metal fingers twitched slightly in time with the rhythm, his human hand curled around a glass of water that had long since lost its purpose.

His hair was tucked behind his ears, and he was dressed in a simple henley and jeans- nothing fancy, but the look still stole your breath. He turned just as the chorus hit again.

"Earth angel, earth angel... please be mine..."

"Didn't know you had a thing for Connie Francis," you teased softly, stepping further inside. Snow melted from your boots, leaving tiny puddles on the hardwood.

Bucky gave you a crooked grin. "I've got a thing for good voices. And better memories."

The record spun lazily, needle scratching like it was holding onto every last note.

You walked to him slowly, drawn like gravity. His blue eyes met yours, and in them, you saw winter's hush and decades of longing. He took a careful step forward.

"I used to listen to this at Steve's place," he said, voice low and wistful. "Back before everything... when I was still remembering who I was. It felt like... I dunno. Like something soft was still in the world.

You reached out and took the glass from his hand, setting it on the table nearby.

"There is," you whispered. "You are."

That seemed to knock the wind out of him. Bucky looked at you like you were made of moonlight and old dreams- like a slow dance he never thought he'd get to finish. And then- just like that- he held out his hand.

You blinked.

"Dance with me?"

The question floated between you like snowfall. It wasn't a request made out of confidence- it was hope. Raw, trembling hope.

"I thought you'd never ask."

You placed your hand in his and stepped into his arms as if you belonged there. As if you always had.

Bucky pulled you in gently, like you were breakable, but you pressed close until there was no space left for ghosts between you. His left hand rested at your waist, fingers cool but reverent. The right held yours in an old-fashioned grip- classic and honest.

Outside, snow painted the world in quiet white. Inside, you were warmth and candlelight.

You swayed in slow circles, your head tucked under his chin, his breath feathering across your temple. The record kept spinning, playing on into the chorus again:

"My darling dear, love you all the time..."

You let out a shaky breath. "You know," you murmured, "when I was younger, I used to imagine slow dancing in a kitchen with someone I loved. No ballrooms. No flash. Just... this."

Bucky chuckled, deep and warm. "The kitchen's next door. We can take this tour if you want."

You laughed, and it sounded like home. "I'm serious," you said, quieter now. "I never cared about big things. Just wanted someone who saw me. Loved me. Held me like this."

Bucky tightened his arms slightly. "I see you," he murmured. "God, I see you."

You looked up at him, and your breath caught. He looked at you like he might memorize every detail, every blink and breath. Like you were the only constant in a world that kept rewriting itself.

"I never thought I'd be allowed to want anything like this."

"you're allowed," you said fiercely. "You deserve every second."

His jaw twitched like he was trying not to cry.

"I love you," you said. Not whispered. Not uncertain. Just true.

Bucky stopped moving. His lips parted slightly, blue eyes wide.

Then he pulled you in and kissed you like his soul had been waiting since 1943. It was slow. It was reverent. It was everything.

When he pulled back, his hands cradled your face. "Say it again."

You smiled and nuzzled into his palm. "I love you."

HIs voice cracked when he said it back. "I love you too. I think I've loved you since you brought me coffee without asking how I take it."

You grinned. "Lucky guess."

He swayed you again, to a song long finished, still playing in the background of your hearts.

"I don't want this to end," Bucky murmured.

"It won't," you promised. "As long as we keep dancing."

Later, you made cocoa and danced barefoot in the kitchen with a crackling fire nearby. Bucky hummed the melody while you stood on his feet like a 50s movie. You spilled cocoa and laughed until your sides hurt.

~~~~~

The cocoa mugs sat abandoned on the counter, half-finished and forgotten.

You'd danced again- slower this time, to no music. Just the rhythm of his heart, the sound of snow hushing the outside world, and the occasional creak of the old wooden floor beneath your feet. Bucky was quieter now, not because he had nothing to say, but because his heart was too full. Words felt fragile. Clumsy.

So he let his hands do the talking- thumb brushing over your cheekbone, arms tightening around your waist every time you shifted slightly closer. You didn't need much space between you to begin with, but he seemed desperate to erase even that.

Eventually, the fire burned down to glowing embers, and the warmth of the room changed. Not colder. But more still. More private.

Bucky nudged his forehead against yours. "Come to bed with me?"

You didn't answer. Just nodded.

He led you to the bedroom with the same gentle care he gave everything- every movement weighted with intention. The room was dim, lit only by the golden spill of the hallway light and the soft glint of snowfall outside. It was quiet in that sacred kind of way. You could hear his breathing. His heartbeat.

You could feel how much this meant to him.

You stood in front of him and lifted your hands slowly, wordlessly asking for permission. Bucky swallowed hard and nodded. You peeled the henley from his body carefully, revealing familiar skin- scarred, warm, soft in some places, vibranium in others.

Your hands never trembled.

You pressed a feather-light kiss to his chest, right above his heart. "Still here."

His breath hitched. "Still yours."

He reached for you next, almost reverently, lifting your shirt and skimming his fingers over your ribs as if he was mapping out constellations. Every touch was slow, thoughtful. He helped you out of your clothes like he was undoing armor, not fabric. And you let him, because this wasn't about sex- not really. It was about trust, Intimacy in the truest sense.

You lay down together beneath thick blankets, bare in body but even more so in emotion. He curled around you protectively, flesh arm across your stomach, metal hand tracing light circles on your collarbone.

You turned toward him and kissed his jaw, the corner of his mouth, the tip of his nose. You took your time. So did he. And when you finally kissed him full and deep again, it was slower than any waltz you'd ever danced.

"Can I ask you something?" You whispered, lips brushing his.

His eyes fluttered open. "Anything."

"What was it like?" Your fingers ghosted the inside of his wrist. "Waking up in a new world?"

He was quiet for a long time. You were about to apologize- say that he didn't have to talk about it- when he finally spoke.

"It was cold," he started. "Loud. Everyone moved so fast. No one looked at each other. Everything smelled like metal and gas. And I didn't know who I was. Just that people looked at me like I was a weapon."

You touched his cheek, grounding him.

"But when I met Steve again... it was like remembering a dream I didn't think was real. And then you..."

He looked at you like a lighthouse, steady and glowing. "You made it feel like home again."

Your throat tightened. "Bucky..."

"I think I was waiting for you. Even before I knew you."

The tears didn't fall, not then. But they built behind your lashes. "You know I never saw you as a weapon, right?"

"I do now," he said. "It just took time." He ran his fingers along your hairline. "You didn't fix me," he added softly. "You just gave me a place to land."

That's when your tears fell.

You buried your face into his chest, and he held you closer, heart echoing steady against your cheek. You stayed like that, wrapped in quiet and safety, until your tears became laughter. The small kind. The tired, happy kind.

Bucky kissed the crown of your head.

"You know," he said, "if you told me back in '43 I'd be lying in bed with a woman who actually liked my music taste and kissed me like I mattered, I'd have laughed in your face."

You smiled sleepily. "And what would you say if someone told you she'd be the one to dance with you barefoot in the kitchen at midnight?"

"I'd marry her," he said without missing a beat.

You blinked, warmth blooming in your chest.

He grinned at your stunned silence. "Too soon?"

You shook your head slowly. "Not soon enough." Then, with eyes full of stars and a voice full of wonder, you whispered: "Ask me again someday."

"I will," he promised. "Every day if I have to."

You fell asleep in his arms with the sound of the record player still echoing faintly in your memory.

Earth angel, earth angel... will you be mine?

And even though the music had stopped hours ago, the melody never really left. Because Bucky Barnes, the man once lost to time, had found his way home.

And you were waiting.

~~~~~

You woke to warmth.

Not the kind of warmth that came from the blankets twisted around your legs, or even the golden sun creeping lazily through the curtains- but the kind that came from a presence. A steady, solid one. Familiar. Safe.

Bucky's arm was draped over your middle, his hand spread wide against your stomach like a shield. His chest was pressed against your back, his legs tangled with yours, and when you shifted slightly, he followed instinctively, burrowing into your shoulder with a low, sleepy sound that made your heart squeeze.

It was early. Quiet. The world outside the windows was still dusted in snow, and everything felt... untouched- like the day hadn't quite started yet. Like it hadn't dared to.

Your fingers slid gently over the vibranium arm now resting beside your hip, watching it catch the sunlight. It gleamed like liquid starlight. The first time you'd seen it, it had terrified you- not because it was metal, but because of what it represented. What he'd been through. What he carried.

But now? It was just another part of him. One more reason you loved him.

He stirred, breath warm against your skin. "Mm. You're awake?"

"I think so," you whispered. "Hard to tell. I could be dreaming."

He hummed, voice thick with sleep. "If you are, don't wake up yet."

You turned in his arms, and he let you, sleepily gathering you against him like he couldn't help it. His hair was a tousled mess, a strand stuck to his forehead. His eyes were still half-closed, but the smile tugging at the corner of his mouth was real.

"Hi," you said softly.

"Hi."

You lifted your hand and brushed that rogue stand of hair back. "You snore, by the way."

His eyes narrowed playfully. "I do not."

"Oh, you absolutely do. Soft and grumpy."

Bucky groaned and buried his face into your neck. "I knew I shouldn't have let you sleep this close."

"You love it."

"...Yeah. I really do."

You lay there for a while, drifting in and out of light conversation. He told you about a dream he barely remembered- something about Coney Island, a hot dog stand, and Sam inexplicably wearing roller skates. You told him that you dreamed of your childhood home, but all the furniture had been replaced with dancing records.

Eventually, he propped himself up on one elbow and looked at you seriously. "Can I ask you something?"

You mirrored his position, heart skipping. "Yeah."

"Do you remember the first time I kissed you?"

You blinked. That wasn't what you were expecting- but you smiled as you thought about the scene. "Of course I do. You don't?"

He shrugged with a crooked smile. "I remember your lip balm tasted like cherries, and you were wearing that ridiculous Christmas sweater."

You laughed, the memory rushing back. "It had lights on it!"

"Exactly. And yet, I kissed you anyway."

"Because you were obsessed with me."

"Still am."

You paused, brushing your thumb over his cheekbone. "Do you remember why you kissed me that night?"

HIs gaze dropped to your lips, then back to your eyes. "You were talking about the stars," he murmured. "I think we were sitting on the fire escape. You were telling me how ancient the light was- how it traveled for millions of years just so we could see it. And I looked at you and thought..."

He trailed off.

"Thought what?" You breathed.

"I thought, This is it. This is what people write songs about." He cupped your cheek. "And then I kissed you. Because I didn't want to wait another second."

You felt your throat dry. "Bucky..."

"I'm serious. You were the most beautiful thing I'd ever seen. Still are."

You pulled him down into a kiss- slow and deep and sure. One hand in his hair, the other against his back. He pressed into you, strong and solid and yours, and the weight of that truth was almost overwhelming.

When you parted, he rested his forehead against yours, breathing you in.

"Can I make you breakfast?" He asked softly.

You smiled. "Only if you wear the apron."

He groaned. "The pink one?"

"With the frills."

"You are evil."

"You love it."

"Unfortunately, yes."

~~~~~

Twenty minutes later, Bucky stood in the kitchen, pink apron tied around his waist, flipping pancakes while humming Earth Angel under his breath. You sat on the counter, watching him, legs swinging, completely at peace.

He glanced at you. "You know, I wasn't kidding."

"About what?"

"Asking you again."

You blinked. "Asking me what?"

"To marry me. Someday."

You swallowed hard. "I remember."

He slid a plate toward you, pancakes stacked with love. Then leaned in close and kissed your temple.

"I'm not rushing you," he said. "But I just wanted you to know... when you're ready, I'll be waiting."

You met his eyes, voice thick with feeling. "I'll keep that in mind, then."

And just like that, the day began- not with alarms or chaos, but with the simple, steady rhythm of love. Of soft laughter, warm pancakes, and a song still echoing faintly in your bones.

"Earth angel, earth angel... please me mine."

[keithyp00]

｡ﾟ•┈୨ Masterlist ୧┈•ﾟ｡ *

~Bucky Barnes~

-‘๑’- When The Quiet Comes -‘๑’-

✧.* Don't Slow Down ✧.*

・❥・The Very First Night ・❥・

.ೃ࿐ Greedy .ೃ࿐

•┈••✦ Timeless ✦••┈•

'*•.¸♡ Stupid Cupid, Stop Picking On Me ♡¸.•*'

●・○・The Congressman's Shadow ・○・●

•·.·´·.·•• You're Lying (and other things Sam won't stop saying) ••·.·´·.·•

︵‿︵‿୨♡ Pretty Little Baby ♡୧‿︵‿︵

✧⋄⋆⋅⋆⋄ Where You've Always Been ⋄⋆⋅⋆⋄✧

✯¸.•´¨*• Earth Angel (Would You Be Mine?) •*¨`•.¸✯

❭❭─ღ Soft Targets ღ─➣ (MDNI 18+)

・┆✦ʚ♡ Ghost Code ♡ɞ✦ ┆・

▄︻デ══━一💥Tension Is A Loaded Gun (MDNI 18+)

[keithyp00]

♡.﹀﹀ Don't Tempt Me ﹀﹀.♡

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x f!reader

Warnings/Tags: rivals?-to-lovers, romantic tension, slow burn, action, banter, fluff, angst, emotional growth, swearing, physical combat training, unresolved sexual tension, swearing, post-trauma discussions, flirting, kissing, possessive!Bucky, reader getting injured

Word Count: 2.2K

Author Note: Hi guys! Thanks for all the kind messages and tags on my last story! Sorry I'm posting this one so late but I was hanging out with friends all weekend so it was worth it. Hope you guys enjoy this one!

Please do not copy or translate any of my works. Thank you!

The first time you met Bucky Barnes, he smiled at you just to piss you off.

You'd been warned. Not that he was dangerous- not anymore- but that he was difficult. Quiet. Cold. Resistant to orders. Still figuring out where he belonged. You understood that. You respected it, even.

What you didn't respect was the cocky little smirk he gave you on day one of combat training.

You stood in the middle of the gym, arms crossed, boots planted wide. You watched him approach like he had nowhere to be, eyes half-lidded and mouth curled into something smug.

"Let me guess," he drawled, stepping onto the mat, "you're the one Stark warned me about."

"I'd be flattered," you said flatly. "But Stark thinks warning people is a waste of breath."

His smirk deepened. "He said you were 'a pain in the ass with a left hook like a truck.'"

You lifted a brow. "And he said you were a reformed assassin with trust issues and a martyr complex."

His jaw twitched.

Bingo.

"Don't worry, Barnes," you added. "I'm not here to fix you. Just teach you how to stop getting stabbed in the ribs."

His grin returned, lazy and infuriating. "That type of training happen often?"

"Only on Tuesdays."

You dropped into a stance. He mirrored you.

The room went quiet.

You lunged first.

You fought three rounds that morning.

You won two. He won one. But the one he won? He grinned afterward. The cocky kind. The kind that said I know I'm good and I know it annoys you.

You were sweating, panting, pressing your knuckles into a bruised rib when he leaned over with a smile on his lips, and said nothing.

"Wipe that smile off your face before I do it for you."

And Bucky Barnes, damn him, smiled wider. "Don't tempt me, sweetheart."

Your jaw clenched so hard your molars ached.

The next punch you threw nearly broke his nose.

