majulians-groupie

[majulians-groupie]

Realizing Sebastian Stan has faint freckles 😭 he’s so cute

[majulians-groupie]

manchild.

pairing. bucky barnes x fem!reader mcu timeline. tfatws. synopsis. bucky can't help but wonder why they always come running to you,, or your living fossil of a roommate disapproves of your taste in men and its totally not because he wants a taste of you. warnings. smut ( pwp, service dom!bucky, unprotected piv, oral sex - f receiving, clothed sex for like a sec, fingering, creampie, tummy bulge, dirty talk, dry humping, possessiveness, dumbification, praise, temperature play, food play, nipple play, pussy pronouns, hair pulling - m receiving, multiple orgasms, consent kink, implied competency kink and cum eating, bucky barnes begs agenda 2025™, both bucky and reader spend the whole fic towing the fine line between horny and pervy ), no use of y/n, angst, fluff, frenemies to lovers, roommate!bucky, cocky+flirty!bucky, also guard dog!bucky ( if that even makes sense ) ( it doesn't ), jealousy, pining, so much bickering, attachment issues, miscommunication bc these two combined have the emotional intelligence of a chihuahua, bucky's hobby is baking bc i said so. reader inclusivity. bucky can pick the reader up ( but he's literally a super soldier so 🧍‍♂️ ), one mention of bucky trying to grab the reader's hair, reader has a nut allergy and does not speak russian ( neither do i, so please forgive the very small amount of google translated russian ) word count. 16.3k hyde’s input. god bless sabrina for saving the summer again. also don't let this flop, it's my birthday tomorrow and i'm not above crying over poorly-received erotica ( i'm joking ) ( no i'm not )

Bucky Barnes is not someone you’d call a friend.

He’s more of a nuisance, really. A fossil, dropped off at your door by one Sam Wilson with a simple request: “Can he crash here for a few days?”

That was four months ago, and Bucky’s still living on your couch.

Which is exactly where he’s sat right now, head buried in a book you barely even remember owning. The pages, so full of neglect, give him hassle as he tries to turn them, catching on one another and refusing to be pried apart by vibranium fingers.

“How do I look?” You ask as you step out from your bedroom, hands fastening an earring into your right ear.

Unfazed by your appearance, he doesn’t bother glancing up from his book as he sardonically replies, “With your eyes, like the rest of us.”

You contemplate plucking one of your heels off and throwing it at his head. Knowing your luck, it will fly right past him and smash your coffee table into pieces. Just like your roommate, it’s vintage. Unlike your roommate, you willingly brought it into your home.

“Ha. Ha.” Rounding the couch, you swat his feet off the table before snapping his book closed. “Now if you’re done playing comedian, would you answer the fucking question?”

“That’s your generation's problem, you know? You swear more than you breathe.”

“Better than waging a world war every few years.”

“Considering the current state of the world, I wouldn’t rest too comfortably on that one,” Bucky rises from his seat and squeezes past you, irritatingly close in a way that makes sure you feel each defined muscle in his chest as it brushes against your shoulder. “Anyway, you look fine, as always.”

“I look fine?” You parrot his words and follow his footsteps over to the kitchen. “Careful Barnes, don’t get too excited, it’s not healthy for a senior citizen’s heart.”

“You know what I mean,” a heavy sigh slips out the soldier’s mouth as he busies himself filling the kettle, glancing back at you from over his shoulder as he continues speaking. “I don’t understand why you worry so much about all of… this.” He gestures at you, water splashing off the tips of his fingers.

“God forbid a woman cares about looking good on a date,” you’re becoming annoyingly aware of the pout on your lips and try your best to correct it, whilst prying open the fridge door and fishing out a bottle of beer. “Gee if only it were still the 40s, then I could slap some mercury on my lips and hit the town with a man ready to buy me off my daddy for the cheap, cheap price of two goats!”

The frustration within you only rises as you struggle with the bottle’s cap, the skin of your hand pinching as you put all your force behind removing it. Since when are twist-tops so damn hard to twist off?

Bucky’s by the kettle, pouring boiling hot water into a mug he’s wrongfully claimed as his and looking irritatingly fine surrounded by steam — which has your mind trailing back to a few weeks ago: an early morning, exiting your bedroom to find your lodger stepping out the bathroom with nothing but a towel around his waist and the remnant dew of a steaming hot shower trailing down his very naked, very defined biceps, and pectorals, and- He’s not even trying to mask the amusement on his face as he indulges in your failure.

“Don’t you think you’re being a little ridiculous?” He asks and pries the bottle out of your hold, effortlessly ripping the cap off with a twist of his left hand. A familiar warmth curls between your legs, awakening a response from you that you’ve sworn, under no circumstances, will happen due to Bucky Barnes. You barely want to exchange air with him, nevermind bodily fluids. “There’s no way you’re worth two goats.”

“Every day I wake up and resist the urge to smother you in your sleep.”

Your vitriol is met with a smirk taking over his lips. Watching as he brings the beer up to his mouth, you catch yourself forgetting to blink as the soldier engages you both in a staring contest, all the while he’s tilting the bottle up to steal the first sip. He presses the cold glass back into your hand. You try not to focus on his tongue, peeking out to swipe over his bottom lip and clean up a remnant drop of beer.

In a move that puts you even more on edge, Bucky shuffles closer to you. Delirium floods your mind as the smell of smoke, and musk, and a just a twinge of sweat floods your nose, a smell so masculine it has you debating setting feminism and your own self-preservation back hundreds of years by nuzzling your face into the pulse point of his neck, like you’re some damn animal being exposed to pheromones. Meanwhile, he appears none the wiser to the negative effect he’s having on you, too busy reaching his arm behind you and into the fridge.

“Those boys you entertain, do they ever pay you any compliments?” His voice is so gentle, you almost wonder if that’s how it would sound whispering in your ear. Luckily, you don’t actually wonder about that. Not at all, not even a little. “Or is that your job too, like the bill?”

As quickly as he caged you in against the fridge, he moves away and leaves the cool air to rush over your skin, dragging your mind back into reality and away from whatever thoughts it keeps trying to tempt you with. You track his movements towards the island counter as he sets down a glass bowl, marked by condensation and filled with a batter of some sorts.

It's becoming more and more common to catch Bucky pottering around in the kitchen, a recipe on his phone screen and a personalised ‘Kiss the Baker’ apron — which Sam bought as a joke for his birthday — tied around his waist. He’ll never admit it, but a part of you believes baking helps him relax, to shut off whatever thoughts are floating around in that disturbingly pretty head of his and let him focus solely on measuring, mixing, and making delicious sugary treats. You can hardly complain when he’s gifting you the privilege of an at-home bakery. Fortunately, he gives you plenty of other reasons to complain. 

“Boys I entertain? Way to make me sound like a stripper,” you huff, sneaking over to dunk a finger into the batter as he turns to grab his coffee. “And I’ll have you know, they do pay me compliments.”

Licking your finger clean, you can’t fight the humm of approval that creeps up your throat nor the way your eyes slip shut as you savour the cold, tangy sweetness of the cake mix. Something warm presses against your left side as Bucky returns to the island, setting down his mug and a cake tin.

“Really? What kinda things do they say?” Just as you go to double dip, he smacks the top of your hand with a wooden spoon, and you nearly freeze at the contact. For a few short seconds, the factory in your mind goes into lockdown as every single one of your brain cells scramble to not conjure up the image of him smacking that utensil on a very different part of you. “Hands off. It’s a lemon cake, not a lemon and your-dirty-fingers cake.”

You silence your thoughts with a swig of beer before putting a safety distance between Bucky and you, unsure whether to be relieved at his obliviousness to the less than ideal affect he’s having on you, or offended by his complete lack of reaction to being so close to you while you’re all dressed up and waiting for another man to take you out.

Not that you want him to be affected by that, or you in general, though.

Your phone lights up with a text from an unsaved number: im hear, r yu coming down or shuld i com up? You shut it off and stuff it into your purse, deciding it's best to keep a man waiting anyway; he’ll appreciate your presence even more once you finally give him it.

Besides, you’ve yet to answer Bucky’s question.

“I’d tell you but I’m too sober to stomach you yelling ‘Heaven to Betsy!’ and giving me a lecture on your medieval dating ethics.”

You earn a genuine laugh, in which his knees bend a little and his head is thrown back, while his vibranium hand winds up splayed across his midriff. The sun is setting beyond the window, lingering shades of orange warmth frame a heavenly glow around Bucky, highlighting a slight curl in his hair and the piercing blue of his eyes. The view is uncomfortably pleasant, so you bring the bottle back to your lips and turn your head away, suddenly utterly fascinated with the eggshell colouring of the kitchen cupboards.

“I think there’s a leak under the sink,” the comment is absentminded, a meager attempt at steering your mind away from the man and his mixing bowl.

Bucky ignores it and drags you right back to the actual topic at hand.

“That’s funny,” there’s a shuffle of tin behind you. You glance back around to find him smoothing batter into the cake mold, wooden spoon clasped in metal fingers spreading the mix evenly. You’ve never noticed how good Bucky is at spreading things. “Cause I swear I remember Sam mentioning something about the last guy moaning his own name in your ear.”

Beer shoots to the back of your throat.

In a spurt of coughing, amidst the burning pain of the carbonated liquid dripping out your nose, you hurry over to the sink. Mouth dropped open in a dry heave, you lean into the basin and try to minimize the mess you make in search of a breath. Heat envelops you from behind and a pair of sock-clad feet come into view next to your maroon heels. You briefly register the cool brush of metal against the back of your neck as he tries to tidy back your hair and, while you appreciate the action, you can’t help note how completely unnecessary it is. Too distracted to care, your attention shoots straight to the weight of his flesh hand pressing into your lower back. Heavy, warm, large, it pollutes your mind with the knowledge of how it feels to have him soothe your skin — even if there is a layer of silk in the way.

The moment air returns to your lungs, you shoot up straight and ache to step away from him and his wandering-to-all-the-wrong-places hands. The battle against his touch is mute, not even one percent of his strength is put behind the way he grips your forearms and turns you to face him.

Bucky’s eyes scan over you, studying your features. You swallow back whatever feeling brings salivation to your mouth. His thumb reaches towards his own and you watch, transfixed, as a pink tongue darts out to greet it, licking a stripe over the pad of it. A splash of cake batter stains his ring finger. You swallow back more saliva; confusingly, your mouth feels drier than ever. Only when he delicately presses his thumb beneath your eye and swipes over your waterline do you realise you’re teary-eyed.

“See how clumsy you are?” There’s a chastising lilt to his voice that sends blood rushing to your face, and then immediately back down to the overwhelmingly empty space between your legs. “Can’t even swallow properly without ruining your mascara.”

You need distance.

You need to move.

You need to leave.

“He’s here!” The words are almost a gasp as you turn out of his hold. The weight of his gaze trails over your legs as you rush around the kitchen island, fishing your keys out of your purse and rambling out the nerves he’s summoned. “Okay, there’s some leftover pasta in the fridge if you’re hungry, and you’re welcome to the beers if you get thirsty. Big remote turns on the TV, the little one changes the channel. Behave and take care of the place while I’m away, okay?”

“Quit talking to me like I’m some kind of guard dog,” he complains as you pull open the front door and cross one foot over the threshold to safety.

“Oh, I’m sorry!” You cheer back, trailing the door behind you as you go. “I wasn’t aware you were going to start contributing rent, I’ll send you my bank details.”

With that, the apartment door slams shut and you head out for a date in which three things will happen: you’ll flirt, you’ll fuck, and you won’t think about your roommate.

Only one of those things ends up happening.

It’s not from lack of an offer that you wind up taking a cab back to your apartment. Your date had been nice… enough. He complimented your outfit, took a sufficient amount of interest in you, and he even bought you flowers — of course, he’d accidentally left them in his parent’s home. Where he lived. In the basement.

And the thing is, you’re not shallow. Time’s are tough, the economy sucks, and the world is still adjusting to the sudden return to half its population post-Blip. So you were more than game to play sneak-me-into-your-bed-without-waking-your-parents, but, as the pair of you waited on a taxi to arrive, his hand found your waist and your treacherous mind noticed something it shouldn’t.

Bucky’s hand was larger. And warmer. And more welcomed against your skin.

Sick to your stomach by your own thoughts, your night ended with you tip-toeing past the familiar figure sleeping on your couch — definitely not pausing to take in the sheer width of his naked shoulders dangling half-off the cushion — and crawling into bed alone, belly full of Thai and mind full of Winter.

When morning comes, the bedroom door creaks as you pry it open, a fist rubbing sleep out your eye and a yawn announcing your arrival.

“Did you eat my ice cream?” Bucky calls out from somewhere, voice muffled and full of accusation.

Despite barely finishing a glass of wine the night before, there’s a throbbing pain beginning in your temples and souring your already bitter mood.

“Wow, good morning to you too,” you stumble more than walk over to the kitchen, in search of the salvation of ice cold water.

That’s where you find him: laid out on his back, grey sweatpants clinging to bent knees, with everything from his shoulders up inside the open cabinet beneath the sink. His arms are inside too, tinkering away at something above his face.

“Good morning. Did you eat my ice cream?” If ever a thing such as a verbal eyeroll were to exist, Bucky would be doing it. From the lack of seeing his eyes, there’s every chance he is literally rolling them.

Your journey toward the fridge is interrupted by the troubling sight of a glass full of water, a plate hosting a slice of lemon sponge cake, and two miscellaneous white pills that anyone who suffers the unusually cruel punishment of a menstrual cycle is likely familiar with. A post-it note with your name written neatly across it sits next to the unexpected care package.

“So what if I did?” The painkillers go down effortlessly, though there’s a lingering chemical taste that has you gulping down an extra sip of water. “What are you doing, anyway?”

“I paid for it!” For all his outrage, he doesn’t care enough to poke his head out as he chastises you. “You said there was a leak, so I’m checking your pipes. I’m quite good with my hands, you know.”

Is he dense, or is he saying this shit on purpose? The double entendre in his words is glaring, yet you haven’t the confidence nor the will-power to address it, to poke the proverbial bear out of fear. Fear of him scolding your dirty mind, or fear of him doubling down on his suggestive wordplay, you’re not quite sure.

You choose to steer clear of the topic and, more importantly, the unexpected twinge in your chest in response to Bucky’s unrequested help.

“And I paid for the freezer you left it in, the electricity that kept it frozen, and the apartment you live in,” you don’t intend to sound so snappy, like a sulking child fighting against their own self-confessed crimes. “So I think you can spare me some goddamn ice cream.”

You’ve taken to joining Bucky on the floor, sitting across from him, cross-legged and back pressed against the cabinets that surround the kitchen island. In your lap lies the slice of cake, a mouthful already missing and melting its tangy sweetness onto your tongue. You almost moan, but it’s unclear whether the sugary treat just tastes that good or the visual of the soldier laid out on his back and tinkering away beneath your sink is just so stimulating.

If you mention the strange noise your car’s engine has been making recently, would he fix that too? You can already picture him slicked in sweat and oil, hands on his hips as he stands over the opened hood and assesses whatever the damage is. You’d have to watch over the whole thing, of course — not out of your own self-interest but on the off chance something goes wrong and Bucky needs help taking off his oil-stained shirt, or pants, or-

“Your date was that good, huh?” You almost jump out of your skin when he speaks.

“He bragged to me about how he and his college roommates used to play pool,” the pause in your sentences seems to capture Bucky’s attention, coaxing him out from beneath the sink. “Using a shotgun instead of cues.”

As he sits up, elbows finding rest upon his knees, you can’t help but note the five-o’clock shadow he’s sporting. For reasons that have nothing to do with the fraying seams of your sanity, you need him to shave.

To Bucky’s credit, he doesn’t laugh. Yes, his lips glitch somewhere between a cheeky grin and a serious frown, but he does not outright laugh like you expect him to. Instead, he nods down at the half-eaten cake and tilts his head — an unspoken question, is it good?, that only weakens his argument about not being a guard-dog. Between the puppy-dog blue eyes and the yearning for approval, you half expect him to sprout a tail and start panting.

Scratch that last thought, actually. Bucky and panting should not coexist in a sentence together, nevermind in your imagination.

“Mind feeding me a bite?” Yes, actually, you would mind, but one glance at his fingertips stained in whatever-the-hell is going on with your sink leaves you no choice but to tear off a corner.

Bringing the piece of cake to meet his awaiting mouth, you brace yourself for the tentative scrape of teeth stealing it out of your hold. The delicate brush of his lips enveloping your fingers throws you off your axis, and the challenge in his eyes as they hold contact with your own has your thighs involuntarily squeezing themselves together.

For a moment, you swear you catch him glance down at your lips.

Then you remember the health insurance your job provides does not cover the cost of being institutionalised, so you stop hallucinating and come back to reality where Bucky Barnes is not so much a flirt as he is a pest, a stray animal abandoned at your doorstep by a friend who decided to take advantage of your good-natured heart.

“Can you give me the exact phrasing your date used to describe this shotgun-pool?” The soldier is gone in the blink of an eye, flat on his back again and continuing his attempt to seal the leak.

“Why?”

“I’m making this list,” he says, and he must shift his hands higher above his head because suddenly the soft cotton of his white shirt has ridden up his torso, presenting your eyes with a golden platter of sun-warmed skin. “I’m calling it ‘the manchild files’.”

“That’s not even funny,” neither is the way he inches deeper into the cabinet, exposing not only the glaringly white tan-line delineating where the band of his boxers should be resting but also the beginning dark curls of a happy trail. 

“Well ‘the stupid files’ sounds so simple, I was worried you’d try to jump into bed with it.”

“Are you seriously about to slut-shame me in my own fucking kitchen?” Whilst slutting yourself out on my floor like your name is Mike and you’re about to show me some magic? is the quiet part you don’t say aloud.

“I’m critical but I’m not hypocritical,” there he does again with that verbal eye-roll. “I wasn’t exactly the image of celibacy when I was your age-”

“Yay, more grandpa lore!” Your interruption earns you a nudge from his leg, but you know it made him laugh because his shoulders gently shake.

“I’m not slut-shaming you, I’m taste-shaming. I swear, being useless must be the precursor to having a chance with you.”

“It is not!” You gasp, yet you’re hardly surprised — Bucky’s not exactly subtle in his disapproval of the men you date.

If there is anything to be thankful for, it’s the alleviation that comes with Bucky shimmying out from the sink again, happy trail redressed and a hand diving into the pocket of his sweatpants. With a dramatic clearing of his throat, he brings his phone up to his face and starts reciting.

“After being told you have a nut allergy, Carter B. said Wait, like, you’re allergic to cum?” You’d always known showing him how to use the notes app would come back to bite you in the ass somehow. “Tommy L. walked into a lampost because he got distracted… watching a squirrel run up a tree. You almost got stood up by Steve K. because he accidentally locked himself inside his own car. Lee B. asked you-”

“Bucky B. is about to lose his other arm if he doesn’t shut up.”

“I rest my case,” and he still has the nerve to open his mouth, awaiting another bite of cake.

You cave with no fight and give it to him.

Because you’re a nice person, not because you want to feel his mouth on you again.

Something cool drips onto the bottom of your naked thighs after Bucky reaches over you and grabs at the glass of water, stealing an obnoxiously large gulp; or is it just exaggerated by your stare zeroing in on the way his Adam’s apple bobs as he drinks?

A thought pops into your mind.

“Did you leave these on the counter because you expected me to be hungover?” Your tone is inoffensive, and unoffended, a simple curiosity you need answered.

“You have a headache, right?”

“Uh-huh,” your eyes narrow skeptically.

“Yeah, I figured you would,” Bucky takes another sip, more condensation trickling down onto your legs. “You always have one after eating Thai food.”

Something inside of you stops.

Your heart, or your lungs, or your mind. Your goddamn liver, for all you know.

This is not supposed to be happening. Bucky is not supposed to fix things just because you mentioned it, once in passing and as a scapegoat from focusing too much on him. And he certainly isn’t supposed to notice things, useless little factoids that not even you know about yourself until he brings them to light. Hell, he’s not even supposed to still be here, sleeping on your couch and criticising your love life.

When the thing inside of you clicks back into place and starts again, a new weight rests atop your conscience.

Maybe it’s not so bad having a roommate, having Bucky be that roommate. Maybe you’re starting to get used to coming home to the smell of baked vanilla and the signature grouchy look he wears as he asks you about your day, about how your co-worker pissed you off, about why you’re home later than usual and not wearing a jacket out in the cold of winter.

“By the way,” he’s calling out from beneath the sink again. “You’ll be happy to know I’m touring an apartment next week.”

“Oh.” The bite you just took turns sour in your mouth. You struggle to swallow it down. “That’s great. Finally! You’re going, and I’m staying here, and I’ll have my apartment back to myself. That’s… Great. It’s great!”

No, really, it’s great.

“You’re joking,” a palm on your lower back guides you to the right, just in time to avoid being trampled beneath a cart.

“I wish,” you say, and saunter over to some colourful packaging that’s captured your eye.

After a moment of inspecting the product in hand from every angle, you put it back on the shelf.

“Let me get this straight,” Bucky pushes the cart along behind you, grabbing that same colourful packaging and dropping it in with the rest of the groceries. “You lean through his window, kiss him goodbye on the cheek and then he just… What, crashed his car?”

“Into a wall with street art of a cliff painted on it,” as you add the most important detail, laughter is already bubbling up your throat. “He literally crashed his car into a cliff without even getting to switch out of first gear!”

The pair of you make up quite the sight.

An entire morning of tiptoeing through the limbo of delirium, after an entire night spent trying to block out the relentless banging from the upstairs neighbours. The door to your bedroom crawled open some time past four and there was Bucky, head poking through the space and looking rather pleased to find you wide awake — despite his claims of just wanting to make sure you were asleep.

Seated on opposite ends of the couch, both of you found a quiet solace in the other’s inability to sleep. While a movie marathon played over the TV, the sex marathon above continued. When exhaustion took claim of your body, you drifted off with your arms resting on the armchair and your head resting on your arms. You awoke atop a pillow and beneath a blanket, legs stretched out over the couch and Bucky curled up on the floor by your feet — like any good guard dog would be.

After a botched attempt to sneak past the soldier, only to have him scare the living daylights out of you by grabbing your ankle as you tried to step over him, you both came to the shocking realisation that the fridge was void of any food.

Which brings you to here: standing in aisle 7, laughing an ache into your ribs over yet another one of your failed dates, with a half-filled cart and matching bags forming under your tired eyes.

“I think it’s time we had an intervention about where you’re finding these men,” Bucky says that last word like it's covered in poison, burning his tongue on the way out.

“They find me!” You say, as he reaches for the box of strawberries you just put down. “As generous as I am, do you want to maybe slow down on how much shit you load into our cart?”

His hand freezes, the box of red fruit clasped in a confusingly delicate grip of vibranium fingers

“You picked it up,” his tone is riddled with confusion. “Don’t you want them?”

“Contrary to popular belief, I’m not made of money.”

“Okay?” He replies, like it’s the most irrelevant piece of information you’ve ever given him — and you once spent an hour ranting to him about the inefficiency of the ink cartridges in your office’s printer. “I’m paying, so do you want it or not?”

“Since when do you have money? Did your pension finally come through? I mean… You are old enough. Also, aren’t you literally a vet?”

 “You managed to say all that in one breath, yet you failed to answer a yes or no question.”

A bubble of silence surrounds you both. Bucky blinks, slowly, exaggeratedly. It’s the perfect opportunity to stare at his face and notice the five o'clock shadow has grown. A gruff ‘excuse me’, followed by a man shoving between you both to grab some strawberries, pops the bubble.

Without a word, you snatch the box and place it in the cart.

Half-way up the fruit aisle, Bucky gets the genius idea to open his mouth again: “You wanna know what my theory is?”

“Nope,” you say, popping the p and glancing back at him over your shoulder. “But you’re going to tell me anyway.”

He looks vexingly domestic like this, wearing a sweater and pushing your shopping around. Thoughts betray you, wandering off into dangerous territory as they begin to question how others perceive you from the outside.

What do strangers see: two roommates that quarrel like it’s a biological need, or a couple doing their weekly shop? Two strangers forced together by a circumstance named Sam Wilson, or two lovers unwilling to voice that the metal container between them is too much distance?

“I think you date idiots because they’re idiots.”

“Gee whiz, grandpa, that’s so insightful. I sure do hope I’m as wise as you when I’m your age, but I’ll probably just be dead.” You feel the cart meet your back in a gentle bump, a non-verbal warning to cut the teasing.

“Dating those incompetent men, it’s like…” he pauses, searching for the right words, and plucks a bunch of bananas from your hand, dropping them in with your mounting pile of fruit. “Jumping out of a plane! You get the thrill of falling but, the moment something a little too real and solid appears on the horizon, you pull out the parachute and, that’s it, you’re safe. No danger of falling flat on your face and getting your feelings hurt.”

“I don’t know when you last jumped out of a plane-”

“Remember that Karli situation a few months ago?”

“But not ejecting your parachute leads to a little more than just falling flat on your face.”

“So my metaphor isn't perfect,” Bucky trails off, eyes staring past you and mind lost in thought. You follow his line of sight and find a couple at the end of the aisle, hands intertwined and smiling at each other like they’re the only two people in the world. An unnamed emotion tugs at the soldier’s lips, but he won’t let it take over his stoic features. “But you get my point. If you were actually looking for something serious, you’d date someone better than those men.”

Unprompted and unwarranted, his words spear your heart.

Memories replay in your head, a kaleidoscope of the featureless faces you let take you out, dine you, wine you, kiss you. A handful of immeasurables: how many times you’ve brushed off mispronounced versions of your name, how many excuses you’ve made for the way they talk to you, how many times you’ve lowered your own standards to help a man feel desired. In your wake lies a graveyard of failed relationships, with no proper funeral nor mourning.

You swallow back the lump in your throat.

“Okay, psychoanalysing me aside, what’s left on the list?” You ask, making your way round to Bucky’s side of the cart.

“Well, I still need to write down Jeff G.’s cliff accident.”

“The other list.” You watch as he struggles to fish out the scrap of paper from his pocket.

“Eggs, pasta, feta, toilet roll,” his brows are furled, his eyes are glaring, and with each item he lists off, his words grow more unsure. “Grapefruit? Your handwriting is shit.”

“I was in a rush!”

“And sitting on a jack-hammer?”

“Gimme that,” you snatch the list, he yields it with no protest. As you scan over the scribbled ink, a frustrating truth comes to light. Bucky’s right, your handwriting is shit. “Is grapefruit even in season?”

“Huh,” it’s the sound of hollow amusement.

“What?”

“Just…” His presence looms over you, infecting your senses with the woodsy smell of his cologne and the arduous heat that radiates off of him. When he nods his head to the right, scoffing out a laugh and poking his tongue into his cheek, you find yourself wrestling between temptations of slapping him or pulling him closer. “You really don’t notice what’s right in front of you, do you?”

Lo and behold, on the right side of the aisle, grapefruits.

You make it through the rest of the shopping list in relative silence, with the occasional side-comment from the super soldier that either rouses a grin onto your lips or has your eyes rolling in faux disagreement. Little by little, you peruse the aisles and fill the cart; and, when Bucky picks out the only ice cream flavour void of nuts, you bite your tongue and choose to say nothing.

“I forgot to ask,” you finally speak, standing in the self-checkout zone and struggling to find something to do with your fidgety hands as Bucky scans each item — you insisted on helping and he insisted he’d get it done quicker alone. “How did the apartment viewing go?”

“Oh. Fine,” you grimace as he says your least favourite f word. “The current lease isn’t up yet, so you’re stuck with me a little longer.”

Are you supposed to feel this relieved?

In theory, you were never supposed to feel anything in regards to Bucky Barnes. In practice, it’s a lot more complicated, a pendulum that seems to swing in constant motion between red hot aggravation and red hot something else you refuse to give a name.

All you know is there are times where you wonder if his back is okay sleeping on the couch, and you contemplate asking him to come meet you during your lunch breaks, and you crave to have the anxious shake in your leg quelled by his daily check-in calls whenever he and Sam go off on another misadventure. Whatever reason lies behind your behaviour, the familiarity of ignorant bliss tempts you away from seeking the answer.

Besides, Bucky will be leaving soon. He’ll no longer be your roommate and you’ll both fall out of whatever routine convenience has forced upon you both.

A series of beeps capture your attention.

At the epicentre of the noise stands an elderly woman, grey hair pristinely curled and an outfit that screams Sunday-bests, struggling with the check-out machine. With no employee in sight and no do-gooder fellow customer stepping out of their way to help, the woman’s distress grows with each beep the machine makes at her.

Knuckles brush down your arm, and there’s Bucky at your side, waiting for you to pay him any mind.

“You mind handling the rest?” He asks, in that softly-spoken tone of his that would make anyone feel like swooning. Maybe that’s why it takes you a few moments to notice the wallet he’s holding out to you. “Cash is in the back pocket. I’ll be a few minutes, okay? Just finish bagging everything, leave the carrying to me.”

There’s no time to get a single word out before you’re staring at the back of his head and watching as he makes his way over to the elderly woman.

For every item you scan, you sneak a glance. The butter beeps onto the screen, and you peek how Bucky has effortlessly become the woman’s personal helper. You pass the strawberries through and reward yourself with the sight of Bucky’s cheeky grin — with the way the elderly lady laughs and swats at his arm, you can only assume he’s made some flirtatious comment. Clicking on the option to pay cash, you nearly give yourself whiplash as you turn to watch them again, Bucky’s just about finishing bagging her groceries while the woman opens her shopping-trolley bag.

