mandoalorian

[mandoalorian]

and if i am undone, let it be by you [bucky barnes x f!reader]

pairing: new avenger!bucky x f!reader

synopsis: with bob still missing and doom's arrival drawing near, the new avengers begin to fracture under the weight of uncertainty. as the team struggles to hold together, you delve deeper into the secrets of the multiverse… and sam calls in a favour from an old ally.

word count: 8000

rating/warnings: 18+ explicit content, mdni, unprotected p in v, fingering, intimate moment in the bath 🛁, bucky uses the shower head on you, biting, praise kink, lots of filth and dirty talk, yours and bucky’s first time (finally!), bucky shows a little insecurity, nightmares, more steve angst, canon typical action & jargon re the multiverse, cursing, avengers tower fic, the new avengers are breaking.

masterlist

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The doors hissed open, and John Walker stepped in like a storm in boots. “Please tell me someone’s got eyes on Bob.”

Silence.

Yelena didn’t even look up from the holomap. “If someone did, you’d have heard it already.”

“I’ve been out there for six hours,” John growled, tossing his taco shaped shield onto the table with a clang. “And I’ve seen nothing. Where the hell could he have gone?”

“I told you already,” Ava snapped, arms folded. “He’s not gone. He slipped into the void again. Or it slipped into him. Same difference.”

Alexei let out a low growl from across the room. “You speak of him like he is some… dark entity. He is a boy. A scared one.”

“He’s a threat!” Ava fired back, stepping toward him. “You didn’t see his eyes in that last fight. Something inside him is changing. He said so himself.”

“Something inside all of us is changing!” Alexei roared. “We went from fighting people, to fighting gods and monsters! You think we walk out the same as we walked in?”

“Hey, hey—” John stepped between them. “Don’t talk to her like that.”

Yelena snorted. “Oh please, don’t act like you’re the stable one here. I’ve watched you throw chairs for less.”

“I am stable,” John said, jabbing a finger at her. “I’m just tired of chasing ghosts while our strongest asset is out there, probably going nuclear.”

“Asset?” Yelena scoffed. “You call Bob an asset, like he’s some military experiment? No wonder you can’t connect with anyone.”

“Oh, I’m sorry, I forgot you’re the queen of emotional stability now,” John snapped. “Wasn’t it you who shoved a blade through a drone last week just because it beeped at you?”

“It startled me!” Yelena shouted.

“It was an espresso machine.” Ava sighed quietly,

“Enough!” Alexei bellowed, slamming his fists down on the edge of the table. The entire platform rattled. “We are wasting time. My son is out there!”

The room fell silent.

Even Ava flinched. “You think of him like he’s yours?”

Alexei turned, voice suddenly quiet and broken. “He looks at me like I’m his father. I didn’t ask for it. I didn’t earn it. But I feel it. Every time he calls me by my name. Not ‘Red Guardian’, but Alexei. Every time he asks me if I’m proud of him.”

Yelena’s mouth tightened.

Ava said nothing.

John looked away.

And then, Ava phased—literally. Her molecules flickered, and she sank into the floor, escaping before emotion could expose her.

The silence was loud now, hanging heavy in the air.

And then Bucky finally spoke. He’d been leaning against the far wall, arms crossed, watching them all unravel. “Ava, get back here. Now.”

The dark haired girl immediately reappeared, guilt and shame etched on her face. 

His voice cut like a wire snapping. “This is exactly what Doom wants.”

Eyes turned.

“You think he’s coming for Bob?” Bucky asked. “For Reed? For revenge? No. He’s coming because we’re fractured. Because he knows if he pushes hard enough, this team breaks.”

He stood tall now, stepping into the centre of the room. “We’ve all lost people. We’ve all watched universes end. The Blip. The Void. But that kid—Bob? He believed in us. Every single one of us. He saw something good here.”

He looked at John. “You saved his life. Remember that.”

Then at Ava. “You protected him like a sister, even when you pretended not to care.”

He met Yelena’s eyes. “You were the first to train him when he got here.”

And finally Alexei. “And you… you gave him something none of us could. A family.”

Bucky exhaled slowly. “We don’t give up on our family.”

There was a long pause.

“…So what do we do?” Yelena asked quietly.

“We plan,” Bucky said. “We get smart. We go back to his last steps, track every anomaly, every void echo. Ava’s gonna help me pull system scans. John, I want you on street patrol. Check every safehouse, every contact. Yelena—dig up anything Reed might’ve missed. Alexei, take the sublevels and tunnels.”

He took one final glance around the room.

“We’ve got three cycles before Doom shows up. We find Bob before then. No excuses. No egos. Just the mission.”

John stepped forward and grabbed his shield.

“…Yeah,” he said. “Alright.”

Yelena nodded, brushing a hand under her eyes.

Alexei cracked his knuckles. “Let’s bring him home.”

────✪────

The elevator ride to the sublevels was silent, save for the low drone of machinery humming beneath your feet. Down here, time felt warped—like every second stretched a little longer, wore a little heavier. It was colder, too. The kind of sterile cold that seeped into your bones and reminded you that this was the edge of something unnatural.

The whir of fluorescent lights overhead barely masked the buzz in your head as you stepped back into the lab.

Reed Richards stood alone in front of a levitating schematic, the blue light washing over his gaunt features. He didn’t even glance up when you stepped inside.

“Tell me you’ve got something,” you said.

He blinked slowly. “Define ‘something.’”

You walked closer, peering over the layers of holographic data. “Doom’s location?”

“Gone.”

Your pulse skipped. “What do you mean gone? Gone like our Johnny is gone?” Your patience was wearing thin. 

“I had a trace,” he said, voice clipped. “Three cycles out, stable and predictable. But sometime around 7pm, the energy signature dissipated. Phased out of spectrum or slipped through something I can’t yet detect. The signature we were monitoring—it blinked out. Cloaked. Or maybe moved dimensions. Or he’s… I don’t know. I’ve rerun every model. He’s vanished.”

You frowned. “So he’s still coming… we just don’t know how or where.”

“Correct. Best estimate still remains: three cycles. But I feel like I’m navigating the end of the world with a paper map and a flashlight.”

You let that hang in the air. The number tasted sour in your mouth. “We… really appreciate your help. Is there anything I can do for you? Maybe you need a break.”

“Doom is coming, I can’t make time for a break,” Reed scoffed, like your suggestion was crazy. 

“But I think that maybe—“ you started but Reed cut you off.

“I’m fine.” Reed finally looked at you, a flash of annoyance on his face. “Why are you here?”

You nodded. “Thought I should check in.”

“With Johnny?”

“Yeah,” you replied. “How’s he doing?”

He rubbed the back of his neck—nervously, which was rare for him. “Worse today. He doesn’t like confinement. Keeps igniting himself just to set off the sensors. I’m worried he’s going to fry the shielding.”

“Fuck,” you squeezed your eyes shut, wishing away all of this. What you’d give for things to go back to normal…

But then, you’d never have met Bucky.

Reed moved aside, allowing you to access the containment room console. “He’s starting to feel like a caged animal. I won’t be able to hold him here forever.”

You didn’t answer. Just keyed in the security code.

The door hissed open.

Johnny Storm sat cross-legged on the metal cot inside, tossing a ball of fire from palm to palm. He didn’t look at you when you entered.

“Ah, the babysitter returns! You should start charging me rent,” he muttered.

“You’ve been here less than 24 hours,” you sighed at his dramatics before approaching cautiously. “Wasn’t sure you’d still be here.”

“Oh, I tried leaving,” he said, still not looking. “Some pretty aggressive energy shielding kept me from burning through the wall. Not bad for a toaster scientist.”

You fought a smile. “Reed’s doing his best.”

“That makes one of us,” he snapped.

Silence hung between you.

Then he glanced up, expression unreadable. “So. You gonna tell me what’s really going on?”

You sat on the edge of the metal bench opposite him. “That depends. You ready to cooperate?”

“I’m not the one holding you in a room.”

You took a breath. “Fine. Doom’s arrival is accelerating. Reed says three cycles left. Maybe less.”

Johnny’s expression changed. “Doom? He’s back?”

“Back? He was never here in the first place,” you narrowed your eyes. 

“No but…” Johnny froze up.

“Wait, Johnny, do you know him?”

He laughed—a sharp, disbelieving sound. “Know him? I’ve fought him. Victor Von Doom—industrialist-turned-magic-wielding-megalomaniac? Yeah. We go way back.”

You stepped closer. “Then tell me everything.”

Johnny paused, watching you.

“You’re serious.”

“Dead serious. The Doom in your universe—did he ever talk about crossing dimensions?”

“He talked about dominating them. Said this world was soft. Idealistic. He always wanted to burn it down and start over.” He frowned. “Wait… you think it’s my Doom?”

“We don’t know. But this variant has Tony Stark’s face, and he’s already leveling cities off-world. We need any edge we can get.”

Johnny blinked. “Who the hell is Tony Stark?”

You stared.

“Wait—Iron Man? Genius, billionaire—?”

“Never heard of him,” Johnny said, brow furrowed. “That a comic book character?”

Your skin prickled and you figured you’d try your luck. “Okay. What about Captain America?”

Johnny shook his head. “Is that, like, a propaganda mascot?”

You inhaled sharply.

He noticed your expression shift. “Hey, what?”

“It’s nothing. Just… we’ve been assuming some shared universal constants. Clearly, that was naive. Do you have the Avengers?”

“I’m not even going to even ask what the Avengers is,” he said, “my universe has four overworked, underpaid cosmic disaster magnets trying to keep Doom from melting entire cities.”

“And you… you were one of them.”

“Yes!The Human Torch. Maybe you’ve heard of me?” He gave a cocky little smirk, but it didn’t reach his eyes.

You gave him a look. “You’re aware you’re currently stuck in a universe that thinks you’re a ghost.”

“Yeah, and apparently I look like your dead best friend or whatever?”

“He wasn’t mine,” you said quietly. “I didn’t know him. My brother idolised him when we were kids, but… I only ever saw him on a screen or in magazines or action figures.”

Johnny’s demeanour shifted.

“Still. That’s gotta be weird. Seeing me.”

“It’s… disorienting,” you admitted. “It’s like staring at a memory I never actually lived.”

He nodded slowly. “Well, for what it’s worth… I’m not him.”

“I know,” you said. “It’s everyone else I’m worried about.”

He tilted his head. “You mean Barnes… I overheard your conversation with Richards.”

You tensed. “You don’t need to say his name.”

“But that’s the real problem, isn’t it?” Johnny leaned forward, elbows on his knees. “You’re scared he’ll see me and unravel.”

“He’s been through enough.”

“So have I.”

That made you pause.

You studied him—closely, quietly. There was still heat radiating off him, but not like before. This was grief, frustration, confusion. The raw edges of someone pulled from his world and dropped into a foreign body. His aura.

“Do you miss your world?” you asked.

“Every minute,” he said. “But I miss my sister more.”

You blinked. “You have a sister?”

“Yeah. Sue. And Reed, Ben—my team.” He glanced at the door. “Even Doom, in some twisted way. At least he made sense.”

You swallowed. “We’ll get you home.”

He raised an eyebrow. “You promise?”

You tried to smile. “I’ll do my best.”

He stood then, walking toward you slowly. Not threatening—just steady.

“I’m sorry I lashed out before,” he said. “It’s been a mindfuck.”

“I get it.”

He stopped just inches away.

“I didn’t mean to scare you. Or remind you of someone you lost.”

Your voice was barely above a whisper. “It’s not your fault.”

Something in the air between you went still. He smelled faintly like ozone, like charged air after a storm.

“Three cycles,” you said. “That’s what we’ve got before Doom makes landfall. And Reed can’t track him anymore.”

Johnny let that sink in. “So we fight. Together.”

You nodded. “But for now… you stay here.”

He sighed, resigned but not bitter. “Fine. But someone better bring me food that doesn’t taste like chalk.”

You smirked. “I’ll see what I can do.”

As the door sealed behind you, your heart pounded.

Steve Rogers was long gone.

But his face was standing in a room behind you, glowing with cosmic fire.

────✪────

The rooftop was quiet, save for the distant hum of traffic below and the rhythmic pulse of helicopter blades somewhere far off. The wind tugged gently at your clothes, lifting your hair as you stepped out onto the open concrete. You found Sam sitting on the edge of the helipad, legs dangling over the side like he didn’t have a care in the world, though you knew better.

You walked over and sat beside him without saying a word. For a while, neither of you did.

The city stretched out endlessly below, lit like it was trying to mimic the stars above. It smelled faintly of ozone and jet fuel, familiar and oddly comforting.

“I figured I’d find you up here,” you said softly.

Sam didn’t look at you at first. He just sipped from the cup in his hands—probably black coffee, lukewarm by now—and tilted his head toward the skyline. “It’s the only place I can breathe lately.”

“Yeah,” you whispered. “Me too.”

You sat in silence for a moment longer. Then he turned to you, studying you like he could read your thoughts if he stared long enough.

“You look like hell.”

You laughed—quiet, tired. “Thanks.”

“Wanna talk about it?”

You shrugged. “There’s too much to say. Not enough time.”

Sam leaned back on his hands, the movement casual, but his voice was anything but. “You know you don’t have to carry all this alone, right? You got people.”

“I know,” you said. “It’s just hard to know what parts I can share.”

He gave you a side-eye. “Try me.”

You smiled softly. “Let’s just say… I’m learning there are more versions of this world than I ever imagined. And some of them? They bleed through. Even when you’re not ready.”

Sam was quiet a moment. “Multiverse.”

You nodded slowly. “Yeah. God. It would be so nice if there were someone who… specialised in that kind of thing. You know, someone who didn’t blink when the fabric of reality tore open in front of him.”

Sam chuckled under his breath. “I might know a guy.”

You blinked at him. “You’re kidding.”

He shook his head. “Nope. He’s eccentric. Kinda dramatic. Has a goatee that makes him look like he just stepped out of a Victorian funeral home.”

You laughed. “What does he do?”

“Magic,” Sam said simply. “Or… something that looks like it.”

You turned to face him. “You’re serious?”

“As a heart attack.”

You blinked. “Wait. You’re telling me you know a wizard?”

Sam grinned. “Yeah. A real one. Flies without wings. Opens portals with his hands. He lives in this big haunted-looking place in Greenwich Village.”

You squinted. “You’re not messing with me?”

“Not even a little.” Sam shifted his weight and nudged your shoulder gently. “He helped us during the Infinity mess. And again with… everything after. He doesn’t always pick up his magic phone, but when he does, he tends to solve problems the rest of us can’t even pronounce.”

You exhaled slowly. “Sounds like exactly who we need.”

Sam nodded. “I’ll reach out. Might take a little time, but I’ll do what I can.”

You turned your head toward him, touched. “Sam…”

He gave you a look—soft, protective. “You didn’t ask. I’m offering. Whatever this is? You’re not in it alone.”

You smiled, swallowing past the knot in your throat. “Thank you.”

The two of you sat there a little longer, letting the silence stretch again, not awkward this time but full of something warm and unspoken. The city below, the sky above, and a million unknowns in between.

Finally, just as he stood to leave, you asked, “What’s his name?”

Sam paused, looked back over his shoulder with a small smirk, and said—

“Stephen Strange.”

Then he was gone, leaving the night colder but your hope a little warmer.

────✪────

You closed the door to your bedroom behind you with a soft click, leaning your forehead against it for a second longer than necessary. The conversation with Sam replayed in your head—his promise, his quiet strength, the name Stephen Strange echoing through your thoughts like a bell rung too close to your ears. Your body was buzzing with exhaustion and tension all at once. The kind of pressure that lived in your chest and shoulders and wouldn’t let go.

You didn’t even notice Bucky at first.

He was sitting on the edge of your bed, elbows on his knees, head turned toward the window where the city lights poured in like liquid gold. His jacket was off, sleeves rolled up, dog tags glinting in the glow.

His eyes met yours the moment you moved. He read you instantly—because of course he did.

“You’re shaking,” he said softly, standing. “What happened?”

You forced a small smile, voice hoarse. “Just… was out on the rooftop. It was cold.” It was only a half-lie.

He crossed the room in three strides and was in front of you, his hands cupping your face before you could think. The way he looked at you—searching, tender, that quiet kind of worry he wore like armour—you nearly crumbled.

“You’re stressed,” he said, low and steady. He saw straight through you. “Let me take care of you tonight. Please.”

You blinked up at him. “Bucky, I don’t need—”

“I’m not talking about fixing the world,” he cut in gently. “I just want to help you breathe again.”

You swallowed hard.

“Come with me,” he said.

He took your hand and led you into the bathroom. You hadn’t even noticed him running the water, but the tub was nearly full, steam curling into the air like a warm fog. Candles flickered from the sink and windowsill. The scent of eucalyptus filled the room—soothing, clean.

“I figured…” he began, then paused. “You take care of everyone else. Let me do this for you.”

You stared at the water, at the candlelight reflecting off his eyes, and suddenly, something inside you cracked open.

You nodded.

“I’ll wait outside if you want privacy,” he offered.

But your fingers were already slipping into the hem of your shirt. “Stay.”

His throat bobbed. “Yeah?”

You met his gaze. “Join me.”

The water lapped softly against the porcelain as you leaned back, steam curling around your shoulders, calming the tension in your chest.

But when you looked up and saw him watching you from the doorway — jaw set, eyes unreadable — something inside you twisted tight with nervous anticipation.

“You sure?” he asked, voice low and almost hoarse. “You want me in there with you?”

You nodded. “Yeah. I do.”

He didn’t move right away. Just let his gaze linger on you for a second longer, as if committing the sight of you in the bath to memory. Then he reached for the hem of his shirt.

You tried not to stare. You really tried.

But when the fabric lifted and his chest came into view — all lean muscle, old scars, and the quiet strength of a man who’d survived more than anyone should — your breath hitched in your throat.

He stripped slowly, deliberately, like he wasn’t sure if he was allowed to rush. As if he were giving you a chance to look away. But you didn’t. You couldn’t.

His metal arm glinted faintly in the soft, golden light, catching on the rivulets of steam that curled through the room. You followed the line of his torso with your eyes, past the faint trail of hair down his stomach to the waistband of his boxers.

Bucky paused when he caught your stare.

“I’m not exactly… a pretty sight,” he muttered, eyes dipping to the water like he couldn’t bear to meet your gaze.

“Bucky,” you said softly, and he looked at you again — wary, like he was bracing for something that never came. “You’re beautiful.”

The words spilled out before you could second-guess them. And once they were out, you didn’t want to take them back.

He huffed a breath, something between a laugh and a scoff, and finally stepped out of the last layer between him and you. You caught the faint tremble in his hands as he did, the unspoken weight of vulnerability in every movement.

And then he was climbing in beside you, the water shifting and rising with his presence.

You made room for him, settling against the opposite side of the tub. Your knees brushed under the surface.

It was quiet for a moment. The kind of quiet that wasn’t awkward, but thick with something unspoken. Reverent. He didn’t look at you right away. Just leaned back and exhaled, the heat loosening the muscles in his shoulders, in his jaw. Like it was the first time in days — maybe years — he’d let himself relax.

And then his eyes found yours again, dark and unsure.

Then you reached for him — gently, slowly — and he came without hesitation, shifting so you could rest your back against his chest, his arms wrapping around your middle beneath the water. His lips brushed your temple.