~~~~~

That was six months ago.

Six months of shared gym sessions, smartass remarks, trading bruises, flinging insults like knives, pretending the tension between you wasn't slowly, painfully evolving into something electric.

Every look. Every touch. Every shove on the mat that left one of you staring up at the other- panting, sweating, hearts pounding too loud- was another unspoken do something about it.

Neither of you did.

Until now.

Today, everything goes to hell.

You're late.

You storm into the gym half a minute past seven, hair still damp from a shower, tugging your sleeve down your arm as you cross the floor. Bucky's already there. Of course he is. Stretching. Calm. Annoyingly smug.

"You're late," he says, not even turning around.

"You're alive," you shot back. "Color me shocked."

He stands. Turns. Smirks.

You ignore the twist in your stomach.

"You're in a mood," he notes, stepping onto the mat. "What'd I do now?"

You throw your bag to the side. "Breathe."

He chuckles. "Can't help that, doll."

You square up. He follows. His steps are slow, deliberate. He' s gauging you. He always does. Predicts your next move before you can even make it. You hate it. You crave it.

"Ready to get your ass handed to you again?" You ask.

"You gonna cry when I win this time?"

You lunge.

The fight isn't clean. It's fast. Brutal.

There's frustration under your skin- tight, pulsing- and you know he feels it too.

Every strike is sharper than it should be. Every block is harsher. You're both pissed. At each other. At yourselves. At whatever's been building for too long without breaking.

He grabs your arm mid-swing and twists.

You counter. Legs tangle. You both go down hard.

You land on top of him. Chest heaving.

Palms flat on his shoulders.

And he's smiling.

That same goddamn smile from the first day.

"Still think you can take me?" He pants, voice low and mocking.

Your hands tighten around his shirt. You glare. You hate him. You don't hate him. You want to scream.

"Wipe that smile off your face before I do it for you," you snarl.

And this time-

He doesn't smile.

He flips you.

Pins you.

And kisses you.

It's not gentle.

It's desperate.

It's everything you've bitten back in six months- every look, every word, every bruised morning when you touched the place he hit you and smiled because it meant you were worth fighting.

His hands are on your jaw, your waist, your hips. Your fingers tangle in his hair. You bite his lip and he growls. He presses closer, deeper, until you're sure the floor will split open under you.

When he finally pulls back, you're both breathless. Dazed.

"I warned you," he whispered.

You shove him off.

Then yank him back.

And kiss him again.

~~~~~

Hours pass.

Somehow, you make it out of the gym.

Somehow, you make it upstairs. To your room. To your bed. To his body warm and heavy against yours, tracing scars and biting laughter into your neck.

You don't sleep.

You talk.

He tells you about the nightmares. The guilt. The days he looks in the mirror and still expects to see blood.

You tell him about the pressure. The fear of letting people in. The reason you fight like your life depends on it- because once, it did.

When sleep finally finds you, you're tangled in sheets and each other.

And you're smiling.

~~~~~

The next morning, you wake up alone.

Your heart sinks.

But there's a note on your nightstand.

"Didn't want to wake you. Got called early. I'll see you at 7 sharp. Don't be late this time, smartass."

You smile.

It's your turn now.

"Wipe that smile off your face before I do it for you."

You whisper it to the empty room.

And grin.

~~~~~

The note burns a hole in your nightstand all morning.

You read it five times. Memorize the way his handwriting slants, sharp and confident, like the man himself.

You're not late. You're early.

When he walks into the gym at 6:59, your arms are already crossed.

He sees you.

He smiles.

You almost punch him again just for the hell of it.

But instead, you say, "You left without saying goodbye."

He tosses his bag to the side. "Didn't want to wake you."

"I would've forgiven you."

He grins, stepping onto the mat. "You forgive me for kissing you?"

You raise a brow. "That depends."

"On what?"

"If you do it again."

His smile drops.

Then he crosses the mat in three steps, presses a hand to your waist, and kisses you like it's already been months since the first one.

You let him.

You let him take his time. Let him relearn your mouth, your breath, your heartbeat pressed to his chest like a promise.

When you finally break apart, the gym feels warmer. Brighter. Like something settled between you, the storm giving way to something quieter. Steadier.

You don't fight that day. Not with fists, anyway.

But the fire's still there. Always.

~~~~~

Later that week.

You're out on a recon mission. Standard procedure. Simple target. Easy in, easy out.

Until you trip a wire.

You manage to leap back just in time, narrowly avoiding a spike of shrapnel meant for your neck. It clips your shoulder instead. Burn, sting, sting. Nothing deep. Just a mark.

Still-

By the time you limp back to the quinjet, Bucky is pacing the loading ramp like a caged animal.

He sees the blood on your arm.

He snaps.

"Who did that?" He demands.

"Just a misstep."

"That doesn't answer my question."

"Relax, Barnes, it's a scratch-"

"Don't tell me to relax when you walk into my sightline bleeding."

You pause. Stare.

"Your sightline?" You echo, pulse ticking.

His jaw is clenched. His fists, tighter.

The he says, voice low:

"I almost lost my mind when I saw you come through the trees. You weren't answering your comms. You weren't responding."

"I didn't-" you swallow. "The wire must've fried the mic. I wasn't ignoring you."

He shakes his head, stepping closer. "You don't get it," he says. "You never fucking get it. You matter now. You matter to me."

The silence that falls between you is thick. Heavy.

Then you whisper, "Try me."

And that's it.

He kisses you again, harder this time. More desperate. His metal hand on your jaw. Your fingers in his jacket. It's less about passion and more about please don't do that again.

When he finally pulls back, breathing ragged, he says it again:

"You matter to me."

This time, you believe him.

~~~~~

That night.

He doesn't take you back to your room.

He doesn't take you to his either.

He takes you to the roof.

You sit in the quiet. Side by side. Wrapped in a shared blanket. HIs hand brushes yours and you don't pull away.

Below, the city glows.

Above, the sky is clear. Stars like freckles. Familiar. Infinite.

"I hated you," you say softly.

"I know."

"You were arrogant."

"I was."

"And smug."

"That too."

You glance at him. "Still are."

He huffs a quiet laugh. "You still push my buttons."

You turn to him. "What happens now?"

He doesn't answer right away. Just looks at you with something serious in his eyes. Not fear. Not regret.

Hope.

"Now," he starts, "we try."

Your throat tightens. "You sure?"

"No." He reaches for your hand. Threads your fingers together. "But I want to be."

You squeeze his hand. Hard. Grounding. Real.

"Okay," you whisper. "Then we try."

And for the first time in a long time, neither of you feel like you're fighting anything.

Except maybe sleep.

~~~~~

You were never good at being vulnerable.

Neither was Bucky.

So maybe it's poetic that your first mission after becoming something more than biting insults and stolen kisses starts with both of you pretending you aren't terrified of what you might lose.

You're packing light. Comms, knives, a Glock, a couple of zip-ties. Enough to finish the job clean.

But Bucky's watching you like you're made of glass.

"Seriously," you matter, holstering your sidearm. "You're hovering."

"I'm not."

"You're literally standing in my light."

"I'm watching your six."

"We're in a hangar."

"Could be threats."

You raise an eyebrow. "Are the lockers gonna jump me?"

He doesn't smile. Just crosses his arms and says, "I didn't sleep last night."

You freeze. The zipper on your gear bag half-done.

"Why not?"

He looks away. "Had a dream. You didn't come back."

The air stills between you.

Quietly, you reach for his hand. Thread your fingers together. You press a kiss to the corner of his jaw and say:

"Then stay close."

~~~~~

The mission: Buenos Aires, Argentina

A weapons auction run by a Hydra offshoot.

You and Bucky are posing as buyers.

You're in a slit-legged silk dress, a thigh holster underneath. He's in a black suit with no tie, hair slicked back, expression unreadable.

You've never seen him like this.

But it's the way his hand lingers on your hip that lights a fuse beneath your skin.

"You're staring," you murmur as you scan the auction room, crowded with men in suits and women with clipped accents and greedy eyes.

"Can't help it."

You look up. "Because I'm hot?"

He smirks. "Because I know what's under that dress."

"Focus, Barnes."

"You started it."

~~~~~

Everything goes wrong at exactly 11:17 p.m.

Someone recognizes you. And ex-Hydra handler you left bleeding on a rooftop two years ago.

There's shouting. A gunshot. Then chaos.

You duck behind a table, return fire, heart hammering. The room's a blur of panic and smoke grenades.

Then you hear it:

"Y/N-!"

Bucky.

You spot him across the room, shielding you with his body as bullets ricochet off marble and glass. His eyes find you. Wild. Terrified.

"You okay?"

You nod. "You?"

He doesn't answer. Just pulls you into him and barrels toward the exit.

~~~~~

Outside, later.

You're bleeding. Again. Shoulder wound. Again.

"Of course it's your shoulder again," Bucky mutters as he presses gauze to the wound in the quinjet. "It's like a beacon for bullets."

You hiss through your teeth. "It's not that bad."

He glares. "You almost died."

"I didn't."

"Because I got to you in time."

You blink. His voice is raw. Quiet. Like it costs him something.

Then, softer: "I can't go through that again."

You say nothing. Just reach up and cradle his face with your good hand.

"Then don't let go."

He turns into your palm. "Promise me something," he whispers.

You nod.

"When this mission shit is over- when it's quiet again- I want you to stay."

"Stay where?"

"With me."

~~~~~

Two days later: Brooklyn. His apartment.

You've never been here.

It's small. Clean. Sparse. Like no one's lived in it for long.

You recognize the signs of someone who never planned to stay.

But then he lets you in.

He shows you the bookshelf. The record player. A photo of him and Steve, tucked behind a dog tag.

You linger at the window. "You really meant it?"

He nods, standing behind you.

"Stay?"

"Yeah."

"Even if I'm bad at this?"

He rests his chin on your shoulder. "So am I."

You lean back into him. "I want to try."

"You already are."

"Then keep me," you whisper.

And he does, right there in his arms.

[keithyp00]

✧⋄⋆⋅⋆⋄ Where You've Always Been ⋄⋆⋅⋆⋄✧

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x f!reader

Warnings/Tags: slow burn, emotional reunion, romance, comfort, language, longing, deep feelings, hurt/comfort, mentions of PTSD and trauma

Word Count: 2.1K

Summary: You were only supposed to be gone a few weeks. Then everything went sideways. And Bucky waited. Every single day. Now you're back- and there's more between you than distance can close.

Author Note: Hey guys! This note is gonna be short but I just wanna wish you all a good weekend and I'll probably be posting a little later than usual this weekend because I'm down the shore. But I hope you all enjoy~

Please do not copy or translate any of my works. Thank you!

The First Day Back

The compound looked the same. Same bulletproof windows, same halls echoing with someone's terrible taste in music, same overgrown rose bush outside the south entrance that somebody kept forgetting to trim.

You stepped through the doors like a ghost, bag slung over the shoulder, gear weighed down by sand and silence and time.

Too much time.

You'd been gone for ninety-four days.

You'd counted.

The mission was only supposed to last three weeks. But things changed- intel got messy, comms went dark, extractions delayed. You'd made contact once. Day 41. Bucky's voice had sounded like it was fighting through static and grief.

He'd asked, "Are you okay?" With the kind of broken softness that haunted your dreams since.

You'd said yes. You weren't sure it was true. But you'd promised you'd come home. And now... you were finally here.

Bucky wasn't in the lobby. Or the training room. Or his usual spot in the library, where he always read the same three books over and over when he was anxious.

Your heart twisted.

Part of you expected him to feel him to feel your arrival the way you constantly felt his absence. Like gravity shifting. Like something snapping back into place.