Waiting on the receipt to print, your reflection stares back at you on the self-checkout screen: a hue of endearment glowing off your features. The smile quickly melts off your face when you realise that he… Oh no.

Bucky is charming.

Part of you has always known he was handsome — you’re stubborn, not blind — yet the sight of him now, all dashing smiles and twinkling eyes playing rescuer to a woman who, despite the difference in their physical ageing, is closer to his own age than you, it troubles you. The acid burn in your throat is not a manifestation of jealousy, no; it’s the queasy feeling of knowing you’ve never looked across at a date, caught him in a moment of content, and felt the unyielding desire to be the reason behind it.

Someone clears their throat beside you, a man with a wrinkle in his forehead and an agitated look upon his face, so you quickly excuse yourself and, with plastic handles digging into your fingers, you approach Bucky and the elderly lady.

Upon noticing you, Bucky’s quick to tug the bags out your grip, a scolding already falling off his tongue: “I told you to leave these to me.”

“Yeah, well, Mr. Frowny-Magoo over there didn’t appreciate me hogging up the cashier,” the comment is meant as nothing more than a lighthearted joke, yet you swear you see something shift in the soldier’s stance, his shoulders tensing and his jaw clenching as he glances back at the stranger.

Fortunately, the elderly woman interrupts whatever he’s contemplating doing to him.

“Она твоя жена?(Is she your wife?)” She’s looking between you both expectantly, speaking words you don’t understand. “У нее лицо ангела. (She has the face of an angel.)”

Whatever she says, it clearly has an effect on Bucky. His head turns to the side, to you, and a visible softness overcomes his gaze as it traces over your face. His shoulders are relaxing, his jaw is unclenching, and he’s switching the bags over to his metal hand, renewing his grip and freeing up the hand that now hangs right by yours, knuckles gracing over your own in a way that feels like a dare, a challenge, a temptation to lace your fingers together.

You clench your fist shut.

“Я знаю. (I know.)” He says, eyes lingering on you a few moments longer than necessary, before he’s back to smiling at the elderly woman.

Halfway home and doubling your pace to keep up with his effortless stroll, curiosity finally gets the better of you.

“What did she say back there, that lady you helped?”

A stranger rushes past you both, phone glued to their ear and stressing down the speaker. Bucky takes grip of your arm and tugs you closer to him.

“Do you spend your time getting bumped into when I’m not around?” His fingers give your arm a squeeze before releasing you. “And, if you must know, she said I was the most handsome man she’s ever seen.”

Little force is put behind the shove you give his shoulder.

You’re too busy agonising over how much you agree with her.

Bucky leaves.

Not forever, but three weeks away on some stealth mission with Sam sure begins to feel like it.

It happens on a Friday. After the week from hell at work, a friend’s mid-week engagement party, and the unexpected downpour of rain during the journey home, you walk into an unlit apartment and a note stuck to the fridge.

Sam needs me. Be safe, don’t bring strangers home. B. 

The batch of freshly baked cinnamon rolls sweeten your night up, at least.

There’s a quiet that always seems to blanket the house whenever you lose Bucky to missions.

Before he was dumped on your front door, you’d been used to living alone and the peaceful silence that came with it. Independence, the ability to need no one and want nothing, a trait of yours that once brought pride, now brings you nothing but the static sound of a muted television and the hum of the microwave spinning a meal fit for one.

Mornings become a ritual of waking later yet leaving earlier, no one is there to distract you from drinking your coffee. Though the workload is the same, somehow the slow drag of hours still finds a way to pass quicker than ever, the revolving doors of the office building spit you back out onto the streets of New York before you’re fully ready. Your evenings waste away, starved of noise and company, while you run out of shows to watch and books to read, and count the hours down until all that silence becomes necessary for your eyes to close and your mind to rest.

It’s when darkness rules over the sky and the hour is a single digit that the phone finally rings. A blocked number, untraceable, pulling you out the hands of sleep and filling your room with the noise of your ringtone. He never speaks first, not until there’s an echo down the line of your own sleep stained ‘hello?’.

“You can go back to sleep now.”

You never stay on the line long enough to find out how quickly he hangs up after he speaks. Because it’s only ever meant to be a way to let you know he’s safe, alive, somewhere out there doing who-knows-what and stopping who-knows-who. It’s just an unrequested favour he’s granted you, after the incident in which both he and Sam fell-off the grid for five days and you were nearly rounding up a search party. He’s not missed a call since, once a day while he’s away.

So, when he doesn’t call, it’s only natural that you worry.

The alarm bell rings when you wake up to birds chirping, sun spilling through the crack between the curtains, and not a single missed call nor voicemail awaiting you.

It’s Saturday and there’s no work to occupy your mind, so you force down a bagel, toss a tote bag onto your shoulder, and head out to the local market. But there’s no joy in perusing fruit stands without a six foot soldier trailing your heels and muttering to himself about how exotic fruit has gotten, and how ‘back in my day you had your apples, your oranges, and your pears.’

You wind up home by noon, and the dwelling begins to grow, still no call.

There’s a weight on your chest, and a balloon of anxiety that grows in your throat, and an unwarranted agitation burning at your skin as you read over his note again, still very much stuck to the fridge and taunting you — Be safe, says a man who clearly can’t take his own advice. 

Then, why should you?

You agree to go on a date, one you’ve been dancing around agreeing to for a few weeks yet reach for it the moment you decide you’re not pleased with the way Bucky’s lack of a call is ruining your well-earned free time.

And, hey, the guy’s not a complete loser this time. On paper, at least. He’s handsome, tall, and an athlete — ex-athlete, really, but you don’t bother to point that out while he talks about the gymnastic studio he runs. Most importantly, he’s eager to call a cab and get you home, screw Bucky’s warning. If you want to bring a stranger into your home, you’ll do it. 

Brooding, uncalling soldier be damned!

After stumbling through the dark of your apartment into your bedroom, and fumbling with your bra long enough for you to grow tired and just take it off yourself, you and Mister Gymnast tumble into the sheets for a performance so lacklustre, it warrants taking all his medals away. At least your date seems to enjoy himself, spilling onto your stomach and falling asleep the minute his head hits the pillows.

“I finished,” last you checked, he hadn't even started.

You lie awake, staring at the ceiling, and try to will the phone to ring. Encased by a stranger’s snoring and a guilty feeling, you let Lady Sleep whisk you away. When your eyes open next, morning has broken and you’re alone in bed with a remnant trace of warmth on the sheets. But the silence is finally gone.

Beyond your door you hear the faint thud of footsteps, the ding of the fridge being opened, the whistle of the kettle. You almost trip in your rush to get dressed, and nearly rip the hinges off the door as you tear it open. Then the smile falls from your face.

“You’re up!” Everyone’s favourite gymnast is there to greet you, a mug in hand as he goes to pull you in for a kiss. The way you swerve is automatic, unplanned, leaving his lips to land on your cheek. “Uhh, I was hoping you’d sleep a little longer, I wanted to bring you breakfast in bed but-”

“He couldn’t figure out how to boil the kettle.”

And there’s Bucky, leaning back against the kitchen counter with his arms crossed over his chest and a smug look on his face. Aside from the butterfly stitches above his left brow, he looks unharmed. Fine, even. Dressed in all black, with a t-shirt that’s hugging his frame a little too tightly for your liking, the double-combo of his dog-tags and vibranium arm on display. Perfectly safe for a man who couldn’t call.

Your date laughs and sheepishly scratches the back of his head before you get the chance to speak.

“Your brother was kind enough to help me.” It’s unclear who laughs first: Bucky or you. “What’s so funny?”

“Oh, nothing, nothing, just…” Bucky says, shaking the laughter away with a nod of his head. “In what world do me and her look related?”

“Wait, if you’re not her brother then, are you-” Fifty shades of horror spill over the gymnast’s face, his head darting between looking over at Bucky and back at you. “Holy shit, is he your boyfriend?”

“Husband, actually,” the soldier’s all too quick-witted, pushing off the counter and reaching for a mug of brewing coffee. “But don’t worry, we’re open. What do you think of our kitchen lights, by the way? My wife here likes them dim.”

Dumb as he is, your date tilts his head up to inspect the light fixtures.

“Oh, they’re nice!”

That does it for you.

“Bucky, shut up!” You snap, finger pointed over at the menace who’s biting back a smirk and stirring away at his mug, face as innocent as sin. Is this some twisted version of revenge, a punishment for bringing a stranger home? You’d prefer the punishment to be a little more… hands on. Preferably in the form of your slapping that twinkle out of his eyes. “He is not my boyfriend, or my husband. He is the bum that lives on my couch.”

“You see how she treats me, Vince?”

“It’s Lance,” the gymna- Lance corrects him.

Moving towards the kitchen, your eyes check over your roommate once more, as though they expect some previously unseen injury to make an appearance on his skin. Come the end of your search, you’re left looking into a face that is sporting a split brow and a cruel level of entertainment from the situation at hand.

There’s a relief to having him back, and it’s wrestling with the exasperating emotions a single missed call conjured up.

“What are you doing here, anyway? Aren’t you and Sam still meant to be… I don’t know, on a homoerotic getaway, fighting crime?” The questions fire out of you as you slip into one of the island’s stools.

“We finished early,” Bucky appears by your side as though from thin air, hand clasping the back of your seat and pushing you in closer to the counter top.

“Aww, don’t worry, big boy, it happens to the best of you,” you tease, an empathetic pat against his shoulder.

The mockery backfires when you notice his brows shoot up and his stare shifts towards your date, who’s too busy trying to open the sugar jar to notice the dig at his own sexual inabilities.

Wait, when exactly did Bucky get home?

“How do you take your coffee?” One-Thrust-Lance asks you over his shoulder.

Before you can answer, a cup is nudged into your grasp and Bucky looks over you with triumph, metal fingers reaching out to drag over a plate of freshly-baked cookies. The smell of warm vanilla pairs well with the soft musk of his cologne, your eyes nearly roll back inhaling it.

“Mmm,” one sip of your coffee is all you need to know it’s perfect, made exactly to your taste. “Coffee and baked goods… I knew I kept you around for a reason.”

In lieu of any verbal response, the soldier takes to dunking one of the cookies into your mug before stealing a bite out of it. You watch as he chews on the sweet treat, head nodding in approval at his own skills. After he dips a second time, you expect him to take another bite, only to find him offering the chocolate chip goodness up to your mouth. Two eyes, blue as any winter, stare encouragingly while you sink your teeth into the cookie.

Heaven couldn’t taste any sweeter, you think, as the perfect blend of coffee stained dough and the sharpness of the dark chips flood your tastebuds. 

“So messy,” Bucky tuts quietly, his right hand grabbing a steady hold of your chin while his thumb swipes away the crumbs dusting the corner of your mouth.

That thing inside of you stops again as you watch him bring his hand up to his own mouth, a pink tongue poking out to lick his thumb clean.

Arousal thrums through your blood, a pulsing rhythm that spreads straight to your clit. A squeeze of your thighs brings momentary reprieve, yet the ache fights back with renewed force, drying up your throat and knocking the sense right out of you.

Squirming where you sit, your legs switch position until one foot finds itself tucked beneath the opposite thigh, the heel of it sitting perfectly against your clothed core. You find no mercy, no chance to roll your hips forward in search of the balm only friction will bring to your burning skin. Instead there’s simply Bucky, eyes trailing down the length of you and settling on your short-clad legs. As though his behaviour is not cruel enough, he wets his bottom lip with his tongue

“You like that?” More than you’ll ever know, you almost scream until the logical side of your brain takes the wheel again and you notice him pointing down at the half-eaten cookie. Of course he’s enquiring about his baking skills, what else would this scrambled-egg-for-brains senior citizen be talking about? “Are you gonna make me wait all day for an answer?”

Something smashes behind Bucky, just in time to startle away the racy thoughts from your mind.

“My bad!” Your date — who you damn near forgot was even here — is apologising, bending at the waist and trying his best to collect the fractured pieces of a mug off the floor. “Where do you guys keep your dustpan?” 

Bucky pushes away from the island counter, taking the smell of his cologne with him; if you weren’t fully back to your rational senses, you’d miss it.

“I’ll get it, Vince, you just stand there and look pretty.”

“Okay!” Lance, it seems, is just as eager to please the ex-assassin as you almost were a moment ago.

You decide you need to move, to stand up, to stretch your legs. This has nothing to do with the lingering effect of Bucky’s antics, nor the damp patch gathering against your panties.

Slipping off the kitchen stool, you work on chugging down gulps of coffee with every intention of dumping the empty mug into the sink, dashing to your bedroom, and conjuring up the best plan you can come up with to get not only yourself, but also the trash you brought in with you last night out of the apartment and away from an infuriating roommate.

Something on the floor derails you, however, dragging you away from the path to sanctuary. The tiniest red petal, lonesome and neglected upon the cold tile. Three steps over, and there’s another petal. One step until the next petal. You follow the breadcrumb trail all the way over to the garbage can where, with one gentle push of a button, the lid opens up to reveal the unexpected, thrown away like a dirty secret.

A crumpled bouquet of roses.

Everywhere you turn, there’s tension.

In your neck, from sleeping at an unfavourable angle. Within your stomach, where a queasy feeling keeps threatening to spew your guts out onto the bathroom floor. Between you and Bucky, a foreign energy that’s grown over the course of this last week, during which you’ve been avoiding eye contact and his stare is full of accusation.

Retracing your steps, they take you back to the moment Lance left the apartment and you found yourself drowning in Bucky’s company for the first time in weeks. He was barely half-way through poking fun at the choices you made in his absence — most of his focus being on the blubbering fool you brought into your bed — when your patience ran thin and snapped.

Now here you are, bearing the consequence of your own short temper, wiping lipstick off your teeth whilst mentally preparing yourself to go on a second date, planned sheerly out of spite and the need to prove a point.

Poor Lance is none the wiser to his role as pawn in your game of ‘Screw You, Barnes!’.

“Everything okay in there?” Think of the devil and he shall knock on the bathroom door, apparently. “Thought you had your big date at seven.”

The gymnast’s text thread stares back at you, a wall of grey bubbles. You have to swallow down the lump in your throat to speak, “He’s not answering my calls.”

“You’ve been stood up? By that loser?” There’s every chance your storm of emotions is impeding you from thinking straight, but you swear you almost hear a hint of disbelief in Bucky’s voice. Disgust, even.

There’s no point dwelling on the thought.

After a quick wash of your hands, you pry the door open and watch as the soldier leaning against it nearly topples forward before catching himself against the frame. He’s entirely too close for comfort, close enough for you to notice the different shades of blue in his eyes.

“Maybe he broke his phone?” The lack of assurance in your voice has you cringing, the fear of being called out suddenly doubling.

Bucky scoffs, arms crossing over his chest.

“More likely he forgot to charge it.”

Is that what happened to him? Is that why he left you to dwell in the dark over his whereabouts and wellbeing, rendering the usual distraction of a night-time companion useless? Only for you to find him the following morning, right as rain and as annoying as ever, standing in the kitchen and casting judgement-filled glances at your overnight guest?

Thinking about it, about him, brings on an onslaught of anger you’re not willing to address. Not right now.

“Shut up!” It comes across as less independent girlboss and more petulant child, but you’re too busy noticing how firm his chest feels under your palms as you push past him out of the bathroom to care.

Prying open the freezer, you hear the soft click of the toilet door closing. Good, you think, he’s gone away. Out of sight, out of mind. Even if it is only for the short time it takes him to do his business.

That time ends up being even shorter than expected, for only minutes after you’ve dug your spoon into the creamy, frozen goodness of vanilla fudge, the object of both your fascination and your torture is making his way towards the kitchen.

“Didn’t I tell you to stop eating my ice cream?”

“Didn’t I tell you to move out?” Mouth full of vanilla, you shoot him a toothy grin and relish in the grimace it earns you.

Satisfaction melts away when Bucky invades your personal space, metal arm reaching over head and pulling open a cupboard.

“Don’t do that,” you swat at the vibranium bicep, a futile fight that simply makes you all too aware of how smooth it feels beneath your fingertips.

“Do what?” Brain of a caveman, Bucky continues his rustling through the cabinet behind you, features as stoic as a rock as though he’s none the wiser to how your chests brush against one another with each exhale.

“That,” another swat at his arm, though this time he yields. The space between you doesn’t grow, however. It worsens, his attention fully falling onto you now. “Reaching over me like you can’t just ask me to move.”

“Fine, if it really bothers you that much,” are the last words you hear before you’re airborne, two hands squeezing at your hips and moving you two steps over and out of the way.

The soldier doesn’t struggle, not even for a moment, the serum that’s altered his DNA leaving him primed and ready to manoeuvre the most steadfast of objects. Manhandle them, too. Pick them up, turn them over, pin them down, make them scream… Objects, of course, or those big, bad guys he and Sam are always chasing after.

The anger in you is renewed, burning brighter than a star ready to die. You shove his hands off of you and secure another step of distance between you.

“Well aren’t you a ray of sunshine today.” With the rate he’s going at, one would think the soldier makes a living out of deepening the frown on your face. “Is this princess’ first time being stood up?”

You’d slap him, right here and now, if it didn’t mean moving closer and touching his skin; the current top two of your ‘Things To Not Do’ list.

Luckily, the tub of ice cream sits just within reach and your eager fingers take grip of it, sliding it over the counter towards yourself. A mouthful of coolness precedes the burning question on your tongue, “Why didn’t you call?”

“Are you serious?” Now he’s the one scowling and taking a step closer.

“Deadly,” you dig the spoon back into the carton. “Now answer the question.”

“You’re pissy with me for not calling, meanwhile I’m the one who came home to some asshole in your bed?”

He’s moving closer. You try to step backwards.

“Yeah, well, if you’d called like you were supposed to, I wouldn’t have ended up with said asshole.”

Bucky’s eyes narrow, “Oh, so now it’s my fault that you date degenerates?”

The cackle that escapes you could break the soundbarrier.

“Wow! Everybody, give it up for another original dig at my love-life from James Buchanan Barnes!” Voice dripping with seven layers of venomous sarcasm, you give three slow claps of your hands. The cynical smile that overcomes your face feels borderline deranged, something plucked right out of a horror movie. “Okay, yeah, I date losers! Happy? Jesus Christ, Bucky, what do you expect me to do? It’s not exactly like there’s anyone else lining up to date me.”

“I am!” His voice is raised, his eyes are wide, his chest is heaving. “Maybe I’m the biggest idiot, rushing home last week to surprise you. Even brought you flowers.  I just… Fuck!”

You don’t move, don’t blink, don’t breathe.

Bucky runs a hand through his hair, knuckles going white as he pulls on the tresses.

There it is again in his eyes, the accusation.

Even though he’s shaking his head, he steps closer.

The kitchen counter is right behind you, there’s nowhere for you to run.

The heels on your feet almost give out beneath you, you try to steady yourself with your hands.

Bucky has other plans and grips both your forearms.

“I am,” he repeats, softer. Slower. The icy exterior of accusation melts away to reveal vulnerability.

A hand meets your cheek and holds you like you are glass, breakable beneath his touch. Your heart’s in your throat, and there’s a current of electricity running down to your toes, and that neglected hunger in your loins creeps in again. His eyes search your face, while his thumb gently swipes over your bottom lip, prying it out an involuntary capture from your teeth.

It’s unclear who reaches for who first, whether he dips and takes possession of your mouth, or you grab him by the collar of his shirt and lay your claim over him. In a matter of seconds, a tentative press of lips against lips divulges into loss of breath, tongues in mouths, and fevered kisses.

The soldier kisses with starvation, like he has walked through the desert of loneliness and at last stumbled upon an oasis, like a bee seeking every last drop of nectar from a flower dying off with the spring, like a body clings to sleep in the throes of exhaustion. It’s a necessity, a human need, a matter of survival to keep your lips interlocked.

The hand on your face holds you steady as he tilts himself deeper into the kiss. Noses brush against the swells of cheeks, eyelids rest close, feet shuffle closer in search of eradicating the crevice of distance between you two. Metal fingers curl around the nape of your neck, a gesture you reciprocate while your spare hand lays flat-palmed against his beating chest. One of his legs winds up between yours and, as he shifts weight from one foot to another, there’s the faintest relief of friction against your cunt and a whine gets caught between your throat and Bucky’s eager mouth.

Despite how you chase his lips, he pulls back and grants you the sight of pure endearment.

“Look at you, whining already. Where’s all that fire gone?” It’s practically a whisper, spoken with fascination. “Or were you just needing Old Bucky to touch you, huh?”

Second-hand embarrassment burns the tips of your ears, while your own unspoken agreement to his question has your stomach twisting up. Survival instincts, that have never been much of a friend, scream at you to flee this feeling, to throw away Pandora’s box before you risk fully opening it and having it consume you.

Bucky intercepts your attempt to push out of his arms.

“Ah, ah, get back here. Not done kissing you,” his words divulge into a barely coherent mumble as he reconnects your lips.

Beneath the heat of his kiss, the discomfort in your chest turns to ashes. Because, while instinct tells you to run from danger, this is Bucky.

Bucky who fixes cupboard hinges, and sleeps with both eyes on the door. Bucky who carries all the shopping, and holds every door. Bucky who calls to hear your voice while he’s away endangering his life, and brings home the silliest trinkets he finds on missions. Bucky who wakes you when you miss your alarm, and knows if you’ve had a bad day simply from looking at your face.

How could you possibly be in danger when it comes to him?

While you’re overcome with epiphany, he’s taken to tracing his lips over the slope of your jaw and mouthing at the skin of your neck. It’s when he lifts you up onto the kitchen counter that your wandering mind is reeled back in, to the physical present where your legs rest on either side of the soldier and the prized possession of vanilla fudge once again sits within reaching distance.

“Are you stealing my ice cream right now?” His lips tickle your collarbone as he speaks, barely  a moment after you’ve scooped the spoon into your mouth.

“I’m warm, and it's melting,” his head pops up just in time to accept the spoonful of vanilla you deliver. There’s a glow in his eyes, one that has you questioning if it's been there all along or if it's a consequence of touching your skin. “Don’t want it to go to waste.”

His mouth is on yours again, a rush of three chaste kisses seared against you before he replies, “Then let’s cool you down.”

At a teasingly slow pace, you feel his fingers tug down your dress’ straps, leaving the silky fabric to slip down your frame and pool around your hips. Under the golden hue of the kitchen lights, his gaze studies your bare skin like it's a work of art, an eighth wonder of the world, the greatest poem never written woven into it. Yet it still manages to pale against the face that overcomes him as he removes a final layer of lace.

Unlike Vince, he has no trouble removing your bra.

“So responsive,” he talks as though only his ears are meant to hear it, his vibranium palm gently taking hold of your left breast and rolling the hardening nipple between two fingers. 

He’s studying your reaction, bewildered by the goosebumps spreading over your flesh.

When was the last time he truly touched another person? Weeks, months, years, decades? The thought of his hands on a faceless shape makes you sick. First with envy, and then with hypocrisy, an amalgamation of all the men you’ve taken to bed flashing before your eyes. But none of them ever touched you like you were porcelain, and none of them looked at you like you held the key to eternal pleasure. None of them were Bucky.

A chill runs down your spine and a gasp rips out your chest as Bucky swipes the spoon over your skin, leaving a trail of ice cream atop your right breast for his tongue to follow. He plants a garden of kisses along the swell of your chest before pulling away to give the left side equal treatment, another creamy river along your skin for him to clean up.

Moving at their own volition, your hips grind gently against his steady figure as Bucky coats your nipple in vanilla, moaning into your chest as he lays claim over you with his mouth. Spoiling you in his kisses, the soldier begins to yearn for friction, meeting the careful roll of your hips with his own.

Your hand finds his hair and his stare meets yours, intense and all-consuming as he releases your nipple with a scrape of his teeth. You want to soothe his kiss-swollen lips but they’re already wrapping themselves around your other breast, not even patient enough to lather you in the vanilla goodness this time.

Instead, the coldness on your skin stems from metal fingers, perched on your thigh and creeping up the length of it, inch by tormenting inch. A hesitant hand wraps around a vibranium wrist, tightening its grip before you begin guiding his touch inwards, upwards, to where you need it most. Bucky's stronger, more resistant, and holds off your interceptance, left hand continuing its intended path beneath the skirt of your dress and grabbing hold of your naked waist.

He’s everywhere, all over you. Mouthing at your chest, gripping at your hip, rutting into your pussy. The sweet drag of his bulge over your clothed core sires a wet patch against your thong and has your fingers tugging on the roots of his hair, winning you the hair-raising hum of a groan against your breast.

Desperate to feel more, you renew your efforts to lead his hand to the space between your legs and are met with a shake of his head.

“No,” he mutters, and robs you of a hand beneath your dress, using it instead to cradle your jaw while his lips skim over the shell of your ear. “Wanna feel you.”

The warmth of flesh brands your thigh, Bucky’s right arm now leading the charge beneath the silky fabric. With bated breath, you brace yourself against his strong chest and try not to squirm in anticipation of his touch. With one final squeeze at your inner thigh, the soldier’s hand engulfs your clothed cunt and his breath cracks in your ear, a strangled out, feral noise that has your toes curling.

“She’s so wet, darling,” his voice has you delirious, breathy against your ear. His fingers flex against your pussy and a moan catches in your throat. “You gonna let me touch her?”

Something about the way he’s speaking to you, the words he’s choosing, makes you want to fall apart. Your sex-life has always been liberal, you know what it is to have a man’s hands all over you, trying to take ownership of parts of you he thinks belong to him. Men who take, and take, and take, until there is nothing left of you to give, and not once do they care to win your favour, to plead for permission. But Bucky…

“Please, say I can touch her, wanna give her what she needs,” he’s pleading for it, begging for you — wrecked and desperate, breath run ragged from no more than the relief of rolling his groin against your thigh. “Promise I’ll be real sweat, make you feel good.”

Too caught up in his own head, he doesn’t notice you nodding, until you’re granting him salvation verbally, “Touch me, Bucky.”

He doesn’t hesitate, doesn’t waste time on taking off your underwear, just moves it to the side and drags the tip of his fingers down the inseam of your pussy. You hear it, more than you feel it, the moment he touches your opening, a sharp inhale at your ear telling you he’s exactly where he wants to be.

As his middle finger slips in, it’s hard to tell which of you reacts louder, both a mess of guttural moans. Once it's fully sheathed within you, he curls it and presses against your soaked walls, grinning against your skin at the reaction it coaxes out of you.

“Don’t hold back,” he chastises you as you bite back another pathetic whimper, a second finger slipping into you. “Let me hear what I’m doing to you.”

He must have a magic touch, you’re sure of it. Thick fingers that fuck into you at a steady pace, curling and teasing at that world-bending spot inside you, while his thumb makes itself useful against your clit, a firm force for your bucking hips to grind up into while you chase the pleasure he’s unleashing on you. In a matter of minutes, the room is alive with your melodic moans, Bucky’s endless hums of approval, and the damn-right embarrassingly loud squelch of him fingering your drooling cunt.

You make the mistake of letting your eyes slip shut, relinquishing yourself to the way he touches you with the rough hands of a soldier yet the delicate stroke of a musician playing his favourite instrument. He must feel the shift in you, for he’s instantly prying his face away from your neck and tightening the metal grip on your jaw, fingertips digging into squished cheeks.

“Look at me,” his words are both a command and a plea. An order you follow and a prayer you answer, eyelashes fluttering open to find his face in front of your own. His lips are a hard line, his brows furrowed in disapproval, and there’s a vein threatening to split down the middle of his forehead, but his eyes. His eyes are affection incarnate, two pools of lust and worship that pose no threat of drowning. “Do you want to cum?”

Never has a more needless question been asked. 

You nod into the force of his vibranium hand, but that’s not what he wants, frown deepening.

“Say it,” needy, helpless, spoken like he’s the one on the brink of ecstasy. “Please.”

“Bucky,” it feels good to say his name like this, brain melting into mush and heart racing in your chest. “I want you to let me cum.”

“Let you?” He’s offended by the word, fingers burying impossibly deeper inside of you while he continues to stare you down. “I beg of you.”

No warning precedes the coil in you snapping. The muscles in your core tense, your back arches into his broad figure, your pussy squeezes at Bucky’s fingers with a death grip. He guides you through it, ignoring the cramp in his wrist in favour of continuing to fuck his hand into you, a smile finally cracking over his face as he watches you fall apart atop the counter, nothing but Bucky, Bucky, Bucky surrounding you.

He tries to give you reprieve, a moment to breathe and savour the buzz in your veins, the hand around your jaw shifting to stroke at your cheek while the hand between your legs soothes you with featherlight touches.

You don’t let him, hand pawing down his torso and gripping at the belt of his jeans, delighting in the familiar clang of a buckle being undone, nimble digits that tear leather out its loop and tug down his zipper. Bucky’s bringing his lips back against yours just as you palm at his bulge, his tongue licking into your mouth when you finally release him from the confines of his boxers.

Fingers coated in your own slick grip at your thigh while the soldier makes it his mission to steal your breath, rendering you blind to the sight of his cock. But you can feel it. The weight of it in your hand, the burn of want ingrained in his skin. The width of it, and the length of it, and the perfectly mushroomed tip that has him keening into your touch as your pointer finger drags over the head.