You leaned back into his chest, your head resting beneath his chin, the heat from the water soaking into your bones — but it was him that made you feel warm. His presence, his arms around your waist, his breathing slowly falling in sync with yours.

Then, without a word, Bucky reached for the bath oil on the rim. Unscrewed the lid, poured a small pool into his hand. The floral scent mixed with steam, soft and soothing.

He brought his palms to your shoulders, slow and steady, and began to knead.

A sigh slipped out of you before you could catch it.

“Yeah?” he murmured near your ear, voice low and fond.

You nodded. “Yeah.”

His thumbs worked into the tension at the base of your neck, careful and steady, tracing the edges of your shoulder blades and easing the tightness you didn’t realise you’d been carrying. His metal hand stayed at your side, warm from the water, anchoring you there — holding you like you were something precious.

You melted under his touch, sinking further into him, into the way he treated your body like it deserved to be cherished.

“You’ve been holding the world on your back,” he said softly, pressing a kiss to your damp shoulder. “Let me carry it for a while.”

You didn’t say anything. Just turned your face into his neck and let yourself breathe.

His fingers drifted upward, threading gently through your hair.

“You mind?” he asked.

You shook your head. “Please.”

He reached for the shampoo with one hand while the other gently gathered your hair behind you. He was so careful — so tender — massaging your scalp in slow, circular motions, working the lather through each strand as if this moment were the only one that mattered. He cradled your head like it was the most natural thing in the world, rinsing the suds away with soft strokes and whispered reassurances.

“Feels nice,” you murmured.

His voice came next to your ear, low and warm. “Good. You deserve nice.”

You turned in his arms just enough to see his face — calm, almost bashful — and gently reached for the bottle yourself.

“My turn,” you said with a small smile.

He raised a brow. “You sure?”

You nodded. “Sit back.”

And to your quiet amazement, he did — just like that. Trusting you with something so small, but so vulnerable.

You poured the shampoo into your hand and moved in close, brushing your fingers through his dark, damp hair. His eyes fluttered shut as your nails scratched lightly against his scalp, his head tipping back slightly into your touch.

It struck you, then — how often did he get to be taken care of? To let his guard down?

You weren’t sure. But you were damn sure going to make this count.

“Feels good,” he murmured.

You smiled. “Good. You deserve nice too, y’know.”

He opened one eye at that, and the look he gave you — equal parts grateful, adoring, and stunned — made your chest ache.

The bathwater shifted gently between you as you rinsed the soap from his hair, your hands lingering at the nape of his neck. Your noses brushed. His breath hitched.

And for one suspended moment, it felt like the world outside the bathroom simply... stopped.

The bathwater sloshed gently around you both, warmed by the glow of candlelight and the low hum of Bucky’s breathing behind you. His strong thighs bracketed yours, his arms wrapped loosely around your waist as you leaned back against his chest. It was quiet—soothing. His fingers trailed idle patterns on your stomach, up along your ribs, barely ghosting the underswell of your breasts.

“I could stay like this forever,” he murmured, voice thick with warmth and something else—something heavier, molten.

You turned your head slightly, catching the corner of his mouth with yours. He kissed you slow, tender. Lips parting like it was the first time all over again. When you gasped softly into his mouth, his hand drifted lower. Curious. Careful. He cupped your heat beneath the water, the gesture instinctual but full of restraint.

“Can I…?” he asked against your lips, his voice low, rough, reverent.

Your breath caught. You nodded. “Please.”

He kissed your neck as his fingers slipped between your thighs, parting you gently beneath the water. His other arm tightened around you, grounding you as he slowly slid one finger inside you. You gasped, your body tensing from the sudden stretch and the feel of him—so intimate, so close.

“Shh… you’re okay, sweetheart,” he whispered, lips brushing behind your ear. “Let me make you feel good.”

And he did.

Every movement was patient, controlled, worshipful. He curled his finger inside you just right, watching your face tilt up toward the ceiling, your mouth falling open in a soft moan. The bathwater rippled with each slow thrust of his hand, the tension building, his palm pressing against your clit in smooth, gentle circles that made your thighs twitch.

“Fuck,” you whimpered, your hips rocking involuntarily, pushing back against him, chasing the edge.

“You’re so wet for me,” he whispered. “So goddamn perfect.”

A second finger slid inside and your breath hitched. His metal hand cradled your hip as you writhed against him, water sloshing softly with each shift. He kissed the side of your throat, your shoulder, murmuring low praise into your skin.

“I’ve got you,” he promised. “You don’t have to do anything. Just feel.”

And you did. You fell apart in his arms with your hand clenched in his hair and your mouth on his shoulder, moaning his name like it meant salvation. He held you through it, rocked you through every tremble.

And even as the waves of pleasure faded, he didn’t let go.

He just whispered, “That’s my girl.”

You were still trembling in his arms when you felt the soft brush of his lips on your shoulder, lingering like a promise. Bucky cradled you tighter, one hand gently splayed across your stomach, his other still between your thighs, not moving—just resting there, keeping you open and warm in the aftermath.

"Still with me?" he murmured against your ear.

You nodded, eyes fluttering open. “Barely.”

He chuckled low, kissed your cheek. “Good. Because I’m not done showing you how good this can feel.”

You blinked at him, heart skipping.

He shifted behind you, the water sloshing softly as he reached for the detachable shower head hooked to the wall. You looked at him, wide-eyed.

“Trust me?” he asked, voice quiet but full of that same molten heat he always kept hidden behind a steel jaw.

You nodded again. “Always.”

He smiled—a soft, dark smile—and turned the dial. The shower head vibrated gently to life, the narrow stream of water hissing softly as he adjusted the setting. A low, teasing spray pulsed in rhythmic beats from the nozzle, and Bucky tested it against his palm before bringing it down between your thighs.

Your breath caught—your entire body going taut.

“Relax,” he whispered, letting your head rest against his shoulder again. “I’ve got you, doll.”

The first pass of the water was a gentle caress—just enough to make you gasp, your thighs instinctively pressing together. But Bucky’s hand was there again, metal and sure, keeping you open.

The second pass made you moan.

You felt your hips twitch forward, a low whimper falling from your lips as the spray focused directly on your clit. The pulsing rhythm from the nozzle hit your nerve endings like lightning. Bucky’s mouth was at your neck again, teeth grazing your skin, one hand stroking your stomach as the other expertly guided the water over your most sensitive spot.

"That's it," he murmured. "Look at you… fuck, you’re perfect like this.”

You whimpered his name and felt his arm tighten around your waist.

“Please,” you whispered, breathless.

“I know, baby. I know.”

You relaxed into him as the stream found your clit, and a soft moan spilled from your lips—unexpected, delicious, embarrassingly needy. He angled the water again and fuck, your hips jolted forward.

“That’s it,” he growled, his lips grazing your ear. “Feels good, doesn’t it? You like when I do that to you?”

You whimpered in response, legs trembling in the water.

“You ever touch yourself like this?” he asked, voice a little darker now—deeper. “In the bath? In the shower?”

Your lips parted, heart pounding. “…Back at the safe house,” you admitted softly. “That night we had to share the bed… I couldn’t stop thinking about you, in the other room, undressing. Had to pretend like— like I didn’t want you right there and then.”

Bucky groaned in your ear, the sound low and guttural. The water pulsed against you again, and he held you tighter, guiding your hips just slightly to ride the rhythm.

“Fuck, sweetheart,” he rasped. “If I had known that… things would have went a lot differently.”

You let out a shaky moan at his implication, your head falling back onto his shoulder.

“You wanna know what I did?” he whispered, mouth brushing your temple. “Every time I was alone in the shower… hand wrapped around my cock, water beating down on me… I was thinking about you. Your mouth. Your thighs. Your pretty little noises. Even when you hated me, I wanted you.”

You whimpered helplessly, pressing back against him.

“I’d picture you dripping for me,” he murmured. “Begging for me. Just like this.”

The confession was too much. Too vivid. Too filthy.

Your thighs tightened, a cry stuck in your throat.

“You gonna come for me again, baby?” he whispered, rotating the angle of the spray just right. “Come knowing I used to fuck my fist just thinking about making you fall apart?”

Your mouth dropped open in a breathless gasp as your entire body went taut, every nerve ending alight. The pleasure hit hard, slamming into you like a wave—your muscles tensing, water splashing over the edge of the tub as you cried out, hips grinding helplessly into the rhythm of the spray.

Bucky held you through it, his hand firm across your stomach, mouth on your shoulder.

“Good girl,” he breathed against your skin. “That’s it, baby. That’s it.”

You collapsed back into his chest, boneless and dazed, barely able to catch your breath. He pressed kisses along your shoulder, your jaw, your temple, grounding you through the aftershocks.

You let out a shaky laugh, your voice hoarse. “Jesus, Bucky…”

He chuckled, kissing your cheek again. “You’re somethin’ else, sweetheart.”

Your heart still thundered as he turned off the water and cradled you against him, both of you wrapped in warmth and silence for a long moment.

Your limbs felt boneless, melted from the pleasure still echoing through you like waves lapping the shore. The soft slosh of the bathwater was the only sound, save for your shallow breaths. You blinked slowly, dazed and spent, leaning into Bucky’s chest as the warm water began to cool.

“Hey,” he murmured against your temple, brushing your damp hair back. “C’mon, sweetheart. Let’s get you dried off now.”

His voice was so gentle, reverent. You barely managed a nod.

With slow, practiced strength, Bucky slipped his arms under your legs and back. You squeaked softly as he lifted you, and he chuckled—low, fond. Water dripped down your bodies, your skin slipping against his chest, your pulse skipping as you felt his heartbeat against your shoulder.

“Still with me?” he whispered, grinning as he held you tighter.

“Barely,” you murmured. “But I like it here.”

“Me too,” he said, and then he kissed your forehead.

He carried you effortlessly from the bathroom, cradling you like you were something precious, something breakable. The cool air kissed your wet skin, sending a shiver down your spine. Bucky noticed instantly.

“Hold on,” he said, setting you down gently at the edge of the bed. He grabbed one of the thick towels hanging near the bathroom and wrapped it around your frame with the utmost care, tucking the corners around your body like you were a gift he never thought he’d get to unwrap.

“You’re trembling,” he said, crouching before you. “Was it too much?”

You smiled softly, eyes glazed. “No. It was perfect. I just… I can’t believe you did that.”

His gaze flicked down briefly, watching the water drip from your collarbone down into the towel. His jaw clenched like he was holding something back.

You reached for him.

“Your turn,” you whispered.

Bucky rose slowly, water still glistening on his skin, and let the towel slip from your shoulders so he could wrap a new one around his own waist. As he stood, you caught sight of the unmistakable ridge straining against the terrycloth—hard and thick, barely contained.

Your breath hitched.

He followed your eyes and gave a lopsided, bashful smile. “Yeah,” he rasped. “That’s what happens when I watch you come like that.”

You stared. “You’re—”

“Hard as hell,” he finished for you, stepping close between your knees. “For you. Always for you.”

You reached up with both hands, dragging your fingers slowly down the plane of his abdomen, over the curve of his hips, the towel damp and warm beneath your touch. You looked up at him, wide-eyed and awestruck.

“I want you,” you whispered.

Bucky swallowed hard, chest rising.

“Then you have me,” he said, and bent down to scoop you up once more.

This time, he didn’t bother asking permission—he laid you down across the bed with something close to reverence, kissing your bare shoulder as he adjusted the towel around you again.

His hands roamed your body like he was learning scripture—slow, reverent, almost trembling with how much he needed to memorise the way your skin felt under his palms. He wasn’t just touching you; he was worshipping you. Like you were holy. Like he couldn’t believe you were real.

“You’re so goddamn beautiful,” Bucky murmured as his lips trailed down your neck, voice hoarse with wonder. “Every inch of you… you drive me fuckin’ crazy, you know that?”

You gasped when his hand slid between your thighs, his eyes drinking in your reaction like it was his only salvation. Your back arched instinctively, your body begging for more.

“I want you to feel good,” he whispered, pressing a kiss to the curve of your breast, then another just below your ribs. “Wanna take my time. Wanna taste you everywhere. Let me?”

“Please,” you breathed, and he smiled like a man ruined.

He kissed down your stomach with reverence, pulling your towel off your body slowly, like he was unwrapping the last good thing in his life. When he spread your legs and settled between them, the heat of his breath made you shudder.

But when he looked up at you, eyes dark and blown wide with hunger, he froze.

“You sure?” he asked, voice breaking just a little.

“I want you, Bucky. I want all of you,” you whispered, threading your fingers through his hair. “I always have.”

He groaned like the words hurt—like they healed something too.

When he finally pushed inside you, thick and aching and perfect, you bit down on his shoulder—just hard enough to make him hiss, just enough to leave your mark. His body jolted at the sting, a deep growl ripping from his throat, and he held you tighter.

“Fuck,” he moaned. “You’re so tight. So warm. I can feel you everywhere, baby. You feel like heaven.”

You barely had time to respond—your mind was already gone, lost in the way he filled you so perfectly, in how he whispered your name like it was a sacred thing. His metal hand held your hip like he was grounding himself, but the other caressed your face, thumbing over your cheek like you were fragile, like he couldn’t believe he was allowed to touch you like this.

“Gonna take care of you,” he promised between kisses. “Gonna fuck you slow so you feel it for days. Gonna make sure you know what you mean to me.”

You whimpered something unintelligible, overwhelmed with sensation and the way he made you feel so seen, so wanted. Your nails scratched down his back. Your teeth found his neck again.

“Mine,” you whispered against his skin.

That sent him over the edge—his rhythm faltered, his breath catching as he groaned your name again and again, buried so deep inside you it felt like the world disappeared around you.

And still he moved.

Slow, sweet thrusts. Words of worship between panting breaths. He kissed your temple. He kissed the corner of your mouth. He kissed you like you were the last good thing in the world.

“Oh my God, Bucky…”

“Shh… I’ve got you,” he murmured. “I’ve got you.”

His movements were deep, and steady thrusts that made you feel every part of him. His pace built gradually, like he was savouring every second, watching your face twist in pleasure, whispering how beautiful you looked, how good you felt, how long he’d waited for this.

Then it turned feral.

His hand locked under your knee, hitching your leg higher. His hips slammed into yours, faster now, rougher, but still full of so much feeling. His forehead rested against yours, his eyes never leaving you, every breath a moan.

“You’re mine,” he groaned. “Mine. You feel that?”

“Yes—Bucky—I—fuck, I feel you—”

“Come for me again, baby. I wanna feel you fall apart on my cock.”

His words undid you. You shattered again, legs quaking, crying out his name as he fucked you through it—his own release close behind, hips stuttering as he spilled inside you with a deep, broken growl.

He collapsed over you, panting, trembling, pressing kisses along your throat, your shoulder, your collarbone.

You held each other in silence, sweat cooling, hearts slowing, the smell of candle wax and sex thick in the air.

He looked at you like you were the stars.

Outside, the city buzzed with life.

But in here, wrapped in Bucky’s arms, with his warmth still inside you—you finally felt safe.

Your legs were still tangled with his when the silence settled. A soft, reverent kind of silence. Not the awkward kind that follows something rushed or uncertain — this was the kind that came after something real.

Your body was still buzzing from the aftershocks, but your heart… your heart felt raw and full all at once.

Bucky’s chest rose and fell beneath your cheek, his hand drawing slow, grounding circles over your back. You felt his lips brush the crown of your head like a vow. Like he didn’t quite know how to say what he was feeling yet — only that it mattered. That you mattered.

“You okay?” he murmured against your hair.

You nodded, dazed. “Yeah. Are you?”

His arm tightened around you. “Yeah. Just… overwhelmed.”

You lifted your head to look at him. “In a bad way?”

“No.” His eyes were so soft, so open, so bare. “In the best way.”

You smiled. Sleepy. Full of warmth. But you still noticed the faint furrow between his brows.

“Buck?” you asked gently, brushing a thumb over his cheek. “What is it?”

He exhaled through his nose, like he’d been holding something in. “Just didn’t expect that to feel like… that.”

You leaned forward and kissed his jaw. “Me neither.”

He sat up a little, just enough to shift beside you on the bed, pulling the sheets up to cover your body. He took his time — tucking them around you, pressing a soft kiss to your shoulder before he stood.

“Don’t go far,” you mumbled.

His chuckle was soft. “Just grabbing a clean towel, sweetheart.”

When he came back, he knelt beside the bed and gently started wiping between your legs — slow, careful, with more tenderness than you ever expected from a man with hands like his. You winced slightly, and he immediately stilled.

“Too much?” he asked.

You shook your head. “No. Just a little sore.”

His jaw flexed. “I didn’t hurt you, did I?”

“No, Bucky.” You reached down, touching his cheek, guiding his gaze back to yours. “You were perfect.”

He nodded once, like he didn’t quite believe you — but he wanted to. Then he cleaned himself off, tossed the towel in the hamper, and crawled back into bed beside you. Not just beside you — into you. Curled around your back like he was built for it.

You felt his hand slide under the blanket, finding yours beneath the pillow, threading your fingers together.

“Don’t wanna let go of you,” he whispered.

“You don’t have to.”

The room was dark, but not cold. The covers were heavy but comforting. The sheets still smelled like him. Like you. Like this.

“Are you okay?” you asked after a minute.

He hummed. “I keep thinkin’ about how you looked. When I was inside you.”

Your cheeks flushed, and you twisted just enough to glance at him.

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.” His voice was barely a whisper. “You looked like… mine.”

A pause stretched between you.

“Do you want me to be?” you asked softly.

He didn’t hesitate.

“Yeah.”

You swallowed thickly and turned to face him fully, pressing your forehead against his. Your legs tangled again. Your hand found his chest.

“Then I’m yours.”

You felt him smile — and you knew, in that moment, that for all the chaos waiting beyond these walls, you had built something real here. Something that wouldn’t break.

Not easily.

Not ever.

────✪────

The room was still. Just the quiet hum of the city outside, the faint tick of the clock on the wall.

You lay curled in the sheets, your breathing slow and even against Bucky’s chest, your hand tangled with his beneath the blanket.

But Bucky was elsewhere.

His mind had drifted, tugged down by exhaustion and emotion, and when his eyes closed, the world around him changed.

The bed was gone. The warmth. The flickering candlelight.

Now it was dusk, and the Brooklyn pier stretched out before him—old wood creaking underfoot, the water lapping gently against rusted metal pylons.

He heard footsteps.

Turned.

And there he was.

Steve Rogers. Cap tilted back, blond hair catching the dying sunlight. He looked just like Bucky remembered him before the war: young, alive, untouched by the centuries of loss that followed.

Except his eyes weren’t soft.

They were steady. Knowing. Sad.

“You’re late,” Steve said, hands in his pockets.

Bucky froze. “Steve.”

“You haven’t talked to me in a while.”

“Maybe i’ve moved on,” Bucky said, a little sharper than he meant it.

Steve didn’t flinch. “And yet you’ve been burying yourself in guilt for it.”

Bucky exhaled shakily and looked away, out at the water. “I didn’t mean to dream about you.”

“You always do,” Steve said quietly. “Usually when something’s eating at you.”

Bucky’s shoulders tensed. “You left.”

“I had to.”

“You didn’t have to,” Bucky snapped, rounding on him. “You chose to. You handed off the shield, said goodbye like it was nothing, and you left me to clean it all up. Again.”

Steve took it. He didn’t argue. Just looked at Bucky with the weight of someone who had known him longer than anyone ever could.