Maybe he was avoiding you.

Maybe too much time had passed.

Maybe you were imagining that the silence around you wasn't just empty- it was waiting.

You dropped your bag outside your room. Headed to the kitchen out of muscle memory and quiet desperation. Something hot, something normal, something to remind you that this wasn't another hallucination brought on by sleeping too little and missing too much.

The lights were off when you walked in.

But you stopped cold.

But he was there.

Sitting on the counter like always. Hair longer than you remember. Hoodie worn soft around the edges. Legs too long for the cabinets underneath.

Bucky Barnes.

In the flesh.

Breathing, alive, and looking right at you.

He didn't move.

You didn't either.

Seconds passed.

Then he slid off the counter slowly, like he was afraid if he moved too fast you'd disappear again.

"Hi," you breathed.

He stared at you for another long moment- blue eyes unreadable- then crossed the floor in three long strides and pulled you into him like you were a lifeline.

His arms were tight around you. Too tight. The kind of tight that said I thought you were dead.

Your nose buried in the collar of his hoodie. He smelled like cedar and sleep and home.

Neither of you spoke. You just held on.

Later

You sat on the couch in the common room with a blanket wrapped around you and his hand in yours. This thumb kept brushing the back of your knuckles like he didn't realize he was doing it. Like he had to touch you, just to be sure.

He hadn't said much.

You hadn't either.

But when you looked over at him, you caught his jaw tighten. His throat bob. "You weren't supposed to be gone that long," he whispered.

"I know."

"I thought you-"

"I know."

He let out a shaky breath and turned to you. His hand gripped yours a little tighter. "Y/N," he said. Just your name. Like it meant something sacred. "You didn't call."

"They didn't let me. It wasn't safe."

He shook his head like that didn't matter. "I waited. Every day. I didn't know if I was-"

He stopped himself. Looked away.

You leaned your forehead against his. "I wanted to come home every second," you replied. "And I never stopped thinking about you."

He let out a broken, wet laugh. "God, I missed you," he said.

The First Night

He didn't want to let you go. You knew it from the way he hovered when you unpacked. From the way his hand lingered at your back when you reached for a clean shirt. From the way his eyes followed you like you'd vanish if he blinked.

"Stay?" You asked softly, standing by your bed.

He didn't answer with words.

He just stepped forward and curled his metal arm around your waist, like the answer had always been yes.

You crawled into bed, exhausted and aching.

And Bucky held you that night the way someone holds a miracle they weren't sure they deserved.

You fell asleep to the sound of his heart and woke up to his lips against your shoulder, whispering your name.

The Days That Followed

He didn't ask for explanations.

Didn't ask what you saw, what you did, what you had to become to survive.

You told him the pieces you could. He kissed every one of the scars you had like it made you real again.

Some nights, you talked until you cried. Some nights, you just curled into each other in silence and let the weight of the world fall away around you.

One day, you caught him fixing your favorite mug. It had broken when you were gone. He'd glued it back together and painted over the cracks.

When you touched it, your fingers trembled.

He said quietly, "I wanted it ready. In case you came back."

The Turning Point

One evening, weeks later, Bucky asked if you wanted to go on a walk.

Just a short one. Around the lake. Just the two of you.

You wore one of his sweatshirts. He didn't comment. Instead, he took your hand.

And halfway across the little bridge, he stopped and looked at you like the sun had finally come out after a long winter.

"You know," he started. "The first night you were gone, I slept on the floor. I didn't want to forget what it felt like to be cold without you."

You swallowed hard.

He cupped your face with one hand. Thumb against your cheekbone.

"But the worst night... was the one I realized that I didn't remember your laugh anymore."

You blinked up at him.

And then- softly, bravely- you laughed.

Bucky closed his eyes like it hurt. Then opened them.

And kissed you so gently, it broke you open all over again.

The First Real Morning

Weeks later, you woke up to find him watching you sleep.

"You're doing it again," you mumbled.

He smiled faintly. "I know."

You rolled into his chest. "Why?"

"Because," he whispered into your hair, "I spent too many mornings not knowing if I'd ever see you again."

You looked up. "I'm here now," you said. "I'm not leaving."

Bucky kissed your temple. "I know."

And for the first time in too long, you both believed it.

~~~~~

The first few days back had been a blur.

Now, the dust had settled.

The adrenaline was gone. The tears had been shed. The bed had been shared. You and Bucky had memorized the new shapes of each other, sleeping in the same space but carrying different wounds than when you left.

What came next?

That was the part neither of you knew how to answer.

~~~~~

On Monday, you woke up alone.

Bucky had gotten up early- probably for his usual run or coffee with Sam- but something about the cool sheets beside you made your chest ache.

You rolled over and buried your face in the pillow. It smelled like him.

There were no nightmares last night, not for you.

You weren't sure if Bucky could say the same.

You found a note on your table by the door when you finally dragged yourself out of bed.

"Gone for a bit. Left coffee. P.S. Don't forget that you're not alone anymore."

Your fingers tightened around the paper.

You made toast you didn't eat and stared at the window like it might give you direction.

Coming home was supposed to mean things got easier. But it didn't. Not all at once.

You were still learning how to be here.

To be soft.

To let yourself feel safe again.

You hadn't told Bucky, but sometimes at night you'd wake up and reach for your gun before you remembered it wasn't strapped to your thigh anymore.

~~~~~

Tuesday

"Hey," Bucky said gently, catching your wrist as you started to head back to your room after dinner. "You okay?"

You looked up at him. His eyes were soft, worried.

You wanted to say yes.

You wanted to lie and say that you felt normal again.

But you weren't normal. You were broken in quiet places.

He stepped closer, tilting his head slightly. "Wanna sit with me for a bit? No pressure. I just... I missed you today."

You nodded before your voice could betray you.

You ended up in his room, curled under a blanket on his bed while he read beside you. you didn't speak. But you let your fingers rest on his thigh, and he placed his hand over yours.

It was the safest you'd felt all week.

~~~~~

Wednesday

The panic attack came out of nowhere.

Just a slammed door.

A laugh too loud.

You couldn't breathe. Couldn't move. The world blurred.

You didn't know who you got to Bucky's room. Just that when the haze cleared, his arms were around you, his voice grounding you like an anchor.

"I've got you," he whispered again and again. "You're safe. I've got you."

You cling to him like the world would end if you let go.

When it passed, you collapsed into his chest, shaking.

He didn't let go.

Not once.

Later, when you were calm, he kissed your forehead and said softly, "You don't have to pretend you're okay, doll. Not with me."

~~~~~

Thursday

You told him about the child.

The one you couldn't save.

Your voice cracked halfway through. You turned away so he wouldn't see the tears.

But he did.

He pulled you into his lap on the couch, rocking you gently like you were made of glass. You didn't deserve that softness- but he gave it anyway.

"She reminded me of me," you said.

"I can understand why," he replied. "Because you would've done anything to protect her."

You cried for the first time since you came home.

And he held you through every second of it.

~~~~~

Friday

You laughed.

It was stupid- Sam tried to do a backflip off the couch during a movie night and got tangled in a throw blanket.

But you laughed.

A full, real laugh that burst out before you could stop it.

Bucky turned his head fast.

He stared like he'd seen something holy.

Your smile faltered. "What?"

He shook his head, eyes shining. "Nothing. Just missed that sound."

And he kissed you, right there in front of everyone, like no time had passed at all.

~~~~~

Saturday

You found the journal.

Tucked behind a stack of books on Bucky's shelf.

You weren't snooping- he asked you to grab something and you accidently knocked it loose.

You opened it on instinct.

Then stopped breathing.

Because it was about you.

Every page.

From the day you left.

To the day you came home.

Some entries were short.

Day 6- Still haven't heard anything. Trying to stay calm. Can't sleep.

Others were long, vulnerable, raw.

Day 34- I keep thinking about the last thing you said to me. You said, "Don't worry." I'm trying not to, sweetheart. But I'm not good at this when you're not here. The bed's too big. I miss your socks on the floor. I miss your laugh in the morning. I miss your arms around my neck when I'm too tired to get up. Come home.

You closed the book with shaking hands.

He found you minutes later, clutching it to your chest.

His expression froze.

"I didn't mean to-" you started.

He stepped forward. "It's okay."

"I didn't know your wrote all this."

"I had to do something," he said. "I didn't know if I'd get the chance to say those things out loud."

You looked up at him.

And the you kissed him. Desperately. Like you could press your soul into his.

"Say them now," you whispered. "I'm here. Say them now."

~~~~~

Sunday

You went with him to the lake.

You sat on the bridge together in the fading light. His fingers laced through yours. He kissed the inside of your wrist.

"I love you," he said suddenly.

You turned to him.

"I didn't say it when you got back," he continued. "Because I was scared it'd hurt. That maybe I'd be too much. That maybe you weren't ready."

You reached up, brushed your thumb across his cheek.

"But I've loved you since before you left. Since you made me laugh when I didn't remember how. Since you told me I wasn't a weapon."

He looked like he might cry.

You whispered, "You waited for me."

"Of course I did."

You leaned in close. "I love you too, Bucky."

He closed his eyes.

And for the first time in months- maybe years- he smiled without hesitation.

[keithyp00]

︵‿︵‿୨♡ Pretty Little Baby ♡୧‿︵‿︵

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x f!reader

Warnings/Tags: slow burn, hurt/comfort, romance, emotional vulnerability, mentions of PTSD, minor language, soft!Bucky, pining and tension, kissing, implied intimacy, fluff, 1950s music, scars, body image

Song Inspiration: Pretty Little Baby by Connie Francis

Word Count: 2.4K

Author Note: Hello! Sorry this one is out so late... This is another Connie Francis fic (because her songs work for him so well <3) that I'm pretty proud of. This note is to tell you guys that I don't think I bombed my AP exam this morning so that's good! AND that my post for tomorrow will be delayed to Friday night because of my PROM! Anyways, I hope you guys enjoy this one!

Please do not copy or translate any of my works. Thank you!

Pretty little baby / you say that maybe you'll be thinkin' of me / and try to love me / Pretty little baby / I'm hoping that you do~

~~~~~

Bucky Barnes wasn't supposed to fall in love. Not again. Not here.

The sunlight pooled through the tiny cafe window just enough to trace gold over the soft curve of your cheek. You sat tucked in the small booth located behind the counter- specifically for workers- like a secret waiting to be discovered, the vintage radio located next to you crooning out a low, crackling tune- something old. Something he vaguely remembered the melody of.

"Pretty little baby, I'm so in love with you~"

Your fingers tapped along the rim of your coffee cup, mimicking the tempo. You didn't see him at first. You never did. Not really. Not in the way others did- with their reverence, their suspicion, their fear. No, you had this gentle way of looking at him like he wasn't a ghost. Like he wasn't a man made of nightmares. You saw through the steel and the silence.

You saw him.

He'd been coming here for three months now. Tuesdays and Fridays. You always worked the morning shift, tucked in your apron and a smile so warm it melted his resolve. Bucky told himself the coffee was the reason he kept returning. Told himself the old songs reminded him of simpler times. Told himself it wasn't you.

But it was always you.

Today, you looked different. A little sad. Your smile not quite reaching your eyes.

"Hey, soldier," you greeted softly when he finally stepped forward to the counter, voice like a balm.

"Hey, doll," he murmured, almost under his breath. The nickname slipped out sometimes, like his body remembered the rhythm of a past life even when he didn't mean to.

Your lips twitched a little higher. You always liked when he called you that.

"Coffee?" You asked, already reaching for his usual.

"Yeah." He hesitated. "And... maybe a slice of that apple pie?"

You blinked. "Trying something new?"

Bucky shrugged, pretending it didn't take everything in him to break routine. "Thought I'd live a little."'

You gave him a playful salute. "That's the spirit."

As you turned to plate the dessert, Bucky glanced toward the radio. The song still played.

"Pretty little baby / You said maybe..."

It tugged at something in his chest. A memory, maybe. A fragment. He remembered holding someone close on a night like this. A whisper of perfume, the hem of a dress, the way music softened all the edges. But that wasn't this life. That wasn't now.

This was now. And you were here.

"Something wrong?" He asked when you set down his plate with slightly trembling fingers.

You smiled- small, too practiced. "Just... tired."

"Liar," he replied gently.

Your eyes flicked up to meet his. Startled. Then they softened.

"My roommate's moving out," you confessed. "And I can't afford the place on my own. I guess I'm worried I'll have to leave the neighborhood. Find a new job. Start over."

HIs fork paused halfway to his mouth.

"You thinking about leaving?" He asked carefully.

You nodded. "Unless something changes."

Bucky set his fork down.

Something about the idea of you being gone made his heart lurch in his chest. He didn't want to admit how often he built his week around these visits. How often he remembered the sound of your laugh hours after hearing it. How he had memorized the smell of this cafe because it smelled like you.

"You shouldn't have to start over," he stated.

Your smile faltered. "Sometimes, you don't get a choice."

He knew that better than anyone.

There was a beat of silence. Just the soft voice of Connie Francis filling in the cracks between you.

Bucky cleared his throat. "You like this kind of music?"

Your eyes seemed to light up- really light up- and for a second, the weight on your shoulders vanished.

"I love it," you smiled. "My grandmother used to play these old records. Connie, Doris, Patsy. She used to say romance was simpler back then."

He smiled, something wistful curing in his chest. "Yeah, I remember."

You blinked. "You remember?"

He hesitated, caught. And then slowly, he let the words fall. "I was born in 1917."

The world stilled. You stared. Then stared a little longer. His coffee cooling beside the both of you.

You didn't ask. Not about the arm. Not about the Winter Soldier. Not even about Steve.

Instead, you reached across the table and placed your hand over his flesh one.

"That must be a lot to carry," you said.

And somehow- somehow- that was worse than pity. It was kindness. It made something in his chest ache.

