malum-forev

[malum-forev]

This broke me in ways I didn’t know were possible. But in the beautiful kind of broken😭😭

sleep on the floor, dream about me.

pairing: bucky barnes x former avenger!reader summary: absolution never came easy to him. not in war, not in peace, not with your hands in his hair. it’s been fourteen months since they called him an avenger. fourteen months since he let you walk away. you asked him to come with you. he stayed. now you’re a memory he rewinds nightly—your laugh in his kitchen, your hand on his, your voice saying bucky like it meant something soft. he never said yes. but god, he never stopped wanting to. word count: 3.1k content warnings: 18+ mdni, character study, bucky's pov, heavy angst, unimaginable levels of grief and yearning, fem!reader, bucky needs a hug, love when a man is in NEED, oral (f!receiving), overstimulation, multiple orgasms, hair pulling, whining, use of pet names (sweetheart)

It’s been fourteen months since they called him an Avenger.

Not again. Not back on the team. Just… an Avenger. Like the name didn’t come loaded with blood and ghosts and public opinion polls. Like they could slap a title on him and it wouldn’t tremble against the weight of everything he used to be.

They called them the New Avengers after the incident in New York City, so scripted it made Walker nearly choke on his own smirk. Fontaine smiled like a pageant mother, polished and venomous, announcing her monsters like debutantes. And Bucky, God help him, stood there and let it happen. He let the crowd clap. Let the name stick.

It was easier than trying to explain how little of himself he recognized in the man on stage.

They’re a mess of a team—Bob still witnessing horrors from the confines of his mind, Ava flickering in and out like her faith in the mission, Walker gritting his teeth and pretending that guilt makes him noble. Alexei drinks too much and talks too loud, and Yelena keeps her knives sharp, her exits mapped.

And Bucky leads them. Somehow. Quietly. Stoically.

He tells himself it’s because someone has to. But the truth is simpler: it’s because he doesn’t know how to stop. How to let the world spin without trying to hold it together with shaking hands.

Most nights, he doesn’t sleep. 

Sometimes he thinks about you.

Well. That’s a lie.

He thinks about you all the time.

.

He hasn’t spoken your name aloud in months, but it lives under his tongue anyway. Like the taste of old pennies. Like the first sip of whiskey after a long winter walk—hot, biting, familiar. He pretends he doesn’t still scan rooftops when he passes through small towns, doesn’t still look for the slant of your shoulders in crowded cafes or behind fences overgrown with honeysuckle. He pretends a lot of things.

There’s a photo saved in the notes app of his burner phone. Grainy, zoomed in too far, your back turned. Holding a chicken. You’d posted it on some burner account Sam found by accident—an alias, dumb and playful, like a name you would’ve given your first cat. The caption read: “One of us is emotionally stable and it’s not me.” You were laughing, he thinks. The picture didn’t show your face, but he knows your laugh. Remembers the way it sounded in his kitchen, too late at night, as you mocked his cooking and then sat in his lap to eat anyway. 

You’d asked him to come with you.

That was the part no one knew. Not Dr. Raynor, not Sam, not even Steve. You hadn’t just left—not just vanished in the quiet way operatives sometimes do when they’ve seen too much and breathed in too many fires that weren’t their own. You’d stood in front of him, shaking with restraint, and you’d said it.

“I don’t want to do this anymore, Buck. I don’t want to keep pretending this is saving people.”

He’d looked at you like a man underwater, too slow to catch anything that wasn’t already halfway gone. You were all raw edges and conviction then—bloody-knuckled from a fight neither of you were supposed to be in, scraped up from dragging a kid out of a collapsed stairwell. He remembers how your hair was damp with rain, your voice calm in that terrifying, resolute way.

“Come with me,” you said.

It wasn’t a plea. It wasn’t a whisper. You weren’t a woman who begged. But it was the closest you’d ever come to laying yourself bare. And he’d heard it. Felt it. Let it pierce straight through him like a thread catching on old scar tissue.

He said nothing.

He watched your face crumble in the smallest, quietest ways—like a building set to implode from the inside—and still, he couldn’t speak. Couldn’t reach out. Couldn’t give you anything except the same blank silence he always wore when he didn’t know how to be a person.

So you left. Took the bag already packed by the door. Didn’t even slam it. Just walked out with your shoulders squared and your heart in pieces, and didn’t look back.

He hadn’t meant to let you go. He just didn’t know how to say yes to something that felt like hope.

Because back then—God, back then he was still trying to figure out what wanting meant. Wanting something didn’t come naturally, not after years of being pointed like a weapon and told to fire. Wanting had been trained out of him. Beaten out. Frozen out.

And you—what you were offering—wasn’t just escape. It wasn’t a plane ticket or coordinates to some cabin in a country that didn’t ask questions. It was a future.

It was yours.

He’d have followed you anywhere if you’d asked in a way he could understand. But you weren’t built for manipulation, and he’d only ever been taught obedience.

So when you asked for something he couldn’t compartmentalize, couldn’t file into mission parameters or coded objectives—he froze. And then he nodded. Like a fucking coward.

Like he didn’t love you with every half-repaired piece of himself.

He thinks about that moment more than he admits. Thinks about what might’ve changed if he’d stood up and said, Yeah. Okay. Take me with you.

Last he heard, you were in Virginia. Somewhere with acreage and too much sun, where the satellites don’t reach so fast. Sam mentioned it once, offhand, like it was a rumor. “She’s got a cat now,” he’d said, like that was the most remarkable part.

Bucky can’t picture it. You, bent over a garden. You, reading in a quiet room. You, peaceful.

What he can picture is the last time he saw you. Rain. A motel. The quiet war of your backs turned to one another. You didn’t yell. You didn’t ask him to fight for you.

And he hadn’t.

You’d left behind a sweatshirt in his duffel. Navy, worn thin at the cuffs. He wears it now, sometimes, under the leather and the Kevlar, tucked close to skin like a secret.

.

There was the time when you brought up the courthouse on the Q train, just south of Atlantic Avenue. It’s late, and the subway car is near empty, all plastic echo and tired fluorescent buzz. A woman with too many plastic bags sleeps across from you both, mouth parted in a way that makes Bucky look away politely, as if modesty is still a reflex he knows how to honor.

Your hand is on top of his. Fingertips warm. Your thumb stroking the glimmering vibranium metal—like it’s not strange, like it’s not terrifying, like it’s nothing at all.

“We could just… do it, y’know?” you say. “Courthouse. One of those dumb Tuesdays. I’ll wear something I already own.”

You don’t look at him. You look at the window, at the way your reflection warps and bends with the flicker of passing tunnels.

Bucky swallows, throat clicking. “You’d marry me in a courthouse?”

You shrug. “Sure. Would you rather wait in line at the DMV together? Because that’s my second most romantic setting.”

He smiles, soft and cornered. “I just thought… you’d want something beautiful.”

“I do,” you say, and finally glance back at him. “But the part that’s beautiful is you. The rest is just staging.”

And God—he thinks he might cry. Just there, on a bench that smells like wet metal and too many years of bad decisions, with a poster peeling off the wall that says “SEE SOMETHING, SAY SOMETHING.” He sees you. He’s seeing you now, the way he didn’t let himself before. And still, he says nothing.

He thinks about a garden wedding. Somewhere green and far and full of things he doesn’t have to understand. Maybe upstate. Maybe not even this country. Something with color and quiet. You’d hate it, he knows—complain about the bugs and the lack of cell service and how long it takes to drive there—but you’d wear the hell out of a dress and lace your fingers through his and smile like he’s worth a thousand-mile detour. That’s what he wants. Not the spectacle, but the vision. You, with sunlight in your hair, smiling at him like he’s made of something safe.

But it’s easier to make a joke. Easier to deflect.

“What about Coney Island?” he asks. “We could get married on the Tilt-a-Whirl. Real classy.”

You snort. “You wanna puke on my vows?”

“Could be romantic,” he says. “Trauma bonding.”

“Bucky.”

His name in your mouth still wrecks him. Like the first time you said it, somewhere between Berlin and Lagos, when everything was cold and loud and uncertain. You said it like it was simple. Like it wasn’t attached to decades of war crimes and waking nightmares.

He never asked you to call him James.

And you never asked him to apologize for being broken.

.

It’s late by the time you’re back. The kind of late that doesn’t belong to any day anymore—just exists, unclaimed, in the hours between wound and healing.

You laugh when you kick off your boots. They thunk hollow against the apartment wall. “I feel like I’ve been running on caffeine and spite for fourteen hours.”

He doesn’t answer. Just watches you. The way you stretch, lazy and light, the way your shirt rides up at the hem.

He wants to touch you. Not possessive, not frantic—just close. Wants to lay you down and watch you breathe. Wants to kiss the skin behind your ear and the curve where your hip meets your thigh. All the soft, unguarded places. The ones only he knows by heart.

You step toward him, eyes warm.

“Bucky.”

He never gets used to that. Never will.

His whole chest cracks open at the sound of it. Like you’ve whispered something sacred and forbidden, just for him. A name that doesn’t carry the weight of blood and trigger pulls. Just warmth. Just want.

You press your hand flat over his heart, like you’re checking to see if he’s real. Like he might vanish if you blink.

“You keep looking at me like that,” you murmur, “I’m gonna start thinking you missed me.”

He huffs, quiet. “I always miss you.”

Your fingers slip into his hair. Soft, familiar. He closes his eyes when you kiss him—slow and sweet and deep enough that he feels it all the way through.

You walk him back toward the bed without saying anything else. He lets you. Lets your hands trace his collarbone, slow. His vibranium arm settles beside your head as he leans in, pressing his mouth to your neck, your jaw, the place just under your ear that makes you sigh like he’s found something secret.

“Bucky,” you whisper again, when his hands slip under your shirt. “You can have me. You always can.”

He never stood a chance against you.

So he drags himself, down, down, down past your hips, face to face with your cunt, and begs you, with the earnestness he learned a long time ago, before the war and the soldier, to show him how much of you he can have.

"Come on, sweetheart. Show me how much you want it."

You'd fingered yourself with one finger to start, until he clicked his tongue and added another. Couldn't take his eyes off your wrecked, frenzied pace like some sort of rocket. Watched the way your back arched and your hips jutted against his when you started to cum, and he pressed his mouth against your opening and tasted. 

Didn't stop until you were pulling away and even then, when your breathing started to even out and your eyes became lucid again. "Again," he rasped. Like a starving man.

He loves the way you make a mess, every time. It physically—god, it drives him crazy—how someone can make his heart practically burst out of his chest. His tongue lazily lapping along your thighs, your folds, your clit, sucking and rolling and grazing his teeth against the soft bundle of folds.

"Bucky, Bucky, please—"

If it were up to him, he doesn't think his hunger would ever be sated.

Wrenches orgasm, after orgasm, after orgasm from your willing, pliant body until you're close to tears, fingers wrapped around the sheets like a lifeline and he has to reorient you back to his hair. Where you pull so deliciously, it makes tears spring up in his eyes.

.

The thing about memory is that it lies. That’s something he knows. He lived in fractured ones for years. But you—your memories cling true. Linger like ghosts.

He remembers your hands in his kitchen after. A chipped coffee mug. The time you tried to bake a pie and nearly started a fire because you forgot the filling. You’d licked cinnamon off his finger, grinning, and said, “It’s a personality trait now. Bad decisions, good pastry.”

You’d kissed him with sugar still on your mouth.

He remembers you sprawled on a motel bed, flipping through a paperback with your feet tucked under his thigh. He remembers the scar on your shoulder, the one you got on a mission neither of you were supposed to be on, and the way he touched it once like it was a question.

He sees your shadow in the face of every kindness. He feels your phantom laugh in every silence too long.

He doesn’t call. He doesn’t write.

But he keeps the screenshot. The one of you and the chicken. He stares at it when he’s too fucked up, too tired, too anything. He doesn’t remember the last time he heard your voice outside a dream, but he remembers the weight of you in his arms. Remembers the sound you made when you laughed into his neck, like it cracked you open.

He’s never deserved that sound. Not really.

But God, he misses it.

.

He finds himself in the observation room when the signal hits.

Bucky sees the jet through the satellite feed. Just a flicker of silver and blue, sharp-edged and strange, carving a line through the upper layers of Earth’s atmosphere like it belongs there. A "4" on its wing.

The room is silent but for the soft hum of the holographic display, and the sound of his own jaw locking tight. He doesn’t say anything, doesn’t even shift. But something in him—a thread, a tendon—pulls.

Yelena cocks an eyebrow. Bob goes quiet. And Bucky—

—Bucky just stares.

He doesn’t know why this moment is the one that does it. Why this, and not the Hydra facility they torched in Belarus, or the body they pulled from the wreckage last fall. But something shifts. Something breaks.

The thought lands heavy: you should know about this.

You always liked patterns, puzzle-boxes. Things that nested inside themselves. He used to find you at mission briefings with a pen tucked behind your ear, absently solving logic puzzles in the margins of your reports—Sudokus, cryptics, mazes with no entry point. “Keeps the brain from rusting,” you’d say, tapping your temple like it was a lock he didn’t have the key for.

But it wasn’t just the puzzles. It was the way you thought about the world: as something decipherable. As a system of signs and symbols that could be parsed, if only you looked at it from the right angle. Bucky never understood that. Still doesn’t. Not really.

When the world felt like it was breaking—when the walls closed in after a mission, or the memories returned out of order and too loud—you never told him to breathe. Never asked him to talk. You’d just sit next to him on the floor, lean your shoulder into his and murmur something like, “Entropy is just the universe trying to find its balance.”

And he’d laugh. Or try to. “That doesn’t help,” he’d say.

“I know,” you’d reply, grinning sideways. “But doesn’t it sound cool as fuck?”

You’d pick apart the world like it was a riddle, not a tragedy. You believed in equations of fate, in karmic symmetry. You’d say things like, “Every time we save someone, that has to go somewhere. That has to matter, even if we can’t see it yet.”

And he—God, he’d wanted to believe you.

There’s one night he can’t stop thinking about. Somewhere out there. The desert too loud with wind, the air gritty in his throat. You were both running low on sleep, bruised and dehydrated, holed up in the skeleton of a house that hadn’t been lived in for years. You were curled up under a jacket, shivering, your eyes half-lidded.

He’d sat beside you, back to the wall, gun across his lap. Watching shadows stretch long through broken windows.

“I think this one’s gonna go sideways,” he’d muttered, more to himself than anything.

You hadn’t opened your eyes. Just mumbled, “Then the next one’ll go right.”

“Where do you get that kind of faith?”

And you’d said it without missing a beat: “From you.”

He wonders if you’d answer his call.

If your number’s the same. If you’d still let unknown calls through, the way you used to—claiming spam calls were like horoscopes: always inconvenient, sometimes weirdly accurate. He used to roll his eyes at that, but secretly, he’d loved it. 

He stares until the screen times out. Lights up again. Fades. It’s pathetic, this dance. Cowardice in increments.

Then, finally, a breath. A sound like surrender.

He dials. It rings once. Twice. Three times.

Every second is an ache. Every pulse of silence feels like the hollow of your absence pressing into his ribs. He can’t breathe.

And then—

Your voice.

“Hey.”

He forgets how to speak. How to move. All he can do is feel.

The sound of you, real and whole and alive, scrapes something raw in him. It’s not just memory now—it’s present tense. The now of it. The breath you took to answer. The rustle on your end of the line. The shape of your voice, unchanged.

You don’t say his name. You don’t need to.

He says yours like it costs him something.

Soft. Unsteady. Like it’s prayer. Like it’s regret folded into reverence.

There’s a pause. Then you sigh. He hears the tight release of breath through your nose, and he’s close enough to the memory of you that he can see your face. Head tipped back, eyes half-lidded. That expression you wore when you didn’t want to smile but couldn’t help it. The one that always cut him the deepest.

Your voice comes again, warm and wry.

“Is the world ending again, Barnes?”

[malum-forev]

Non Exclusive

Bucky warmed the single beer he’d been nursing for hours by holding it with both hands. He blew air into the top of the bottle, making the glass whistle as he shifted on both legs. He glanced your way twice, not wanting to make it obvious he was staring. 

Sam pulled up next to the brunet, switching up his flat beer for a newer, colder one. 

“How much longer are you going to be lurking in the shadows?” Sam asked. “People have already started asking me who the peeping tom is.”

“I’m not staring.” Was all Bucky said. 

“Staring, wanting to burst Garrett’s head with your mind, tomato, tomato.” Sam sipped his beer, leaning back on the wall to join his friend. “You look pretty jealous Buck. I thought you said you and (Y/N) had agreed on just sex.” 

“It is just sex.” Bucky rolled his eyes. 

Bucky let his blue eyes roam your body, he had made it his personal mission to memorize the curves on your body. It was like he had X-Ray vision and he could accurately pinpoint where each and every one of your moles and scars were.  

Sam hummed. “If you two aren’t exclusive, then tell me who you’ve fucked other than her lately.”

Bucky realized it would have been too embarrassing for him to say he’d turned down more than a couple of offers. To be honest, once he got used to this new world, Bucky was- what’s the correct word?- he was liberated. 

When Dr. Raynor told him he was free and he’d asked her “Free to do what?” 

He didn’t think fucking every single woman within a five-mile radius would be her answer- but that’s what he did. And it was amazing. He wasn’t used to women being so open about how he made them feel, Bucky had even asked for pointers to make the experience more pleasurable for them. There wasn’t a clause in his contract that forbid him from fraternizing with other agents and boy did he make some of his higher ups wish they did. 

The Winter Soldier had gotten quite the reputation for being an expert in the one and done category. Making women all around the compound want him even more, wishing they would be the ones to return the soldier back to his 40’s ways. None of them had been successful. 

But something changed when he met you. You’d been on the team for some time now but you had never expressed any interest in him. Until that night. For Bucky, his life would be separated into two categories: Before You and After You. 

It was a late night and you came into his office with your tactical suit zipped down to your waist with a tight cropped shirt underneath that begged to be taken off, your hair that was usually up in a ponytail had been let free a long time ago.

Bucky gulped as you leaned over the table to reach for something, your breasts taunting him.

Before he knew it, your lips were on his. You were running your hands through his short hair, trying to grip anything. Your ragged breaths only pushed your breasts closer to him, making him go feral. 

“I’m not looking for anything serious.” He panted.

Your devious smile only made him harder. “Neither am I.” 

Ever since that day, he’d been entranced. Of course he enjoyed sex with other women but with you, Bucky felt a deep connection. Like you were made for him, you introduced Bucky to a pleasure high he didn’t think was even possible or existed for that matter. 

It started when he called you after a mission, wanting to get rid of pent-up aggression. Bucky was extra happy when you’d told him you were more than happy to let him use your body, that day he’d introduced you to the stars. Fucking you into oblivion. 

Then, it was once a week at least. 

“Training has been-“ Bucky said between thrusts but you shushed him. 

You craned your neck from your position on all fours, locking with his darkened and lustful eyes. “Concentrate on me, on us.”

Bucky thought it was a miracle he didn’t come then and there, just from your words. 

You laid in bed with him after the two of you had finished. You closed your eyes and leaned your head back on his almost flat pillows before focusing all your energy- whatever he hadn’t drained- into lifting your body. 

“A-are you leaving already?” Bucky’s voice was just above a whisper. 

“I didn’t think you wanted me to stay longer.” You chuckled. 

Bucky’s eyes furrowed. “What makes you think that?”

“I thought you used those as a quick fuck quick exit tactic.” You pointed at the uncomfortable pillows. “You know, to make your guest understand they shouldn’t overstay their welcome.”

When you came over a week later, a couple of things had changed in his room. On the nightstand opposite his were a couple of boxes of tampons, one candle, a toothbrush and an oversized vintage t-shirt of his. You fought back a smile as you saw a brand-new fluffy pillow rest next to his flat one on the bed with the tags still attached. 

“Did you take some pointers from romantic comedies?” You bit your bottom lip. 

Bucky smiled, kneeling between your legs perched at the edge of the bed. “Concentrate on me.” 

You threw your head back with a moan as he lowered his head in between your thighs. 

“I’ll take your lack of an answer as a no.” Sam laughed. “The fuckboy became the simp.”

“What of course I’ve been seeing other people.” Bucky scoffed. “Yes, I’ve been doing a lot of that. Recently. Constantly.”

Sam crossed his arms over his chest. “Then I assume you won’t care if I told you Thor is coming to the compound next week.”

The sound of his name made the blood coursing through Bucky’s veins become hot. He clamped down on his molars. 

“I thought he wasn’t returning, at least not soon.” Bucky tried to sound relaxed, like he totally didn’t care that the man you have the biggest crush on would be training with the team. 

Sam shrugged. “Something about having intel.”

“What kind of intel could he have that we couldn’t easily get.” Bucky rolled his eyes and sipped the beer. 

“You’re seriously considering you have more information than the literal God of Thunder?”

Bucky cleared his throat. “It’s not like I care anyways.”

“You don’t?” Sam pushed.

“I. don’t. care.” Bucky enunciated each word, following your hands as you placed them on Garrett’s chest. 

“When’s the whole Mr. Casual act going to stop?” Sam asked. 

“You know me-“ Bucky let out a strained smile. “Monogamy bores me. Being with only one woman, for the rest of my life, the whole get married and spend eternity wishing I would die at the same time as her so I don’t need to spend another minute of my time on Earth without her- yeah that doesn’t sound like me.” 

Sam judged his friend silently. 

“She can go home with Garrett and I wouldn’t care-“ Bucky laughed into his beer. “Plus he’s like a full four inches shorter than me so- yeah I don’t care.”

Just as Sam was about to say something, his friends eyes lit up and for the first time in hours he saw Bucky look not miserable- dare he even say happy?

You strutted towards the soldier, your happy glow transferring onto him. 

“How about you take me back to your place, Sarge?” You whispered into his ear. 

Bucky’s face lit up and he took your hand, quickly waving back at Sam. “If you have an emergency, don't call!”

I'm the worst at writing even mild spice so pls don't kill me if this is cringeeee. I triedddd and I'm a sucker for slutty Buck.

tagged: @kpopgirlbtssvt @shara-ne @namelesssaviour@hallecarey1

[malum-forev]

Neighbors

Bucky hated D.C. Absolutely loathed every part of the city. He hated the motorcades that would constantly make traffic jams impossible to navigate, he hated how the weather would go from freezing cold to boiling hot in a matter of seconds, and he especially hated his job.

The fact he had to read through hundreds of documents that said nothing and everything at the same time made his head hurt worse than when people smashed guns against it.

Bucky actually considered moving, many times. He thought the commute would be better than having to handle living in the city. For a while, he thought about moving back to Wakanda, the only place that had given him some kind of peace. He missed the normalcy of the city, and he wanted to settle down at some point. He was close to subletting his apartment and leaving the states altogether, but everything changed one fateful Friday afternoon.

The first thing he noticed was the floors. The old wooden panels felt like they had more give to them than usual. Like hundreds of people had passed through that day and worn them down.

The second thing was the lingering smell of perfume in the hallway. Spicy cinnamon with vanilla and something floral soothing the strong scent. It was definitely not his next door neighbor, the 6'7 burly foreigner who would only come out of his apartment to get his daily takeaway container. And it was clearly not the old lady who lived down the hall. The smell was way too modern for her to wear it.

The last thing, were the towers of boxes lining the sides of the apartment door directly in front of his. Cardboard boxes labeled: kitchen, bedroom, living room, in a nice loopy handwriting.

But none of these things could have prepared him for what was behind that innocently looking door.

The door swung open, wafting through the deliciously complex scent along with the comfort of chocolate chip cookies. Bucky never before understood the phrase feeling fuzzy inside, but as soon as he locked eyes with yours, the Sergeant's insides turned velvet.

It was like a movie, your head turned to him in slow motion, almost as if his mind was trying to memorize every single detail of your expression. So relaxed, so carefree, so happy. It had been years since Bucky had felt like that, and in just a couple of seconds you made him yearn for that happiness.

Next came your smile, your lips curved upwards like he'd just said the funniest joke you'd ever heard when in reality Bucky hadn't said one word. He's pretty sure that he hadn't even let out a breath.

He was completely dumbfounded. That was the only way he could describe it. He was staring at his new neighbor completely dumbfounded.

Bucky saw your lips move, but no sound registered in his head. To be completely honest, he was hearing church bells instead of words. It wasn't until you raised your eyebrows, expecting a response from him, that he realized he'd been staring silently at you for a full minute.

"What?" Was all he could get out. The word came out in a rush and sounded more like a seagull call than language.

"I said I'm sorry for the noise." You giggled. "I unpack faster if I'm listening to music."

"N-no worries." Bucky clears his throat, trying to remember how to properly speak. "I just got home."

"Oh! I finally get to meet the person on the other side of 4B! That's exciting." You hold your hand out, balancing a smaller box with your other hand and your hip.

"I'm the one who's excited." Bucky lets out, shaking your hand with way too much force.

Only silence follows his words and it makes him want to crawl underneath the new flowery welcome mat you've just set out and die. It's not until he hears you laugh that the life returns to his eyes.

"You're funny." You smile, introducing yourself.

Bucky barely catches your name because the whole hallway starts to sound like church bells again after you've said he's funny. It's been a while since someone called him that. Brave, courageous, sad, silent, those were synonyms of the soldier. But funny, almost no one called him that.

"I've just moved in, as you can see," you nod your head back at the mountain of boxes inside your apartment. "Do you like the apartment complex? I've been trying to vibe check all week but it seems our other neighbors aren't as friendly as you."

Bucky nods his head like his life depends on it. He'd be an idiot to say that the water takes over twenty minutes to heat up, and that the neighborhood isn't exactly safe.

"I love it." He tries to give you a relaxed smile but he's almost sure he looks in pain, lying has never really been his forte. "I'm actually thinking of buying my place."

"Well, congratulations on the thought of buying your apartment." You smile at him.

"Thank you, and-" Bucky takes a pause, gathering up all his courage to ask you out. He's spent years trying to rebuild the confidence he used to have. He hates thinking about how he used to be, back when everything was normal, but it's impossible not to think about it. Before the war, he'd easily come up to any woman and charm her left and right. He'd never admit it to anyone but he used to have at least five different women's pictures in his wallet at a time.

But now, he's trying to play catch up and it's almost impossible. It's like every day he needs to learn sixty different words to try and understand what they're talking about.

And just as the words "Will you go out with me?" were about to leave his mouth, he sees him.

Bucky's eyebrows raise and he lets out a defeated sigh as he sees another man cross through your living room to grab another box and bring it towards your bedroom.

"Thank you, and...." You wiggle your eyebrows playfully, hoping it's not the end of your incredibly hot neighbors sentence.

"Thank you, and I hope you have a lovely first night here." Bucky nods his head once before turning away, his heart twisting and turning as he catches your eyes one last time.

You're left behind, stuttering a goodbye before closing your door too. Confused and a little disappointed.

"Who was that at the door?" Your brother asks as he comes in and picks up another box.

"My new neighbor." You give him a light smile.

"He's cute." He raises his eyebrows.

"Yeah, he's really cute." You say remembering those steel eyes that just a minute ago were looking at you like you set up the moon.

Author's note: Hiiiii guysss, I'm so sorry I hadn't posted in a while but as some of you know, I wrote a book! And it's now published on Amazon! If any of you are interested in it I would be more than honored to send you the link!

Anywayssss, I watched Thunderbolts a couple of weeks ago thinking it was going to kickstart my obsession again but I think I'm still not over Congressman Bucky! it's a problem. Hehe. Buuuutt I will be updating Eyes, They Never Lie, if you guys are still interested in that!

Okay okay my rant is over, I love you guys and thank you for your patience throughout this whole time I've been writing my book! Thanks xx

Taglist: @aoi-targaryen@whoreforbarnes@ironwinnerwonderland@oikarma@ellabellabunny123

[malum-forev]

Hypersonic Missiles

Summary : Congressman Barnes falls in love with a fiercely progressive senator. What happens when he starts regretting going into politics at all?

Pairing : Bucky Barnes x senator! reader (she/her) 

Warnings/tags : Cursing, Fluff!!!! Angst. Hurt/Comfort. Sexual references, sexual themes, and implied sex, though no overly graphic descriptions. hurt/comfort. Based on the spoiler-y leak from cinema con that Bucky barely lasts half a term as a congressman.

Word count : 9k

Note : This is based on the song of the same title by Sam Fender. I am on a roll, folks. Enjoy!

Bucky Barnes never meant to get involved in politics.

He’d done the hero thing. The therapy thing. The ‘try to date but freak out in the middle of brunch’ thing. He even tried the ‘live in Brooklyn and pretend to be normal’ thing, which mostly involved awkward small talk at the local bodega and staring at walls for unhealthy amounts of time.

Running for Congress had been… weird. 

It was just a dare that people gave him, and he took it half-seriously. 

He didn’t think he’d actually get in. 

It was supposed to be one term, a few speeches, some votes. Smile for the camera, shake some hands, look like a functioning member of society. Do enough to convince the world—and maybe himself—that he wasn’t just a broken weapon trying to pass as a man.

And then he met you.

An independent senator born into old money—exactly the kind of person he was supposed to be suspicious of. Legacy Ivy League, tailored suits and dresses that probably cost more than his first apartment, and the kind of name people recognised from museum wings and political dynasties.

But you were something else entirely.

You were a walking contradiction: born into wealth, but ferociously progressive. The kind of person who argued that people like you should be taxed more. That inherited wealth was a societal rot, and the system was rigged in your favour. You were intelligent, articulate, relentless— and you meant every word.

He first saw you during a bloated committee hearing on national defense spending. Bucky had spent most of it zoning out, trying not to twitch every time someone mentioned “strategic elimination” like they were ordering lunch. And then you walked in— heels clicking, shoulder squared like you were preparing to box a colleague. 

When you took the floor, you destroyed a five-star general with nothing but a mildly uninterested tone and a stack of paper. 

Technically, he was supposed to be paying attention. Taking notes, even engaging in conversation. But his brain short-circuited somewhere around “our national priorities are upside down,” and all he could think was very sinful thoughts about you.

It was deeply humiliating.

He wasn’t some starry-eyed intern. He was a hundred-year-old super soldier with a metal arm and enough emotional trauma to fill several Olympic-sized swimming pools. But you had him blushing like a teenager and rethinking every life choice that led to this moment.

“General,” you said, voice sharp as glass, “let me get this straight. You’re asking for a thirty-two billion dollar increase to the black budget, and yet you can’t provide so much as a redacted audit?”

He opened his mouth, but you didn’t give him the space. Not yet.