“I’m sorry,” he said.

And somehow, that hurt worse than if he’d said nothing at all.

“I didn’t know what to do without you,” Bucky whispered. “I still don’t.”

Steve stepped closer. “Then why are you trying so hard to pretend like you’re fine?”

Bucky shook his head. “I’m not pretending. I’m just… trying to get over it.”

“With her?”

That stopped him.

Steve’s gaze softened. “You love her.”

Bucky’s throat worked around the words. “I… I don’t know.”

“Buck,” Steve said gently, “when you love someone, you should tell them. Because sometimes the chance doesn’t come again.”

“I’m scared,” Bucky admitted. “What if she wakes up one day and sees me for what I really am? Not just the parts I try to show her, but the broken stuff. The old war dog with blood on his hands. What then?”

Steve stepped up until they were face to face. His voice was low.

“She already sees you, Buck. And she’s still there.”

Bucky looked down, breathing hard. “I don’t know if I deserve her.”

“You’ve always deserved to be loved.”

Steve reached up, placed a hand on Bucky’s shoulder.

“I’m proud of you.”

The pier began to dissolve, light washing it all away in a slow blur.

“Don’t waste it,” Steve said, his voice distant now. “Let yourself be happy.”

Bucky gasped awake, chest rising fast, eyes wet.

The room was warm. Quiet. You were asleep against him, peaceful and soft, your cheek resting on his arm.

He looked down at you like you were the answer to a question he didn’t know how to ask.

She already sees you. And she’s still there.

He gently brushed your hair back and pressed a kiss to your temple.

“I think I love you,” he whispered, barely audible.

And you didn’t stir—but somehow, a tiny smile curled on your lips.

────✪────

It started with a faint vibration.

Subtle, at first—like the kind you’d feel when the subway rumbled deep beneath Manhattan, gentle and distant enough to be ignored.

But it didn’t stop.

Somewhere deep in Avengers Tower, a low hum began to build—power surging through reinforced circuits, cascading red alerts lighting up control panels, one by one.

Reed Richards was already awake when the tremors began. He hadn’t slept in days.

He stood over his lab’s main console, eyes glued to a flickering monitor, its screen flooded with lines of alien code, dimensional pulse readings, and quantum flux trails.

Then a single alert cut through all of it:

MULTIVERSAL SIGNATURE DETECTED DOOM // EARTH-9211 // COORDINATES LOCKED STATUS: BREACHED ATMOSPHERE

ESTIMATED IMPACT: INCOMING.

Reed's breath caught in his throat.

"No. No, no, no, no—he was three cycles out, he was—"

He spun around, fingers flying over the keyboard, scanning the waveforms, matching the signature.

But it wasn’t on the outer rim of the multiverse anymore.

It was here. Earth. Now.

The data didn't lie.

Victor Von Doom had just broken through the upper atmosphere.

────✪────

Sebastian Stan taglist: @notreallythatlost @houseofaegon @bunnyfella @sunday-bug @wintrsoldrluvr @maryevm @mcira @monsteraddicts-world @positivenergy @cherriesnmango @navs-bhat @hits-different-cause-its-you @avivarougestan

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[mandoalorian]

hi 🥺🥺 i hope i can try update if this is war i surrender this monday or tuesday, im sorry it’s been a little longer than usual. ive been so swamped working on my master’s thesis and working full time, and trying to balance a social life/time for me. its been a lot to try and navigate so thank you for your patience.

i’ll also get round to answering any asks in my inbox on tuesday, most likely.

hope everyone has an amazing day <3

[mandoalorian]

the night we stole the stars [bucky barnes x f!reader]

pairing: new avenger!bucky barnes x f!reader

synopsis: you and bucky chase the glow of a forgotten fairground, where soft kisses taste like memories in the making. beneath the boardwalk lights and scattered starlight, the night becomes yours—wild, sacred, and fleeting. but even as your hearts sync in stolen rhythm, something waits in the quiet edges of the multiverse, changing everything

word count: 7900

rating/warnings: 18+ explicit content, dry humping in public place, grinding, making out, plenty of sexual tension, angst in the making (sorry in advance), a little sambucky if you squint

masterlist

previous chapter | current | next chapter [coming soon]

It was early. Not sunrise-early — city early. Horns honked like an orchestra warming up. A dog barked three times in a row. Somewhere, a jackhammer stuttered to life.

Bucky liked mornings like this. Loud enough to drown out memories. Soft enough that everything still felt... possible.

He waited outside the Tower with two coffees in hand, both black. No sugar, no nonsense. He knew Sam would complain. That was kind of the point.

When Sam stepped outside, hoodie pulled over his head, he squinted at the sky like it had personally offended him. His eyes landed on Bucky, then on the second coffee. He walked over wordlessly and took it.

“No sugar?” he asked, sipping anyway.

Bucky shrugged. “You’re sweet enough.”

Sam huffed. “You flirting with me, Barnes?”

“You wish.”

They started walking with no clear destination, boots hitting pavement in sync. The Tower loomed behind them, and Bucky felt a little lighter the farther they got from it.

“So,” Sam said after a beat. “I signed Valentina’s accords, we’re on the same team now, what’s all this about?”

Bucky winced. “Us.”

“Okay, now you’re definitely flirting.” Sam smirked and Bucky stifled a laugh.

“Outside all of this: Doom and the multiverse and… her,” Bucky stopped as he noticed Sam’s face soften. “I really miss you man,” he sighed, the revelation hard for him to admit. If only he had communicated better months ago. Then maybe the fallout wouldn’t have been so bad.

“I miss you too, Buck, but none of this has been easy. Abandoning me and teaming up with John Walker?” Sam replied, not angry but not amused either. “Seriously?”

Bucky thought ‘abandoned’ sounded harsh, but it wasn’t the time to mention it. He took a sip of his coffee. “I know, but the world really needs Captain America. I need Captain America. And I just want us to be okay again.”

“I want that too.” Sam sighed. “Come here.”

And in that moment, Captain America pulled the Winter Soldier in for a hug, solid and comforting, and for the first time in months, Bucky felt like he could breathe again.

“Now that we’re okay,” Sam said, pulling away but keeping his hands on Bucky’s shoulders. “You gotta tell me how the hell you ended up on a team with a literal black widow assassin, the Red Guardian, and Walker. And those billboards… damn Bucky, they had you overlooking New York City like you were some kind of God.”

Bucky looked down at his coffee. “Yeah. That wasn’t my idea.”

“Valentina?”

“Yup. She created this whole PR thing. Wheaties boxes and magazine covers and merchandise. Wanted Yelena and Walker to pretend to date each other, but like hell they would,” Bucky explained. “At the time, they couldn’t be in the same room as each other for longer than ten minutes. So she decided it would look good if me and her pursued this fake relationship. I think she thought the public would put more faith in her if they saw she was dating an Avenger.”

Sam slowed. “Buck… that’s fucking crazy.”

Bucky nodded. “Yeah. Wasn’t easy. But eventually the team started trusting each other. And because I was leading, it meant they were trusting me. And for once… I felt like I was actually doing something right.”

Sam took another long sip. “That’s not nothing.”

“I didn’t agree with the logistics,” Bucky said. “The secrecy, the contracts, the way Valentina tried to puppet us from behind the curtain. But when we were out there, actually fighting for people, it felt... good. Like I belonged somewhere.”

“You’ve always belonged somewhere.”

Bucky gave a quiet, humourless laugh. “You have to say that. You’re my friend.”

“I’m also the guy you iced out when I was trying to rebuild the Avengers. The real Avengers.”

That landed like a punch. Bucky rubbed the back of his neck.

“I thought you didn’t need me,” he admitted.

“Bullshit,” Sam said calmly. “We both know that’s not true. I needed you. I wanted you in it with me. You’re the one who stepped off to be with your Thunderbolt buddies.”

Bucky took a breath. “Maybe. But now you know the truth. Not everything was so rosy. I think from this point forward, we phase Val out for good. We do this, together. We lead, together.”

“Doom’s coming,” Sam muttered, eyes scanning the skyline like he expected Victor to emerge from the clouds. “We both feel it. And now we’ve got all these pieces— The Fantastic Four, the Avengers, tech from a different world—and no time to get our footing.”

“We’ve got each other,” Bucky said. 

They walked another block in silence.

“I hated that billboard,” Sam finally said, like he couldn’t keep it in any longer. Bucky let out a snort.

“Me too.”

“I hated seeing you in it more.”

“That one hurts a little.”

Sam stopped walking and turned to him. “Because you’re mine, Barnes. My grumpy, murderous, 108-year-old sidekick.”

“Sidekick? You’re pushing it now,” Bucky smirked. “I prefer ‘combat veteran with emotional baggage.’”

Sam cracked a grin. “Same thing.”

There was a pause. Then Sam added, “I get it now, though. You felt useful. That matters.”

“It does,” Bucky said. “But it doesn’t matter more than you. More than this.”

They locked eyes. A shared history of battlefields and therapy chairs between them. A bond forged in grief, hammered into something solid by time.

“I’m still with you, Sam,” Bucky said. “Even when the world spins sideways.”

Sam nodded. “Alright, then. Let’s go clean this mess up together.”

They stood there another beat.

Then Sam extended a hand, and Bucky pulled him in for another hug instead—tight, firm, warm.

“I love you, buddy,” Sam murmured.

Bucky’s voice was rough. “Love you too.”

A car honked behind them. The city marched on.

But for the first time in weeks, something clicked back into place. Like the world might still be fixable after all.

────✪────

Sam had given the Fantastic Four a floor of their own in the Avengers tower, on the condition of their cooperation. 

The door to the secure living quarters slid open with a hiss.

Reed Richards stepped inside, eyes scanning the space with something between dread and longing. It wasn’t much—a makeshift living area hastily assembled—but within it stood three faces he thought he might never see again.

Sue was the first to spot him. Her posture stiffened instinctively, shielding mode kicking in before she even registered the emotion. Then her face cracked—just slightly—at the corners.

“Reed,” she said.

Johnny moved faster. “You look like hell.”

Reed blinked. “You look... exactly the same.”

Ben Grimm chuckled from the couch, deep and gravelly. “We had better lighting than you did, pal.”

Sue took a slow step forward. “I didn’t think they’d actually let us—”

“They didn’t,” you said, emerging from behind her, voice firm but not unkind. “I did.”

He turned. You leaned in the doorway with arms crossed, tired but steady. “I reminded Valentina that you’re not much use locked in a cage. Reed agreed that you would help. So now you help.”

Ben gave you a small, grateful nod. “And in return?”

“In return,” you said, “you get your family. But if you step out of line, or Reed, if you try to vanish into a black hole of your own genius—”

“Understood,” Reed said, lifting his hands in surrender. “No disappearing acts. No more secrets.”

Sue was still watching him. She didn’t smile. But she didn’t stop him when he crossed the room and touched her hand.

The silence stretched. Then Johnny cleared his throat loudly. “So, uh. Doom’s back?”

“Doom’s coming,” you corrected. “We’re not sure from where yet. But the tech that attacked the safe house... it wasn’t from here.”

Reed’s brow furrowed. “Alternate universe signatures?”

You nodded.

“That explains the Stark resemblance,” he muttered.

“Exactly,” you said. “We thought Doom was a myth or at least dormant. But if he's tied into a multiverse collapse, we’re going to need your expertise. You said before that you’ve studied this stuff—doppelgängers, alternate selves—what can you do now?”

Reed’s expression turned calculating. Focused. Alive.

“I need to run some tests. The multiverse... it’s like a shattered mirror. Some pieces reflect you exactly, others distort you beyond recognition. I want to start with Johnny.”

“Me?” Johnny blinked. “Why me?”

“Because you’re a perfect test subject. Young, genetically altered by cosmic radiation, and narcissistic enough that if another version of you existed, you’d want to find him immediately.”

“Aw, you do know me,” Johnny said, grinning.

Reed stepped away from the group, already talking to himself. “I’ll need quantum mapping. Multiversal scans. If I can trace even the smallest residue of variant DNA…”

“Reed,” you interrupted. “Focus.”

He blinked and looked at you. “Right. Yes. I’ll start with the scans now.”

As he swept out of the room, Sue sighed deeply. “Same Reed. Different apocalypse.”

Ben snorted. “At least we got him back.”

You watched him go, already lost in theory, hands moving like they were drawing math from the air. Something about it unsettled you—but also gave you hope.

You wandered back to the upper levels, catching the tail end of soft laughter in the training hall. Inside, Yelena was perched cross-legged on a bench, casually tossing a butterfly knife between her fingers. Her gaze lifted when she saw you.

“Was wondering when you’d check in,” she said.

You leaned on the wall beside her. “Reed’s reunited with his family. The science-freak reunion went about as expected.”

“Any theories yet?”

“He wants to test Johnny first. See if he’s got a doppelgänger. Maybe map how the multiverse is pulling apart.”

Yelena tilted her head. “You think that’s what this is? A multiversal pull?”

“I think it’s something worse. Doom doesn’t just appear without reason. And he doesn’t send attack drones for fun.”

Yelena sighed. “You have a point.”

You smiled faintly, then looked around. “Have you seen Bob?”

Her fingers paused over the knife. “No.”

“How long’s it been?”

She gave a small shrug, too casual. “He wasn’t at the morning check-in. I figured he was with Bucky. Or maybe passed out somewhere dramatic.”

You frowned. “I thought he might’ve come to see you.”

“Nope,” she said. “But now that you mention it...”

The two of you exchanged a look. Yelena tucked her knife away and stood up. “You think something’s wrong?”

“I think something’s different,” you said carefully. “He’s been... off. Ever since the void.”

Her brow furrowed. “He said he felt weird. More... powered.”

“Exactly,” you murmured. “Like something in him activated.”

You both stood in silence a moment longer.

“I’m gonna go look for him,” she announced.

“Want some help?” You offered, already tapping into your aura to scan the room for life. 

“It’s okay, he can’t have gone far. Besides, I want all the glory for finding him.” Yelena joked. 

When Yelena left the room, you paused for a moment, taking in the silence. It felt good to have a moment alone, away from the stress of John and Ava arguing, or Bob disappearing, or the upcoming potential multiversal collapse. You inhaled, your fingers starting to tingle and burn a pale lilac colour, sparkling like iridescent flecks of glitter as you tapped into your own aura. Your own feelings. 

Calmness. Wonder. Peace.

You felt relaxed. 

You exhaled and pinched your fingers together, shooting a burst of energy towards a punching bag. The power snapped the chain and the bag went flying into the wall, knocking over a stack of weights in the process. The loud clatter made you jump. How were you ever going to learn to control your powers, when there was no one who could teach you?

You stood and sauntered towards the weights, reaching out to put them back into place. You turned back toward the far end of the room, brushing a hand over your arm to dispel the unease. That’s when you felt it.

Arms wrapped gently around your waist from behind, pulling you into a solid chest.

You gasped, instincts kicking in before your mind caught up.

“Whoa,” came the familiar voice, rough and apologetic. “Too much?”

You exhaled, your heartbeat thudding against your ribs as you melted back into him. “No,” you said, breathless. “Not too much.”

Bucky let out a soft laugh behind you. His metal hand rested low on your stomach, while his warm one splayed across your ribs like he needed to hold you closer. “Sorry. I saw you and just... wanted to be close.”

You turned your head slightly, cheek brushing against his stubble. “Then don’t apologise.”

He leaned in, his lips grazing the shell of your ear. “You okay?”

You nodded. “Bob’s missing. Yelena’s out looking for him. We’ve got Reed researching but there is so much to do, and so little time. And the universe might just collapse in on itself in,” you checked your watch. “Six days,”

Bucky hummed quietly, acknowledging your concern. He dropped his hands to your hips, fingertips brushing skin. “What were you doing in here? Training?”

“I just needed some space to think, and uh— I was trying to understand my powers but I ended up just knocked over a punching bag. The chain snapped… we might need a new one.”

“Forget about the punching bag.” He gave you a gentle squeeze. “Your powers? We’ll figure it out. Besides, for now we just need to make sure we have reinforcements for when Doom comes. We plan for the worst.”

You smiled softly and turned in his arms. His eyes searched yours, his features soft in the training room’s dim light. He looked at you like you were something fragile and holy all at once.

“Bucky, I’m scared.”

He pressed his lips into the top of your head, letting them linger there. “I won’t let anything happen to you.”

But that’s exactly what you were afraid of. You had seen just how protective Bucky was of you, even back when you hated him. He’d die for you. And you were too powerful… too chaotic and unruly. What if you hurt him?

You swallowed, and it cut like glass in your throat. Uncomfortable. Fear. Nearly impossible to repress. You tapped his chest lightly, trying to change the subject. “I had fun last night.”

“Me too, uh— I actually wanted to ask you if you’d maybe wanna come out on a date with me again, tonight? But a real date this time. I can show you how I did it in the 40s,”A pink blush appeared over his cheeks. Was Bucky Barnes nervous? When you didn’t reply, he stumbled over his words. “You can say no. I know we have a lot going on but I really think it might be a good distraction and I had this idea…”

Your hand stayed against his chest, feeling the steady thud of his heart beneath your palm. “Yes.”

“Yes?” Bucky’s voice softened. “Okay then. I’ll drop by your room at midnight.”

“That’s late. Where are you taking me?” You asked, looking up at Bucky with curious doe-eyes.

“That, doll, is classified information,” Bucky smirked before sinking to the floor and pulling you down with him, your bodies tangled together on a training mat.

The hush of the empty gym held the moment like a secret. Bucky leaned against the mirrored wall behind him, legs stretched out, and you leaned sideways into him. His arm rested loosely around your shoulders.

“You ever think about the past?” he asked softly. “The good bits, I mean. Not the nightmares.”

You glanced up at him. “Sometimes. I try to remember my brother like that.”

Bucky hummed. “What was he like?”

You smiled faintly, your fingers tracing idle shapes on your own knee. “He was funny. And so patient. He taught me how to ride a bike, you know? Held the seat the whole time until I was halfway down the street. Then I realised he’d let go, and I panicked, wiped out completely. Skinned knees. Total mess.”

Bucky chuckled gently. “Bet he ran straight to you.”

“He did.” Your voice softened with the memory. “Carried me back like I weighed nothing. Gave me the whole pep talk while Mom cleaned me up. Said, ‘you didn’t fall, you learned where the limits were.’” You paused. “He always believed in me, even when I didn’t.”

“You were close.”

You nodded. “He was my best friend. And when he died, I found myself searching for him in other people. I just wanted to feel protected again. Somehow I got caught up with Shane…”

There was a moment of reverent silence between you both. Bucky’s hand slipped from your shoulder to your back, running slow, comforting circles there.

“Shane wasn’t like him?” Bucky asked cautiously, voice almost a whisper, like he was afraid of breaking you.

You stiffened for a second, but then exhaled slowly, leaning a little harder against him. “No. Not even close. My brother protected me. Shane... hurt me. Controlled me. Made me feel like I wasn’t allowed to be myself.”

Bucky’s jaw tensed at that, but he said nothing. Just listened.

“You saw it,” you continued, your voice steadier now. “In the apartment. God Bucky, I’m so glad you came after me. I was a jerk to you and still, you kept coming after me. Saving me when I was in trouble.”

Bucky’s hand stopped moving for a moment. “Shane had a darkness in him,” he said, low. “I’ve seen a lot of monsters, but... the way he tied you up and looked at you—like he owned you—it made my blood boil.”