“Is this what I do to you?” Still lost in the maze of your orgasm, you manage to gain back crumbs of your usual confidence watching Bucky fall mute. When he merely nods, you play him at his own game, fingers back in his hair and forcing him to look you in the eye. “Say it.”

He doesn’t.

He says something much better.

“D’you even realise how many nights I’ve laid on that fucking couch, hard as a rock and willing you to come out your room?”

“That’s your generation's problem, you know?” You whisper teasingly, incapable of fighting off your own laughter. “You swear more than you breathe.”

“C’mere,” he’s rolling his eyes and pulling you in, kissing you like it’s been a milenia and not a minute, hand nudging yours out the way to take a hold of himself.

Your teeth graze over his tongue as he drags the head of his cock through your folds, and he groans into your mouth before pulling back. Resting his forehead against yours, he’s teasing you both as his tip brushes over your hole before continuing its rutt up, bumping against your sensitive clit.

A wicked voice takes control of your mouth.

“Lance would have fucked me by now.”

“Vince would have cum by now, too,” he’s still rocking his hips, no sense of urgency behind the way he soaks himself in you.

Meanwhile, you’re a handful of seconds away from screaming at him to just stick it in already.

“You- Oh!” Prayers answered, hallelujah, his cock finally sinks into you. It’s a shallow thrust, barely more than the tip before he’s retreating, yet it's enough to mess with your head. “You heard us?”

“Unfortunately,” and he means it, the most subtle of pouts forming on his lips before he feeds himself a little deeper into your pussy. “I’m not great when it comes to timing.”

“I only slept with Lance because you-” Right on cue, he fucks into you even deeper and your words dissappear before they can reach your tongue.

“New rule,” a hand rests on your knee and encourages you to spread your legs wider. “No speaking another man’s name when you’re in bed with me.”

“Technically, this is the kitchen counter-” The bastard does it again, cuts you off with his dick — if it didn’t feel so damn good, you’d slap him.

He’s bottomed out at last, buried himself fully in your cunt. Hands snake around your waist, one palm flattening against your lower back while the other rests a little further up and guides your spine to arch into him, closer, like there’s anymore space left between you to devour.

His pace is still slow, teasing. A toe-curling drag of his cock out of you, letting you feel every ridge and vein before his hips promptly snap back into you and send your eyes rolling back, your head falling back — and smacking loudly against the cupboard door behind you.

Bucky freezes, one hand quick to cradle the back of your skull while his eyes scan over you.

“Jesus, doll, you okay?” 

“Please don’t stop,” you plead, ridiculously unfazed by the faint ache when you’ve got him inside of you.

Even though he rolls his eyes, he complies.

“Might have just given you a concussion and all you care about is getting fucked?” He asks, like you could possibly care about anything else when his arms are hooking themselves under your knees and rucking you up off the counter, away from any rogue cupboard that means you harm.

If anything, you’ll gladly shoulder the burden of any possible injury, if it means being granted the sight of his biceps tensing as he effortlessly stands there and fucks you down onto him. Were you in any sane state of mind, you wouldn’t think it, but god bless that super soldier serum.

“You can give me a cockcussion for all I care,” head perched on his shoulder, you watch your nails sink into the fabric of his shirt and wish it would disappear and gift you the naked view of his back.

“Adding that to the list,” he whispers against your forehead, pressing a kiss against it.

Legs bent at the knee, you watch how, with one particularly deep thrust, they bounce at either side of him and one of your heels clatters to the floor.

The room pivots as Bucky turns, you still in his arms and your ankles locked behind his back. At first, you believe he’s aiming to move things into the bedroom, where the only thing your head will be hitting is the mattress when he lays you down. He proves you wrong, however, the cold press of marble against you once more as he settles you down onto the kitchen island.

Much to your chagrin, he slips out of you, cock now sitting pretty against his clothed abdomen and glistening with the sheen of your essence. In the blink of an eye, the soldier is sinking to his knees, metal finger reaching back for your fallen shoe.

The scene plays out like something stripped right out of a morally dubious, low quality pornography retelling of Cinderella, in which Prince Charming has his dick out, Cinderella’s gown is half-way off, and the infamous glass slipper is just a pair of heels you bought on sale.

Bucky is delicate and slow, mouth tickling at your inner knee as he secures the shoe in place. He rests back on his haunches and fully takes in the sight of you, perched upon the counter, hands splayed out on marble, a tangle of silk around your waist, lips parted in search of steady breathing.

There’s an intensity to his gaze, burrowing itself beneath your skin and becoming part of your bloodstream, spreading throughout your body. It makes you want to hide, flee like you do best, but Bucky has other plans.

“The shoes stay on, but this,” Bucky’s fingertips tug lightly on the hem of your dress, exposing a sliver of new skin. “I need this gone. Am I allowed to take it off?”

There he goes again, face the model of innocence while he asks for permission to your body. If you weren’t already dripping against your panties, you would be now. Luckily, he doesn’t push you to verbalise your agreement this time, more than eager to comply the moment you nod your head.

You wiggle your hips as he pulls the fabric out from beneath you, his grip snagging on the waistband of your thong and dragging it away alongside the dress. When your ass cheeks press back down onto the cool of the counter, reality hits you like a freight-train: you’re completely nude, with Bucky on his knees before you, in the middle of the kitchen.

“Buck,” the y of his nickname disappears as you feel him peppering kisses of your leg, inching that little bit higher each press of his mouth. Squeezing your eyes shut, you try to remember where your rational thoughts are stored, conjuring up images of friends, of Sam sitting at this very surface. “I don’t think we should… I mean, people eat off this counter!”

“Don’t worry,” reaching the threshold of your thigh, his kisses seem to speed up, that sauve and composed exterior chipping away to reveal a man who no longer wants to take his time with you. “I intend to eat.”

No sooner than the words reach your ears, Bucky swipes his tongue up your pussy and any fight left in you melts away as you turn to putty beneath his touch, soft and malleable, willing to sit there and take whatever he wants to give.

Give, he most certainly does. Lips latch onto your clit, hands hold your squirming hips in place, tongue dances over your most delicate areas before dipping into your entrance. He drinks from you like you’re the sweetest honey, the richest of red wines, the Holy Grail promising an eternal youth to a man whose time was stolen from him.

“You should see her, doll,” there’s a rasp in Bucky’s voice, a feral undertone to the growl that rests in the back of his throat. One hand tugs his shirt off while the other snakes between your legs, two fingers spreading your lips open in an obscene gesture that has you clamping down on your bottom lip. “She’s drooling for me, all pretty and wet.”

Dropping both your legs over his shoulders, he tugs you right to the edge of the counter and dives back in. You feel his nose bump against your clit and your hand grabs onto your thigh, nails piercing into flesh as your mouth sings a whined symphony.

Vibranium curls around your wrist, prying harm away from your own skin and silently imploring you to hurt him instead, nestling your fingers back into his hair. He’s renewing his effort, a touch that’s more determined than ever to make you fall apart, on his knees and worshipping the altar of your body — fealty and devotion seared into each lap of his tongue, each brush of his lips, each stroke of his fingers.

Who are you to reject his piety? You welcome it, with closed fist and glassy eyes. The soldier shudders — a full-body shiver that shakes down his spine — as the point of your heel digs into his back and your fingers squeeze at his scalp, no mercy shown as you lose yourself in the throes of lust.

When you cum, a silent scream rips through your chest and a burning-too-bright white light turns you blind. He doesn’t let up, tongue still buried in your convulsing walls as your thighs clamp around his head and your feet kick at his back, shoes flying elsewhere into the kitchen. He pays none of it any mind, content to prolong your orgasm for as long as you’ll allow him, slowly rising off his knees with two hands pinning you back against the counter while he continues to feast on your pleasure.

“Ja-mes,” a fractured call of his name is all it takes for him to stop, pupils more black than blue as they stare down at the picture you paint atop the counter: teary-eyes, swollen lips, heaving chest.

He’s hardly the image of composure either, red lines along the expanse of his back, hair a tousled mess, the scruff on his face covered in a sheen of your juices. And, yet, never have you wanted to kiss him so bad.

All you manage, after minutes of floating atop the cloud of your peak, is a cheeky grin and a comment that makes him roll his eyes: “For a fossil, you’re pretty kinky.”

“War camps aren’t exactly known for being fun,” as he speaks, he slowly lowers your legs off his shoulder. “You find ways to keep yourself entertained.”

“Bet you were quite the pleaser, huh?” Trying your best to play it cool, you lay your head fully back on the counter and stare up  at the ceiling, praying he doesn’t notice the hypocritical pit forming in your stomach as you listen to your own words. “Probably had all the prettiest nurses fighting over who gets to tend to your poor, aching, throbbing co-”

“Jealousy looks cute on you,” he interrupts, amused, as his hands soothe over your hips.

“I’m not jealous!” You exclaim, barely believing yourself.

One hand reaching out for him, you watch your fingers intertwine with the prosthetic digits and let him tug you back up, chest to chest when his hand finds your cheek.

“I was,” his confession is crooned whilst staring right into your eyes, the tiniest up-turn to his mouth. “Everytime you walked out the door to go date a new loser.”

“Who knew,” your voice is as gentle as his own, nonchalant as a finger dances down the well-defined muscles of his abdomen and elicits a groan out of him. “All along I had my own loser at home.”

Bucky opts for silence as your hand reaches his groin and pays no mind to his cock, red-tipped and leaking, flushed against his stomach. You’re more interested in his jeans — in removing them, to be exact. It doesn’t take much, a sharp tug at the hem before they’re slipping off, meeting restraint as they cling to his muscled thighs and implore him to finish the job on your behalf, shucking them off blindly to where the rest of your clothes lie.

You must have saved a village in a past life to be rewarded with the view of a completely nude Bucky Barnes, skin stained by lust and laced with gold beneath the kitchen light. You must have saved the rest of the world, too, to watch how his eyes roll back and his mouth falls slack when you take his length in hand and give one slow pump of your wrist, releasing it just to watch it slap back against his abdomen.

As you reach for his dick again, his hand secures itself around your own and guides it up and down the length of it. Once, twice, thrice, till he’s breathing heavily and dripping in pre-cum.

“You must be close,” a statement you make with his own bodily reaction as evidence to back it up, yet there’s still room for doubt — to what extent does that soldier serum interfere with him?

“Put me back down on my knees and I’ll cum to the taste of you,” the soldier certainly makes a tempting offer, one that it almost pains you to refuse.

Almost, if you hadn’t already felt the sweet stretch of him inside you.

“Pretty sure putting you back down on your knees might be considered elder abuse, ole buddy.”

“My age may be a hundred and six but-”

“Exactly my point.”

“But my body isn’t,” he’s using that stare of his, the one Sam always warns you about, while  you’re full-on cheesing, a rush of adrenaline shooting through your veins as you wind him up.

“Remind me, who threw their back out a few weeks ago pulling a tray of muffins out the oven?”

His flesh hand grips behind one of your knees and tugs you right to the edge of the counter, while his left one, still clasped over your own, drags his tip over your folds.

“I don’t remember hearing you complain when you drunkenly ate half the tray and then threw up over the rest,” admittedly, not one of your proudest moments.

“Shut up and fuck me, Barnes.”

“Yes ma’am.”

Just like that, you’re drowning in him again, gasping for breath as you lose yourself in a flood of lust. Bottomed out, stuffing you full, Bucky barely graces your pussy with the chance to adjust to his stretch once more before he’s moving, the sweet graze of every inch being dragged along your sensitive walls.

Your nerves are still reeling from his mouth, a quiet hum of electric pleasure reawakened by his throbbing cock and his vulgar mouth.

“She fits me like a fucking glove,” his hands are pawing at your waist, your breast, your face, never in one place for too long as he begins to settle into a rhythm of thrusts. “Doing so good for me, darling.”

The softness put into his term of endearment births an ache in your chest, one that will accept no medicine other than your arms around his neck and his lips on yours. Mouths tangled in kisses and sweat dripping down your skin, Bucky halts — your hips pressed together, the swell of his balls resting right against your swollen cunt, the head of his cock resting right against your sweet spot — and grinds.

Slow, deliberate, delicious. You whine into his mouth and feel how he swallows it, feasts on your ecstasy with a willing tongue, and a smiling mouth, and possessive teeth that tug at your lip as he pulls back. He stretches out the feeling, grinding a second time as your noses bump against one another.

“Bucky,” his name is an anchor, a paperweight, something to ground you amidst the floaty feeling of being two orgasms deep with a third approaching any time now.

“I know,” he says, and you believe him. Believe that he knows, that he’s known, that he always knows when it comes to you.

You lay your head to rest upon on his left shoulder when he returns to chasing a high between your thighs, a renewed vigor behind each thrust that has your hips rolling to meet his and your nails raking over the straining muscles of his back.

“I lied,” an unprompted confession stumbles out his mouth, fingers flexing into their grip on your waist. “About the apartment viewing. I didn’t go.”

“Bucky,” is all you can manage, branded into his skin with a kiss along his neck.

“Is that all you can say? Huh?” His voice carries a teasing lilt, paired to perfection with the pad of his thumb rubbing at your clit. “I’m giving pivotal revelations here, and you’re just gonna reply with that?”

Another echo of his name, walls fluttering around his dick.

“Bucky, Bucky,” he’s mocking you, a torturer’s laugh as he moans his name into your ear. “Keep going, you sound so pathetic it’s almost cute.”

Beyond words and beyond sense, you give in to the weight of his palm splaying against your stomach and guiding your back down onto the island. The soldier hooks your legs over his elbows, deepening the angle that his cock fucks into you, and you swear you see stars dance along the kitchen ceiling.

A hand smooths over your gut and you look back at Bucky to find adoration in his eyes.

“You see that?” You almost want to cry when his movement switches back to a slow drag — innnnn and outtttt — until you notice it: the smallest hint of movement beneath your flesh, a subtle visual of the outline of his tip bulging against your skin from inside you. “See how full she is, how good I’m making her feel?”

Pressing your hand against it, you can’t help but giggle as you feel him poke at your palm, only to fall back into a puddle of incoherent noises when he keeps pushing at that sweet spot, over and over. Harder and faster with each draw back of his hips, you feel rivulets of your own arousal roll down your ass and onto the marble, tainting the counter forevermore in the sins the soldier commits against you, the sins you welcome with open legs.

You’re near the edge again, and he feels it, pushing you closer and closer as he slowly spirals into a mess of phrases that barely begin before he’s cutting them off with something new.

“Don’t deserve this-” He catches himself, rips the insecurity in his voice out by the roots. “C’mon, let me see it one more time. Need to see you fall apart.”

“Want you to fall apart too,” you manage to beg, unwilling to watch him hold back or pull out before he finishes. “Please!”

Like any good soldier, he obeys.

Crashing over you like a wave, he’s doubled-over by the waist and sandwiching you between the counter and him. You feel him spill into you, hot ropes of cum painting your walls white as a third crescendo washes over your body.

Both of you seek out the other as his thrusts grow languid and your walls spasm, milking him for every last drop he’s got. When your mouths meet, it’s less of a kiss and more of you simply breathing into the other, exchanging air and body heat.

“So,” you croak eventually, exhausted and spent atop the counter yet completely unwilling to relinquish him from blanketing you. “Are you gonna do that every time I steal your ice cream?

Somewhere between jello-ed legs and cold compresses, you wind up in bed.

Skin clammy, lips swollen, lust satiated, you practically melt into the buttery softness of your bed sheets as Bucky lays you down. Despite how you’re still basking in the glow of your third and final orgasm, the soldier seems to think, for a second, you can handle another.

With gentle hands prying open your thighs and a curious tongue diving in for a second helping, licking up the dribble of his own cum spilling out your hole, he’s quick to be corrected when you roll away from his touch with a whine and a plea, “think I might actually die if you make me cum again, Buck.”

He’s unbothered by the rejection, wholly embracing it as he curls up behind you and snakes his arms over your naked skin. It’s you who drags the sheet up and over you both, turning in his arms to plant your head on his chest. His heart races beneath it, but you hold off on teasing — your own isn't any better.

“Sam’s going to kill me,” you whisper out into the room, when moonlight is peeking through your curtains and both of your heartbeats have calmed down.

“I’m sorry,” you feel him shift beneath your head and, though you can’t fully see him, you feel that blue gaze land on you. “Have I not made it clear enough what name you should be saying in bed?”

“There’s a serious chance I’ll die and you’re thinking with your dick,” he squirms as you pinch at his nipple. “You’re no better than the men on your list, Barnes.”

Silence floats back in between you for a moment, peaceful as the slow stroke of his fingers dancing up your spine.

“Why would Sam kill you?” He pauses, hand pressing a little harder down against a knot in your shoulder.  “He knows you have a crazy guard dog.”

Your crazy guard dog just pressed a kiss against your forehead, how frightening.

“He made me swear I wouldn’t get involved with you. He said you weren’t in the headspace for a relationship, that you needed to focus on inner peace first.”

“Turns out inner peace is being inside of you,” you pinch at his nipple again. This time, he doesn’t run from it. This time, you almost swear you hear a little moan creep up his throat. “So, Wilson’s to blame? I can get behind that.”

“To blame for what?”

His hand’s now running up and down the back of your arm, leaving goosebumps wherever its tender touch goes. 

“Why it took you so long to jump my bones.”

“You think I jumped your-” Your head rises off his chest and you stare into the navy darkness of the room, trying to make a concrete shape out where you see shadows of his face. “Wait, so these past few weeks, I’ve not been hallucinating? You’ve been… flirting?”

“It’s been more than a couple weeks, sweetheart,” Bucky seems to have no problem finding you in the dark, hand cupping your cheek and dragging you up to press a chaste kiss against your mouth. “You don’t seriously think I waited until morning to check that sink without hoping to be caught, do you?”

“So you were slutting yourself out on the kitchen floor!”

“Think the kitchen’s seen worse,” worse might be the understatement of the century.

Clothes still lay discarded, counters unwiped, ice cream completely melted. Cleaning you up had been the soldier’s only priority, and you weren’t in the mood or the mindstate to argue with him on that.

A fingertip tickles down the slope of your nose.

“Stop fighting it, you’re tired,” you hear him whisper.

“I want to hear more about your desperate efforts to get my attention,” it’s nothing but a weak protest.

“We have all the time in the world for that. Sleep,” you don’t hesitate to comply when Bucky’s hand presses you back down against the warmth of his chest. “You’re going to need it. Our upstairs neighbours still need a taste of their own medicine.”

+ extra hyde ! · 70% of this fic is just dialogue, these two losers would not stfu! · writing banter + sexual tension feels more exposing than writing literal porn. · lore accurate photo of me whenever bucky barnes exists:

[majulians-groupie]

Days of Silence

bucky barnes x reader

tags: angst to fluff, hurt/comfort, past traumas, slight trauma bonding, boyfriend bucky, established relationship, miscommunication.

summary: Bucky’s the best boyfriend — sweet, gentle, trying so hard to be good. But sometimes his trauma speaks louder than he does, and he snaps without meaning to. You’ve always been understanding. you know it’s not really him but this time, it hits too close to old wounds. So you protect yourself the only way you know — by distancing yourself.

word count: 2570

A/N: based on this request, hope I met your expectations even though it was such a difficult topic to bite into. Hopefully I wrote it well enough!

Bucky Barnes is a good boyfriend.

No — he’s the best.

He folds your laundry even though he swears he doesn’t know how to “properly” fold your clothes. He texts you pictures of stray cats and dogs he sees throughout the day because “they looked like they’d like you.” He kisses your forehead when he thinks you’re asleep.

He holds you like you’re the only thing anchoring him to this world.

But there are days — more than either of you would like — when the past crawls back into his lungs and makes it hard for him to breathe. Hydra didn’t just break him. They rewired him. And no matter how many mornings he wakes up in a warm bed beside you, some part of his mind still thinks it’s a cold metal table.

He doesn’t talk about it much. Not in full. You never push. You just know.

You’ve seen it in the flash of panic behind his eyes when someone touches his back unexpectedly. In the way he winces when he hears certain sounds. In the way his voice sometimes gets too sharp, too fast — not because of you, but because something in him gets tangled and scared.

And you’ve always understood. You’ve always met his storms with soft hands and soft words.

Because you love him. And you get it.

You know what it means to be hurt and to carry it like it’s your fault.

But tonight… tonight is different.

Tonight, you are tired.

Not the kind of tired that sleep can fix. The kind that settles in your chest like wet cement. That slow ache from giving and giving and giving.

You were late getting home. It rained. You were carrying too many bags. Your coat’s still damp. It wasn’t a bad day.

Not really. Just long. A bit of a tangle — errands, traffic, a headache you couldn’t quite shake. Bucky had been quiet since the morning, not in a cold way, just… somewhere else. That haunted kind of silence you knew wasn’t about you.

You’d given him space, like always. That’s what worked best — gentle patience. You never pushed. He always came back.

But that night, it was something small. Ridiculously small.

You were making dinner — his favorite, even — and you forgot the stupid jar of sauce.

You laughed a little, standing in the kitchen barefoot, coat still on. “Shit, I forgot the tomato sauce. I was at the store and everything.” You shook your head, opening a cupboard. “We could use the backup jar of pesto maybe?”

From the couch, he barely glanced up. “Seriously?”

The way he said it — flat, with a sharp edge — hit harder than it should have.

You turned slowly, confused. “Yeah. I just— I forgot. I’m sorry. I had a lot on my mind.”

He doesn’t even look up. “You always forget something.”

There it is.

The twist.

The snap.

It’s not yelling. It’s not cruel. But it stings because it’s him. Because you know he doesn’t mean it — but it still lands like a blow.

And worse — it feels familiar.

Not from him, but from someone before him.

From someone who wasn’t kind. Someone who made you feel small on purpose.

You swallow the lump in your throat.

It’s not fair to compare. You know that. Bucky would never hurt you like that. Never on purpose.

But you’re still made of scar tissue.

And tonight, you’re stretched too thin.

“I’ll use pesto,” you say softly, turning back to the stove.

———

You don’t talk about it later. Not really. You just focus on your own stuff, distancing yourself so it hurts at least a bit less.

So it starts with small things.

Not coldness. Not anger.

Just… quiet.

You still smile when he kisses your cheek in the morning, but it doesn’t quite reach your eyes. You still laugh at his dry humor, but it’s half a beat too late. You still curl into him when you sleep — but you wait until he moves first.

You’re careful with him. Softer than usual. Almost like you’re afraid to make noise.

And Bucky notices. He notices everything.

At first, he tries to pretend he doesn’t.

Tells himself you’re just tired. Busy. Overwhelmed.

But the second night in a row that you wash the dishes alone, he knows better.

“You okay, doll?” he asks gently, drying his hands as he leans against the doorway.

You glance up too quickly. “Yeah, of course.”

Your voice is sweet. Light. Nothing wrong.

But he sees the way your shoulders tense. How you don’t look at him for more than a second.

He nods slowly, but doesn’t speak. Just walks over and silently takes a plate from your hands to dry. Your fingers brush and you flinch — just barely — but he feels it like a slap.

You don’t mean to. You don’t even realize it.

But Bucky does.

Something in him turns cold. Not angry.

Just scared.

Because he knows that flinch. He’s seen it before — on himself. In mirrors. In memories. It’s the recoil of someone preparing for pain.

And the worst part is, he thinks he knows why.

He’s been short lately. Distant. Snapped at you when he didn’t mean to. He told himself it wasn’t that bad — but now?

Now, you’re looking at him like you’re afraid of making a mistake.

Like you’ve already decided you’ll carry the blame.

Like you’ve been here before, and you already know how this story ends.

“Hey,” he says softly. “Look at me.”

You hesitate, but you do.

And god, you wish you hadn’t — because the moment your eyes meet his, you see it. The guilt. The worry. The silent apology.

But you don’t know how to comfort him right now. Not without lying.

So instead, you just offer a quiet smile. “It’s fine, Buck.”

You go back to the dishes.

And Bucky stands there, drying a plate with shaking hands — because nothing has ever felt less fine.

———

It’s been two days since the kitchen. Two days of I’m fine and don’t worry about it and really, I’m just tired — but Bucky knows better.

You haven’t fought.

Not once.

No doors slammed. No yelling.

Just gentle answers. Forced smiles. A kind of quiet that feels… wrong.

You haven’t pulled away physically. Not exactly. You still sleep in his bed, still let him hold you when the nightmares get bad. But your touch feels lighter now. Less certain. Like you’re afraid of taking up too much space.

He hates it.

He hates how loud the silence has become.

You’re sitting on the couch, pretending to scroll your phone. You’re wearing the hoodie he left out for you earlier — the one that still smells like him — and for a moment he lets himself believe that’s a good sign.

But then you flinch when he sits too close. Not obviously. Just a slight shift in your shoulders. A tiny hesitation.

He sees it.

And it breaks him.

“Okay,” he says quietly, voice steady but firm. “That’s enough.”

You blink, caught off guard. “What?”

“Don’t do that,” he says, shaking his head. “Don’t smile at me like everything’s okay when it’s not.”

“Bucky…”

“I’m not mad,” he says quickly. “I’m not. I just—” He runs a hand through his hair, frustrated with himself more than anything. “I see you, alright? I know you’re not fine.”

You open your mouth to argue — but the words don’t come.

Because he’s right. And you’re tired of pretending.

“I didn’t mean to hurt you,” he says, softer now. “The other night. I was a dick, I know. I just—something in me snapped and I—”

“I know,” you whisper.

“Then why won’t you look at me the same?” he says, voice cracking. “Why does it feel like I have to earn you all over again?”

Your heart squeezes.

Because that’s exactly it.

Not because he’s failed you but because you failed yourself — by slipping back into old fears, old habits. The instinct to shut down. To stay small. To protect what’s left of your heart.

“I’m not trying to punish you,” you say softly. “I just… I didn’t even realize I was doing it. It’s like something in me just shut off.”

He nods slowly, eyes fixed on yours. “That’s what I’m scared of.”

“Why?”

“Because I know how it feels,” he whispers. “When everything feels like too much, so you go quiet just to survive it. I know that feeling. And I never wanted to be the reason you feel this way.”

You blink fast, trying to hold it together — but the tears come anyway.

Bucky reaches for your hand. This time, you let him.

“I’ve spent months trying to make you feel safe,” he says. “Tell me I didn’t fuck it all up.”

“You didn’t,” you say, voice shaking. “You didn’t. I just… I think I’m scared too.”

“Of me?”

“No,” you breathe. “Of how much I love you. Of how much it hurt when you said that. And how much I still want to forgive you.”

He leans in, gently pressing his forehead to yours. His voice is barely a whisper.

“Then let me try again. Please. Don’t shut me out.”

And something in you shatters.

You nod — barely — just once, but it’s all it takes.

Your bottom lip trembles. Your chest rises, tight with emotion that’s been building for days, weeks — maybe even longer.

“I don’t want to,” you manage, voice breaking. “I don’t want to shut you out, Bucky, I just— I didn’t know what else to do—”

He doesn’t wait. His arms are around you in a second. Pulling you into him, wrapping you up like he’s afraid you’ll disappear. One hand cradles the back of your head, the other holds your waist like a lifeline.

You collapse into his chest, sobbing. Ugly, shaking cries — the kind you’d held back for too long. The kind that don’t come out pretty or soft, but raw and real and earned.

And Bucky just holds you.

Not with panic. Not with guilt. Just love.

His lips find your temple, over and over again — feather-light kisses scattered across your skin like apologies.

“I’ve got you,” he murmurs. “I’ve got you, I’ve got you, it’s okay.”

You cling to him like he’s gravity. Like the ground beneath your feet gave out and he’s the only thing left holding you together.

“I’m sorry,” you cry. “I’m sorry, I know you didn’t mean it, I just— I felt like I was back there. With him. And I hated myself for it.”

“Don’t,” he breathes. “Don’t say that. Don’t be sorry.”

His voice is thick with emotion, but gentle. Reverent. Like he’s speaking to something breakable — something sacred.

“You didn’t do anything wrong. You hear me? Nothing.”

You nod into his chest, tears soaking the fabric of his shirt.

He keeps whispering soft things. Little comforts. His breath warm against your hair.

“It’s okay.”

“You’re safe.”

“I’m right here.”

“I love you.”

Eventually, your sobs begin to quiet. Not because the pain is gone — but because his arms make it bearable. Because his love is louder than the ache.

You sniff, rubbing at your face with the sleeve of your hoodie.

“Sorry I’m such a mess,” you mumble against him.

Bucky pulls back just enough to look at you. His thumb brushes beneath your eye, catching the last of your tears.

“You’re not a mess,” he says quietly. “You’re a person. A person I love more than anything.”

You blink at him — watery, stunned — because God, how did you get so lucky?

And then, so soft you almost miss it, he says:

“I’m scared too, you know.”

Your heart stutters.

“I’m scared I’ll slip and lose you. That I’ll forget how to be soft when you need it most. That something in me will break and I won’t catch it fast enough.”

You cup his cheek, thumb stroking the stubble there.

“You always catch it,” you whisper.

You’ve quieted now. The tears have stopped. The storm has passed.

But you’re still curled into his chest, face pressed against his neck, as if you need to feel his heartbeat to believe he’s real.

And Bucky…

He still holds you like you’re made of silk and smoke. His lips move softly against your temple, over and over. As if he could kiss away every old wound. Every bruise left by people who didn’t know how to love you.

His breath is uneven. You feel it before you hear the catch in his throat.

He’s crying.

Not loud. Not shaking. Just quiet, stubborn tears sliding down his cheeks. His hand trembles slightly as it rubs circles on your back.