“I have constituents rationing insulin and getting evicted over hundred-dollar rent hikes,” you continued, “And you’re sitting there telling me you need more stealth bombers?”

“Senator, we need to keep foreign powers in check—”

“Oh?” You tilted your head and smiled a scalpel. “Since you’re asking for a blank check, let’s have a little transparency. I want a full accounting of every regime change operation we’ve bankrolled with taxpayer dollars. How many foreign elections have we meddled in this year, General?”

The room shifted. You heard the uneasy scrape of a chair leg, felt the flicker of glances darted like knives.

The general’s teeth clenched. “Senator—”

You leaned forward, elbows resting on the polished wood, spine straight as a bayonet.

“This isn’t about national security,” you said, like the room belonged to you. “This is about institutional gluttony. This is about feeding the military-industrial complex while our infrastructure rots and veterans sleep on the streets.”

That one hit him.

Bucky shifted on his feet, pulse getting too quick for comfort as your words carved clean through the theater of power like you had no time for pageantry. 

God, you were so pretty.

Not pretty like a diamond on a pedestal. Pretty like lightning. Pretty like the kind of woman who left men aching and terrified all the same. Pretty like you’d taste like red wine and righteous fury.

Bucky adjusted his tie. Bad move. His hand was shaking.

“Until then,” you said to the general. “you’ll have to win your wars with the money you already wasted.”

Then the general backed off, and Bucky watched the way your mouth pressed into a faint, satisfied line. You turned slightly, eye sweeping the room. You didn’t look at him, not really, but it still hit like a sucker punch.

It was his first week. He hadn’t voted yet. He hadn’t been whipped into line by the party. And there you were, ruining and making his day at the same time. 

The first person in the chamber who didn’t sound like a politician. 

He watched you sit down, watched your blazer slide just enough to flash the curve of your throat, the delicate line of your collarbone, and he thought:

Oh, I’m fucked.

—

It didn’t stop there.

He started noticing your name everywhere. Not just in headlines or on committees, but stamped onto action. He did some research, and found that your office quietly funded a network of off-the-books health clinics in rural counties the state wouldn’t touch. Through your “charity”—technically a nonpartisan foundation—you rerouted your family’s trust fund into safe needle exchanges, mobile mental health vans, domestic violence shelters in red districts, and reproductive care buses that crossed state lines.

He soon realised you didn’t wait for the system to work. You circumvented it.

And then you got back on the floor, dragging corrupt policy into the light with a dangerous smile. 

“If we have money for drones, we have money for dialysis. If we can find $14 million to research a new combat exosuit, we can find money to put roofs over people’s heads,” you said once. “Let me be clear: I'm not against defense. I'm against waste. I'm against empire. I'm against bleeding the people dry while contractors get rich off fear. Patriotism isn’t writing blank checks to private corporations. It’s making sure kids don’t go to school hungry.”

And when anyone tried to counter, quoting national security you said, “Fine. But fund healthcare. Fund education. Fund the VA. Fund cyber security that doesn’t involve selling civilian data to private firms. Don’t sit here and sell me a war machine when our bridges are collapsing and towns still don't have clean water.”

And every time, Bucky felt something deep inside him unravel.

He wasn’t supposed to feel this way. He was supposed to stay quiet, play the game, and vote his party’s way.

But you weren’t playing. You were rewriting it.

And he was obsessed.

He’d scroll through C-SPAN footage like it was porn, watching you deliver moral beatdowns with the prettiest smile he’d ever seen in his overextended life. He caught himself lingering outside your office more than once, pretending to check his phone, knowing your aides saw him. Knowing you probably did, too.

—

AFTER HOURS

U.S. Capitol – Private Committee Room

It was Bucky’s second month in Congress when you called for a private meeting.

You just put your name on his schedule— no context, no agenda.

He told himself it was probably routine. Some strategic alignment thing. You were an independent— you needed people you could count on. 

Or perhaps, it was a courtesy meeting. Maybe you wanted to trade notes on legislation or something.

Bucky spent the three days leading up to the meeting nervous. He didn’t know why. 

You were younger than him, one of the youngest senators ever sworn in. Smaller than him, too—he was a six-foot hunk of super soldier beef, and yet you were the one who made his palms sweat.

He wasn’t sure what he expected when he opened the door to the meeting room you booked out. 

Definitely not this.

The room was dark, save for the warm glow of a desk lamp and the shimmer of DC lights bleeding in from the window. 

You were at the head of the long table—blazer off, sleeves rolled to your elbows, collar loosened just enough to show a line of cleavage that made his thoughts derail immediately.

You looked up when he entered. “Close the door, Barnes.”

He froze for a second.

You arched an eyebrow. “Unless you want them to hear how badly I’m going to make you admit what you really think.”

His heartbeat spiked. 

He closed the door and locked it.

You didn’t stand, didn’t even offer a seat.

He sat anyway, opposite you.

“You’ve been voting neutral on defense amendments,” you said, voice smooth as butter and sharp as the stiletto heels you always wore. “Even when they gut oversight. Even when they reroute billions to black ops programs.”

“I’m not here to make waves.”

“That’s a coward’s answer,” you said calmly, though he could hear the grit through your teeth. “And you are not a coward.”

His muscles flexed. “You don’t know me.”

“I know you haven’t said a damn word in committee,” you said, “I know you abstained on the surveillance expansion, but signed off on the military budget with a barely legible signature.”

You stood.

Bucky sat straighter, his breath hitching. 

Fuck.

He watched you walk as you circled the table.

“I’ve read your file,” you said, now behind him. Your voice was close, borderline intimate. He could feel your breath in his ears, feel his body trying not to react. “Not the redacted fluff they released to the public. The real one. I know what you were turned into. What they did to you. What you could be.”

His fists clenched in his lap. Where were you going with this? 

“I’m not trying to use you, Barnes,” you murmured, and your tone shifted— now gentler, more empathetic. “I’m trying to wake you up.” 

You leaned in. Your lips grazed the shell of his ear, and that was when he stopped breathing.

“You’re not a weapon anymore,” you whispered, “But you could be a bomb, placed exactly where they won’t see it coming.”

He let out a deep breath through his nose. “And what?” he managed to rasp, “You light the fuse?”

You moved in front of him now, stepped between his knees, hands braced on the table behind you.

It was so casual, so maddeningly dominant, towering over him without ever needing the height.

It was devastating.

“I fund clinics they won’t touch. I move money across invisible lines to make sure queer kids in red states stand a chance. I've bought entire warehouses full of Narcan to smuggle into countries that don't believe in harm reduction,” you slammed a first in the table behind you, “I’ve turned every cent of my family’s blood-soaked money into a spear— and I’m not done yet. I have already lit the fuse, Barnes. I just need someone to spread the fire with me.”

Bucky knew exactly what you were doing. You weren’t virtue signalling— you were trying to set a standard. You need him to know what that standard was.

He stared, chest heaving, locked on the soft dip of your throat, on the way your shirt pulled just a little too tight across your chest, how your lipstick hadn’t smudged even a little.

“You… is this even allowed?” he whispered, voice hoarse.

“I’m free to do as I wish with the money I inherited,” you told him.

You leaned down again, just enough to let your neckline dip further—just enough for him to realise how much he wanted to fall to his knees for you and stay there.

“Tell me something, Barnes,” you said. “When you look at all those men selling war—do you want to follow them?”

“…No.”

“Do you want to stop them?”

He swallowed hard. “Yes.”

You smiled a wicked smile then. It tasted like victory.

“Then stop compromising for your party’s sake. You’re not Switzerland, James. You’re a powder keg with a heart,” you sighed, brushing dust off his shirt, “Be useful.”

And just like that, you stepped back, smoothed out your sleeves, picked up your folders, already reading through your next meeting like you hadn’t just dismantled his thoughts.

But before you opened the door to leave, you paused.

“Next time you vote,” you said, looking back. “Try using the part of you that’s still dangerous. Not the part that wants to be forgiven.”

Bucky knew he shared values with the party he belonged in. But for the first time, he wondered if they lacked the spine.

—

ONE WEEK LATER

House Floor – Defense Authorization Act Vote, Section 42: Expansion of Overseas Military Facilities

This was the kind of amendment that slipped under most radars— buried in bureaucratic language, pretending to be“regional stabilisation.” On paper, it looked harmless. Just another billion-dollar expansion of drone bases and “forward operating stations” in oil-rich regions that happened to be politically unstable.

For most in the room, it was routine.

For Bucky Barnes, it was a line he couldn’t cross. Not after he was used as the Winter Soldier. 

He sat there, card in hand, listening as name after name was called. Every “yea” felt like a drumbeat, a reminder of how easy it was to slip back into the machine, how easy it was to disappear into the grind of votes until your hands were bloody and your conscience ran dry.

He could see all these men in suits who’d never seen war, pushing buttons that sent kids to die. And then he saw you, across the chamber, watching him like you already knew.

You didn’t blink.

“Congressman Barnes?” the clerk called out.

He didn’t hesitate.

“Nay.”

The room didn’t react all that much. One no vote in a sea of yeses. The machine kept churning.

But you heard him.

—

TWENTY MINUTES LATER

Antechamber off the Rotunda

You didn’t knock. Just opened the door and stepped in like you had every right—which, of course, you did.

You found him leaning against the far wall, jacket off, tie loose, eyes fixed on some invisible point in the middle distance.

“You broke party line,” you said.

He didn’t look at you. To be honest, he didn’t know what to say.

You walked in slowly, like you weren’t sure whether you wanted to punch him or drag him into your office. Maybe both.

“You know what you just voted against?”

“I read the whole thing,” he said, looking down. “The base in northern Syria is going to displace an entire village. The one in Nigeria is three miles from an elementary school. And the contractors running ‘support services’ are private militias with a human rights record almost as bad as Hydra’s. I recognised one of their tattoos, actually. The head of the program used to work for the winter soldier program.”

You stared at him.

He finally turned to look at you.

“I watched them build empires with blood,” he said. “I’m not signing off another one.”

You let the confession just sit there for a few seconds, untouched. 

Then, you stepped closer, “You think you’re a good man for finally seeing it?”

“No,” he said. “I think I’m already too late.”

You were close now— almost chest to chest.

His breath was shallow, but steady, as if stepped into a fight he wasn’t sure he wanted to win.

You tilted your head, “Then why do it?”

He looked at you like you were the only thing tethering him to the present. “Because you asked me to stop pretending.”

And that—that did something to you.

He wasn’t apologising. He wasn’t posturing. 

He was offering.

Not a clean conscience. Not redemption.

But loyalty to the version of himself that you saw. 

Your hand came up, fingers brushing the lapel of his shirt.

And then—because this wasn’t the time, and because you both knew what would happen if you gave in now—you let go and stepped back.

“You’re not off the hook,” you said, already walking toward the door. “You’ve got a long way to go before I believe you’re not still sleepwalking.”

He didn’t follow.

But when you glanced back just once, he saw your… approval.

The kind that could either kill a man or remake him.

Bucky was excited to see which he would fall under. 

—

After that, tension built. 

Every committee hearing, every closed-door strategy meeting, every hallway brush of shoulders was… charged now.

He started showing up more— to panels you hadn’t invited him to, to press conferences where he had no reason to be. He stayed just outside your orbit like he was waiting for permission to fall into it.

And when you challenged someone in session, his eyes would find yours like he was feeding off it. 

Like he wanted to kneel in the wake of your ambition.

But it wasn’t just the glances. It was the touch.

It started small. His hand would graze your lower back when he passed behind you in a hearing room. His fingers brushed yours when he handed over a folder. One late night, he reached around you to grab a glass and let his knuckles drag across your waist. You never stopped him.

He was bolder after that.

“You know,” he whispered once, as the two of you stood shoulder to shoulder behind the Senate chamber, “you could tell me to behave. Just once. I’d probably listen.”

You didn’t look at him, but chuckled, “You wouldn’t.”

And he laughed and leaned closer, like he couldn’t help it. “Only one way to find out.”

Another night, at a policy summit out of town, he found you in the hallway of the hotel after your keynote. He was loose-tied and grinning, one hand pressed against the wall beside your head. He couldn’t really get drunk, but he was a little drunk on you. A little desperate for permission he hadn’t figured out how to ask for yet.

“You keep looking at me like I’m a problem you’re trying to solve,” he said.

You raised a brow. “You are a problem.”

“And what if I want to be?” His tone dropped. “For you.”

You just stepped forward, close enough that he had to either move back or let you invade his space. He didn’t move.

“You really think you’re ready for that kind of trouble, Congressman?” you whispered, sultry, fingers ghosting over the hem of his shirt.

He shuddered.

And just like that, you knew that he liked it when you were the one in control.

—

After that night, he became flirty in a way that barely skirted on professional, but always left you wondering if he’d drop to his knees the moment you told him to. He called you “Senator” with that smooth Brooklyn drawl, as if he knew it drove you insane. He touched your fingers when he passed you documents. Let his thigh press against yours under the table during closed sessions.

And every time you checked on him, you felt him fold just a little more.

He was waiting, waiting, and wound tight around your little finger, loving every second of it.

—

THREE MONTHS LATER

U.S. Capitol – Outside the Senate Floor

It started with a vote.

Of course it did.

He blindsided you on the floor. Not by going against the party line—that wasn’t new anymore—but by attaching an amendment you hadn’t signed off on. One that would gut your infrastructure bill if the wrong committee caught wind of it.

You barely made it off the Senate floor before you turned on him.

“Barnes,” you snapped, heels sharp against the marble.

He slowed to a stop, irritatingly casual. 

You shoved open the door to an empty hearing room and walked inside, not even checking to see if he followed. You knew he would.

The door clicked shut behind him.

“What the hell do you think you’re doing?” you hissed, turning to the supersoldier. “You went behind my back.”

He didn’t flinch. Just crossed his arms, standing his ground. “I strengthened your bill.”

“You undermined it. That amendment will kill support in Appropriations, and you know it.”

“I know the version you want passed is safer for everyone except the people who need it most.”

You stared at him, breath hitching. 

“You’re not the only one who gets to steal the show, Senator.” His voice was low, controlled. But there was heat behind it. It sounded almost…. reckless, almost hungry.

You stepped in closer.

“Don’t you dare— ugh, fuck!” You raised your hands, exasperated. “You could’ve talked to me! You chose to pull that stunt in public. You wanted to make a point.”

He tilted his head, smiling a beautiful smile. but it was all teeth. “Maybe I wanted to see how far I could push you.”

Shit.

There it was.

You were toe to toe now. You could feel the tension rippling off him in waves. It barely contained under the surface that unruly front he liked to wear for everyone else. Not for you.

Never for you.

“Even if I did tell you,” he said to fill the silence, “Would you have listened?” he said again, almost smug. 

Fuck him.

You should’ve torn into him. Told him he was reckless, self-righteous, impossible to work with at times. 

Instead, you grabbed the folder from the table beside you and flipped it open—anything to put distance between you and that fucking look on his gorgeous face.

But the moment your eyes read the amendment again, the realisation hit like a gut punch.

Damn it.

It was good.

Not just some posturing idealist’s rewrite—it actually filled in what you hadn’t been able to get past the budget committee. 

He proposed relocating funds from defense surplus, rebalanced long-term projections so the bill could stretch further without tanking in Appropriations.

But you still hated that he’d gone behind your back.

You hated even more that it worked.

You looked up slowly. “Goddamn you, Barnes.”

You threw the files on the fucking floor.

And before you could stop yourself—before you could think about how wrong this was, how stupid—you grabbed his lapel, yanked him down, and kissed him.

His hands were on you in an instant, his metal one gripping your waist like he’d been waiting for this moment for months, the human one cradling the back of your neck, fingers threading into your hair. His mouth met yours with a hunger that made your knees weak.

You made a sound—half a growl, half a whimper—and pushed him back against the wall, biting his lower lip as he groaned into your mouth. Your hands were under his jacket, fingers brushing the belt at his side, trying to pry it off before giving up and letting your palm run under his shirt instead, feeling every plane of muscle.

Fuck, fuck, fuck.

This was a scandal waiting to happen.

But you liked the feeling of him moaning in your goddamn mouth too much to care.

And then—knock knock knock.

You froze.

“Senator?” your secretary called through the door. “They’re looking for you upstairs.”

You jerked back instantly, heart beating too fast for your ribcage to handle. Bucky blinked down at you, lips swollen.

Shit.

Your hand pressed to his chest firmly, pushing him back. “Don’t—don’t say anything.

He raised a brow, still dazed. “Wasn’t planning on it.”

“No one can know,” you hissed, “No one.”

He just nodded, eyes raking over you. “Whatever you say, Senator.”

You adjusted your suit jacket, tried to fix your hair, ignored the heat still thrumming between your thighs.

And as you opened the door to leave, you thought to yourself—

Fuck. What did I just do?

—

The week after the kiss was brutal.

You shut him out.

No meetings. No calls. His name popped up on your calendar twice and both times, you had your scheduler cancel. You claimed conflict: Travel got in the way. There were urgent committee matters. Anything to avoid sitting across from him. 

Because you didn’t trust yourself to be around him. 

You didn’t trust the way your body reacted at the thought of his mouth on yours. How it replayed on loop when you closed your eyes. You didn’t trust that if he gave you that look again, that you wouldn’t grab him and make an even bigger mistake.

But Bucky noticed.

And it wrecked him.

His expression wasn’t quite as cocky. His smile didn’t quite reach his eyes. And in the one hearing you couldn’t avoid, he was burning a hole through the side of your head with his stare, as if daring you to acknowledge him. 

You didn’t.

—

TWO WEEKS LATER

The Freedom Forum Benefit

It was an annual auction event, all champagne and schmoozing and high-dollar promises. You wore black and entered with your head high, your staff two steps behind you.

You felt untouchable.

Until you saw him.

Bucky stood near the bar, fake-laughing at something a donor said, until he saw you.

His expression instantly changed.

He looked like he’d been sucker-punched.

He was in a gorgeous black suit that hugged his shoulders sin incarnate, shirt unbuttoned just enough to make you remember exactly what you’d tasted last week. His hair was slicked back, his stubble rough.

He barely lasted an hour before finding you again.

You’d just stepped out into one of the gallery’s quieter hallways, wine glass in hand, needing a break from the circus when you heard his footsteps. 

You didn’t need to turn to know who it was.

“You’ve been avoiding me,” Bucky said quietly.

You took a breath, controlled. “I’ve been working.”

“Bullshit.”

You turned to him and sighed. “This isn’t the time.”

“Then tell me when the time is,” he said, exasperated, “because I’ve been trying to give you space, and you’ve been using it to pretend none of it happened.”

“We kissed,” you narrowed your eyes and finished the rest of your wine. “It was a mistake.”

His eyes dropped to your mouth like he didn’t believe a word you said. “Funny. Didn’t feel like a mistake when your hands were under my shirt.”

“That was—” Your voice hitched. “We weren’t thinking clearly.”

“I was.” His voice dropped. “I’ve been thinking about it every second since.”

Your back hit the wall before you even realised he’d cornered you there. He didn’t touch you—he wouldn’t—but he stood so close you could smell the spice of his cologne.

“You looked at me like you wanted to eat me alive,” he said. “And what, now you’re telling me you don’t feel the same?”

Your pulse thundered in your temple as he pushed in closer.

“Tell me to back off,” he said. “Say the word and I’ll walk away.”

You didn’t.

Instead, you whispered, “Come home with me.”

He blinked. “What?”

“Tonight. After the gala,” you told him, “if you want to talk this out, I’d rather not do it in public.”

His breath caught.

You could see him recalibrate—like every wire in his body short-circuited, then surged back online.

“Yeah,” he said hoarsely. “Yeah, okay.”

—

LATER THAT NIGHT

Your Residence

And when the gala ended, the motorcade took you back to your place, careful not to attract any unwanted attention.

You locked the door behind you, turned, and gave him that look.

That look that made his knees weak and his mouth dry.

He followed you into the kitchen like gravity had shifted in your favour. 

You poured yourself a glass of water to sober up, not that you were too drunk to begin with. “You wanna talk?” You asked, “Then talk.”

What?

“That’s it?” he asked, almost hurt. “You shut me out for a week, pretend it never happened, and now I’m just—what? Why did you even bring me here? You want me to be your secret late-night one night stand?”

You turned slowly, arms crossing as you took him in.

“No,” you said coolly. “You’re a scandal waiting to happen.”

He flinched.

You stepped closer. “A walking PR nightmare, and those pretty eyes could cost me reelection. You’ve got a mouth that’s going to get you in trouble if you don’t stop pouting.”

“I’m not—” he started, defensive, but his voice cracked.

“Poor Congressman Barnes,” You tilted your head. “Thought one kiss made him special?”

He opened his mouth, but you were already closing the space between you.

“Because you’re right. You fucking are,” you said through gritted teeth. Your hand found its way to his chest, fingers curling around the silk of his tie. You tugged. “Because you know you’re a good man now, Congressman Barnes.”

He gritted his teeth. “I never said that.”

You tilted your head. “But you voted like one. You voted against drone strikes in civilian zones. Against privatized cyber warfare. Against mandatory surveillance of activist groups.”

You stepped closer, “You stood on the floor yesterday, opposing my proposition of keeping tabs on vigilantes and said ‘a government that fears its people more than it protects them is not a democracy—it’s an empire in decline.’ And you changed my mind. Do you know how hard it is to make me change my mind?”

He was breathing hard now.

“And fuck, darling…” you drawled, “I just can’t resist a good man,” your voice was so sweet and sour, like you wanted this but knew you shouldn’t let yourself have it. “You think I’ve been pretending nothing happened?” Your voice dropped to a whisper. “I’ve spent every day this week trying not to picture you on your knees between hearings.”

He took a deep, shaky breath. His hands clenched at his sides.

“I’ve been rewriting statements while imagining how pretty you’d look with my hand in your hair between my legs. I’ve been arguing tax reform while wondering if you’d whimper when I told you to open your mouth.”

“Jesus Christ,” he breathed.

“I told myself I wouldn’t touch you again. Not because I didn’t want to,” you leaned in, lips at his ear, “but because you’d let me. And I just. Can’t. Resist. A. Good. Man.”

He was trembling now.

You stepped back, “But here you are. In my home. Looking at me like you need me to take control.”

“I do,” he said, voice hoarse, wrecked. “I do.”

You shoved him back against the island kitchen and climbed on top of him like a campaign you meant to win. Your mouth found his ear, hot breath slipping into the space where his composure used to live.

“Then be good, congressman,” you purred, teeth grazing the shell of his ear, “Can you do that for me?”

He groaned, deep and wrecked. It didn’t take long before he was grabbing and tearing.

Clothes came off in pieces. Buttons hit the floor. His tie stayed wrapped around your wrist because you yanked it free and didn’t want to let it go. Zippers were wrecked like decorum— ripped right through. He switched over your position, lifting you up and laying you out across your marble kitchen island instead. 

His hand slid down your thigh and then up, right where you needed him.

“You’re so wet,” he breathed, almost like he couldn’t believe it. “You wanted this.”

You arched beneath him, one hand gripping the edge of the counter, the other fisted in his hair.

“I wanted to ruin you.”

His eyes shot to yours, pupils blown wide, lips parted.

“You already have.”

That night, you learned that Bucky Barnes fucks like he fights. He was precise. He was relentless. He was a machine, a man trained to outlast anything. 

So you rocked together there in your marble kitchen like the Capitol couldn’t burn fast enough. You bit his lip. He swore against your throat. He grabbed your hips like you were both anchoring him and tearing him apart.

At one point, you leaned in close and said, “I should filibuster you. Keep you here for hours. See how long it takes before you break protocol.”

He whimpered.

And when it was over—when you both were trembling and flushed and too ruined to speak—you dragged your nails down his chest and whispered, “Still think I’ve been pretending nothing happened?”

He could only shake his head.

“You ruined me,” he said, quiet. “And I liked it.”

You rolled your eyes, but there was no real bite in it. “Don’t get poetic,” you reminded, “You still tanked my vote yesterday.”

He leaned his forehead against your chest, groaning.

“Fuck, I know,” he laughed, dragging a hand down his face. “You’re gonna destroy me in committee next week.”

“I might.”

He looked up again, playful while still managing to be sincere. “Will you at least destroy me like this again afterward?”

You tried to be annoyed. You tried to remember all the ways he drove you insane. But his voice was a little hoarse, his hands were still on your hips like you were the only solid thing left in the world.

And you knew what that meant— loyalty. 

Not weakness. Not worship.

But it lived in between.

You slid off the sticky counter, standing on shaky legs, and he caught your hand before you could step away fully.

“Stay,” he said.

You looked at him. Bare, naked, still burning from the inside out.

“You’re in my house,” you chuckled.

“I know.” His thumb brushed the inside of your wrists.

Fuck, this wasn’t just politics anymore.

This wasn’t strategy or tension. This was something you could walk away from unscathed.

You pulled him up with both hands and pressed a kiss to his mouth— much softer this time.

“I’ll stay,” you said, “if you do, too.”

And he did.

—

And things… evolved.

He kept it clean in public. Professional. 

Well… mostly. He’d place the occasional hand on your lower back, he’d give you kisses on your temple when no one was around.

But behind closed doors, your townhouse became home base. He cooked surprisingly well. 

He’d make pancakes on Sundays. Steak when you were pissed off. Toast and black coffee after sex so good it felt like treason.

You’d read from draft bills while lying across the bed in nothing but his flannel shirt. He’d rest his chin on your thigh, half-listening, half-worshipping.

Sometimes you'd argue between kisses, about anything and everything. Foreign policy. Trade sanctions. Use of force authorizations.

Once, after a particularly vicious day on the floor, you were pacing the living room, still in heels, when he sank down to his knees in front of you, hands sliding slowly up your calves.

“Ma’am,” he murmured, eyes dark with devotion, “I’m just a humble public servant.”

Then you made him shut up and prove it.

And he did. On the floor. With his mouth. With his hands. With everything he had.

His house was no better off.

The bed smelled like sweat and parchment. There are bills marked with lipstick smudges. A copy of the Intelligence Committee’s black-budget proposal lay under the couch with a condom wrapper on top of it.

He read your notes. You wore his shirts. He’d eat you out mid-argument, face between your thighs while you’re yelling about how best to handle money-driven foreign ambassadors.

“I’m not voting for that amendment,” you’d gasped. 

He dragged  his mouth away from you for just one second.

“I’ll change your mind.”

You didn’t win that one.

—

AFTER MIDNIGHT

Your Office

Even your place of work wasn’t safe from Bucky Barnes.

You’d tried to draw a line—several, in fact—but Bucky never much cared for red tape. Or rules. Or doors, apparently, because he stepped into your office without knocking, shutting and locking it behind him with a soft click. 

A Homeland Security report sat open on your desk, pages half-read and already bleeding red ink from your pen. You tried to stay focused, legs crossed. 

But then he was there and he dropped to his knees in front of your chair like it was the only thing he knew how to do.

He pushed your skirt up with both hands—one warm and calloused, the other cool and metal— like it was his constitutional duty.

“I’ve got a briefing in the morning,” you said, trying to keep your voice even and failing.

“I’ll be quick,” he said, his mouth was anything but.

He was thorough. He took his time, tongue tracing patterns into you like your pleasure was classified intelligence and he was breaking into it for the first time. 

When you came undone, legs locked tight around his shoulders, one hand tangled in his dark hair, the other gripping the armrest of your chair—you didn’t scream his name. You threw your head back, tried to remember how to breathe, and with the last shred of composure you could muster, you said, “Recess adjourned.”

He grinned into you, smug and satisfied, like he’d just won a vote with both sides of the aisle.

And just like always, he made you wonder which of you really held the power.

—

SIX MONTHS LATER

Barnes' Residence

Even now that he had you, Bucky still found congress to be a little… too much. 

The marble halls, the cameras, the backroom deals— none of it felt like him. Not really.

You found him in his house, suit jacket crumpled on the floor, tie discarded somewhere on the kitchen counter. His metal hand rubbed slow circles over his tired temple as he sat slumped on the couch. He looked so out of place in his own home.

You padded over quietly, barefoot, your old oversized campaign shirt hanging off your body.

“You didn’t even make it to the bedroom,” you said softly, running your fingers through his hair.

He leaned into your touch immediately. He craved you. 

“They're pissed,” he said, eyes closed. “My whole damn party. Said I vote too… independent. That I don't ‘play nice.’ As if any of this should be about sides.”

Your heart broke just a little. You hated what this job did to him— how it wore him down and made him question if he was doing enough. You climbed onto the couch without hesitation, curling into his side until your head was tucked under his chin and his arms were around you.

“You’re not here to play nice,” you whispered against his chest. “You’re here to do what’s right. And that means they’re going to be mad sometimes. But I’m proud of you, James.”

He let out a quiet breath—almost a laugh, almost a sigh—as his arms tightened around you. 

“This is so fucked,” he admitted, his voice quieter now. “I spent a year of my life trying to get elected only to regret it.”

You pulled back just enough to cup his cheek, guiding his eyes to yours. His blue eyes were tired, but still full of fire.

“You don’t have to pretend,” you said. “Not with me. If you want to leave politics tomorrow, I’ll be the first to pack up your office. If you stay, I’ll be in the front row of every speech.”

A slow smile tugged at his lips, and he leaned in, pressing the softest kiss to the corner of your mouth, then your cheek, then your nose. You giggled, and he did it again, because he loved the sound— because it reminded him that he managed to tame a senator with knives for a tongue.

God, how did he even end up in a relationship with a career politician?

His metal hand came up to cradle the back of your head as he kissed you.

And later, as you lay tangled in each other beneath a blanket on the couch, he whispered sleepily, nose brushing yours. “Hey.”

“Hm?”

“You know what I’d vote for?”

You smiled. “What?”

“More nights like this. Just you and me. No debates. No bills. Just… us.”

You kissed him softly. “Unanimously approved.”

He smiled his real smile—the one he only saved for you. And for the first time in days, he looked like he could breathe again.

—

ONE MONTH LATER

House Floor – Supersoldier Proposal Hearing

Valentina Allegra de Fontaine walked into that chamber.

And when the CIA director came in, people listened.

Her heels clicked like gunfire against the polished marble.

She presented her proposal like it was already law. A radical new supersoldier program. No more Avengers. 

You watched it unfold with ice in your veins. Her plan took fear into account, and weaponised it. It was disguised as strategy. 

And Congress—both parties—ate it up.

Except Bucky.

He stood alone.

“I’ve been in that program,” he said, and you heard the crack in his voice even if no one else did. “You don’t force heroes. You don’t use people. You don’t turn them into weapons just because you’re scared of the next big threat.”

Val didn’t miss a beat. She turned toward him with that shark-like smile and ripped into him. 