You swallowed, heart squeezing. “I used to think I’d never get away. And then one day... I did. I just ran. I didn’t even grab my coat.”

“And now look at you,” Bucky murmured, the faintest smile tugging at his lips. “Powerful. Brave. Still standing.”

You looked at him, heart caught in your throat.

“You were the one who showed me I could be more than what he made me believe I was,” you whispered.

He leaned his head down, brushing his forehead gently against yours. “And you showed me I’m more than what they made me.”

Your fingers curled in the fabric of his Henley. “We’re more than our pasts.”

“We are,” he agreed.

And for a long moment, neither of you said anything. You just sat there in the quiet, warmth shared between you, breathing steady, hearts beginning to heal—together.

Your breath mingled with his, both of you hovering on the edge of something that had been growing for days—weeks, maybe. The gravity of everything that had happened, the closeness, the confessions—it all pulled you closer.

Bucky’s hand gently cupped your cheek, his thumb brushing along your skin like he was afraid you’d vanish. His steel-blue eyes searched yours, his breath hitching.

“I want to kiss you,” he murmured, his voice rough and vulnerable. “Is that okay?”

You nodded, your voice caught in your throat. “Yes.”

He started leaning in, slowly—tentatively, reverently—like he was asking one last time. His nose brushed yours. His lips were just a breath away.

And then—

BZZZT.

Your comm crackled to life in your ear. Both of you froze.

“Sorry to interrupt,” came Reed Richards’ voice, clipped and urgent. “But I need you down in Lab 3. Now. I’ve found something. Something... important.”

You pulled back, blinking, heart pounding in a completely different rhythm now. Bucky sighed, his forehead dropping to your shoulder.

“You’ve got to be kidding me,” he muttered.

You couldn’t help the small, exasperated laugh that escaped you. “Of all the times…”

He pulled away, clearly frustrated, but kissed your forehead in a soft, lingering motion. “We’ll come back to this.”

You nodded, already rising to your feet. “We better.”

────✪────

The lab was dimly lit, a low blue glow cast across the polished floor from the array of holographic panels circling Reed Richards like orbiting satellites. You stepped in quietly, the door hissing shut behind you. Reed didn’t even glance up at first — he was too focused, his hands weaving through data streams as if conducting invisible symphonies of code.

Only when you cleared your throat did he look up.

“Reed?” you called softly, drawing his attention.

He looked up, pale and drawn, like someone who had seen something they wished they could unsee. “You’re here. Good,” he said, his voice clipped, too fast. “I’ve made progress. Or maybe a mistake. I’m still deciding.”

You furrowed your brows and approached, arms crossed. “What kind of progress?”

Reed turned and gestured to the swirling portal behind him, a shimmering ring of translucent energy buzzing low. “Multiversal resonance,” he said, tapping rapidly on the console. “It’s more stable than I expected. I managed to create a soft tether. A gateway. Not just a window, but a bridge. I was able to bring something—someone—through.”

Your stomach dropped. “You brought someone here? From another universe?”

“Yes,” he said. “And that’s where it gets... complicated.”

You glanced at the portal. “Is this about the doppelgängers? Doom looking like Tony Stark?”

Reed nodded grimly. “Exactly. What we’re seeing—these strange overlaps in appearance—comes down to multiversal genetic convergence. Some universes don’t just echo ideas, they echo faces. Patterns of DNA that play out across timelines. It’s rare, but not impossible. You’ll see repeating archetypes, especially in people tied to strong cosmic forces. Heroes. Villains.”

“So this Doom, the one we saw,” you said slowly, “he looks like Tony not by coincidence.”

“No,” Reed said. “And... that brings me to what I have to show you.”

You stilled. Something in his voice changed. He wasn’t the overly confident, casually arrogant genius you were used to. He was nervous. Genuinely nervous. You had never seen Reed Richards unsure before, and it sent a chill through you.

He gestured for you to follow. You walked in silence through the back corridor, the tension thick as lead. When he paused at a reinforced door with a biometric scanner, your pulse quickened.

“Before I open this... I want to be clear,” Reed said, turning to face you. “I didn’t know this was going to happen. And I don’t know what to do with him.”

“Him?” you asked, confused. “Who is it?”

Reed looked at you, his eyes apologetic. Then he unlocked the door.

The lights inside were dimmed, but you saw him instantly.

Sitting on the edge of the cot was a man in a form-fitting fireproof suit, silver gauntlets hanging loosely from his hands, his posture relaxed but guarded. He turned as the door opened.

And your breath was punched out of you.

Blonde hair. Blue eyes. That face.

Steve Rogers' face.

No—not Steve. You knew that. Your brain knew that.

But your heart didn’t.

He stood slowly, confusion flickering in his gaze. “Hi,” he said cautiously. “I’m Johnny. Johnny Storm.”

You couldn’t speak. You couldn’t breathe. It was like your body had frozen solid, horror and heartbreak twisting in your gut. Steve had been gone for years—but this? Seeing that face, alive, familiar, animated with new inflection and different energy—it shattered something in you.

“I don’t know how he ended up like this,” Reed said quietly beside you. “In his universe, Johnny Storm looks like this. I tried to trace the genetic divergence, but the more I dug... the more I lost track of our Johnny.”

Your head whipped toward him. “Wait—what do you mean, you lost him?”

“I think I displaced him accidentally,” Reed admitted, rubbing his forehead. “I was tracing multiversal threads and he slipped through one of them. I don’t know where he ended up. But I brought this Johnny in before I realised. Now I don’t know what to do.”

You turned back to the man in the cell—this Johnny who smiled like Steve, tilted his head like Steve, and radiated warmth with that same impossible familiarity.

You saw Bucky’s face in your mind. His grief. His softness. The way his voice broke when he said Steve’s name.

No. He couldn’t see this.

You stepped forward and placed a hand on Reed’s chest. “You cannot tell anyone about this. Especially not Bucky.”

Reed blinked. “I don’t—why? He’s harmless.”

“No, Reed,” you said sharply. “He’s not. Not to him.”

You swallowed hard, forcing back the storm behind your eyes. “Bucky already saw Doom with Tony’s face. He’s still dealing with that. But Steve? That’s different. That was his brother. His anchor. You show this to Bucky and you break him.”

Reed was quiet for a long time. “So what do you want me to do?”

“Hide him,” you said. “No one can know. Not yet. Until we figure out what this means, and where our Johnny is, you keep him locked away. Please, Reed.”

He hesitated... and then nodded.

“I understand,” he said. “I’ll keep this between us.”

You exhaled softly, the tension in your shoulders loosening just a little.

“I’ll run deeper scans,” Reed added, his tone shifting back toward the scientific. “I want to study this version’s neurological data. If there’s even a trace of Steve’s consciousness—”

“Then we tell Bucky,” you said. “Together.”

He nodded again. “Agreed.”

You looked back at the projection one more time before turning away.

It wasn’t Steve. But it felt like him. Like a phantom echo. A mirage your heart wanted to chase — but couldn’t.

You turned away from the door before the man inside could speak again. Before he could smile and tear another hole in your chest.

As the door sealed shut behind you, your legs nearly gave out from beneath you. You caught yourself on the cold wall, heart racing.

Steve’s face was back in the world.

And you had no idea how long you could keep it secret.

────✪────

The tower was quieter at night — no footsteps in the halls, no voices echoing through the common areas, no alerts pinging from the comms. Just silence, heavy and still.

You were lying in bed, eyes on the ceiling, the room bathed in soft, warm light from the bedside lamp. You’d changed into something comfortable hours ago, ready for your date night, and were trying to relax beforehand. Process everything that had happened. But rest hadn’t come. Every time you closed your eyes, your mind dragged you back to the lab. To Reed.

To the way Johnny Storm’s variant looked like Steve Rogers.

It had been hours since you left the lab. You hadn’t told anyone — not Sam, not Yelena, and definitely not Bucky. You’d eaten half a protein bar, drank some tea, and curled into your bed, hoping for sleep. But instead, you were stuck inside your own head, spinning in circles of guilt and protective instinct.

You didn’t even hear the knock at first. Just a soft thunk thunk at the door.

You sat up slightly, blinking.

“Yeah?” your voice rasped.

“...It’s me,” came the muffled voice.

Your heart tugged in recognition.

You padded barefoot to the door and cracked it open to find Bucky standing in a loose shirt and sweatpants, hair tousled like he’d run his hand through it a hundred times. His eyes searched yours, worry etched into every line on his face.

“You didn’t come to dinner” he said softly. “You okay?”

Your lips parted, but for a second, you didn’t know what to say. You finally nodded, stepping aside to let him in.

“Just… a lot on my mind,” you murmured.

He stepped inside quietly. The door clicked shut behind him. He didn’t go far, just stood near the edge of your bed like he wasn’t sure if he should sit or stay.

You climbed back into the bed and looked over your shoulder at him. “You can lie down. If you want.”

That was all it took. Bucky crossed the room slowly, eased onto the bed, and lay facing you. It was quiet for a beat — the kind of quiet that presses into your ribs.

“What did Reed find?” he asked gently.

You hesitated. Then lied. “Just more data. Another anomaly he’s investigating. But nothing solid.”

His gaze lingered on yours for a long second. Maybe he knew you weren’t being fully honest. Maybe he just trusted you enough not to push.

“Mm,” he hummed. “Okay.”

You studied him. His face was shadowed but soft. Less guarded than usual. His shoulders weren’t quite so tense.

“How are you doing?” you asked, voice barely above a whisper.

He gave you a tired little smile. “I promised I’d stop lying when you ask me that, didn’t I?”

You nodded.

“I’m tired,” he said, exhaling slowly. “Not from the fighting. Not even from Doom or the mission. I’m just tired of feeling like I’m chasing ghosts. Of trying to make peace with who I was and not knowing if I deserve any of this.”

Your heart squeezed. You reached out without thinking, your fingers grazing his forearm.

“I’m glad you’re here,” you said.

A silence stretched, but this one was comfortable.

His hand found your hip beneath the blanket. Warm and gentle. He rested it there for a moment, like he was testing how close he could be without scaring you off.

You didn’t flinch.

“I like it,” you said softly, not looking away. “When you touch me.”

Bucky’s brows lifted slightly, a flicker of surprise in his eyes. “Yeah?”

You nodded. “I feel… safe.”

His thumb swept across your hip, tracing slow circles. “That’s all I ever wanted,” he murmured. “To make you feel safe.”

You swallowed, heart fluttering as he leaned in just a bit closer, their noses almost touching. You could feel his breath against your lips. His eyes searched yours, and then dropped briefly to your mouth, like he was weighing a decision.

“I had feelings for you,” he whispered, “even when you hated me.”

Your breath caught.

“I didn’t want to,” he added quickly. “You had every reason to hate me. And I told myself I didn’t deserve to want anything from you. But I’d watch you on missions. Hear you laugh in the hallway. See you stand your ground with Sam. And I couldn’t help it.”

A soft sound escaped your lips — a whimper somewhere between awe and disbelief.

“I didn’t hate you,” you whispered back. “Not really. I wanted to. But deep down… I think I was so afraid to come to terms with what I really felt. It was easier to fight with you than… the other thing.”

Your hand found his jaw and held it, thumb brushing across the stubble along his cheek.

“I think,” you added, ready to elaborate. “I was scared to forgive you, because if I did… I’d have to admit how badly I wanted you too.”

His breath stilled.

You leaned in closer, your foreheads almost touching.

“I wanted you when I thought I shouldn’t,” you said, lips barely brushing his. “And now… I just want you.”

Bucky closed the gap, but it wasn’t desperate — it was soft, sweet, tender. The kind of kiss that lingered. His hand slid up to your waist, holding you gently. Yours tangled in his hair.

And for a moment, the weight of everything — of multiversal threats, of ghosts in the shape of Steve and Tony — melted away.

It was just the two of you. Whispering warmth and safety into each other’s mouths.

And when the kiss broke, and Bucky tucked you against his chest, his arm curling around your back, you finally felt content. 

You were lying face to face with Bucky, your noses almost touching, the warmth of his palm still resting gently against your waist. You were both content to just be. To breathe each other in. To exist in the same sliver of peace.

His thumb made slow circles over your shirt, right above your hip. You’d long forgotten how to keep your heart from racing around him.

“As much as I love lying here with you, I did promise I’d take you out tonight.” He said, his voice low and husky from the hour. You hummed in response, eyes half-lidded, fingers absently brushing the seam of his sleeve.

He reached up and gently tucked a piece of hair behind your ear, fingertips barely skimming your skin. You shivered—not from the chill, but from the softness of it. From him.

“Oh, so you did.”

“Come sneak out with me,” he whispered, right against your temple.

You blinked, caught off guard. “What?”

His grin was slow and teasing. “Let’s get outta here. Just for a while.”

You stared at him, half laughing, half suspicious. “Bucky. It’s nearly one in the morning.”

“Exactly. Everyone’s asleep. No one will miss us.”

You raised a brow. “What are we, sixteen?”

“Not since the Great Depression,” he said with a smirk. “But I still know how to cause a little trouble.”

You shook your head, biting back a grin. “Where would we even go?”

“I told you earlier, it’s a surprise.”

You groaned. “I hate surprises.”

He tilted his head, eyes sparkling. “Do you trust me?”

The question hung there, weighty, gentle, honest.

Your smile faded, but in its place came something deeper—something vulnerable. You nodded, slow. “Yeah. I trust you.”

His smile softened. “Then come with me. I promise you’ll like it.”

You stared at him, your breath catching—completely and utterly gone for him.

“All right, James Barnes,” you whispered. “Let’s go break the rules.”

────✪────

The rusted gate creaked behind you as you both dropped onto the sand-dusted boardwalk, giggling like you were teenagers again—though Bucky technically had at least a century on that title. The whole place was draped in shadows, lit only by the flickering remnants of carnival lights left on for maintenance or nostalgia. The sea whispered behind you, and the wind tugged at your clothes as Bucky caught your hand and tugged you deeper in.

Coney Island was asleep, but somehow more alive than it had ever been.

"Okay, rules of the fair," Bucky said, voice low, full of mischief. "One: you have to let me win every game we don't actually play. Two: you must pretend to be utterly charmed when I twirl you. And three—most important—no phones, no mission talk, just you and me."

You held up three fingers like a scout. “Scout’s honor.”

“You were never a scout.”

“You were never charming.” You bit back, with a smile painting your face and stars in your eyes.

“Ouch,” he grinned, already pulling you toward the carousel. It sat still and silent, the hand-painted horses frozen in place. Most of the lights had been turned off, but the moonlight cast a silver sheen across the platform.

“I dare you to ride one,” he said, eyes glinting.

“You dare me?”

He nodded solemnly. “Ride it like a princess.”

“Oh, I see. And what does that make you?”

He stepped closer, voice dropping theatrically as he tugged on his jacket. “Your loyal knight in shining leather.”

You threw your head back and laughed. “God, you’re cheesy.”

“Excuse you, I’m gallant.”

Still laughing, you mounted the tallest horse, gripping the pole, dramatically tossing your hair. “Take me on my steed, knight!”

“Yes, Your Majesty,” he said with a faux-bow, pretending to draw an invisible sword. “I vow to protect your honour and steal your cotton candy.”

The wind whooshed around you as he stepped up onto the carousel and reached for your waist. With a playful grunt, he lifted you off the horse, spun you once in the air, and planted you gently back down—your laughter ringing loud in the night.

Your cheeks were hot, and your grin stretched ear to ear.

“I hate how strong you are,” you said breathlessly.

“You love it,” he teased, his hands not leaving your waist just yet.

“I’m not confirming or denying anything.”

Then, you noticed it—the Ferris wheel. Set a little ways off, mostly dark, except for one lone cabin light that blinked weakly every few seconds. The wheel wasn’t running, but it was gently rotating—just enough for someone to sneak a ride.

You glanced at Bucky.

He raised a brow. “You thinking what I’m thinking?”

“Depends. You thinking felony trespassing?”

“I was thinking romance. But felony trespassing is a close second.”

You grabbed his hand. “Then let’s go commit a crime.”

He laughed all the way there, helping you climb into one of the cars. It creaked as it lifted, slow and lazy. You shivered from the chill, and Bucky immediately shrugged off his leather jacket and wrapped it around your shoulders.

“Look at that,” you said softly, curling into his side. “A gentleman and a criminal.”

“Only for you.”

You rested your head against his shoulder, your breath fogging slightly in the air.

“I used to bring girls here,” Bucky said after a long pause, voice low and nostalgic. “Back before the war. Before everything. It was always Coney Island.”

You sat up a little, narrowing your eyes. “Wow. I feel so special.”

He laughed quietly, the sound bittersweet. “Hey, I haven’t brought anyone here since, well... not for about ninety years.”

You blinked. “Seriously?”

He nodded. “Not since Steve and I shipped out.”

Your chest ached, but in the warm, aching way.

His hand found yours again, intertwining your fingers like it was the easiest thing in the world.

“I used to think what I felt for those girls was real,” he said. “Back then, everything felt real. But it wasn’t. Not like this.”

You turned to him slowly. “Like what?”

He looked at you—not just looked, saw you. In a way that made your skin warm beneath your clothes, even in the cold wind.

“Like this,” he whispered, brushing a thumb across your cheek. “This is different.”

Your breath hitched. “Yeah… it is.”

The Ferris wheel turned on, just enough to shift the car you were in, giving you a sweeping view of the empty boardwalk below. Everything quiet, timeless. Like the world had pressed pause and made space for just the two of you.

Bucky leaned in, his lips brushing yours with a softness that made your stomach flutter. When he kissed you, it wasn’t rushed. It was reverent. Like every part of him was savoring the moment.

When you pulled away, he pressed his forehead to yours.

“Best first date I’ve ever had,” you whispered.

He smiled, brushing your nose with his. “I’m not even done yet.”

You grinned. “What else is there?”

He nodded toward the beach. “Stars.”

────✪────

You kicked off your shoes the second your feet touched the sand, the grains still warm in patches from the sun earlier that day. Bucky followed, boots in hand, his rolled-up sleeves brushing against his forearms as the two of you wandered toward the tide. The moon hung low above the ocean like it was watching you, soft and golden.

You dropped onto the sand with a sigh, hugging your knees as the waves whispered their endless lullaby. Bucky sat beside you, then stretched out on his back with his arms behind his head. You glanced at him—his profile soft, more boyish in the moonlight than you'd ever seen him before.

“Lie down,” he murmured, patting the space beside him.

You did, your head on his shoulder, his jacket draped over you like a cocoon. He turned slightly, adjusting to cradle you better, one hand resting protectively over your waist, fingers splayed like he wanted to memorise every curve.

The stars were scattered across the sky like glitter tossed by a careless god.

“This was our favorite thing,” Bucky said after a while, voice quieter than the ocean. “Me and Steve. We'd come out here late, lay on the boardwalk or the roof of my building, and just… stare. No talking. No noise. Just… stars.”

You closed your eyes for a second, imagining that younger version of him. Smiling. Carefree. Unburdened by war or metal arms or trauma.

“I think he saw something up there I never did,” Bucky continued, “Hope. A future. Something good waiting.”

You swallowed hard, feeling the weight of the secret tucked behind your ribs. A Johnny Storm variant that looked just like Steve Rogers. Too much like him. The resemblance had sent ice down your spine. You touched Bucky’s chest lightly, feeling the slow, steady rhythm of his heart.