“I’m so fucking sorry,” he whispers. “I hate that I made you feel like you had to go back to that place. I hate that I made you doubt me. I swear to God, if I could tear that moment out of your memory, I would.”

Your fingers clutch his shirt.

“Bucky—”

“No, let me say it,” he breathes, voice thick and aching. “Let me say all of it, because I’ve been holding it in too long and if I don’t tell you now, I’m gonna break.”

You look up at him, eyes still glassy.

“I love you,” he says — fast, like it’s bursting out. “I love you so much it fucking hurts. You don’t even know, sweetheart.”

Your breath catches.

“I think about you all the time. Even when you’re next to me. I look at you and I can’t believe you’re real. I’d do anything to protect you. I’d give you everything I have just to make you smile.”

His thumb brushes your cheek again. His eyes are red but shining.

“You’re my safe place,” he whispers. “Even when I’m messed up. Even when I don’t deserve you. You’re it for me.”

You blink, overwhelmed — but this time, the tears don’t sting. They come softer. Warmer. Held by love.

“I love you too,” you whisper back. “So much.”

He exhales shakily and presses a lingering kiss to your forehead, then one to your cheek, then your jaw, your temple, your nose — soft, desperate pecks like he’s making sure you’re still there, still his.

You let him. You let yourself lean into it.

After a long moment, he shifts, still cradling you against his chest, and reaches behind for the throw blanket on the back of the couch. He wraps it gently around your shoulders, tucking you in like he’s wrapping up something precious.

Then he leans back slightly, cupping your face with both hands, voice gentler now.

“You wanna watch that dumb movie you like?” he asks, a small, hopeful smile breaking through the heartache. “The one with the dancing and the terrible accents?”

You laugh through a sniffle — just a little. “Mamma Mia?”

He nods solemnly. “I’ll sing along with the bad parts if it makes you feel better.”

You smile, eyes still wet but lighter now. “Okay.”l

And as he grabs the remote and pulls you closer, you realize the tightness in your chest has eased. Not gone — not magically fixed — but soothed.

Because this isn’t a perfect love.

It’s a real one.

[majulians-groupie]

My man, my man, my man 😍

[majulians-groupie]

OH GOD CANT BELIEVE ITS OVERR😭🥺

real people

chapter eighteen (finale)

18+

the final part.

Content Warning: Bucky Barnes x Fem!Reader, angst, mention of pregnancy, enemies to lovers to strangers, fluff, mention of sex, misunderstanding trope bc why not, and omg I am not ready to say goodbye to these characters I want to cryyyyyyyy. super long author's note at the end

Series Masterlist

Series Playlist

"This is nice," Gwen says, her eyes closed as she stands with her arms up, allowing the breeze to brush over her skin. Her loose, white shirt flies behind her and the waves gently kiss at her feet. You're not sure why she keeps saying that - this is nice - but you hardly go an hour without hearing those words pour from her mouth, drenched in contentment.

The sunset has caused the sky to match her hair, the sand cooling down under your palms. You watch as the ice in your sangria melts, letting the sound of the waves relax you. Not that there's anything causing you any stress right now - having been in Mexico for a week now, you're completely zen. But there is one thought that threatens to disturb your peace.

"Do you think he'll be here?" You can't help but ask her.

Her head turns to the side, her eyes fluttering open. She knows who you're talking about without having to ask for clarification. "He's the best man," She reminds you. "Of course he'll be here."

"This early on, though?" You wonder, grabbing fistfuls of sand. "The rehearsal dinner isn't until Friday."

Gwen turns so she's fully facing you, a blank look on her face. "I know what you want to hear, but I'm not going to lie to you," She begins. "He's here. Just landed today, actually."

Your stomach churns and you nod, looking down at your lap.

"What?" She asks you, taking a few steps closer. "Are you really that nervous to see him?"

"I haven't seen him since..." You trail off, shaking your head.

"Then maybe it's about time you did," She says bluntly. "I mean, for Christ's sake, it's been what? Three years?"

"I know, but..." You mumble, feeling dumb. "It's weird. We were together for such a short period of time, and now we've spent so much time apart... but I still-"

"Don't," Gwen cuts you off curtly. "I swear to God, don't say it."

"I wasn't gonna say love," You claim. "I just mean, I won't know how I feel until I see him."

"Well, then," She chirps. "Good thing both of you brought dates."

"He brought a date?" You ask, feeling nauseous at the thought of seeing him with someone else.

"Mhm," Gwen confirms. "But you have Pietro, so you're both in the same boat, which is good.

"Yeah," You utter dryly. "Great."

Gwen stretches before holding her hand out to you. "C'mon, we need to get ready. If we miss dinner again, Sharon will make me sleep on this beach," She says before grabbing your hand and pulling you up to your feet.

The two of you make your way back to the resort, but this time, you're no longer zen. You're a bundle of nerves.

Standing in front of the full-length mirror, you turn to the side to get a look at yourself at all angles. Ever since your conversation with Gwen on the beach, you've felt a pit in your stomach and it's weighing you down, making you want to do nothing more than crawl into bed and hide from the world.

There's a knock at the door which makes you jump slightly, before it swings open. "Hey, you," Pietro says as he walks in with a grin. "You look incredible."

Relaxing a little with his presence, you smile at him in the mirror. "Thank you, P," You reply. "Are you ready to go?"

"Yep - just need to use the bathroom," He says as he walks towards it.

"Ugh, please don't clog it again!" You call out as he walks past you.

With a sly grin and a squeeze of your ass, he swings open the door. "I won't," He swears as he walks in, and you know better than to believe him.

"Why do I fuck you, again?" You call out, shaking your head.

Pietro opens the door again and pokes his head through. "Because I'm a damn good fuck, baby," He says with a wink. "Your words."

Rolling your eyes, you fiddle with your hair. "Whatever. Go poop - and hurry, because Sharon will kill me if I'm late!"

While you wait for him, you sit on the bed and decide to scroll through social media. You notice that Steve's got a new story up, so with a soft smile you open it up, expecting to see a photo of him and Sharon - but it's a photo of a gift-wrapped box with a Rolex on top of it. Gift from the best man, the caption reads. With a gasp, you close Instagram and put your phone down. And immediately, you hate how affected you are, just from a mere mention of him.

Fuck, you're screwed.

"I'm ready!" Pietro announces as he walks back out the bathroom.

"Did you wash your ha-"

"Yes, I washed my hands," He cuts you off with a laugh as he walks over and takes your hand, pulling you up to your feet. Moving in closer, he gives you a soft kiss. "You really do look so fucking good."

"No," You say sternly. "I refuse to be late to this dinner, P."

He tilts his head, giving you the soft-eyed, ever-so-slightly-desperate look he knows drives you crazy. "Gimme ten minutes, baby," He mumbles.

You narrow your eyes at him and push him back. "No. You'll mess up my hair and makeup," You whine.

"C'mere," He whispers before kissing you, once, twice, three times.

You melt into it, allowing yourself the respite of his physical comfort from your overthinking head, but then your mind conjures up the image of Sharon's pissed-off expression, which is enough motivation to give you the strength to pull away. "Let's go," You decide firmly. "It's Sharon's wedding week. I'm not gonna stress her out anymore than she already is."

Giving in with a sigh, he nods and takes a step back. "Alright," He says, following you to the door. "Have I told you how sexy you are when you're being all considerate for your friends, and shit?"

The resort has been booked out in its entirety by Steve and Sharon for the week, allowing them to spend a few days with their nearest and dearest before the big day on Saturday. So far, Sharon's been spending the days with her bridesmaids, Steve with his groomsmen, and each evening, everyone comes together to have dinner. It's been fine so far, but today's the first night that all the groomsmen are here - which has you almost shaking as you and Pietro make your way to the dining hall.

"What's wrong? Nervous to see everyone?" Pietro asks you as your heels click against the marble floor. "You've already met 'em all before, right? Oh, wait, shit. Isn't your ex here tonight?"

He swings the doors to the hall open and, of course, it seems you're the last ones to arrive. Thankfully, Sharon doesn't look annoyed in the slightest, as everyone turns to look at you.

"They're here!" Sharon squeals, standing up with her glass of wine raised up. "Come in, sit down!"

Pietro's got his arm around your waist, so when he begins to walk in, even though your feet feel planted to the ground, you can't help but move with him. But your eyes stayed glued to him.

Bucky.

It's like time slows down. He looks so different, but also exactly the same. And he's staring back at you. A small part of you is acutely aware of the beautiful woman sitting by his side, but everyone else melts away into irrelevance when you're looking at him. It's the first time in three years that you've been so close to him - sitting at opposite ends of a 25-seat table - but it feels as familiar as though no time has passed at all.

"Red or white tonight?" Steve asks you as he stands up to pour you a glass of wine.

Ripping your eyes away from Bucky and looking up at Steve, you let out a huff. "Brown," You reply curtly before grabbing a bottle of whisky from the middle of the table and pouring it into your glass.

Steve chuckles before pouring Pietro some wine, and you take a long sip. Next to you, Gwen gently nudges your stomach. "Way to be subtle," She hisses under her breath. "You guys just stared at each other for, like, five minutes."

"Shut up," You whisper, before you smile widely at Sharon who's sitting opposite you. "You look amazing, Shar!"

And she really does - this whole week, she's been glowing. "Thank you," She sings, still standing. Clearing her throat, she taps her glass of water with her fork, getting everyone's attention. "Alright. Everyone is officially here! Besides, like, our family, and everyone else," She begins with a soft laugh. "Steve and I are so, so grateful that you've all taken time out of your incredibly busy schedules to come and spend the last few days before the wedding with us. Ever since Steve and I started talking about getting married, we really had only one priority - to have a relaxed time with our best friends. Mexico has always meant so much to him and I - ever since the school trip episode of Sunset Lake, and all the times we returned together since - so it only felt right to get married here. In four days, Steve and I will be standing at the altar, with all of you there- but until then, we can eat, relax, get pampered, and party!"

Everyone holds up their respective glasses and cheers along with her, and Steve stands up and gives her a kiss. You grin as you watch them, so entirely in love. It makes you yearn for that feeling. Sure, sleeping with Pietro is fun and fulfils your needs, but you haven't felt a deeper connection to anyone since... Bucky.

You dare to steal a glance at him. He's pouring his date a drink- you recognize her. She's from some TV show that was big on Netflix or Hulu last year. Not his usual type, but then again, he's been linked with all sorts of women over the past three years. And he could say the same about you.

Before long, the food is served, so you can distract yourself with hummus and pita. You have conversations with Sharon and Steve, Gwen and Peter, and a few hushed comments fly between you and Pietro, but as it's such a big group, you can't venture out much further than them. Not that you particularly want to.

She finds him funny, that much is for sure. She pulls him arm whenever he makes her laugh, which is often.

"Her name's Jean," Gwen tells you, knowing you too well to not realize what it is you're thinking. "They work together. They've been spotted out at dinner a few times since."

"I feel sick," You utter, grabbing your napkin.

"Don't worry- you have Pietro, so you're on equal ground with him right now," Gwen says in an attempt to comfort you - as if the thing you're upset about is that Bucky is one-upping you.

"Pietro is nothing more than a human dildo to me," You whisper bitterly. "Bucky's actually dating that woman. With emotions."

"That's mean," Pietro chimes in as he wraps an arm around your shoulder, resting his chin on your other shoulder.

"Shut up. You're lucky I let you anywhere near me," You say to him with an eye-roll.

He bites down on his fist and leans in closer to Gwen with his head at your chest. "Isn't she so sexy?" He says lowly, to which she just snorts.

While everyone else continues chatting and drinking, you can't help but fall into the darkest depths of your mind.

He doesn't want you anymore. He probably hasn't for a while. You wonder how long it took him to officially be over you. You thought you might have been starting to get over him until you saw him tonight. All the feelings just came rushing back, hitting you like a truck. The last thing you wanted all those years ago was to become a stranger to him- but it seems like it might be too late.

Suddenly, you feel a kick under the table. You frown and look up to see Sharon giving you a pointed look as she taps her phone. While Gwen and Pietro chat, you look down at your phone to see a message from Sharon.

SharBear

I need to meet you tonight once everyone's in their rooms. Midnight outside reception. It's important. Please!

Without hesitation, you respond.

You

I'll be there.

Your mind is swirling with all the things Sharon could possibly want to speak to you about - has something gone wrong with the wedding plans? Has she suddenly got cold feet? You pace at reception for ten minutes before she finally appears.

"Oh, my God, I'm so sorry, I was waiting for Steve to get into the shower," She says in a hushed voice as she rushes over from the elevator and grabs your hands. "Thank you for meeting me."

"Of course, Sharon," You say, deeply concerned. "Is everything okay?"

"Everything's perfect!" She replies instinctively with a chirpy smile, before letting out a sigh and letting her face fall. "But... it might not be."

"What's going on?" You ask her, pulling her away from the worker at the front desk who's giving you odd looks and towards the entrance of the hotel.

She looks around the lobby, making sure nobody's around before she speaks. "I need... I need you to buy me something," She utters.

You frown as you lower your voice. "Like... drugs?" You whisper. "Something to help you relax? Pietro might have a xanny-"

"No, not like that," She cuts you off with a mild look of panic in her eyes as they meet yours. "I need, um... I think I need a pregnancy test?"

Up until now, you would've liked to think that you'd be the calm, collected friend during crises. That you'd be the level-headed leader keeping everyone's panic at bay, coming up with an action plan and swiftly carrying it out without fault. But instead, you suck in a loud gasp and slap your hands over your face. "Sharon!" You let out, your yell muffled by your hands.

"I know, I know, it's crazy," She says as she shakes her hands. "It's just so I can be sure, before I drink myself into oblivion this week."

"That's why you haven't been drinking," You say with wide eyes as everything falls into place in your head. "And you didn't eat the edibles yesterday!"

"I'm just being careful, until I can be sure," Sharon says. "Now, you're my best friend and the one I trust most out of everyone here. I can't trust the resort workers not to leak it to the press, so I can't ask them or even order one online in case they snoop. So it has to be you, Y/N."

Taking in a deep breath, you nod, accepting the responsibility. "Yes. I can do this," You tell her, keeping your voice firm. "I can do this for you."

"Great. There's a pharmacy about a mile away, it's open twenty-four hours. Steve and I stopped there when we landed, to get... condoms," She says, wincing.

"Yes, got it," You say, trying to remain calm. "I'll call a taxi and-"

"No public transport," She cuts in quickly. "Everyone in this city knows the wedding is this week. They all know we're here. If a cab driver recognizes you - I can't handle the scandal, Y/N."

"So what do you want me to do?" You ask her, shaking your head. "It's not like I can walk a mile in the middle of the night!"

Just then, someone walks into the hotel. It's, of course, none other than Bucky, holding a motorcycle helmet under his arm. You can practically see the cogs turning in Sharon's head as she looks at him.

"Sharon, no. No, Sharon," You say gravely, holding her arms tight. But it's too late.

"Bucky!" She calls out, making you die inside.

"Hey," He replies, while you stare at the floor. "What are you both doing down here so late?"

"We, um, have a little issue," She tells him. "Just a little visit from Aunt Flo, you know?"

"Oh, right," He mumbles, and you can't help but feel a shiver at the sound of his voice. Get it together.

"Yeah, so... would you be able to give Y/N a lift to a pharmacy?" She asks him while you grimace. "So she can stock up on tampons, and stuff."

"Sure," Bucky replies. "Let's go."

"Thank you so much!" Sharon exclaims, giving him a hug before coming back to you and placing her hands on your shoulder. "And thank you. I love you."

"You're lucky I love you, too," You mutter, before turning to face him.

He holds the helmet out to you and you take it before following him out, shooting Sharon one last glare on your way.

"So, the pharmacy?" Bucky asks as he taps on his phone.

"Yeah, Sharon said there should be one about a mile away?" You respond, your voice pathetically small.

"Got it. Let's go," He says while sticking his phone with the map on on the handlebar and getting on the bike.

You take in a deep breath before putting on the helmet and getting on behind him, planning to hold onto the handles located behind you for the entirety of the ride - but the second he rides off, you instantly clamber to wrap your arms around him. It may be awkward, but you'd rather that than die before the wedding.

The ride is quiet, save for the sound of the engine. The streets are pretty bare, being in a less-populated area, and the sky is full of stars. After a few minutes, you take off your helmet so as to feel the fresh air on your face, and to get a proper view of the starry night. Soon, you arrive at the pharmacy, and Bucky parks up outside. When you jump off and he sees you without the helmet on, he sighs.

"I would really rather you keep that on during the ride," He says lowly.

"Sorry," You utter, slowly backing away towards the shop. "Want anything?"

He simply shakes his head, and you nod before turning and walking into the pharmacy. Thankfully, there's a box of face masks at the entrance so you grab one and wear it. The man at the counter doesn't seem the type to keep up with celebrity news, but you want to do all you can to keep things under wrap. You walk through the aisles until you get to the shelves with pregnancy tests, and decide to grab one of each of the five brands available, knowing Sharon's the type to want to double and triple check. Along with the tests, you grab a chapstick, for no other reason than to make it feel like a normal shopping trip, though the combination of Sharon's news and being back on Bucky's bike has you feeling like you're having an out-of-body experience.

Just as you put the tests and chapstick on the counter, you feel a presence behind you. You turn your head to see Bucky standing there, holding a bag of chips. And his eyes are on the tests.

Fuuuuuuuuuuuuuuck.

Without a word, you toss four ₱500 notes on the counter and take the plastic bag from the worker before stuffing in the tests and chapsticks and walking out the store. When you get out, all you want to do is scream. He thinks you're pregnant, or at least potentially so. And you can't even correct him because then you'd be outing Sharon. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.

"Ready to go?" He asks as he walks out of the pharmacy, as casual as ever. Fucker.

"You're so annoying!" You can't help but explode at him once you rip the mask off your face.

Taken aback, he raises a brow. "Excuse me?"

"If you wanted fucking chips, why didn't you just ask me to buy you chips?" You ask him, frustration dropping from your tone.

"What is your problem?" Bucky asks you, taking a step closer.

"I clearly asked you if you wanted anything, and you said no," You hurl at him.

"I changed my mind," He says flatly.

"You changed your mi- you're such a dick," You hiss, turning away.

"Will you calm down?" He calls out. "It's... not a big deal!"

"Not a big deal?" You all but scream, turning back to him. He thinks you could be pregnant with Pietro's baby. He thinks you're that close - that you'd be that reckless because you're that locked in with fucking Pietro. And he doesn't seem to care.

"Yes, it's not a big deal," He doubles down.

"Whatever," You huff before spinning back on your heel and storming away.

"Where do you think you're going?" His voice booms behind you, but you're too irritated to think or act rationally. You simply continue stomping away, too stubborn to accept a ride back to the resort with him. Safety be damned. You have pregnancy tests and chapstick to defend yourself with.

The rumbling of his bike gets louder and after a few seconds, he pulls up next to you. "Get on the damn bike, Y/N," He orders you sternly.

"Fuck you," You spit, walking even faster.

He trails slowly behind you, his bike swaying side to side as he does his best to keep the slow pace. "You're going the wrong way, dipshit," He says, and it feels like the air turns twenty degrees colder.

The old nickname makes you falter in your steps, but you continue moving. "Maybe I'm taking the scenic route," You utter.

He speeds up for a second before turning his bike in front of you, stopping you from going any further. With a glare, he lets out a huff through his nostrils. "Get on the bike. I'm tired, and I don't have time for this," He says curtly.

"Then go back to the hotel and get in bed," You say with your arms folded across your chest. "I'm sure Jean's waiting for you."

Bucky narrows his eyes at you. "What, are you jealous?" He asks, to which you scoff.

"You wish!" You all but yell. "Just go. I'll call an Uber."

"It's almost 1am. I'm not letting you get a cab alone," He says bluntly. "Get on the bike, we'll go back to the hotel, and we can pretend like this night didn't happen."

A dry laugh leaves your mouth of its own accord. "I've heard that before," You mutter bitterly.

Without a word, he holds the helmet out to you. You roll your eyes before grabbing it off him and getting on the bike, as much as it pains you to give in. This time, even though you're terrified, you keep your hands firmly on the handles behind you, refusing to let him think you want to touch him. Although it hurts to be back at square one with him, it's easier to focus on being annoyed at him than to realize he's over you.

Once you get back to the resort, you clamber off the bike and pull the helmet off, putting it down where you were sitting. He sits and types on his phone.

"Thanks for the ride," You mumble like a child being forced to show manners.

He just grunts in response.

The next morning at breakfast, you're inwardly stressing as you try to find the perfect opportunity for you to transport the five pregnancy tests in your bag to Sharon's without anyone seeing.

"Y/N, sit down!" Gwen calls out before grabbing your hand and yanking you down onto the empty seat next to her.

You give her a smile. "I actually just need to speak to Shar-"

"Eat first," She cuts you off sternly as she places a pastry onto your plate.

"Ooh, those look good," The person sitting on the other side of you comments. You turn to see none other than Bucky's date, Jean. "Could you please hand me one?"

Of course she's lovely and polite. Fuck's sake.

"Sure," You reply with a smile as you grab the platter and hold it out to her.

She grabs a square croissant and puts it on her plate with a bashful look. "Thank you. God, this is so surreal," She says with flushed cheeks. "I'm just, like, a huge fan of you."

Damn. She's making it really hard to hate her.

"That's so sweet, thank you," You reply.

"It's just crazy being in a room, practically on vacation, with a group of people I look up to," She continues with awe in her eyes. "Oh, I'm Jean, by the way. I... I'm here with... uh..."

"It's alright. I know you're Bucky's date," You tell her with a soft laugh. "I'm not sweating over a six-month situationship I had three years ago, don't worry."

A throat clear behind you. "Morning, everyone," Bucky says, squeezing her shoulders before taking a seat next to her.

"Oops," You whisper to yourself.

"Morning, sunshine," Jean greets him sweetly with a kiss on his cheek before she turns back to you. "So, I have to ask you: what was it like working with the Norman Osborn? Was it everything I dream about?"

"Oh, and more," You answer her emphatically. "He's just... a genius. It sounds cliché, but that's really the only way I can describe him. Being on set with him alone was flabbergasting, but being directed by him? I genuinely felt like a new woman every day. A new actress, should I say."

"Wow. I am so jealous," Jean says. "And the movie was incredible. You're gonna think I'm lying, but I literally watched it in theatres, like, twelve times."

"So, you're who I need to thank for the box office success," You say teasingly.

"You were so robbed at the Oscars this year," She says with a scoff. "Like, I know the other nominees were great, but none of them held a candle to your performance."

"I was just grateful to be nominated," You tell her, giving her the PR-approved response.

She narrows her eyes, leans in, and lowers her voice. "Yeah, but you were also thinking, what the fuck? Right?" Jean whispers. "Don't worry, it's a safe space."

With a delighted laugh, you lightly push her arm. "Of course not," You say, before whispering, "Maybe."

After spending the entirety of breakfast laughing non-stop with Bucky's girlfriend, much to the surprise of everyone, you soon become acutely aware of the tests in your bag.

As everyone gets up to return to their rooms and freshen up before the day's activities, you pull Sharon to a quiet corner. "Hey," You whisper. "How are you feeling?"

"Okay," She answers with a quick nod. "Haven't vomited today, but we'll see how long breakfast lasts."

"Uh, I've got the... things," You utter, giving her a pointed look as you shake your bag.

"Oh! Yeah, great, thank you so much," She says, holding your hands. "How was it with Bucky? I hope it wasn't too awkward? He didn't see, did he?"

Opting not to tell her about how he saw you buying the tests and how you subsequently screamed at him in the street, you nod. "It was fine," You lie. "Do you want them now?"

"Yes," She says, holding her bag open next to yours. "Just... don't be suspicious."

Trying to act casual, angling your bags so that nobody behind can see them, you slowly transport the tests one by one from your bag to hers.

"Fuck, how many did you get?" She asks with wide eyes.

"I figured you'd want to be really sure," You tell her with a shrug as you drop the last one in.

A smile breaks out on her face. "You know me so well," She says, pulling you in for a hug. "Thank you. You're the best."

"Do you wanna take one now?" You ask as you pull away. "I can come with you."

"I'm gonna wait until tomorrow," She tells you. "When Mom's here. I need her with me in case it's... yeah."

"Of course," You say with an understanding nod, though the sentiment doesn't reach your heart. Not having a mom in your life means if you were in Sharon's position, it would be her or Gwen you needed by your side - and for some twisted reason, it has you feeling bitter that you wouldn't be their chosen pregnancy-test aide. You know it's irrational and unfair to feel that way, but you can't help it.

"Okay, let's go back to everyone before they wonder what we're talking about," Sharon chirps as she takes your arm and leads you back to the group.

Jean gasps and rushes over to you when she sees you. "Hey, have you been to the spa yet?" She asks you excitedly.

"I haven't, actually," You tell her. "Been too busy helping Sharon out with wedding stuff."

"You have to come," She says, grabbing your hand. "They are incredible here. Bring Pietro, too - it can be like a double date at the spa!"

Realizing that that means Bucky will also be there, you falter. "Uh, I don't know if Pietro will-"

"If Pietro will what?" The man himself  asks as he appears, hugging you from behind.

"Oh, we were talking about spending some time at the spa," Jean tells him. "You're down, right?"

"Absolutely," He answers.

"So, it's settled!" She exclaims with a giddy grin. "We'll meet you there in an hour."

"Can't wait," You say half-heartedly.

You all but melt into the warm hot tub, closing your eyes and letting all your stress go with the steam. Pregnancy tests. Exes. Forget it all.

"Mind if I join?" An all too familiar voice asks.

Opening your eyes, you see Bucky stepping down into the tub. "Doesn't seem like I have a choice," You mutter.

There's a few moments of blissful silence, and you close your eyes again, electing to pretend as though he isn't there. The sound of Pietro and Jean racing laps in the swimming pool fades into the background, and all you can hear is the bubbles fizzing-

"So, a six-month situationship, huh?" Bucky abruptly cuts into your thoughts. "That's how you look at it?"

You let out a deep sigh, refusing to let him bait you into giving him a reaction. "What else would you call it?" You ask him.

He doesn't answer, but you're not foolish enough to think that's the end of the conversation. "So, you pregnant?" He asks bluntly.

"No," You reply.

"Took all five tests?"

"Shut up."

"Make me."

"Were you always this childish?" You ask, opening your eyes to glare at him. "I'm none of your business anymore, Barnes. I haven't been for three years."

He's staring at you. "A heads-up would've been nice," He says bitterly. "Y'know, that 'see you later' actually meant fuck you, I'm done."

"I wasn't done," You correct him gravely. "Though you obviously were."

"Are you kidding me?" He asks with a dry laugh.

"Oh, sorry, all the times you tried so hard to contact me must've got lost in the mail," You say flatly.

"Contact you? And when was the best time? When you were dating your co-star while filming in Australia? Or maybe when you came back and started dating those other schmucks?" He spits.

"You cannot be serious," You say gravely. "Says Mr. 'Dating Three Women At Once'!"

"Really? You of all people believe what the media said?" Bucky asks incredulously.

"Oh, fuck you!" You yell, standing up.

"Fuck you," He returns just as harshly, standing up as well.

He's looking down at you with a look in his eyes you haven't seen since you first met - that day on Steve's yacht when you first debuted your fake relationship to the world. It sends a shiver down your spine. Full of rage and seemingly genuine hatred - and it makes you want to kiss him.

Bucky tries to stay strong, but his eyes betray him, flickering down to look at your drenched, bikini-clad body, the same body he's been missing for three years. He remembers all the places he left marks, and all the places he kissed it better.

"I never forgot how I felt," He says in a hushed, rushed tone.

"You didn't even blink at the possibility of me being pregnant with another man's child," You point out coldly.

"Listen to me," He utters, grabbing your wrist. "I thought about you every single minute. I still do."

"Bucky, shut up," You whisper, highly aware of both Pietro and Jean making their way over.

"Tell me you don't feel the same," He challenges you. "Tell me you don't want anymore. That you don't love me anymore."

"What the fuck, Barnes?" You hiss.

"If you can tell me you don't love me anymore, I won't bring it up again," He says.

You raise a brow.

His jaw clenches for a second. "But if you can't, I'll spend every waking moment getting you back," He finishes.

With a pit in your stomach and a lump in your throat, you shoot him one last glare. "You're too late," You utter before pulling your wrist out of his grip and leaving him there alone.

Friday evening arrives, and with it, the rehearsal dinner. Steve and Sharon's families have also arrived at the resort, meaning there's a lot more people around the table which makes it a heck of a lot easier to ignore Bucky's stares.

"What is going on between you?" Gwen asks you in a hushed voice as you're served by the waiting staff. "He hasn't stopped looking at you all day, with that weird, intense stare. Did you speak to him?"

With a shrug, you pick up your glass of wine. "It's Bucky. He's always weird and intense," You answer lamely.

"Oh, my God. Did he say something to you?" She presses. "You have to tell me. Are you guys... sleeping together?"

"What? No," You answer instantly. "What do you think of me, Gwen?"

"I don't know; when two people with history reconnect, there can be major sparks," She says while cutting into a roasted potato. "All the feelings come rushing back."

Instead of validating her theory with a response, you begin to eat.

"Holy shit. You did reconnect, didn't you?" She hisses. "I knew it!"

"I have no idea what you're talking about," You say plainly.

She lets out a sigh. "Look, if you realized that there are still strong feelings between you, that's not a bad thing."