Not his policies.

Him. 

His past. His record. The Winter Soldier. The man who was programmed. 

“You, of all people, are going to lecture us on this?” she sneered. “You’re a reminder of why this program is necessary.”

He stood there, eyes glassy, but he didn’t yell. He didn’t fight.

He just walked out.

—

LATER THAT NIGHT

Your Residence

You found him hours later in your dark bedroom, after a social event. He hadn’t turned anything on. No lamp. No TV. 

Bucky was sitting on the edge of your bed, his back hunched, hands limp in his lap. His suit still clung to him like a cage. His tie was crooked and loose, shirt wrinkled like he’d pulled and scratched anxiously at it. His shoulders rose and fell with heavy breaths he only took when he was trying his hardest not to break down.

He didn’t even look up when you stepped inside, he just kept staring at the floor like it stretched miles beneath him.

You stepped inside the room and knelt in front of him carefully, like approaching a wounded animal. You reached for his shoes, slipping them off one by one. He blinked slowly, as if only now noticing you were there.

You took the suit jacket away gently, as if it were battle armour. In a way, it was. 

The tie followed. Then the first few buttons of his shirt. Bit by bit, until only the man remained.

And that’s when he broke.

A quiet sound escaped him— a sound that broke your heart. His shoulders trembled, and his hands came up to cover his face. “I can’t do this,” he choked out, barely audible. “I can’t—this place, these people… they don’t want me. Not really.”

You climbed into his lap without hesitation, knees on either side of his hips, arms sliding around his neck

“They’ll never trust me,” he went on, breath catching, hot tears leaking past his finger before burying his face in your neck. 

“No matter what I do. No matter how many times I show up, or fight, or play by their goddamn rules. I’m still the monster in the room.”

“James,” you whispered, pressing your cheek to his temple as his arms wrapped around you. “You are not a monster.”

He held onto you like he was drowning, his tears soaking into your blouse. “I thought if I did everything right… if I followed every step they gave me, every rule, maybe I could fix it. Maybe I could fix me.”

You pulled back just enough to cup his face— your thumbs brushing at his tear-streaked cheeks.

“You are not broken,” you said, driving the point home. “You are brave. And kind. And you’ve saved more lives than they’ll ever understand. You carry more pain than they ever will—and still, you choose to fight.”

He opened his mouth to argue, but you leaned in, pressing your forehead to his.

“And I love you for that,” you breathed. The words escaped before you could second-guess them. “I love you, Bucky. All of you. Not just the soldier. Not just the survivor. But the man who still believes there’s something worth fighting for.“

His breath hitched —and then he was crying in earnest. He was not hiding begin silent tears anymore. 

Was that the first time you’d said it?

He didn’t answer right away. Just buried his face in your shoulder and cried like he hadn’t in years, because he knew, no matter how intimidating you seem to be on the house floor, it was safe to fall apart here, with you. 

“I just…” he finally whispered, voice barely there. “I don’t want to go back. I don’t want to face them again. I just want to be with you.”

You pressed a kiss to his hair, then his cheek, then the corner of his mouth. “Then be with me,” you whispered, a small smile breaking through the ache in your chest. “We’ll figure it out together.”

His metal hand came up and settled between your shoulder blades. 

He nodded, his eyes squeezed shut. 

—

Later that night, when he was done crying his heart out, he became… calmer.

Still exhausted and red-eyed, but calmer nonetheless. 

You found him in the kitchen, his shirt still unbuttoned, stained faintly with some red sauce from the food you ordered in for him. He’d forgotten to take his socks off, and one sleeve was slightly rolled higher than the other. 

There was still plenty of food on the counter.

And next to it was a printed copy of Valentina’s proposal.

She sent it to him, not because he asked. She wanted to taunt him.

He must’ve read it a dozen times. Couldn't stop. Couldn't help touching it, even though every word made his skin crawl.

You leaned against the doorway, arms crossed.

“You know…” you said finally, your voice steady. “I know what you’ve been doing,” 

He didn’t turn around, but he froze. 

What were you talking about?

“I’ve known for a while,” you went on, stepping closer. You had found the files accidentally, when you were looking for a pearl necklace in one of his drawers. “I just didn’t know how to bring it up… until now.”

You watched the tension ripple through his shoulders.

“You’ve been keeping tabs,” you continued, “The former Red Room Widows. The Soviet super soldier who’s still off the grid. The S.H.I.E.L.D. agent who can phase through walls. Even that fucking dollar store Cap. You’re thinking of building something, are you Bucky?”

He still didn’t face you, but his hand dropped to his sides.

“You’re… putting a team together,” you said, more gently now. “I… don’t need to know the details. But I see what you’re trying to do.”

He turned then.

He hadn’t known how to bring it up to you. Hell, he hadn’t even known if it was really going to happen. It had all started as just instinct— keeping an eye on the kind of people most had written off as monsters or mistakes. People like him.

And what was he supposed to say, anyway? To you—his girlfriend, a sitting member of the Senate? That he was considering building a team made of people with blood on their hands and trauma in their bones? That he was offering them redemption not because he was certain they deserved it, but because he hoped they did?

He couldn’t picture your reaction. Would you be proud? Horrified? Would you see him as foolish… or as the same broken man they once turned into a weapon?

So he had said nothing… until now.

“You’re right.” The words fell out of him like a confession. 

He ran a hand through his hair, mussed and sauce-stained and tired as hell. “This… this whole thing,” he muttered, gesturing vaguely toward the chaos of the kitchen—the proposal, the uneaten food. “Politics. Committees. Playing nice with people who smile while they sharpen their knives behind your back.”

He looked down at himself, and for a second, you thought he might shatter all over again. “I never wanted this,” he whispered. “I just wanted to help. I thought—if I did this job, played the game—maybe I could protect people. Maybe I could stop people like Valentina from getting a foothold.”

“But this isn’t it,” he said quietly. “Maybe it is for you. God, it is. Every time I see you on that floor, you own it. You belong there.”

His breath caught, a shaky exhale slipping past his lips.

“I… don’t,” he whispered. “Fuck, I try—I… I sit in those chambers and pretend I’m part of it, but I feel like I’m wearing someone else’s skin. This is not who I am supposed to be.”

You came up and slid your arms around his waist. His breath hitched, and his hand came to rest at the small of your back—metal fingers curling in tight.

“Then who are you supposed to be, darling?” you asked, not caring that your blouse was now stained, too.

He hesitated. The answer had been in him for so long, it was almost scary to say out loud.

“I’s supposed to be in the field,” he admitted. “Tracking these threats. Taking them out before they grow roots.”

He pulled back just enough to meet your eyes. “But I don’t have Stark money. Or a tower. Or a government stamp of approval. Half the people in D.C. still think I’m one bad day away from a murder. It would be impossible to get fucking funding for this.”

“Well…” You smiled the kind of smile that could wage wars and stitch hearts back together. It always made his chest ache in the best way. “I transferred… a little something to your account,” you said with a shrug.

Bucky blinked. “You… you what?”

You chuckled, and it was insane how mundane you were going on about this. “It’s from my discretionary fund. Technically it’s filed under ‘independent research security initiative,’ if anyone’s asking.”

His brows furrowed, “You’re—wait, you’re funding this?”

You stepped in closer and kissed his jawline. “It’s barely a dent in my inheritance,” you said. “And if it means I get to sleep at night knowing you’re out there doing what you were meant to do? Then, yeah, sweetheart—I’m backing your project.”

He stared like you’d just handed him the world on a silver platter, then kissed the nape of his neck and told him it had been his all along.

“You’re… serious,” he breathed.

You gave an amused laugh, brushing your fingers along the sharp edge of his cheekbone. “Do you even know me?” you whispered. “I am always serious when I believe in something.” You leaned in, close enough that your lips ghosted over his. “And I believe in you, James Buchanan Barnes. I always have.”

He sighed— along with a half-sob, half-laugh—and crushed your body in his arms like he was terrified you weren’t real. He kissed you like you were the only clean air left on Earth and he’d been suffocating for years.

And when you pulled back, your hands cradling his face, your thumbs gently chasing the dampness from under his eyes, your voice was nothing short of conviction. 

His eyes glistened with tears— and finally you saw a spark return. 

A purpose.

“I don’t deserve you,” he choked, barely holding himself together.

You leaned in and kissed the corner of his mouth. “No, sweetheart,” you murmured, brushing your thumb gently along his cheek. “The world doesn’t deserve you.”

Your fingers reached up and slipped into his hair, combing through it, grounding him one tender touch at a time. “But it needs you anyway. So quit Congress if that’s what it takes. I’ve got this— I can hold the line in the halls. You take the field, yeah?”

His arms wrapped around you tighter, like he was afraid you were too good to be true. 

He held onto you with everything he had left, bending down and burying his face in the curve of your neck like your skin was the only place in the world he felt safe.

He still smelled like stress, coffee, and metal but under it all, he smelled like home.

And then—barely a whisper, he told you. “I love you.”

Oh.

Your smile bloomed as you pressed your forehead to his, fingers curling at the nape of his neck like you never wanted to let go. “I know,” you whispered back, “I know, darling.”

—

By morning, his resignation letter was written. You proofread it over pancakes, still wearing one of his t-shirts, a pen tucked behind your ear and syrup on your fingers.

He read through it again at the kitchen table, hair still messy from sleep. He hadn’t even bothered to put on any trousers. 

But his eyes were more focused than you’ve seen in weeks.

You even brought him coffee in his favorite mug (the custom one you got from Etsy that said I Fought Hydra and All I Got Was This Lousy Mug), and pressed a kiss to his temple before handing him a pen.

“You sure?” you asked.

He looked at you like you’d just asked if the sky was blue and nodded. 

By afternoon, his first mission plan was already sketched out on the back of a napkin—next to a plate of half-eaten fries and a mostly empty bottle of ketchup.

“This is not normal,” you muttered, staring at the haphazard yet oddly brilliant strategy chart scribbled in blue ink and crumbs. “You’re literally building a rogue ops unit on a paper towel.”

“It’s got character,” Bucky said, popping a grape in his mouth like a smug little gremlin.

You helped him map out every potential recruit. The names rolled off your tongue like a to-do list: Yelena Belova. Alexei Shostakov. Ava Starr. Antonia Dreykov. And—because the universe had a sense of humor—John fuckin’ Walker.

Red tape covered your living room floor like crime scene string art. The place looked less like a D.C. home and more like a joint ops bunker. A Post-it with “Call Sam” was stuck to your microwave. You had government dossiers, encrypted USB drives, and half a dozen color-coded sticky notes labeled ‘THREAT LEVEL: Eh, manageable.’

It was chaos. Beautiful, ridiculous, late-stage-caffeine chaos.

All of that, and you were still in your pajamas.

Bucky looked at the mess of documents, then at you—hair tangled, chewing the end of a pen, a folder in one hand and a bowl of popcorn in the other.

“You sure you don’t want to fund a think tank like a normal senator, sweetheart?” he asked with a smile.

You shook your head. “Think tanks don’t get to blow stuff up with their hot ex-assassin boyfriends.”

He laughed as he leaned over and kissed your forehead. “You’re absolutely out of your mind,” he murmured.

“I’m in love,” you said simply, poking his chest. “Which is a lot more dangerous.”

By evening, the resignation was submitted. The burner phones were ready. You’ve tracked every recruit to their last known location.

Bucky Barnes was no longer a congressman.

But for the first time in a long, long time, he was exactly what the world needed.

Not a suit. Not a symbol.

A good man. 

With a good heart. 

-end.

Extra Note : so many tag requests got buried in all your wonderful comments! if you'd like to be tagged in the general Bucky masterlist, please message me either personally, or write to my inbox! <3

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@cjand10

[malum-forev]

please everyone do yourselves a favor and read this absolute masterpiece. Every single word is amazing and beautiful and just so complex. I love this crazy messy story!!!!

Simplify

Summary : Bucky falls in love with his best friend's ex-girlfriend.

Pairing : Bucky Barnes x reader (she/her) 

Warnings/tags : You're Sam's ex. Cursing, CA:BNW spoilers. Fluff!!!! Angst. Hurt/Comfort. Sexual references, sexual themes, and implied sex, though no overly graphic descriptions. Break-up grief.

Word count : 12.9k

Note : Whooo I definitely went overboard with this. Will respond to comments soon! Enjoy!

The first time you met Sam Wilson, you were in your early twenties, freshly heartbroken, and three shots deep in a hole-in-the-wall bar just outside D.C. He was a little bit older, maybe in his late twenties, cocky in a way that was still charming.

You had no idea who he was going to be back then— he told you he was a pararescueman, not a superhero in the making. To you, he was just a guy who slid into the seat next to yours and made you laugh so hard you forgot why you were upset in the first place.  

“You look like you just got stood up,” he had said to you that night.

You glanced up at him. “I wasn’t,” you corrected, taking a sip of your drink. “Just… broken up with.”

“Damn, that’s even worse,” he said, chuckling. “Guess you wouldn’t mind some company, then?”

You shrugged. “Depends. You a creep?”

“Nah,” he said, placing a hand over his heart. “I’m Sam. Air Force. And a gentleman, despite what my sister says.”

So you introduced yourself to him.

It started casual between you. Late-night texts, stolen weekends when he was not in a war zone. Sam wanted someone to fool around with in between deployments, and you had this fucked-up military fantasy that he fulfilled. You became friends with benefits, sharing nights in tangled sheets and lazy mornings where neither of you bothered to define whatever this was. You were young, reckless, and Sam had the kind of charm that made it easy to keep things short-sighted.

And then, one day, he stopped texting.  

Not in a cruel way. Life just… happened.  The deployments got longer, life got busier, and you had to move away to take a job. No hard feelings, it was just time pulling you both in different directions.   

—

Years later, after the whole Flag Smashers mess, Sam found you again. It was pure coincidence—he ran into you at a coffee shop in D.C., and the moment your eyes met, it was like no time had passed.

“You’ve gotta be kidding me,” Sam said, smiling as he approached your table.

You looked up, startled. “Sam?”

“In the flesh,” he said, arms outstretched like he was waiting for a hug. “Wow, you look good.”

You laughed, standing up to hug him. “And you look... exactly the same.”

“I age like fine wine, sweetheart.” He pulled back, winking. “What are you even doing here?”

“Living,” you teased. “I moved back a while ago. What about you? You flying around saving the world now, Cap?”

He rubbed the back of his neck, pretending to look modest. “Something like that.”

That coffee turned into lunch, which turned into dinner, which turned into you waking up in his bed the next morning, except this time, things weren’t just casual fun. Sam wanted more.

“You know I’m not just passing through this time, right?” he murmured against your bare shoulder, tracing patterns on your skin.

And before you knew it, you weren’t just someone he called when he was in town— you were his girlfriend.

—

A couple of months later, Sam took you by the hand and said, “Okay, you gotta meet my boy. He’s a softie, you’re gonna love him.”

“Who, Joaquin?” you teased.

“Nah, not Torres. My other best friend.”

That was how you found yourself sitting across from Bucky Barnes in a small cafe, nursing a cup of coffee while Sam rambled about something you weren’t really paying attention to. 

See, Bucky was exactly as advertised. Standoffish at first, eyes studying you like he was assessing a threat. But the thing about Bucky was that even if he didn’t talk much, he listened. And once he realised you weren’t just Sam’s temporary fling, he started to warm up.  

From that moment on, it was easy.

You and Bucky clicked in a way that surprised you both. He was quiet, but you could get him to laugh. You teased each other, shared inside jokes, and—much to Sam’s delight—became friends faster than either of you expected.

“You two are like… my proudest achievement,” Sam said one night, slinging an arm around both of you as you sat on the dock behind his house. “My best friend and my girl? Getting along? Life is great.”

You leaned into Sam’s side, content. You glanced at Bucky as Sam rambled on about how great this all was. And for a second, you let yourself admit it— Bucky was handsome.

Not in the same way Sam was, not in the way that made you dizzy with laughter. No, Bucky’s was different. It was something you would never—never—act on.

Right?

Over time, Bucky watched you and Sam together, and saw the way Sam beamed every time you saw each other. He could see how much you cared about each other.

But Bucky also saw the cracks.

The way your smile faltered when Sam’s phone rang. How Sam never hesitated before answering. How you always waited. 

Bucky had seen it before. Sam’s heart belonged to the job. It always had.

But it wasn’t Bucky’s place to say anything.

—

Two years later, things weren’t bad between you and Sam. Not exactly.

But they weren’t good, either.

Sam had spent the last two years becoming Captain America— taking on mission after mission, rebuilding trust with the government, working with Joaquin, training, speeches, outreach programs, meetings. 

Always something.

And you understood. You knew who Sam was before you got involved with him. You knew what being with him meant.

But lately, it felt like you weren’t his girlfriend so much as his afterthought.

It was little things at first.

He’d cancel dinner plans last minute because Joaquin needed him at the base. He’d text you not to wait up because a job he couldn't refuse came up. He’d say he was exhausted when you finally got time together, and then turn around and fly across the country at a moment’s notice.

The worst part was you didn’t even think he realised he was doing it.

So, you didn’t say anything—  not at first.

The night it all came to a head, you were sitting at a restaurant alone, your fingers tracing patterns on the linen tablecloth. 

Sam was supposed to be here. It was your anniversary.

Then, you heard a notification. 

Your boyfriend texted you: Something important came up. Rain check?

That was it. No apology. No phone call. 

Were you not something important to him?

You should’ve seen it coming, but it didn’t make it sting any less.

You scrolled through your contacts, wondering if anyone would be available for a rant. 

Bucky. He was your friend, too, right?

So you texted him: are you free tonight?

Not a minute later, he answered: Yeah. Sam told me something came up. You okay?

You stared at the message for a second too long. 

A few minutes later, you called. Bucky answered on the second ring.

“You still at the restaurant?” he asked. 

“Yeah,” you admitted. “But I think I’m heading home.”

“I’ll meet you at yours,” he said, and you didn’t argue.

—

By the time Bucky arrived at your place, you had already changed into sweats and wiped off your makeup. You looked tired. Almost…  defeated.

Bucky sighed, setting down a bag of takeout. “Figured you didn’t eat,” he said.

You gave him a small smile. “You figured right.”

He sat down next to you on the couch, cracking open a takeout container. “So. You wanna talk about it?”

You let out a deep breath. “I don’t know what to say that I haven’t already said to myself a hundred times before.”

“Try me,” Bucky said, handing you a fork.

You poked at the food, hungry but not really having the energy to eat. “I just… I feel like I come second. Like, if it’s between me and the job, it's always going to be the job.”

Bucky was silent for a moment. Then, he said carefully, “And is that something you can live with?”

You blinked, caught off guard. “What?”

“I mean, it’s not Sam’s fault that he puts the job first, that’s just who he is,” Bucky said, watching you closely. “But if he’s not willing to compromise, then maybe his values are… not suited to you.”

Your throat tightened. “I care about him, Bucky.”

“I know,” Bucky said, gently. “But do you see a future like this?”

You didn’t answer.

And Bucky didn’t push. He just stayed with you, eating in silence, ignoring his phone when it buzzed. Sam’s name lit up on the screen, probably to ask him to check on you.

And he ignored it. Because you had called first.

—

You didn’t sleep.

The hours bled together, stretching endlessly as you lay awake, staring at the ceiling, listening to the too-quiet nothingness.

Sam wasn’t here— not that he usually was.

Maybe that’s why this hurt so much. You had already felt alone for so long.

The sun had barely risen when you sent Sam a text.

Can I come over? I need to talk to you.

His response came an hour later. 

Sure, sweetheart.

When you walked through Sam’s door, he looked tired— his uniform still slung across the kitchen table, his hair slightly damp from a shower, like he’d come straight from a mission. Like always.

“Hey, sweetheart,” he said, pressing a quick kiss to your cheek as you sat down in the kitchen. “Sorry about last night. I know I messed up, I just—”

“Sam.”

Your voice wasn’t malicious by any means, but it stopped him in his tracks anyway.

Slowly, he turned to face you. His eyes scanned your face. He sighed as he sat down, rubbing a hand over his jaw. “What’s wrong?”

You swallowed against the lump in your throat.

Here goes nothing. “I can’t do this anymore.”

His expression didn't change right away. It was like his brain refused to register the words. Then, after trying to process, his brows furrowed, his lips parting slightly. “What?”

You let out a shaky breath. “I love you, Sam.” Your voice cracked at the mention of his name, and that made his entire body go still. “I do. But I can’t keep coming second to everything else in your life.”

He blinked, thoughts shifting behind his eyes. “Come on, that’s not fair—”

“But it is.” Your voice was firmer now, more desperate. “It’s fair, Sam. Because I get it. I get why you put the job first. I get that the world needs you. I get that you’re Captain America.” Your throat tightened. “But I need you, too.”

For a second, there was only silence. Sam’s muscles flexed. He looked away for a moment, inhaling through his nose. “I’m here now.”

“No,” you whispered. “You’re here today. But what about next time? And the time after that?” Your voice wavered, hands starting to tremble now. “How many more anniversaries are we going to rain check?”

Sam didn’t answer. Because you both already knew the answer.

Your chest ached with dull pain. You felt like you were holding onto sand, the last of it slipping through your fingers.

And fuck. Fuck. He wasn’t even fighting for you.

He should’ve said, Stay. Please, stay.

He should’ve said, I’ll do better.

But he didn’t. Because those were promises he just couldn’t keep. 

So you reached for his hand instead, threading your fingers through his fingers like you had so many times before. 

For two years he had been your safe place. Your home.

“I will always care about you,” you whispered, blinking back tears. Sam shook his head, looking down on your clasped hands, his fingers tightening around yours like he could hold you here forever if he just gripped hard enough.

“Then why are you leaving?” he asked, barely above a whisper. 

Your heart shattered. “Because I care about myself, too.”

For a long moment, neither of you moved.

Then, finally, you leaned in… and kissed him.

It was slow and painful. The kind of kiss that felt more like a gunshot. The kind of kiss that left a wound behind, that dug into your ribs like a knife and twisted around in your flesh. You kissed him like you wanted to memorise him one last time— how he felt, how he breathed, how he tasted.

He tasted like salt and sweat and regret. Like the past. Like he was already slipping away.

Sam kissed you back— just once. Like if he just kissed you hard enough, maybe you’d change your mind.

But you didn’t.

So you pulled away.

And Sam let you go.

You turned toward the door, pausing only once to glance back.

He was sitting there, looking at you like he wanted to stop you, but he didn’t know how.

But he didn’t say anything.

So you left.

—

That night, Sam called Bucky.

“Meet me at the gym,” was all he said.

Bucky didn’t ask why. He just went.

When he arrived, Sam was already wrapping his hands, his movements more rigid and mechanical than usual, like he was just itching to hit something.

Bucky grabbed his own wraps and joined him. They didn’t start with words nor questions. They sparred in silence for a long time, fists landing against pads, grunts filling the space where words should’ve been.

Then, finally, Sam stepped back, rolling his shoulders.

“She broke up with me,” he finally said.

Bucky already knew that. Or at least, he suspected. He had watched you cry last night as Sam ditched your anniversary dinner for a mission, but hearing Sam say it out loud… That made it real.

“I’m sorry,” was all Bucky had to offer. 

Sam let out a humourless laugh, shaking his head. “Man, I—” His voice broke.

And suddenly, he wasn’t okay.

Bucky’s stomach dropped.

Because Sam Wilson—Captain America—was crying.

It wasn’t loud. It wasn’t dramatic. His sobs came in choked breaths, his hands on his hips, his head dropping forward.

Bucky had never seen him like this. Ever.

“…Shit,” Bucky muttered, pulling off his gloves. He hesitated, then stepped closer. “Sam—”

Sam wiped his face, shaking his head. “I knew,” he said, voice open like a fresh wound. “I think I knew this would happen. I knew I wasn’t giving her… enough. I just—I thought I had time to fix everything.”

Bucky swallowed hard, and repeated. “I’m sorry, man.”

Sam let out a shaky breath, blinking up at the ceiling. 

“I got a mission coming up,” he said. “Couple of weeks.” His voice was quieter now, like he hated the words coming out of his mouth, because this had proved you right— that the mission will always come first. He finally looked at Bucky with red eyes. “Can you just… make sure she’s not alone?”

Bucky hesitated. Then nodded. “Yeah.”

Sam nodded too, like he already knew Bucky would say yes. 

You were his friend, too. 

And then, without another word, Sam threw his fists back up.

And Bucky let him punch the grief out of his body.

—

The next day, he found himself on your doorstep.

And Bucky didn’t knock.

He just let himself into your apartment, the way he always did when Sam asked him to check on you. But this time, Sam wasn’t your boyfriend anymore.

The apartment was dark, the curtains drawn, the television playing some random sitcom you weren’t even paying attention to. You were curled up on the couch, buried under a blanket, staring at the screen but not really seeing it.

You looked… tired. Worn down, the way people got when they spent too much time wanting something they couldn’t have.

Bucky sighed, setting yet another takeout bag down on the coffee table before sitting beside you. Close, but not too close that it felt claustrophobic. 

“Hey,” he said, voice softer than usual.

You blinked, slowly turning your head to look at him. But you didn’t respond.

Bucky nudged your foot lightly with his knee. “C’mon. Say something. At least yell at me for letting myself in.”

You said nothing. Perhaps because you felt nothing— numb and hollow, because you just broke it off with the man you loved.

You had been Captain America’s girlfriend for two years. You have occupied that space, and he had filled in so much of your life, that you don’t even know what made you special if you weren’t tied to his whole Stars and Stripes career.

Bucky, perhaps, knew a little of what that felt like. 

He frowned, leaning forward. “You miss him.” It was an observation. 

Your breath hitched, and just like that— you broke.

A choked sob clawed its way out of your throat. You pressed the sleeve of your sweatshirt to your mouth like you could somehow shove it back down, like you could hold it in if you just tried hard enough.

But you couldn’t.

Tears spilled over, your shoulders trembling, and you turned away from him. You didn’t want him to see.

Bucky could only lean back against the couch. He didn’t tell you not to cry. He didn’t tell you Sam wasn’t worth it. He didn’t say it was going to be okay.

And when you finally stopped pretending he wasn’t there and pressed your forehead against his shoulders, he didn’t hesitate putting his arm around you.

Bucky held on to you until you stopped shaking. Until your breathing evened out, until the tears slowed down. 

Eventually, you spoke. “I-it’s only been a day,” you choked out, “a-and I already miss him.”

Bucky sighed. “I know.”

You exhaled shakily. “I miss everything. I miss how he always made me feel safe. I miss how he would bring me coffee in the mornings he was available and complain about how mine was too sweet. I miss how he always smelled like clean laundry and aftershave. I miss how he laughed at his own jokes— God, his dumb fuckin’ bird jokes.”

Bucky let out a quiet laugh, shaking his head. “They were terrible.”

“They were,” you whispered. “But I loved them anyway.”

A comfortable silence stretched between you, letting your thoughts settle. 

Then, softly, you said, “I miss the way he used to look at me like I was his whole world.”

Bucky swallowed hard. He had seen that look. Had seen Sam look at you like you were everything.

But he had also seen the way it faded. The way he took your presence for granted.

And now Sam was not your boyfriend anymore, and you were here, sitting beside his best friend instead.

Bucky let out a slow breath. “You’ll be okay.”

You closed your eyes. “I don’t feel okay.”

He nodded. “Not today. Maybe not tomorrow. But you will be.”

You didn’t argue. You just sat there, leaning into him.

—

It became a habit. He’d visit every other day. 

The third time Bucky checked on you, you didn’t let him leave. Not really. 

You weren’t okay, and he could see it in the way you hesitated when he got up, the way your eyes darted toward the door like you were already dreading being alone again.

So he sighed and said, “I’ll crash on the couch.”

You’d say “thank you” and hand him a pillow and a blanket before retreating to your bedroom.

That was the first night. Then the second.

And then, without really thinking about it, Bucky just… stayed every once in a while. 

He spent his nights on the couch, spent his mornings making coffee in your kitchen, spent his afternoons convincing you to leave the apartment to do small things to keep you from going insane. Sometimes, he offered a walk. Maybe a visit to the  bookstore. Or a late-night grocery run because he laughed and said he couldn’t eat another one of your sad freezer meals.

Little by little, you started getting back on your feet.

Until one night, you saw Sam on TV.

You had just started feeling normal again—had started breathing without it hurting, had started waking up without reaching for someone who wasn’t there.

And then there he was.

The news anchor was talking about Captain America, but all you saw was Sam. He was at a podium, addressing the country about a recent mission. He looked strong, like he always did. He looked… whole.

And God, if it made you selfish… but it hurt that he wasn’t shattered, that he hadn’t fallen apart the way you had.

That he didn’t seem like he was missing you at all. 

You weren’t sure when the tears started again.

Bucky walked in just as you swiped at your face. His eyes flicked from the TV to you.

Oh.

Sam looked.. fine on screen. But Bucky knew his best friend. And his best friend hid his emotions well when he wanted to.

“You’re not okay,” he muttered.

You let out a huff. “You think?”

He tilted his head, watching you for a second before stepping in to turn off the TV.  “So, what’s the verdict? You planning on crying yourself into dehydration, or is this just a one-night special?”

You shot him a glare. “You have the emotional depth of a teaspoon.”

“That’s not true,” he said, faking offense. “I’m at least a ladle.”

You huffed out something that wasn’t quite a laugh, but it was amused enough. 

Bucky took that as a win.

“Listen,” he continued, plopping down onto your couch like he lived there (He practically did at this point), “I’m heading out of town for a couple of weeks. Campaign stuff.”

Ah, right. Congress. Everyone said he had a real shot. An honest man in politics— you knew Capitol Hill could use a guy like him.

He stretched his arms behind his head, shooting you a glance. “And, uh… clearly, you can’t be left alone for two seconds without turning into a wet puddle—”

“Wow. Thanks.”

“—so, I’m just gonna extend the offer.” He hesitated, rubbing the back of his neck. “Come with me.”

You blinked. “What?”

“To events,” he clarified. “Speeches. Dinners. Awkward meet-and-greets with people who pretend to care about the public’s welfare.”

You narrowed your eyes. “That sounds awful.”

“Right? Misery loves company.” He chuckled. “And clearly, you could use an excuse to get out of the house. And I might need you to hold me back from punching a lobbyist.”

You frowned. “So, what, I’m your emotional support human now?”

“I mean.” He shrugged. “I seem to be yours right now.”

You threw a pillow at him. He caught it with a kind grin.

“I just figured…” He hesitated, the playful edge in his voice smoothed out by sympathy. “Instead of sitting here, waiting for things to get better, you could go out and use my campaign circus as a distraction.”