~~~~~

Weeks passed.

You didn't leave. Somehow, a friend of a friend needed a roommate- really just someone to help pay half the rent for a place they rarely ever stayed in. You moved three blocks away instead of thirty minutes. You still worked at the cafe. Bucky still came by.

Sometimes he came just to sit with you during your break. Sometimes you played cards behind the counter. Sometimes he helped you change the records on slow afternoons, humming low and quiet.

Once, he brought you a tiny potted plant with a tag that just said "for the sunshine behind the counter."

You nearly cried.

You started listening to more old songs. Started humming them around him. Started smiling wider every time he walked in. You didn't know when you fell in love with him. You just knew that one day, Bucky Barnes was no longer a customer. He was a presence. A comfort.

A heartbeat. And you were his. But neither of you said it. Not until the night it all came undone.

~~~~~

It was raining.

Bucky didn't show up for his usual Tuesday coffee. Then Friday. Then the next Tuesday.

You didn't have his number. You didn't know where he lived. You were just a girl behind a counter who somehow memorized the man behind all the pain.

When he showed up again, he looked wrecked.

Eyes bloodshot. Jaw tight. Hair damp from the storm outside. He didn't say hello. Didn't order coffee.

Just stared at you like he didn't believe you were real.

"I'm sorry," he said.

You frowned. "Where were you?"

"I... I couldn't come," he whispered. "I couldn't see you. I couldn't look at you and pretend I'm not broken."

Your chest tightened.

"You don't have to pretend," you said quietly.

He stepped closer. "I dreamt I hurt you," he confessed, voice breaking. "My mind... sometimes I can't control what I see. What I feel. I thought if I stayed away, I could protect you. But it just- hurt more."

You were shaking now. "Bucky..."

"I'm not what you think I am," he said. "I'm not a good man. I've done things that haunt me. I'm not fixed. I'm not even whole. I didn't want to let you close because I knew- I knew I'd start to hope. And hope is dangerous."

Tears welled in your eyes.

"Don't you get it?" You whispered. "I don't need perfect. I need you."

Silence.

Then his voice- ragged.

"You deserve someone better."

"Maybe," you replied. "But I want you."

That cracked something in him. Broke him open.

And suddenly, he was holding you like a lifeline, forehead pressed to yours, rain in his hair, in his lashes, on his lips. He was trembling- an earthquake in a man's body. And then he kissed you.

Soft. Desperate. Real.

Like he's been waiting a hundred years just to find someone who didn't flinch.

~~~~~

"Meet me at the car hop or at the pop shop / meet me in the moonlight or in the daylight / pretty little baby, I'm so in love with you~"

The record played again a week later.

You danced in your kitchen barefoot while Bucky cooked behind you. He was clumsy with a spatula but careful with your heart. His metal arm wrapped around your waist as you spun into him, laughter spilling between you.

"I like this one," he murmured into your hair.

"I know," you smiled, eyes twinkling. "You always hum it."

Bucky kissed your temple.

"Pretty little baby," he whispered, echoing the lyrics. And this time, when you looked at him... You didn't see the Winter Soldier.

You saw James Buchanan Barnes.

And he was yours.

~~~~~

The first time you saw him shirtless, it wasn't intentional.

You'd only meant to bring him coffee.

It was barely past nine on a Sunday morning- quiet, sleepy light pouring through your bedroom window, another morning where your roommate was in a city thousands of miles away for work- and you padded down the hallway with two mugs in hand and nothing but one of Bucky's old Henley's falling past your thighs. You hadn't expected him to be out of bed already. You hadn't expected to find him standing in your bathroom, door ajar, wiping steam off the mirror as sunlight caught every scar on his back.

The coffee nearly slipped from your fingers.

He turned at the sound of your breath catching, eyes wide, chest bare, metal arm glinting sliver-blue in the light. He looked like a statue- carved from war and grief, tall and scarred and too beautiful to be real.

"Sorry," he muttered, reaching for a towel.

You swallowed. "Don't- don't cover up-"

HIs hand paused. Towel clenched at his side. His shoulders tensed as if waiting for you to flinch. For you to turn away. For you to look at him and see a monster.

But you didn't.

You just stepped closer. Set the mugs on the counter. Reached up with trembling fingers to touch the edge of one older scar that curled itself across his ribs.

"Does it still hurt?" You asked.

His throat bobbed. "Not always."

You leaned in. Pressing a kiss just beside it.

Then another.

And another.

You traced the map of his wounds like a poem written specifically for you. He stood still, breathing shallowly, as your lips moved over the place where flesh met metal, where skin had broken and grown over again. His eyes fluttered shut. His hand trembled when it came to rest on your waist.

"Pretty little baby," you whispered, half a breath, the song still echoing somewhere in your heart. "I want all of you."

And he kissed you- raw and real and aching.

Like he couldn't believe he was allowed.

~~~~~

Later, when your head lay on his chest, your fingers drawing idle shapes over his sternum, he spoke.

"I used to think I wasn't allowed to want anything," he murmured. "After everything I did... I thought wanting happiness was selfish. I thought being touched would always feel like control. But with you-"

His voice broke.

"With you, I feel human again."

Tears pricked your eyes. You turned your face into his skin and breathed him in.

"Then stay human with me," you whispered.

He did.

He stayed.

~~~~~

Time passed in quiet, golden pieces.

You slowly moved out of your apartment and into his. You left a toothbrush beside his. He left a dog-eared version of The Hobbit on your nightstand and insisted it was better than the movie.

You started watching black-and-white films together on an old projector screen you borrowed from a friend. He fell asleep on your lap during Roman Holiday. You took a picture- his face soft, peaceful, your fingers tangled in his hair- and set it as your lock screen. He pretended to grumble about it.

But he smiled every time he saw it.

You learned that he liked lemon in his tea. That he still had nightmares, but fewer of them now. That he hummed Connie Francis songs without realizing it, especially when he cooked. That he never quite believed he was lovable- but was trying, every day, to let you show him otherwise.

~~~~~

Then came the letter.

It was from the VA. A mandatory psych review. Another round of red tape. Another cold reminder that no matter how far he came, the world still saw him as dangerous first and human second.

You found him sitting on the edge of your bed, jaw clenched, paper crumpled in one fist.

"Hey," you said gently.

He didn't look at you.

"I don't want to go," he said. "I don't want to sit in some room and explain why I flinch at loud noises or why I check the door five times before sleeping. I don't want to be studied."

Your heart ached.

You sat beside him. Laced your fingers through his.

"You don't owe anyone an explanation for surviving," you stated. "But if you go... do it for you. Not them."

He exhaled slowly. Then nodded.

"I want to be better," he said. "For you."

You cupped his face, made him look at you.

"You're already enough," you whispered.

~~~~~

Spring came slowly.

The cafe bloomed with lavender outside the windows. You reopened the patio seating. He brought you flowers on your lunch break- daisies, once. Then violets. Then roses.

"You're spoiling me," you teased, cradling the bouquet.

He smirked. "You deserve it."

You kissed him on your break. In front of the window. In front of half the neighborhood.

He didn't care who saw.

For the first time in nearly a century, James Buchanan Barnes didn't hide.

~~~~~

But healing wasn't linear.

Some nights, he still woke up gasping.

Some days, he paced the apartment for hours before he could settle.

Once, he got quiet for a week after seeing his reflection in a store window and not recognizing himself. You didn't push. You just stayed close. Made tea. Held him when he let you.

"I don't know why you stay," he said one night, voice rough.

You pressed your forehead to his.

"Because I love you."

He didn't speak. But his arms wrapped around you tighter than ever.

And you knew.

He loved you, too.

~~~~~

One summer night, as fireflies blinked outside the open balcony and the radio hummed in the background, he pulled you into a dance in the living room. Bare feet on cool wood. Fingers on his collar. Chin tucked into his neck.

You swayed. Slowly. Softly.

He kissed your temple. Then your cheek. Then the corner of your lips.

You tilted your head back to look at him.

"What are you thinking?" You whispered.

HIs blue eyes shimmered.

"That I want this," he said. "I want you. Forever, if you'll have me."

You laughed. A breathless, tearful sound.

"I've been yours since you walked into my cafe three months late and asked for a coffee with way too much sugar."

He groaned. "I said I was trying something new!"

You laughed and kissed him again.

"I love you," you smiled.

He closed his eyes.

"I love you more than I ever thought I could," he breathed. "And that terrifies me."

You kissed the corner of his mouth.

"Then let's be scared together."

[keithyp00]

•·.·´`·.·•• You're Lying (and other things Sam won't stop saying) ••·.·´`·.·•

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x f!reader

Warnings/Tags: language, mild suggestiveness, comedy, romance, light-angst, found family, slow burn payoff, excessive teasing, established relationship, Sam being annoying

Trope: Everyone thinks you're not really dating. You are. No one believes you.

Word Count: 2.0K

Author Note: Guys this is just like my last one, this is to help me mentally prep for an AP exam tomorrow morning so if this is bad I am so sorry. But I hope you enjoy this nonetheless <3

Please do not copy or translate any of my works. Thank you!

You and Bucky were dating.

Like- really dating.

In the 'he's seen you at your absolute worst and still kisses your cheek like he doesn't look at you any differently' kind of way. The 'you keep an extra toothbrush at his place and he makes your coffee how you like it without asking' kind of way. The 'he pulls you into his lap during team movie nights and smiles against your shoulder, murmuring words into your ear like it's not the most dangerous thing he could do' kind of way.

And no one believed you.

Especially not Sam.

"Oh, come one," he said, flatly, as he walked in on you and Bucky curled up on the couch. "This again?"

You blinked. "We're watching Pretty Woman, Sam."

"You're spooning."

"We're affectionate."

"You're not even kissing! He's probably just cold. You know he runs cold. Like a cyborg space lizard or something."

Bucky growled. "Cyborg space-?!"

"Right," Sam interrupted. "Sure. Keep telling people you're dating. I'll be over here living in reality."

You buried your face into Bucky's neck. "I hate him," you mumbled.

"You love him," Bucky corrected with a sigh. "You just want him to validate our relationship."

"I want him to believe in our relationship. There's a difference."

Sam, in the kitchen, called out: "I don't!"

Bucky flipped him off without looking.

~~~~~

The problem wasn't that you and Bucky didn't act like a couple.

The problem was that you didn't act like a normal couple.

You didn't post mushy selfies. You didn't wear matching shirts. You didn't coo pet names across conference tables. You just... existed. Comfortable. Quietly in sync. The kind of romance that felt more like a heartbeat than a firework.

Too subtle for people like Sam Wilson, apparently.

"You didn't even kiss when you got back from that mission," Sam pointed out, a few weeks later. "She was gone for five days, man."

Bucky, polishing a knife, didn't look up. "I kissed her afterward. In private."

"See, that's the problem! You hide it. Makes it look fake."

"I'm sorry," you snapped. "I didn't realize our love life was for public broadcast. Want us to livestream the next one?"

Sam looked delighted. "That's a strong reaction. I hit a nerve. This is faker than Tony's allergy to gluten."

Tony called from down the hall: "It's real, you bastard!"

~~~~~

At first, it was funny.

Then it got exhausting.

You weren't insecure about your relationship- Bucky made sure of that, every day, in a dozen quiet ways. He cooked for you. Kissed your temple. Held your hand under tables. Brushed his thumb along your jaw like it was the most precious part of you.

But still. No one believed it.

Not Nat, who called it "convenient physical proximity."

No Clint, who claimed he'd never seen you kiss with tongue (as id that were a valid benchmark).

Not even Steve, who offered a gentle "Are you sure he's not just emotionally dependent on you?"

It all came to a head one night at a bar.

You'd just finished a mission and everyone was letting off steam. Sam leaned against the bar counter beside you, a shit-eating grin on his face.

"So," he started. "You and Barnes still 'dating'?"

You narrowed your eyes. "Yes."

"Hmm. Okay." He sipped his beer. "So if I leaned in and kissed you right now, he wouldn't deck me?"

You stared at him.

"Try it," Bucky said darkly from behind, voice like cracked gravel.

Sam smiled. "Still not proof."

Bucky grabbed your hand. "You want proof?"

"Bucky-" you warned.

"No, no. He wants a show. Let's give him one."

He yanked you flush against him, hand cupping your jaw, and kissed you.

Not a polite kiss.

Not a we're-dating-I-swear kiss.

A I-know-every-inch-of-your-mouth-and-I-love-you kiss.

Hot. Possessive. Unapologetic.

You melted into it, clutched his shirt, kissed him back with something that sounded like a whimper because Jesus.

When he pulled away, Sam blinked. "...Okay. Damn."

"Believe us now?" Bucky raised a brow.

Sam blinked again. "Not really."

You grabbed a pretzel stick and stabbed it into the foam of Sam's beer. "I hope you step on RedWing."

~~~~~

Even after that, the teasing didn't stop.

Because of course it didn't.

"You probably practiced that," Sam said a few days later.

"What?"

"That kiss. You planned it. Just to throw me off."

Bucky rubbed his temples. "You are the most annoying man I've ever met."