"Not a bad thing? He's got a girlfriend!" You whisper-shout, grateful for the sound of cutlery on porcelain drowning you out.

"Hasn't stopped you before," Gwen lets out before gasping at herself. "I'm so sorry. I didn't mean that. I mean - what he had with Natasha wasn't even real-"

"I get it, Gwen, it's fine," You cut in, and the two of you leave it at that.

While you're eating, Sharon gets out of her seat and walks around the table to you, smiling and squeezing the shoulders of everyone she passes on her way. When she gets to you, she brings her mouth to your ear and lowers her voice. "Can you come to the lobby with me?"

Once again, you're filled with anxiety and dread as you follow her out of the room. She holds your hand tight, and neither of you say a word as you walk to the lobby.

"Everything okay?" You ask once you get there, making sure the receptionist is out of earshot.

Sharon takes in a deep breath. "I took the test. Well, all five tests," She begins, a mixture of worry and fear in her eyes. "And... they were all positive."

You slap your hands over your mouth. "Oh, my God!" You all but scream, thankfully muffling your voice with your hands.

"I know!" She exclaims, breathing in and out quickly.

"That's amazing!" You tell her with a wide grin. "Congratulations!"

"Thank you," She whispers with teary eyes.

"Have you told Steve?" You ask her, to which she shakes her head.

"Not yet. I just... I don't know how," She admits. "My mom said I should just tell him, but... what if he gets scared? What if it's too much for him and he gets cold feet?"

"Sharon, that man looks at you like you hung the moon and stars," You tell her, holding her shoulders. "He loves you more than anything. The last thing he would do is leave you alone, especially if he knew the truth. Love isn't something you can just... throw away. Forget about. You can only confront it, and accept it... and... denying yourself of it would be the biggest disservice you could do to yourself."

She narrows her eyes. "Are we still talking about me being pregnant?"

You raise your brows, and let out a breath you didn't realize you were holding in. "I don't know," You say in a small voice.

"Okay, well, I want to do something special for him," She tells you. "He's always planning so many nice surprises for me, and I want to do the same. So, I need your help."

"Anything," You tell her.

A sly grin grows on her face. "I love you," She says.

"Why are you looking at me like that?" You ask her with a frown. "Like you've done something I won't like?"

"Well, I thought you might need some help setting it up," She begins, glancing behind her. "So, I enlisted another pair of hands. The only other person I trust with my life who wouldn't go to the press."

Before you can ask her exactly who she's talking about, none other than Bucky walks into the lobby with an expectant look on his face. "Hey, Sharon. What is it you needed my help with?"

She looks at you with wide, hopeful eyes. "I don't want him to know it's for me, yet," She whispers to you. "Don't want him to know before Steve. You can tell him the truth once Steve knows."

With a sigh, you swallow your pride. "Uh, fuck. It's me, Barnes," You say flatly, hating every second of this. "As it turns out... I am pregnant."

He looks taken aback.

"And she wants to surprise Pietro," Sharon chimes in. "Can you help her set up the surprise on the beach? At this point, we don't want anyone knowing that doesn't need to, or that we don't trust."

With a nod, Bucky keeps his face free of emotion. "Of course."

You're convinced that you died and this is hell, because you've experienced nothing worse than setting up a 'We're Pregnant!' message on the beach with Bucky, who thinks the pregnancy is yours, and that the father is Pietro.

Bucky seems to have an artistic eye as he sets out the flowers around the words in the sand. You're lighting the candles, wondering how it got to this.

"This is so weird," You mumble.

"Yep," He replies curtly. "Didn't imagine this would be happening three years ago."

"It's been a long time," You say. "A lot has changed."

"You haven't," He says, looking down at the sand. "Still just as gorgeous."

A soft laugh leaves your mouth. "Should you be flirting with a pregnant woman?"

Bucky looks up at you, into your eyes. "Do you love him?" He asks you.

You struggle with the lighter, letting out a frustrated huff before answering him. "It started out as just sex," You say truthfully.

"Like us?"

You snort. "I guess."

"Do you love him?" He asks you again.

"Let's... not do this now," You suggest.

He lets out a long sigh and sits up. "When it ended with Natasha... my first thought was you. Carol told me to wait, at least a few weeks, so it didn't look like I was just jumping between you. I also didn't want to overwhelm you, or take attention off the fact that you won the case," He tells you. "Then you left New York to film in Australia. And the rumors about you and Luke... I just thought it would be best to leave you to it. You were working abroad. It wasn't the right time."

"Then I came back, and you were dating someone else," You remember.

"Wasn't dating her," He mumbles. "Emma and I were just friends."

"Well, it didn't look like that, and I didn't wanna reach out just to hear that you had moved on," You tell him truthfully. "I... I don't think I could have handled hearing that. For it to be final. Outlined clearly. I guess it was easier to live with the vagueness. The hope that... maybe we just needed time, and eventually we'd find each other again. But I couldn't listen to you telling me you were with someone else. I just couldn't."

He lets out a shaky breath. "I felt the same," He admits. "I know I'm a fucking coward for not trying harder. And now I'm too late."

"You're not a coward. You were just protecting yourself," You say lowly, before looking around. "I think we're done. Thanks for your help."

"Of course," He mumbles.

Sending Sharon a quick text telling her it's ready, you get up to leave. Bucky begins walking away, a look of dejection on his face, when you grab his hand. "Hold on. Just... wait here with me," You say, pulling him behind a rock.

"What are we doing here?" He asks you with a frown.

"Just wait," You whisper, looking over the rock. A few minutes pass before Sharon and Steve walk out the hotel.

"What are they doing here?" Bucky wonders. "Want me to stall them while you wait for Pietro?"

"Wait," You repeat, feeling the confusion emanate from him.

As Sharon and Steve make their way down to the beach, you hold your breath. Steve seems confused to the babble leaving Sharon's mouth, until they get to the candles and message in the sand. They stop. He's looking down at it. He looks back up at her, and she's grinning at him. With a laugh, he swoops her into his arms and spins her around.

You turn to look at Bucky, who just looks absolutely lost.

"What... they... huh?" He utters.

"The tests weren't for me. They were for Sharon," You reveal. "And this whole thing was for Steve, not Pietro. Sharon was just really scared of everyone finding out, and wanted Steve to know before anyone else."

Bucky's lips part in shock, and he just stares down at you. "So, you and Pietro..."

"We just sleep together every now and then," You admit. "I just... wanted to bring someone in case you brought someone. Which you did."

"Jean and I aren't... we're just friends," He tells you. "We're working on a film together. I mentioned that I wasn't bringing a plus-one, and she asked if she could come with me so she could network."

"So..." You trail off, your heart racing.

"So..." He echoes, raising a brow. "I still love you. I still want you more than I've ever wanted anything else. If I have to spend another three years proving myself to you, I will."

"Bucky... I... I love you, too," You say, the words finally flying free. "I don't want to waste any more time. But... I have a lot to think about," You tell him. "And a conversation to have with Pietro. But I'll see you tomorrow?"

"Yeah. The big day," He says, looking as though he's holding back from doing something he wants to do.

"Yeah. Very big," You say awkwardly. "Well... good night."

He takes a step closer to you, and you forget how to breathe. Looking down at you, he cups your cheek in his hand. "Good night," He replies.

Swallowing thickly, you nod.

How the fuck are you supposed to get any sleep tonight?

The wedding ceremony is beautiful. The love Steve and Sharon have for each other is evident in their vows and the way they look at each other, and you can't help but notice the glow on Sharon's face. However, the reception is when the real fun starts.

You've been pouring water shots for Sharon whenever someone wants to do a round with her, because she isn't ready for everyone to know about the baby yet. As her maid of honor, you've barely had a chance to sit down, having to fight all the small fires that arise to make sure she doesn't realize anything's wrong. You're grateful once the cake's been cut and the dance floor fills up, meaning you can finally relax as the party goes on.

"It's so unfair that you're breaking up with me," Pietro whines as he looks you up and down. "In that dress? You're killing me."

"Get a grip, Maximoff," You say with an eye roll.

"C'mon, let's dance!" He says, pulling you onto the dance floor before you have a chance to say no.

It's an upbeat song at first, one that you can simply clap along to so as not to make a fool of yourself - but then the band switches to a slow ballad.

"Everyone, grab someone you care about and let's dance a little slower," The singer says.

Bucky suddenly appears behind Pietro, placing his hand on his shoulder. "Hey, man. Mind if I steal her from you?"

Only looking slightly intimidated, Pietro nods. "Of course, man. Have fun," He says, giving you a grin before walking away.

As the song begins, a rendition of Can't Help Falling In Love, you smile and shake your head. "Did you request this?" You ask him, placing your hands on his shoulder.

"Who? Me?" He asks with faux innocence as he takes your waist in his hands. "I don't know what you mean."

"Cheesy fucker," You mumble, unable to keep the smile on your face.

This song reminds you of one of the best days you ever spent with him - when you met his family. Losing them was another painful thing you had to deal with when you left Bucky, and getting to see them again is one of the things you're most excited about.

"How is everyone?" You ask him. "Rebecca?"

"She's doing well," He says with a smile. "She's a teacher at our old school."

"I miss her," You tell him. "I miss them all."

"We can see them soon," Bucky tells you. "They've never stopped asking me about you. Ma will probably faint when I tell her you're mine for real this time."

"I'm yours?" You ask teasingly. "Prove it, Mr. Barnes."

He lets out a breathy laugh before moving in closer, holding your body to his, and bringing his lips to yours in a soft kiss. It was everything you've been missing and more. You feel just as safe with him as you did all those years ago.

When he pulls away, he shakes his head. "I can't believe I ever thought I could keep you at a distance. At the start, when I did everything I could to ignore my feelings," He says. "All you ever were was perfect. And I let fear keep me from being with you."

"We both did," You tell him. "And nobody can blame us. We'd never been in love before. Never thought we ever would be. But you came into my life, and... you taught me love. Showed me what it's supposed to be. And I want to spend my life loving you, without judgement, without hiding from the world. I love you, Jamie. No amount of time could have ever changed that. I never moved on, never forgot. I'll always be yours."

"And I'll always be yours," Bucky swears. "I'm gonna look after you, always. I went through life without feeling anything real before I met you. And you made me feel it all. Anger, hate, irritation."

"Damn," You utter lowly.

"Joy, appreciation, love," He adds with a smile. "It's like I was only pretending to feel those things before you made me really feel them. You lit a fire in me. Made me real. You made me real. I want to spend the rest of my life thanking you for that."

"I wish I could tell the Bucky from three and a half years ago that he'd be saying all this one day," You say with a grin. "He'd lose his fucking mind."

"Ah, he was a dick," He says flippantly. "Didn't know a thing."

"He was a dick," You agree, leaning in. "But... he was also really good in bed."

A smirk pulls at his lips. "Yeah? You enjoyed getting hate-fucked by him, didn't you?"

You bite down on your lip, squeezing his shoulders. "So. Much," You utter.

Bucky glances around the thinning-out dance floor and looks back at you. "How about, once we're done here, I take you up to one of the rooms, and fuck you like I hate you?" He suggests, sending a shiver down your spine. "What do you say? For old time's sake?"

With a grin, and ruined panties, you wrap your arms around his neck and kiss him before repeating, "For old time's sake."

super long a/n incominggggg

the fucking end.

so here we are. i am so not emotionally prepared to say goodbye to real people. the past eighteen weeks have felt so, so incredible (eighteen weeks??? they went so quick omg), and exactly what peak tumblr felt like for me, back in the method acting and suburban pleasure days. for those who have been following me for a while, you probably noticed i took an extremely long hiatus starting in about 2023, only really posting the odd one-shot here and there. real people was my first series back and . oh my God. the support was instant and overwhelming. it felt like a community again. my love for writing was reignited and, though there were one or two weeks when i hit writer's block and had to rush to get a chapter out, for the most part it genuinely felt like this series wrote itself. the storyline of actors fake dating has been sitting in my drafts for literal years. since before my marvel era. since before my anakin era. since an era none of you knew... my harry styles era. yep. i had a really weak intro drafted of a harry styles fanfic with the same concept. it was just called "real". and that was in like... 2016/17. so to be here now, almost a decade later, with a full series based on 16-year-old kinana's idea written and complete that I'm so proud of is so damn surreal. I genuinely would not have been able to write this without your love and support so thank you to everyone who commented and reblogged and sent me lovely messages week in and week out. you are the reason this series exists. i hope i can continue to bring you more stories. i might take a short break from posting anything for a few weeks, work on some drafts. maybe think up a new series. and work on some old ones. i'll see you soon. i love you all.

masterlist

buy me a kofi <3

[majulians-groupie]

"The girl he left behind"

Summary: Sergeant Barnes has lived a long time,time which his enemies claim is burrowed.Enough time, to endure all the darkness and despair the world has to offer.No one could even begin to imagine the horrors he could have possibly seen in the void.Truth is though,that for the human soul,things are much,much more simple.Things that seem to define us,often stay hidden,lurking in the shadows of our subconscious,until we have to acknowledge them.More often than not,and Sergeant Barnes is no exception,this tends to happen at our lowest point.

Warnings:Thunderbolts mildest spoilers ever(mostly about how the void works),Grief,alcoholism mentioned,graveyard setting,mention of depression and mental illness,PTSD,description of a panic attack,thoughts about wars and soldiers.

*This has been in my drafts for a while and I finished it while having a fever lmao😭.I was kinda dissapointed not to see Bucky's Void in Tb.I know we have seen plenty of hydra,but I think it was a chance to explore his psych through important stuff that havent even been mentioned in the show.Thats what was my inspo for this fic.Hope you enjoy!*🩵

Please be kind,English is not my first language.

◞ ྀི◟ ͜ ◞ ྀི◟ ͜ ◞ ྀི◟⠀ ◞ ྀི◟ ͜ ◞ ྀི◟ ͜ ◞ ྀི◟

"Oh no..I had a great past so I'm totally fine"

If they weren't all trapped in a soul crushing simulation of their worst memories and experiences,everyone would give him a playful scoff,or a pat in the back combined with pitiful eyes before telling him it's okay to not pretend sometimes.

However,the situation was dire,and they needed to save the city-and quite possibly the world-.Things were moving quick and they had to regroup.

But it was there,it lingered in the back on his head.Since way too long before the void,and way too long after the fight.Creeping up on moments where he dared to assume things were-for the first time since A WHILE-somewhat fine.Making his head pounding,his breath shallow and his heartbeat acknowledged.

More often than not,it was also there,in those few moments where he would decide to fight back.Where he would decide to stop running from the voices that tormented his head everytime he tried to sleep.In those small moments of victory,where he would be-seemingly for the 100th time-pouring his entire cheap stash of alcohol down the sink.

Meaning,it seemed to appear was time to face his guilt head on,and bridge the man he was trying to build with the boy that thought that had everything grounded.

Given all of this,it wasn't really a really big surprise when he saw her in the void.Multiple times.

He saw the day he tried to find her again.To see if she was still alive.It was hard.But he needed to know.He always hoped she has a perfect life,with a happy family.Thats what she said she wanted.But he wasn't sure why he couldn't be happy about her when he found out exactly that.

Hell,she was happy.Content.Surrounded by her their family.They were returning from her granddaughter's dance recital.A ballerina.Just like she wanted,before polyo robbed her of her future.But of course she didnt have any resentment.She was always like that.Full of sunshine and kindness.Satiated with leaving her dreams through her family.

Prosperity.Stability.Joy

Everything she built without him.She didn't need him.Of course she hadn't.It's been so long.

The family moved inside the house and closed the door.Bucky creeped towards the front window.

It was the first time he truly felt like a mere number in a history book.Another lost soldier that didn't make it.Another serial number whose only salvation was an unknown soldier memorial.It was the first time Bucky didn't feel disconnected from his old self.Because for the first time,he didn't see him as something significant.He would spend hours on therapy,talking about his fear of never truly reclaiming his lost identity again.He'd started this endless journey of self discovery,of trying to resurrect James,and bury the Soldat in his place instead.

But this time,for the first time ever,he felt like maybe James wasn't something worth saving.

Maybe the Soldat was the only way he could ever be anything of purpose.Maybe Hydra chose him,didn't just find him.Maybe the darkness was always there,looming,creeping in,and found it's chance to take over when he was in an enviroment that allowed it.

Maybe he let them take over

Maybe he willingly let go of everything holding him back,his family,his friends,his values,in exchange for some pain relief.For the bliss of the haziness he felt when the Soldat took over,numbness consuming him and waking up at the end of the missions,only to be put in cryo and sleep again.

Maybe James wasn't anything to look for,to find or reclaim.Maybe this fragile,vulnerable washed up version of a man he was now was all he had.

-"NO"!

He punched Becca's window so hard he lost his balance.He looked at his flesh arm.He didnt have a single scratch,nor he was in pain.Everything was in slow motion.The glass shards didnt fell to the floor,but remained hovering,surrounding him as if to mock him,only for them to to turn into soft water droplets a few seconds later.They were everywhere.Then the scenery changed quickly. Everything was dark.He was suddenly drenched.He was getting cold.He hated getting cold.It reminded him of the first few horrible moments of waking up from the cryo chamber.Most of his limbs barely surviving frostbites,his vision failing him,diziness not allowing to even stand in his own.Being injected.Beaten.Tortured to submission.Striped from any sense of decency or humanity.Until it was time to go to that cursed chair again and-

His heartbeat started going up.His hands were shaking.He knew when a panic attack was coming.He started taking deep breaths.

"Inhale..1,2,3,4....exhale..1,2,3,4"

He started looking around,trying to pinpoint stuff.The ground smelled of rain and mud.There was fog everywhere.It would have been peaceful if it wasn't for the dread looming in his chest.

"I have to get out of here"

He took a deep breath and started trying to navigate.He started walking. Faster.And faster.Nothing would change.

"FOR FUCK'S SHA-"

He made a swift turn towards the other side until he froze.He held his breath.In front him,there was finally something.Two small children.They were standing in front of a single marble gravestone.There wasn't much of age difference.The both looked like they were around 8 to 10 years of age.

-"You think he is looking at us right now Jimmy?"

-"Sure!What do you think we brought him red peonies for?He loves red!"

-"If mummy finds out.."

-"She won't!Have I ever lied to you?"

-"Yes!You blamed Roxy for eating my chocolates when it was obvious that dogs dont-"

-"Have I ever let you down?"

The little girl didn't speak.

-"Exactly.This is not easy for mum.But you have every right to visit dad if you miss him.I still don't understand why she left you at Jenny's for the funeral."

-"She told me graveyards were not for little girls and daddy wouldn't have wanted me there.

-"Crap!You're barely a year younger than me!"

-"Jimmy!"

-"Sorry.."

A few seconds passed..then the boy started giggling

-"Dad would smirk at me right now.He never pretended that swear words bothered him".

"Nope!"

Little Becca leaves the peonies next to her father's name:

"James "Jimmy" Buchanan Barnes Sr.

Beloved and never forgotten.

Father,Husband,friend and fighter"

"They should have put hero as well!"

Little Bucky stomped his foot at the ground.

"We don't need a tombstone to tell us that"

The boy blinked.He then turned at his sister.He was staring at her.Dumbfounded

"You're...you're right.."

A big pause

"you're always right"

"Of course I am"

Bucky scoffs and wraps an arm around his sister.

He didnt speak for a while.He was just staring st the ground.Becca knew something was up.When her brother wasnt blabbering,something was ALWAYS up

"What are you thinking?"

"It is just that..now..I..I am the one that supposed to take care of you.Take care of mum.The house.I am the man now and-

"Mum was literally feeding you chicken soup on your bed a week ago?Who is the one taking care of who again?"

"I was sick!"

"I know!That's what I am trying to tell you.You're still a kid.Like me.That doesn't change because dad died.We can't do anything more than stay out of trouble for ma's shake"

-"But.."

-"No buts!We're in this together!That's what families are for you doofus"

-"Watch it!I'm still older than you"

Becca pinches his cheeck condescendingly

-"Barely"

"Oh I'll show ya"

He gave his little sister a tickle attack which evolved into a playfight.

A few rounds of screaming matches later,it was time for the kids to leave the tombstone behind,go home before their mother found out where they were.They took one last good look at where their father had been buried.A few minuted later,it was the little girl that spoke.

"You have to stay though" said Becca suddenly.

"What does this mean?"

"It means that if we're gonna get through this,we need to be together,ALL of us."Becky's eyes suddenly became glossy and her voice started shaking.

"But if you get drafted,"

The boy sharply turns to face her as she started heaving.

"-like dad did and-..."

Bucky couldnt stand it anymore.He wrapped his sister in his arms,keeping her firmly against his chest,one hand cradling her head and the other rubbing circles on her back.

-"I will always be with you.Even if I'm far away it will only be because I have to,and I will ALWAYS return back home."

-"Jimmy you can't know if-"

-"Always"

Becca sniffled.

-You promise?

-I promise

Bucky was thinking of his sister-and everyone he left behind-often.But this..this was a memory he had buried deep inside.So deep,it didn't even came back when Shuri finally freed his mind of Hydra's control.It was like the void's power digged into his soul and dragged his deepest,most sacred moments.Memories that formed and defined his character.That day at the cemetery,was defitinitive for him and his character.It changed him,made him grow up,feel a sense of responsibility towards those he loved.It was a messed up world,and nothing should he taken for granted.

It took a while to start fighting against the void.He couldn't move.All he could do was stare at the two children.It was impossible.He couldn't speak.He couldn't yell.He couldn't move his eyes away.He couldn't even breathe.The promise...the promise that haunted his mind..his soul..every part of him.A promise he made and broke in the worst possible way.He may have returned from the front,from Hydra.He may have escaped,and after a long time,he may be free.But home,that's a place he mever returned to.

[majulians-groupie]

SO FUCKING HAPPY TO SEE STUFF LIKE THAT🩷

I have lupus and finding the right doctor changed my life.It is the bare minimum but an understanding doctor is key to your quality of life.Sending positive vibes!🪷🪷

Okay, so I've posted a bit on this blog about my health, little update for anyone who's interested I had a fantastic first appointment today for my chronic illness, the doctor actually listened to me and I feel like I'm actually getting the help I need!

[majulians-groupie]

for better or for worse (6) 𐙚 b.b

pairing: new avenger!bucky barnes x fem!reader (fake marriage au)

warnings: nsfw, 18+, minors, dni, heavy angst, mentions of torture, mentions of injuries, bucky breaking down, flashbacks

summary: you and bucky are forced to play newlyweds at a luxury honeymoon resort. he’s controlling, you’re reckless, and now you’re sharing a bed. the problem? it’s getting harder to play pretend. and you’re not sure either of you will survive what comes next.

word count: 5.1k

author's note: hi darlings! it's insane how we have reached chapter 6 of this series! i have had the best time writing it 💓, i have so much to be grateful for and the support and love from you guys is one of it 💌 i love you guys, and please stay safe out there!!

series masterlist

You didn’t know how many hours it had been. The light hadn’t changed, just the slow, steady drip of water somewhere behind you and the pulse of your own blood ringing in your ears.

Your head ached, dull, slow, like the aftermath of being slammed too hard into a wall. Which, frankly, wasn’t far from the truth.

Your arm was the worst of it. A jagged gash tore down the outside of your forearm, raw and throbbing, dried blood cracked in thick, rust-colored streaks across your skin. 

Your lip had split too, probably from the backhand that sent you sprawling earlier, and it kept bleeding every time you swallowed. 

Every blink felt like your body was reminding you of something new that hurt, bruised ribs, a stiff shoulder or a swollen ankle from being dragged across the concrete floor.

But it wasn’t the pain that scared you. It was the silence.

No voices, zero footfalls. Just the occasional creak of metal above, the shift of the building settling like a creature breathing heavy in its sleep. It left too much room for your mind to wander. And it wandered exactly where you didn’t want it to.

To him.

It was stupid, really. He wasn’t here. And you couldn’t afford to be sentimental right now, couldn’t afford to lean into memory like it might bring him back. But the quiet made it impossible to stop the flood.

You thought about Madripoor, the alley where the rain had slicked the pavement, mixing with the sharp scent of neon-lit rot and the metallic tang of blood lingering in your mouth. 

Sam’s voice had echoed in the background as you and Bucky locked into another one of those fierce arguments. 

He’d been so damn close that night, angrier than usual, and it rattled you, because beneath the fury, beneath the sarcasm and snarl, there was something else flickering in his eyes.

You closed your eyes for just a second, just long enough to stop seeing the rust-stained floor pressing against your vision. 

And then your mind betrayed you, drifting back to that night—the heavy downpour swallowing sirens whole and leaving the streets slick with oil and neon reflections.

The alley behind the bar smelled of cigarettes, rot, and far too many secrets, the ones that the city-state. And it didn’t help that you were pissed, furious in that sharp, fiery way that didn’t quite reach your voice.

“You didn’t need to show up,” you snapped, voice low but sharp, pacing toward the exit. “I had it handled.”

Bucky’s boots echoed behind you, steady and sure. “You think sitting in a snake pit with three armed super soldiers and no backup counts as ‘handled’?”

You whirled around. “I was buying time. And I didn’t ask for your opinion.”

He didn’t flinch. Just stared with that flat, tight-lipped expression—arms crossed like he was holding himself back from snapping. 

Maybe from strangling you. Or perhaps himself.

“You went in with no weapon, no eyes, no exit plan. That’s a fucking death wish.”

“You don’t get to lecture me on suicidal choices,” you shot back. “You were seconds from throwing yourself off a rooftop last mission.”

“That was different.”

“Why? Because you decided it was?”

Sam finally caught up, muttering as he pulled off his comms. “I swear, if I have to break you two up again—”

“Stay out of it,” you and Bucky said in unison.

Sam threw his hands up. “Fine. Die mad.”

He stalked off, clearly done.

You turned back to Bucky, whose jaw was ticking like a timer.

“Why are you even here?” you asked, bitterness thick in your throat. “You don’t trust me. You don’t even like working with me.”

“I didn’t say that.”

“You didn’t have to.” You laughed, dry and bitter. “I see the way you look at me Bucky, like I’m some ticking time bomb, waiting to blow up and ruin your perfect mission.”

His eyes darkened. “I don’t think you’re a time bomb.”

“Then what am I?”

Bucky opened his mouth, then closed it again, swallowing hard.

You stepped closer, reckless fire rising before you could stop it.

“You hate that I don’t take orders. You hate that I talk back. You hate that I make my own calls. But most of all—” you paused, catching the flicker in his eyes “—I think you hate that you care what happens to me.”

He said nothing. Denied nothing.

Just stood there, rain dripping from his hair, his chest rising slow beneath that worn black jacket.

The silence between you stretched tight—like a wire waiting to snap.

Then, as if the universe needed a release valve, Sam called out from down the alley.

“You’re either about to fuck or kill each other, and either way, I’m not gonna be here when it happens.”

You looked away first.

Back then, you always looked away first.

You shouldn’t be this cold.

The room wasn’t freezing, but your body had long since stopped registering temperature. Hours ago, maybe. Or maybe it was the steady drain of blood, or the dull ache crawling through your bones like a warning. Or perhaps it was what happens when adrenaline finally fades, and fear slips in to claim its place like a shadow that won’t let go.

You pressed your back hard against the cold, unyielding wall, trying to will yourself to breathe. 

One slow breath in. One measured breath out. Again. 

Your arm throbbed with each heartbeat, a relentless pulse of pain and warning. Your throat felt like sandpaper. Your lip cracked every time you moved it, raw and bleeding beneath your teeth.

Still, you bit down.

Just to remind yourself you were still here.

You didn’t cry. You never cried.

But your vision blurred, edges wavering, not just from the pain, but from something darker. Something that seeped into the spaces between your thoughts. You told yourself it was temporary. That it would pass, that someone would come.

That he would come.

And yet, the silence stretched, long and merciless, like a taunt.

You tried not to think about him. You really did. But your mind had other plans, a cruel reflex it had learned to torture you with.

Bucky. The walking contradiction. Callused hands, haunted eyes. The man who never gave you straight answers—god, you hated that—but somehow always had your back in a firefight. The man who fought like he had no intention of surviving, but looked at you like maybe you were the reason he wanted to.

You hated him, sometimes.

Hated the way he made you feel. Hated that even now, bruised, bloodied, tied up like some corpse no one would mourn, you weren’t thinking about escape. 

You were thinking about him. And Madripoor.

And that look in his eyes when you told him you hated that he cared—like you’d cut past the walls he built, like you’d found a part of him he never meant to show.

You were never supposed to let it get this far.

This complicated.

You were soldiers. Operatives. Hell, maybe even tools, some days. You didn’t get to feel. Didn’t get to long for things, or people. 

And if you did, you certainly didn’t get to hold on.

But something in you had always pulled toward him.

The glances that lingered just a second too long. The arguments that dragged on for hours, always burning hotter than they should have. The way your hands brushed once during a stakeout—and how you both froze, like it meant something only the two of you understood.

Maybe it did.

But that night at the club, the one you never let yourself think about—was proof enough you were wrong. That maybe he had wanted you once, but only like a man wants something he can’t afford to keep.

A complication.

That’s all you were.

And complications always get left behind.

You curled your knees up, or tried to, but the chains held you tight. Your wrists ached. Your ankle swelled again. The cold metal bit into your skin like it was reminding you of a cruel truth.

He’s not coming.

You flinched as if someone had spoken the words aloud.

But even through the bitterness, the fear, the half-buried rage—there was a stubborn, foolish part of you that refused to die. 