You stared at him.

Sam would’ve left you behind.

Sam would’ve told you to “take care of yourself,” give you a kiss, and assumed you’d be fine.

But Bucky…

Bucky was asking you to come with him.

Because maybe this wasn’t just about you being alone. Maybe he didn’t want to be alone, either.

Your throat tightened. “Okay.”

His eyebrows lifted slightly. “Yeah?”

You swallowed, nodded. “Yeah.”

He nodded, rocking back slightly like he hadn’t expected you to actually agree. Then, because he was Bucky Barnes, he just shrugged.

“Cool. Pack something nice.”

You narrowed your eyes. “Why?”

“Because,” he stood up and stretched, “if I gotta suffer through these events, I’d rather not do it with someone in smelly sweatpants.”

You gasped, pressing a hand to your chest. “Are you insulting my loungewear?”

“Not insulting. Just… you’ve been wearing those for five days.”

You hurled yet another pillow at him. He caught it easily, a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. 

“But these are comfy.”

He groaned, heading for the door. “Fine. Stay here. Cry over Sam.”

You laughed, catching his sleeve before he could escape. “I’ll pack something nice.”

He paused to look at you.

Then, quieter than ever before, he said, “okay.”

You weren’t sure why that made your stomach flip.

Or why you let yourself watch him walk away, just a little longer than necessary.

And you definitely weren’t sure why, when you finally dragged yourself to your room to pack, you found yourself reaching for something really nice.

Something you knew would make Bucky look twice.

Not that you cared.

Obviously.

It was just… strategic. For the campaign.

That was all.

Right?

—

When you showed up at the airport the next day, Bucky told himself he was just doing Sam a favour.

That was all this was.

He was keeping you company, making sure you weren’t alone, just like Sam had asked.

It wasn’t because he liked having you around.

It wasn’t because he liked the way you smiled at him.

It wasn’t because you made him feel more human that he had even been. 

It wasn’t any of that.

At least, that’s what he kept telling himself.

—

Campaign life was a whirlwind. Speeches, press conferences, stiff handshakes with people who smiled too wide and cared too little.

Bucky took it all in stride. He gritted his teeth and smiled through the fake pleasantries, rolled his eyes at the bullshit, and kept himself calm when answering the same three questions a hundred times.

You, however, were just trying to survive.

“You didn’t tell me there’d be this much small talk,” you whispered at one of the evening fundraisers, swirling the champagne in your glass as you stood beside him in a too-shiny ballroom.

“I figured you’d figure it out,” Bucky said, scanning the crowd. “Besides, you like talking.”

“Not this kind of talking,” you grumbled.

And it was easy—easier than it should’ve been—to fall into step with him. To stay by his side during conversations. To steal each other’s untouched hors d'oeuvres when no one was looking. To sit beside him in the car after a long day, both of you half-asleep, Bucky rolling his sleeves up to his elbows, stretching his legs out with a tired groan that you definitely didn’t stare at.

And somewhere in between the speeches and the late-night drives and the endless political nonsense, he became the person you talked to about everything.

And, yes, that included Sam.

“I mean, I get it,” you sighed one evening, your shoes discarded on his hotel couch. “I get why things didn’t work out. I do.”

Bucky nodded, sitting beside you, his tie loose, his jacket ohh. “Mhm.”

“And I get that he’s this whole… larger-than-life thing now.” You exhaled, stretching your legs across the couch in his hotel room. “But it’s like—he thought of me like I was a footnote.”

Bucky was silent for a moment. “Trust me,” he told you, “You were never a footnote to him.”

You scoffed. “Sure feels like it.”

Bucky sighed, rubbing a hand over his face. “Look, I’m not saying Sam’s not an idiot—”

You rolled your eyes. “Good start.”

“—but I need you to know he didn’t mean to hurt you,” Bucky said. “He’s just… Sam. He doesn’t always see things the way other people do.”

You rolled your eyes. “You always defend him.”

“Because I know him,” Bucky said simply. 

—

Somehow, you got more… involved in his campaign.

When he muttered, “I fucking hate this paperwork,” and you just laughed, took the folder from him, and organised it yourself.

The next morning, after you restructured his entire PR strategy, Bucky stared at you in horror. “I’m gonna have to hire you.”

You scoffed, flipping through notes. “Bucky, no. This is just a favour for a friend.”

Yeah. A favour.

A friend.

You both kept pretending that’s all it was.

That’s all you were. 

—

It had been two months since you walked out of Sam’s apartment. Two months since you had kissed him one last time. 

You were sitting on your hotel bed, curled up in one of Bucky’s campaign sweatshirts—because apparently, there was merch now—scrolling mindlessly on your phone when the screen lit up with a name you hadn’t seen in weeks.

Sam.

Your stomach didn’t drop the way you expected it to.

You hesitated for half a second before answering.

“Hey.”

There was a pause. 

“Hey.”

His voice was steady. A little too steady, like he was putting conscious effort into making sure it stayed that way.

You weren’t sure what to say.

And maybe he wasn’t either, because for a moment, there was nothing but silence.

“How are you?” He finally asked. 

You blinked. That was not what you expected.

“I’m…” You thought about it. “I’m okay.”

You could hear him processing that.

“You are?” His voice was careful, as if he didn’t believe you.

You shifted against the pillows. “Yeah. I mean—don’t get me wrong, I was a mess for a while.” You let out a small laugh, shaking your head. “But, y’know. Time, distractions. That kinda thing.”

“Distractions?” He echoed.

You hummed. “Bucky’s been dragging me around on his campaign. Keeping me busy. Making sure I don’t, I don’t know, waste away in my apartment or something.”

Something changed in Sam’s breath. It wasn’t loud, nor was it obvious. But you knew him.

“…You’re travelling with Bucky?”

You frowned slightly. “I mean, yeah. It’s not—” You hesitated. “It’s not a big deal.”

It shouldn’t have been a big deal.

And yet, on the other end of the line, Sam was gripping the edge of his kitchen counter, staring at the floor, trying to ignore the splintering feeling in his chest.

Because he had been so sure you were still drowning without him.

Had convinced himself that maybe, just maybe, you were just as wrecked as he was.

But here you were, saying you were okay.

That Bucky—his best friend—was the one making sure you were okay. Sure, he had asked him to, but he didn’t realise the lengths he would go to just to make sure you weren’t lonely. 

And now, Sam was suddenly, completely, unbearably aware of the fact that he wasn’t okay.

“That’s good,” he finally said, “I’m—I’m glad.”

For the first time, you heard a break in his voice. 

It should’ve made you angry— should’ve made you want to throw his own actions back in his face. You left me no choice, Sam. 

But instead, you just felt… tired. Because it was too late for both of you.

“Yeah,” you said softly. “Me too.”

Sam cleared his throat. “When are you back home?”

You glanced at your calendar, thumb hovering over the screen. “Two weeks. Tuesday.”

“Oh.” His tone was unreadable. “Well… call me then. I want to pick up my stuff from your place.”

Your stomach twisted at the thought of seeing him again. “You have a spare key, Sam. Just use it.” You still trusted him— of course you did. That had never been the issue. 

Sam let out a deep breath, like he was tiptoeing around glass. “I know. I just… I wanted to do it in person.”

Oh.

Your fingers curled against your palm. “Okay.” The word felt insignificant, but what else was there to say? Sam would come over. He’d gather his things. You’d stand in the doorway, hands tucked into your sleeves, watching as he took the last of himself out of your space.

Or maybe… he had something to say. Maybe he needed an excuse to see you again. 

“Take care of yourself, Sam,” you said finally, gentler this time. “I better not see you outside the hotel room window, throwing hands with another rage monster.” You joked, because maybe, you wanted to make sure this didn’t become awkward. You wanted to make sure that even if you weren’t his, he would always be your friend.

“Yeah,” he chuckled in a whisper. “You too.”

And so, even when the call ended and the silence settled back in, you didn’t feel like crying.

On the other side of the country, Sam put his phone down, pressed the heels of his hands against his eyes, and wished, for the first time, that he had done things differently.

—

You knocked on Bucky’s hotel room door.

“Hey.” He said when he answered voice was a little rough from disuse— maybe he’d been winding down for the night. He was in a Henley and sweatpants, barefoot, hair in a bun a little messier than usual. 

You sucked in a breath, needing to just…  talk. “Sam called.”

Bucky didn’t say anything. Just stepped aside to let you in.

You sank onto the edge of his bed, arms wrapping around yourself. He sat across from you in the chair by the window, forearms resting on his knees.

“I think we needed to hear each other’s voices again,” you admitted. 

Bucky nodded, waiting for more.

You shook your head. “And I think… I think he really did care about me.” You chewed the inside of your cheek. “But he was always looking at the next thing. The next fight. The next problem to fix. And I— never felt like I could share my problems.”

“You know…,” Bucky started, “The break up wasn’t your fault.”

Your throat tightened. “Then why did it feel like it?”

Bucky inhaled sharply, like he’d given this a lot of thought. “Because it wasn’t his fault either,” he said simply. “You just wanted different things.”

You licked your lips, but you saw it— that look in his eyes— a certainty, as if he had been sitting on this for years.

You narrowed your eyes. “You knew it was never gonna work between me and Sam, didn’t you?”

Bucky swallowed hard. “Yeah.”

Your heart ached. “Why didn’t you say anything?”

“It wasn’t my place.”

You studied him. “But you knew.”

“I knew Sam,” he admitted. “And I got to know you. You needed more than he could give.”

“And what was that?”

Bucky’s eyes flicked to yours, hands nervously twitching. “He did love you.” His voice was quiet. He felt like he needed to preface that. “But I think… I don’t think love was enough.” He considered. “I think you… wanted time with him. I think you wanted attention.”

You closed your eyes briefly, nodding. You knew that. You had always known that— that Sam’s attention was always on the good of all mankind. 

“Bucky, I—” You stopped mid-sentence.

Because suddenly, the realisation hit you.

Time. Attention.

The things you’d never gotten from Sam.

Bucky had stayed. He had been there, making sure you got out of bed, making sure you were okay, pulling you along on this campaign, keeping you close.

And suddenly, you were seeing it—him—differently.

“Those are the things you’re giving me now,” you whispered. 

Bucky gulped.

His teeth clicked. His fingers curled against his thighs. His eyes didn’t move from yours.

Neither of you said anything for a moment, but the silence wasn’t empty. It reminded you of every moment you’d spent together the past few weeks. The banter. The glances. The way you gravitated toward each other in a crowded room without even thinking about it.

“You should go to bed,” Bucky finally muttered. His voice was low, a little uneven. Fuck, was he scared. You were getting too close to the truth, to how he’s always felt about you. 

“Yeah.” You agreed but didn’t move. Neither did he.

His fingers twitched. Your breath hitched.

“This is—” He groaned like something inside him snapped, dragging a hand down his face. “This is so stupid.”

You swallowed. “I know.”

“He’s my best friend.”

“I know.”

“And you’re…” He trailed off, shaking his head, eyes flicking down to where your trousers met his sheets. You should’ve moved. You should have gone. You should’ve this should’ve that. 

But you couldn’t bring yourself to. 

Bucky’s fingers curled, gripping the edge of his chair like he needed to ground himself. 

“This… this is nothing, right?” you said, and you said it like a warning. You were trying to convince yourself to believe.

His jaw was tight, his throat bobbing. So quietly you almost missed it, he whispered, “Then stop looking at me like that.”

Your breath caught in your throat. “Like what?”

His fingers curled against his thighs. “Like I’m your next mistake.”

A heat bloomed in your chest— something that felt too much like frustration, like a want that you had denied, that had been simmering under the surface for weeks and was finally clawing its way out.

Your heartbeat pounded against your ribs, your hands fisting against your lap. “You could never be a mistake.”

Bucky flinched. 

And the way his shoulders stiffened made it seem like he didn’t believe you, because of course he didn’t.

Of course he thought this was wrong.

Of course he thought he wasn’t allowed to want this. Want you. 

Bucky’s breath was shallow. His lips parted slightly, like he wanted to say something—like he wanted something.

And then—

“Fuck it.”

His chair scraped back. His fingers found your wrist.

And then his mouth was on yours.

The kiss wasn’t gentle. It wasn’t soft. It wasn’t careful.

It was desperate.

Sam kissed like a promise. Bucky kissed like he was drowning and begging for air. 

His hands were firm but hesitant, gripping your waist like he wasn’t sure if he was allowed to touch you— like he was waiting for you to push him away.

You didn’t. Instead, you were pressing closer, fingers fisting in his shirt, tilting your head to deepen the kiss, gasping when his hand trailed up your spine, leaving a burning trail of in its wake.

You had only broken up with Sam two months ago. But you couldn’t bring yourself to stop.

“Shit,” Bucky muttered against your lips, exhaling hard, like he was trying to catch his breath. His forehead pressed against yours, his grip on your waist tightening like he was afraid to let go. “We shouldn’t—”

You swallowed. “I know.”

“Then why does it feel like I’ll fucking die if I stop?” His voice was ragged. This was killing him.

You closed the gap and kissed him again, because kissing Bucky was addicting. 

Sam had always kissed you slowly, held you like you were fragile.

Bucky?

Bucky kissed you like the wild thing he was. Like he had been starving for you.

His hands were firm, his mouth rough against your skin, his hips moving like he couldn’t help himself, like he needed this, like he needed you to survive.

He gripped your waist, mouth moving against yours, the way he groaned when your fingers tangled in his hair—God, you couldn’t stop.

He sighed when you moaned against his lips. He gripped your thighs hard, dragging you closer, deeper, until there was nothing left between you but heat and aching want. Soon, your back was against the mattress, your clothes discarded. 

His weight pressed you into the sheets, his lips dragging down your throat, hot and desperate. His stubble scraped your skin, sending sparks of heat curling in your stomach.

Sam used to be careful. Always controlled, always measured.

Bucky was not.

His hands were everywhere. Rough, needy. His metal fingers traced over your ribs, cool against skin.

“Tell me to stop,” he rasped against your throat. His breathing was ragged. “If you want me to stop, just—”

You didn’t.

You grabbed his face, dragging him back to your mouth to taste him— and he tasted sweet. He tasted like your future.

His name slipped from your lips like a prayer, and when he finally sank into you, you shattered.

Sam was always slow. Always careful, murmuring praises against your skin, pressing feather-light kisses to your collarbone.

Bucky was none of those things.

He buried himself in you, his forehead pressing against yours. He felt so good, so full, so much— it was overwhelming.

And fuck, he looked at you like you were a vice he wasn’t supposed to have, but took you anyway.

Sam used to say your name, pressing kisses to your jaw. Bucky grunted your name like a prayer, like he was losing himself.

And you wanted him to.

You wanted him to lose himself in you.

Because right now, you weren’t thinking about Sam.

Right now, you weren’t second place to a job. 

And when you finally broke apart beneath him, gasping, trembling, falling apart at the seams—

Bucky followed right after.

—

Bucky was a light sleeper. After years of war, of Hydra—his body never let him sleep too deeply.

Which was why, when his phone buzzed on the nightstand, his eyes snapped open instantly.

His arm was still wrapped around you, your bare skin pressed against his. You were still asleep, your breathing soft, lips slightly parted.

Fuck.

His chest tightened, guilt gnawing at the edges of his thoughts.

He carefully reached for his phone, trying not to wake you, and when he saw the caller ID—

Sam.

Fuck.

He answered anyway. “Hey.”

“Hey, man.” Sam’s voice was too kind, like he was trying to mask something else. “Uh, thanks for keeping an eye on my girl—” he stopped in his tracks, before letting out a quiet, bitter laugh. “I mean… well. Not my girl anymore. Just—uh, I didn’t expect you to bring her with you.”

Bucky glanced down at you. What was he doing? What was he supposed to say? 

“She was in no place to be alone in D.C.,” he replied. “I did what I had to.”

“Yeah,” Sam sighed. “Yeah, I get that.”

Then, Sam said something so soft Bucky almost didn’t hear it.

“Do you think there’s a chance she might want me back?”

Bucky closed his eyes. 

No. No, no no. Sam couldn’t still love you that way, right?

He swallowed hard. “Sam… you… this…” He exhaled. “You know how this ends.”

Then, he heard a longer sigh.

“Right.” Sam’s voice was strained. “You’re right.”

Bucky stayed silent, listening as Sam shifted on the other end of the line.

“I’d just hurt her again,” Sam murmured, almost to himself. “Wouldn’t I?”

Bucky’s throat tightened. “Hm.”

“I don’t want that,” Sam admitted. His voice was stripped back. “I don’t want to do that to her again.” He let out a bitter chuckle. “Guess we should just be friends.”

Bucky swallowed. “Hm.”

Sam was quiet for a long time, before saying, “Take care of her, alright?”

Bucky looked down at you again, at the way you had shifted slightly, brow furrowing, lips parting. His fingers brushed over your shoulder.

“I will.”

And for the first time since he answered the phone, Bucky didn’t feel guilty about it.

—

When your eyes fluttered open, you woke to the scent of him still lingering in the sheets. The room was still dark, the hotel curtains muting the scorching sunlight.

You could hear the faint rustling of clothes, the sound of trainers being laced up.

Bucky was standing near the desk, already dressed in his jogging clothes— sweatpants, a t-shirt that clung to his frame, a hoodie zipped halfway up. His hair was damp, probably from a shower. He glanced at you when he noticed you stirring.

“Mornin’,” he greeted.

You sat up slowly, the sheets pooling around your waist. Your eyes went to the clock— 8.45 AM. “Press today?”

“Yeah,” he exhaled, rubbing the back of his neck. “Figured I’d go on a coffee run first.”

You tilted your head, watching him. Then, before you could overthink it, you pushed the blankets back and stretched. “I’ll come with you.”

—

The café smelled like burnt espresso and fresh pastries, the morning rush having finally calmed enough for you and Bucky to claim a quiet booth in the corner. The windows fogged up, the city humming on the other side of the glass. 

Bucky sat across from you, stirring sugar into his coffee even though you knew he drank it black. A distraction, maybe. Or maybe…  he needed a shock to his system.

“You good?” he finally asked, hesitantly.

You nodded, but he didn’t look convinced.

“I…” You hesitated, choosing your words carefully. “I don’t regret it.”

The spoon in his hand stilled. The soft clink of metal against ceramic was the only sound between you. Then, slowly, he looked up, blue eyes searching for any sign of a lie. “No?”

You shook your head. “No.”

His throat bobbed as he swallowed. “Even though it’s… messy?”

You huffed, almost amused. “Bucky, our lives have been messy for a long time.”

That made him laugh. His shoulders relaxed, just a little.

“What about you?” You tilted your head, arms crossing over your chest. “Do you regret it?”

He exhaled through his nose, glancing out the window like the answer might be written in the crowds. “I thought I would,” he admitted. “I thought I’d wake up and… feel like I’d done something wrong.”

“But you don’t?”

His fingers tapped against the side of his cup, like he was cataloguing his thoughts. Then, quietly, almost like a cardinal sin, “No. I don’t.”

The silence between you stretched before you swallowed, voice quieter this time. “I’ll always care about Sam.”

Bucky nodded. He had already known that. 

You sipped your coffee. “When I was younger…” You sighed, choosing your words carefully. “When I first hooked up with Sam, it was just a fling. I knew he could get up and leave at any time, and I wouldn’t blame him. So when he offered a relationship, I was over the fucking moon. I thought it would be different. I thought—if I could make it work—it would prove I wasn’t disposable.” You let out a self-deprecating laugh.“I think staying as long as I did—knowing I’d never ask him to stop being Captain America—just gave me… abandonment issues.”

Bucky’s eyes softened, “You were never disposable.” He reassured. “Not to me. Not to Sam, either.”

You looked away. “It doesn’t matter if he thinks so. I don’t feel like I’m not.” You exhaled, barely believing that even after you had just slept with Bucky, after breaking things off with Sam, yet here he was, still defending his best friend.

“Sam… He’ll always put the world first.” And you understood that. So you let the statement steep in silence.

He stared down at his coffee for a long moment. His fingers drummed against the ceramic, like he was debating whether to say something, anything. Then, so softly you almost didn’t hear it, he said, “I’ve been in love with you for a long, long time.”

Your breath hitched.

He let out an almost bitter chuckle. “Figured I should put that out there.”

Your heart pounded in your ears “How long?”

Bucky’s eyes darted, like he was debating whether to tell you the truth. “Since the first time you laughed at one of my jokes.”

A disbelieving gasp left your throat. “Bucky—”

“I hated it,” He ran a hand over his face, shaking his head like he didnt like admitting it. “I fucking hated it, because you were with Sam. He’s my best friend.” His voice cracked, just a little. “And I’d never do that to him.”

Your chest tightened. “Did you ever think about telling me?”

He hesitated. “No,” he admitted. “Not as long as you loved him.”

But you didn’t, didn’t you? Not anymore, not in any way that mattered in this conversation, anyway.

You swallowed hard, the truth pressing against your ribs. “I think… in the last couple of months, when Sam started taking on more and more missions—after the president, after everything—I think I started… having… feelings for you.”

Bucky’s head snapped up, his eyes locking onto yours so fast it almost startled you. What?

You didn’t let yourself back down. Not when you owed him this—owed yourself this. “But… I was with Sam.”

Bucky didn’t say anything right away, but you could see his fingers twitching where they rested on the table. When he finally nodded, it was slow, like he was letting each word sink into his skin. “And now you’re not.”

You nodded, searching his eyes. “Now I’m not.”

You could always tell when he was holding something back, his muscles would tighten just a little too much, his fingers would tap away. He was doing it now, tracing the rim of his coffee cup. His lips parted, “I didn’t tell you something.”

Your stomach twisted. “What?”

He looked up at you then, “Sam called this morning.”

You blinked. “Oh…”

Bucky’s grip on the cup tightened. “He asked me if I thought you’d take him back.”

The words hit like a punch to the gut.

A month ago, you would’ve said yes without hesitation.

A month ago, if Sam had promised to change—to make more time, to choose you over the mission just once—you would’ve taken that deal in a heartbeat.

But now, after knowing what it felt like to have someone who was there, who made sure you were okay before you even thought to ask, who would make you his first priority— You couldn’t imagine life without him.

Your throat felt tight. “What… did you say?”

He shook his head,  “I told him he knew how this ended.”

You looked down nervously at your lap.

Bucky sighed, rubbing a hand over his face. “Look, I—maybe I shouldn’t’ve assumed—”

“Do you think I should take him back?” you interrupted.

He went still. His blue eyes locked onto yours, and they looked like they were burning.

“No,” he said, hopeful.

The café buzzed with life around you—clinking mugs, distant chatter, the hiss of steam from the espresso machine—but none of it mattered.

All that mattered was the way Bucky was looking at you the way you wanted him to.

You swallowed. “Do you think I’m a bad person for wanting to be with you instead?”

“No,” he whispered

Your hands found the sticky vinyl of the booth seat. “Shit,” you shook your head. “I feel like I should feel worse about this.”

Bucky tilted his head, “You loved him.”

“Yeah,” you admitted. You traced the tabletop with your finger, avoiding his eyes. “But I love you more.”

Bucky took a deep breath, like you’d knocked the air clean out of his lungs. His pupils blew wide, and for a second, he just stared at you, lips parted like he wasn’t sure if he was awake or dreaming.

“Say that again,” he breathed, almost begging. “Please.”

Your throat went dry, finally looking him in the eyes.“I love you more.”

Bucky let out a shaky breath, raking a hand through his hair, like he didn’t know what the hell to do with himself. He dragged his tongue over his bottom lip. “I shouldn’t be this happy, should I?”

“Probably not,” you admitted, laughing weakly.

Bucky leaned in slightly, nearly knocking over his coffee. “If you let me,” he promised, “I’ll spend the rest of my life making sure you never feel disposable again.”

The world outside your little coffee booth faded into nothing. Just you and him and this inevitable connection.

“Deal.”

Bucky froze, just for a fraction of a second, before shoving the contained aside, climbed halfway over the table, and kissed you like a man starved. His hands cradled your face, fingers tangling in your hair as his lips crashed into yours. The kiss was messy, and perhaps a half apology for making you wait this long.

You gasped against his mouth, fisting the front of his jacket to pull him even closer. His metal hand slid against your neck.

Somewhere in the distance, a throat cleared.

“Uh.” The barista’s voice rang in your ears. “Not to kill the vibe, but this is a family-friendly establishment.”

Bucky pulled back slightly, forehead pressed against yours, and let out a breathless laugh.

You bit your lip, trying and failing to keep a straight face.

“Right,” Bucky muttered, still dazed, “Sorry.” He leaned back, but not before pressing one last, fleeting kiss to your lips. And then you just looked at him.

Hair tousled from your fingers, lips kiss-swollen, eyes alive in a way you hadn’t seen before. He grinned—grinned, like he couldn’t believe this was real. Like he couldn’t believe you were real.

In that moment, you realised that while Sam had spent the last two years figuring out what it meant to be Captain America, Bucky had spent that time figuring out who he was outside of the Winter Soldier.

So of course Sam couldn’t put you first. He had the whole damn world resting on his shoulders.

But Bucky could.

Bucky would.

And maybe it was complicated. Maybe it would get messy.

But with Bucky smiling at you like that, you couldn't bring yourself to care.

—

But how do you even bring something like this up to Sam?

How do you look him in the eye and say, Hey, I know we broke up, but your best friend and I…

So, you didn’t. Not yet.

When you got home two weeks later, you didn’t call Sam like you said you would. You figured he could survive a night without the spare clothes you still had.

But Sam had texted earlier, even called a couple of times, too. When neither you nor Bucky answered, he started to get worried. It wasn’t like either of you to ignore him completely.

That worry led him here.

Standing at your door, with his spare key in hand.

He knocked. Once. Twice.

Nothing.

That was… weird.

He hesitated—just for a second—before slipping it into the lock. The door swung open, and he stepped inside, expecting a dark apartment. Maybe you were curled up on the couch watching something with Bucky eating ice cream, both too distracted to check your phones.

What he didn’t expect—what he never could have expected— was the sound that stopped him cold in the doorway.

“Oh—God—please, please—”

His stomach turned to ice.

He heard the bed creak, he heard the sound of skin hitting skin at a pace so incredibly intense, he felt like he was about to throw up. 

Then Bucky’s voice followed, so goddamn gentle.

“That’s it, that’s it. Let me hear you.”

Oh. 

Oh. No.

Why did it have to be Bucky? Sam thought, why couldn’t it have been anyone else?

Sam’s lungs filled like it might as well have collapsed.

He shouldn’t be here. He shouldn’t be hearing this, but his feet wouldn’t let him move. His fingers gripped the key so tightly it cut into his palm.

“You like that, sweetheart? You know I’d give you anything. Just gotta tell me what you need.”

Sweetheart.

Sam used to call you sweetheart all the damn time. He used to say it over breakfast, in sleepy murmurs when he curled around you at night, with laughter in his voice when you teased him. You had smiled, then. You had kissed him. You had never asked him for more.

“Please…”

Sam could count on one hand the number of times you had begged him for anything.

You had never been needy with him. Never desperate. You had been understanding. You had been patient.

“Buck— James—please, I—”

And the worst part?

You had never once said his name like that— like it was a prayer, like it was the only thing tethering you to this world.

A choked sound tore out of him before he could stop it.

He barely managed to step in, barely remembered to breathe as he forced his legs to carry him into the kitchen, blinking rapidly.

The spare key felt heavy as he set it down on the table. His hands shook as he reached for a pen, vision blurring as he scribbled the words before he could think too hard about them.

He left immediately.

—

Bucky was up before you the next morning.

When he walked into the kitchen, he saw the key.

The note.

The second he recognised Sam’s familiar handwriting, his stomach dropped.

‘Sounds like this key belongs to you, Barnes. -S’

His fingers trembled as he picked up the key, as if it might vanish between his fingertips.

He knows.

The room suddenly felt too small, his chest too tight.

You walked in a moment later, rubbing the sleep from your eyes, his henley hanging off your frame. “Sweetie… you left me alone,” you mumbled adorably, voice still groggy.

But the second you saw his face, your brows knit together. “What’s wrong?”

Bucky didn’t answer immediately. He just handed you the note, watching as your expression shifted from confusion to horror.

“Oh,” you whispered.

Sam had heard, Sam had been here, and Bucky hadn’t even noticed. He had been too caught up in you, too caught up in the way you had fallen apart beneath him.

“I’ll call him.” he gulped, “I’ll meet him. I’ll talk to him.”

You swallowed, watching the tension grow in his shoulders. “I could come with—”

“No,” Bucky interrupted, “I need to do it on my own.”

You didn’t push, though concern flickered in your eyes. You just nodded.

—

Bucky had asked to meet in a text.

Sam had agreed.

The bar was nearly empty, the kind of place where no one asked questions and no one cared about anyone else’s problems.

Bucky sat across from Sam, hands wrapped around a half pint of beer he hadn’t touched. Sam hadn’t touched his either. Neither of them were here for that.

Sam didn’t waste time. He didn’t dance around it. “How long?”

Bucky blinked. “How long what?”

Sam’s teeth clenched, his fingers curling into fists against the wooden tabletop. “How long have you been in love with her?”

What was the point of lying?

“Longer than I’d like to admit.”

Sam sucked in a deep breath. He shook his head once, like he could shake them off. “How long have you been waiting for me to fail?” He demanded, “How long were you just waiting to step in?”

Bucky’s brows furrowed. “That’s not what happened.”

“No?”  Sam let out a humourless laugh. “Then tell me what did.”

Bucky didn’t answer fast enough for Sam’s liking.

“Tell me,” Sam repeated, “Tell me everything.”

God, it was terrifying to see Sam like this.

He was always so level-headed, so in control. But now his anger crackled like a live wire.

It didn’t feel like him. It didn’t look like him.

“Sam,” Bucky said slowly, “I never told her to leave you.”

Sam leaned back. “Sure.”

“I didn’t—” Bucky insisted, leaning forward. “I just— I pointed out that you two had different values. That maybe you weren’t giving her what she needed. That’s it.” His mechanical fingers whirred. “I did nothing wrong.”

Sam’s eyes flashed with red. “Nothing wrong,” he repeated, like he could barely believe the words. His voice was quieter now, but it cut deeper. “You knew.”

Bucky didn’t move.

“You knew how much I loved her.”

Bucky scrubbed a hand over his face. “Sam—”

“No. Don’t ‘Sam’ me,” Sam snapped. His voice was rough. “You answered the call and listened to me talk about her. You knew how much I still cared, and you l—” He stopped himself, chest rising and falling too fast.