"You're just mad I cracked the code."

"There is no code!"

You yanked open the fridge, pulled out a tub of frosting, and started eating it with a spoon. "I actually cannot live like this."

Sam pointed at the spoon. "See? No real girlfriend would let her boyfriend see that."

"Bucky bought me this frosting."

Bucky looked like he was about to get up and beat the shit out of Sam if he didn't start walking away.

~~~~~

Eventually, you gave up.

Let them believe what they wanted.

You and Bucky still kissed behind closed doors, curled together on the couch, whispered sleepy confessions after long days.

Until-

One night, you got sick.

Really sick. The kind of body-aching, fever-drenched flu that turned you into a grumpy, sniffling, corpse with a bag full of used tissues beside your bed.

And Bucky took care of everything.

He brought you soup. Rubbed your back. Helped you shower when you were too weak to stand. Brushed your hair out of your face. Slept beside you even when you told him not to.

Sam stopped by to check on you and walked in on Bucky holding your hand while you slept, forehead pressed to your wrist like he was praying.

He backed out slowly.

Didn't say anything.

Didn't tease.

Didn't breathe.

The next morning, there was a small gift basket on your nightstand.

From Sam.

With a card.

"Okay. You win. He loves you. I won't say another word. P.S. Please don't tell anyone I'm capable of this level of sincerity. I have a rep to protect."

~~~~~

You- of course- showed Bucky the card.

He smirked. "About damn time."

You kissed him with a smile.

And this time, no one questioned it.

~~~~~

The peace lasted exactly five days.

Five beautiful, uninterrupted days.

No teasing, no smug side-eyes, no Sam accusing you of being part of an elaborate CIA cover operation. Just you, Bucky, some early morning kisses over coffee, and one blessed evening where you somehow convinced him to slow dance in the kitchen to 40s music.

And then Sam broke into your new apartment. One you thought would give you full time peace compared to the Avengers compound.

(he claimed he "used the spare key." You knew he just picked the lock.)

"Morning, lovebirds," he smiled brightly, leaning against the doorframe like this wasn't the worst intrusion since Ross kissed someone else while he and Rachel were on a break.

You stared at him over Bucky's shoulder, still wrapped in his hoodie with sleep-mussed hair and a mug of tea between your palms. "It's 7:13 a.m."

"I brought bagels."

"And chaos."

Sam strolled in. "And relationship advice."

Bucky looked up from the couch, dead-eyed. "Why?"

"Because now that I know you two are the real deal, I gotta make sure you stay real."

You rubbed your temples. "We're not a gas leak, Sam."

"No, but you're both stubborn and weirdly avoidant and emotionally repressed, and frankly, I'm impressed it took me this long to be needed."

Bucky mumbled, "I'd rather be waterboarded."

Sam ignored him and slapped a notebook onto the table. "Step one: scheduled communication check-ins."

"Oh my god-"

~~~~~

You tried ignoring him.

Didn't work.

Because Sam became relentless. He started showing up with couple's quizzes.

Brought you a deck of 'relationship conversation starters.'

Installed an app on Bucky's phone called 'LoveTracker.'

("It's like Find My iPhone, but romantic," he said. Bucky installed it in twelve seconds.)

And worst of all- he documented everything.

"Bucky," he'd say mid-mission, "when was the last time you complimented her non-physically?"

You stared at him. "Non-physically?"

"Yeah. Like her intelligence. Or her moral compass. Or how she hasn't murdered me yet."

Bucky rolled his eyes. "I call her my girl every morning."

"That's possessive endearment, not a compliment."

"I tell her she's smarter than Tony."

~~~~~

Somewhere around Week 3 of Sam's Unsolicited Couples Therapy, something unexpected happened.

He stopped being annoying.

(Okay, no. He was definitely still annoying.)

But... he also started being kind of helpful.

Like the night you and Bucky got into your first real fight.

It wasn't explosive. Just sharp. Quiet. Full of jagged silences.

You'd been on back-to-back missions, and Bucky had started pulling away. Fewer cuddles. More brooding. Less talking. You tried to be patient- God, you tried- but when he snapped at you for asking what was wrong, it all unraveled.

"I'm trying to help," you said, voice trembling.

"I didn't ask for it," he muttered.

The room froze.

You didn't cry.

You never cried in front of him.

But that night, you shut your bedroom door behind you and curled up alone.

Bucky didn't come in.

Not until morning.

But Sam came over first.

~~~~~

He found you on the balcony, hoodie pulled over your knees, cold tea forgotten beside you.

He didn't say anything at first.

Just sat down next to you, offered a granola bar.

Then, quietly: "You know, when Sarah gets mad at me, I do this thing where I pretend I'm not scared I'll lose her. But I am. I always am."

You looked over. "You think Bucky's scared?"

Sam tilted his head. "That man loved you like it's gonna be taken away from him. Like he's holding something he thinks he shouldn't have. So yeah. He's scared."

You didn't cry.

But you breathed.

And it helped.

~~~~~

Bucky apologized that afternoon.

He stood in the doorway, fists clenched, breathing hard like it took everything in him to walk in.

"I'm sorry," he said. "For being a coward. For making you feel like you weren't wanted when you're the only thing I ever want."

You looked at him.

He stepped closer. "I never learned how to let myself be... this happy. It scared the hell out of me. But not as much as losing you."

You opened your arms, and he came apart in them.

That night, Bucky fell asleep with his hand on your heart.

And you whispered, "You're safe with me."

~~~~~

The next morning, Sam dropped off muffins.

"I told you you'd fight eventually," he said smugly.

You grabbed the muffins and shut the door in his face with a smile.

~~~~~

Over time, you adapted.

You didn't expect Sam to be a normal friend, he didn't know how to do that. But you did start to appreciate him as a part of your life. Your weird, overinvolved, chaotic platonic marriage therapist.

He became your sounding board.

Your crisis texter.

Your sarcastic but loyal brother figure who threatened anyone who looked at you funny and called Bucky 'lover boy' just to watch him twitch.

One night, you all sat around a campfire during a retreat mission. Quiet stars. Crickets. Steve snoring faintly in the background.

Sam looked over at you both.

"You know," he said, voice softer than usual, "you're actually really good together."

Bucky looked at him. "Took you long enough."

"Yeah, yeah. Shut up. But I mean it. You make him more human," he said to you. Then, to Bucky: "And you make her feel protected without caging her."

You blinked.

Bucky squeezed your hand.

Sam threw a marshmallow at you both. "Don't get soft on me. I'll revoke my own compliment."

~~~~~

Months later...

You stood at the edge of a field after a joint mission, hair tousled, laughing with Bucky as he pressed a kiss to your forehead.

Sam walked past, muttering into comms.

"She's in love, he's in denial, and I'm still unpaid for all their therapy."

You smiled to yourself.

You were real.

You were loved.

And you had the most chaotic friend group in the world.

Which honestly... was kind of perfect.

[keithyp00]

●・○・The Congressman's Shadow・○・●

Pairing: Congressman!Bucky Barnes x f!assistant!reader

Warnings/Tags: slow-burn, secret identities, mutual pining, angst, eventual partnership, redemption, mild language, references to violence/espionage, tension

Word Count: 1.9K

Author Note: This was inspired by Thunderbolts* but does not contain any spoilers so don't worry!

Please do not copy or translate any of my works. Thank you!

Washington D.C. was a city of secrets.

They clung to the marble walls of Capitol Hill and twisted like ivy up the columns of the rotunda. They slipped into briefcases and beneath the tailored hems of suits. And Bucky Barnes- James Buchanan Barnes, newly elected Congressman from New York's 14th district- was learning quickly just how deep those secrets ran.

But none, he would later say, ran as deep as yours.

______________________________________________________________

You were already in his office when he arrived that morning.

Coffee in hand, heels off, fingers flying across a tablet. You didn't look up when he opened the door, just muttered, "You're late."

"You're early," he countered, tossing his coat onto the couch in the corner of his office.

"I'm always early. It's my job to be early."

"And my job is to be charming," Bucky replied, flashing a grin. "Which means I'm on time, actually. Fashionably."

You gave him a flat look. "You have a committee hearing in twenty minutes and a briefing on the humanitarian bill draft after that. I moved your meeting with the energy council to next week because they double-booked you with a security panel."

He scrubbed a hand over his face. "How do you keep all that in your head?"

"I'm terrifying and overqualified," you smiled with a shrug.

You were. And he knew it.

When Bucky first hired you, he figured you were another one of those political lifers- impossibly efficient, quick with a lie or a smile, maybe both. What he hadn't expected was someone so... sharp. Like a blade that hadn't dulled with time. Someone who didn't flinch at veiled threats or news of violence overseas. Someone who looked at him like she'd already figured out every angle of his plan and had a backup for every possible outcome.

"You ever think about running for office?" He asked once, weeks ago, after a long day of policy wrangling and political bullshit.

You laughed. "No. I've seen what it does to people."

"From the inside?"

You just smiled. "Something like that."

______________________________________________________________

He learned more about you in pieces.

Like how you hated being called 'ma'am' even by staffers, or how you could defuse a tense room with a single sentence. How you noticed things- things Bucky didn't even know he's missed. The way a hallway felt too quiet. The change in security's walking patterns. You moved like someone who had trained to make herself invisible, only now you chose to be seen.

And god help him, you were his type. Smart, steady, unflinching. Unreachable, most days. But he could see the slivers. The soft smiles when he made a joke that landed, the concern that crossed your face when he rubbed at his arm for too long, the subtle way you always knew when he needed to take a break.

He tried to ignore it.

He failed.

______________________________________________________________

The shift came quietly. A fundraiser. A suit. Your dress.

"You clean up nice," he said, eyes trailing the sweep of your gown.

"You say that like I'm usually covered in dirt."

"You say that like you haven't threatened six lobbyists this week alone."

"They deserved it," you replied flatly, but there was the ghost of a smile lingering on your features.

He laughed and offered you his arm. And when you took it, something clicked into place.

You belonged at his side.

Not just in the office, not just at events. But somewhere deeper. And Bucky- who'd known war and pain and redemption- felt that longing stir like a ghost.

Still, he didn't act.

Not then.

______________________________________________________________

Everything changed in early spring.

A car exploded three blocks from the Capitol. Not near Bucky's office, not officially tied to his work, but close enough to raise alarms. Security tripled. Surveillance swept wider.

But it wasn't until the second explosion- a smaller one, near a protest line- that the fear set in.

That night, Bucky sat at his desk long after the rest of the building emptied. You stood across from him, tablet abandoned on your desk, arms crossed.

"You know something," he said quietly.

You didn't respond at first.

Then, softly: "It wasn't random."

Bucky met your eyes. "How do you know?"

You hesitated. Then: "Because I used to be the one who cleaned up after these."

The silence stretched.

Bucky didn't move.

"I wasn't always in politics," you said, voice flat. "I did clean-up work. Intel. Field extraction. A few other words that mean 'get in, get out, cover the mess.'"

His jaw tightened. "For who?"

"Multiple flags." You looked away. "Mostly ours."

The room spun slightly. You'd always been a mystery- but this? This was something else. Not a background in policy or communications. You weren't just overqualified.

You were dangerous.

He should have been angry. Should've felt betrayed.

But all he said was, "Why tell me now?"

"Because if this keeps escalating, you're going to need to be more than a congressman. You're going to need to be someone who knows the shadows."

Bucky stood. "Then I want you in the field."

You blinked. "Excuse me?"

"You heard me. You said you used to clean up messes. Well, we've got a mess. I want you in it with me."

You stared at him. "That's not how this works."

"It is now."

______________________________________________________________

The days that followed were a whirlwind.

Behind closed doors, you coordinated with quiet operatives still in the game. Bucky pulled strings through back channels, dug for funding, arranged travel that wasn't logged. Together, you became something more than just a politician and his assistant.

He wore suits by day, but carried a sidearm by night. You traded in heels for boots, tablet for a burner phone. The city didn't know that their congressman was going off-grid with a former spook, but they didn't need to know.

The intel led to a hidden cell. You were recognized once, during a recon trip in Prague, and Bucky had pulled you into an alley, pressed close, and pretended to kiss you to hide your face.

It wasn't a hardship.

Later, in the hotel room, you broke the silence. "I should've told you who I was."

He shook his head. "You did. Just not with words."

"And this? Us?" You met his eyes. "What are we?"

He stepped close. Touched your cheek. "We're a team."

Then, softly: "We're more than that."

______________________________________________________________

The mission ended with a fire. A final ambush. You dragged Bucky out of the flames with blood running down your arm and smoke in your lungs. He woke up in a safehouse, dazed and furious with worry- until you limped in, bruised but smiling.

"You survived," he whispered, pulling you close.

"You make it sound like I do this often."

"You do."

"...I did." You cupped his face. "Not anymore."

He kissed you then, fierce and aching and full of everything left unsaid.

______________________________________________________________

Back in D.C., the headlines never learned the full story. Just whispers of an international threat neutralized through backdoor diplomacy. The public never knew about the fieldwork, the close calls, the quiet way Bucky took your hand when no one was watching.

You returned to your role as his assistant.

But sometimes, when the shadows whispered of danger, he'd look to you.

And you'd already be ready.

Because you were never just a congressional aide.

You were his partner- in every sense of the word.

______________________________________________________________

You didn't talk about the kiss again- not for a while.