“He was right, though,” you whispered. “There is something good waiting.”

He looked down at you, his mouth twitching into the ghost of a smile. “Yeah?”

You nodded. “It’s this. Right here. You and me.”

He didn’t answer right away. Instead, he tilted his head to kiss the top of yours, lingering for a beat too long, like he was scared the moment might vanish if he moved too quickly.

“I don’t know what I did to deserve this,” he said against your hair.

You tilted your head up toward him. “Maybe it’s not about what you did. Maybe it’s about what you do now.”

He stared at you. And there it was again—that open, wounded awe in his eyes, like he still couldn’t believe you were real. That you’d forgiven him. That you’d chosen him.

“Can I ask you something?” he murmured.

“Anything.”

His hand moved from your waist to your cheek. “Back there, in the tower… before this. When you said you like when I touch you—was that just a line? Or…”

You leaned in, kissing the corner of his mouth.

“Not a line,” you whispered. “It’s the truth.”

His smile was shy but electric. “Good. Because I don’t think I can stop.”

You laughed, the sound melting into the sound of the waves. “Then don’t.”

You closed the distance, pressing your lips to his in a slow, deliberate kiss that melted into something deeper. His breath hitched, and his hands moved—one sliding under your shirt, fingers grazing the bare skin of your side, the heat of his touch making you shiver.

Your hands found their way to the front of his shirt, fingers tracing the hard muscles beneath, before boldly slipping beneath the fabric to feel the warmth of his skin. 

The stars were wide and endless above you, a smattering of silver across the dark velvet sky. You lay together in the soft, cool sand at Coney Island, wrapped in the folds of Bucky’s worn leather jacket. The wind carried salt and sea and silence, but none of that mattered — not with the weight of him over you, his mouth locked on yours like he was starved for every taste.

And you kissed him back just as hungrily, gasping when his tongue swept against yours, when his hips shifted against yours, slow and searching.

You felt everything.

The rough denim of his jeans against your thighs. The warmth of his hands sliding beneath your jacket, fingers curling under the hem of your shirt. The press of his clothed thigh between your legs where you’d unconsciously slotted yourself against him.

“God,” he muttered against your mouth, voice strained, reverent. “You feel so good like this.”

Your breath hitched as he adjusted his thigh just right — and you instinctively moved, hips rocking forward, rubbing against the strong line of muscle. It was clothed, it was barely anything — but your body jolted, craving more.

“Bucky…” you whispered, dizzy.

He kissed you again, slower this time, almost tentative. But his hands were not — one slid up the length of your back to hold you close, the other trailing down, past your waist to where your leggings hugged tight to your hips.

“Can I?” he asked, voice hoarse, palm resting at the curve between your thighs. “I won’t go any further unless you want—”

You nodded before he could even finish.

“I want,” you breathed. “Please, I want—”

That was all it took.

His hand moved over you, warm and steady, rubbing slow circles over the heat that pulsed between your legs. The pressure sent a jolt through your spine. Your hands clawed at his back through his shirt, needing something to anchor yourself as your hips rutted against him, desperate for friction.

“Jesus,” Bucky groaned, voice muffled against your throat. “Watching you like this — grinding on me — you’re gonna kill me.”

You whimpered when he pressed harder, a precise, perfect drag of his fingers over your leggings, right where you needed him most. Your body was trembling now, breath catching with each stroke.

And then — his thigh shifted again beneath you, and you found yourself rocking against it while he kept his fingers working you through your leggings. A filthy, delicious rhythm.

You gasped his name.

His mouth crashed to yours, swallowing your sounds as he pressed into you with equal urgency — the thick line of his erection clearly outlined through his jeans now, grinding against your hip.

“Fuck, baby,” he whispered, forehead pressed to yours. “You’re drivin’ me crazy. You feel that?”

You nodded, dazed. “You’re hard…”

“For you,” he said, his voice nearly breaking. “Been hard since you kissed me on that damn carousel.”

You shifted then, adjusting your angle — straddling one of his jean-clad thighs while reaching down between you, just bold enough now to cup him through his jeans. He choked out a groan and buried his face in your shoulder.

“Oh fuck—don’t do that unless you wanna see me lose it right here,” he growled, laughing breathlessly.

“I do,” you whispered with a smirk, rolling your hips down against him.

The air around you turned hot and thick, full of panting and groans and need. You rubbed against his thigh, hips rocking, slick and desperate beneath your clothes. And Bucky — Bucky met your rhythm, hands on your ass, pressing you down against him as he thrust up into the crook of your thigh.

The moment was messy, wild, completely clothed — but somehow more vulnerable than anything you’d ever felt.

“I’m close,” you gasped, shaking.

“Me too,” he rasped, voice wrecked. “Let go for me. Wanna feel you come on me like this.”

And you did — with a broken cry muffled against his lips, your body wracked with waves of pleasure as your hips stuttered against his thigh.

Moments later, Bucky came too, groaning into your shoulder, holding you tight as his body trembled. The press of his cock against you went rigid, twitching through his jeans as he spilled into his boxers, panting like he’d just gone ten rounds in the ring.

Silence followed — just the crashing of waves and the sound of both your hearts hammering out of sync.

Then Bucky laughed softly, breathless and warm. “First date, huh?”

You buried your face in his neck. “Best one I’ve ever had.”

“Don’t tell the carousel horse,” he teased. “It’ll be jealous.”

You giggled, tightening your hold on him.

And neither of you moved — not right away. The stars shone down, and for now, the weight of the multiverse didn’t exist.

Just him. Just you. And the soft, sweet echo of everything you were becoming together.

────✪────

Sebastian Stan taglist: @notreallythatlost @houseofaegon @bunnyfella @sunday-bug @wintrsoldrluvr @maryevm @mcira @monsteraddicts-world @positivenergy @cherriesnmango @navs-bhat @hits-different-cause-its-you @avivarougestan

Fic taglist: @ruexj283 @avengemepercy @espressovz @sebastians-love @cherryandsugar @torntaltos @ficr3ccs @sexyvixen7 @starstruckfirecat @mikaylacriiistina @imaginecrushes @1000shipsnh @bcksgirl @bitterspoons @cinammonstixes @k8andthemagneticzeros @cherriesnmango @ropickle @mash-em-up @pinkcoquettebow @niceforcum @amanda-says @flowerluvr @nowayhomeboo @honeygirl724 @theoraekenslover @anotherrickinthewall @emminomm @biaswreckedbybuckybarnes

Want to be added to a taglist? Let me know which one!

[mandoalorian]

a poet??? 😭😭😭 this means everything to me, coming from someone as talented as yourself. 💞💞💞

i love you sunny 🫶🏻

let down and hanging around

an introspective study of bucky barnes’ depression

now playing: let down by radiohead

ᯓ★ bucky barnes masterlist

set pre-tfatws

warnings for descriptions of emptiness and depression. i write how i feel & this one feels very private to me, but i share in the hope that it reaches the people who maybe need it; for the people who might feel less alone knowing bucky has felt the same. ༊*·˚

The Brooklyn apartment was too small for the weight it held.

Bucky sat on a thin purple blanket he’d picked up from a market, elbows on knees, staring at the floorboards like they might split open and swallow him. The wood was scuffed, worn by decades of other lives, other stories. He envied their ghosts—people who’d lived here, loved here, left marks without carrying a century of blood on their hands. The room smelled of dust and faintly of the coffee he’d brewed hours ago, now cold in a chipped mug on the counter. Outside, the city hummed, alive and indifferent. He was a stranger in its pulse.

Loneliness wasn’t new. It had been his shadow since the trenches of war, since the fall from the train when the world fractured into steel and ice. But this was a different breed—slow, gnawing, less a guest than a permanent resident. It clung to him in Wakanda’s peace, in the brief camaraderie of battle, and now here, in this borrowed life he didn’t know how to live.

Steve was gone. Not dead, but gone—chasing a life Bucky couldn’t follow. The choice hadn’t been a betrayal, not really, but it cut all the same. Steve had found his home. Bucky was still drifting, untethered, a man out of time in a world that didn’t need him.

He stood, metal arm catching the dim light from the window, and crossed to the sink. The dishes were clean—had been for days. He washed them anyway, scrubbing at nothing, because the motion was something to do. His reflection in the faucet’s curve was warped, a smear of dark hair and hollow eyes. He didn’t look long. Mirrors were cruel, showing a face too young for its memories. Ninety years of violence, of being unmade and remade, and yet the world saw only a man in his thirties, tired but unremarkable. He wondered if that was worse—being invisible in his pain.

Depression wasn’t a word he used. It felt modern, clinical, like something from the therapist he’d been dodging. But it fit, the way it settled in his bones, heavy as the vibranium in his shoulder. It wasn’t just sadness. Sadness had edges, a beginning and end. This was vast, formless, a fog that blurred the days into one long twilight. He woke, he breathed, he moved through the world, but it was like wading through water—every step deliberate, every thought sluggish. He’d fought gods and monsters, but this quiet enemy was harder to face. It didn’t bleed. It didn’t die.

He’d tried to fill the void. He’d bought a notebook, leather-bound, thinking he’d write down memories to anchor himself. But the pages stayed blank. The good memories—Steve’s laugh, his mother’s voice, Coney Island’s lights—were faded, fragile things, like photographs left in the sun. The bad ones were sharper: screams, gunfire, the cold bite of cryo. He’d torn the first page out, crumpled it, and hadn’t touched the book since. It sat on the shelf, mocking him, next to a plant he kept forgetting to water. The leaves were yellowing, curling inward. He didn’t throw it out. Killing something else felt too final.

Nights were the worst. Sleep was a battlefield, dreams stitching together fragments of lives he’d lived and lives he’d taken. He woke gasping, sweat-soaked, the phantom weight of a rifle in his hands. He stopped trying to sleep most nights, choosing the TV’s flicker instead. Old sitcoms, news, documentaries—it didn’t matter. The noise was a tether, proof the world was still turning. He’d sit on the floor, back against the couch, knees drawn up, and let the voices wash over him. Sometimes he’d catch himself almost smiling at a joke, then the guilt would crash in. What right did he have to joy when his ledger was so red?

He thought about reaching out. Sam’s number was in his phone, a lifeline he couldn’t bring himself to pull. Sam was good, steady, but Bucky didn’t know how to talk without breaking. He’d spent decades as a weapon, words stripped away, and now they felt clumsy, inadequate. What could he say?

I’m drowning in my own head. I don’t know who I am without a fight. I’m scared I’ll never feel human again.

Sam would listen, maybe even understand, but Bucky couldn’t burden him with that. He’d carried enough for others.

The city outside kept moving. Kids shouted in the street, horns blared, life spun on. Bucky watched it from his window, a spectator to a world he couldn’t join. He’d walk sometimes, hood up, hands in pockets, blending into the crowd. But even surrounded by people, the loneliness was suffocating. They had lives—friends, families, futures. He had a past that wouldn’t let go and a present that felt like limbo. He’d pass couples laughing, kids chasing pigeons, and feel a pang so sharp it stole his breath. Not jealousy, but grief—for the man he might’ve been if the world hadn’t broken him.

He sat back on the blanket, the material scrunching up under his weight. The clock read 2:17 AM. Another night bleeding into dawn. He closed his eyes, not to sleep but to shut out the room, the city, the weight of being alive. In the dark, he could almost pretend he was nothing—just a shadow, weightless, free. But the morning would come, and with it, the fight to keep going. Not for himself, not yet, but because giving up would mean letting the Winter Soldier win. And Bucky Barnes, fractured as he was, wasn’t ready to lose that war.

————⋅˚₊‧ ୨୧ ‧₊˚ ⋅————

Sebastian Stan taglist: @notreallythatlost @houseofaegon @bunnyfella @sunday-bug @wintrsoldrluvr @maryevm @mcira @monsteraddicts-world @positivenergy @cherriesnmango @navs-bhat @hits-different-cause-its-you @avivarougestan

[mandoalorian]

i know everyone talks about the stereotypical “avengers tower fic” with clint in the vents, y/n having purple chaos magic, messy buns, a love affair between y/n, bucky and loki, but can anyone recommend me one with some of these tropes? idc that they’re meant to be notoriously bad i really wanna indulge in one but i can’t find them!

i only use ao3 and tumblr , thank you!

[mandoalorian]

let down and hanging around

an introspective study of bucky barnes’ depression

now playing: let down by radiohead

ᯓ★ bucky barnes masterlist

set pre-tfatws

warnings for descriptions of emptiness and depression. i write how i feel & this one feels very private to me, but i share in the hope that it reaches the people who maybe need it; for the people who might feel less alone knowing bucky has felt the same. ༊*·˚

The Brooklyn apartment was too small for the weight it held.

Bucky sat on a thin purple blanket he’d picked up from a market, elbows on knees, staring at the floorboards like they might split open and swallow him. The wood was scuffed, worn by decades of other lives, other stories. He envied their ghosts—people who’d lived here, loved here, left marks without carrying a century of blood on their hands. The room smelled of dust and faintly of the coffee he’d brewed hours ago, now cold in a chipped mug on the counter. Outside, the city hummed, alive and indifferent. He was a stranger in its pulse.

Loneliness wasn’t new. It had been his shadow since the trenches of war, since the fall from the train when the world fractured into steel and ice. But this was a different breed—slow, gnawing, less a guest than a permanent resident. It clung to him in Wakanda’s peace, in the brief camaraderie of battle, and now here, in this borrowed life he didn’t know how to live.

Steve was gone. Not dead, but gone—chasing a life Bucky couldn’t follow. The choice hadn’t been a betrayal, not really, but it cut all the same. Steve had found his home. Bucky was still drifting, untethered, a man out of time in a world that didn’t need him.

He stood, metal arm catching the dim light from the window, and crossed to the sink. The dishes were clean—had been for days. He washed them anyway, scrubbing at nothing, because the motion was something to do. His reflection in the faucet’s curve was warped, a smear of dark hair and hollow eyes. He didn’t look long. Mirrors were cruel, showing a face too young for its memories. Ninety years of violence, of being unmade and remade, and yet the world saw only a man in his thirties, tired but unremarkable. He wondered if that was worse—being invisible in his pain.

Depression wasn’t a word he used. It felt modern, clinical, like something from the therapist he’d been dodging. But it fit, the way it settled in his bones, heavy as the vibranium in his shoulder. It wasn’t just sadness. Sadness had edges, a beginning and end. This was vast, formless, a fog that blurred the days into one long twilight. He woke, he breathed, he moved through the world, but it was like wading through water—every step deliberate, every thought sluggish. He’d fought gods and monsters, but this quiet enemy was harder to face. It didn’t bleed. It didn’t die.

He’d tried to fill the void. He’d bought a notebook, leather-bound, thinking he’d write down memories to anchor himself. But the pages stayed blank. The good memories—Steve’s laugh, his mother’s voice, Coney Island’s lights—were faded, fragile things, like photographs left in the sun. The bad ones were sharper: screams, gunfire, the cold bite of cryo. He’d torn the first page out, crumpled it, and hadn’t touched the book since. It sat on the shelf, mocking him, next to a plant he kept forgetting to water. The leaves were yellowing, curling inward. He didn’t throw it out. Killing something else felt too final.

Nights were the worst. Sleep was a battlefield, dreams stitching together fragments of lives he’d lived and lives he’d taken. He woke gasping, sweat-soaked, the phantom weight of a rifle in his hands. He stopped trying to sleep most nights, choosing the TV’s flicker instead. Old sitcoms, news, documentaries—it didn’t matter. The noise was a tether, proof the world was still turning. He’d sit on the floor, back against the couch, knees drawn up, and let the voices wash over him. Sometimes he’d catch himself almost smiling at a joke, then the guilt would crash in. What right did he have to joy when his ledger was so red?

He thought about reaching out. Sam’s number was in his phone, a lifeline he couldn’t bring himself to pull. Sam was good, steady, but Bucky didn’t know how to talk without breaking. He’d spent decades as a weapon, words stripped away, and now they felt clumsy, inadequate. What could he say?

I’m drowning in my own head. I don’t know who I am without a fight. I’m scared I’ll never feel human again.

Sam would listen, maybe even understand, but Bucky couldn’t burden him with that. He’d carried enough for others.

The city outside kept moving. Kids shouted in the street, horns blared, life spun on. Bucky watched it from his window, a spectator to a world he couldn’t join. He’d walk sometimes, hood up, hands in pockets, blending into the crowd. But even surrounded by people, the loneliness was suffocating. They had lives—friends, families, futures. He had a past that wouldn’t let go and a present that felt like limbo. He’d pass couples laughing, kids chasing pigeons, and feel a pang so sharp it stole his breath. Not jealousy, but grief—for the man he might’ve been if the world hadn’t broken him.

He sat back on the blanket, the material scrunching up under his weight. The clock read 2:17 AM. Another night bleeding into dawn. He closed his eyes, not to sleep but to shut out the room, the city, the weight of being alive. In the dark, he could almost pretend he was nothing—just a shadow, weightless, free. But the morning would come, and with it, the fight to keep going. Not for himself, not yet, but because giving up would mean letting the Winter Soldier win. And Bucky Barnes, fractured as he was, wasn’t ready to lose that war.

————⋅˚₊‧ ୨୧ ‧₊˚ ⋅————

Sebastian Stan taglist: @notreallythatlost @houseofaegon @bunnyfella @sunday-bug @wintrsoldrluvr @maryevm @mcira @monsteraddicts-world @positivenergy @cherriesnmango @navs-bhat @hits-different-cause-its-you @avivarougestan

[mandoalorian]

sweet like plums [bucky barnes x reader]

Pairing: Civil War!Bucky Barnes x F!Reader

Synopsis: In the heart of Bucharest, a quiet fruit stall holds the key to Bucky Barnes’ fragile peace. Beneath the surface of his daily visits, a connection begins to form with the stall’s owner, someone who unknowingly becomes his anchor. But when danger strikes, Bucky’s protective instincts—and a hunger deeper than he realises—unleash.

Word Count: 4000

Tags/warnings: 18+ explicit content, p in v, f recieving oral, overstimulation, Bucky is rough and touch-starved, Bucky goes between speaking English and Russian (but everything is translated), canon-typical violence, set pre-Civil War.

˚₊· ͟͟͞͞➳❥Masterlist

The city always woke before you did.

Vendors lifted their tarps with cold-stiff fingers, breath curling in clouds as they arranged their wares — crates of oranges gleaming under dusted frost, tomatoes nestled in cloth, fish still slick from the morning catch. The scent of bread from the bakery down the street mixed with the tang of damp stone and cigarette smoke. Voices echoed off the crumbling concrete of apartment blocks, and the sound of passing trams rumbled like thunder in the distance. It wasn’t glamorous, but it was yours.

You arranged your fruit with care, lining up the apples and pears, brushing each plum until it gleamed like glass in the weak morning light. You were halfway through stacking crates when you felt him.

Same as always.

He never made a sound, but you knew the moment he arrived.

He kept to the edges. You didn’t know his name. Didn’t know anything about him, really—except that he came nearly every morning, sometimes twice, always quiet, always alone.

He wore the same outfits most days. Black cargos or muddy, worn-in jeans or sometimes grey sweatpants that looked just a bit too small on him. Today he was wearing a red henley under a gray coat, the sleeves pushed up just enough to expose the edges of a glove on his left hand. His hair was dark and long, tucked under a black cap, and his jaw was always dusted with stubble, like shaving wasn’t worth the trouble. He looked tired, but strong. Solid.