A quiet voice whispering: He will.

He’d find you, he had to. Because if he didn’t, if this was the end, then all those stolen looks, those late-night talks, every time his voice softened when he said your name… they would mean nothing.

You couldn’t accept that. You wouldn’t.

So you sat there. Bleeding. Shaking. Not knowing how much longer you could hold on. And you whispered into the silence, just once:

“Please.”

Not loud enough for anyone else to hear.

Just enough for your own breaking heart.

The silence had wrapped itself around you like a second skin.

Not a balm, but a fucking shroud, smoke curling in your lungs, seeping into your thoughts, pressing down hard and too close. You barely registered the sound at first. 

The low creak of boots scraping against cold concrete. Heavy and measured, slower than the usual rhythm of the guards. Not lazy, deliberate. Hunting.

You didn’t look up.

Not until the voice came, slicing through the dark like a blade.

“Well, well. Still going strong, sweetheart?”

Your jaw clenched until your teeth ached.

Andrei.

You didn’t need to see his face to feel the cruel smirk twisting every word like a noose tightening around your throat. But you lifted your head anyway, because you wanted him to see you—bruised, bleeding, but unbroken. 

“Don’t call me that,” you rasped, your voice raw and ragged.

He clicked his tongue, stepping closer. 

The overhead light buzzed faintly, catching the glint of the blade at his hip—just decoration now. But a promise all the same.

“Why not?” he mused, voice cold. “Is that what Barnes calls you?”

Your breath hitched, just for a moment, a stutter in your defenses.

But that was all it took.

His eyes sparked, grin widening like he’d just found your pulse under his thumb.

“Oh,” he drawled slowly. “I hit a nerve.”

You said nothing.

“Shut the fuck up,” you ground out, voice low and trembling.

He crouched before you, settling on his haunches with lazy menace, as if time was his to waste. His gaze roamed your battered face, tracing every cut, every bruise, every flinch like a collector admiring his prized possession.

“I knew it,” he whispered, dark and certain. “There’s something going on between you two. Saw the way he looked at you.”

He leaned closer, and your skin crawled.

“Men don’t look at women like that unless they’ve fucked them,” he murmured. “Or they want to.”

“You know nothing,” you spat.

Andrei chuckled low and ugly. “Don’t I?”

He leaned in further, close enough for you to smell the sour rot on his breath—thick with blood and decay.

“I know exactly how men like him fall apart. Silent types. Repressed. Loaded with guilt, nowhere to put it, until you walk in, and suddenly, they’ve got something to hope for. A reason to live.”

You didn’t move.

“I know he’s coming,” Andrei said softly, voice almost cruelly gentle—as if delivering a death sentence. “Right now, he’s probably tearing through half the fucking island to find you. But it won’t matter.”

He tilted his head, smile sharp and dangerous.

“Because by the time he gets here, you’ll be nothing but pieces.”

Your stomach twisted cold.

“I’ll send him your hand,” he said, voice low and hungry. “Maybe your face. Something personal. A reminder. And when he breaks, I want to be there to watch.”

Your lips parted, but no sound came. You choked on the horror, on the truth. The part that scared you most was that he was right.

He saw it. He knew.

“That’s the thing about men like him,” Andrei murmured, brushing his knuckles along your cheek, cold as death.

“It’s not the blood that ruins them. It’s the love. One taste and they’re finished. And you?” His fingers trailed down your jaw, slow and deliberate. “You’re the one thing that still feels human to him.”

You flinched. Couldn’t stop it.

He smiled wider, satisfied.

“He’ll fall apart for you. We all do fall apart for someone, eventually.”

Your eyes burned. Salt stung your cracked lips. 

Your hands trembled—was it pain, fury, or pure fear? God, you didn’t know.

“Sit tight, princess,” he said, pushing himself up with a grunt. “We’ve got time. And when you beg, I’ll make sure he hears it.”

He turned away, boots clicking steady and cold as he walked toward the door. You didn’t realise your wrists were shaking until the chain rattled harshly against the floor.

Didn’t notice the tears slipping down your cheeks until they smeared red across your jaw. You pressed your head back against the wall and closed your eyes.

Tried to steady your ragged breath. Tried to forget his words. Tried to forget how terrifyingly close they had landed to the truth.

And somewhere, quiet, a faint crackle sparked beside you.

The room was dark, the only light a cold, steady glow from the mission monitors. The comms had been dead for hours. Static. Nothing but endless white noise choking every channel.

Until suddenly it wasn’t.

A faint crackle flickered through the feed. Then the signal surged, sharp, raw.

And a voice came through.

Not yours. His.

“Well, well. Still going strong, sweetheart?”

The air in the command center snapped taut, like a wire pulled taut.

Yelena’s spine straightened, eyes narrowing. John’s hand froze, gripping his weapon so hard his knuckles blanched.

Then your voice—weak, fractured, barely there.

“Don’t call me that.”

What followed unravelled like a nightmare they couldn’t wake from. Andrei’s voice slithered through the silence, every word soaked in venom. Cruelty dripping like acid, threats laced with dark promises, taunts sharp as knives. 

Your breath hitching in the void. And then that suffocating silence—when you couldn’t speak, couldn’t fight back, couldn’t bear the weight of it all.

The room held its breath.

Not a single soul dared to make a sound.

Until the line cut—sudden, final—like a door slammed shut on hope.

And then—

“Bucky.” Walker’s voice cracked, low and uncertain. “What the hell just—”

“Not now.”

Bucky’s voice sliced through the room like a blade—cold, hard, utterly dangerous. A sound so stripped bare of humanity it sent a chill down every spine.

He didn’t meet their eyes.

His hands clenched into fists, knuckles white as bone.

“I need to find her.”

Time had stopped making sense.

You weren’t sure if it had been minutes or hours or longer. The pain had dulled around the edges, but not in a way that felt like healing, more like your body was giving up on trying to warn you. 

Your arm had gone numb, the gash now sticky and crusted, and your ankle throbbed with a rhythm that made your teeth grind. The cuffs had dug in so deep you were starting to forget where your skin ended and the metal began.

Your head lolled forward, neck too weak to hold it upright. Everything was slow, too slow. You knew your body wanted to sleep, to shut down. You could feel it in the way your thoughts came slower, heavier, like each one had to fight through sludge just to surface.

You didn’t let it. Not yet. Not until you knew whether anyone was coming.

Then—something changed.

It was small at first. A shift in the air, a pressure drop. Then sound. Distant. Muffled. Not like before, not the bored shuffle of guards or the occasional metallic clang of a pipe. A thud.

A yell, fast, panicked, in Russian.

Then chaos broke loose.

Gunfire sounded out.The staccato burst of automatic fire ricocheted off the concrete walls, each shot a heartbeat too close. Screams followed. The sound of boots pounding, frantic shouting. Someone was giving orders and someone else was begging not to die.

Another blast, louder this time. Close enough that the ceiling dust rained down over your shoulders in pale, choking clouds as smoke curled under the door. 

You coughed, blinked against it, tried to focus.

A body slammed into the wall outside with a sickening crunch. The whole frame shook. You barely flinched.

Then silence. Just for a breath.

Two.

BANG.

The door exploded inward. It didn’t open — it shattered, splintering off its hinges, crashing against the wall like it had been blown in by sheer force of rage. The smoke parted.

And then—

A grunt followed. Then the wet crunch of bone, maybe a nose, maybe a rib, before another body hit the floor with a shriek.

Andrei.

He was still conscious when she grabbed him by the hair, dragging him back with a snarl in her throat, screaming curses.

But you didn’t see her. 

You saw him. Bucky.

His silhouette filled the ruined doorway, broad shoulders heaving, blood soaking his knuckles. His eyes found yours instantly, like they’d been looking for nothing else. Something in your chest gave out.

He moved before you could blink. Dropped to his knees beside you with a force that rattled the floor, his breath hitching as he saw the cuffs, the blood, the state of you. His fingers reached out, not shaking, but fast. 

Desperate.

“You came,” you whispered. It was barely a sound. Your throat couldn’t manage more.

He didn’t answer. Not at first.

Just took the chain in his vibranium hand and snapped it in a single twist. Like it offended him. Like it had dared to touch you.

His other hand cupped your cheek. Rough palm, stained in blood, but careful. Too careful.

“I would never leave you,” he said. His voice sounded destroyed. “You hear me?”

You nodded — or tried to. The motion sent fresh pain shooting down your spine, and you winced when his thumb brushed too close to the gash on your arm.

“Shit,” he muttered, pulling back, his expression twisting. “You’re hurt—god, you’re bleeding—”

You pushed yourself upright instinctively, but your legs crumpled beneath you.

He caught you before your body could even register the fall. One strong arm under your knees, the other braced at your back, pulling you in against the solid heat of him. 

You sagged into it. Couldn’t fight it. Didn’t want to.

He held you like you were made of glass and grief.

“Stay with me,” he whispered, his mouth pressed to your temple. “Sweetheart. Please. Just—stay with me, okay?”

His voice cracked on the last word.

Your eyes were already sliding shut. It felt good. Too good.

But you heard him. Somewhere in the thick, dark fog, you heard him.

A voice echoed down the hall you vaguely recognised as Alexei’s.

“Medics coming! Bob sent them, they on their way!”

You heard movement, footsteps, the clatter of gear being thrown open.

But none of it touched you.

Just him.

Just his arms—iron around you, just the sound of his voice, low and unsteady, raw with something that sounded like pleading, vulnerable in a way that didn’t belong to him. 

Bucky didn’t beg. 

Not for anything, not until now.

Andrei didn’t land so much as collapse.

Yelena dragged him by the hair, his boots scuffing uselessly behind him, his mouth leaking blood and broken teeth. He was whimpering now, his face a wreck, nose bent sideways, one eye already sealed shut, his jaw swelling beneath fresh bruises.

She kicked a chair into place with a metallic screech.

Then she shoved him into it, still gripping his hair, the other hand already reaching for her blade.

“Sit,” she said, almost gently. “Or I’ll start with the knees.”

He spat something in broken Russian, garbled, half-conscious.

Yelena crouched beside him, tilting her head like a curious animal.

“You want to speak my language?” she murmured. “Good. Let’s begin.”

John stepped through the busted doorway, sleeves rolled to the elbows, kevlar stained with blood and dust. 

“Well,” he muttered, dragging a hand through his hair. “Didn’t think you’d save me a seat.”

Yelena didn’t look at him. Her eyes stayed locked on the man trembling before her.

“Do you know what they say about us Russians, Andrei?” she asked, voice low and smooth. “We don’t bluff. And we don’t rush.”

She twirled the knife between her fingers. The blade caught the light like a smile.

“We enjoy this part.”

Andrei was shaking now, hands twitching against the arms of the chair.

“Please,” he stammered. “You don’t have to—”

“Don’t have to?” John echoed, tone flat. “You talked about cutting her up. Mailing bits of her like fucking party favours.”

“I didn’t touch her—” Andrei gasped, shrinking back as the blade kissed his cheekbone.

“You talked,” Yelena snapped. “That’s enough.”

“Please—please—I'll give you anything! Names! Locations! Passwords! Just—don’t.”

Yelena stood. 

“You’ll scream a lot more before I believe you.”

The hallway still echoed with the aftermath—the stench of smoke and blood, the groans of men who wouldn’t be getting up again. But Bucky didn’t hear any of it. All his attention was on you, unconscious and limp in his arms, your breathing shallow and fragile, barely there at all. 

Your blood soaked through his shirt, warm and wet and unbearably real in a way that made it impossible for him to let go. He’d seen a hundred bodies in his life, carried them, buried them, mourned them even, but this was different. 

This was you.

“Hey,” he whispered, gently brushing the hair back from your face. “I’ve got you. You’re okay now, alright?” But there was no response. Only the faintest rise and fall of your chest. His heart clenched tighter.

Then, footsteps came, fast and urgent, breaking through the quiet. The medics burst through the broken doorway, gear strapped to their backs, already pulling gloves on in practiced motion. 

Bob had sent them, air-dropped in as soon as the comms had flickered back to life.

“Where is she?” one shouted, spotting the blood staining Bucky’s shirt. Another knelt down hard beside him, voice sharp and commanding: “We need to lay her flat. Sir, you need to let go.”

Bucky didn’t move.

“She’s losing too much,” the medic said, unzipping his pack. “If we don’t start now—”

“I said I’ve got her,” Bucky snapped, but the crack in his voice betrayed how close he was to breaking. “I’ve got her.”

“Sergeant Barnes.” A third medic stepped forward, calmer, firmer, more steady. “We’re here to help her but you need to let us do our job.”

His jaw clenched. He looked down at your face, eyes closed and skin pale, almost translucent in the harsh light. 

He could still feel your heartbeat against his chest, faint, distant, as if it belonged to someone else. Slowly, painfully, he eased you down, as if touching you might shatter something fragile inside him.

He stayed by your side as they worked, one hand still curled protectively around yours. His fingers trembled, but he didn’t let go. “Blood pressure’s dropping,” one medic called. “Tourniquet, now. Apply pressure on that arm.”

“Start an IV line,” another added urgently. “We need fluids in her, fast.”

The voices blurred into static, fading at the edges of his awareness. He couldn’t focus on anything except you. His eyes locked on your face, trying to imprint every detail. And suddenly, memories flooded in, sharp and vivid.

It was late, Madripoor again, somewhere between missions, you had found a rooftop no one else knew about, and he’d followed you there without thinking. 

You were sitting on the ledge, legs dangling over the edge like you weren’t afraid of falling. Like the world couldn’t hurt you unless you let it. 

He hated it. And envied it.

“I ever tell you what scares me?” he asked quietly, voice low and unexpected.

You looked at him, that little tilt of your head full of curiosity. “No.”

He paused, searching for the words. Then said softly, “That Steve was wrong about me.”

You didn’t laugh. You didn’t comfort him, you just looked at him, steady and unflinching.

“Steve was wrong about a lot of things Buck,” you said simply. “But not you.”

That was it, no dramatic pause, no grand gesture. Just that, and it lodged somewhere deep inside him, deeper than he knew what to do with.

Back in the present, one of the medics spoke again, snapping him back. “We’ve stopped the bleeding. She’s stable, for now. But we need to move her.”

The brunette nodded, barely.

He still hadn’t let go of your hand.

Bucky remembered that night.

You had been drinking something awful, street vendor liquor in some unlabelled bottle, still warm from the sticky heat of Madripoor.

He didn’t drink much, his enhanced body processing alcohol faster than most—but you were already halfway through your second when you shoved the bottle into his hand and teased, “You’re brooding again.”

“I don’t brood,” he muttered, taking a casual sip, unfazed by the burn that would have floored most people. You laughed harder.

You were sitting across from him on the rooftop ledge, your boots swinging lazily over the edge, the city flickering like a living thing beneath your feet. The humid air smelled of exhaust and ocean salt, thick and heavy, buzzing softly with neon hums from the streets below. 

You looked at home there, unbothered, untouchable, moonlight casting silver across your skin, lighting the sharp planes of your cheekbones, the slow, easy curl of your smile.

He couldn’t stop watching you. It struck him then, suddenly, how long that had been happening. How his eyes found you in crowded rooms before he realised, how his footsteps began matching yours without thought, how your voice, even when teasing or mocking, cut through the noise in a way no one else’s ever had.

It hadn’t hit him all at once. It crept in. 

A glance that lingered too long. A silence too full. 

The way his chest tightened when someone else touched you, when someone else smiled at you. 

But that night was different. That night was when it finally clicked. When he could no longer deny it.

You asked him a question, one of those late-night things you tossed at him when the city was quiet and you felt like neither of you were more than ghosts sharing space.

“If you hadn’t gone to war,” you said, chin resting in your palm, “what do you think your life would’ve been like?”

He blinked. “What?”

“Before Hydra. Before everything. What would it have been?” you asked softly. “A normal life. What would you have done?”

He didn’t answer right away. He didn’t know how. It was like asking a shadow what it would do if it had a body. You didn’t fill the silence. You let it hang. You gave him space to sit with it.

Finally, he said, “I think I would’ve married someone.”

Your brows rose, not in surprise at the thought but maybe at the fact he’d said it at all. 

He swallowed, thickly. “I used to want that, a family. Something quiet, someone who looked at me like I was enough.”

You nodded. “You still want that?”

He hesitated.

“I don’t know if I get to.”

That was the truth, the brutal, naked truth. Deep down, beneath the soldier, beneath the missions, beneath the man who’d learned to live without wanting—he didn’t believe he deserved anything soft.

Then you said it. “You do.”

Two words, soft and certain, no hesitation.

You weren’t trying to comfort him, you weren’t trying to fix anything, you were just telling him something you believed.

He looked at you. 

The shape of you, perched so close. The tilt of your mouth, the stubborn glint in your eyes. You were always so sharp, so reckless, so much—and yet here you were—quietly offering him something no one else ever had.

Not pity. Not forgiveness.

Belief.

And in that moment, something split open in him.

He didn’t say anything. Of course he didn’t, he couldn’t.

But the thought slammed into him like a punch to the ribs.

It’s you. It had always been you.

You were the one who made him believe there was still something good buried beneath all the wreckage, something, someone worth saving, even after everything.

The only person who could see him clearly, scars and sins, silence and violence—and not turn away. You didn’t flinch at the soldier. You didn’t fear the monster everyone ran from. 

And somehow, impossibly, you still saw the man, you saw him. He’d fallen in love with you long before he admitted it to himself.

But that was the moment he knew, and it scared the hell out of him.

Because love wasn’t safe. It wasn’t calculated.

It didn’t fit in mission reports or debriefings or the kind of life that came with blood on your hands and a kill count longer than your memory.

Love meant losing. Risk. Vulnerability.

And yet— When you looked at him that night, just a glance across the rooftop, city lights burning behind you, he thought, If she asked me to run, I’d go.

No hesitation, no questions.

Just go.

But you didn’t ask, you just leaned back on your hands, looked up at the sky, and let the silence stretch again.

Comfortable. Easy.

And he stayed beside you. He always would.

Even now, with blood on your skin and too many wounds to count, even now, he was right here.

Because there was never a world where he wouldn’t be.

Not for you.

Bucky sat there beside you, watching your chest rise and fall under the thin hospital blankets. Each breath came a little steadier than the last, a fragile rhythm in the quiet room. The dim light cast soft shadows across your face, revealing the faintest hint of color returning to your cheeks. 

Despite the stillness, every tiny movement felt like a victory, a quiet reassurance that you were still here, still fighting. He didn’t take his eyes off you, as if letting his gaze linger could somehow keep you tethered to the world.

And quietly, almost without realising it, as if the words slipped out on their own, he whispered it aloud for the first time.

It wasn’t an attempt to draw you back or demand a response. It was something raw, something vulnerable, carried on a breath that felt too fragile to hold inside any longer.

“I love you.”

You didn’t stir.

No flicker of recognition, no small smile to answer him. Just the steady rise and fall of your chest, the shallow rhythm of your breathing. But he stayed anyway. He remained rooted beside you, unwilling to leave or break the fragile connection you and him shared in that moment.

Just in case you heard him.

a/n: i am also proof reading chapter 7 and i am so so excited for you guys to read it! i am kinda sad this series is coming to an end :") and i hope you guys have enjoyed it so far!

taglist: @hughjackmanadict @vxllys @f1padfoot @mortallydistinguishedwolf @midnightvitality @starglory @benbarnesprettygurl @biggestfangirl @lexavalon52 @harrietandcats @cjand10 @loganficsonly @kqliie @kitkatyap @buckyslefttooth @its-in-the-woods @yessebastianstanus @buckysgirl27 @lokisgirlie @furiousprincesskingdom @keira-kaz2y5 @amatiswayland @emilyswortwellen @samanthaw16 @bobscucumber @rrosiitas @alicetesser @morphoportis @polkadot-567 @w-h0re @c3iiaaaaa @mouseratface @biaswreckedbybuckybarnes @that-daughter-of-hephaestus

[majulians-groupie]

Oh god im sorry for interfering but istg I have so many things to say cuz shit like this make me SO angry.Like..I can't even believe this is smth an actual person wrote down,read it and decided to send it to another human being.This isn't even about the content,I wouldn't even be surprised to hear that anon just read 3 words from the fics and just decided to spread hate.And the get a life comment sounds way too ironic coming from a person that chooses to spend their own life sending hate and horrible comments on creators.

Ik it can be hard not letting stuff like that affect you,but plz try to not give a shit about comments like that.You have nothing to apologise for.This is YOUR art.Thats why there are so many writers out there.Each person has their own perspective,touch,writing style and personal taste they put into their work.If smth is not your cup of tea you can just skip their work without writing something YOU KNOW is going to hurt another person's feelings.It's actually not so hard.Ffs,its actually the easiest and the least time and energy consuming option.

In my personal opinion you are a wonderful writer, like istg your "for better or for worse" series has me HOOOKED and can't wait for the next chapter tomorrow!🩷🪷

Sending positive vibes!A fandom is nothing without creative people making their wonderful ideas come to life.We're grateful for the work you put into your stories!

Seriously the worse writer I ever come across. How do you manage to write Bucky this way? It doesn’t even sound like him. How do you suck this badly? It’s a talent. Your writing of Bucky doesn’t even sound like him I don’t even know how you are getting notes for fuck’s sake. Seriously get a fucking life.

hi, okay. i’m sorry my work isn’t what you were looking for, and i never said my writing is for everyone, or claimed that it’s the best, i’ve always said that i’m trying to be better and i do try hard to ensure i get my best work out. i guess i missed the mark for you, i’m sorry.

[majulians-groupie]

Who do you think gave MCU!Bucky that nickname? I like to think it was Steve when they were kids

in my heart it was his sister Becca. barely able to talk but was gonna call him and... yes, it became his whole personality🩷

[majulians-groupie]

[majulians-groupie]

"The girl he left behind"

Summary: Sergeant Barnes has lived a long time,time which his enemies claim is burrowed.Enough time, to endure all the darkness and despair the world has to offer.No one could even begin to imagine the horrors he could have possibly seen in the void.Truth is though,that for the human soul,things are much,much more simple.Things that seem to define us,often stay hidden,lurking in the shadows of our subconscious,until we have to acknowledge them.More often than not,and Sergeant Barnes is no exception,this tends to happen at our lowest point.

Warnings:Thunderbolts mildest spoilers ever(mostly about how the void works),Grief,alcoholism mentioned,graveyard setting,mention of depression and mental illness,PTSD,description of a panic attack,thoughts about wars and soldiers.

*This has been in my drafts for a while and I finished it while having a fever lmao😭.I was kinda dissapointed not to see Bucky's Void in Tb.I know we have seen plenty of hydra,but I think it was a chance to explore his psych through important stuff that havent even been mentioned in the show.Thats what was my inspo for this fic.Hope you enjoy!*🩵

Please be kind,English is not my first language.

◞ ྀི◟ ͜ ◞ ྀི◟ ͜ ◞ ྀི◟⠀ ◞ ྀི◟ ͜ ◞ ྀི◟ ͜ ◞ ྀི◟

"Oh no..I had a great past so I'm totally fine"

If they weren't all trapped in a soul crushing simulation of their worst memories and experiences,everyone would give him a playful scoff,or a pat in the back combined with pitiful eyes before telling him it's okay to not pretend sometimes.

However,the situation was dire,and they needed to save the city-and quite possibly the world-.Things were moving quick and they had to regroup.

But it was there,it lingered in the back on his head.Since way too long before the void,and way too long after the fight.Creeping up on moments where he dared to assume things were-for the first time since A WHILE-somewhat fine.Making his head pounding,his breath shallow and his heartbeat acknowledged.

More often than not,it was also there,in those few moments where he would decide to fight back.Where he would decide to stop running from the voices that tormented his head everytime he tried to sleep.In those small moments of victory,where he would be-seemingly for the 100th time-pouring his entire cheap stash of alcohol down the sink.

Meaning,it seemed to appear was time to face his guilt head on,and bridge the man he was trying to build with the boy that thought that had everything grounded.

Given all of this,it wasn't really a really big surprise when he saw her in the void.Multiple times.

He saw the day he tried to find her again.To see if she was still alive.It was hard.But he needed to know.He always hoped she has a perfect life,with a happy family.Thats what she said she wanted.But he wasn't sure why he couldn't be happy about her when he found out exactly that.

Hell,she was happy.Content.Surrounded by her their family.They were returning from her granddaughter's dance recital.A ballerina.Just like she wanted,before polyo robbed her of her future.But of course she didnt have any resentment.She was always like that.Full of sunshine and kindness.Satiated with leaving her dreams through her family.

Prosperity.Stability.Joy

Everything she built without him.She didn't need him.Of course she hadn't.It's been so long.

The family moved inside the house and closed the door.Bucky creeped towards the front window.

It was the first time he truly felt like a mere number in a history book.Another lost soldier that didn't make it.Another serial number whose only salvation was an unknown soldier memorial.It was the first time Bucky didn't feel disconnected from his old self.Because for the first time,he didn't see him as something significant.He would spend hours on therapy,talking about his fear of never truly reclaiming his lost identity again.He'd started this endless journey of self discovery,of trying to resurrect James,and bury the Soldat in his place instead.

But this time,for the first time ever,he felt like maybe James wasn't something worth saving.

Maybe the Soldat was the only way he could ever be anything of purpose.Maybe Hydra chose him,didn't just find him.Maybe the darkness was always there,looming,creeping in,and found it's chance to take over when he was in an enviroment that allowed it.

Maybe he let them take over

Maybe he willingly let go of everything holding him back,his family,his friends,his values,in exchange for some pain relief.For the bliss of the haziness he felt when the Soldat took over,numbness consuming him and waking up at the end of the missions,only to be put in cryo and sleep again.

Maybe James wasn't anything to look for,to find or reclaim.Maybe this fragile,vulnerable washed up version of a man he was now was all he had.

-"NO"!

He punched Becca's window so hard he lost his balance.He looked at his flesh arm.He didnt have a single scratch,nor he was in pain.Everything was in slow motion.The glass shards didnt fell to the floor,but remained hovering,surrounding him as if to mock him,only for them to to turn into soft water droplets a few seconds later.They were everywhere.Then the scenery changed quickly. Everything was dark.He was suddenly drenched.He was getting cold.He hated getting cold.It reminded him of the first few horrible moments of waking up from the cryo chamber.Most of his limbs barely surviving frostbites,his vision failing him,diziness not allowing to even stand in his own.Being injected.Beaten.Tortured to submission.Striped from any sense of decency or humanity.Until it was time to go to that cursed chair again and-

His heartbeat started going up.His hands were shaking.He knew when a panic attack was coming.He started taking deep breaths.

"Inhale..1,2,3,4....exhale..1,2,3,4"

He started looking around,trying to pinpoint stuff.The ground smelled of rain and mud.There was fog everywhere.It would have been peaceful if it wasn't for the dread looming in his chest.

"I have to get out of here"

He took a deep breath and started trying to navigate.He started walking. Faster.And faster.Nothing would change.

"FOR FUCK'S SHA-"

He made a swift turn towards the other side until he froze.He held his breath.In front him,there was finally something.Two small children.They were standing in front of a single marble gravestone.There wasn't much of age difference.The both looked like they were around 8 to 10 years of age.

-"You think he is looking at us right now Jimmy?"

-"Sure!What do you think we brought him red peonies for?He loves red!"

-"If mummy finds out.."

-"She won't!Have I ever lied to you?"

-"Yes!You blamed Roxy for eating my chocolates when it was obvious that dogs dont-"

-"Have I ever let you down?"

The little girl didn't speak.

-"Exactly.This is not easy for mum.But you have every right to visit dad if you miss him.I still don't understand why she left you at Jenny's for the funeral."

-"She told me graveyards were not for little girls and daddy wouldn't have wanted me there.

-"Crap!You're barely a year younger than me!"

-"Jimmy!"

-"Sorry.."

A few seconds passed..then the boy started giggling

-"Dad would smirk at me right now.He never pretended that swear words bothered him".

"Nope!"

Little Becca leaves the peonies next to her father's name:

"James "Jimmy" Buchanan Barnes Sr.

Beloved and never forgotten.

Father,Husband,friend and fighter"

"They should have put hero as well!"

Little Bucky stomped his foot at the ground.

"We don't need a tombstone to tell us that"

The boy blinked.He then turned at his sister.He was staring at her.Dumbfounded

"You're...you're right.."

A big pause

"you're always right"

"Of course I am"

Bucky scoffs and wraps an arm around his sister.

He didnt speak for a while.He was just staring st the ground.Becca knew something was up.When her brother wasnt blabbering,something was ALWAYS up

"What are you thinking?"

"It is just that..now..I..I am the one that supposed to take care of you.Take care of mum.The house.I am the man now and-

"Mum was literally feeding you chicken soup on your bed a week ago?Who is the one taking care of who again?"

"I was sick!"

"I know!That's what I am trying to tell you.You're still a kid.Like me.That doesn't change because dad died.We can't do anything more than stay out of trouble for ma's shake"

-"But.."

-"No buts!We're in this together!That's what families are for you doofus"

-"Watch it!I'm still older than you"

Becca pinches his cheeck condescendingly

-"Barely"

"Oh I'll show ya"

He gave his little sister a tickle attack which evolved into a playfight.

A few rounds of screaming matches later,it was time for the kids to leave the tombstone behind,go home before their mother found out where they were.They took one last good look at where their father had been buried.A few minuted later,it was the little girl that spoke.

"You have to stay though" said Becca suddenly.