It lingered instead, suspended between you in the quiet spaces. In the mornings, when you handed him coffee and his fingers brushed yours just a little longer than necessary. In the silence of long car rides, where you sat just a little closer than before. In the hotel room in Berlin where you shared a wall but never knocked.

You were both too careful.

Bucky had lived through too many secrets, too many betrayals. And you... you had buried your heart deep beneath mission reports and false identities. Feelings, you'd once said, made people weak. Vulnerable. And Bucky had nodded, because he knew exactly what it meant to fear wanting something so badly it hurt.

But he wanted you anyway.

______________________________________________________________

Three weeks after the mission ended, you walked into his office just after sundown. You looked different- no heels, no blazer, just a soft sweater and jeans that made you look like someone who belonged somewhere safe.

He was still in his suit. Tie loosened. Sleeves rolled up.

You didn't say anything at first. Just closed the door behind you and leaned against it.

"I thought we agreed to keep it professional," he said gently.

"I didn't," you replied.

His chest tightened. "You didn't what?"

"I didn't agree. I just didn't say anything."

Silence stretched between you again, like a wire strung too tight. Then you stepped closer.

"I'm tired, Bucky," you said. "Of pretending. Of acting like I don't think about you every damn time I lay down to sleep. Like I don't see you in the field and feel something real, something dangerous-"

He crossed the room before you could finish.

His hands cupped your face. "You scared the hell out of me when you got shot during the last mission."

You smiled faintly. "I scare you a lot, don't I?"

"Only because I-" he stopped. Swallowed. "Because I don't know how to keep you safe without locking you away."

"I don't want to be safe," you whispered. "I want to be with you."

The kiss was slower this time. No need for cover. Just lips on lips, hands in hair, breath caught in throats. You pulled him in like gravity- like coming home.

______________________________________________________________

After that, it changed.

Not in the obvious ways. Not publicly. You were still his assistant, and he was still the rising star of Capitol Hill. But when the doors closed, when the world fell away- Bucky became yours.

He started spending nights at your place.

At first, he brought nothing. Then a toothbrush. Then a drawer's worth of clothes. He cooked like a man who used to forget to eat. You teased him for it until he made you pasta that tasted like heaven.

You weren't used to softness. But he gave it to you anyway.

You slept in his arms, legs tangled, his hand always resting lightly on your hip light he was afraid you'd vanish. You told him stories of old missions- bits and pieces, never names. He listened like every word mattered.

One night, as rain drummed against the windows, you asked: "Do you ever regret this? Politics, I mean."

He was quiet for a long time. Then: "I regret not meeting you sooner."

You looked at him, heart aching.

"I would've fallen for you no matter where we met," he said, voice low. "But maybe if I met you sooner, I wouldn't have been afraid of it."

______________________________________________________________

The next mission came quietly.

And anonymous tip. A potential mole inside a federal agency. Something smelled wrong.

Bucky wanted to send someone else.

You refused.

"This is what I do," you said. "What I've always done."

"But now you have more to lose," he said softly.

You reached out, resting your palm against his chest. "So do you."

The op was simple. In and out. Or it should have been.

Instead, it ended in a warehouse fire and a chase through the streets of Philadelphia. You made it out, barely. Bucky took a hit to the shoulder and refused medical attention until you were safe.

Back at the safehouse, you stitched his wound with trembling fingers.

"I hate this part," you whispered, dabbing away blood.

He looked at you. "Because it hurts?"

"No," you replied. "Because it reminds me what I'd do to keep you alive."

You sat on the floor afterward, arms wrapped around each other, like survivors after a storm. You didn't speak. You didn't need to.

[keithyp00]

'*•.¸♡ Stupid Cupid, Stop Picking On Me ♡¸.•*'

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x F!Reader

Warnings/Tags: slow-burn, romance, humor, fluff, slight angst, mutual pining, romantic tension, morning sweetness, vulnerability

Song Inspiration: Stupid Cupid by Connie Francis

Word Count:2.1K

Author Note: Hi again! This fic has been stuck in my head all day so here I am writing it and pushing some of my other fic ideas back a couple of days. My last one didn't do as well as I was hoping overnight so if you like this one please go check out Timeless. Thank you guys! (And Happy Mother's Day for those who celebrate!)

Please do not copy or translate any of my works. Thank you!

You weren't exactly sure when Bucky Barnes became your problem.

Maybe it was when Steve asked you- sweet, pleading Steve- to check in on him after the whole time-travel thing. Maybe it was when you saw Bucky sulking at a farmer's market like a feral cat trying to adapt to a domestic life, poking at ripe peaches like they had personally offended him. Or maybe it was when you found yourself holding two coffee cups and wondering why one of them always seemed to be for him.

"Stupid Cupid," you muttered, tripping over a sidewalk crack. "Quit messing with my head."

Because how else could you explain? The flutter in your chest every time Bucky narrowed his eyes at you. The way your stomach flipped when he threw that infuriating little smirk your way- like he knew something that you shouldn't.

You should hate him.

He was moody. He didn't text back. He once told you that your playlist sounded like 'a sock hop and a migraine had a baby.' And yet, when he stood too close in the kitchen of your shared safehouse, or brushed his hand against yours when he passed the remote, you felt like a walking daydream.

______________________________________________________________

It was Tony's lake house, technically. But since he wasn't around anymore- and Sam insisted Bucky get used to 'civilian life'- you'd all rotated through it like some kind of Airbnb. For the last month, it had just been you and him. And your rapidly imploding patience.

"Can you not stare- no, glower- at the mailman like he owes you something?" You asked one sunny morning, squinting through the screen door as Bucky stood on the porch, his arms crossed like some sort of bouncer.

He simply didn't answer, which infuriated you even more.

You groaned, sipping your coffee and reminding yourself to not shove him into the lake. Because despite the grump, despite the sarcasm, despite the fact that he wore gloves in the middle of July sometimes- he was good. He was thoughtful, sometimes in ways that snuck up on you.

Like how he left Post-Its on your laptop that said, 'Eat something.' Or how he'd fixed the wobbly leg on your favorite chair without saying a word. Or how he stood outside your room every night, headphones in, until you fell asleep just to 'make sure it was safe.'

And yeah- maybe you noticed the way his hair curled after a shower. Or how his voice went all gravel and hush when he said your name. Or how he smelled like cedarwood and mystery.

But that didn't mean you liked him. Right?

______________________________________________________________

It was the pie that broke you.

Not your spine in a sparring match. Not the blackout you both endured during a rogue power surge. Not even the time he carried you through mud because you twisted your ankle.

No. It was the goddamn cherry pie.

You were baking. Sort of. Trying to, anyway. The crust was partially uneven, your hands were sticky, and you were muttering something about 'defeating the patriarchy through pastry.'

He leaned in the doorway, arms folded. Watching. Always watching.

"You're talking to the dough," he stated.

You didn't look up. "She's rude. She needs discipline."

Bucky snorted- snorted- and you stared at him like he'd grown another metal arm.

"Did you just laugh?"

He raised an eyebrow. "I don't laugh."

"Tell that to the dough," you snapped, cheeks hot. "What do you want, Barnes?"

"I smelled sugar," he said, shameless. "Was hoping you'd share."

You rolled your eyes. "I thought you didn't like sweets?"

His voice went low. Dangerous. "I like yours."

Your hands froze in the leftover flour.

And suddenly, you weren't thinking about the pie. You were thinking about the way he looked at you sometimes- like he couldn't decide if he wanted to kiss you or run. Like you were both a threat and a safehouse.

"Stupid Cupid," you muttered again, flustered. "I swear to God-"

"What?"

"Nothing."

The pie actually came out fairly decent, the edges of the crust a little burnt, but fairly tolerable. And Bucky, he ate the whole thing, or most of it anyway.

______________________________________________________________

It got worse after that.

Every glance lingered too long. Every argument had an edge of flirtation behind it. You kept pretending not to notice the way he always found a reason to sit beside you. How his knees would bump beneath the table. How he started playing your music in the kitchen.

And when you finally snapped one night- pacing on the porch, wine in hand, muttering about how, 'he's ruining everything with those ridiculous blue eyes'- you hadn't realized he was standing in the doorway behind you.

He pushed his body off the doorframe and walked toward the railing of the porch, his expression incredibly too smug for your liking.

"I'm ridiculous now?"

You flinched, whipping around. "Jesus- do you sneak for fun?"

"Occupational hazard." His smirk widened. "What else did you say about my eyes?"

"Nothing," you said quickly. Too quickly. "Shut up."

He stepped closer. "Make me."

You blinked. Then laughed. Loud, bright, and disbelieving.

"What are you, twelve?"

"I was," he deadpanned. "Once."

You rolled your eyes. "You're impossible."

And then he said it. Quiet. Honest. Barely audible beneath the breeze. "You make it hard."

You blinked again. "What?"

He cleared his throat. Looked away. "To stay... detached."

The wine slipped from your fingers. Luckily, the bottle was already empty.

You stared at him. At the scars on his knuckles. The lashes that framed those godforsaken eyes. The lip he kept biting like he regretted saying anything.

And you realized- he wasn't teasing.

He meant it.

Stupid. Damned. Cupid.

You stepped forward. He didn't flinch.

"I don't want detached," you said softly

He looked at you. Really looked. Like you were sunlight and danger and the last good thing in the world.

His voice cracked. "I'm not easy to love."

"I don't want easy either."

You reached for him. Gloved hand, then metal. He let you, but you heard his breathing stutter. And when you leaned in- testing the waters, testing fate- he met you halfway.

It wasn't fireworks.

It was softer. Stranger. The kind of kiss that steals your balance and leaves you wondering where you end and they begin.

When you finally pulled back, you smiled.

"Still think I talk too much?"

He nodded. "Absolutely."

Then he kissed you again. Harder.

______________________________________________________________

Later, tangled on the porch swing with his arm around you and your head on his shoulder, you hummed a familiar tune. Under your breath. Just loud enough for him to hear.

"Stupid Cupid, stop pickin' on me..."

He groaned. "If you start singing that in the morning-"

"You'll what?" You teased. "Fall even more in love with me?"

He didn't answer. But the way he pulled you closer said enough.

______________________________________________________________

You woke up with his hoodie under your cheek and a breeze on your knees.

The sun filtered through the curtains inside like a lazy golden hand, dust swirling in the air like dandelions. You blinked, registering three things:

You were curled up on the porch swing.

Bucky Barnes was asleep beside you.

His metal arm was around your waist like it belonged there.

"Stupid Cupid," you murmured again, though it came out softer this time. Less bitter. Almost... giddy.

His chest rose and fell in a rhythm you were already memorizing. Peaceful. Unarmored. Mouth parted slightly, lashes casting shadows, hair falling into his face.

You wanted to touch him.

Not in the hungry, let's-make-out-on-the-porch kind of way. You simply wanted to run your fingers through his hair. Trace the scar near his eyebrow. Press your palm to the pace just under his collarbone where he always kept his tension.

You settled for tucking his hoodie around his side, trying not to shiver from the early morning air.

"You're staring," he said, voice husky with sleep.

You yelped. "I-no, I was just-"

"Keep lying. You're adorable when you panic."

Your face flushed and Bucky grinned as a response. "So. We kissed."

You tucked your knees under your chin. "We did."

He finally looked at you, blinking slowly. "How do you feel about that?"

"Depends."

"On?"

"On whether you're going to brood about it for three days and avoid me."

He let out a quiet huff of laughter. "I'd never avoid you."

"Really? Because last month you avoided Sam for hating on your music taste."

"That was justified."

You rolled your eyes and smacked his arm- flesh, not metal. The little grin that flickered on his lips made your stomach tumble.

"So what does this mean?" You asked quietly. "Us. The... kissing."

He went still. Then sat up, brushing his hair back with one hand.

"It means," he said slowly, "that I want more."

More?

More of you? More kissing? More sleepless nights lying next to each other on a porch swing, tangled up in feelings too big to name?

You swallowed. "Okay."

His eyes searched yours. "Okay?"

You nodded. "Yeah. But you have to stop the staring problem, especially at strangers, I agree with Sam on that one."

"No promises."

______________________________________________________________

You didn't talk about it for a few days. Not directly, anyway.

But everything shifted.

He cooked breakfast before you got up- black coffee, toast, eggs that were slightly overcooked but made with obvious care. You found him waiting on the couch every evening with a blanket folded beside him like an invitation. He started brushing your hand every time you passed him something. Not an accident. Not anymore.

You tried not to let your heart explode about it.

Didn't work.

Especially not when he started calling you 'Doll' without a trace of irony.

Or when he found an old record player in the attic, fixed it, and played your favorite 60s vinyl like it was nothing.

Or when he got jealous over a guy in town who complimented your outfit and sulked for the next hour.

______________________________________________________________

It came to a head one evening during a thunderstorm.

You were barefoot, twirling in the kitchen while "Stupid Cupid" played on the record player- loud and cheeky, your voice warbling off-key along with it.

"Stupid Cupid, you're a real mean guy-"

"Jesus Christ," Bucky muttered behind you, towel around his shoulders, still damp from fixing the gutters in the rain. "You still know all the words?"

You spun, grinning. "I was born in the wrong decade."

"Clearly."

He crossed the kitchen slowly. Red Henley sticking to his chest. Hair dripping onto his forehead. You didn't realize you stopped breathing until he was right in front of you, blue eyes bright, towel abandoned.

"You like this song because it reminds you of me, huh?"

You swallowed. "Maybe."

His hand brushed your waist. "You like me, doll?"

You nodded, heart pounding. "Maybe."