He always stood a few paces away from your stall at first, like he needed to ease into it.

Like he was afraid.

You offered him a smile, same as you did every day. Not too much—just enough to show you noticed him. That you didn’t mind.

“Morning,” you said softly.

He gave a single nod in return.

That was how it always started.

He never asked for anything. Just hovered near the plums until you held out a paper bag filled with the best ones. You always made sure to pick them just right—ripe but firm, slightly cool from the early air.

You held the bag out to him now. “First of the season. They’re a little tart still.”

He took the bag from your hand with surprising care, his fingers brushing yours for the briefest moment.

You felt it.

So did he.

“They help me remember things,” he said quietly, almost like it slipped out before he could catch it.

You looked up at him. That was the most he’d ever said to you.

“Plums do?” you asked gently.

He nodded, not meeting your eyes. “Sometimes.”

It was something about the sugar, the juice, the bite — they grounded him. Sometimes they sparked a memory. A flash of summer at Coney Island. His sister grinning with purple juice staining her chin. A paper bag splitting down the middle and the laughter that followed. He held onto moments like that the way a drowning man held onto rope.

You wanted to ask more, but something about the way he stood—shoulders tense, jaw clenched—made you hold your tongue. This wasn’t a man used to being asked questions. This was a man used to disappearing.

Still, you offered him a real smile. “Then I’ll make sure I keep the good ones aside for you.”

His gaze flicked up to yours, just for a second.

“Thank you,” he said, voice rough.

You watched as he turned away, crossing the square. He didn’t leave, though. Not completely. He stopped near the edge of a tall stone pillar, pretending to study the tram schedule posted beside it.

But you knew better.

He was watching you.

He always did that. Stuck around just long enough to make it obvious. Long enough to make your skin prickle and your heart beat a little faster.

And still—he never said more. Never lingered at your stall. Never asked your name.

Sometimes you wondered if he even knew how to.

It had been a quiet morning. You had greeted a few of your regulars and started making a shipment list to your supplier. The sun was golden and you basked in the warmth. You were open to spring-time heat, especially coming out of one of the coldest winters. 

You were organising a box of apples when the shouting started.

A loud bang. The scrape of boots against pavement. Then a voice—sharp and angry.

“Hey! Open the drawer!”

You looked up just in time to see three men rush your stall. One of them slammed a hand against the side of the table, knocking over a box of fruit. Another pulled a gun.

People screamed. Someone ran. Your chest locked up.

One of them grabbed your wrist.

And then—

He was there.

The man in the red henley.

Moving so fast, he didn’t seem human.

The man’s fingers dug into your wrist, nails scraping over your glove as he yanked you forward, hard enough to send your hip crashing into the stall. Apples and plums spilled onto the pavement, rolling beneath boots. The crate hit the ground with a loud crack, and your breath hitched.

“Open the drawer,” he snapped, his accent thick. He shoved the barrel of the gun toward your ribs. “Now.”

Your heart was pounding so hard it felt like it might crack your ribs from the inside.

You barely even noticed the crowd disappearing. They always did. The moment a weapon came out, people vanished like smoke, like survival instinct was stronger than loyalty. You didn’t blame them.

But you didn’t expect him to stay.

He had been watching the whole time.

The moment the first shout pierced the air, his body reacted faster than his mind. Muscle memory. Instinct. Violence uncoiling in his blood like something old and familiar.

He saw the way the man gripped your arm.

Saw the flash of fear in your eyes.

That was enough.

The paper bag hit the ground, forgotten.

He moved without thinking. Quiet as a ghost.

The first robber never saw him coming.

His shoulder slammed into the thief from the side, knocking the gun clean from his hand. It skittered across the stone. Before the others could react, the man had already turned, grabbing the second one by the front of his coat and lifting him off his feet.

He didn’t punch him.

He threw him.

Straight into a fruit cart.

Wood splintered. Oranges scattered.

The last one came at him with a knife.

The man caught his wrist, twisted—something popped—and the thief screamed. The knife clattered to the ground.

“Run,” He growled.

The thief didn’t need to be told twice. He scrambled away, limping, clutching his wrist. The others followed, leaving behind the wreckage of your stall and a trail of bruises.

You stood frozen.

The gun was still lying on the pavement, a few feet from your boot.

The man in the red henley stood there, chest heaving, shoulders squared like he was still in the middle of a fight. His eyes were wild—too blue, too sharp—and his gloved hand was clenched tight at his side.

For a moment, he didn’t look like the quiet man who bought plums.

He looked like something else entirely.

Something dangerous.

But then he looked at you—really looked—and his expression cracked.

“Are you hurt?” he asked, voice rough.

You blinked. It took a second for your body to catch up. Your heart was still racing.

“No,” you said quietly. “You—” Your voice caught. “You saved me.”

His gaze dropped to your arm, the one the man had grabbed. “He hurt you.”

“Just bruises,” you said. “I’m okay.”

He stepped back, jaw tight like he wasn’t sure what to do now. Like maybe he’d scared you.

“Wait,” you said, reaching out before you could stop yourself. Your fingers brushed his sleeve. “Are you hurt?”

He shook his head, silent.

Of course he wasn’t.

Of course nothing touched him.

He’d fought like a soldier. Like someone who’d done this before. A hundred times.

You glanced down at the mess—fruit everywhere, your crate broken, the drawer yanked open and empty.

“What’s your name?” You asked, stepping closer to the man, breaking the distance. The empty streets began to fill again, with people who had only just bolted away. The man looked away from you shyly. You offered him your name, and you saw the tension leave his body.

“My name is James, but people used to call me Bucky.” He said slowly, like he really had to think about it.

“Can I call you Bucky?” You asked softly, tilting your head to catch his gaze again. The man nodded ‘yes’. “Let me thank you,” you said, quieter now. “Come upstairs. I have something to drink. It’s the least I can do.”

He hesitated.

For a long moment, he didn’t speak. You could see the war behind his eyes—this wasn’t something he was used to. Being invited. Being wanted.

But finally, he gave a slow, stiff nod.

“Okay.”

°❀⋆.ೃ࿔:･°❀⋆.ೃ࿔:･

The hallway was narrow and cold, the steps creaking under your boots as you led him up to the second floor. The whole building smelled faintly of metal and cigarette smoke—old plumbing, older neighbors. You’d lived here long enough not to notice anymore.

Bucky followed you silently, his footsteps slow and heavy like he was waiting for something—like maybe this was a trap. Like at any moment, someone might step out from behind a door and drag him back into the shadows.

You unlocked your door and stepped inside first.

“It’s small,” you said over your shoulder. “But it’s safe.”

He paused on the threshold, his frame tense, wide shoulders filling the doorway. His eyes moved across the space—your tiny kitchenette, the sofa with the fraying throw blanket, the open window letting in cool air. His gaze lingered on the plum-scented candle flickering on the table.

He stepped in.

You closed the door behind him with a soft click.

“Sit,” you said gently, pointing to the couch. “Please.”

He didn’t sit right away. He stood near the window, head turning just slightly as if listening for footsteps in the street below. The war hadn’t left him, not really. You could see it in every twitch of his jaw.

You moved into the kitchen, filling two mismatched glasses—one with water, the other with a little vodka you kept stashed behind the tea tins. You handed the latter to him.

“Strong stuff,” you warned.

He took it from you without a word. His fingers brushed yours again—just barely—but it still made your breath catch.

Bucky sat down slowly, his massive frame sinking into the couch like he didn’t trust it to hold him. He kept the glass in both hands, staring at the clear liquid for a moment before finally taking a small sip.

“Not poisoned,” you joked softly.

A flicker of something—maybe a smile, maybe just relief—touched the corners of his mouth.

“You shouldn’t have done that,” you said after a beat.

His head turned sharply. “What?”

“Back there. With the men.”

His brows pulled together, like he was expecting a reprimand. A punishment. 

You crossed your arms and leaned against the wall. “You could’ve been shot.”

“I’ve had worse,” he muttered, almost to himself.

You believed that. God, did you believe that.

“But still,” you said. “It means something. That you helped me.”

He didn’t answer. Just stared down into his glass again, his expression unreadable.

“Why did you help me?”

A long pause.

Finally, in a voice so quiet you almost missed it: “Because it felt like the right thing to do.”

“Oh, Bucky.”

He glanced up. There was something in his eyes now—wary, but soft. Open. Like hearing his name in your voice cracked something loose in his chest.

You moved slowly toward the couch, sitting beside him. Not too close.

Not yet.

“You always came for plums,” you said. “Every day. Sometimes twice.”

He nodded.

“They really help your memory?”

“Sometimes,” he said again. A quiet, familiar echo.

“But that’s not why you came.”

It wasn’t a question.

His breath caught—just a little.

“I saw you,” you said, voice low. “I saw how you looked at me. You don’t talk much, but... I’m not blind.”

Silence stretched between you, heavy and intimate.

His voice came out rough. “I didn’t want to scare you.”

“You didn’t,” you said.

His eyes searched yours. Deep blue, guarded, hungry.

“You don’t scare me, Bucky.”

He blinked like he didn’t quite believe you.

Your hand brushed his arm, deliberate this time. He didn’t pull away. His breath hitched. His grip on the glass tightened. You saw the muscles in his throat work as he swallowed hard.

You leaned in.

“Tell me if you want me to stop,” you whispered.

He didn’t say anything.

But his eyes dropped to your mouth—and stayed there.

You didn’t kiss him first. You just leaned in, lips parting slightly, waiting—offering.

Bucky froze.

His breathing changed—deeper, more ragged. His eyes flicked from your mouth to your eyes, searching for hesitation. For regret.

There wasn’t any.

So he kissed you.

It wasn’t tentative.

It wasn’t careful.

His mouth crashed into yours like a dam breaking. Like something inside him had snapped free and couldn’t be held back anymore.

He kissed you like it hurt not to.

And God, he was hungry.

His hand came up to cup your jaw, fingers shaking just barely. You felt the cool press of his metal palm at your waist—gentle, hesitant—like he was afraid you might flinch. But you didn’t. You leaned into him, into the kiss, into the heat of him.

He groaned softly, like the sound escaped without permission. Like he didn’t know what to do with it.

You could taste the vodka on his tongue—sharp and clean—and something else. Something lonely.

When you pulled back to breathe, his eyes were wild. He looked stricken, almost.

“Bucky,” you whispered.

His jaw flexed. “You don’t know what you’re doing.”

You tilted your head. “Then tell me.”

He kissed you again. Slower this time, but no less intense.

“I haven’t—” he started, voice breaking. He swallowed hard. “It’s been a long time.”

You cupped his face. His stubble scratched your palm. “Then let me take care of you.”

His eyes closed, lashes dark against his cheek. And then—barely audible—he whispered, “Ты моя.”

Your heart stuttered.

“What does that mean?”

He opened his eyes. “You’re mine.”

A beat.

Then—

“Скажи мне, что это не мечта.” (“Tell me this isn’t a dream.”)

You kissed him again instead of answering. You pressed closer, climbed onto his lap without thinking. He gasped when you straddled him, hands automatically finding your hips. His metal one clenched like he didn’t trust it—like it might break you.

“I’m real,” you said softly. “I’m here.”

He rested his forehead against yours, breathing hard.

“Позволь мне.” he whispered. (“Let me.”)

Then his hands gripped you tight, dragging you against him. And there was nothing hesitant about it now.

He moved like a man starved.

Like someone who hadn’t touched softness in years, who didn’t know if he deserved it. And yet couldn’t stop taking it.

Your shirt was the first to go—lifted over your head and tossed somewhere to the floor. His mouth found your neck, trailing kisses like worship, like apology, like punishment.

You felt the bite of teeth. The graze of stubble. The hiss of air between his lips.

“Такая мягкая.” he groaned into your skin. (“So soft.”)

He tugged his red henley over his head with one sharp pull, revealing the scarred expanse of muscle and shadow. The sight of him—strong, beautiful, broken—took your breath away.

You ran your hands over his chest, pausing over the star near his shoulder. He flinched.

“Do you want me to stop?” you asked.

His voice cracked. “No. Don’t stop. Please.”

That please—it ruined you.

You kissed down his chest, tracing the scars, the stories he couldn’t say aloud. And when you reached his belt buckle, he let out a sound so low and wrecked it barely sounded human.

Then he said your name like a prayer.

Like a warning.

Like he wouldn’t survive this and didn’t care.

Bucky stood up and let you pull down his jeans, kicking off his shoes haphazardly and letting his discarded clothes pool on the floor, along with yours. His mouth was on yours in the next heartbeat, and you barely remembered backing toward the bed. You felt the firm weight of him, the unrelenting heat of his body as he walked you down until the backs of your knees hit the mattress. His fingers curled under your thighs, and he lifted you—lifted you like you weighed nothing—settling you in the centre of the bed as if you were something precious.

He stood above you for a moment, chest rising and falling like he’d been holding back for years. His hair was a mess from your fingers, lips kiss-swollen and parted.

“Ждал этого…” he murmured. (“I’ve waited for this…”)

Then he dropped to his knees at the edge of the bed.

Your breath caught. “What are you doing—?”

He dragged your pants and underwear down in one motion, slow but hungry, eyes never leaving yours.

“Let me taste you,” he rasped. He wasn’t asking.

Your heart stuttered. And then—

His mouth was on you.

He moaned into it, like he’d found salvation between your thighs. His tongue was unrelenting—broad strokes, then precise flicks that made your back arch and your fists twist in the sheets.

“Fuck—Bucky!”

He groaned, like the sound of his name on your lips made him even hungrier. His metal hand pinned your hips in place, holding you exactly where he wanted you while his other hand slid up your stomach, across your ribs, between your breasts.

“Такая сладкая…” (“So sweet…”)

Your legs trembled, your thighs clenching around his head, and he loved it—let you grind against his face like it was the only purpose he’d ever had.

You came hard—stars bursting behind your eyes, your hands tangled in his hair, thighs shaking around him.

But he didn’t stop.

“Too much,” you whimpered.

He looked up, eyes dark, pupils blown wide. “No. Not yet.”

And then he climbed up your body, kissing every inch—your stomach, the underside of your breast, your neck, your jaw—until he reached your mouth again.

You could taste yourself on his tongue, and the filthy thrill of it made your head spin.

“Bucky,” you whispered like it was a plea. “I need you. Now.”

He tugged his boxers down, and your breath caught at the sight of him—thick, flushed, aching.

He paused, forehead pressed to yours, chest heaving.

“It’s been so long,” he admitted, voice rough and raw. “I don’t know if I can—if I’ll be gentle.”

You reached down, stroking him softly. “Then don’t be.”

That snapped something in him.

He hooked your legs over his arms and buried himself inside you in one long, unrelenting thrust.

You gasped—he was so big, and the stretch was almost too much, but your body opened around him like it was made to.

“Fuck, you’re tight,” he groaned, jaw clenched. “Squeeze me just right…”

He started to move—slow at first, then deeper, faster, harder.

Your bodies slapped together in a filthy rhythm, the bed creaking beneath you, the sounds of your moans filling the room.

“You feel so good,” you whimpered. “So fucking good—”

He growled low in your ear, his voice guttural.

“Я буду разрушать тебя каждую ночь…” (“I’ll ruin you every night…”)

You whimpered, clinging to him, your nails digging into his back.

“Please—don’t stop—”

“Никогда.” he groaned. (“Never.”)

He shifted your legs higher, hitting a new angle that made your vision go white.

You cried out, and he grunted, eyes wild. “That’s it. That’s the spot. Take it, Звезда моя…” (“My star…”)

You were both close—you could feel it, the way he trembled, the way your core clenched around him with every thrust.

“I want you to come with me,” he whispered, burying his face in your neck. “Come with me, baby. I need to feel you—please—”

You shattered.

Your whole body arched off the bed, your orgasm crashing through you like a wave. Bucky followed with a loud, broken moan, burying himself deep, shaking with the force of it.

He collapsed against you, both of you panting, sweat-slick and trembling, tangled in each other like there was nothing else in the world but this.

He didn’t move for a long time.

Just lay there, half on top of you, breath slowing, arms trembling as they wrapped around your waist. His cheek rested on your chest. You felt his heart pounding—still erratic. Like he couldn’t quite believe any of it was real.

You carded your fingers through his hair, slow and steady. He shivered under your touch.

Neither of you said anything.

Not at first.

Then, after several minutes, he finally spoke—voice low, muffled.

“Did I hurt you?”

You blinked down at him. “What? No. Bucky, you—”

He shifted just enough to look at you. His eyes were glassy. Open in a way you hadn’t seen before. Vulnerable. Frightened, even.

“I’ve never… done that. Not since—before.”

Before Hydra. Before the Winter Soldier. Before everything.

Your chest ached. You pulled him closer. “You didn’t hurt me. You were gentle. You were perfect.”

He breathed out slowly like you’d just released some tension he’d been holding onto for years.

Still, his eyes searched your face. “It was too much. I was too—”

“You were human,” you said firmly. “You needed it. I needed it too.”

He stared at you for a beat, then nodded—barely. His gaze dropped to your bare chest, his fingers brushing your side with careful reverence.

You pulled the blanket up and over both of you. He shifted to lie beside you, pulling you into his chest like it was instinct like he needed to. You felt the soft press of his lips to your forehead.

And then, softly—

“I didn’t come back for the plums.”

You blinked up at him. “What?”

His lips twitched, barely a smile. “At the market. I kept saying I needed plums. That I liked them. But…”

“But?”

He hesitated, then whispered, “They help with memory. That part’s true. But I came back because of you.”

Your breath caught.

“I didn’t know how to talk to you. I didn’t think I should. But you were kind. And soft. And every time I saw you smile at me… I felt like I wasn’t a monster.”

You reached up, cupping his face. His metal arm tensed at your waist, then softened.

“You’re not,” you whispered. “You’re not, Bucky.”

He closed his eyes like he didn’t believe it, but wanted to.

You laid there for a long time, tangled together, the city quiet around you. His breathing slowed. So did yours. Eventually, he fell asleep—arm heavy around you, face pressed into your neck like he didn’t want to let go even in his dreams.

The morning came in again, soft and gold, light slipping through the sheer curtain beside your bed.

You were still tangled up in him—his leg hooked around yours, his arms holding you like a shield against the world. His hair was messy, his face unguarded in sleep.

You just stared.

Because somehow, this man—this ghost, this soldier, this stranger—had carved a space into your life overnight. And you weren’t sure you wanted him to leave.

He stirred a little when you shifted.

His voice came, low and rough. “Still here?”

You smiled. “Yeah. Still here.”

He blinked at you, barely awake, and for the first time, he looked peaceful.

“Good,” he said.

Then he kissed you—soft and slow this time, without hunger. Just need.

°❀⋆.ೃ࿔:･°❀⋆.ೃ࿔:･

Taglist: @notreallythatlost @houseofaegon @bunnyfella

If you want to be tagged in all my future Bucky/Sebastian works, let me know. <3

[mandoalorian]

my face reading this rb:

i am so glad you’re enjoying it, your words really made me so happy. 🥹🥹🫶🏻🫶🏻 yes you totally understand the sambucky dynamic i was going for! no matter what, they’ll figure things out. they have to, it’s them 💞

the night we stole the stars [bucky barnes x f!reader]

pairing: new avenger!bucky barnes x f!reader

synopsis: you and bucky chase the glow of a forgotten fairground, where soft kisses taste like memories in the making. beneath the boardwalk lights and scattered starlight, the night becomes yours—wild, sacred, and fleeting. but even as your hearts sync in stolen rhythm, something waits in the quiet edges of the multiverse, changing everything

word count: 7900

rating/warnings: 18+ explicit content, dry humping in public place, grinding, making out, plenty of sexual tension, angst in the making (sorry in advance), a little sambucky if you squint

masterlist

previous chapter | current | next chapter [coming soon]

It was early. Not sunrise-early — city early. Horns honked like an orchestra warming up. A dog barked three times in a row. Somewhere, a jackhammer stuttered to life.