“She wanted more,” Bucky said, exasperated, “You didn’t see it, or maybe you did and you didn’t care, but she was waiting for you, Sam. And she got tired of waiting.”

Sam’s hands curled into fists. “And you just happened to be there when she did, huh?” His voice was scathing.

“I didn’t plan this!”

“But you sure as hell didn’t stop it,” Sam shot back. “You sure as hell didn’t tell me—”

“What was I supposed to say?” Bucky’s voice rose into a subtle shout now, frustration bleeding through. “That I’ve been in love with your girl for longer than I can remember? That every time I saw her look at you, I wished—” He cut himself off before he could spiral, shaking his head. “What would that have changed, Sam? Huh? Would you have treated her any different?”

Sam’s nostrils flared. “I loved her,” he could only repeat those words. 

“I never told her to leave you,” Bucky said again, as if to drive the point home. “But I wasn’t gonna tell her to stay, either.”

Sam shook his head, laughing under his breath, but there was no humour in it. “Yeah. Yeah, I bet you weren’t.”

Bucky let out a deep breath. “Sam—”

Sam shoved back from the table, chair scraping against the tile as he stood.

For a second, it looked like Sam might say something else.

But he didn’t.

He just turned and walked out.

And Bucky let him go.

—

When you saw Bucky by your door, you knew something was wrong.

He looked drained, like he had been hollowed out from the inside. 

You reached for him the second he stepped in. “Bucky—”

“I told him,” he said, voice rough. “We talked.” A dry chuckle left his lips. “If you can call it that.”

Your chest tightened. “That bad?”

Bucky closed the door behind him. “Yeah.”

You stepped closer, resting a hand on his hipbones. “Did he say anything else?”

“Nothing I didn’t already know.” His voice was quieter now, more worn out. “He’s hurt. He’s pissed. And I— I don’t know if he’ll get over this.”

You didn’t push for more. Instead, you just pulled him into you, wrapping your arms around his waist.

The moment your arms circled him, his entire body gave out. He melted against you, burying his face in the crook of your neck.

“I got you,” you cooed, one hand threading through his hair, the other rubbing slow circles over his back.

You weren’t sure how long you stood there like that, but eventually, Bucky’s weight grew heavier against you. You carefully guided him to the couch, easing him down beside you.

The second you settled in, he curled into you without hesitation, head resting against your chest. You ran your fingers through his hair, pressing a soft kiss to the top of his head. “Get some rest, baby,” you said.

Bucky sighed. He nuzzled closer, and within moments, he was asleep in your arms.

—

Two hours later, Bucky was still asleep. He hadn’t moved in a long time—so emotionally exhausted that even when you carefully shifted out from under him, he barely stirred.

You knew you had to do something about this. 

If you left this too long, the fallout between Sam and Bucky would be worse than when you and Sam broke up. So much worse.

So you grabbed Sam’s spare key buried at the bottom of a drawer, shoved there weeks ago like out of sight meant out of mind.

On the way out, you grabbed the last of his things— the small pile he had planned to come back for. A sweatshirt, a couple of books, little trinkets he probably hadn’t even realised he left behind.

You called Joaquin on your way there.

When he answered, he was half-yawning. “Kinda late, isn’t it?”

You shifted the bag higher on your shoulder. “Yeah. Just—checking in.”

Joaquin sighed. He already knew why you were calling. 

“It’s bad,” he admitted. “Not gonna lie.”

Your stomach dropped.

“I checked on him after he met with Bucky and… He’s not talking much, which is weird for Sam.” Joaquin’s voice was quiet, like he wasn’t sure he should even be telling you this. “Just kinda… sitting in it, you know?”

You swallowed. “Yeah.”

Joaquin hesitated. “He’s pissed. I think he’s just—” He sighed. “I don’t know, man. It’s rough.”

You knew this would hurt him. You knew it would break something between you, between all of you.

But knowing didn’t make it easier.

“I’m bringing his stuff now,” you said.

“You sure that’s a good idea?” Joaquin asked.

No.

But it didn’t matter.

—

Sam opened the door on your first knock like he had been waiting for you.

The circles under his eyes were deeper than you remembered. His usual magnetic warmth, that easy charm, was gone. 

Without a word, you held up the bag. “Brought your stuff.”

Sam didn’t reach for it. He just stepped aside. "Come in."

The apartment looked the same. It was the same kitchen where you used to make coffee while he read the news, the same living room he used to sneak up behind you, pressing a sleepy kiss to your temple.

But it didn’t feel the same.

It felt… abandoned. Like a house after the fire has burned out—everything still standing, but covered in soot.

You set the bag down and turned to face him. 

Joaquin had warned you that he was not himself.

But seeing him like this… made it real.

He broke the silence first. “Joaquin said you called.”

"Yeah."

Sam let out a dry chuckle. “Checking to see if I’m still breathing?”

You looked at him in half-shock. He had always been so calm and collected. He had never, ever been self-destructive before. "Sam."

He shook his head, looking away. “I don’t need your pity.”

“I care about you, Sam.”

That made him laugh. “Funny way of showing it.”

You flinched, but held your ground.

"Come on,” you said, voice tight. “You know this isn’t about that.”

His eyes flashed. “Enlighten me, then.”

"We just weren’t a good fit,” You trailed a hand on his forearm, somehow feeling too close and not close enough. “We kept pretending, we kept trying, but deep down, we both knew it wasn’t right.” You gestured between the two of you. “I did nothing wrong. You did nothing wrong. We just— We just weren’t meant for each other.”

His fingers trembled just a little. “Doesn’t mean it doesn’t hurt.”

"I know.” You soothed. “I know it hurts.”

For a moment, the anger bled out of him. "He should’ve told me before it happened."

"He– we,” you corrected, “We didn’t plan this.”

Sam scoffed. 

Your frustration bubbled over. “You’re really gonna let your friendship with Bucky die over a girl?” You shook your head, voice finally rising. “Over me?”

He had nothing to say to that.

"Two months, Sam.” You swallowed hard. “Two months we weren’t together before anything even happened. You can’t sit here and act like we were still—” You stopped yourself, shaking your head.

He swallowed hard, finally meeting your eyes.

"I loved you," he said, voice rough, like the words had splintered on the way out.

"I know," you whispered.

He looked away. His fists unclenched. “Well this fucking sucks.”

"Yeah." You gave a sad, tired smile. “It does, but I’m always going to be your friend." You gave his arm a gentle squeeze. “And Bucky… Bucky is your best friend.”

Sam’s lips pressed into a thin line.

"Don’t treat him like this,” you almost pleaded. “Not over me.”

With a long, tired sigh, he nodded. He never could argue his way out with you. 

"J-just give me time," he said.

And you did.

—

A week later, Sam wasn’t angry anymore. Not really.

But he didn’t know how to fix it.

He had never really exploded on anyone before, not in a way that left wreckage behind. He had spent so much of his life learning how to hold it together, how to bite his tongue and keep moving forward.

But this wasn't something he could outrun.

Because now, when he looked at Bucky, all he saw was you leaving him.

Maybe that wasn’t fair. Maybe that was selfish.

So yeah, he was not angry anymore, but he hadn’t really processed the fact that you had found something with Bucky that you couldn’t find with him.

And Sam didn’t know how to move past that.

He let the days blur together, filling them with distractions that didn’t work, pretending he wasn’t falling apart.

Until Joaquin called him on his shit.

"Alright, man. Enough of this."

Sam barely looked up.

Joaquin stood across the room, arms crossed. Sam had been so unfocused while working on his wingpack that Joaquin had finally just snatched it from him, setting it down with a loud clank.

"You can sulk all you want, but this is ridiculous." Sam sat at the table, fingers loosely curled around the glass of iced coffee he hadn’t touched in over an hour.

"Didn’t know my personal life was any of your business," Sam shrugged.

Joaquin scoffed. "You broke the law for him, Sam.” His patience was running thin. He was sick of being stuck at work with a fucking brick wall that only said one or two words every two hours. “You broke the damn law for that man, stood by him when no one else would, risked your life a hundred times over. And you’re not even talking to him!”

Sam’s fingers tightened around his glass. "It ain’t that simple.”

"It is," Joaquin said. "I’m not saying Bucky isn’t a dumbass for falling in love with your ex— but have you even tried being happy for them? The guy who’d take a bullet for you is the same guy who’d take a bullet for her— You think that’s a coincidence?”

He didn’t want to hear this. He didn’t want to admit that Joaquin was right.

But… he knew had to face it.

Sam let out a long breath, pressing his thumb and forefinger against his eyes before finally pulling out his phone.

Then, finally, he typed:

I’m ready to talk again.

And he hit send.

—

So now, here they were.

Sitting in silence in the same bar, drinks in front of them.

Sam just sat there, studying Bucky like he was waiting for something—an explanation, an apology, hell, maybe a fight.

“So… you ready to yell at me again,” Bucky sighed, rolling his shoulders, “Or can we just talk?”

Sam scoffed, shaking his head. “You act like I’m the unreasonable one.”

"I mean." Bucky gestured vaguely. “You did storm out of a diner after accusing me of stealing your girl.”

Sam leveled him with a flat look. “Because you did.”

“We’re already doing this wrong.” He leaned back. “Look, I don’t wanna fight you. But I’m not gonna sit here and pretend like I don’t—” He stopped, considering whether or not Sam wanted to hear him out. Then, quieter, “Like I don’t love her.”

For a long moment, neither of them spoke.

Then, Bucky huffed out a laugh. “Look, I am sick for her, man.”

Sam raised an eyebrow.

"No, I mean it," Bucky continued, rubbing a hand over his face. "It’s disgusting. You ever see a dog get left alone for too long and lose its goddamn mind the second someone walks through the door? That’s me. She walks in, and suddenly I forget every bad thing that’s ever happened to me."

For the first time in what felt like forever, Sam’s lips curled into a small smile. “That’s pathetic.”

"I know."

"You’re a grown man."

"I know."

Sam took a slow sip of his drink. "That’s embarrassing for you."

Bucky just shrugged.

“…Was it always like that?” Sam’s voice was quieter now, but not accusing. “Did you always love her like that?”

Bucky’s fingers tapped against his glass. “I tried not to. I really did.” He huffed. “Told myself you were my best friend, told myself it wouldn’t happen. But—” He shook his head. “It wasn’t something I could turn off.”

Sam’s jaw tightened. He knew he had asked his next question before, but he had to ask again. He had to be sure.

"So did you?” Sam leaned back, eyes narrowing. “Did you sit there the whole time, waiting for me to fuck up?”

“No,” Bucky said without missing a beat. “I sat there hoping you wouldn’t.”

That shut Sam up. How was he supposed to answer that?

Bucky sighed, his fingers curling loosely around his glass. "Sam, you’re a better man than me."

Sam rolled his eyes. "Don’t start with that dramatic ass—"

"I mean it." Bucky turned toward him fully, "The world will always be your priority. You are a hero, Sam. You always will be. That makes you a better man."

Sam scoffed, tipping back the rest of his drink. "Yeah? And what does that make you?"

"More selfish." He admitted. "More broken."

Sam didn’t think so, but he didn’t argue, either.

Bucky’s voice went a bit more quiet. “You will always protect the world." He looked him in the eyes. "I will burn the world for her."

Sam froze.

"Have you ever thought that’s what she wants?" Bucky asked.

He hated how much sense it made.

"Sam." Bucky leaned forward, elbows on the bar. "She is as selfish as I am."

Sam shook his head. "She’s not selfish—"

"She is." Bucky’s voice was firm, no room for argument. "She asked to be the center of my world. And I can give her that."

Sam inhaled deeply, tilting his head back. “Shit.”

Bucky huffed. “Yeah.”

Then, Sam shook his head, letting out a cynical laugh. “You know what pisses me off?”

"What?"

"That I have to admit I overreacted.” Sam let out a deep breath, running a hand through his hair. “I was mad, I was hurt, but—shit, Buck. She wasn’t mine anymore. And I acted like—” He shook his head. “I acted like an asshole.”

Bucky smirked. “Yeah, you did.”

Sam shot him a pointed look.

Bucky held up his hands. “Hey, your words, not mine.”

Sam sighed. "I still think you should’ve at least told me."

“I know,” Bucky nodded. "And I’m sorry you found out the way you did."

Sam groaned, shaking his head. "Man, I did not need to hear all that."

"Yeah, that was rough."

Sam groaned louder, rubbing his temples.

“So…” Bucky nudged his shoulders. “You done being mad at me?”

Sam shrugged, shaking his head. "You’re still a pain in my ass."

Bucky smirked. "You wouldn’t know what to do without me."

"Whatever,” he dismissed, but there was no real disdain behind it.

Bucky arched an eyebrow. “That’s it?”

"Man, what do you want from me?” Sam finally chuckled. “You already stole my girl, you want my blessing too?"

Bucky grinned. “Wouldn’t hurt.”

Sam groaned, shoving at his shoulder. “Fuck off, Barnes. Now buy me a drink before I change my mind.”

Bucky just laughed, and somehow, somehow, it felt like things might just be okay.

—

A Year Later…

"To the left."

"No, the other left."

"Barnes, if you drop that couch, I swear to God—"

"It’s fine, Sam, I got it."

"Do you? Do you really? Because that thing is tilting real suspiciously—"

"Bucky, sweetie, please don’t break the couch before we even sit on it."

"I got it."

THUD.

Joaquin snorted. “Yeah, you totally got it.”

Bucky shot him a glare as he flexed his metal fingers. The couch had technically made it inside, albeit with a new scuff mark or two. It now sat in the middle of the living room—your living room. Yours and Bucky’s.

"I should’ve stayed home," Sam muttered.

"Me too," Joaquin agreed, clapping him on the back.

"No one asked you two to help," Bucky pointed out.

"We came because she asked," Sam insisted, pointing his chin at you.

You grinned, stepping around Bucky and squeezing both his arms. "Alright, enough whining, boys," you said. "We need to get everything unpacked before we drown in boxes."

Bucky sighed but gave in, nudging Joaquin toward the kitchen to help with electronics. Before he left, he pressed a kiss to your lips. It was a bit rough, but still loving, as it always was. He never failed to make your heart flutter.

When Bucky was out of earshot, Sam leaned against the wall. “You know,” he said after a moment, holding up his hand. “I was this close to asking you to move in with me our second year together.”

You turned to him, "Oh?"

He shrugged, a wistful smile tugging at his lips. “Figured it would’ve been nice. You and me. House in the suburbs, co-parenting Redwing…”

You laughed, shaking your head. "Sam…” it was a gentle warning.

“I know, I know.” He shook his head, crossing his arms. “You’re with him now.”

And that was okay.

It really was.

“Hey,” you stepped closer, bumping your shoulder against his. “I’m glad you boys came around.”

Sam huffed, shaking his head. He glanced toward the kitchen, where Joaquin was currently attempting to swindle Bucky out of the last slice of pizza.

“I just—” He hesitated, like he wasn’t sure he should say it, “—I’m glad it’s him.”

You blinked. "What?"

Sam sighed. “With you. If it had to be anyone else, I’m glad it’s Bucky.”

You hadn’t expected that. A year ago, he might’ve made a snide remark. Maybe stormed out.

But he’d done the work to balance job and life. He’d gone to therapy. He’d let himself heal.

And now, here he was. Helping you move in together with his best friend. 

You swallowed. "Me too."

He shrugged, then sighed. "You know what I realised?"

You shook your head.

"I was never mad that you moved on with him," he admitted. "I was mad that you moved on easier than I did."

You let the confession settle between you.

Then you broke the silence, “I’m… I’m proud of you.”

For putting in the work. 

For being happy for you.

For being happy with himself.

And you meant it.

He only smiled.

You and Sam were always going to be friends. Maybe not in the way you once were, but in a way that still mattered. That would always matter.

Then, Bucky caught both you and Sam staring at him, he waved.

Sam waved back.

And when Bucky smiled at you again, this time with an adoring look, like you were the best damn thing that had ever happened to him— Sam knew, without a doubt, that the truth had always been simple:

Bringing you and Bucky together was still his proudest achievement.

-End.

General Bucky taglist:

@hotlinepanda @snflwr-vol6 @ruexj283 @2honeybees @read-just-cant

 @shanksstrawhat @mystictf @globetrotter28 @thebuckybarnesvault@average-vibe

@winchestert101 @mystictf @globetrotter28 @shanksstrawhat @scariusaquarius

@reckless007 @hextech-bros @daydreamgoddess14 @96jnie @pono-pura-vida

@buckyslove1917 @notsostrangerthing @flow33didontsmoke @qvynrand @blackbirdwitch22

@torntaltos @seventeen-x @ren-ni @iilsenewman @slayerofthevampire

@hiphip-horray @jbbucketlist @melotyy @ethereal-witch24 @samfunko

@lilteef @hi172826 @pklol @average-vibe @shanksstrawhat

@shower-me-with-roses @athenabarnes @scarwidow @thriving-n-jiving @dilfsaresohot

@helloxgoodbi @undf-stuff @sapphirebarnes @hzdhrtss @softhornymess

@samfunko @wh1sp @anonymousreader4d7 @mathcat345 @escapefromrealitylol

@imjusthere1161 @sleepysongbirdsings @fuckybarnes @yn-stories-are-my-life

@cjand10

[malum-forev]

perfect, amazing, incredible, no words.

Jackass

Summary : Everyone is horrified that Bucky is flirting with a married woman, but then they realise there's a reason why. 

Pairing : Thunderbolts!Bucky Barnes x florist!reader (she/her) 

Warnings/tags : Secret wife trope. Cursing, Injury. Featuring the Thunderbolts*. Bucky kinda gaslights the entire team. Fluff!!!!

Word count : 3k

Note : The next chapter of spoils of war is almost here, but I just need to go over a couple of paragraphs! In the meantime, enjoy!

The Thunderbolts knew a few undeniable truths about Bucky Barnes.

One: He was grumpy.

Two: He was a private person.

Three: He never, ever let anyone see where he lived.

That last one bothered them the most. They’d pieced together the general area; a quiet neighborhood with old brick buildings, modern cafés, and just enough charm to make it feel… vintage. But no one had ever set foot inside his home, no one had even seen him unlock the door to his sanctuary, since he dodged every casual suggestion to hang out at his place with a variation of “I got plans” or another. And, curiously, every time they stopped for coffee in this part of town, Bucky would mysteriously slip into the tiny flower shop beneath a brick apartment building.

That was odd. No one would’ve guessed that Bucky Barnes even liked flowers.

What was even odder was that this infinitely grumpy, emotionally constipated, “I hate people” supersoldier — would be capable of flirting.

With the florist.

With you.

“Are we seeing this right?” Yelena whispered, elbowing Alexei as they peered through the shop window after Bucky made them wait outside. 

They watched as Bucky stood by the counter, leaning in ever so slightly, a charming grin tugging at the corner of his mouth as he watched you wrap a bouquet.

“He’s smiling,” Alexei muttered, horrified.

Inside, Bucky reached for the bouquet you were tying up, his gloved fingers brushing against yours. You playfully smacked his hand away, laughing. He laughed, too, and that was enough to send Yelena spiraling into an existential crisis.

Yelena squinted. “He’s flirting.”

Alexei frowned. “Bucky does not flirt.”

“I know. That’s why I’m freaking out.”

They watched as you handed him the bouquet, and in return, Bucky gave you a wink. And then he turned, walking out like he hadn’t just transformed into a different person.

That was when Yelena, utterly horrified Yelena, caught a flash of gold on your ring finger. She squinted her eyes. It was unmistakable. “Wait a second—”

As soon as he got back to them, Alexei folded his arms. “You were flirting.”

Bucky scoffed. “I was not.”

“She’s married!” Yelena accused, pointing dramatically. “She had a ring! You flirted with a married woman!”

Bucky didn’t even blink. He simply shrugged, tucking the bouquet carefully under his arm. “I didn’t see a ring.”

“She was literally wearing it—”

“I didn’t see a ring,” Bucky insisted, tugging absentmindedly at the chain around his neck— the one that held his dog tags, hidden under his shirt.

Yelena and Alexei exchanged a deeply disturbed look.

Bucky Barnes was flirting with a married florist.

What was the world coming to?

—

Bucky knew he’d fucked up the second he stepped back into Thunderbolts HQ. 

Alexie had just looked confused, while Yelena had been simmering the entire walk back, her arms crossed so tightly over her chest it was a miracle she hadn’t snapped a rib. 

She lasted exactly two seconds before she exploded. “You are jackass, Barnes!”

Bucky barely had time to sigh before she stomped closer.

“What’s so wrong with what I did?” he muttered, placing the bouquet of flowers in an empty vase

Yelena let out an incredulous laugh, pacing in front of him like a caged tiger ready to strike. “What’s wrong?” she echoed, her accent thickening with rage. “You flirted with a married woman! I should punch you in the face on principle!”

From the lounge, John Walker looked up from whatever government-issued nonsense he was pretending to read. His brows immediately furrowed, his eyes twisting into the signature disapproving dad look he’d perfected. “Wait, what?”

Ava, who had been drinking tea in the corner, raised an eyebrow. “This is scandalous,” she murmured, eyes brightening with intrigue.

Alexei, who was now plopped on the couch like some washed-up, Soviet-era king, said, “If a man had flirted with my wife like that, I would have hunt him down and mount his head on wall.” He crossed his arms, nodding to himself in approval. “As is tradition.”

Bucky scowled. “I wasn’t flirting.”

“Oh?” Yelena snorted, “So you were just undressing her with your eyes for fun, then?”

Bucky rolled his eyes. “That’s just how I look at people.”

Alexie shook his head. “So you look at us like that?”

Bucky opened his mouth. Then immediately shut it.

Yelena’s hands curled into fists. “Yeah. Thought so.”

John’s arms crossed over his chest in that holier-than-thou stance that he was so famous for. “Look, man, I’m married. And if someone flirted with my wife, we’d have a problem.”

“Oh, fuck off,” Bucky groaned, dragging a hand down his face. “You guys are making a big deal out of nothing.”

“Nothing?” Yelena threw up her hands. “She’s married, Bucky!”

“Okay, even if I was flirting,” Bucky turned to her, exasperated— “I didn’t see a ring.”

Yelena’s hands flew to her head, fingers digging into her scalp like she was resisting the urge to rip out her own hair. “You probably chose to look away!”

John sighed like a disappointed youth pastor. “This is unbelievable.”

“No,” Bucky still insisted, “I didn’t see a ring.”

Yelena’s jaw dropped. “It was a thick gold band, Barnes. How could you not see it?”

Ava, who was clearly enjoying the drama more than anyone, sighed. “That is inappropriate behaviour, Barnes.”

Alexei shook his head again, “You should apologise.”

“I’m not apologising,” Bucky scoffed, “Because I did nothing wrong.”

His fingers toyed absentmindedly with the chain that led to his dog tags, and Yelena immediately locked onto the movement. Every person has a tell, a habit they did when they were nervous. And being a super spy, Yelena knew this was his.

She narrowed her eyes. “You are gaslighting us,” she muttered, pacing again like she was mentally weighing the pros and cons of strangling a super soldier.

“I didn’t see a ring,” Bucky repeated, his voice steady.

“You’re lying,” she snapped.

He shrugged, maddeningly casual in all of this chaos. “Guess we’ll never know.”

Ava laughed cynically. “I can’t tell if you’re a complete scumbag or if this is just really fun for you.”

Bucky just popped a beer from the fridge, flicking the cap off with his metal hand. “Why not both?”

He took a long sip of his beer, completely unbothered.

And maybe, he looked a little bit too smug.

—

Three weeks later, Bucky led Yelena and John on a mission to take down a high-scale arms dealer.

And, as always, the mission had gone sideways.

It was too late for any shops to be open, too late for anyone with a shred of common sense to be out on the streets. 

Yelena was bleeding, pressing a torn scrap of fabric against a deep gash on her arm. John had a busted lip and a slight limp. Bucky was sporting a few cuts and bruises himself, but nothing he hadn’t shaken off a thousand times before.

“Guys,” Yelena managed a grunt, shifting her grip on her makeshift bandage, “we need to get ourselves patched up before one of us drops dead.”

“We ran out of antiseptics back at HQ,” John reminded them.

Yelena groaned, throwing her head back in despair. “So what are we supposed to do?” She gritted out, “Just bleed out in the street like sad little orphans?”

John scowled. “That’s a little dramatic.”

Yelena turned and glared at him. “Your face is dramatic.”

Bucky let out a deep breath through his nose, running a hand along his damp hair. He glanced around the street, making sure they weren’t being followed before whispering to himself, “Guess we’re doing this now.”

Yelena tilted her head. “Doing what?”

Instead of answering, Bucky turned on his heel and started walking.

John and Yelena gave each other a wary look.

“I don’t like when he does that,” John said.

“No one does,” Yelena agreed, but they both followed anyway. 

It didn’t take long for them to recognise the route— ​​It was the neighbourhood where the team usually got coffee.

But Bucky wasn’t heading to the café.

They rounded the corner, and suddenly John stopped dead in his tracks.

It was a closed florist—the very one where Bucky had, allegedly, been trying to charm his way into a married woman’s bed.

To John’s absolute horror, Bucky walked right up to the door and knocked.

“Bucky.” He said, voice strangled. “What the hell is this?”

Yelena blinked. “I don’t think we need to seduce a married florist to get medical supplies.”

Bucky sighed, rubbing his temples like he was already regretting this decision. He turned to them, leveling them both with a look. “Alright, listen up,” he said through gritted teeth. "The secret’s out now, so you two gotta keep your mouths shut.”

John’s brows furrowed. “What secret?”

Before Bucky could answer, the door to the flower shop clicked open.

And there you were, standing in the doorway, wrapped in one of Bucky’s hoodies, looking exactly how he’d expected: exasperated but unsurprised. He knew you’d still be up, cataloguing the latest floral shipment for tomorrow’s arrangements.

The second your eyes landed on a bruised and bloodied Bucky, and flanked by two wounded Thunderbolts, no less—you let out a sigh.

“James,” you said knowingly, your voice laced with fond irritation. “What did you do?”

Yelena and John froze in their tracks.

James?

James?

No one called Bucky by his first name. No one. Not unless they had a death wish.

Bucky, unfazed, just stepped inside. “We ran out of antiseptics, honey.”

Yelena and John exchanged a wide-eyed look.

Honey?

You pinched the bridge of your nose. “Again?”

Bucky shrugged like this was a perfectly normal Thursday night occurrence.

You muttered under your breath, “I should’ve known this would happen when I married an ex-assassin.”

Oh.

Yelena’s mouth opened, closed, then opened again. “Married.” she repeated

John blinked rapidly. “This is why we can never go to your place?”

Bucky could only shrug. Of course it was— they would have seen the evidence of how much love in his home was carved out for just you.

John let out a wheeze.

Yelena pointed between you and Bucky, motioning erratically. “Wait. WAIT. So—so she’s your wife? She married you?”

Bucky nodded. “Yup.”

“Like—actually married?”

“Mhm.”

Yelena gasped, clutching her chest like she’d been personally betrayed. In a way, she had. “And no one knows?”

Bucky thought for a second. “Sam does.”

“And Joaquin,” you added, trying to be helpful.

Bucky nodded. “Right. Joaquin.”

“Oh, and Isaiah and Elijah Bradley.”

“Yeah, they were at the wedding.”

“A teenager knew about this,” John’s eye twitched, “—and we didn’t?”

Bucky could only nod again.

Yelena rubbed a hand down her face, “You gaslit us,” she accused, jabbing a finger at Bucky. “You let us believe you were a homewrecker for weeks—when you were married the whole time?!”

You snorted, glancing at Bucky, who had the audacity to look smug. “Yeah, that sounds like my husband.”

Yelena let out a string of very creative Russian curses.

John looked like he was about to have a stroke. 

“All secrets aside,” you said, welcoming the two disoriented Thunderbolts in and locking the door behind you, “It’s good to finally meet you both.”

John still looked like he was buffering. Yelena, on the other hand, was vibrating with adrenaline, looking like she was trying to solve a conspiracy theory in real time.

“This is—this is insane,” she muttered, pointing aggressively at Bucky, then at you, then back at Bucky. “You’re—you’re so normal.”

You laughed, shaking your head. “I’d like to think so.”

Bucky just hummed. “She’s perfect.”

Yelena actually sputtered like an old car engine.

John made a noise that was somewhere between a groan and a strangled laugh. This was all too much.

But there wasn’t time to let them spiral further. Bucky, gently nudged you toward the others. “Take care of them first, darling. They’ve got worse injuries.”

You frowned, wanting to protest—because, really, Bucky should always be your first priority—but your husband was nothing if not stubborn. You knew better than to argue when he had that look in his eyes— you knew that fighting him on this would only drag things out longer, and right now, time was precious.

You turned your attention to Yelena and John, motioning for them to follow you deeper into the shop. The scent of lavender, roses, and freshly cut stems—clung to the air as you led them toward the back, where your little work table stood tucked in the corner.

Years of practice had made you quick. You moved with quiet efficiency, gathering supplies from neat shelves: you cut and split an aloe vera plant for burns, grabbed bandages, and a mix of balms you’d perfected over your time tending to Bucky. It wasn’t the kind of sterile, military-grade first aid they were used to, but it would have to do for now.

You started tending to Yelena’s arm, gently dabbing the wound with fresh aloe. She hissed through her teeth before narrowing her eyes at you.

“So how long has this been a thing?” she demanded. Bucky, now leaning lazily against the counter with his arms crossed, barely spared her a glance. “A while.”

John scoffed, “A while?”

You bit back a grin as you smoothed a bandage over Yelena’s arm, “Three years.”

Yelena’s jaw dropped.

“Three—” She turned to Bucky so fast it was a miracle she didn’t give herself whiplash. “You’ve been married for three years?!”

John let out a long, defeated groan,This was simply too much to process. “Fuck’s sake.”

Yelena shook her head. “I thought you were a loner who hated people."

Bucky only shrugged, unbothered. 

You chuckled as you pressed the last piece of medical tape into place on Yelena’s arm. “Alright, you’re done.” Then, glancing at John, you motioned for him to sit. “Your turn.”

John sighed but still plopped down. You took his hand gently, turning it over to examine his bruised knuckles before moving to his busted lip.

Meanwhile, they kept peppering you with questions, barely giving you room to breathe.

“How did you meet?”

“How do you put up with Bucky’s brooding?”

“Does he ever actually smile?”

At that last one, you paused, dabbing at John’s lip carefully. “He smiles all the time.”

John let out a scoff. “No, he doesn’t.”

You glanced over at Bucky, knowing he showed that part of him to you and no one else. “Oh, he does.”

And then, finally, it was Bucky’s turn.