"Then shut up and dance with me."

You didn't think. You just fell into him.

He swayed with you under the soft crackle of vinyl, your feet slipping against his boots, your laughter dying against the fabric of his shirt.

"I'm getting you soaked," he said into your hair.

"Can confirm," he mumbled.

He choked on a laugh. "It wasn't a question- god, you're a menace."

"Your menace," you whispered.

He froze. Pulled back. Looked at you. And then he kissed you. Slow, deep, reverent.

It didn't feel like the one you shared on the porch. This one felt like a promise.

______________________________________________________________

Later, after changing into dry clothes and curling up beside him on the couch, you whispered the question that had been living under your tongue for days.

"Do I scare you?"

He blinked, caught off guard. "What?"

"I mean... you never let people in. You barely let Sam in. And now you're-" you gestured between you. "Letting me in. Doesn't that terrify you?"

He exhaled. Then reached for your hand, metal fingers wrapping around yours.

"It does," he said. "But not because of you. Because I don't want to ruin it."

You stared at him. All of him. The scars, the war, the tenderness.

"You couldn't ruin this if you tried."

He looked away. "I've ruined things before."

You tilted his face toward you with your fingertips.

"Then don't run," you whispered. "When it gets hard. When I yell because you left dishes in the sink. When I forget to say goodnight. Just... stay."

His jaw flexed. "You'd want me to stay? Even when I'm a mess?"

You smiled. "Especially then."

______________________________________________________________

That night, you fell asleep with your head on his chest, listening to the storm fade into silence and his heartbeat slow to something steady. Something safe.

"Stupid Cupid," you whispered one last time into the dark.

And Bucky- half asleep, fingers tracing lazy circles on your arm- mumbled back, "Yeah... but I'm glad he chose to pick on you."

[keithyp00]

•┈••✦ Timeless ✦••┈•

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x f!reader

Warnings/Tags: romance, slow burn, wistful with a hopeful ending, flashbacks and emotional reflections, kissing

Song Inspiration: Timeless by Taylor Swift

Word Count: 745

Author Note: Hello again! Thank all of you for the continued support on my stories, and I'm hopefully going to maintain a schedule of one story a night if everything goes to plan. But this is one I'm very proud of and it's based off my favorite Taylor vault track. I hope you guys enjoy it!

Please do not copy or translate any of my works. Thank you!

The rain hadn't let up all day. It was one of those soft, steady drizzles that made the world seem just a little but quieter. You were spending the weekend at your friend and her family's house, helping them sort through old boxes in the attic, when you found it: a dusty photo album tucked beneath a stack of yellowed newspapers.

You opened it out of curiosity, not expecting much.

And then you saw his face.

Dark hair, blue eyes, that smile like he knew something you didn't.

He was standing next to someone who looked startlingly like you- different dress and decade though not a relative, but the resemblance was uncanny.

You stared- heart thudding- as you read the small handwritten caption beneath the photo: "James and Eleanor- Coney Island, 1942."

James.

Your breath caught.

______________________________________________________________

You didn't mention the photo to anyone. Not at first.

But that night, you dreamed of it. Of boardwalk lights and laughter. Of a man with eyes like winter skies and a touch that made your heart ache.

You'd never met James Buchanan Barnes, not in that life. But now- now you see him almost daily. Sitting across from you in meetings, walking the compound hallways, nodding politely with a smile that always felt a little too knowing.

Bucky.

It was stupid. You kept telling yourself that. But you couldn't shake the feeling that you knew him. Not from the history books. But from something older. Something deeper.

One afternoon, you found yourself blurting it out before you could even process the words leaving your lips.

"I saw a photo of someone who looked exactly like you. From the '40s, standing next to a pretty young woman.."

He didn't laugh. Didn't call you crazy.

Instead, Bucky stared for a long moment before quietly asking, "what was her name?"

"Eleanor," you whispered.

His lips parted. "Ellie," he said, like a distant memory just coming forward.

And you knew. Somehow, you knew.

______________________________________________________________

Things changed after that.

He started sitting closer. Talking longer. Asking questions that lingered between personal and careful.

You watched old movies together. Danced in the hallway when no one else was around to watch. He took you to a vintage bookstore in Brooklyn and didn't say a word when you held up a photo of a 1940s ballroom dress and smiled softly to yourself.

"I used to dream about nights like that," you murmured.

"I used to live them," he said.

You turned, heart pounding. "Do you think... we would've found each other?"

His gaze burned into you. "I think we did."

______________________________________________________________

Time, as always, didn't stop. Missions pulled you apart. Moments tested the quiet magic that held the two of you together.

There were weeks you didn't see each other. Days when the world seemed too heavy to carry.

But somehow, you always found your way back.

And one night- long after the compound had gone still- you found him on the rooftop. Rain threatening in the air. Moonlight catching the silver glint of his arm

He turned as you approached, something vulnerable in his eyes.

"I've lived a long time," he started.

You took another step closer. "I know."

"I've lost a lot."

"I know that too."

"I think I've loved you before."

You stopped breathing. And then: "I think I've loved you in every lifetime, Bucky."

______________________________________________________________

You didn't need a grand confession.

He just stepped forward, took your face in his hands like you were made of glass and he had been waiting his entire life to just touch you.

And then he kissed you.

It was soft. Slow. So filled with emotion it nearly brought tears to your eyes.

When you pulled apart, neither of you said anything. You didn't need to.

Because whether it was in 1942 or the present, with war between you or peace, vintage dresses or mission gear- the love between you two was real.

It had waited.

And now, it was here.

______________________________________________________________

You kept the photo in your room.

Sometimes, he'd glance at it and smile softly, reliving the fond memory in the sea of trauma he had lived throughout his life.

"She had your eyes," he said once, tracing the edge of the image with his fingertips. "Same way they lit up when she laughed."

You leaned into him. "And you- James or Bucky- you seemed to always have this way of looking at her like she was your entire world."

He pulled you closer. "You still are."

[keithyp00]

Greedy

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x f!reader

Warning/Tags: fluff, slow-burn, implied hurt/comfort, self-discovery, mentions of past trauma, kissing

Song Inspiration: Greedy by Ariana Grande (only a little though)

Word Count: 1,322

Please do not copy or translate any of my works. Thank you!

The flickering candlelight danced across Bucky's sharp features, highlighting the faint lines etched around his eyes- a testament to a life lived on the edge. He sat across from you, a half-empty glass of whiskey sweating on the worn wooden table between you. The air hung heavy with unspoken words and the scent of old books and something uniquely Bucky- a blend of leather, metal, and that faint hint of woodsmoke that always clung to him. You'd known him for years, yet the mystery surrounding him remained as captivating as ever.

He watched you- his gaze intense- as you traced the rim of your own glass, the smooth glass cool under your calloused fingertips. The silence stretched, comfortable yet charged with an unspoken tension between the two of you. It was the kind of silence that whispered promises and hinted at desires neither of you dared to voice.

"You're quiet tonight," he finally murmured, his voice a low rumble that sent shivers down your spine. He reached across the table, his metal fingers brushing lightly against your own ones, metal meeting flushed skin. The contact sent a jolt of electricity through you, a familiar sensation that never failed to ignite a spark in your chest.

You swallowed, your throat suddenly dry. "Just thinking," you replied, your voice barely a whisper. You weren't just thinking; you were wrestling with the complexities of your feelings for him- feelings that had grown so steadily, quietly, like a creeping vine that you never gave permission to grow.

Bucky was everything you weren't- reckless, unpredictable, haunted by a past he couldn't outrun. Yet, it was precisely those qualities that drew you to him in the first place that made him so irresistibly alluring. His darkness was like a magnet, pulling you closer even as a part of you screamed at you to run before you got stuck.

He leaned closer, his breath like a warm ghost over your skin. "Thinking about what?" He asked, his voice laced with a hint of playful challenge.

You hesitated, unsure how to articulate the tangled mess of emotions swirling within you. It wasn't just the physical attraction, though that was undeniable. It was the way he made you feel- seen, understood, cherished in a way no one you've ever met in the past had. It was the way he made you feel... greedy.

For his touch, his time, his attention. For every stolen moment together, every shared glance, every whispered secret. For a love that felt both dangerous and exquisitely right.

"Thinking about...us," you finally managed to say, the words escaping your lips like a quiet sigh, one that was meant truly just for you. The confession hung in the air, fragile and vulnerable.

Bucky's expression softened, his gaze filled with a tenderness that made your heart ache. He gently took your hand in his, his touch both reassuring and electrifying. "Us," he repeated, the word tasting like an unspoken promise on his tongue.

He leaned in, his lips brushed against your in a feather-light kiss. It was a kiss that spoke volumes- of shared secrets, unspoken desires and a love that defied logic and reason. It was a kiss that tasted of whiskey and danger and something deeply, profoundly satisfying.

The kiss deepened, becoming more urgent, more demanding. His arms wrapped around you, anchoring himself on your waist, pulling you closer until there was no space left between your bodies. You felt the warmth of his skin against yours, the steady beat of his heart mirroring the frantic rhythm of your own.

For a moment, the world faded away, leaving only the two of you, lost in a whirlwind of passion and longing. It was a moment suspended in time, a perfect, stolen fragment of eternity.

When the kiss finally broke, you were breathless, your senses reeling. Bucky's eyes were dark and intense, reflecting the fire that burned between you.

"I've been eager for you for a long time," he confessed, his voice husky with emotion. "For your smile, your laughter, for every moment I can spend with you."

You leaned your forehead against his, your heart overflowing with a love that felt both terrifying and exhilarating. "And I have been for you too," you whispered, your voice quiet but thick with emotion. "For your touch, for your strength, for your love."

He smiled, a genuine smile that reached his eyes and warmed your soul. It was a smile that promised a future filled with shared adventures, stolen moments, and a love that would endure, even in the face of darkness and uncertainty.

As the candlelight flickered, casting long shadows across the room, you knew that your journey with Bucky would be anything but ordinary. It would be a journey filled with challenges and uncertainty, but would also be one filled with a love so intense, so consuming, that it would make you both irrevocably greedy for more.

______________________________________________________________

The months that followed were a testament to the power of rediscovery. The whirlwind of extravagance had settled, replaced by a calm comforting rhythm of shared moments together.

You explored quiet corners of the city, hand-in-hand, discovering hidden cafes and bookstores, places where the noise of the outside world faded into a gentle hum. Bucky, ever the protector, found solace in these simpler moments, his guarded heart slowly unfurling like a delicate flower in the spring. He found joy in the mundane- the shared laughter over a silly movie, the quiet comfort of a shared cup of coffee, the warmth of your intertwined bodies on a cold winter's night. And you, in turn, found a deeper appreciation for the things you had almost lost sight of- the genuine connection, the unwavering support, the quiet strength from his love alone.

One evening, as you sat on the roof of your apartment building, watching the city lights twinkle below you, Bucky turned, his eyes filled with a tenderness that made your heart soar. The city noise was a distant murmur, your little world enclosed in a bubble of quiet intimacy. He took your hand, intertwining your fingers together, a familiar comfort that always sent a welcome shiver down your spine.

"I never thought I'd find happiness in the quiet moments," he confessed, his voice low and husky. "But with you... it's different. It's... perfect."

Tears welled up in your eyes, a mixture of joy and relief. You had almost lost sight of the true treasure, the genuine love that lay beneath the surface of that glittering facade you both tended to put on in front of others. You had been greedy for the superficial, for the fleeting thrill of extravagance, but Bucky had shown you the power of having a simple, honest life.

"Me neither," you whispered, leaning your head against his shoulder. "I was so busy chasing the spotlight, I almost missed the most important thing- you."

He pulled you closer, his embrace warm and comforting. "Don't ever forget that," he murmured, his lips brushing a light kiss into your hair. "You're my everything."

And as you sat there, under the vast expanse of the night sky, you knew that your love story was far from over. It was a story that was constantly evolving, a story of growth, of rediscovery, of a love that transcended the superficial and embraced the true essence of being together. It was a love that was- in its own way- still a little greedy. Greedy for more moments, more laughter, more shared experiences, more of the simple, quiet perfection you had found in each other. The city lights continued to twinkle below, a silent testament to the vibrant, ever-evolving tapestry of your love.

The greed for more wasn't about material things anymore; it was about a deeper, more profound desire- a hunger for a love that would continue to endure, a love that would continue to grow and flourish, a love that would always be yours.

[keithyp00]

The Very First Night

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x f!reader

Warnings/Tags: longing, nostalgia, reconnection, second chances, bittersweet joy, soft reunion, emotional intimacy, kissing, implications of sex

Song Inspiration: The Very First Night by Taylor Swift

Word Count: 824

Author Note: Hi again! Hopefully I'll be able to keep a schedule going with posting but I have my APUSH exam for school tomorrow so this is my good luck post to myself to make me feel better. Hope you enjoy and thanks for the continued support!

Please do not copy or translate any of my works. Thank you!

You hadn't seen Bucky Barnes in two years.

Not since the mission that split everything apart. Not since you chose separate paths- different coasts, different causes, different people- because neither of you were ready to stay still. Or maybe, because you were both too afraid to try.

But here you were now, standing in a hallway that buzzed with bad overhead lighting and too many memories, waiting for a man you tried desperately to forget.

Until you couldn't anymore.

The door opened.

And just like that- two years collapsed.

He looked the same. A little more tired around the eyes. A little scruffier. Broader, maybe. Still devastatingly handsome.

"Hey," he said softly.