Bucky liked mornings like this. Loud enough to drown out memories. Soft enough that everything still felt... possible.

He waited outside the Tower with two coffees in hand, both black. No sugar, no nonsense. He knew Sam would complain. That was kind of the point.

When Sam stepped outside, hoodie pulled over his head, he squinted at the sky like it had personally offended him. His eyes landed on Bucky, then on the second coffee. He walked over wordlessly and took it.

“No sugar?” he asked, sipping anyway.

Bucky shrugged. “You’re sweet enough.”

Sam huffed. “You flirting with me, Barnes?”

“You wish.”

They started walking with no clear destination, boots hitting pavement in sync. The Tower loomed behind them, and Bucky felt a little lighter the farther they got from it.

“So,” Sam said after a beat. “I signed Valentina’s accords, we’re on the same team now, what’s all this about?”

Bucky winced. “Us.”

“Okay, now you’re definitely flirting.” Sam smirked and Bucky stifled a laugh.

“Outside all of this: Doom and the multiverse and… her,” Bucky stopped as he noticed Sam’s face soften. “I really miss you man,” he sighed, the revelation hard for him to admit. If only he had communicated better months ago. Then maybe the fallout wouldn’t have been so bad.

“I miss you too, Buck, but none of this has been easy. Abandoning me and teaming up with John Walker?” Sam replied, not angry but not amused either. “Seriously?”

Bucky thought ‘abandoned’ sounded harsh, but it wasn’t the time to mention it. He took a sip of his coffee. “I know, but the world really needs Captain America. I need Captain America. And I just want us to be okay again.”

“I want that too.” Sam sighed. “Come here.”

And in that moment, Captain America pulled the Winter Soldier in for a hug, solid and comforting, and for the first time in months, Bucky felt like he could breathe again.

“Now that we’re okay,” Sam said, pulling away but keeping his hands on Bucky’s shoulders. “You gotta tell me how the hell you ended up on a team with a literal black widow assassin, the Red Guardian, and Walker. And those billboards… damn Bucky, they had you overlooking New York City like you were some kind of God.”

Bucky looked down at his coffee. “Yeah. That wasn’t my idea.”

“Valentina?”

“Yup. She created this whole PR thing. Wheaties boxes and magazine covers and merchandise. Wanted Yelena and Walker to pretend to date each other, but like hell they would,” Bucky explained. “At the time, they couldn’t be in the same room as each other for longer than ten minutes. So she decided it would look good if me and her pursued this fake relationship. I think she thought the public would put more faith in her if they saw she was dating an Avenger.”

Sam slowed. “Buck… that’s fucking crazy.”

Bucky nodded. “Yeah. Wasn’t easy. But eventually the team started trusting each other. And because I was leading, it meant they were trusting me. And for once… I felt like I was actually doing something right.”

Sam took another long sip. “That’s not nothing.”

“I didn’t agree with the logistics,” Bucky said. “The secrecy, the contracts, the way Valentina tried to puppet us from behind the curtain. But when we were out there, actually fighting for people, it felt... good. Like I belonged somewhere.”

“You’ve always belonged somewhere.”

Bucky gave a quiet, humourless laugh. “You have to say that. You’re my friend.”

“I’m also the guy you iced out when I was trying to rebuild the Avengers. The real Avengers.”

That landed like a punch. Bucky rubbed the back of his neck.

“I thought you didn’t need me,” he admitted.

“Bullshit,” Sam said calmly. “We both know that’s not true. I needed you. I wanted you in it with me. You’re the one who stepped off to be with your Thunderbolt buddies.”

Bucky took a breath. “Maybe. But now you know the truth. Not everything was so rosy. I think from this point forward, we phase Val out for good. We do this, together. We lead, together.”

“Doom’s coming,” Sam muttered, eyes scanning the skyline like he expected Victor to emerge from the clouds. “We both feel it. And now we’ve got all these pieces— The Fantastic Four, the Avengers, tech from a different world—and no time to get our footing.”

“We’ve got each other,” Bucky said. 

They walked another block in silence.

“I hated that billboard,” Sam finally said, like he couldn’t keep it in any longer. Bucky let out a snort.

“Me too.”

“I hated seeing you in it more.”

“That one hurts a little.”

Sam stopped walking and turned to him. “Because you’re mine, Barnes. My grumpy, murderous, 108-year-old sidekick.”

“Sidekick? You’re pushing it now,” Bucky smirked. “I prefer ‘combat veteran with emotional baggage.’”

Sam cracked a grin. “Same thing.”

There was a pause. Then Sam added, “I get it now, though. You felt useful. That matters.”

“It does,” Bucky said. “But it doesn’t matter more than you. More than this.”

They locked eyes. A shared history of battlefields and therapy chairs between them. A bond forged in grief, hammered into something solid by time.

“I’m still with you, Sam,” Bucky said. “Even when the world spins sideways.”

Sam nodded. “Alright, then. Let’s go clean this mess up together.”

They stood there another beat.

Then Sam extended a hand, and Bucky pulled him in for another hug instead—tight, firm, warm.

“I love you, buddy,” Sam murmured.

Bucky’s voice was rough. “Love you too.”

A car honked behind them. The city marched on.

But for the first time in weeks, something clicked back into place. Like the world might still be fixable after all.

────✪────

Sam had given the Fantastic Four a floor of their own in the Avengers tower, on the condition of their cooperation. 

The door to the secure living quarters slid open with a hiss.

Reed Richards stepped inside, eyes scanning the space with something between dread and longing. It wasn’t much—a makeshift living area hastily assembled—but within it stood three faces he thought he might never see again.

Sue was the first to spot him. Her posture stiffened instinctively, shielding mode kicking in before she even registered the emotion. Then her face cracked—just slightly—at the corners.

“Reed,” she said.

Johnny moved faster. “You look like hell.”

Reed blinked. “You look... exactly the same.”

Ben Grimm chuckled from the couch, deep and gravelly. “We had better lighting than you did, pal.”

Sue took a slow step forward. “I didn’t think they’d actually let us—”

“They didn’t,” you said, emerging from behind her, voice firm but not unkind. “I did.”

He turned. You leaned in the doorway with arms crossed, tired but steady. “I reminded Valentina that you’re not much use locked in a cage. Reed agreed that you would help. So now you help.”

Ben gave you a small, grateful nod. “And in return?”

“In return,” you said, “you get your family. But if you step out of line, or Reed, if you try to vanish into a black hole of your own genius—”

“Understood,” Reed said, lifting his hands in surrender. “No disappearing acts. No more secrets.”

Sue was still watching him. She didn’t smile. But she didn’t stop him when he crossed the room and touched her hand.

The silence stretched. Then Johnny cleared his throat loudly. “So, uh. Doom’s back?”

“Doom’s coming,” you corrected. “We’re not sure from where yet. But the tech that attacked the safe house... it wasn’t from here.”

Reed’s brow furrowed. “Alternate universe signatures?”

You nodded.

“That explains the Stark resemblance,” he muttered.

“Exactly,” you said. “We thought Doom was a myth or at least dormant. But if he's tied into a multiverse collapse, we’re going to need your expertise. You said before that you’ve studied this stuff—doppelgängers, alternate selves—what can you do now?”

Reed’s expression turned calculating. Focused. Alive.

“I need to run some tests. The multiverse... it’s like a shattered mirror. Some pieces reflect you exactly, others distort you beyond recognition. I want to start with Johnny.”

“Me?” Johnny blinked. “Why me?”

“Because you’re a perfect test subject. Young, genetically altered by cosmic radiation, and narcissistic enough that if another version of you existed, you’d want to find him immediately.”

“Aw, you do know me,” Johnny said, grinning.

Reed stepped away from the group, already talking to himself. “I’ll need quantum mapping. Multiversal scans. If I can trace even the smallest residue of variant DNA…”

“Reed,” you interrupted. “Focus.”

He blinked and looked at you. “Right. Yes. I’ll start with the scans now.”

As he swept out of the room, Sue sighed deeply. “Same Reed. Different apocalypse.”

Ben snorted. “At least we got him back.”

You watched him go, already lost in theory, hands moving like they were drawing math from the air. Something about it unsettled you—but also gave you hope.

You wandered back to the upper levels, catching the tail end of soft laughter in the training hall. Inside, Yelena was perched cross-legged on a bench, casually tossing a butterfly knife between her fingers. Her gaze lifted when she saw you.

“Was wondering when you’d check in,” she said.

You leaned on the wall beside her. “Reed’s reunited with his family. The science-freak reunion went about as expected.”

“Any theories yet?”

“He wants to test Johnny first. See if he’s got a doppelgänger. Maybe map how the multiverse is pulling apart.”

Yelena tilted her head. “You think that’s what this is? A multiversal pull?”

“I think it’s something worse. Doom doesn’t just appear without reason. And he doesn’t send attack drones for fun.”

Yelena sighed. “You have a point.”

You smiled faintly, then looked around. “Have you seen Bob?”

Her fingers paused over the knife. “No.”

“How long’s it been?”

She gave a small shrug, too casual. “He wasn’t at the morning check-in. I figured he was with Bucky. Or maybe passed out somewhere dramatic.”

You frowned. “I thought he might’ve come to see you.”

“Nope,” she said. “But now that you mention it...”

The two of you exchanged a look. Yelena tucked her knife away and stood up. “You think something’s wrong?”

“I think something’s different,” you said carefully. “He’s been... off. Ever since the void.”

Her brow furrowed. “He said he felt weird. More... powered.”

“Exactly,” you murmured. “Like something in him activated.”

You both stood in silence a moment longer.

“I’m gonna go look for him,” she announced.

“Want some help?” You offered, already tapping into your aura to scan the room for life. 

“It’s okay, he can’t have gone far. Besides, I want all the glory for finding him.” Yelena joked. 

When Yelena left the room, you paused for a moment, taking in the silence. It felt good to have a moment alone, away from the stress of John and Ava arguing, or Bob disappearing, or the upcoming potential multiversal collapse. You inhaled, your fingers starting to tingle and burn a pale lilac colour, sparkling like iridescent flecks of glitter as you tapped into your own aura. Your own feelings. 

Calmness. Wonder. Peace.

You felt relaxed. 

You exhaled and pinched your fingers together, shooting a burst of energy towards a punching bag. The power snapped the chain and the bag went flying into the wall, knocking over a stack of weights in the process. The loud clatter made you jump. How were you ever going to learn to control your powers, when there was no one who could teach you?

You stood and sauntered towards the weights, reaching out to put them back into place. You turned back toward the far end of the room, brushing a hand over your arm to dispel the unease. That’s when you felt it.

Arms wrapped gently around your waist from behind, pulling you into a solid chest.

You gasped, instincts kicking in before your mind caught up.

“Whoa,” came the familiar voice, rough and apologetic. “Too much?”

You exhaled, your heartbeat thudding against your ribs as you melted back into him. “No,” you said, breathless. “Not too much.”

Bucky let out a soft laugh behind you. His metal hand rested low on your stomach, while his warm one splayed across your ribs like he needed to hold you closer. “Sorry. I saw you and just... wanted to be close.”

You turned your head slightly, cheek brushing against his stubble. “Then don’t apologise.”

He leaned in, his lips grazing the shell of your ear. “You okay?”

You nodded. “Bob’s missing. Yelena’s out looking for him. We’ve got Reed researching but there is so much to do, and so little time. And the universe might just collapse in on itself in,” you checked your watch. “Six days,”

Bucky hummed quietly, acknowledging your concern. He dropped his hands to your hips, fingertips brushing skin. “What were you doing in here? Training?”

“I just needed some space to think, and uh— I was trying to understand my powers but I ended up just knocked over a punching bag. The chain snapped… we might need a new one.”

“Forget about the punching bag.” He gave you a gentle squeeze. “Your powers? We’ll figure it out. Besides, for now we just need to make sure we have reinforcements for when Doom comes. We plan for the worst.”

You smiled softly and turned in his arms. His eyes searched yours, his features soft in the training room’s dim light. He looked at you like you were something fragile and holy all at once.

“Bucky, I’m scared.”

He pressed his lips into the top of your head, letting them linger there. “I won’t let anything happen to you.”

But that’s exactly what you were afraid of. You had seen just how protective Bucky was of you, even back when you hated him. He’d die for you. And you were too powerful… too chaotic and unruly. What if you hurt him?

You swallowed, and it cut like glass in your throat. Uncomfortable. Fear. Nearly impossible to repress. You tapped his chest lightly, trying to change the subject. “I had fun last night.”

“Me too, uh— I actually wanted to ask you if you’d maybe wanna come out on a date with me again, tonight? But a real date this time. I can show you how I did it in the 40s,”A pink blush appeared over his cheeks. Was Bucky Barnes nervous? When you didn’t reply, he stumbled over his words. “You can say no. I know we have a lot going on but I really think it might be a good distraction and I had this idea…”

Your hand stayed against his chest, feeling the steady thud of his heart beneath your palm. “Yes.”

“Yes?” Bucky’s voice softened. “Okay then. I’ll drop by your room at midnight.”

“That’s late. Where are you taking me?” You asked, looking up at Bucky with curious doe-eyes.

“That, doll, is classified information,” Bucky smirked before sinking to the floor and pulling you down with him, your bodies tangled together on a training mat.

The hush of the empty gym held the moment like a secret. Bucky leaned against the mirrored wall behind him, legs stretched out, and you leaned sideways into him. His arm rested loosely around your shoulders.

“You ever think about the past?” he asked softly. “The good bits, I mean. Not the nightmares.”

You glanced up at him. “Sometimes. I try to remember my brother like that.”

Bucky hummed. “What was he like?”

You smiled faintly, your fingers tracing idle shapes on your own knee. “He was funny. And so patient. He taught me how to ride a bike, you know? Held the seat the whole time until I was halfway down the street. Then I realised he’d let go, and I panicked, wiped out completely. Skinned knees. Total mess.”

Bucky chuckled gently. “Bet he ran straight to you.”

“He did.” Your voice softened with the memory. “Carried me back like I weighed nothing. Gave me the whole pep talk while Mom cleaned me up. Said, ‘you didn’t fall, you learned where the limits were.’” You paused. “He always believed in me, even when I didn’t.”

“You were close.”

You nodded. “He was my best friend. And when he died, I found myself searching for him in other people. I just wanted to feel protected again. Somehow I got caught up with Shane…”

There was a moment of reverent silence between you both. Bucky’s hand slipped from your shoulder to your back, running slow, comforting circles there.

“Shane wasn’t like him?” Bucky asked cautiously, voice almost a whisper, like he was afraid of breaking you.

You stiffened for a second, but then exhaled slowly, leaning a little harder against him. “No. Not even close. My brother protected me. Shane... hurt me. Controlled me. Made me feel like I wasn’t allowed to be myself.”

Bucky’s jaw tensed at that, but he said nothing. Just listened.

“You saw it,” you continued, your voice steadier now. “In the apartment. God Bucky, I’m so glad you came after me. I was a jerk to you and still, you kept coming after me. Saving me when I was in trouble.”

Bucky’s hand stopped moving for a moment. “Shane had a darkness in him,” he said, low. “I’ve seen a lot of monsters, but... the way he tied you up and looked at you—like he owned you—it made my blood boil.”

You swallowed, heart squeezing. “I used to think I’d never get away. And then one day... I did. I just ran. I didn’t even grab my coat.”

“And now look at you,” Bucky murmured, the faintest smile tugging at his lips. “Powerful. Brave. Still standing.”

You looked at him, heart caught in your throat.

“You were the one who showed me I could be more than what he made me believe I was,” you whispered.

He leaned his head down, brushing his forehead gently against yours. “And you showed me I’m more than what they made me.”

Your fingers curled in the fabric of his Henley. “We’re more than our pasts.”

“We are,” he agreed.

And for a long moment, neither of you said anything. You just sat there in the quiet, warmth shared between you, breathing steady, hearts beginning to heal—together.

Your breath mingled with his, both of you hovering on the edge of something that had been growing for days—weeks, maybe. The gravity of everything that had happened, the closeness, the confessions—it all pulled you closer.

Bucky’s hand gently cupped your cheek, his thumb brushing along your skin like he was afraid you’d vanish. His steel-blue eyes searched yours, his breath hitching.

“I want to kiss you,” he murmured, his voice rough and vulnerable. “Is that okay?”

You nodded, your voice caught in your throat. “Yes.”

He started leaning in, slowly—tentatively, reverently—like he was asking one last time. His nose brushed yours. His lips were just a breath away.

And then—

BZZZT.

Your comm crackled to life in your ear. Both of you froze.

“Sorry to interrupt,” came Reed Richards’ voice, clipped and urgent. “But I need you down in Lab 3. Now. I’ve found something. Something... important.”

You pulled back, blinking, heart pounding in a completely different rhythm now. Bucky sighed, his forehead dropping to your shoulder.

“You’ve got to be kidding me,” he muttered.

You couldn’t help the small, exasperated laugh that escaped you. “Of all the times…”

He pulled away, clearly frustrated, but kissed your forehead in a soft, lingering motion. “We’ll come back to this.”

You nodded, already rising to your feet. “We better.”

────✪────

The lab was dimly lit, a low blue glow cast across the polished floor from the array of holographic panels circling Reed Richards like orbiting satellites. You stepped in quietly, the door hissing shut behind you. Reed didn’t even glance up at first — he was too focused, his hands weaving through data streams as if conducting invisible symphonies of code.

Only when you cleared your throat did he look up.

“Reed?” you called softly, drawing his attention.

He looked up, pale and drawn, like someone who had seen something they wished they could unsee. “You’re here. Good,” he said, his voice clipped, too fast. “I’ve made progress. Or maybe a mistake. I’m still deciding.”

You furrowed your brows and approached, arms crossed. “What kind of progress?”

Reed turned and gestured to the swirling portal behind him, a shimmering ring of translucent energy buzzing low. “Multiversal resonance,” he said, tapping rapidly on the console. “It’s more stable than I expected. I managed to create a soft tether. A gateway. Not just a window, but a bridge. I was able to bring something—someone—through.”

Your stomach dropped. “You brought someone here? From another universe?”

“Yes,” he said. “And that’s where it gets... complicated.”

You glanced at the portal. “Is this about the doppelgängers? Doom looking like Tony Stark?”

Reed nodded grimly. “Exactly. What we’re seeing—these strange overlaps in appearance—comes down to multiversal genetic convergence. Some universes don’t just echo ideas, they echo faces. Patterns of DNA that play out across timelines. It’s rare, but not impossible. You’ll see repeating archetypes, especially in people tied to strong cosmic forces. Heroes. Villains.”

“So this Doom, the one we saw,” you said slowly, “he looks like Tony not by coincidence.”

“No,” Reed said. “And... that brings me to what I have to show you.”