You turned to him, your brows knitting together as you studied the little cuts on his cheek, the dried blood near his brows. He looked a little tired, a little worn around the edges. 

Your fingers found his chin, tilting his face toward you as you inspected the damage. Your touch was so featherlight, so incredibly careful. There was no missing the way your thumb brushed over his cheekbone— how incredibly gentle it was.

“You should’ve let me do you first,” you murmured, half-scolding, half-concerned.

Bucky’s lips curved into a small smile, a flicker of mischief lighting his tired blue eyes. “That’s exactly what you said last night, sweetheart.”

John choked.

Yelena groaned, grabbing the nearest pillow from the nearest chair and hurling it at Bucky’s head. “You two are disgusting.”

Bucky caught the pillow effortlessly, giving her a smug grin before setting it aside. When his eyes found yours again, his shit-eating grin turned… lovely. The tension in his brows eased as you dabbed gently at his cut. 

For all the blood, for all the bruises, you handled him like he was glass.

And then, without thinking, you leaned in.

It was meant to be a brief kiss— a quick reassurance, a way of saying I’ve got you. But the moment your lips brushed his, you couldn’t help but linger.

Your fingers curled instinctively against his chin. His hand found your waist without hesitation, as if he needed you closer. As if the world shrank down to just the two of you. 

John and Yelena exchanged a look, the previous horror of their teammate hiding a secret wife momentarily forgotten because this was… weirdly cute.

You giggled as you pulled away, seeing Bucky looking at you like you hung the moon for him. 

“Anywhere else?” you asked, brushing your thumb over his lips.

Bucky hesitated just for a second. Then, a little sheepishly, he said, “Got a cut on my ribs.”

You exhaled, shaking your head. Of course he did. Before he could argue, you reached for the hem of his shirt and tugged.

“Off,” you said simply.

Bucky huffed but didn’t fight you. He lifted his arms, letting you strip the fabric from his skin, and goddamn.

Bucky, half-naked, was unfairly, ridiculously beautiful. Even now, even after all this time, seeing him like this still knocked the breath from your lungs. His body was a roadmap of battles fought and survived, scars carved into the expanse of his chest and ribs that told stories only he could say. 

John made a strangled sound, somewhere between “Jesus Christ” and “I need to leave the room,” but you ignored him completely. Yelena let out a dramatic sigh and whispered “they are one second away from sucking each other’s face off,” to herself.

You tuned them both out, fingers dragging carefully over Bucky’s ribs, searching for the wound. When you found a thin jagged cut just below his ribs— you sighed softer this time and reached for the aloe.

“You need to stop getting hurt, my love,” you said, smoothing the cool gel over his skin.

Bucky’s voice came quieter. “Lucky I have someone to take care of me, then.”

And that’s when Yelena finally noticed it.

The thin chain around Bucky’s neck—one she’d always assumed was just for his dog tags—held something else, too.

A ring.

A simple wedding band that matched yours, worn from years of resting against his skin.

She blinked, realisation hitting her like a freight train. Oh.

That’s why he always played with it.

Every time Bucky was nervous, every time he was uncertain, his fingers would move to that chain—not just to fiddle with his tags, but to remind himself of you.

Maybe he wasn’t a complete jackass after all.

-end.

Note: Hope this doesn't bite me in the ass when the movie comes out.

General Bucky taglist:

@hotlinepanda @snflwr-vol6 @ruexj283 @2honeybees @read-just-cant

 @shanksstrawhat @mystictf @globetrotter28 @thebuckybarnesvault@average-vibe

@winchestert101 @mystictf @globetrotter28 @shanksstrawhat @scariusaquarius

@reckless007 @hextech-bros @daydreamgoddess14 @96jnie @pono-pura-vida

@buckyslove1917 @notsostrangerthing @flow33didontsmoke @qvynrand @blackbirdwitch22

@torntaltos @seventeen-x @ren-ni @iilsenewman @slayerofthevampire

@hiphip-horray @jbbucketlist @melotyy @ethereal-witch24 @samfunko

@lilteef @hi172826 @pklol @average-vibe @shanksstrawhat

@shower-me-with-roses @athenabarnes @scarwidow @thriving-n-jiving @dilfsaresohot

@helloxgoodbi @undf-stuff @sapphirebarnes @hzdhrtss @softhornymess

@samfunko @wh1sp @anonymousreader4d7 @mathcat345 @escapefromrealitylol

@imjusthere1161 @sleepysongbirdsings @fuckybarnes @yn-stories-are-my-life

[malum-forev]

Have We Met Before?

Summary : America Chavez says that you and Bucky are together in every universe. 

Pairing : Bucky Barnes x Wife! Sorceress! Reader (she/her) (+ brief Reporter!Bucky x spider woman!reader / ravager!Bucky x Nova Corps!Reader / knight!Bucky x princess!reader)

Warnings/tags : multiverse stuff, slight cursing, Injury. Featuring America Chavez, Strange and Wong. Fluff!!!!!!!

Word count : 6.9k

Note : This was inspired by the song of the same name by Tom Rosenthal. I also just think Bucky would be super protective over the MCU’s young heroes, y’know? Like, he knows what it’s like to be young and talented in this field and would try his best to make sure none of the next generation of heroes would get taken advantage of and used like he was. Anyway, enjoy!

Earth-616...

The sun hung low over the terracotta roofs the day you first met America Chavez.

You, a teacher of shielding magic in Kamar-Taj, often sought out to train new recruits in the art of defensive spells, were meditating when she arrived.

She stood near the center of the courtyard, her jacket dusted with ash, boots scuffed and worn from a recent battle. She looked relaxed, but her eyes scanned the space with the paranoia of someone who had seen too many things go wrong too quickly. Strange had brought her in personally.

There was a spark about her—a being of chaos and confidence wrapped in a teenage body. Even the air around her seemed to him with potential. As you walked toward her, preparing the same measured welcome you gave all new students, she looked up, caught your eye, and smiled. 

“Hi!” She exclaimed, “I know you!”

You furrowed your eyebrows, puzzled. “I don’t think we’ve met before.”

“Not this you,” she said with a smirk. “Other yous. I can travel to different realities.”

You studied her for a moment, and in that instant, your understanding of the multiverse shifted slightly—not in theory, not in abstract philosophy, but in practice. 

She was real, tangible, and standing three feet in front of you, smiling like this sort of thing happened every Tuesday.

And maybe, for her, it did.

—

You quickly became her favourite teacher.

She liked Strange, but you were more sympathetic than him, and less rigid than Wong. You were enough of a challenge to keep her attention— on good days, anyway. America had a habit of brushing off lessons she didn’t think she needed. If a spell didn’t explode or glow or bend reality sideways, she wasn’t that interested. But she also had a habit of punching holes through space and tearing through dimensions like they were paper. She could travel without a Sling Ring, which made her a magnet for trouble.

See, that kind of power doesn’t go unnoticed. That kind of power needed protection.

So you pushed her a little harder. Taught her advanced shielding techniques, the kind that could hold up against dimensional anomalies and the occasional demon. You worked patiently with her, correcting her form, teaching her to stabilise her breathing, to anchor her focus in the midst of chaos. 

She rolled her eyes more than once, but she listened. And when it mattered, she applied what she learned.

She wasn’t a quick learner, but she was talented. 

You liked her instantly.

By the end of your first month teaching her, you established a rhythm. She’d show up (sometimes late), and you’d teach her something new. 

Sometimes she challenged you, sometimes she surprised you, but always, she reminded you why you taught in Kamar-Taj in the first place.

That day, after a particularly solid session—she’d finally nailed an advanced protection spell, the Sigil of the Aegis, and managed to hold it steady under pressure. “You’ve been practicing—good. It shows,” you said with a smile. “But I gotta run. My husband’s waiting for me at home.”

America perked up immediately. “Oh! Tell Bucky I said hi!”

You blinked. “I never told you about Bucky.”

She gave a little shrug, casual as ever. “Didn’t need to. You’re with him in every universe.”

Oh?

You paused, her words lodging deeper than you ever expected. You felt a gentle warmth bloom in your chest— perhaps a sense of inevitability, of cosmic affection. You smiled, more to yourself than to her.

“Well,” you finally said, after processing her words, “That’s good to know.”

—

After the first six months, the classrooms of Kamar-Taj weren’t enough for America anymore. She craved more than theory, more than chants and sigils. She wanted something real. She wanted something to punch.

And being married to a feisty ex-assassin, you understood that hunger better than most. You understood the calling that came from knowing you were built for something bigger than the four walls of a training room. 

So… you started bringing her on missions.

At first, it was small stuff— clearing out rogue spirits in the Alps, helping Wong seal a breach in an ancient temple, handling a cursed artifact that had ended up in the hands of an unsuspecting kid in Tokyo. 

She was fearless on the field, and just reckless enough to keep you on your toes. And she loved every second of it.

Sometimes it was just the two of you. Other times, when physical force was needed, Bucky joined you.

Where you moved with grace, he moved with force. Where you cast with precision, he fought with instinct. You were opposites in many ways— but you worked like clockwork together. 

The first time the three of you teamed up, America gave Bucky one long look and smirked. “So, the Winter Soldier in this universe, huh? Doesn’t look so scary.”

Bucky raised an eyebrow. “Give me five minutes and a reason.”

“He’s all bark until someone threatens me,” You laughed. “Then it gets messy.”

From then on, the three of you became a strange little unit. America would tease Bucky constantly—calling him grumpy, old man, or “Sergeant Sunshine” on good days. She’d stick close to you when he got too serious. You always laughed.

—

When this all started, America had two legal guardians— Wong and Strange. Recently, you and Bucky were added to the list. 

So you started inviting her to yours and Bucky’s home more, especially when Strange or Wong had pressing matters to attend to. Dinner at your apartment became a regular thing. She’d crash on the couch in an old hoodie, eating popcorn and flipping through your spellbooks like they were comic books. Bucky cooked big, hearty meals more often than not, recipes that reminded him of a time before this one. You’d float the dishes clean afterward with a flick of your hand, and America would clap.

Strange and Wong would sometimes be invited too, and they’d bicker about magical ethics. At least they’d brought dessert. One time, Wong showed up with six tubs of ice cream and didn’t explain why. No one asked.

Then came Madripoor.

A Skrull impersonated you during an ambush, but America decked her with a right hook, and she dropped like a sack of bricks.

“My sister doesn’t stand like that,” she said, shaking out her fist.

You didn’t say anything right away, but you beamed with pride. 

After that, she started calling you her big sister like it had always been the case.

Bucky didn’t argue. In fact, he was fond of it. 

He started teaching her how to throw knives, how to read people’s movements in combat, how to hit where it counted. “Just in case the magic fails.” he’d say with a shrug. 

He trained her like she mattered to him, like he’d already decided she was family.

“She reminds me of you, you know,” he said one night, after America had passed out on your favourite armchair in the living room with her mouth open, TV still on.

You were curled up beside him on the couch, your legs over his lap, a cup of tea floating in the air between you.

“She’s louder,” you replied with a smile.

He chuckled. “Yeah, but she’s got that same… fire. She knows she’s meant for more, just waiting for the world to catch up.”

You glanced at her, snoring under your old jacket, curled up like she hadn’t fought a demon with Wong twelve hours ago. “I get it. She doesn’t just want to survive. She wants to matter.”

Bucky tangled his metal arm in your hair, scratching softly at your scalp. “She does. Especially to you.”

You leaned your head against his shoulder. “To us.”

Bucky smiled and nodded, kissing the top of your head.

—

Then, something started… changing. Especially in lessons.

America started showing up late, later than usual—and when she did, her energy was all over the place. Spells fizzled out, sigils came out crooked, and her focus was… somewhere else entirely. 

She was still trying, still cracking jokes, but something had… shifted. 

After the third lesson in a row where she couldn’t hold a basic containment shield (even though she’d mastered it weeks ago), you finally decided to ask around.

You found Wong and Strange in the library, deep in a debate about magical interference patterns in unstable realities. They paused when you walked in, and Wong raised an eyebrow at the look on your face.

“America is distracted,” you said simply. “I’ve tried scolding her, grounding exercises, even bribing her with snacks. Nothing’s working.”

Wong gave a thoughtful nod. “Food usually does the job. That is serious.”

Strange leaned back in his chair with an annoyingly smug grin. “I think I know what it is.”

You folded your arms. “If it’s dimensional exhaustion, just say so. Don’t be cryptic.”

“Oh, it’s not that.” He smirked. “I think she’s got a crush.”

You blinked. “A what?”

Strange gestured vaguely toward the southern wing of the compound. “On that new teenage sorcerer. The cocky one from London. You know, the one who wears sunglasses indoors and thinks enchantments are a ‘vibe.’”

You stared at him. “Huh?”

Wong groaned. “Dear gods. Leo?” 

“Yeah,” Strange said. “I caught her staring at him throw basic sparks into the air. She didn’t blink for, like, five whole minutes.”

You pinched the bridge of your nose. “She’s letting her shields drop because she has a crush?”

“She’s sixteen,” Wong said with a sigh. “It’s developmentally appropriate.”

“Tell that to the demon who nearly melted my eyebrows off yesterday.”

Strange raised a finger. “To be fair, you were the one who let her take point on that breach.”

You scowled. “She begged to.”

“She wanted to impress Leo,” Strange said with a shrug. “Teenagers do dumb things when they have crushes.”

Wong crossed his arms. “So did you. Still do.”

Strange narrowed his eyes. “Don’t make this about me.”

You sighed and dropped into the nearest chair. “Okay. So. Teen crush. What do I do? Forbid her from seeing him? Set your cloak on surveillance duty?”

“Or,” Wong said gently, “talk to her. Like you always do.”

You groaned dramatically, head in your hands. “I liked it better when the only thing she wanted to punch was interdimensional rifts.”

“She still does,” Wong said with a small smile. “She just also wants to punch them while looking cool in front of Leo.”

“Honestly, you should be proud,” Strange added, “She’s becoming terrifyingly normal.”

You could only chuckle, because they were right. She was growing. And real growth was never clean or controlled.

Especially not when teenage feelings got involved.

But you were still a legal guardian to her. The only female one, too. Neither lunatic wizards in front of you would know how to handle it, and as much as you loved your husband, he would not know how to handle girl talk. 

So you stood up, dusted off your robes, and said, “Fine. I’ll talk to her. But if he hurts her, I’m sending him into a mirror dimension for a week.”

Strange grinned. “That’s the spirit.”

—

You found her by the koi pond, skipping stones with the same power she usually reserved for punching demons. Her robe sleeves were pulled down over her hands.

You didn’t approach right away. You stood there for a second, arms crossed, watching the way she groaned every time a stone bounced fewer than three times.

Finally, you said, “You know your shields are garbage lately, right?”

America sighed without looking at you. “Yeah.”

You stepped beside her, picked up a pebble, and skipped it clean across the pond— six hops. 

She gave you a side-eye. “Okay, show off.”

You smiled. “You wanna talk about it?”

She hesitated, but then said without looking up, “You ever like someone who’s... dumb hot but also kinda ridiculous?”

You nodded solemnly. “Bucky had an eyeliner phase.”

She turned to you, wide-eyed. “What?”

“Long story,” you shook your head, “Focus. You mean Leo?”

She winced. “You know?”

“Everyone knows. Wong’s pretending he doesn’t, but Strange tells me you stare at him like he’s a walking portal to a candy dimension.”

“I hate it,” America groaned and buried her face in her hands. “I hate it.”

“Why?”

“Because he’s cool and I’m… I dunno. I punch holes in space,” she sighed, “Not exactly first-date material.”

You nudged her shoulder. “You just need a plan, kid.”

She looked up, hopeful. “You’re gonna help me?”

You grinned. “What are big sisters for?”

After some (a lot) of encouragement, she found him in the spellcasting chambers and stammered out something along the lines of, “Hey, do you wanna get noodles and maybe talk about...like...not magical stuff for once?”

Leo blinked behind his ever-present sunglasses and gave her a grin that somehow tied her stomach into a knot and annoyed her all at once.

“Only if you don’t punch open a portal in the middle of dinner,” he said.

She punched his arm lightly. “No promises.”

He smiled. “It’s a date.”

—

Back in your home, America was pacing like a storm in a bottle while you tossed clothes across the guest bed, which has turned more and more into her second bedroom.

“I don’t know what to wear. I can’t look like I’m trying too hard, right?”

You held up a bright red flannel and black jeans. “There. Makes your eyes pop.”

She grabbed them, holding them up in the mirror. “You think so?”

“I know so.”

Then came the shoes decision, and the hair style spell, and a tiny protective charm you discreetly stitched into her jacket pocket— just in case.

And when she was almost ready, Bucky strolled in.

He looked at the pile of clothing chaos, then at America.

“…Where are you going?”

America froze like a deer in headlights. You smiled. “She has a date, sweetheart.”

Bucky’s brow furrowed. “With who?”

America muttered under her breath, “Leo.”

Bucky stared at her. “Sunglasses Indoors Leo?”

She nodded, cheeks burning. “Yep.”

He crossed his arms, metal plating shifting with a whir. “Is he human? Does he have a criminal record? What’s his GPA? Has he ever made a pact with an ancient entity?”

You stepped between them before America combusted from secondhand embarrassment. “He’s fine, Buck. Wong already did the background check.”

Bucky looked unconvinced. “If he hurts her—”

“I’ll punch him into another reality,” America said quickly. “Relax, Bucky.”

Bucky shook his head, but he still handed her a switchblade. “Keep it in your boot. Just in case.”

“I can tear open a hole in space.”

“Still.”

—

That night, America left through a portal with flushed cheeks, perfect eyeliner (Bucky’s doing), and the world’s most awkwardly concealed switchblade in her boot.

You and Bucky watched her go, standing side by side at the window.

“She’ll be fine,” you said.

“She’s still just a kid,” he grumbled.

You leaned into him. “She’s got this.”

Bucky wrapped his arm around your waist and kissed your temple. “Still interrogating the boyfriend when I see him.”

You smiled. “Obviously.”

—

The date went well—really well. America came back that night practically floating. 

She walked into your study smiling from ear like she’d just discovered treasure in a new universe, then immediately collapsed face-first onto the couch with a dramatic groan.

“He ordered dumplings for me without asking,” she mumbled into a cushion. “Because I mentioned it one time like two days ago.”

“That’s your bar?” You raised an eyebrow. “Dumpling telepathy?”

She rolled over, eyes bright. “It’s not just that! We talked for hours. Like, real talk. He told me about how his dad was a monk and he hated it. He said I’m like— this walking, talking reminder that the multiverse is bigger than all the rules he grew up with.”

Bucky, sitting nearby cleaning a knife, glanced over. “Sounds like he talks a lot.”

America waved a hand. “Yeah, but it’s good talk.”

For the next few months, it was like a new light had switched on in her. Still reckless, still stubborn—but brighter around the edges. 

She practiced spells with more purpose (if not more focus), sometimes scribbling his name in the margins of her notes with tiny hearts, like magic school had turned into high school overnight.

And she gushed. Oh god, she gushed.

Leo said this. Leo did that. Leo levitated an entire tray of fries because he didn’t want to stop holding her hand. Leo cast a musical glamour to make her laugh. Leo kissed her in the rain and she swears it was like being in a movie.

You smiled through most of it. You’d tease her sometimes. You offered advice when she asked. And when she didn’t, you still made sure she knew you were there.

Bucky, of course, took longer to warm up. He never threatened Leo outright, but every time the boy showed up at your door, Bucky just happened to be cleaning a rifle.

“Be safe,” he’d always say as America ran out the door. “No unsupervised pocket dimension hopping.”

But then the stories… changed.

Not in tone— she was still breathless, still had rose tinted glasses on—but in content. She started mentioning how he didn’t like sparring with her anymore because he said she “came on too strong.” How he’d get quiet when she talked about going on missions.

“He says I make everything too big,” she said once, curling deeper into a blanket while your tea kettle whispered in the background. “That I treat magic like it’s a fight instead of a philosophy.”

You didn’t say anything then.

You just handed her a cup and listened.

Because it wasn’t your place to step in— not yet. Not when she was still so hopeful, still so sure she could bend the edges of her world to match his if she just tried hard enough.

But you noticed the red flags.

You noticed how, after a couple of months, her posture shrank when she talked about him. She laughed less when he was around. How her magic sparked in unpredictable, frustrating bursts when she thought no one was looking. How she said “sorry” too often. For being late, training too hard, for simply… taking up space.

Once, during a lesson, she flubbed a shield charm she could’ve done in her sleep, and when you offered to go over it again, she waved it off with a tired smile. “Leo says I overthink everything. Maybe I should just... stop trying so hard.”

That one hurt.

But still, you didn’t say anything. You just adjusted the angle of her stance, guiding her through the sigil again. 

You’d built a relationship on trust and choice, so you needed to let her figure things out for herself while still making sure she held her head up high.

Now, even Bucky’s muscles tensed every time she brought Leo up. But even he couldn’t bear to tell her the truth he were starting to see:

That sometimes people can love you and still not understand the way you’re built.

That sometimes, someone wonderful just isn’t right.

That he wasn’t bad— but he was small, and she was infinite.

So you just waited and watched.

—

One day, Strange poked his head into the training hall after a novice lesson, looking uncharacteristically unsure of himself, like a man who had been asked to do brain surgery with chopsticks.

“America in Wong’s study,” he said, voice quieter than usual. “She asked for you.”

You raised an eyebrow, lowering your spellcasting hand. “Everything okay?”

“Leo… well...” Strange scratched the back of his neck. “I... tried. I made tea. I offered her a lecture on heartbreak through a metaphysical lens.”

You snorted. “You two tried to girl talk, didn’t you?”

He gave a dramatic sigh. “I thought I was doing well. Wong even mentioned Beyoncé.”

“… dear god.”

“She’s waiting,” he said, already walking away.

—

Wong’s study was unusually quiet when you stepped inside. The Sorcerer Supreme himself was nowhere in sight.

America probably told him to go because he just didn’t have anything worthwhile to say to get over a boy. 

She sat curled up in one of the high-backed chairs by the fire, legs tucked beneath her, oversized robe sleeves hanging past her hands. She stared at the floor.

You didn’t say anything, but you walked in slowly, careful not to startle her, and took the chair opposite her. You waited.

Eventually, her voice came flat, like it had been sanded down. “I told Leo it’s over.”

You nodded once. “Want to tell me what happened?”

She took a deep breath. “He said I’m becoming… too much.”

There it was, the dealbreaker. 

You could almost hear it, the way she'd been turning that phrase over and over in her mind.

“He said he loves how strong I am, but he also said I have too much of a temper. That I make everything a fight. That he doesn't like being around someone who’s always ready to run headfirst into danger.”

You let her keep going.

“He said I never sit still. That I always want more. And I tried, you know? I really tried. I stopped portaling. Skipped training. Just to show him I could be… less.” She swallowed hard. “It didn’t help. He wasn’t happier. I just felt like a stranger to myself.”

“You’re never too much,” You leaned forward slightly, “He was just too little.”

“You knew, didn’t you?” She blinked, tears threatening to spill but not quite falling. “Why didn’t you tell me earlier?” 

“Would you have listened?”

She froze, before giving you a rueful shake of her head.

“I was a teenage girl once, too, y’know.” You smiled gently. “Sometimes you have to feel it for yourself. Sometimes love has to fall apart before you see it was never really whole. But I need you to know— I’m here. No matter what.”

Her fingers trembled, just slightly. “It sucks.”

“It does.”

“He was almost enough,” she whispered. “But I can’t do almost.”

You studied her, eyes red-rimmed and glassy, wide with the kind of grief that makes a person seem older than they are. 

You reached over and took her hand in both of yours, “America, your standards are already higher than most people twice your age. That’s not something to be ashamed of. That’s something to be proud of.”

She gave a choked laugh. “Yeah?”

“Yeah.” You gave her hand a squeeze. “You knew it didn’t feel right, and you walked away. That takes guts.”

She sat quietly for a moment. Then, she hiccuped. “You know… there’s a reason for that.” She looked up at you now. “It’s you. You and Bucky. You’re always together.”

Your breath hitched. She hadn’t said it like a compliment. She said it like it was an undeniable truth. 

“In every version of you I’ve seen,” she continued, “you two are always in love.”

You tilted your head. She had mentioned this before, but never quite expanded on it. “What do you mean?”

America sniffled, shifting slightly in her seat. “There’s a universe where you’re Spider-Woman. Bucky’s this sarcastic, reckless reporter who keeps getting himself kidnapped. You save him from actual robot ninjas and kiss him upside down in an alley.”

You couldn’t help but laugh. “Sounds dramatic.”

“Oh, it was.” She smiled faintly. “There’s another one where you’re a Nova Corps commander and he’s a Ravager. You risk everything to protect him. Your rank, your life. You betrayed your division to be with him.”

You hadn’t asked for these glimpses before—never wanted to pry into how the multiverse folded versions of you into different shapes. But now… now you realise how much more she actually knew you and Bucky. 

“And this one—this medieval one—where you’re a princess, and he’s your knight. He loses an eye protecting you during a siege.” Her voice cracked. “I cried in that one.”

You swallowed hard, the weight of it all settling in your soul.

“In every universe,” she said softly, “you choose each other. No matter how different the world is. Even when it doesn’t make sense. You always find your way back.”

You reached out, brushing your fingers gently along her skin. “That’s… a lot.”

“Well…” She shrugged, cheeks flushed, but didn’t look away. “You’re why I have high standards. Every time I see you, I think—that’s what love is supposed to look like. That’s why I couldn’t take ‘almost.’”

You hadn’t realised she'd been watching. That across every world she slipped through, she’d been collecting pieces of your love story like broken glass, trying to piece together something whole for herself in the process. Perhaps, it explained why she got attached to you both so quickly. 

You tucked a strand of hair behind her ear, your voice soft. “You just haven’t met your Bucky yet.”

“Yeah. Okay.” A tear rolled down her cheek, but she smiled through it. “That makes sense.”

You opened your arms, and she folded into them like she’d been waiting for permission. You held her close, her forehead against your shoulder, breathing finally evening out.

Because maybe that was the secret the multiverse had been trying to whisper to her all along—that some loves echo. That some hearts are meant to find each other, no matter how many versions of the world exist. No matter how far apart they start.

And maybe one day, she would find that kind of love. A love that wasn’t almost. A love that chose her back, again and again, across time and space.

But until then—she had you.

She had Strange.

She had Wong.

She had Bucky.

And for now, that was more than enough.

—

Meanwhile, on Earth 363…

You crept in through the second-story window like you always did, the faintest thwip of your web the only sound betraying your arrival. The apartment was dark, save for the soft glow from the living room

Still in your Spider-Woman suit, you moved stealthily through the hall, peeking around the corner just as Bucky stepped into view, holding a mug in one hand and a half-eaten cookie in the other.

“You’re late,” he said, amused and entirely unsurprised. He was still in his work clothes, the name tag from the Daily Bugle still clipped to his pocket.

You groaned and flopped dramatically over the back of the couch. “How do you know I’m here? I didn’t even make a sound.”

Bucky grinned, setting his mug down as he walked over to you. “You smell like roof tar and adrenaline.”

“…well, shit.”

He leaned down and gently tugged at your mask. “C’mere.”

You let him peel it off, your hair a messy halo from hours of swinging across rooftops. He cupped your face with both hands, thumbs brushing lightly against your cheeks, then kissed you. You felt loved and warm and so very home.

“I missed you,” he murmured against your lips.

“I saw you this morning.”

“Still.”

You grinned and kissed him again, slower this time, one arm snaking around his back, the other cradling the back of his neck. The cookie he had was now abandoned for good.

Eventually, you both sank onto the couch, limbs tangled and a blanket pulled over you. 

“I wonder how America Chavez is doing,” Bucky said suddenly, as if the universe had given him a sudden urge to ask, his voice muffled as he buried it in your shoulder. “Haven’t seen her in a while.”

You blinked, then smiled. “Me neither… wonder where she’s gone off to.”

You stared at the ceiling for a moment, feeling the slight thump of Bucky’s heartbeat against your ribs.

Wherever she was, you hoped she was safe.

You hoped she found good people. 

—

Meanwhile, in Universe-8990…

The engine hum of Bucky’s ravager ship was a familiar purr beneath your boots, the kind of sound that settled in your bones’ memory after enough time spent in deep space. You sat cross-legged on the floor of the weapons bay, your busted blaster disassembled on a crate in front of you, hands smeared with grease and face in frustration.

“I swear,” you muttered, yanking at a stubborn coil, “I could field-strip this thing in my sleep during basic training, and now I can’t even hold it right.”

“You’re probably just mad because it reminds you of the Nova Corps, babe,” Bucky said, waltzing over with a crooked grin and a Nanobot Welder in hand. 

You narrowed your eyes at him, but couldn’t quite stop the smile tugging at your lips. “You’re not wrong.”

“Of course I’m not. I'm devastatingly handsome and occasionally insightful.”

He dropped to his knees beside you, his shoulder bumping yours. Without a word, he took the blaster from your hands, flipped it over, and adjusted the coil with a flick of his wrist. The click of realignment was so smooth, you almost didn’t hear it.

You gasped. “You’re kidding.”

“Ravager skills,” He winked. “We get creative out here without a billion credits in R&D.”

You rolled your eyes. He always looked and sounded so cocky, but underneath was the man who risked a death sentence by harboring a former Nova Commander like you. The man who never once asked if you regretted choosing him over the Corps.

“Thanks,” you said, gentler now.

“For fixing your weapon, or for stealing you away from a galactic space militia?”

You tilted your head. “Both.”

Bucky smiled, then leaned in slowly and kissed you. As always, the kiss was gentle. His fingers brushed under your chin, thumb ghosting over your cheekbones. 

When you pulled back, you let your forehead rest against his. 

“I wonder how America Chavez is doing,” Bucky said suddenly, as if the universe suddenly told him to say it. “Haven’t seen her in a while.”

Your eyes flicked up to his. “Yeah... me neither.”

She had helped you once—ripped open the stars and gave you a door when you thought there wasn’t one. And now, with the Corps calling you a traitor and half the galaxy after your head, you hoped she was somewhere out there, safe and happy. 

–

Meanwhile, on Earth-223…

The castle halls had been quiet for hours, the usual echoing bustle replaced with the rustle of wind through ancient stone and the occasional hoot of an owl beyond the nursery window. You rocked gently in the gilded chair beside the cradle, your newborn swaddled in your arms, his tiny fists curled against your chest as he breathed in adorable hiccupping sighs.

The fire crackled low in the hearth. Everything felt… right.