Your throat was too full to answer. So you just smiled.

______________________________________________________________

Two Years Ago- The Very First Night

The hotel room in Belgium was nothing special. Beige walls, humming radiator, one flickering lamp.

But you still remembered everything about that night.

The way Bucky looked at you from across the room- half smile, hair wet from the shower he had taken, feet bare on the worn carpet.

The quiet conversation shared over whiskey and strawberries that were bought from the hotel's little corner store in the lobby.

The way his laugh- low and rare- filled up the space like music. You'd leaned into him, arms brushing, knees touching.

"Why are you looking at me like that?" You'd whispered.

"Because I know," he replied.

"Know what?"

"That this'll be the night I'll think about when I miss you."

You'd kissed him then. Soft, slow, and unforgettable.

The rest was a blur of heat and tenderness, hands memorizing each other like it would have to last a lifetime. Because, deep down, maybe you both knew it might.

______________________________________________________________

It wasn't messy when you parted.

No fights. Just two soldiers fighting different wars.

He was rebuilding in New York. You were chasing ghosts in Europe. You promised to stay in touch. But promise like that rarely survive the drastically different time zones and aching hearts that came from late nights alone.

Still, on certain nights, you'd pull out your phone. Reread old texts. Replay voicemails. Watch the grainy video you took of him singing off-key at 2AM when you were both drunk off your minds.

Once, you even dreamed he was beside you- his hand on your hip, whispering stupid jokes into your hair into the late hours of the night.

You woke up crying the following morning.

______________________________________________________________

Now, back in the present, you sat across from him in a quiet cafe.

Everything around you felt too loud.

"I didn't think you'd come," Bucky said, his voice low.

"I almost didn't," you admitted. "Thought maybe it'd hurt too much."

He nodded. "It does. But not seeing you again? That hurts more."

You looked at him then, really looked- at the man who still carried the weight of the world, but now sat with shoulders that were just a bit looser.

"I missed you," you stated. A breath. Then two. "I missed us."

His hand reached across the table, slow and steady. "I still think about that night," he said. "The very first one. The real one. It ruined me, you know."

You laughed, soft and fond. "Why?"

"Because no one else ever felt like that. Like home."

______________________________________________________________

You walked the city together after that.

Passed the old record shop you once ducked into during a thunderstorm. The bookstore where he read you poetry in a gruff whisper. The street corner where he kissed you like the world was ending.

He turned to you once you both reached the park, stopping in your tracks collectively.

"I thought maybe, if I saw you again, I could be just... your friend. But I can't."

"Bucky-"

"I don't want to forget. I don't want something new. I want you."

And despite everything- the time, the pain, the years apart- your heart whispered the same truth it had screamed in silence every night. I want you too.

You kissed him under the streetlight.

Slow. Hopeful. Like you'd been waiting two years just to remember how it felt.

And he held you like he'd never let go again. And this time- he didn't.

______________________________________________________________

Months later, you were in a new apartment. Shared. Full of photos and plants you kept forgetting to water. Bucky was sprawled on the couch, reading a book that you didn't recognize, most likely from a period you didn't really know.

"You know," he murmured, catching you staring, "we never really got another 'first night.'"

You smiled. "Maybe not. But we got a second chance."

He grinned. "And I'm not going to waste it."

You joined him on the couch, curled into his side, heart full with love for the boy you really got to know in a hotel room in Belgium and the man he grew into.

And this time, there was no leaving. Because now- you had a love worth staying for.

[keithyp00]

Don't Slow Down

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x fem!Reader

Warnings/Tags: slow-burn, romantic tension, kissing, mentions/implications of sex (but nothing explicit)

Inspired by Into You by Ariana Grande

Word Count: 805

Author Note: Thank you so much on the support on my last story When The Quiet Comes. It means so much more than most you realize and I'll continue posting more Bucky stories on here (cuz I have a lot so be prepared). Anyway hope you enjoy this one! (And I promise longer ones are coming soon!)

Please do not copy or translate any of my works. Thank you!

It started with a look.

Not just any look. Not the kind you toss across a room without meaning to. This one carried weight.

It was at one of Tony's rooftop parties. Music pulsed through the glass walls, and laughter spilled over the edge like champagne. You weren't trying to flirt- not really. You were just... watching.

And Bucky Barnes was standing across the rooftop like he didn't belong. Hair tied back, whiskey in hand, his metal fingers clinking softly against the glass. He looked half-bored, half-haunted. But his eyes- god, his eyes- flicked to yours and stayed.

You looked away first. But you felt it the rest of the night.

______________________________________________________________

There were missions. Briefings. Training sessions. Shared cups of coffee in the early mornings when everyone else was still asleep.

You weren't sure when it started. When the touches began lasting longer than necessary. When his hand brushed yours and didn't move. When your legs touched under the table and neither of you shifted away.

You caught him looking at you once- really looking- like he was memorizing the curve of your easy-going smile that always adorned your features.

"You good?" You asked, barely hiding the shake in your voice.

He simply nodded once. "Yeah." But his eyes dropped to your lips before the word could even finish leaving his own.

______________________________________________________________

It wasn't innocent anymore.

Not when he stood behind you in the gym, hands both cool and warm on your waist, breath hot on your neck as he guided you through hand-to-hand drills.

"Loosen your grip," he murmured, voice low and gravelly. "Let them come to you."

You nodded, but your mind was a blur- all heat and static and the smell of him clouding your thoughts. When you finally pinned him to the mat, straddling his waist, his hands gripped your thighs- tight, grounding- and neither of you moved.

Time paused.

You felt it- the shift.

The point of no return.

______________________________________________________________

He started knocking on your door late at night.

Not for sex. At least not yet.

Just to sit on your bed and talk about anything but what you were both aching for.

One night, he sat too close. His thigh brushed yours, and your heart stuttered.

"Do you ever wish it was simpler?" He asked.

"Yeah," you whispered.

You didn't have to say what it was that was on your mind. He leaned in then- just a breath away- eyes flicking between yours and your lips.

"I don't want to mess this up," he mumbled.

"Then don't," you replied, barely more than a breath, and barely audible to anyone but him.

But he didn't kiss you. Not yet.

______________________________________________________________

The kiss happened in the dark. One of those hot summer nights where the air felt like velvet and the city buzzed below. Music floated up from someone's balcony. Slow. Sultry.

You and Bucky stood on the balcony of the compound, wrapped in the darkness of the night.

"I can't stop thinking about you," he said, voice ragged.

"Then don't stop," you breathed.

He kissed you like he was starving. Hands on your hips, your back arching into him, his mouth claiming yours like it had always belonged there. You pressed closer, drunk off the feeling, your fingers tangling in his hair as his metal arm gripped the railing behind you- holding on like you were the only real thing left in the world.

It wasn't just lust.

It was the way he held your face after. It was the way he touched your cheek like you might disappear if he let go.

"We shouldn't..." he started, forehead pressed to yours.

"I know."

But neither of you moved. Because you were already in too deep.

______________________________________________________________

Now, it's a rhythm. A dance. A push and pull you both pretend not to notice during the day.

But at night- in hallways, in quiet corners, in the stolen minutes between battle and breath- you crashed together like waved.

You shouldn't. You know that.

But you're into him. So into him. And when he touches you like that- like he's drowning in it- it's impossible to care about anything else.

You think he's in love with you. He doesn't say it. But you feel it in the way his hands shake when you kiss him. In the way he lingers after, lips pressed to your shoulder, like he's memorizing your skin.

You don't need words yet. Because when he looks at you like that- when he kisses you like that- you already know.

______________________________________________________________

It's not simple.

It's messy and quiet and hidden in the shadows.

But when you wake up next to him, chest to chest, his hand on your waist, your fingers brushing over the metal seam of his arm, it feels like everything makes sense.

You're his.

And he's absolutely, completely, breathtakingly into you.

[keithyp00]

When The Quiet Comes

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x Reader

Setting: Post-Endgame, Semi-rural town

Warnings/Tags: Healing, Trust, Emotional Intimacy, Soft Domesticity, Peaceful Slow-Burn Romance, Kissing

Word Count: 1,018

Author Note: Hey guys! This is my first time actually posting one of my writings on a platform (and this one is kinda silly and cringey) but I watched Thunderbolts* on Saturday and it actually launched me headfirst into by Bucky phase again so expect a lot of fanfics in like the next week. Anyways I hope you enjoy it <3

Please do not copy or translate any of my works. Thank you!

The town was too quiet.

That had been Bucky's first thought when he arrived- alone, bags over his shoulder, truck engine still cooling behind him. Not suspiciously quiet, not the kind of quiet that made his hand inch toward a weapon. Just... calm. Peaceful in a way he hadn't expected. He didn't know what to do with that new kind of quiet.

That was until you came along, carrying a stack of books that was definitely too heavy, as well as a grocery bag hung over your right shoulder- one that was tipping your bodies natural point of gravity so you couldn't quite walk straight. You rammed right into him on the sidewalk, the book tumbling onto the concrete with several soft thuds, and muttered apologies started flowing from your lips as well as an awkward laugh as you crouched to gather them.

"God, I'm so sorry. I didn't- are you okay?"

Bucky blinked. He had seen aliens. He had fought a metal man in a flying suit. He had stood toe to toe with Thanos. But he had never seen eyes like yours. Soft. Warm. Unafraid.

"...I'm fine," he'd said, voice hoarse from disuse.

"Good." You flashed a quick, sheepish smile. "First time I've hit someone with 'War and Peace'. I guess that counts for something."

He even surprised himself with the small laugh that bellowed from his chest as a response.

______________________________________________________________

You didn't recognize him.

That was the second thing that shocked him. You offered him coffee, not questions. Company, not curiosity. And slowly- so slowly he barely noticed- Bucky began to anchor himself around you.

You ran a bookstore on the corner. Lived above it in a cozy little apartment that smelled like cedar and ink. You wore knit sweaters, laughed at your own silly jokes, and had a tabby cat named Fig that liked to perch himself on your shoulder like a pirate's parrot. You talked to Bucky like he was just... a man. A grumpy, awkward, very handsome man with hair that some might deem tragic, but not you.

You didn't ask about his past.

You simply asked if he enjoyed lemon cake.

______________________________________________________________

Bucky came by the shop more often. At first, it was once a week. Then twice. Then almost daily under the excuse of "running errands" that suspiciously never seemed to produce groceries.

You noticed the way he looked at the world- as if it might slip out from under him at any second. The way he always sat facing the door. The way his jaw tightened when sirens howled, even faintly, in the distance.

You didn't push.

You simply made space.

"Sit," you told him one late afternoon. Rain tapped against the windows, and the power had flickered twice already. "I'll make tea. You can pretend you're a mysterious Victorian man recovering from a duel."

He blinked. "What?"

You gave a grin. "Just trust me. It's a vibe."

To your eternal surprise, he smiled. Not just a twitch of the lips- a real one- small and tired and a little crooked. But real.

______________________________________________________________

The first time he let you touch the metal arm, it wasn't planned.

You had tripped on the top step of the bookstore staircase, two books in hand and- of course- he caught you without hesitation.

Your hands gripped his forearms instinctively. One warm, flesh and bone. The other- cool vibranium. Your eyes flickered down, then up again, and you didn't move away.

"Sorry," you said, breathing a little harder than usual. "You always catch me when I fall."

His expression changed. You saw the flicker of something behind his eyes- something heavy.

"I didn't always," he replied softly.

You didn't ask what he meant. You didn't have to.

______________________________________________________________

It wasn't until winter that you kissed him.

You'd been putting up lights in the window and Bucky came to help, grumbling about how unnecessary it all was- but he brought you hot cider in a thermos anyway and adjusted the ladder every time it wobbled under the movement of your weight.

The lighted ended up not working.

You cursed under your breath, repeatedly flipping the switch back and forth beneath your fingers. And Bucky- sweet, quiet Bucky- reached over, tilted your chin toward him, and kissed you without a word.

It wasn't rushed. It wasn't fire and teeth and desperation.

It was slow. Careful. Like he was memorizing something sacred.

"I've been thinking about doing that for a long time," he murmured, lips still brushed against yours.

"Then why wait?"

He hesitated. "Didn't think I deserved to."

You touched the side of his face, brushed your thumb along his cheek. "You deserve peace, Bucky. Even if you don't believe it yet- I do."

______________________________________________________________

Peace didn't come overnight.

Some days, Bucky still woke up gasping. Some nights, you found him on your fire escape, knees drawn close to his chest, eyes scanning the dark. The palm of his metal arm resting against his thigh, twitching like it remembered something he didn't want to.

But you never asked him to come back inside. You just joined him. A blanket wrapped around your shoulders, a cup of tea between your palms, silent unless he wanted words.

Sometimes he spoke. And sometimes- when the wind was soft and the town was asleep- he looked at you like he was terrified to admit that this, whatever it was between you, might be the only thing keeping him tethered.

So you stayed.

______________________________________________________________

The first time you heard him laugh in his sleep, you almost cried.

It was a soft sound. A breath of joy. His head nestled into the pillow beside yours, hair mussed, lips parted in a small, crooked grin.

You reached over and touched his cheek and he stirred under the brush of skin.

"What are you lookin' at?" He mumbled, voice like gravel.

"You," you whispered, smiling. "You were dreaming."

"Was I?" He blinked blearily. "About what?"

"I don't know," you smiled, brushing a strand of hair off his forehead. "But you were happy."

He was quiet for a long time. Then, voice low, he said, "You were in it."