"What does this mean?"

"It means that if we're gonna get through this,we need to be together,ALL of us."Becky's eyes suddenly became glossy and her voice started shaking.

"But if you get drafted,"

The boy sharply turns to face her as she started heaving.

"-like dad did and-..."

Bucky couldnt stand it anymore.He wrapped his sister in his arms,keeping her firmly against his chest,one hand cradling her head and the other rubbing circles on her back.

-"I will always be with you.Even if I'm far away it will only be because I have to,and I will ALWAYS return back home."

-"Jimmy you can't know if-"

-"Always"

Becca sniffled.

-You promise?

-I promise

Bucky was thinking of his sister-and everyone he left behind-often.But this..this was a memory he had buried deep inside.So deep,it didn't even came back when Shuri finally freed his mind of Hydra's control.It was like the void's power digged into his soul and dragged his deepest,most sacred moments.Memories that formed and defined his character.That day at the cemetery,was defitinitive for him and his character.It changed him,made him grow up,feel a sense of responsibility towards those he loved.It was a messed up world,and nothing should he taken for granted.

It took a while to start fighting against the void.He couldn't move.All he could do was stare at the two children.It was impossible.He couldn't speak.He couldn't yell.He couldn't move his eyes away.He couldn't even breathe.The promise...the promise that haunted his mind..his soul..every part of him.A promise he made and broke in the worst possible way.He may have returned from the front,from Hydra.He may have escaped,and after a long time,he may be free.But home,that's a place he mever returned to.

[majulians-groupie]

DAAMNN

Checks and Balances

Pairing: Bucky x Reader

Summary: Your boss was an ass—you knew it, the office knew it, the entire country knew it. Working for Senator Brown was never easy, but you had managed it for the better part of three years and didn’t want to see your career go up in flames. Unfortunately for you, Bucky was slowly falling in love with you, and Congressman Barnes didn’t think managing it was enough. 

Word count: 9k

Warnings: Injury (kinda), hospitals, angst, an abusive boss, protective Bucky!!

a/n: Ahh a Bucky fic that's not an AU (that's also one million words)! Idk how the government works tbh so sorry if things are a little inaccurate there lol. This takes place right before Thunderbolts! Thank you for reading, I love you!! ❤️❤️

Masterlist

~~

“Congressman Barnes,” you greeted, a slight nod of your head the only acknowledgement you could afford. Senator Brown was only a moment away from screaming at you again, and you could only take so much screaming in one day.  

Bucky, unfortunately, did not care about being screamed at by Senator Brown. He took your upper arm in a light grip and shot you a confused smile. “What, you avoiding me? Can’t be seen in the halls talking to me?” 

A fairer assessment of Bucky’s interruption was that he didn’t know of the wrath Senator Brown could incite upon you. Sure, Bucky knew that Brown was a hardass, and by association, his executive assistant would have to put up with it, but he had no way of knowing just how terrible the man was. 

When you met Bucky a few weeks ago, you had been alone in a hotel lobby. The heels accompanying your freshly pressed pantsuit had been killing you, and you needed a moment for your feet to breathe. Bucky, apparently, also needed a moment away from the conference, and you had gotten to talking when he plopped into the overstuffed armchair beside you. 

He knew you worked for Senator Brown. You knew he was a Congressman, obviously. You also knew his background and the complexities that came with it. Many people in the political space turned up their noses at him, something you had a similar experience with as you were “only an assistant.” The two of you had joked about it, eventually making your way to the hotel bar and laughing over the amount of hidden toupees currently residing in the ballroom.

In the weeks that followed, you had texted with him, met for coffee twice because he was “in the area”, and had maybe even considered the fact that you were friends with Congressman Barnes. Friends were invaluable to have in D.C., but they were also something to be wary of. Bucky didn’t feel the type to be wary of. 

As you stood halfway frozen in the hallway, his comment began to make sense. He was calling back to your initial hotel conversation, making a joke about biases and stuck-up politicians, but this was not the time. Not that he could have known. 

Senator Brown barked out your name when he noticed you were no longer beside him, surely trying to get you to jot down some thought banging around in his head. You whipped your head to the side, almost missing the affronted expression on Bucky’s face as he registered the tone that your name was spoken in, and shook your arm from his hold. 

“Sorry, Congressman,” you murmured, turning on your heel and making quick strides in Brown’s direction. “I apologize. What can I do for you, Senator?” 

Your boss barely hid a scoff. “You can start by being where I need you to be. And write this down—I do not believe that the House takes the proper—” 

You scrambled to take out your phone and open the notes app. A rookie mistake; you usually had it open the second his meetings ended, but you had been distracted. By Bucky. 

Your heels hurriedly clicking against polished marble, you took a fleeting glance over your shoulder. Bucky remained there, his brow furrowed and his arms crossed over his chest, metal from his hand glinting against the gentle fluorescence of the hall. 

Three days later, he brought it up. 

You thought you’d found a private spot to scarf down your lunch in your allotted fifteen-minute break, but with a sandwich only half finished and your mouth full, the call of your name reminded you that there is never any privacy for you at this job. The sound of Bucky’s voice softened the blow a bit. 

“He always treat you like that?” Bucky asked, swinging his leg over the bench on the other side of the table. He watched as you tried to chew quickly, some of the hardness he’d sat down with melting from his expression. 

You covered your mouth with your hand and swallowed hard. “What?” you finally got out, reaching for your water bottle. 

Bucky raised a brow. “Brown. Does he always yell at you?” 

After a few sips and swallows, you gave up on being able to finish your lunch. You had to plan out your meals very meticulously to finish, and Bucky had already taken up 30 precious seconds. 

“Oh,” you began. You swiped a hand through the air. “It’s fine. He just gets a little intense sometimes. It’s just his personality.” 

“You’ve been working for him for three years.” 

“Right.” 

“The guy should treat you better. He could only keep assistants for a few weeks at a time before you.” 

“How do you know that?” 

Bucky slid your food towards you. “Eat. You looked like you were in a hurry when I got here.” 

You eyed him for a moment. With his hair tucked behind his ears, you could see the tenseness of his jaw and the shadow of his beard dusting above his collar. It was no secret that Bucky was alarmingly handsome in a sea of 60-year-old politicians, but you had never gotten the opportunity to see it at work. You were always too busy, and Bucky’s office was three floors down. 

“I’m sorry I didn’t text you back,” you said, reaching for the fruit in your bag. “I meant to. I’ve just been working late since the meeting on Monday.” 

“It’s alright.” A pause as you continued to eat your food. You had maybe four minutes left. “How late?” 

“Oh, um, I’ve been going home around 10. It’s such a pain in the ass to get a taxi at that time, you wouldn’t believe. Uber isn’t much better, and I definitely can’t walk home in these things,” you joked, motioning to the bandaids strapped behind your heels. “It’s not so bad, though. After about a month of late nights, Brown will go on a “vacation,” and I’ll have a few weeks to reign in the chaos during normal business hours.” 

You were giggling as you spoke, adding air quotes and sarcasm to try to alleviate the irritated look Bucky was sporting. After a few weeks of being around him, you understood that Bucky was quieter than you, but his silence right now was pressing. Your jokes weren’t getting him to talk, so you switched gears. 

Popping a grape in your mouth, you asked, “What are you doing up here, anyway?” 

Bucky let out a breath and tapped his hand on the table. “Honestly? I came to check on you.” 

“To check on me?” 

“After Monday, I wanted to make sure—” 

Your phone started going off, the “Senator Brown” contact making your blood run cold. You brought your watch up and let out a gasp that made Bucky jump. 

“What?” he rushed, standing from the table as you started to pack your things in a panic. He went to help you, but after two brushes of his hands, he realized he was only in the way. 

“My break was over two minutes ago. I have to go right now.” 

“Two minutes? What—y/n, that isn’t—” 

He was here to check on you. Right. That was really sweet. 

Your brain tried to catch up with your panic as you reached over and squeezed his arm gratefully. “I’m really fine, Bucky. It was nice to see you. We should get coffee again.” You were sliding through the double doors and back into the building as you called, “I’ll text you. I promise this time.” 

And you did. In the seven minutes of free time you got around 9 pm, you sent him a quick follow-up text. The bubble went right below his text from two days ago, and you felt a small pinch of guilt for not answering him until now.

You: Free Saturday morning?

He answered you almost instantly.

Bucky: Depends. Are you still at work right now?

You frowned at your phone. 

You: If I am does that mean you won’t get coffee with me?

Bucky: So you are 

You: …maybe 

And then, your seven minutes of silence were up. When Brown’s footsteps could be heard by the door, you tucked your phone into your desk and went to work on the stack of papers he assigned you. He so graciously let you know that he was going home now, and you could leave once you were finished. 

That was perfect. 

It took you an hour and a half, but when you sorted the final paper and checked his schedule for tomorrow for the last time, a sense of relief flooded you. You didn’t even care that it would take another 30 minutes for an Uber to arrive. All you could think about was your shower and your bed and taking these shoes off your feet. 

You gathered your belongings and swiped your phone from the desk, clicking to the rideshare app and somewhat dreading the small talk to come. It would be extremely convenient to have a car, but that wasn’t something in the cards for you. Your tiny apartment had barely any parking, and everything else was within walking distance. 

As you continued to ponder the pros and cons of taking the bus home, a honk from the curb made you jump. You lowered your phone and squinted into the distance of the now barren road. 

“Someone order an Uber?” 

Disbelief was your first emotion, and then shock and then confusion. “Buck—Congressman Barnes?” you asked, correcting yourself when the memory of the building at your back resurfaced. 

“You’re not getting in my car if you’re calling me that,” Bucky replied, leaning down to peer out the passenger-side window. 

“What are you doing here?” you asked him for the second time today.

“I told you, I’m driving for Uber. You called for one?” 

A disbelieving laugh fell from your lips. You shook your phone by your face and leaned down towards the window. “Haven’t even ordered it yet. I’m not supposed to get in the car unless they can put in the code verifying my identity.” 

“Give me a code, then. Here,” he passed you his phone, the background illuminating a small white cat. “Wait, sorry, I have to unlock it.” 

Your next laugh was more of a scoff as he reached through the window to take it back. “Seriously, what are you doing here?” 

Bucky paused, looking you up and down for a moment before his jaw ticked to the side in a smile. “I’m taking you home. You live close, it won’t take very long.” 

“I can’t ask you to do that.” 

“You’re not asking. Now, hurry up and get in. I’ve been in the fire lane for 20 minutes and parking enforcement hates me here.” 

You went to argue again, but Bucky only raised a brow and unlocked the doors. 

Sliding in the car was somewhat of a mess with your bag and your jacket and the file you had meant to finish at home almost suffocating you. Bucky tried to help, grabbing items and waiting for you to buckle in before placing them by your feet. You were flustered from the transition, trying to adjust your skirt and seatbelt as Bucky reached forward to tuck a strand of hair stuck in your lip gloss behind your ear. 

You turned to look at him instantly, but the man only gave you a closed-lip smile and shifted the gear of his car, pulling away from the building of your nightmares. You blinked back towards the dashboard, needing a few more seconds to settle yourself. 

“I really didn’t mean to make you feel guilty,” you stressed to Bucky after he flipped the radio on, low music trickling in. “When I told you about staying late, I mean.” 

Bucky tsked, knocking his head to the side to shoot you a lingering glance. “You didn’t, alright? This is my own problem. I just didn’t feel comfortable with you trying to find a way home so late.” 

“I’ve been doing it for a while and I haven’t died yet,” you attempted to joke. 

Not the best joke, it seemed, with Bucky’s fist clutching the steering wheel a hair tighter, the sound of leather meeting your ears. He shook his head. “Where’s Brown? He doesn’t let you take work home?” 

“Oh, he does sometimes,” you chipperly replied, trying to sound awake and get Bucky un-pissed off. “He just checks my timesheets when we work overtime, so I have to make sure I stay late enough so that he won’t say anything. I still have this to take care of once I get home.”

You tapped the manila file in your lap and looked over to Bucky as he drove. He was wearing jeans and a pullover crewneck, his hair tied back and casual, and even though you’d seen him outside of work before, he looked different this way. Something about the night and him driving you home made him look different. 

Bucky didn’t make a comment about your work or the system you had to avoid criticism from the Senator. Silence lapsed in the car, you lightly drumming your fingers on your thigh as the D.C. night swept past along the car windows. 

“I would like to get coffee Saturday,” Bucky finally said. “If the offer still stands.” 

“Of course it stands.” 

You only briefly caught the half-smile that lit up his face before the light of the streets was lost to a tunnel. 

~~

Coffee was relaxed and enjoyable, as it always was with Bucky. He asked a few more questions about your work, a topic he had previously not touched on. He wanted to know about your coworkers, if the interns ever helped you, how much time you got off, and in turn, you asked him about being a Congressman and if he actually enjoyed it. 

Both answers left the other person less than satisfied. 

“What about you?” Bucky asked, tilting his cup up. “Why have you been an executive assistant for so long?” 

You hummed. “I don’t know, really. My dad was in politics, and he would only really accept my work if I was, too. He’s… not around now, but I feel like I have to stay. I’m good at it.” 

“I believe it. Could be good at a lot of things, though.” 

You shot him a mock glare. “Trying to get rid of me, Congressman?” 

Bucky leaned forward, placing a hand on the small table that only separated you a few inches. He answered you earnestly, but a small amount of humor lightened his eyes, made him look less serious. “Now, why would I want to do that?” 

Your lips parted to quip something back, but then he was raising his hand again, the heat of his skin lingering at the corner of your mouth. He swiped his thumb there, and you were frozen, a replica of when he brushed your hair back a few nights ago, but the car had been a distraction then. You had been flustered and trying to sort out your belongings, so you didn’t think about it for longer than a few seconds. 

“Whipped cream,” he explained, holding you in his gaze for a moment longer than you should have been. Even as the barista from behind the counter was now standing at your table and speaking. 

“Hi! Would the two of you like to try our new coffee cake? Free samples since it’s new.” 

Bucky was the first to look away, tearing his eyes from yours to smile politely at the barista. You shook from your stupor and quickly reached for a napkin, brushing it against your lips even though nothing remained. 

You felt fuzzy, confused. But also nothing was confusing and you were reminded, again, how attractive the Congressman was. How attractive and how definitely off-limits he was. 

It would be so taboo for Bucky to be dating an assistant. 

“What about you, ma’am?” You blinked several times and looked up to read the small ‘coffee cake’ sign lying next to the treats, the barista’s blinding smile expecting and very retail. 

“I’m allergic to cinnamon, but thank you.” 

“Allergic to cinnamon?” Bucky asked as the barista left.

“Yeah, anaphylaxis and everything. I carry an epipen with me, but I’ve only had to use it once when I was 10. Did you know that some bakeries add cinnamon to buttercream birthday cakes?” you chuckled, reorienting yourself to the present. “Are you allergic to anything? Or, I guess you probably aren’t. Isn’t that a serum thing?” 

“Not allergic to anything, but if I had been, it would’ve been wiped out by the serum. We didn’t really have a lot of food variety in the 30s. Could have been allergic to shellfish—didn’t try that until after.” 

You had to pause the cup at your lips. “Oh my god, I forgot you’re like 100 years old.” 

Bucky’s expression morphed into an offended wince. “Alright, I wouldn’t say that. I haven’t exactly lived 100 years.” 

“I was just thinking the other day how you don’t exactly fit in with the rest of Congress, but you so do! Maybe even on the young side,” you teased. 

“Oh yeah?” Bucky egged on, nodding with his brows raised. “You were thinking about me?” 

You knocked your head back in a laugh, holding your stomach with your forearm. “How did I forget this?” 

“You know what? I’m not driving you home anymore.” 

With lingering giggles, you righted yourself in your chair, a smile still clear in your voice. Contrasting his words, Bucky’s smile was just as wide as yours, a slight redness to his cheeks making him look softer. You brought a hand to cover his arm on the table. 

“Okay, okay, I’m sorry, Bucky. You aren’t old. I take it back.” 

“Yeah, you better,” he taunted, though his arm flipped over and he gave your wrist a soft squeeze as he said it. 

~~

Bucky wouldn’t stop touching you. 

You didn’t know if he was doing it consciously or if this was something he commonly did with his friends, but he was going to get you in trouble. 

Outside of work, it was fine—distracting and disorienting, but fine. A brush of his hand helping you into the car, fixing your bag on your shoulder, a hand on your back when you left the coffee shop; over the past few weeks, it had all begun to feel commonplace. 

It could have been frequency that made you more aware of this habit of his, because Bucky had begun picking you up every time you worked late and planned coffee or lunch or even a walk at least once a weekend. So, maybe this was his norm and you were just around him more often—something you enjoyed, but also something that made feelings more difficult. 

Because, again, Congressman Barnes could not be dating an assistant. His credibility among the rest of Congress was already being questioned almost daily, and he did not need the court of public opinion breathing down his neck on top of that. It was a fortunate truth that while the internal part of his job was tricky, most of the public favored him. 

So, as much as your chest hurt and your stomach flipped whenever you were around him, you settled for friendship. A touchy friendship. 

At work, things felt heightened in the worst way possible. 

You couldn’t even understand why he was coming to the top floor so often, seemingly lingering there so he could scare the crap out of you when you’d turn a corner. And then it would be a smile and another hand at your back when he was passing you—a hand that was not necessary. Or he would find you at the tail-end of your lunch break and move your hair away from your eyes, distracting you to the point of no return. 

It was the worst because you were getting distracted, and when you were distracted, you got yelled at. 

Bucky had seen you get yelled at a few times now, each seemingly worse than the last. He kept quiet about it, but you could tell it bothered him. He almost stepped in once—when Brown was irate at the coffee you’d gotten him and chucked it at the wall, you saw Bucky step forward from down the hall. He stopped at the slight shake of your head. 

You were used to the Senator throwing things, and as long as it wasn’t in your direction, it was no harm done. At least, that’s what you thought. 

“You should go to human resources,” Bucky commented one Sunday, the two of you sitting along a lake by the Capitol building. 

You almost snorted. “Right. And what do you think old Mrs. Martha is going to be able to do for me? Brown has been in office for over a decade. If anything, that would just get me fired.” 

Bucky shook his head, expression taut. “There’s gotta be something else then. You don’t deserve all of that.” 

“If we’re talking about not deserving torment, I think I’m the least of our worries here, Sergeant,” you noted, knocking your shoulder against his in an attempted lightness. 

But when you turned to look at him, Bucky was already facing you. “I’m serious, y/n. He’s throwing things at you. I’ve stayed out of it because you told me to, but after today—” 

“Bucky, hey,” you calmed. “I know it seems crazy, but I know how to deal with it. I know he won’t actually do anything.”

“Right now, maybe.” 

You sighed, searching his eyes and trying to discern when this became such an intense conversation. Trying to figure out when the two of you had discussions like this and not just lax coffee hangouts. Against your better judgment, you placed a hand over his thigh and relented. 

“Okay, fine. I’ll work on it, but I’ll be the one working on it, okay? It definitely can’t be you—he would freak out if a representative started ordering him around. Even if you could totally knock him out.” 

Bucky shook his head in disbelief, a smile begrudgingly sneaking onto his face. “I can’t believe you’re joking about this.” 

“You can definitely believe that.” 

“Yeah, I can.” And then you were tugged against his starched, ironed suit, his metal arm holding you close to his chest.

You gasped a little at the initial contact, your heart hammering against your ribs as Bucky simply kept you there. This is dangerous, your brain reminded you, but it was also harmless, if you looked at it the right way. 

“You know, I’m not going to die, Bucky. I’ve dealt with this for years.” 

“Yeah, you keep joking about that,” he gruffly replied, the words a ghost against the top of your head. You hadn’t realized his lips were that close. “If we could keep the death jokes to a minimum, that would be great.” 

You pulled back from him enough to look at his face. “Why? Afraid your only friend will bite it?” 

“Hey, I have other friends.” 

“I haven’t seen ‘em.” 

“Shut up,” he groaned, tugging you back in. “You can meet them as proof. Next weekend.” 

“Okay, sure, Bucky,” you sang out, tapping his chest. “But if we need to reschedule this meeting with your 'friends,’ I would understand.” 

As Bucky went on to refute your insinuations in a grumpy tone, you tried to pretend that this felt like that—just a friendship. 

~~

Approximately four days later, everything went to shit. 

Senator Brown was on a tirade, screaming at everyone and everything in his path. When he got like this, the admin staff usually locked the doors to his office and the entire floor if they could, but today, they weren’t ready for how angry he was. 

It was a bill, or a speech, or maybe even the press catching wind that he was cheating on his wife—it didn’t matter. He was pissed and you were going to have to answer for it. 

You stood in his office with a clear view of the glass wall connecting to the hallway, hands behind your back and fighting off a wince with every curse and insult the Senator threw at you. 

“I hired you to take care of this bullshit! Why the hell am I dealing with this when I’m supposed to have an entire staff? This is fucked!” 

“You’re too worried about going home early, you can’t even assemble a reply to an email correctly! A fucking email!”

“I should’ve fired you weeks ago. When you started fucking off to wherever you take too long for your lunch break and stopped doing your job. I swear to god, this country has—” 

You were only retaining about half of what he said, which was good, considering everything was an attack on you, and your work ethic, and then he even started going in on your clothes and your apartment. It must have been something really bad this time. After he was done yelling, you would check his texts and probably find a couple of mentions of divorce sprinkled in between messages with his lawyers. 

Affairs and divorce were always messy for politicians. 

“Of course, Senator. I will do better. I apologize,” you offered, unsure what you were apologizing for at the present. It wouldn’t matter; he would just start up again about another topic. 

“Damn right you will or I’ll send you out on the streets. Do you know how hard it is to get a job in D.C when a Senator blacklists you?” 

Did you ever. 

When Bucky had asked you why you stayed, you left out that key bit of information. He was still newer to the field and didn’t need to know that Senator Brown held that over your head each time you even hinted at moving on. 

You figured the screaming was almost over. Brown was in his 60s, so he would be getting tired. And it probably would have been over if he hadn’t checked his Apple Watch and read a text that got him fired up once more.

You greatly regretted setting that up for him. 

You braced yourself for further yelling as his face began to turn red, but were alarmed as the Senator reached for the wooden pencil case on his desk and threw it. Pens flew, and you knew he wasn’t aiming for you, but the cup hit a vase on a high bookshelf to your right, which then toppled over and shook loose the framed art hanging above your head. 

You should have moved, but you spotted Bucky in the hall, and he always distracted you. 

The frame shot straight down, smacking you in the head and causing your knees to buckle in surprise. You fell to the ground, feeling dramatic and disoriented as the room silenced and your ears rang. You knew he wouldn’t apologize, but the continued quiet as you pushed yourself up and sat back on your haunches was almost deafening. 

The glass door to the office swung open. 

“What the hell?” A hand was on your elbow. A colder one felt around the top of your head. It was Bucky, obviously it was Bucky, but you were too afraid to look, keeping your gaze locked on Senator Brown. “Hey, you okay?” 

The hand on your head moved down to your jaw, forcing your gaze to Bucky. He searched every inch of your face as you blinked at him, mind blank. “Um, I’m fine.” 

Your brows furrowed, trying to connect the chain of events that led to this. You brought your hand up to replace where Bucky had placed his, the action seemingly spurring him into action. 

“The hell is wrong with you, huh?” Bucky shouted, rising from the floor. “You think it makes you tough to throw things at her?” 

Senator Brown had gone from furious to unsure, probably aware of the physical strength Bucky harbored. But, as was typical with politicians, he would not put anything before his pride. Brown righted his expression and pursed his lips. 

“I wasn’t trying to hit her, Congressman. It was a simple accident. You weren’t even in the room to see it happen.” 

Bucky narrowed his eyes. “I didn’t need to be. You’re screaming at her when you’re not throwing. What kinda grown man does that?” 

“Bucky—” you cautioned, glued to the floor still. 

The senator directed his attention towards you, brows raised accusingly. “Oh, so you’ve been gossiping about me, then?” 

You shrank back, hand lingering where your head ached, but Bucky stepped in front of you, blocking you from Brown’s line of sight. 

“Hey, I’m talking to you,” Bucky seethed, jutting a finger into Brown’s chest. 

Brown’s head sharply turned. “That you are, Congressman. But it seems like my assistant here no longer wants her role, so this conversation is moot.” 

“Wait, I—” 

“Maybe if you spent time picking on someone your own size instead of acting like a coward—” 

“Bucky, don’t—” 

“A coward? A coward? Who’s the one who cannot speak for himself on the board? Tell me, Barnes, is that part of some unresolved trauma from some nondescript decade?” 

“You shut your mouth before I—” 

“Congressman Barnes,” you called, authority that didn’t belong to you heavy in your tone. You were two seconds away from losing your job and being blacklisted, neither of which you could handle. Bucky froze, his anger still held in his shoulders. “Thank you for your concern, as I’m sure you were just passing by when you saw what happened, but I can assure you that it was an accident and I am fine.” 

Bucky looked over his shoulder with furrowed brows, but took a step back and dropped his hands by his sides when he caught your expression—still disheveled, but resolute in your decision. He needed to leave. You needed to save your career. You could… figure everything else out later. Probably. 

You bit into your bottom lip until it hurt. 

Bucky looked at the wall behind your head and then tracked his gaze to the forming lump on your crown. “But—” 

“I am fine,” you repeated slowly. Having risen from the floor before calling his name, you walked to the door and held it open. “We’re very busy. Please excuse us.” 

Bucky licked his lips as he looked to the floor, shaking his head in abject disbelief and following your direction. When he met the entryway, he tilted his head slightly, opening his mouth to say something, but thinking against it. His hand twitched at his side, and then he left, taking long, purposeful strides away from the office. 

You took a deep breath, allowed yourself a moment as the door closed, and then you did something purposeful yourself. Even if it killed you to do so. 

~~

Bucky’s POV

Bucky was losing his mind. 

After leaving Brown’s office, he’d stormed into his own and promptly shut and locked the door. Tugging his tie away from his neck and prying the uncomfortable suit jacket from his shoulders, Bucky then began to pace. He was pissed. He was so beyond pissed. 

It would have been so easy for him to knock that Senator out, and he would have deserved it. Bucky had had to watch for weeks as you were berated and screamed at, and then the line was crossed when he saw him throwing things. You hadn’t let him do anything, and then you hadn’t let him do anything again after you’d been hurt. 

He watched you flinch and cover your face, and even that hadn’t been enough. 

Bucky swiped a hand over his mouth. 

When had you started to matter to him so much? That was a stupid question, and apparently, he was full of stupidity today.

He promised that he’d let you take care of it, and then he went in there and almost killed Senator Brown. A replay of you falling to the ground looped in his mind, and actually Bucky didn’t feel stupid at all. All he felt was rage. 

“Shit,” he breathed out, knocking his head back and falling back into his office chair.

He’d messed up. He wasn’t sure exactly how, but he knew you were not happy with him. What did “taking care of it” even mean? And why were you so dead set on keeping that awful job? Bucky could think of at least a dozen other jobs in D.C. that would not involve you being verbally and physically abused. 

Fuck, he wished he had more pull, but as a Congressman of only a few months, there was little he could do against a Senator. And he had a meeting in five minutes. 

Bucky pulled his phone out and sent you a quick text about talking after work, let out the longest sigh of his life, and then readjusted his tie. 

That had been three days ago. 

You never texted him back. And you left the building far before he could give you a ride home. When he asked your coworkers, they said you were no longer working overtime and left during normal hours. 

Fine. That was good, actually. Only, Bucky never saw you. 

He frequented all of your normal spots, wandered up to the top floor, and even stopped by the coffeeshop two days in a row, and you were nowhere. Avoiding him, obviously, and while he understood (he didn’t), he mostly wanted to put eyes on you. To make sure you were okay. 

Sure, you didn’t have a severe head injury, but it was more than that. 

Bucky brought his turmoil to the barbecue Sam was holding that weekend. The one you were supposed to be at. 

Nursing his fifth beer that wouldn’t do anything, Bucky leaned back against the fence of Sam’s yard and sulked. He’d talked to a few people when he got there, but sulking was on his agenda for the afternoon. 

“What’s up with the stank face?” Sam asked, entering Bucky’s orbit of solitude and despair. “It’s gonna get stuck like that if you keep it up.” 

“I don’t have a stank face,” Bucky argued. 

“Right, right. Well, right now you have more of a pissed off face, but I guess I bring that out in you.” Sam paused and then smacked Bucky in the shoulder. “Come on, man. What’s going on, seriously? Does it have to do with that girl you were supposed to bring?” 

“I don’t want to talk about that.” 

“Oh, you don’t? Then it’s that.” 

Bucky rolled his eyes, knocking back more of his beer as the sizzle of burgers juxtaposed with his somberness. “Alright, fine. It’s that. But it’s stupid. We weren’t even…”

“Dating?” 

“Yeah. That.” 

“You told me you went out for coffee and all that. That you would go on long walks at the lake and canoodle at work.”

“Are you going to take this seriously?” Bucky accused. “‘Cause if you’re not, I’m leaving right now. I’ll leave.” 

“Okay, okay. I’m sorry,” Sam surrendered, raising his hands. ��But really, Buck, that all sounds like dating. Tell me why she didn’t come.” 

Bucky clenched his jaw and stared out at the merriment of the barbecue, remembering the scene more vividly than he would have liked. He tried to find an exact moment that would have led to you avoiding him, but he couldn’t pin it down. Maybe it was the entire thing? 