From across the room, you heard the familiar clink of armour being put down. James stood by the wardrobe, his tunic slung over one shoulder, hair damp from a quick wash. The eyepatch over his left eye caught the firelight like polished obsidian— your knight, and now your husband.

“You’re still awake,” he said as he padded over barefoot.

“He wouldn’t settle,” you whispered, glancing down at the bundle of joy in your arms. “Too curious, I think. Like his father.”

James chuckled softly, lowering himself to one knee beside you. He reached out and ran a calloused finger down the curve of your son’s cheek— the heir to the throne. 

“He’s perfect,” he said.

“You say that every night.”

“And I’ll say it every night after this.” He leaned in and pressed a kiss to the baby’s forehead. “He’s going to be strong, like his mother. Brave, too.”

You looked at James, heart swelling until it threatened to spill over. “You’re not too bad in those departments yourself, my love.”

He could only give you a tired grin. 

You reached out, brushing your fingers through the hair above his ear— careful not to disturb the scar that ran beneath his eyepatch— a souvenir from the siege. The day he nearly gave his life for you. The day he threw himself in front of you, sword drawn, as the enemy breached the gate.

“I still think about that night,” you whispered.

“I don’t,” he replied just as quietly. “I only think about this one.”

You smiled down at your child, who had finally drifted into a peaceful sleep.

James leaned his head against your knee for a moment, before sighing, as if the universe had told him to ask this question. “I wonder how America Chavez is doing,” he said, almost absently. “I haven’t seen her in a while.”

Your smile faltered just slightly, but fondness curled in your chest. “Me neither, my love.”

She had disappeared like a star falling sideways through the sky, always moving, always needed somewhere else. But there had been a time, not so long ago, when she stood at your side—young and fierce and loyal beyond reason. 

Wherever she was, you hoped she found a kingdom to settle in. 

—

Back in Earth-616…

You had just gotten back from Kamar-Taj. 

The buzz of a sling ring portal hummed behind you, your muscles sore from the emotional more than the physical toll. The second you stepped into your home and shut the door behind you, you let out a deep breath.

And there he was, your husband, half-reclined on the couch, sleeves pushed to his elbows, a book resting on his lap. He looked up the second he sensed you, and the lines on his forehead relaxing instantly. 

“Hey,” he said, already setting the book aside as he stood.

You let your bag drop to the floor and walked straight into his arms.

He pulled you in without a word, hugging you, metal hand pressing gently against the small of your back while the human combed into your hair. You melted into his chest, burying your face in the cotton of his Henley.

“The kid okay?” he asked after a moment, “Wong called. Told me everything.”

You pulled back just enough to look at him, and nodded with a sad smile. “She will be.”

He watched you for a second, like he was trying to gauge how okay you were. Then he led you to the couch, letting you curl into his side with your legs thrown over his lap and his arm around your waist. 

“America was the one who broke it off,” you said, head resting against his shoulder.

Bucky’s arms twitched just a little. “Good.”

You blinked, tilting your head up at him. “Good?”

He gave you that wicked smirk—the one that said he was already plotting something. “Where’s this Leo kid live again? Is it the left wing of the eastern temple?”

You groaned. “Bucky—”

“I’m not gonna do anything,” he said, which was exactly what he would say before doing something. “I’m just saying. You care about her. So I care about her. That’s the rule.”

You bit back a smile. “Since when is that the rule?”

“Since I fell in love with you,” he said without missing a beat.

Even after all these years, your heart still did a stupid little backflip.

“Well…” You hesitated, tracing patterns on his vibranium arm with your fingertip. “She said we are the reason she has high standards. She’s seen us together enough times to believe that kind of love is real. That she… wouldn’t settle for anything less.”

Bucky was quiet for a beat, processing that. Then he exhaled, brushing his fingers gently through your hair.

“Huh,” he said, “I’m proud of her.”

You smiled. “Yeah?”

Bucky nodded, “Took me long enough to learn that lesson. She’s ahead of the curve.” He leaned in, his nose brushing yours. 

You kissed him then. Slowly. Sweetly. His hand came up to cradle your cheek, his thumb brushing gently beneath your eye as he pulled you closer, if that was even physically possible.

“Have I mentioned lately,” you whispered, “how much I love you?”

“Not since this morning,” he let out a small laugh, kissing you again and smiling into it. “I was starting to worry.”

You chuckled.

One day, you’d tell him the rest of the conversation. You’d sit him down and let America tell him about all the other versions of the two of you she’d seen—the princess and the knight, the runaway and the Ravager, the dramatic spider-kiss. 

But not tonight.

Tonight belonged to just this version of you and him. The one where his hand fit perfectly in yours, and your hearts beat in sync on a worn down couch that felt like the center of the universe.

And honestly… it kind of was.

-end.

yes it’s 616 for all intents and purposes even though I am well aware it is also the designation for the main comic universe. Edit: a lovely comment pointed out that America is a lesbian and dw, I am aware and I didn’t mean to undermine her sexuality! I should’ve mentioned that I am currently working on a part 2 where America starts questioning her sexuality ft. Bi!reader that centers around setting apart aesthetic attraction vs romantic attraction 🫶

General Bucky taglist:

@hotlinepanda @snflwr-vol6 @ruexj283 @2honeybees @read-just-cant

 @shanksstrawhat @mystictf @globetrotter28 @thebuckybarnesvault@average-vibe

@winchestert101 @mystictf @globetrotter28 @shanksstrawhat @scariusaquarius

@reckless007 @hextech-bros @daydreamgoddess14 @96jnie @pono-pura-vida

@buckyslove1917 @notsostrangerthing @flow33didontsmoke @qvynrand @blackbirdwitch22

@torntaltos @seventeen-x @ren-ni @iilsenewman @slayerofthevampire

@hiphip-horray @jbbucketlist @melotyy @ethereal-witch24 @samfunko

@lilteef @hi172826 @pklol @average-vibe @shanksstrawhat

@shower-me-with-roses @athenabarnes @scarwidow @thriving-n-jiving @dilfsaresohot

@helloxgoodbi @undf-stuff @sapphirebarnes @hzdhrtss @softhornymess

@samfunko @wh1sp @anonymousreader4d7 @mathcat345 @escapefromrealitylol

@imjusthere1161 @sleepysongbirdsings @fuckybarnes @yn-stories-are-my-life

@cjand10 @nerdreader @am-3-thyst

[malum-forev]

Absolutely amazingggg

the faster we're falling

pairing: bucky barnes x reader

summary: bucky is, unfortunately, dragged to a busy club on a saturday night. he hates the loud music and strobe lights and just wants to leave, until you catch his eye. cw: 🔞 - MDNI, suggestive content

word count: 2K

it was joaquin who convinced bucky to go out that night. something about being mentally 100, but physically 30 and needing to meet new people to have fun with … blah blah blah. bucky doesn’t really know since he completely tuned him out and just said yes to shut him up. somehow sam had found a new right hand man who had just the same amount of zest for life as he did, how utterly adorable.

clubs were not his scene, though he had surprisingly been in his own fair share of them from missions that required him to stake out some hit he had who liked the companionship of the cute go-go dancers. it made him itch to think about what kind of sleazebags roamed some of those he had been to - they were mostly full of activities that no one would want to be a part of.

but, of course, the club joaquin wanted to take him and sam to wasn’t like that. no, it was a place where the lights were too bright and colorful, the drinks were a bit sweeter, and the music was too loud. it was a place that, surprisingly, intimidated bucky beyond belief.

he tried really hard to remember what his life was like before the winter soldier, he remembers having fun flirting with anyone he could, because he could. but, it had been years since then and he wasn’t sure he was capable of even doing that anymore.that was his former self, the bucky before the trauma and the bad things - the one that didn’t wake up sweating and panting through another panic attack. 

all of it accumulated into the wallflower he was now, quiet and brooding. dating didn’t come as naturally as it once did, let alone talking to someone who made his heart race, but he tried to convince himself he just needed to clean off the rust and get things moving again. 

the other thing that clubs had that scared the shit out of bucky? dancing. now, don’t get him wrong, back in the day he had his fair share of swing dancing with a beautiful partner on his arm - but the things people were doing in this century? bucky’s sure his body didn’t know how to move like that. 

“don’t be so grumpy,” sam said as three men finally settled on a spot by the bar, his hand clasping bucky’s shoulder. “you need a night out from time to time, man.”

“i do get a night out, most of them don’t require this many sweaty bodies.” bucky calls out over the loud music; a song he definitely did not know. 

“you know that getting your system updated doesn’t count as a night out, right?” sam can’t help but get the jab in. bucky bites down on his cheek as he pushes his friend playfully, tempted to curse him out, but sam’s loud cackle as he regains his balance makes any slight tension melt.

bucky wasn’t kidding though. saying the club was crowded was putting it mildly, it was filled to the brim, and the super soldier stood out like a sore thumb which inherently made his palms sweat.

“here!” joaquin called, handing back two shots and two beers towards bucky and sam before turning back around to pay the bartender.

bucky looked down at the shot glass and frowned, this definitely didn’t look like a normal spirit. despite the darkness in the room, he could still make out the light yellow color of the liquid.

“what is it?” he asks, brows furrowing as he tries to wrack his brain for anything that looks this color.

“green tea shot!” joaquin smirks as he grabs his own glass after shoving his wallet back into his pants pocket. “drink up!”

“great…” bucky mumbles as he shakes his head before downing the shot. weak. and since bucky couldn’t get drunk … tastes like shit. 

he can’t help but let out a sigh as he turns to face the crowd, the beer clutched tightly in his hands as he brings it to his lips, his eyes passing over the room. he had already taken the time when he walked in to make sure he knew where every point of entry was in case of emergency, which was good because the second his eyes land on you he’s sure he would have forgotten to check.

there you were, in the middle of the dance floor, a wide smile on your face as you swayed to the music. time felt like it had slowed as bucky zeroes his gaze in on you. it felt like a moment right out of a movie scene, your hands moving up and down your body and into your hair, the sweat on your collarbone glistening in the blu-ish purple strobe lights that line the dance floor. you looked so carefree and happy, it was breathtaking. the hairs on his arm raise, feeling the goosebumps run straight through him. 

bucky doesn’t register for a moment that his beer has completely missed his mouth, dribbling down the front of his shirt until joaquin grabs his arm.

“ah, shit.” bucky mumbles to himself, turning back around to the bar to wipe himself off. through all of it, his mind keeps replaying the moment he saw you, his body was moving on auto pilot. 

when he turns back around, you’re gone, as if you were just a ghost there to taunt him for a split second. how was that possible? how did he manage to witness the most invigorating moment of his life and then it was gone in a flash? blue eyes frantically search the rest of the bar until he spots you again, you were grabbing your friend at the corner of the bar, wanting them to come with you to dance. 

“uh oh,” bucky heard joaquin say next to him. “looks like buckster over here has his eyes caught on someone.”

“don’t call me that ever again.” bucky says, his eyes stay trained ahead of him, fixated on you. he feels joaquin hand him another shot glass, but he doesn’t bother taking a look at it this time as he downs it, the burning in the back of his throat telling him it was something a little stronger this time.

it for sure wasn’t liquid luck, maybe his brain short circuited, because soon he was pushing his away through the crowd towards you. what the hell is wrong with me? his brain was screaming at him to stop, the thoughts were loud and he felt like he’s about three seconds from a panic attack. what the fuck? what the hell am i doing? i can’t just  -

“hey.” bucky calls out to you over the music, a different song that sounds vaguely familiar but he wouldn’t be able to name. 

you’re startled slightly by the voice behind you, but by the look on your friends face whoever it is would definitely be worth your time. slowly, you turn back, greeted immediately with the chest of a man who could be a god if you didn’t know any better. your eyes painstakingly take their time to finally meet his gaze, this handsome stranger looks back at you with the sweetest look you’ve ever seen.

“hey.” you call back. “do we know each other?”

“no,” bucky says, a flicker of a smirk adorning his features. “but i’m hoping we can get the chance to.” there it was, the cog in the machine was spinning once again.

you can’t help the flip your stomach does as he speaks, the line was simple, but effective. it’s not that you hadn’t been flirted with at a club, usually it was unwanted attention. but this? this was fully welcomed. 

you give a look back at your friends for a moment, your eyes widening as your features say well damn. handing one of them your drink, you spin back around towards bucky and grab his metal hand, leading him back out towards the dancefloor you once occupied.

it takes him by surprise, he doesn’t let people touch his metal hand often nor do people seem to gravitate towards it as their initial reaction. the warmth in his body spreads at how soft your hand feels in his, like the two of you were made for this moment.

regret isn’t the right word to describe what bucky was feeling, because he didn’t regret walking up to you (even if he could see sam and joaquin pointing and talking about him from the corner of his eyes). it was more of an alarm going off in his brain that he would now have to try and dance with you, years of being an assassin definitely gave him stiff hips. 

you’re not one to judge though, instead opting to enjoy the moment as you stand chest to chest, your hands gripping his biceps as you start to sway your hips softly with the music. he looks taken aback by the forwardness of it all, the slight awkward undertones of his personality dying to get out. 

“relax! we’re just dancing” you yell over the music, your hands sliding down to grab his wrists, moving his hands to your hips, hoping it would encourage him to release a bit of this pent up anxious energy he had. 

bucky finds himself trying to move with you though it’s off beat for a moment, until a song he actually knows comes on. it has a loud bass but a slower tempo and all of a sudden the world shuts down. his eyes close as he lets the beat move through his body, his hands on your hips pulling you in closer towards him.

you can’t help it and decide to turn in his arms as he pulls you in close, so now your back is pressed against his chest. the change in song turns the fun club atmosphere into an intimate setting almost immediately. 

it’s almost as if the club is on mute, as if something shifted and time was moving so carefully that all either of you could focus on were the ways you moved together. bucky’s hands gripped your waist tightly, his flesh hand splayed across your stomach, the heat from his touch would have left burns if they could. 

your breath hitches in your throat when you feel how strong he is, the way he has the lightest touch on you but it feels like he’s enveloping your body slowly. bucky’s head bows down so his lips are level with your ear, you can hear the way his breathing hikes as you grind down on that one spot each time. 

it makes bucky’s knees want to buckle each time. he can’t remember the last time he was pressed so closely to someone like this, let alone to make his body respond. the arousal spread through his body, forcing him to remember what it was like to feel so alive again. it was electrifying.

you and bucky are hypnotized in the moment, your hand snaking behind you to rest on the back of his neck while the other rests on the metal arm he has on your waist. and despite the crowd of bodies around you, the smell of his cologne floods your senses, you were sure if you ever smelled it again he would be all you thought of.

neither of you are drunk, but both of you are completely intoxicated.

the excitement seems to run through each of you, you can feel the way he pulls you closer to him, the way your head leans back onto his shoulder. it’s all natural, happening without pressure or outside forces.

bucky’s lips ghost over your neck catching the way your pulse increases as he does so. all you can think about is ripping his clothes off, all bucky can think about is how inappropriate it would be to take you in front of all these people.

“i’m bucky.” he whispers in your ear, his nose nudging against your skin. 

fuck, he wanted you.

he listened to you breathe out your name.

scratch that - now he needed you.

[malum-forev]

Thank you so so much for including my work!! Brb reading all of these amazing works!!

Masterlist of fics I’ve read for the March Fic Maddness Event hosted by @the-blind-assassin-12. I didn’t get to read as much as I wanted this month as I have been travelling a lot for work, but these are all wonderful fics I would highly recommend 💚

💚 Bucky Barnes 💚

Plus One Problems Series by @mrsbuckybarnes1917

Rescue Series by @mindingmyownbusiness

Barnsey x Clover of the Lucky Charms AU by @yenzys-lucky-charm

Jealous Bucky by @graysonfics

A Soul With No King by @thereoncewasagirlnamedjane

Requiem by @/thereoncewasagirlnamedjane

Humiliation by @marvelstoriesepic

Soft Spot by @/marvelstoriesepic

This is Love by @jobean12-blog

Cookie Crumbles by @/jobean12-blog

Love Bug by @/jobean12-blog

I’ll Be Okay by @navybrat817

Shared Desk Part Two by @bjwmastermind-writes

Never Casual by @malum-forev

Forbidden Love by @saiyanprincessswanie

Birthday Boy by @buck-star

Overwhelmed by @just-dreaming-marvel

💚 Steve Rogers 💚

Take the Ache Series by @anika-ann

Artist!Steve by @treatbuckywkisses

Cryptology by @darsynia

Mistaken Soulmates by @nekoannie-chan

Sick Of It by @bigtreefest

Mischievous Monday Thought by @mercurial-chuckles

Stronger Together by @eulalielatibule

💚 Stucky 💚

To Be Alright by @/thereoncewasagirlnamedjane

💚 Joaquin Torres 💚

Nightmares by @fireinmoonshot

First Impressions by @/fireinmoonshot

In His Hands by @nathanbatemanfucker

💚 Joel Miller 💚

Work It Out by @/jobean12-blog

Late? by @holacia3

💚 Johnny Storm 💚

Sweet Talk by @witchywithwhiskey

Gifted by @intrepidacious

💚 James Norrington 💚

Make Up For Lost Time by @/intrepidacious

[malum-forev]

Once more for those in the back.

[malum-forev]

THIS IS ABSOLUTELY AMAZING OMGGGGG

his girls [one-shot]

marvel au bucky x reader alpine barely tolerates anyone but bucky, so when she curls up in your lap without a second thought, the team is left reeling—especially when it leads to the not-so-subtle revelation that you and bucky have been sneaking around for months.

Warnings: fluff, so much fluff, alpine is a troublemaker, secret dating, swearing, kissing, alcohol, tony knows all, natasha too, no use of y/n, lmk if i've missed anything

Word Count: 2.2k

A/N: hello! once again a fic no one asked for lol. i'm supposed to be on hiatus buuut i took some time this afternoon to write this because i'm procrastinating a uni assignment. i'm sure this concept has been done before, but i was thinking about that scene in rivals with the dog (iykyk) and yeah! step away from the usual angst and heartbreak i normally provide you all with. sorry for any typos - not proof read.

main masterlist

You were careful.

Or at least, you thought you were careful.

For months, you and Bucky had kept your relationship under wraps. It wasn’t that you wanted to keep secrets from the team, but there was something thrilling about stolen moments and hushed conversations. About Bucky’s hand on the small of your back as he guided you through a crowded room, or the way he’d brush a kiss against your temple before disappearing down the hall.

You figured no one had noticed.

Until today.

It all started with one of many white hairs stuck to your t-shirt.

Natasha plucked it off you mid-conversation one morning in the kitchen while you were praying—desperately—to whatever all-seeing god might finally make the coffee machine work faster. Between the groaning, spluttering sounds and the blinking lights, it felt like the damn thing was possessed. With flawlessly manicured nails, Natasha held the hair up to the morning light filtering through the floor-to-ceiling windows of the compound.

“Is this Alpine’s fur?” she mused aloud, twirling the long, pale strand between her fingers.

“Probably.” you replied absently, more concerned with the coffee machine’s latest refusal to cooperate. You jabbed the buttons harder, ignoring the way Natasha’s eyes flickered with something dangerously close to amusement. 

“For all of Tony’s money, you’d think we’d have a coffee machine that actually works,” you grumbled.

“Turn around?” Natasha asked. There was a particular lilt to her voice, that barely concealed intrigue she tried—and failed—to mask whenever she was onto something. It set you on edge instantly, the tone that meant she was clicking a mystery into place, giddy with excitement beneath a thin veil of indifference. You didn’t trust it for a second.

“No, just—” You smacked the machine in frustration. It whined pathetically before the lights blinked off entirely. You let out a long, exasperated groan. “Why won’t this stupid fucking thing ever work—”

“Jesus, you’re covered in it—”

You froze mid-motion as Natasha yanked at your shirt, effectively grooming you like a monkey. Her sharp lips had turned up into a wicked smirk, the type of smirk that made dread pool in your gut. 

“Everything is covered in her fur,” you said quickly, still trying for casual. You reached for the plug, praying Natasha would drop it. “She sheds everywhere, especially on the couch.”

“Mm.” Natasha tilted her head, her smirk deepening. “And yet, I thought Tony hired cleaners for that? Especially with Kate always bringing Lucky around?”

You yanked the plug from the socket a little too forcefully. “Honestly, Nat, I don’t know. I just want this damn machine to work.”

Right on cue, a familiar voice rumbled behind you.

“Machine giving you trouble again?”

Your heart stuttered in your chest before resuming its normal rhythm—though maybe a little faster. You turned just as Bucky strolled in, looking frustratingly good despite the early hour. His hair was a little dishevelled, sleep still clinging to him in a way that made him look too soft for someone who could snap a man’s spine in half.

“There’s a trick to it, remember?” He stepped in close beside you, skin brushing yours as he reached for the machine. The scent of his aftershave lingered, warm and familiar. You tried—and failed—not to watch the way the muscles in his forearm tensed, veins shifting beneath his skin as he pressed a series of buttons.

“Barnes, you’ve got cat hair all over you,” Natasha noted, not even bothering to be subtle. You didn’t dare look at her. Instead, you busied yourself wringing your hands, pretending you weren’t hyper-aware of Bucky standing so damn close.

“Huh?” Bucky barely spared a glance at his shirt, where Alpine’s fur was unmistakably clinging to the fabric. “Oh. Yeah, guess I do. She always wants attention in the morning.”

Then, with one final smack, the machine roared to life. The rich aroma of coffee filled the air as liquid finally poured into your mug. You sighed in sheer relief.

“There you go,” Bucky said, looking down at you with a small smile, a few strands of dark hair falling across his forehead.

Your stomach did a stupid little flip. You smiled back, warmth creeping into your face. “Thanks.”

The machine beeped again, snapping you back to reality. You quickly grabbed the mug with both hands, muttered another thanks, and let Natasha tug you away.

“What was that?” She hissed, voice low as she turned to you with narrowed eyes.

“Huh?” You weren’t entirely listening to her words. You found yourself glancing over your shoulder, a ghost of a smile tugging at your lips. You could still see Bucky standing in the kitchen, both hands braced on the counter as he waited for his own coffee. His back was turned, but even through the thin material of his fur-covered t-shirt, you could see the way his muscles shifted beneath it—

Natasha didn’t even humour your innocence. She crossed her arms. “You and Barnes?” 

“What about him?” You mumbled, pulling your gaze away as the elevator dinged, doors sliding open.

Her lips twitched, amusement clear. “Are you two—?”

You made a face at her. “What are you on about?” 

Natasha didn’t look convinced, but she let it go.

For now.

As the elevator hummed and Bucky was cut from your view as the doors shut, you took a sip of coffee, the liquid a few degrees between too hot and burning. It scalded your tongue, and with the phantom smell of Bucky’s aftershave no longer haunting you, you felt your mind snap back into action.

Right. Focus.

“We’re going to be late for the meeting,” you declared, shaking your head. “And that damn machine is the reason. You know what? Let’s take a detour to Stark’s lab and demand a better one.”

Natasha chuckled, pressing the button for a different floor.

“I like the way you think.”

—

You knew Alpine would be your downfall.

The little white menace was notoriously selective. If you weren’t Bucky, she wanted nothing to do with you. Everyone at the compound had suffered her wrath at least once—Sam even had the scars to prove it. Alpine liked to play dangerous games that usually ended in blood or a yowl of pain. You swore the Avengers bled more dealing with the feline than fighting aliens, wizards, or whatever else tried to obliterate Earth every other week. She was a cunning little creature, lurking around corners, hiding under tables, prowling along bookshelves. And just when you least expected it—bam. Teeth and claws bared, she would pounce, latching on like a tiny, vengeful spectre. This was her idea of fun. The Avengers had learned to tread carefully, tip-toeing around the compound whenever they knew she wasn’t safely curled up in Bucky’s room, where she ruled with an iron paw.

So, when you sat down on the couch one evening, and Alpine immediately hopped onto your lap, you knew you were fucked.

She didn’t hesitate, didn’t so much as sniff at you in consideration before curling right up, purring loud enough to be heard over the football game droning on in the background—which you were only half paying attention to. 

You stiffened, caught between awe at the rare privilege and sheer dread at the witnesses currently gaping at you.

Bucky, for his part, had been sitting at the other end of the couch, flirting with danger in his usual way—stolen glances, conveniently placed touches as he shifted in place. Alpine, just as obsessed with him as you were (Bucky had taken to calling you both ‘his girls’ in private, which always managed to make you swoon.), had immediately perched in his lap when he sat down. Only when he carefully pried her off to grab another round of beers did the little white she-beast decide you were a worthy substitute, strutting over with lazy, languid confidence before settling down, blissfully unaware of what she had just unleashed.

The room fell into stunned silence. Several pairs of eyes locked onto you, breath collectively held. They were waiting for the yowl, for the inevitable attack, for you to tense up and leap to your feet in pain. But to your horror, the little sadist simply settled in. Cosy, unbothered, as if this had been the plan all along.

“Okay, what the hell is this?” Sam finally demanded, pointing an accusing finger.

You blinked down at Alpine, then up at Sam, stroking the soft fur like nothing was amiss. “Uh… a cat?” 

You were foolish and desperate enough to pretend this was completely normal, to gaslight the others into believing Alpine was a perfectly gentle and affectionate cat. A sweet, loving companion. Not a tiny, vengeful menace who had terrorised them all—and definitely not a creature who had only warmed up to you in recent months because you spent more time in Bucky’s bed than your own.

“The same cat that tried to claw out my eyeball for getting too close? And now she’s just—” He gestured wildly at Alpine, who flicked her tail with the smugness of a queen on her throne. “—cuddling with you like you’re her best buddy?”

“She likes me, I guess.” You blinked innocently, turning back to the TV, hoping he would drop it, but Sam, ever the dramatic, was not satisfied.

“Are you kidding me? That cat has tried to kill me.”

Natasha snorted into her drink. 

Alpine smugly licked her paw before resting her head upon your thigh and blinking her wide blue eyes at Sam, who shook his head with an exaggerated shudder.  “This is bullshit, and you know it—”

“Maybe she just doesn’t like you, Sam.” You huffed, scratching Alpine behind her ears. “She’s always been fine with me.”

“That is not true!” 

“She took a chunk out of my arm once,” Natasha added, ever the instigator.

“Remember when I gave her a treat and she bit me?” Steve piped up.

Bucky returned at that moment, frowning as he saw the conversation unfolding before him. You turned to him with wide, desperate eyes, silently pleading for help. Alpine, the little traitor, merely pressed her pink nose to your hand, rubbing her face against you with a contented sigh.

“She only likes people she’s comfortable with,” Bucky offered, setting the beers down with a clink, but his pitiful attempt to be helpful only added fuel to the fire.

The room exploded into a series of overlapping voices.

“I didn’t realise you spent so much time with Alpine?” Natasha’s sharp gaze flicked between you and Bucky, her smirk primed to taunt you both. 

“Buck, doesn’t she spend all her time in your room—?” Steve leaned forward, forearms braced against his thighs, invested now.

Sam jolted upright like he’d just solved a murder case. “Now, hold on a second—”

“You have been covered in cat fur a lot lately,” Natasha mused. “And you two have been suspiciously close—”

As you glanced over at Bucky, you couldn’t tell if his repeated blunders were intentional or borne out of genuine panic. He cleared his throat, his brows raising as he casually popped off the cap of one of the beers with his vibranium thumb in faux nonchalance.

“Coincidence.” He muttered with a shrug, tipping back a mouthful of the brew. 

Alpine, completely oblivious (or entirely aware of the chaos she’d caused), didn’t budge as Bucky sat back down beside you, levelling you with a look that screamed we are so screwed.

“You two aren’t even going to try to lie?” Natasha pressed.

“Lie about what?” You feigned innocence, but the act was flimsy at best. The jig was well and truly up.

Bucky, clearly done with this little charade, let out a long-suffering sigh that might’ve sounded exasperated if not for the telltale smirk tugging at his lips. Without another word, he slung an arm around your shoulders, pulling you effortlessly against his chest, Alpine still coiled contentedly in your lap. The smug little she-beast didn’t even stir. She just purred loudly—too loudly, like she was taking credit for the entire thing.

“Wait a second!” Sam pointed a dramatic finger between the two of you. “How long has this been happening?”

“How long has what been happening?” Tony strolled into the room, a glass of amber liquid that looked suspiciously like whiskey in hand.

“Her,” Steve announced, gesturing between the both of you. “And Barnes.”

Tony didn’t even blink. “Oh, I already knew that. You didn’t know that?”

Bucky turned so fast you were surprised he didn’t give himself whiplash.  “You what?”

“Oh, come on,” Tony drawled, making himself comfortable on the armrest of the couch like this was all just another day at the office. “You really thought I wouldn’t notice her sneaking out of your room at ungodly hours for the past six months? F.R.I.D.A.Y. kept flagging intruders, and, shocker—it was just you two, utterly failing at stealth.”

Sam threw up his hands. “Did you say six months?!”

Bucky rolled his eyes, but instead of answering, he just turned to you and, without hesitation, kissed you.

It was sudden but warm, his lips soft against yours like he’d been waiting for an excuse. The room erupted into even more noise, Sam shouting something unintelligible, Natasha making a sound of smug satisfaction, and Steve groaning like he should’ve known, but it all faded into the background.

You laughed against Bucky’s lips, breathless but entirely unbothered. “This is definitely her fault.”

Alpine, still purring in your lap like the devious little mastermind she was, flicked her tail.

Bucky just hummed, brushing his nose against yours. “Yeah,” he muttered. “Not complaining, though.”

And, truthfully, neither were you.

[malum-forev]

Eyes, They Never Lie

Summary: Sam and Bucky try to recruit (Y/N), Bucky's ex and a former Avenger who has left that life behind. But they realize her life has changed completely once they meet a her daughter with striking blue eyes.

Pairings: Bucky x Former!Avenger!Reader

“They want me to assemble a group,” Sam takes a long sip of his beer, thinking that it’ll do something to ease his mind. “The New Avengers.”

Bucky lets out a low whistle.

“I know.” Sam mutters. So far, it’s Captain America and the Falcon, but other than that, he’s completely lost. “Back when Steve was here, there was a place for us to go. We could aspire to one day go into the compound and train, but now, anyone who is willing to be part of the team is scattered all around the world.”

Bucky hasn’t said anything, not because he doesn’t know how to help his friend but because he’s so lost in his own journey. Running for congress sounded like a good idea, until he started dealing with the political world. So much bureaucracy, so many people wanting to fatten their wallets. And not enough actual helping.

“You got any ideas?” Sam asks, bringing him out of his mind.

But Bucky just hums, because the idea he does have is crazy.

“C’mon I know that being a silent watcher is your whole deal but I need some help over here. How the hell am I going to build a team from zero?”

Bucky finishes his drink, as if that’s going to help jumpstart his confidence. “Are you looking for fresh meat? Or do you got space for an old timer?”

Sam’s eyes widen. “I thought all your fighting days were behind you.”

“I want out,” Bucky loosens the tie on his neck. “I want to go out on the field again. Really help.”

Sam runs a hand down his face, there’s hesitation in the way he looks at Bucky. 

“Unless…” Bucky gulps. “Unless I’m not what you’re looking for.”

“No, no.” Sam places a hand on his shoulder. “I just need to tell you something before you say yes to this-“

“What is it?”

“I was-uh-“ Sam looks up at the screen above them, not wanting to look at his friend in the eye when he says it. “I was gonna ask her to join, too.”

“Oh,” Bucky can’t help but think back to when you were his, at least for a moment. Every time he thinks about being happy, you’re right there next to him. 

You were the first woman he was actually interested in. He spent years wasting time with thousands of women, letting them in his apartment but never into his heart. But your eyes reeled him in from the moment you started as an agent. Steve would always tease Bucky, saying he’d have to see you fall in love with someone else if he didn’t ask you out. 

Those were the best years of his life. No doubt.

Until you left. You retired, and wanted nothing to do with him. And all the love you had seemed to evaporate from one day to the next.

But Bucky? He was still waiting for you to come back. 

“I-I thought she disappeared, retired.” Bucky stutters at your memory. 

“I found out where she lives now. And I planned on talking her into the group.” Sam looks down at the beer in his hand.

“I’m in.” Bucky says, but he’ll never be sure if he accepted because he wanted out of the political world or if he wanted another glimpse of you. 

-------

“The house is supposed to be up the road.” Sam mutters, trying to find cel reception. But the two of them were so deep into the woods, it was almost impossible. 

Bucky had always imagined you’d end up like this. Off the grid, living off your land. But in the dream, the two of you would be together. He’d spend the day cutting wood and harvesting whatever you’d grown, and you’d be deep into a hobby, spending your nights recounting your wild life. 

They see an opening up the road, but as they come closer, their eyebrows knit together.

“This can’t be it.” Sam says under his breath.

A huge cabin, surrounded by pine trees, is the only thing around. There’s a big tree at the front of the cabin, with a tree house on one of its branches. A glittery pink bike on the lawn along with a replica of Mjolnir next to it.

Sam parks his truck and they both step out cautiously. Bucky looks around, wondering how the woman who used to scream at the sight of a spider could live here, all alone.

As they come closer to the front door, they hear rustling from the tree house.

Bucky nudges his friend’s shoulder. “There’s someone over here.” 

Sam’s head whips just enough to see a pair of binoculars looking at them from the wooden window. 

“Hello?” He calls out but there’s no answer.

“Do you live here?” Bucky asks, only to be slapped on the chest by his friend.

“You can’t ask that! It’s creepy!”

Bucky rolls his eyes. “How else am I supposed to get an answer if I don’t ask a question?” 

But there's no response from the person inside the tree house. Instead, there's clanking and banging and before they even realize it, there's a little girl pointing a bow and arrow directly at them.

"State your name! Now!" She tries to look menacing but her outfit is too much for the two men to handle. Sky blue rain boots with a purple tutu, a Def Leppard t-shirt and heart shaped sunglasses.

"Oh my god." Sam immediately melts. "Aren't you the cutest little thing I've ever seen."

But the little girl doesn't fall for the Captain's words, she points the arrow directly at Sam. "Don't make me repeat my question, I know how to use this."

"Do you live with an adult? Your aunt, maybe?" Bucky's throat dries up as he asks the question. He knew you had siblings before you went into the crazy line of work that were the Avengers, and he begged that the little girl before him was theirs.

Bucky spent hours thinking about you on the way here. He'd been dreaming of seeing you again, thinking of what must have changed and what stayed the same. But he never thought there was a possibility you had moved on.

"Is your-" Bucky clears his throat. "Is your dad home?"

Sam eyes his partner. "Smooth."

The little girl walks backwards until her back bumps into the cabin's front door. "I'll call my daddy."

Bucky's heart stops. After years, he was still thinking of you whenever his eyes closed, and you, you were completely over him. Started a family with someone else.

"I'm sorry, Buck." Sam pats his back, immediately noticing the shift in his friend's eyes.

"S'okay." Bucky mutters, grinding his combat boot into the ground. "I'm not here for her, I'm here to assemble the team."

"I know, but-"

"I said I'm fine." Bucky snaps, running a hand through his shorter hair.

You'd begged him, for years, to cut his hair.

"I love your long hair," you'd once murmured against his lips. "But I also love how you looked during the Howling Commandos era."

"Era? You're making me sound more old than I am." Bucky smiled against your lips.

"I'm just saying, you could shorten it." Whenever you looked into his eyes, it made him feel like he was the only thing in the world.

"I thought you liked pulling my hair." Bucky flipped you on the bed, taking in your bubbling laughter.

The creaking sound of the cabin door brought him back to now. Bucky sucks in air, preparing to meet the man who is apparently so incredible that you decided to drop everything to be with him.

He has to be at last six feet. Well I'm 6 foot 1, on a good day. Bucky responds to his own thoughts. And he must be jacked. Not as jacked as me, I'm the fucking Winter Soldier for fucks sake! He must love her. Well I, I've loved her every day since I met her.

It feels like it takes hours for this mystery man to come out. The door opens slowly, only to reveal... You.

Bucky's knees buckle as your eyes meet his. You hadn't changed a lick, and if he didn't know better, he'd think that you were still his. Bucky's hands ball into fists at his side, needing a physical reminder to not reach out and hold you. Beg for your kisses. Tell you he doesn't care that you left, just as long as you take him back.

"Sam? Bucky?" Your voice trembles. "What are you doing here? How did you find me?"

The little girl pokes her head from behind your legs. "Mommy!"

"Mommy?" Sam and Bucky shriek at the same time.

"Attack them! Take them down!" Your daughter laughs.

"Young lady!" You scold.

But the little girl interrupts you, raising a chubby hand to stop your words. "I've already told you my name is Tashi Romanoff."

"Tashi, please, go upstairs and play. I need to talk to them for a moment. In private." You enunciate your last two words, knowing they were her least favorite words in the world.

"Fine," she huffs, turning on her heels. But not before taking off her rain boots and heart shaped sunglasses to reveal a pair of striking eyes. Clear blue with a steel ring surrounding her iris. Bucky's brows furrow as he catches a glimpse of Tashi's eyes, almost the same exact shade as the one he sports.

"W-wai-She's-" Bucky stutters out, not being able to comprehend what just happened.

"Tashi, huh?" Sam raises his eyebrows.

"Yeah, she’s going through a phase where she refuses to be called by her name," you close the door behind you. "Auntie Nat came to visit us during the blip and she just latched on to her."

"W-was her dad blipped?" Bucky tries to act normal but his heart is beating out of his chest.

"Her dad isn't in the picture." You cross your arms. "She was a surprise."

"So-uh-so that means." Bucky points between him and the house. Not being able to get the words out. "There's no way that."

"She's not yours, Barnes." You roll your eyes at your ex boyfriend.

"But she-her eyes." He blinks.

"There are a lot of guys with blue eyes out there." You let out a light laugh. It was strangely easy for you to slip into how things were, teasing and sharing laughs was the base of your relationship with Bucky. But now, so much time has passed, and you're definitely not the same person you were back then.

"What are you guys doing here?" You look down at the floor as you ask the question.

"Someone out there has created a mind controlling substance that puts everyone in danger. And we need to stop him. We found his lab and we got some of the vials but we need your help taking him down." Sam says but you're shaking your head before he even has time to finish. "I want to form a group. The world needs us again."

"Look, Sam, I appreciate you going through all the trouble to find me but, as you can see, I have other priorities now." You look back into the house through the window to find your daughter peeking through the window.

"But-" Bucky speaks up but you stop him.

"You guys can stay the night if you'd like," you say, looking at the darkening sky. "But I'm not going back. There's a reason I left that life."

Bucky bites his tongue to stop himself from asking you what that reason was.

"Thanks for letting us stay." Sam smiles as he passes the threshold of your home.

You never thought this day would come. Seeing your daughter run around your back yard with one of your best friends.

“She’s beautiful.” Bucky comes to stand next to you, but you only hum in agreement. Words seemingly disappeared from your mind the second his scent wafted closer to you. Sandalwood and fire, clean linens with a dash of something else. So masculine, so protective. So incredibly, Bucky. 

“How old is she?” He asks.

“Don’t do this to yourself.” You take a deep breath in, letting him coat your lungs. 

“I just want to know.” Bucky tries to act innocently. He dissects every trait he can tell comes from you, but the rest, they look awfully similar to him. Tashi’s nose has the same bump as his and her eyes crinkle just like Bucky’s when she smiles. 

“Faking was never your forte.” You smile. “She’s not your daughter Bucky.”

“Bucky.” He repeats his name like it hurts him to say. “You never used to call me that.” 

“Well, I used to call you baby but I wouldn’t want Tashi to start asking questions about who my other baby is.” 

Bucky lets out a laugh, it’s a low grumble that shakes his ribs. It’s been so long since he felt this peace. “I missed this,” he lets the words slip out.

“I missed this too.” You say, barely above a whisper, stopping yourself before you say that you missed him. But you did.

Every day since you left, you thought of Bucky. Of the way he used to hold you so tenderly and the kisses he gave you at night. Of how he said I love you and made it sound like the only words that existed.

But all those memories were of the past, your life before Tashi came in. And you should keep them like that.

-----

The moonlight is the only thing that illuminates Bucky as he wanders around the cabin. He didn't mean to lurk but he'd woken up from a nightmare.

Your home was different than he imagined. A lot more stuffed animals and toys and less trinkets from your past life. There were a couple of pictures here and there but they were mostly of Tashi and you.

"What are you doing up?" Bucky jumps up at the sound of her squeaky voice.

Tashi looks up at him with those goddamned eyes. They looked so much like his, it was concerning.

"I-I couldn't sleep." Bucky rubs the back of his neck.

"Do you have nightmares?" She asks so innocently. If only she knew the things he dreamed of. "I have them too."

"You do?" Bucky whispers, making her nod her little head.

"Mommy usually helps be back to sleep but I don't want to wake her up." Tashi brings a finger to her mouth, motioning for the Sergeant to keep quiet. "Don't tell her I woke up, promise?"

"Promise." Bucky brings out his pinky, wrapping it around her little finger. "I'll let you in on a little secret of mine."

Tashi's blue eyes widen, urging him to go on.

"You may not know about me but, there was a time your Mommy helped me with my nightmares." Bucky smiles at the memory.

"I know about you, silly goose." Tashi covers her giggles with her hand.

"You do?"

She nods, holding her hand out and taking him to her playroom. Sitting Bucky in an incredibly small chair. "You're the boy from my book!"

Tashi places in his hands a hand sewn felt book. The characters were a bit wonky but Bucky could immediately spot himself in the fabric.

"You're the boy with the heart of gold and the arm of steel." She says, proudly pointing to the book.

"The boy with the heart of gold and the arm of steel would save anyone, especially the people he loved," Bucky read his description on the book. "People around the world misjudged him, but that didn't stop him from being good. He proved them all wrong."

"You're my favorite character," Tashi smiles wide. "Don't tell Uncle Sam."

"Your secret is safe with me." Bucky lets out a watery smile, setting the book down on the floor. "How about you go up to your room and I can tell you a story about your mom."

"Really?" Tashi jumps up.

"Only if you promise to try and go to sleep again." Bucky raises his eyebrow, trying to appear strong but the little girl already had him wrapped around her finger.

"Under one condition," Tashi crosses her arms. "I can go outside and get my Natasha figurine."

Bucky bites down on his lip. "It's quite late to go outside."

"Please?" She pouts. "It'll only take a second."

God she looks so much like you.

"Fine." Bucky gives in. "But I'll be watching by the door, can't let you go outside all alone."

The super soldier walks behind the little girl, watching as she runs outside and sifts through the grass.

Bucky should have known something was wrong, he should have heard them lurking in the bushes. But he was too distracted by her, too distracted by the idea that this could have been his life. That in some multiverse, Tashi was his daughter and he could've retired next to the love of his life.

But he didn't. And it was too late once he realized what was happening.

Tens of agents dressed in black closed in on the cabin, running onto the property. Tashi was the first thing they grabbed.

He heard her yell out his name, but it happened in slow motion.

"No!" Bucky screamed, running towards the man who kidnapped her. "Let her go!"

Tashi's red splotched eyes was the last thing Bucky saw before they crammed her into a black van and left down the only road. His feet burned as he ran behind them, but not even Bucky was able to catch up to them.

Once he came back to the cabin, Sam and you were running around trying to understand what happened.

"I'm sorry." Bucky lets the tears run down his face. "I couldn't stop them."

You dropped to the floor with a sob.

Bucky's knees finally gave out. "I'm so sorry, I'm so sorry- We're going to get her back, I promise that I'll get her back."

Authors note: hi hiiii omg I went a little bit overboard with this one. It's been a looooong time since I wrote something this long. I hope y'all like it! Xx

Taglist: @aoi-targaryen @whoreforbarnes @ironwinnerwonderland @oikarma @ellabellabunny123

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hihihi! i just finished reading casual pt2 and it’s so so so amazingly written :)

i can’t wait for a part 3! will it be out anytime soon (take ur time of course, i’m just curious!

Omgggg lovelyyy thank you so much for your ask!! It took me a while to upload it but it’s finally up! I hope you like it! Xx

[malum-forev]

Taste

FratBoy!Bucky x Ex-Girlfriend!Reader

Summary: Chaos ensues as Bucky brings over his new girlfriend, the one who can’t seem to forget you and Bucky were together. Inspired by Taste by Sabrina Carpenter.

You couldn’t help it. Ever since you were younger, you left quite an impression on everybody you’d meet.

Bubbly, charming, beautiful, captivating, were always synonymous with you.

It’s not like you wanted it to be that way, but things always seemed to end up like that.

Boys wanted to be with you, and girls wanted to be you. And in this case, Bucky’s new girlfriend wanted to kill you.

“You’ve got to be kidding me.” You mutter to Natasha and Wanda as Bucky walks into the bar with his new girlfriend on his arm.

The two of you had a very amicable break up, you wanted to focus on your studies and Bucky wanted to focus on fucking everything with a pulse. But you didn’t expect anything less from him, he was a fuck boy frat boy when you met him and he hadn’t changed when you broke up with him.

Nevertheless, the two of you were actually friends now. Once or twice you’d even joked that maybe you only wanted to break the ice with sex, not have a relationship.

But his new girlfriend doesn’t seem to understand that.

Everything you did, she despised. And everything you didn’t do, was somehow worse! She hated the mere idea of you being Bucky’s girlfriend at one point. So, you decided to lay low, only going out when you knew Bucky wasn’t bringing her over, and him only inviting her when he knew you wouldn’t be in the picture.

“He promised she wasn’t coming.” Wanda rubs her temples.

“Act like we’re cool with it.” Steve coughs into his fist, plastering on a smile as his best friend comes closer.

“Hey everyone!” Bucky lets out a tight smile, nudging his girlfriend to do the same but she keeps her eyes on her phone.

You try not to laugh, knowing that Bucky absolutely loathes when people are glued to their phone. Something about feeling like they’re frozen in time once their eyes only pay attention to the screen. You’d always tell him he was definitely an old soul.

“Aren’t you freezing, it’s below zero out there!” Sam laughs, punching Bucky’s shoulder lightly.

“I wanted to wear my team jacket but it seems I’ve misplaced it.” His blue eyes bounce around the room but never look to you.

“Half of his clothes have gone missing.” His girlfriend rolls his eyes.

“Hey!” Nat speaks up, a devious smile on her lips. “Don’t we have it? I think I saw it in one of our closets.”

Your eyes immediately drop down, knowing exactly where he left his jacket. You can sill remember the sound of the zipper as he took it off last time you were together.

Steve shoots his girlfriend a glare but she doesn’t stop.

“I’m pretty sure it’s in your closet.” Natasha lets out a full blown smile.

“Y-yeah, you left it last party-“

“Oh I must have left it in Steve’s car and he thought it was his-“

Bucky and you speak at the same time, the misalignment of your stories saying more than words.

Bucky’s girlfriend scoffs, turning around on her heel and marching away from the group.

“Thanks a lot.” Bucky huffs at you.

You throw your arms up. “I wasn’t even-“

He was trailing after the girlfriend before you could finish your sentence.

“What was that for!” You roll your eyes at your redhead best friend.

“I’m so over this chick!” Natasha says. “She’s so clearly jealous of you, and no one is man enough to tell Bucky to cut her out!”

“Hey! Don’t look at me!” Sam crosses his arms. “I tried to tell him that she was bad news the second she started wearing the same clothes as (Y/N).”

“I don’t want anyone to cut anybody out!” You stand in the middle of the group. “Can we just try to be civil?”

“She’s the one who’s driving us apart!” Natasha lets out, earning a nudge from Steve.

“What!”

“I told you that as a secret!” He hisses.

Your eyebrows knit together. “What secret?”

“I-“ Steve hesitates. “I heard she’s telling everyone who wants to hear that Bucky only pitty fucked you.”

Your breath catches.

“Oh hell no!” Wanda springs up from her seat.

“I tried to dismantle the rumor before you found out but she’s told everyone,” Natasha looks down at the floor.

Throwing petty comments here and there you could deal with but this, spreading blatant lies, this was too much.

You throw back the rest of your drink. Any niceness flying out the window. “No one stop me.”

You stalk over to where Bucky was trying to console her. Making her roll her eyes the second she sees you.

“I heard you’ve been saying some things about me,” you let out a dry laugh. “If you think you have the right to be “honest” I’ll be honest too.”

Her eyes widen double their size and Bucky takes a step back, shocked at your words.

“Don’t you love it when he goes down on you? Bucky is a master with words, but he’s a wizard with his tongue, isn’t that right?” The girlfriend swallows a gasp. Confusion written all over her face.

“Oh sweetheart,” your voice drips with faux concern. “Has he never gone down on you? I should have known, Buck doesn’t do that for just anyone.”

You take a step closer to her. “I know you’re picturing forever, and if you are just remember, whenever his lips are on yours, you’ll taste me too.”

“Bucky!” She shrieks. “Aren’t you going to say anything?”

Bucky’s blue eyes, thunderous from confusion, bounce between you two. “What did you say about her?”

“N-nothing!” She stutters.

“I can assure you,” you look her up and down. “What happened between Bucky and I was the furthest thing from a pity fuck.”

“Bucky! Do something!” She yells.

His chest heaves with anger. “Don’t you ever say that about (Y/N)! Ever again!” He barks.

“Are you serious?” She gasps.

“Deathly serious.” Bucky grits out, dropping his hands from hers. “In fact, I could never be with someone who treats (Y/N) like that. We’re done.”

“You can’t be serious.” Her jaw slacks. “You have nothing else to say?”

“Actually, I do.” Bucky steps closer to you. “Don’t ever come near her ever again.”

Author’s Note: hihiii this is a tiny oneshot I couldn’t get out of my head! Hope you like it! Plssss remember to check out my original story All For The Crown on my page. Thanks byeeee love yaaaa.

[malum-forev]

Never Casual

Part 2

You knew something was very wrong the second you walked out of your apartment building.

For years, your routine always included a morning run. Before the sun came up, before anyone was awake, you’d go out.

Months ago, when the weather was cool, you’d have Bucky by your side, making the outing feel like a warm hug.

“You’re lacking a bit.” He’d give you a dazzling smile, running backwards like it was nothing, while your lungs burned.

“That’s not fair,” you’d huff. “I need motivation.”

“More motivation than this?” He drags his hands up and down his chest playfully.

You loved seeing Bucky like this. Out and about without a care in the world, without his mind telling him that everyone around him is judging him.

Bucky lowers his pace. “If you beat me, I’ll let you braid my hair.”

“But only if you leave the house with whatever style I put you in.” You start running faster.

“Whatever you say, sweetheart.” He follows you.

“I can’t wait to see you in pigtails.” You laugh, running until you couldn’t feel your legs.

But now, the weather is warmer but you’ve never felt as cold. Without him by your side, even the sticky air seems icy.

On every single lamp post all around your route, there was a poster of Bucky.

Vote Bucky for Congress.

You scoff at the fake smile plastered on his face. It must have taken the photographers hours to get that shot. You more than anyone know how hard it is for Bucky to hide what he’s feeling.

For a second, you consider tearing down all the posters but you pick up your run before you can act on the impulse.

——————

“What is he doing here?” You couldn’t mask your disdain this time, as you see Bucky walk into the headquarters.

“C’mon, you’re not excited to see the old team back together?” Joaquin asks, sitting down at the chair next to yours.

“Not keen on having dinosaurs coming to check our work.” Your eyes never leave Bucky’s figure.

He hasn’t looked over at you once, avoiding your stare.

“Hey, could you help me with something inside the conference room?” You ask Torres with a devious smile on your face.

Joaquin eyes you suspiciously but follows you inside, and says nothing as you shut all the blinds.

“This drawer gets stuck sometimes,” you say, turning the hidden lock and pocketing the key. “Could you help me open it?”

“Sure,” he drags out the word.

“Put your weight into it.” You recommend, smiling as the desk starts rattling once Joaquin tries to get the drawer open.

“Yes, yes!” You chant, knowing that with Bucky’s supersoldier hearing, he’d be able to recognize the grinding of the desk and your moans.

He can’t erase from his memories the things the two of you have done in this same conference room.

“There you go.” Joaquin smiles, finally ripping the drawer open.

“Good boy,” you pat his head with a smile.

You barely have time to fluff your hair and make your clothes look a little disheveled when someone slams down the door.

“What the hell is wrong with you, Buck?!” Sam yells, taking in his now open-concept conference room.

“I-I-I just,” Bucky stutters, eyes bouncing from Joaquin back to you.

He must have heard wrong, but he can’t get the sound out of his head. The breathy moan from the back of your throat you used to give out, the rhythmic scraping of the desk, the good boy.

That phrase is what made him go crazy. Your praises used to be reserved for Bucky and only Bucky.

“I’m sorry.” Bucky gulps, cheeks painted red.

“Excuse me, Congressman.” You slip past him, but not fast enough for him not to catch your perfume.

“You changed it.” He calls after you, not caring that anyone heard.

You stop in your tracks. “What?”

“You changed your perfume.” He says so matter of factly.

“I did.”

“Why?” He sounds hurt almost.

Bucky had found that perfume at a shop one time he was away on mission in Berlin. He couldn’t help but stop by. He spent hours there, trying to find something that was as perfect as you.

“I grew out of it.”

You walk back to your desk, ignoring a very confused Sam and Joaquin. You were going to keep acting like nothing happened, even if Bucky’s facade is starting to break. And even if it breaks a piece of your heart to know that Bucky still recognized your perfume.

—————

“You’ve got to be fucking kidding me.” You mutter, walking in to Isaiah’s gym.

There, standing in his full glory, was Bucky.

“Oh man isn’t this great!” Joaquin jumps up beside you. “We get to spar with Bucky!”

“Great,” you tighten your jaw.

Bucky and Sam spar in front of you, the blue eyed man having the upper hand, as always.

“Hey, remember what I told you?” You trail the tips of your fingers up Joaquin’s hand, stopping at his pumped biceps. “About us?”

His eyebrows furrow but just for a second before remembering your agreement to act like you’re dating.

“Here too?” Joaquin looks around the almost empty gym.

You nod, noticing that Bucky’s guard lowered the second Joaquin brought you to his side.

With a punch, Sam sends the supersoldier down on his knees.

“That’s what I’m talking about!” Sam cheers around the ring, never noticing that Bucky’s eyes are only on you.

“I’m up next.” You call out, slipping your hand out of Torres’.

“Break the old man in half!” Isaiah yells from your corner.

“Congressman.” You address him, trying not to let his stare get to you.

Bucky tries to look menacing but his eyes eventually soften.

“You’ve got this, honey!” Torres calls out.

“I thought you said you never wanted a cheerleader.” Bucky rolls his eyes.

You tried to keep your focus on him but you couldn’t help but think back at the time you’d told him that.

At first, you were the one who wanted to keep things a secret. Saying that exact same thing, I don’t need a cheerleader. I don’t need someone who publicly applauds me. I want someone who treats me right.

“I realized I want someone who doesn’t hide me.” You grit, throwing three punches.

Bucky stops all of them but one.

“Yeah! That’s it!” Joaquin yells as your punch comes in contact with Bucky.

But your punch doesn’t make him want to win the spar, it makes him drop his guard.

“What’s going on?” You push his hands up.

Bucky lets out a soft smile. “You know I could never spar with you.”

“Don’t give me that bullshit,” you huff. But the Sergeant doesn’t change his stance.

“C’mon sweets,” he whispers just for you, jutting out his jaw. “Give me your best shot. I know you want to do it.”

You roll your eyes, throwing the boxing gloves on the floor of the ring. “I wouldn’t want to give your make up team more work. Covering a bruise would be tough.”

Joaquin is the next one up.

“Don’t go easy on my Sarge,” Torres laughs, but Bucky has no intentions of doing the same.

His blue eyes narrow and before Torres even realizes it, Bucky kicks his legs and drops him to the floor. Joaquin tries to bounce back up but Bucky uses his vibranium arm to slam him on the floor again. Pushing his metal forearm to his chest, making Joaquin start to cough.

“That’s enough!” You yell but Bucky seems to be fixed on the young man.

“Stop it! You’re going to hurt him!” You yell again but nothing gets through to the old man.

Joaquin taps the floor three times but Bucky is restless.

Sam and Isaiah share a look of concern.

“Bucky! It’s fake!” You finally let out. “We’re not dating!”

The second his name leaves your mouth, the trance is broken.

“What?” Bucky looks back at you, letting Joaquin slip from his grasp.

“We were pretending.” You cross your arms over your chest.

“Were we believable?” Joaquin croaks out.

“You were faking it?” Sam’s eyebrows furrow. “Why?”

“So you could send me undercover.” Joaquin gives Cap a smile.

“I made it up.” You look down at the floor.

Sam’s eyes widen. “Again, why?”

“To make me jealous.” Bucky drags his hand down his face. “And it worked.”

“You’d be jealous, of me?” Joaquin looks extremely surprised.

“It was a stupid thing and I shouldn’t have done it, I’m sorry.” You wipe the sweat from your face. “Let’s just drop it.”

“No, of course I’m not going to drop it.” Sam throws his hands up.

“We dated.” Bucky gulps, looking back at you.

That’s what you always wanted. Right? For Bucky to admit that what the two of you had was more than casual. But it didn’t feel right.

“W-wait what?!” Joaquin’s eyes bounce from you to Bucky. “You dated the fossil?”

Bucky rolls his eyes.

“No.” You finally speak up. “We never dated.”

“Oh c’mon! Stop with the lies and the bullshit!” Bucky yells, stunning everyone in the room. “I’m sick of this war brewing between us.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” You look down at your feet.

“Tell me it didn’t mean anything,” Bucky comes closer to you. “I’ll leave you be if you look in my eyes and tell me it didn’t mean anything.”

“You were the one who wanted things like this!” You raise your voice. “You were the one who pulled away, you were the one who ended things! You don’t get to come back into my life after you wanted nothing to do with me!”

“That’s not-“

“You left! You destroyed me!” Your voice cracks. “My whole life was turned upside down, all because of your stupid career. You left me behind like I was nothing. Like I was just a casual fling.”

“Well maybe I made a mistake!” Bucky’s nostrils flare. “Maybe I was stupid and clueless and took advice from people who know nothing about me!”

Your chest heaves, his words make your body sting.

“And maybe I’ve regretted that same decision every day!”

“Well it’s too late for regret, Congressman.” You whisper.

His steel blue eyes burn into yours. “Tell me it meant nothing. And I’ll leave, forever.”

“Please, just leave.” Your voice trembles.

Bucky runs his hand through his dark hair. “I’ll leave you alone, if that’s what you really want.”

“It is.” You gulp, the words leaving a bad taste on your tongue.

Bucky walks out of the gym, but your heartbeat thumps faster the further away he is.

———-

You’d come back from a mission on an incredibly rainy summer day. The weather was hot and suffocating, the worst combination. But at least you were home.

You zipped off your tactical suit, turning on the tv just enough to drown out the rain pattering outside your window as you made a cup of tea.

“Breaking news coming from DC,” you faintly hear the news reporter on your screen. “Voters are now changing views after future congressman James Buchanan Barnes’ speech today.”

“What the fuck-“ you turn up the tv as Bucky’s face takes up the screen.

“I am here because I want to make a change in the world. But with change, comes comprehension. My life has been spent serving the public, but I cannot let that dictate my private life. I am in love with an amazing woman who has also dedicated her life to protecting the people. And if voters cannot comprehend that, then they shouldn’t vote for me. Because I refuse to let the love of my life walk away just because she isn’t what you think-“

Before you know it, tears well in your eyes. It’s been weeks since your heart was ripped out and now, it’s finally feeling like it’s healing. But maybe time wasn’t what you needed, you needed the man you love to tell the world that he loved you too.

Three knocks on your door make you shoot up from your couch.

Slowly, you open the door to reveal Bucky. Standing on your doorstep, drenched by the rain.

“Sam told me you were back.” He mumbles, his eyes grey and cloudy. “I’m sorry, I know you don’t want to see me but I- I just can’t be away from you.”

“Bucky,” you whisper, your voice trembling from tears. “Why did you say that?”

“Because it’s the truth.” He takes your hand in his. “I love you. And I was stupid to not see it then but I want you to know it.”

“I’m so tired,” tears fall down your cheeks, “tired of acting like I don’t want you. I yearn for you. I ache for you.”

“I’m sorry,” Bucky kisses your temple. “I was scared to admit that I love you. But I do, I love you like nothing else. I should have never said that. Please, I’m begging you. Forgive me.”

You melt into his touch, finally finding what you lost all those weeks ago. “I forgive you.”

Bucky holds your face in his hands. “You were never casual. You’re the love of my life.”

Authors note: hihiiii omg thank you so much for the love on part 2 and 1!!! Alsooo, I’ve just posted new chapters for my book! I’d love if you could give it a look over! Thank you and love you.

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[malum-forev]

Alright, when did one of you take my picture? COME CLEAN NOW!!!!

a constant problem

[malum-forev]

EXTREMELY DISAPPOINTED THAT NO ONES VOTING 4 MY BBY JOHNNY STORM!!!

I MEAAAANNNNN…. HELLOOOOOOO!!!