“I think she’s mad at me. I kinda went off on her boss and she told me she wanted to take care of it.” 

“What do you mean ‘went off’? And isn’t she working under a Senator?”

Bucky puffed out a breath. “Yeah, Senator Brown.” Sam let out a low whistle as Bucky continued. “He yells at her. Throws things. I felt like it crossed a line this week, so I guess I kinda stormed in. She threw me out and’s been avoiding me since. We had talked about it before and she said to stay out of it, but, Sam, the guy’s a dick.” 

“And you really like her,” Sam added casually. “And I really like her,” Bucky confirmed. 

Sam paused to contemplate, though Bucky didn’t know what he could possibly offer that Bucky hadn’t already considered. He really, really liked you—more than he figured possible, especially with all of his attempts at dating since his pardon. But then you’d surprised him that night at the hotel, and he’d been hooked. 

He hadn’t even had the chance to tell you.

“Well, two things,” Sam began, leaning on the fence next to Bucky. “Sounds like she knows what she’s doing, so you should have trusted her. But—” Sam cut out as Bucky opened his mouth “—it also sounds like Brown’s a major ass with a lot of power. You don’t know what he might have over her, slimy dude like that.” 

“What, you mean like blackmail?” 

“Maybe, who knows? You just gotta talk to her, man. Work it out.” 

Sam clapped Bucky on the shoulder before wading back into the party in the yard. Bucky, feeling somewhat lighter but also still at peril, kicked off the fence and made his own attempts at being sociable. 

“As soon as I can actually find her,” he grumbled to himself. 

~~

The charity gala had been on your calendar for the past six months, and still, nothing could have prepared you for how much you didn’t want to attend. 

You usually enjoyed events like this. You got to dress up and eat nice food, and Brown always got too drunk to remember that his assistant was even in the building. The first hour felt like work, and then the rest of the night was cosplaying as a rich politician. 

That was not the case for this gala. 

Ever since the ordeal with Bucky, Senator Brown had kept you on a tight leash. Whether that was due to how much he enjoyed intimidating you or his fear that you actually were telling people he was a mean, abusive boss, didn’t matter. All that mattered was that this gala was going to suck and there was nothing you could do about it. 

You had apologized profusely, swore up and down that you didn’t know Congressman Barnes, and practically pledged your life to Brown in every way you knew how. You never left the office, never took a lunch break—you were pretty sure your eyes were permanently dry from how long you stared at a screen all day. 

Making you attend this gala and not leave his side was another ploy to make you atone for your wrongdoings. Maybe the man knew how much you enjoyed these events and was taking advantage of that. 

“Check this,” Senator Brown lazily ordered, draping his coat over your arms. “And meet me back in the dining room. You get to sit right next to me.” 

You offered him a tight smile and felt the ache in your shoulders begin to fester. You were more uptight this week than ever, but that had nothing to do with Bucky Barnes. Nothing. 

It was just this job and your future in D.C. hanging in the balance. 

Obviously. 

You meandered over to the coat check, taking longer than you needed to and dragging your feet along the way. Your phone was buzzing incessantly in your bag—most likely some PR fire you’d need to put out before more people realized Brown was cheating on his wife—and you had absolutely no inclination to drag it out. 

“Just these two,” you offered, pressing the coats into the attendant's hands and taking the ticket in return. 

“Actually, can you add this one to that ticket?” 

As if this night couldn’t get any more uncomfortable. 

You could feel his chest against your back even before you heard him. He shifted his arms out of his sleeves and placed a hand on your shoulder as he leaned towards the counter. Of course he smelled good. Why wouldn’t he?

You fought the urge to roll your eyes in repressed… something and spun on your heel. 

He was just as close as you were expecting and also far too close for comfort. You knocked your head back to catch his gaze, trying to appear unamused and angry. 

“Why would you do that?” you asked. 

Bucky paused for a moment, searching the planes of your face for a beat too long before replying, “No reason to open another ticket. I’ll just leave when you leave.” 

“You mean you’ll leave when Brown leaves, then?” 

The muscle in his jaw jumped. “So, nothing's changed.”

This time, you did roll your eyes. You clutched the coat check number in your hand and began to storm off, not in the headspace to have this conversation at this gala. Bucky, however, did not seem to mind. 

The hand on your arm was soft but firm as you were tugged into a closet and subsequently shoved into a rack of hanging coats. It was too dim to see beyond your hands out in front of you, but Bucky solved that predicament as he entered your space. 

“Did you seriously just throw me into a closet?” you whisper-yelled, all too aware of the staff only feet away. 

“I had no choice,” he replied with the same urgency. “You were stomping off. And I didn’t throw you in here.” 

“I was not stomping off,” you scoffed. 

“You were.” 

“Was not!” 

“I could hear your heels. You were stomping.” 

You groaned, pushing into his chest to try and create distance that wasn’t available. Your back only hit the wall. 

“Fine. What do you want?” 

Bucky froze for a moment. “I… I didn’t actually think you’d stay in here. Or let me talk, if I’m being honest. 

Your jaw fell open, an incredulous laugh slipping out. You’d almost forgotten how endearing he was in just about everything he did. Even as he stood in front of you in a full, three-piece suit, smushing you against a closet wall because he had dragged you in there with no plan, a part of your chest warmed. 

Your phone vibrated in your bag, and that warmth turned to ice. 

“I don’t have time for this,” you determined, wiggling your way towards the door. 

“Wait, hold on. I do have something to say, wait,” Bucky pleaded, metal hand—more gentle than you were sure it was ever used for—encircling your wrist. He tugged you back even closer this time, your face inches from his. “I wanted to say sorry. And… and I want to get it.” 

“Get it?” you parroted, trying extremely hard to ignore the dropping feeling in your gut as he stared into your eyes. 

“I want to get why you stay. Why you let him treat you like that. I want to know so I can… feel okay backing off.” 

All you could get out was, “Why?” 

Bucky’s next words were spoken as he stared down at your lips. “I think you know why.” 

Breaths began to fail you, each exhale more ragged than the last. You had been expecting this, in a way, and that was why you always made excuses. He couldn’t be with you because he was a Congressman. You were only an assistant. You couldn’t date him because you were too busy. He wouldn’t want to date you, anyway. Senator Brown would never be okay with it. 

All of those excuses evaporated within the shared space of the closet, and then you got scared. So, you blurted out what he wanted. 

“He won’t let me quit. He won’t let me work anywhere else.” 

Bucky blinked, a fog clearing from his heated gaze. His head jutted back an inch, and the hand that had somehow found a home on your jaw paused its ascent into your hair. “Won’t let you?” 

“I’d be blacklisted.” 

“He can’t do that.” 

“He can.” 

Bucky opened his mouth to speak again as the air in the closet became breathable and light peeked in from the cracking door. You sprang back from the Congressman, pushing his hand away from your cheek and slamming your back into the wall. It didn’t help much; the fifteen-year-old with the shawl in her hand was already making her own assumptions as you rushed past her and left Bucky to his own devices in the closet. 

Amazing. 

Just amazing. 

You debated moving states, or countries, or entire career paths as you hurried into the dining room of the gala. Not only had you taken too long at the coat check, but you knew you looked completely flushed and out of it. You prayed that Brown was already drinking and wouldn’t catch on. 

Thankfully, your prayers were answered. 

While he was not happy to see you, his raised brow and side-eye deadly as you sat down, he didn’t say anything. And that was how dinner went—quiet and uncomfortable for you, but otherwise par for the course for Senator Brown. 

Bucky was staring at you from across the table. The room was backlit by dull candles and expensive chandeliers, and you could feel his gaze on the side of your face like an unprecedented heat. He often flickered that gaze to Brown, but it would harden, become angry.

There was nothing he could do. There was nothing anyone could do. 

You either stuck it out with Brown or tossed your political science degree in the trash can on your way out.

When dinner passed and dessert was served, you eyed the lemon tart mocking you from your plate. Dessert, when your life felt so out of control and confusing, couldn’t hurt, you figured, so you picked up your fork and ignored the knots taking up space in your stomach. 

“Yours looks better.” Senator Brown picked up the lip of your plate and slid his in its place. “Here.” 

“But—” 

“Oh, don’t complain about it. Who complains about chocolate cake?” he peeved, snickering to the men on the other side of the table. He then went on a drunken rant about “good help” and the “youth of today” as you looked down at the cake in front of you. 

Was D.C. even worth it? 

Bucky was staring at you again. He wasn’t directly across from you, a few centerpieces blocking your view, but you could feel it. To avoid him—and your feelings—you ate the cake. Brown and the men sarcastically cheered as you did, alcohol clear in the air at this point, and you took another bite to get them to find some other novelty. 

You took three bites before it started to sink in. 

You vaguely registered that Bucky had pushed out from the table, a clink of silverware preceding the motion. It was too late for him, however, because as your own fork clattered down, you could no longer breathe. 

Your tongue felt ten times too big in your mouth and your throat was glued shut, air tunneling through any openings it could find. You pushed out from the table and stood. The extra space didn’t do anything. You clawed at your throat until your legs became unsteady and failed from the lack of oxygen. 

The table was extremely long, so at some point, you thought you heard Bucky dive over the dinner party rather than continue his trek around to your side. Other sounds filtered past the panic clogging your ears. 

“What’s wrong with her?” 

“I don’t know!” 

“Is she allergic to something? It’s an allergic reaction!” 

“Brown, what is she allergic to?” 

“How should I know?” 

“Well, do something!” 

As you were grappling for your purse, a choked whine fell from your lips. It had been kicked somewhere, pushed out of your grasp, and no one at this damn gala was helping you. Several older women had gone to their knees with worried expressions at your eye line, but they weren’t doing anything. 

“Move.” 

Your head was beginning to spin, and your thoughts were blurring, but you heard Bucky. He came to your side much faster than it felt, moving things around that your blurred vision couldn’t catch. And then, pain. And then relief. 

Your gasping breaths were supported by gentle hands on your face, thumbs brushing along your cheekbones. You grappled at Bucky’s wrists and tried to parse out panic from physical symptoms, but there was so much commotion in the room and your head was still so fuzzy. 

“You’re okay,” Bucky assured you, voice almost too low to catch. Someone was on the phone with 911 in the back. “You can breathe with me. Come on. Don’t—hey—don’t look at them. Look at me.” 

Your chin was pushed forward, and then your forehead connected with his. Ringing persisted in your ears. Your hands were beginning to shake from the epi, your jaw following close behind. 

“I got you, okay?” 

“F-f-feels—”��

“I know,” he hushed. When your breath was somewhat steadier, he tucked your head beneath his chin and began barking out orders. He asked for an ETA on the ambulance, for your jacket, for ten other things you couldn’t register. And then, “You’re a piece of shit, you know that?” 

The chaos of the room went silent. Within your shaking hands clutched in Bucky’s suit jacket, your fingers spasmed out of fear. 

“Excuse me?” Brown scoffed. You were honestly surprised he was still in the room.

“What, throwing things at her wasn’t enough? Had to try and kill her?” 

“B-bucky—” 

“Throwing things at her?” you heard from across the room. “Brown, what is Barnes talking about?” 

“I have no idea,” Brown spat out. He jutted his hand out towards you on the floor. “He never knows what he’s talking about. We’ve established that.” 

“Right,” Bucky deadpanned, pulling you closer to his chest as you gasped for breath. “So what do you call this?” 

“An accident, obviously.” 

Bucky let out a puff of air through his nose, shaking his head in disbelief. Silence blanketed the room once more, and it was clear that he had given up. His hands were glued to the back of your head and your back, and he didn’t have the time or the drive in him to care about Brown right now. 

“I saw you switch the plates.” The quiet voice came from across the table, the young blonde’s face registering in your memory as you peeked out from beyond Bucky’s chest. “She had a card with it, too. It said there was an allergy accommodation.” 

Low murmurs fell over the room. Brown, much to your surprise, looked at a loss for words, his expression betrayed as he stared at the woman across the room. It clicked then, where you knew her from. She was on the front cover of every article you were pressured to get taken down, and the contact photo for the main caller in Brown’s phone. 

“What? No,” Brown refuted, a nervous chuckle escaping him. “She doesn’t know what she’s talking about, either. She’s barely even a secretary. She’s—” 

The eyes around the room made his words trail off. “Barely even a secretary” was certainly a degrading title for his mistress, and everyone in the room knew it. If you were to look at your phone, you’d have seen that the newest story of their relationship had been blowing up all night. You guessed she was fed up with him denying it. 

Sirens sounded beyond the doors of the ballroom, breaking up the tension at the wide table. Brown used it as his getaway, throwing his napkin down and muttering something about insolence or idiots or something of the sort. You couldn’t really hear anything over Bucky’s low whisper in your ear, followed by his lips against the side of your head. 

~~

After being monitored in the emergency room for approximately six hours, the night shift staff sent you off with a horde of medication to take for the next month and, of course, a new epipen. You trudged out past the waiting room, prepared to wait in the parking lot for an Uber, when a certain man sitting in a chair far too small for him caught your eye. 

He was half asleep, his face held in his metal hand as he nodded off and woke up just as quickly. His suit looked stiff and uncomfortable as he twisted his wrists, dragging the sleeves up to his elbows. He’d discarded the jacket somewhere, probably lost to the world now. And then he spotted you, your dress awkwardly draped over your body in your haphazard attempt to re-dress, your hair completely out of place, and your hands filled with paper bags of medication.

He shot out of the chair, holding everything in your hands in one of his, and assessed you himself. His gaze roved the mess you’d become. He should have made a joke about it, maybe teased you for almost dying, but instead, he ran a hand over your head and dragged you against his chest. 

“Scared the shit out of me,” he murmured into your hair. He pressed another kiss there, reminding you that the first one hadn’t been your imagination. 

“You didn’t have to stay,” you said, clutching his button-up in your hands. 

“‘Course I did.” He leaned you back, hand still woven at the base of your hair, not caring that he was in the middle of the ER waiting room. “You okay?” 

It only took you a moment to make a decision. 

You pressed up, kissing him even though you were in the ER waiting room. Even though you both looked like a mess and you’d almost died and you had no idea if you still had a job. You kissed him and it startled him, the paper bag of medications crunching in his hand, but he kissed you back without hesitation. 

It wasn’t a passionate kiss—not like the breathless, wanting kisses you would share late, share tomorrow—but it was confirming something. Bucky held you and had his lips firmly against yours, his brows furrowed in a way you couldn’t see, and he confirmed everything you’d suspected. 

You figured you wouldn’t need to work if your boyfriend were a Congressman. 

But, as you would soon find out, Senator Brown didn’t have very much time left as a Senator, anyway. 

[majulians-groupie]

"The girl he left behind"

Summary: Sergeant Barnes has lived a long time,time which his enemies claim is burrowed.Enough time, to endure all the darkness and despair the world has to offer.No one could even begin to imagine the horrors he could have possibly seen in the void.Truth is though,that for the human soul,things are much,much more simple.Things that seem to define us,often stay hidden,lurking in the shadows of our subconscious,until we have to acknowledge them.More often than not,and Sergeant Barnes is no exception,this tends to happen at our lowest point.

Warnings:Thunderbolts mildest spoilers ever(mostly about how the void works),Grief,alcoholism mentioned,graveyard setting,mention of depression and mental illness,PTSD,description of a panic attack,thoughts about wars and soldiers.

*This has been in my drafts for a while and I finished it while having a fever lmao😭.I was kinda dissapointed not to see Bucky's Void in Tb.I know we have seen plenty of hydra,but I think it was a chance to explore his psych through important stuff that havent even been mentioned in the show.Thats what was my inspo for this fic.Hope you enjoy!*🩵

Please be kind,English is not my first language.

◞ ྀི◟ ͜ ◞ ྀི◟ ͜ ◞ ྀི◟⠀ ◞ ྀི◟ ͜ ◞ ྀི◟ ͜ ◞ ྀི◟

"Oh no..I had a great past so I'm totally fine"

If they weren't all trapped in a soul crushing simulation of their worst memories and experiences,everyone would give him a playful scoff,or a pat in the back combined with pitiful eyes before telling him it's okay to not pretend sometimes.

However,the situation was dire,and they needed to save the city-and quite possibly the world-.Things were moving quick and they had to regroup.

But it was there,it lingered in the back on his head.Since way too long before the void,and way too long after the fight.Creeping up on moments where he dared to assume things were-for the first time since A WHILE-somewhat fine.Making his head pounding,his breath shallow and his heartbeat acknowledged.

More often than not,it was also there,in those few moments where he would decide to fight back.Where he would decide to stop running from the voices that tormented his head everytime he tried to sleep.In those small moments of victory,where he would be-seemingly for the 100th time-pouring his entire cheap stash of alcohol down the sink.

Meaning,it seemed to appear was time to face his guilt head on,and bridge the man he was trying to build with the boy that thought that had everything grounded.

Given all of this,it wasn't really a really big surprise when he saw her in the void.Multiple times.

He saw the day he tried to find her again.To see if she was still alive.It was hard.But he needed to know.He always hoped she has a perfect life,with a happy family.Thats what she said she wanted.But he wasn't sure why he couldn't be happy about her when he found out exactly that.

Hell,she was happy.Content.Surrounded by her their family.They were returning from her granddaughter's dance recital.A ballerina.Just like she wanted,before polyo robbed her of her future.But of course she didnt have any resentment.She was always like that.Full of sunshine and kindness.Satiated with leaving her dreams through her family.

Prosperity.Stability.Joy

Everything she built without him.She didn't need him.Of course she hadn't.It's been so long.

The family moved inside the house and closed the door.Bucky creeped towards the front window.

It was the first time he truly felt like a mere number in a history book.Another lost soldier that didn't make it.Another serial number whose only salvation was an unknown soldier memorial.It was the first time Bucky didn't feel disconnected from his old self.Because for the first time,he didn't see him as something significant.He would spend hours on therapy,talking about his fear of never truly reclaiming his lost identity again.He'd started this endless journey of self discovery,of trying to resurrect James,and bury the Soldat in his place instead.

But this time,for the first time ever,he felt like maybe James wasn't something worth saving.

Maybe the Soldat was the only way he could ever be anything of purpose.Maybe Hydra chose him,didn't just find him.Maybe the darkness was always there,looming,creeping in,and found it's chance to take over when he was in an enviroment that allowed it.

Maybe he let them take over

Maybe he willingly let go of everything holding him back,his family,his friends,his values,in exchange for some pain relief.For the bliss of the haziness he felt when the Soldat took over,numbness consuming him and waking up at the end of the missions,only to be put in cryo and sleep again.

Maybe James wasn't anything to look for,to find or reclaim.Maybe this fragile,vulnerable washed up version of a man he was now was all he had.

-"NO"!

He punched Becca's window so hard he lost his balance.He looked at his flesh arm.He didnt have a single scratch,nor he was in pain.Everything was in slow motion.The glass shards didnt fell to the floor,but remained hovering,surrounding him as if to mock him,only for them to to turn into soft water droplets a few seconds later.They were everywhere.Then the scenery changed quickly. Everything was dark.He was suddenly drenched.He was getting cold.He hated getting cold.It reminded him of the first few horrible moments of waking up from the cryo chamber.Most of his limbs barely surviving frostbites,his vision failing him,diziness not allowing to even stand in his own.Being injected.Beaten.Tortured to submission.Striped from any sense of decency or humanity.Until it was time to go to that cursed chair again and-

His heartbeat started going up.His hands were shaking.He knew when a panic attack was coming.He started taking deep breaths.

"Inhale..1,2,3,4....exhale..1,2,3,4"

He started looking around,trying to pinpoint stuff.The ground smelled of rain and mud.There was fog everywhere.It would have been peaceful if it wasn't for the dread looming in his chest.

"I have to get out of here"

He took a deep breath and started trying to navigate.He started walking. Faster.And faster.Nothing would change.

"FOR FUCK'S SHA-"

He made a swift turn towards the other side until he froze.He held his breath.In front him,there was finally something.Two small children.They were standing in front of a single marble gravestone.There wasn't much of age difference.The both looked like they were around 8 to 10 years of age.

-"You think he is looking at us right now Jimmy?"

-"Sure!What do you think we brought him red peonies for?He loves red!"

-"If mummy finds out.."

-"She won't!Have I ever lied to you?"

-"Yes!You blamed Roxy for eating my chocolates when it was obvious that dogs dont-"

-"Have I ever let you down?"

The little girl didn't speak.

-"Exactly.This is not easy for mum.But you have every right to visit dad if you miss him.I still don't understand why she left you at Jenny's for the funeral."

-"She told me graveyards were not for little girls and daddy wouldn't have wanted me there.

-"Crap!You're barely a year younger than me!"

-"Jimmy!"

-"Sorry.."

A few seconds passed..then the boy started giggling

-"Dad would smirk at me right now.He never pretended that swear words bothered him".

"Nope!"

Little Becca leaves the peonies next to her father's name:

"James "Jimmy" Buchanan Barnes Sr.

Beloved and never forgotten.

Father,Husband,friend and fighter"

"They should have put hero as well!"

Little Bucky stomped his foot at the ground.

"We don't need a tombstone to tell us that"

The boy blinked.He then turned at his sister.He was staring at her.Dumbfounded

"You're...you're right.."

A big pause

"you're always right"

"Of course I am"

Bucky scoffs and wraps an arm around his sister.

He didnt speak for a while.He was just staring st the ground.Becca knew something was up.When her brother wasnt blabbering,something was ALWAYS up

"What are you thinking?"

"It is just that..now..I..I am the one that supposed to take care of you.Take care of mum.The house.I am the man now and-

"Mum was literally feeding you chicken soup on your bed a week ago?Who is the one taking care of who again?"

"I was sick!"

"I know!That's what I am trying to tell you.You're still a kid.Like me.That doesn't change because dad died.We can't do anything more than stay out of trouble for ma's shake"

-"But.."

-"No buts!We're in this together!That's what families are for you doofus"

-"Watch it!I'm still older than you"

Becca pinches his cheeck condescendingly

-"Barely"

"Oh I'll show ya"

He gave his little sister a tickle attack which evolved into a playfight.

A few rounds of screaming matches later,it was time for the kids to leave the tombstone behind,go home before their mother found out where they were.They took one last good look at where their father had been buried.A few minuted later,it was the little girl that spoke.

"You have to stay though" said Becca suddenly.

"What does this mean?"

"It means that if we're gonna get through this,we need to be together,ALL of us."Becky's eyes suddenly became glossy and her voice started shaking.

"But if you get drafted,"

The boy sharply turns to face her as she started heaving.

"-like dad did and-..."

Bucky couldnt stand it anymore.He wrapped his sister in his arms,keeping her firmly against his chest,one hand cradling her head and the other rubbing circles on her back.

-"I will always be with you.Even if I'm far away it will only be because I have to,and I will ALWAYS return back home."

-"Jimmy you can't know if-"

-"Always"

Becca sniffled.

-You promise?

-I promise

Bucky was thinking of his sister-and everyone he left behind-often.But this..this was a memory he had buried deep inside.So deep,it didn't even came back when Shuri finally freed his mind of Hydra's control.It was like the void's power digged into his soul and dragged his deepest,most sacred moments.Memories that formed and defined his character.That day at the cemetery,was defitinitive for him and his character.It changed him,made him grow up,feel a sense of responsibility towards those he loved.It was a messed up world,and nothing should he taken for granted.

It took a while to start fighting against the void.He couldn't move.All he could do was stare at the two children.It was impossible.He couldn't speak.He couldn't yell.He couldn't move his eyes away.He couldn't even breathe.The promise...the promise that haunted his mind..his soul..every part of him.A promise he made and broke in the worst possible way.He may have returned from the front,from Hydra.He may have escaped,and after a long time,he may be free.But home,that's a place he mever returned to.

[majulians-groupie]

Every Touch

Pairing: Thunderbolts!Bucky Barnes x Female Reader

Summary: Bucky touches you every chance he gets.

Word Count: 820

Warnings: Established relationship, sweetness, fluff, implied smut, Bucky Barnes (he's a warning, okay?).

A/N: More Tower Shenanigans inspired by a sweet nonnie! ❤️ Not beta read and written on my phone, so any and all mistakes are my own. Divider by the talented @saradika-graphics. Please follow @navybrat817-sideblog for new fics and notifications. Comments, reblogs, feedback are loved and appreciated!

Once your relationship is out in the open he doesn't stop touching you because there's nothing to hide. Plus he loves touching you.

If you two are ever apart, he seeks you out first thing. If his hands are full, he puts whatever he’s holding down so he can put his hands on you in some way.

It’s normal for him to sneak up behind you in the kitchen, or any room in the tower really, and press a kiss on your shoulder. It’s always the same spot and it always tingles after.

He likes to sit close in the common room so your legs are touching. He sometimes tucks your head under his chin and breathes you in, and other times he rests his head against you and you run your fingers through his hair.

Bucky once got jealous when you ran your fingers through Bob’s hair, but that’s a story for another day with a very happy ending for you.

He also likes to sit beside you when he reads so he can hold your hand, and he places the book on his lap so he can turn the page and not let you go. If he runs small circles on your hand, he’s reading something soothing, and if he’s squeezing your hand, he’s reading something exciting or potentially upsetting.

Interlocking fingers puts a small smile on your face because that means he’s reading something romantic and he once said, “This is one of the greatest love stories ever told, but ours is better.”

You didn't laugh or tease him because he meant it. “I love you, too, Bucky,” you said, your heart full.

Everyone knows you're by his side for movie nights and he’ll happily hide your face in his neck if you watch something scary, even when you tell him you aren't afraid. He just wants to protect you, even if the monsters aren't real.

If he sits beside you when you eat, he has a hand on your thigh. That can be dangerous depending on the kind of mood he’s in.

If he has to sit across from you, prepare for him to play footsie or reach across the table to take your hand. He sometimes does both.

You hold hands or he has an arm around your shoulders in public. If he puts his arm around your waist, someone is either staring at you or is ballsy enough to hit on you in front of him.

You usually give him a kiss on the corner of his mouth when that happens, both to calm the raging storm inside him and to wordlessly tell anyone looking that you two belong to each other.

Every once in a while Bucky will play music so you can dance together. He’s a gentleman at first and has a hand on your waist while the other has your hand in his, but it typically ends with an innocent kiss that becomes heated and his hands wandering over your body.

After you woke up in his bed the first time, you traced a heart over his when you thought he was still asleep. A heartbeat later he traced a heart on your back.

Your limbs are constantly tangled up when you're in bed together and you both continue to trace patterns and shapes on each other's skin. You even write words or phrases that he tries to guess, which he’s pretty good at.

If he catches you frowning, he’ll reach out and touch your cheek with one finger until you smile. He’ll then put his entire hand against your cheek to keep you in place and memorize how beautiful you look.

Bucky is in a better place mentally than he has been in a long time, but he still has his bad days like everyone else. When those days pop up, you ask if it’s okay to touch him.

He never answers with words. He’ll take your hand, wrap you up in a hug, whatever he needs, and he appreciates that you asked when others would've just taken or assumed.

If you're hurt, it’s game over. He's carrying you everywhere and holding you in his lap, even if it's the tiniest injury known to mankind and you're more than capable of moving around on your own.

You tease that he's dramatic, but you not-so-secretly love it. It also isn't a secret that some missions are terrifying and you both need the comfort and each other's touch after.

“I can't lose you,” he once whispered so low that it was almost lost in the air. You snuggled close so he could feel your beating heart and know you were right there with him.

In your dreams, and you hope in reality, you’d never lose each other. You’d fight together, grow old together, and live a long and happy life together.

And you’d cherish every memory with Bucky, along with every touch.

This man. 🥰 I wonder just how jealous he got because of Bob. Love and thanks for reading! ❤️

Masterlist ⚓ Bucky Barnes Masterlist ⚓ Ko-Fi

[majulians-groupie]

That was so amazing istg🥺🥺🩷

what's left behind 𐙚 b.b

pairing: new avenger!bucky barnes x you

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

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

word count: 3.6k

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

requests are open!

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

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

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

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

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

The blood drained from your face.

“What did you say?”

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

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

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

“What mission?” you asked, voice brittle.

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

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

“No,” you whispered.

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

She didn’t.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

But this time? This time he was going alone.

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

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

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

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

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

“I need to find him.”

You didn’t wait for a reply.

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

He didn't even bother telling you.

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

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

Without telling you.

He came back around six that evening.

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

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

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

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

“When were you going to tell me?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He didn’t deny it.

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

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

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

His mouth opened, but nothing came out.

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

And that’s when he said it.

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

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

He froze.

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

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

He didn’t say anything.

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

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

“I hope the mission’s worth it.”

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

And let you go.

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

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

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

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

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

Then came the knock.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

But the morning came anyway.

And with it came the emptiness.

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

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

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

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

And beside it were his dog tags.

Not around his neck. Not taken for luck.

Left behind. Your heart seized.

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

You opened the note.

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

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

But the door stayed closed.

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

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

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

You didn’t run to him. Not at first.

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

But he stopped walking. Dropped the duffel.

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

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

Still his. Still waiting.

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

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

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

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

It was everything he hadn’t said.

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

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

requests are open!

[majulians-groupie]

So you mean the fact that I am 20 year old and trapped in a country with major issues because I'm still in uni doesn't mean I'm destined to be a failure?

I spent so much time in my twenties convinced that my life was over, that I somehow ruined it beyond repair, that I was doomed to the life I had and nothing more. and now, in my mid thirties, i’m like wow.. this shit has actually just begun! I can and will create the life I want!