You stilled. Something in his voice changed. He wasn’t the overly confident, casually arrogant genius you were used to. He was nervous. Genuinely nervous. You had never seen Reed Richards unsure before, and it sent a chill through you.

He gestured for you to follow. You walked in silence through the back corridor, the tension thick as lead. When he paused at a reinforced door with a biometric scanner, your pulse quickened.

“Before I open this... I want to be clear,” Reed said, turning to face you. “I didn’t know this was going to happen. And I don’t know what to do with him.”

“Him?” you asked, confused. “Who is it?”

Reed looked at you, his eyes apologetic. Then he unlocked the door.

The lights inside were dimmed, but you saw him instantly.

Sitting on the edge of the cot was a man in a form-fitting fireproof suit, silver gauntlets hanging loosely from his hands, his posture relaxed but guarded. He turned as the door opened.

And your breath was punched out of you.

Blonde hair. Blue eyes. That face.

Steve Rogers' face.

No—not Steve. You knew that. Your brain knew that.

But your heart didn’t.

He stood slowly, confusion flickering in his gaze. “Hi,” he said cautiously. “I’m Johnny. Johnny Storm.”

You couldn’t speak. You couldn’t breathe. It was like your body had frozen solid, horror and heartbreak twisting in your gut. Steve had been gone for years—but this? Seeing that face, alive, familiar, animated with new inflection and different energy—it shattered something in you.

“I don’t know how he ended up like this,” Reed said quietly beside you. “In his universe, Johnny Storm looks like this. I tried to trace the genetic divergence, but the more I dug... the more I lost track of our Johnny.”

Your head whipped toward him. “Wait—what do you mean, you lost him?”

“I think I displaced him accidentally,” Reed admitted, rubbing his forehead. “I was tracing multiversal threads and he slipped through one of them. I don’t know where he ended up. But I brought this Johnny in before I realised. Now I don’t know what to do.”

You turned back to the man in the cell—this Johnny who smiled like Steve, tilted his head like Steve, and radiated warmth with that same impossible familiarity.

You saw Bucky’s face in your mind. His grief. His softness. The way his voice broke when he said Steve’s name.

No. He couldn’t see this.

You stepped forward and placed a hand on Reed’s chest. “You cannot tell anyone about this. Especially not Bucky.”

Reed blinked. “I don’t—why? He’s harmless.”

“No, Reed,” you said sharply. “He’s not. Not to him.”

You swallowed hard, forcing back the storm behind your eyes. “Bucky already saw Doom with Tony’s face. He’s still dealing with that. But Steve? That’s different. That was his brother. His anchor. You show this to Bucky and you break him.”

Reed was quiet for a long time. “So what do you want me to do?”

“Hide him,” you said. “No one can know. Not yet. Until we figure out what this means, and where our Johnny is, you keep him locked away. Please, Reed.”

He hesitated... and then nodded.

“I understand,” he said. “I’ll keep this between us.”

You exhaled softly, the tension in your shoulders loosening just a little.

“I’ll run deeper scans,” Reed added, his tone shifting back toward the scientific. “I want to study this version’s neurological data. If there’s even a trace of Steve’s consciousness—”

“Then we tell Bucky,” you said. “Together.”

He nodded again. “Agreed.”

You looked back at the projection one more time before turning away.

It wasn’t Steve. But it felt like him. Like a phantom echo. A mirage your heart wanted to chase — but couldn’t.

You turned away from the door before the man inside could speak again. Before he could smile and tear another hole in your chest.

As the door sealed shut behind you, your legs nearly gave out from beneath you. You caught yourself on the cold wall, heart racing.

Steve’s face was back in the world.

And you had no idea how long you could keep it secret.

────✪────

The tower was quieter at night — no footsteps in the halls, no voices echoing through the common areas, no alerts pinging from the comms. Just silence, heavy and still.

You were lying in bed, eyes on the ceiling, the room bathed in soft, warm light from the bedside lamp. You’d changed into something comfortable hours ago, ready for your date night, and were trying to relax beforehand. Process everything that had happened. But rest hadn’t come. Every time you closed your eyes, your mind dragged you back to the lab. To Reed.

To the way Johnny Storm’s variant looked like Steve Rogers.

It had been hours since you left the lab. You hadn’t told anyone — not Sam, not Yelena, and definitely not Bucky. You’d eaten half a protein bar, drank some tea, and curled into your bed, hoping for sleep. But instead, you were stuck inside your own head, spinning in circles of guilt and protective instinct.

You didn’t even hear the knock at first. Just a soft thunk thunk at the door.

You sat up slightly, blinking.

“Yeah?” your voice rasped.

“...It’s me,” came the muffled voice.

Your heart tugged in recognition.

You padded barefoot to the door and cracked it open to find Bucky standing in a loose shirt and sweatpants, hair tousled like he’d run his hand through it a hundred times. His eyes searched yours, worry etched into every line on his face.

“You didn’t come to dinner” he said softly. “You okay?”

Your lips parted, but for a second, you didn’t know what to say. You finally nodded, stepping aside to let him in.

“Just… a lot on my mind,” you murmured.

He stepped inside quietly. The door clicked shut behind him. He didn’t go far, just stood near the edge of your bed like he wasn’t sure if he should sit or stay.

You climbed back into the bed and looked over your shoulder at him. “You can lie down. If you want.”

That was all it took. Bucky crossed the room slowly, eased onto the bed, and lay facing you. It was quiet for a beat — the kind of quiet that presses into your ribs.

“What did Reed find?” he asked gently.

You hesitated. Then lied. “Just more data. Another anomaly he’s investigating. But nothing solid.”

His gaze lingered on yours for a long second. Maybe he knew you weren’t being fully honest. Maybe he just trusted you enough not to push.

“Mm,” he hummed. “Okay.”

You studied him. His face was shadowed but soft. Less guarded than usual. His shoulders weren’t quite so tense.

“How are you doing?” you asked, voice barely above a whisper.

He gave you a tired little smile. “I promised I’d stop lying when you ask me that, didn’t I?”

You nodded.

“I’m tired,” he said, exhaling slowly. “Not from the fighting. Not even from Doom or the mission. I’m just tired of feeling like I’m chasing ghosts. Of trying to make peace with who I was and not knowing if I deserve any of this.”

Your heart squeezed. You reached out without thinking, your fingers grazing his forearm.

“I’m glad you’re here,” you said.

A silence stretched, but this one was comfortable.

His hand found your hip beneath the blanket. Warm and gentle. He rested it there for a moment, like he was testing how close he could be without scaring you off.

You didn’t flinch.

“I like it,” you said softly, not looking away. “When you touch me.”

Bucky’s brows lifted slightly, a flicker of surprise in his eyes. “Yeah?”

You nodded. “I feel… safe.”

His thumb swept across your hip, tracing slow circles. “That’s all I ever wanted,” he murmured. “To make you feel safe.”

You swallowed, heart fluttering as he leaned in just a bit closer, their noses almost touching. You could feel his breath against your lips. His eyes searched yours, and then dropped briefly to your mouth, like he was weighing a decision.

“I had feelings for you,” he whispered, “even when you hated me.”

Your breath caught.

“I didn’t want to,” he added quickly. “You had every reason to hate me. And I told myself I didn’t deserve to want anything from you. But I’d watch you on missions. Hear you laugh in the hallway. See you stand your ground with Sam. And I couldn’t help it.”

A soft sound escaped your lips — a whimper somewhere between awe and disbelief.

“I didn’t hate you,” you whispered back. “Not really. I wanted to. But deep down… I think I was so afraid to come to terms with what I really felt. It was easier to fight with you than… the other thing.”

Your hand found his jaw and held it, thumb brushing across the stubble along his cheek.

“I think,” you added, ready to elaborate. “I was scared to forgive you, because if I did… I’d have to admit how badly I wanted you too.”

His breath stilled.

You leaned in closer, your foreheads almost touching.

“I wanted you when I thought I shouldn’t,” you said, lips barely brushing his. “And now… I just want you.”

Bucky closed the gap, but it wasn’t desperate — it was soft, sweet, tender. The kind of kiss that lingered. His hand slid up to your waist, holding you gently. Yours tangled in his hair.

And for a moment, the weight of everything — of multiversal threats, of ghosts in the shape of Steve and Tony — melted away.

It was just the two of you. Whispering warmth and safety into each other’s mouths.

And when the kiss broke, and Bucky tucked you against his chest, his arm curling around your back, you finally felt content. 

You were lying face to face with Bucky, your noses almost touching, the warmth of his palm still resting gently against your waist. You were both content to just be. To breathe each other in. To exist in the same sliver of peace.

His thumb made slow circles over your shirt, right above your hip. You’d long forgotten how to keep your heart from racing around him.

“As much as I love lying here with you, I did promise I’d take you out tonight.” He said, his voice low and husky from the hour. You hummed in response, eyes half-lidded, fingers absently brushing the seam of his sleeve.

He reached up and gently tucked a piece of hair behind your ear, fingertips barely skimming your skin. You shivered—not from the chill, but from the softness of it. From him.

“Oh, so you did.”

“Come sneak out with me,” he whispered, right against your temple.

You blinked, caught off guard. “What?”

His grin was slow and teasing. “Let’s get outta here. Just for a while.”

You stared at him, half laughing, half suspicious. “Bucky. It’s nearly one in the morning.”

“Exactly. Everyone’s asleep. No one will miss us.”

You raised a brow. “What are we, sixteen?”

“Not since the Great Depression,” he said with a smirk. “But I still know how to cause a little trouble.”

You shook your head, biting back a grin. “Where would we even go?”

“I told you earlier, it’s a surprise.”

You groaned. “I hate surprises.”

He tilted his head, eyes sparkling. “Do you trust me?”

The question hung there, weighty, gentle, honest.

Your smile faded, but in its place came something deeper—something vulnerable. You nodded, slow. “Yeah. I trust you.”

His smile softened. “Then come with me. I promise you’ll like it.”

You stared at him, your breath catching—completely and utterly gone for him.

“All right, James Barnes,” you whispered. “Let’s go break the rules.”

────✪────

The rusted gate creaked behind you as you both dropped onto the sand-dusted boardwalk, giggling like you were teenagers again—though Bucky technically had at least a century on that title. The whole place was draped in shadows, lit only by the flickering remnants of carnival lights left on for maintenance or nostalgia. The sea whispered behind you, and the wind tugged at your clothes as Bucky caught your hand and tugged you deeper in.

Coney Island was asleep, but somehow more alive than it had ever been.

"Okay, rules of the fair," Bucky said, voice low, full of mischief. "One: you have to let me win every game we don't actually play. Two: you must pretend to be utterly charmed when I twirl you. And three—most important—no phones, no mission talk, just you and me."

You held up three fingers like a scout. “Scout’s honor.”

“You were never a scout.”

“You were never charming.” You bit back, with a smile painting your face and stars in your eyes.

“Ouch,” he grinned, already pulling you toward the carousel. It sat still and silent, the hand-painted horses frozen in place. Most of the lights had been turned off, but the moonlight cast a silver sheen across the platform.

“I dare you to ride one,” he said, eyes glinting.

“You dare me?”

He nodded solemnly. “Ride it like a princess.”

“Oh, I see. And what does that make you?”

He stepped closer, voice dropping theatrically as he tugged on his jacket. “Your loyal knight in shining leather.”

You threw your head back and laughed. “God, you’re cheesy.”

“Excuse you, I’m gallant.”

Still laughing, you mounted the tallest horse, gripping the pole, dramatically tossing your hair. “Take me on my steed, knight!”

“Yes, Your Majesty,” he said with a faux-bow, pretending to draw an invisible sword. “I vow to protect your honour and steal your cotton candy.”

The wind whooshed around you as he stepped up onto the carousel and reached for your waist. With a playful grunt, he lifted you off the horse, spun you once in the air, and planted you gently back down—your laughter ringing loud in the night.

Your cheeks were hot, and your grin stretched ear to ear.

“I hate how strong you are,” you said breathlessly.

“You love it,” he teased, his hands not leaving your waist just yet.

“I’m not confirming or denying anything.”

Then, you noticed it—the Ferris wheel. Set a little ways off, mostly dark, except for one lone cabin light that blinked weakly every few seconds. The wheel wasn’t running, but it was gently rotating—just enough for someone to sneak a ride.

You glanced at Bucky.

He raised a brow. “You thinking what I’m thinking?”

“Depends. You thinking felony trespassing?”

“I was thinking romance. But felony trespassing is a close second.”

You grabbed his hand. “Then let’s go commit a crime.”

He laughed all the way there, helping you climb into one of the cars. It creaked as it lifted, slow and lazy. You shivered from the chill, and Bucky immediately shrugged off his leather jacket and wrapped it around your shoulders.

“Look at that,” you said softly, curling into his side. “A gentleman and a criminal.”

“Only for you.”

You rested your head against his shoulder, your breath fogging slightly in the air.

“I used to bring girls here,” Bucky said after a long pause, voice low and nostalgic. “Back before the war. Before everything. It was always Coney Island.”

You sat up a little, narrowing your eyes. “Wow. I feel so special.”

He laughed quietly, the sound bittersweet. “Hey, I haven’t brought anyone here since, well... not for about ninety years.”

You blinked. “Seriously?”

He nodded. “Not since Steve and I shipped out.”

Your chest ached, but in the warm, aching way.

His hand found yours again, intertwining your fingers like it was the easiest thing in the world.

“I used to think what I felt for those girls was real,” he said. “Back then, everything felt real. But it wasn’t. Not like this.”

You turned to him slowly. “Like what?”

He looked at you—not just looked, saw you. In a way that made your skin warm beneath your clothes, even in the cold wind.

“Like this,” he whispered, brushing a thumb across your cheek. “This is different.”

Your breath hitched. “Yeah… it is.”

The Ferris wheel turned on, just enough to shift the car you were in, giving you a sweeping view of the empty boardwalk below. Everything quiet, timeless. Like the world had pressed pause and made space for just the two of you.

Bucky leaned in, his lips brushing yours with a softness that made your stomach flutter. When he kissed you, it wasn’t rushed. It was reverent. Like every part of him was savoring the moment.

When you pulled away, he pressed his forehead to yours.

“Best first date I’ve ever had,” you whispered.

He smiled, brushing your nose with his. “I’m not even done yet.”

You grinned. “What else is there?”

He nodded toward the beach. “Stars.”

────✪────

You kicked off your shoes the second your feet touched the sand, the grains still warm in patches from the sun earlier that day. Bucky followed, boots in hand, his rolled-up sleeves brushing against his forearms as the two of you wandered toward the tide. The moon hung low above the ocean like it was watching you, soft and golden.

You dropped onto the sand with a sigh, hugging your knees as the waves whispered their endless lullaby. Bucky sat beside you, then stretched out on his back with his arms behind his head. You glanced at him—his profile soft, more boyish in the moonlight than you'd ever seen him before.

“Lie down,” he murmured, patting the space beside him.

You did, your head on his shoulder, his jacket draped over you like a cocoon. He turned slightly, adjusting to cradle you better, one hand resting protectively over your waist, fingers splayed like he wanted to memorise every curve.

The stars were scattered across the sky like glitter tossed by a careless god.

“This was our favorite thing,” Bucky said after a while, voice quieter than the ocean. “Me and Steve. We'd come out here late, lay on the boardwalk or the roof of my building, and just… stare. No talking. No noise. Just… stars.”

You closed your eyes for a second, imagining that younger version of him. Smiling. Carefree. Unburdened by war or metal arms or trauma.

“I think he saw something up there I never did,” Bucky continued, “Hope. A future. Something good waiting.”

You swallowed hard, feeling the weight of the secret tucked behind your ribs. A Johnny Storm variant that looked just like Steve Rogers. Too much like him. The resemblance had sent ice down your spine. You touched Bucky’s chest lightly, feeling the slow, steady rhythm of his heart.

“He was right, though,” you whispered. “There is something good waiting.”

He looked down at you, his mouth twitching into the ghost of a smile. “Yeah?”

You nodded. “It’s this. Right here. You and me.”

He didn’t answer right away. Instead, he tilted his head to kiss the top of yours, lingering for a beat too long, like he was scared the moment might vanish if he moved too quickly.

“I don’t know what I did to deserve this,” he said against your hair.

You tilted your head up toward him. “Maybe it’s not about what you did. Maybe it’s about what you do now.”

He stared at you. And there it was again—that open, wounded awe in his eyes, like he still couldn’t believe you were real. That you’d forgiven him. That you’d chosen him.

“Can I ask you something?” he murmured.

“Anything.”

His hand moved from your waist to your cheek. “Back there, in the tower… before this. When you said you like when I touch you—was that just a line? Or…”

You leaned in, kissing the corner of his mouth.

“Not a line,” you whispered. “It’s the truth.”

His smile was shy but electric. “Good. Because I don’t think I can stop.”

You laughed, the sound melting into the sound of the waves. “Then don’t.”

You closed the distance, pressing your lips to his in a slow, deliberate kiss that melted into something deeper. His breath hitched, and his hands moved—one sliding under your shirt, fingers grazing the bare skin of your side, the heat of his touch making you shiver.

Your hands found their way to the front of his shirt, fingers tracing the hard muscles beneath, before boldly slipping beneath the fabric to feel the warmth of his skin. 

The stars were wide and endless above you, a smattering of silver across the dark velvet sky. You lay together in the soft, cool sand at Coney Island, wrapped in the folds of Bucky’s worn leather jacket. The wind carried salt and sea and silence, but none of that mattered — not with the weight of him over you, his mouth locked on yours like he was starved for every taste.

And you kissed him back just as hungrily, gasping when his tongue swept against yours, when his hips shifted against yours, slow and searching.

You felt everything.

The rough denim of his jeans against your thighs. The warmth of his hands sliding beneath your jacket, fingers curling under the hem of your shirt. The press of his clothed thigh between your legs where you’d unconsciously slotted yourself against him.

“God,” he muttered against your mouth, voice strained, reverent. “You feel so good like this.”

Your breath hitched as he adjusted his thigh just right — and you instinctively moved, hips rocking forward, rubbing against the strong line of muscle. It was clothed, it was barely anything — but your body jolted, craving more.

“Bucky…” you whispered, dizzy.

He kissed you again, slower this time, almost tentative. But his hands were not — one slid up the length of your back to hold you close, the other trailing down, past your waist to where your leggings hugged tight to your hips.

“Can I?” he asked, voice hoarse, palm resting at the curve between your thighs. “I won’t go any further unless you want—”

You nodded before he could even finish.

“I want,” you breathed. “Please, I want—”

That was all it took.

His hand moved over you, warm and steady, rubbing slow circles over the heat that pulsed between your legs. The pressure sent a jolt through your spine. Your hands clawed at his back through his shirt, needing something to anchor yourself as your hips rutted against him, desperate for friction.

“Jesus,” Bucky groaned, voice muffled against your throat. “Watching you like this — grinding on me — you’re gonna kill me.”

You whimpered when he pressed harder, a precise, perfect drag of his fingers over your leggings, right where you needed him most. Your body was trembling now, breath catching with each stroke.

And then — his thigh shifted again beneath you, and you found yourself rocking against it while he kept his fingers working you through your leggings. A filthy, delicious rhythm.

You gasped his name.

His mouth crashed to yours, swallowing your sounds as he pressed into you with equal urgency — the thick line of his erection clearly outlined through his jeans now, grinding against your hip.

“Fuck, baby,” he whispered, forehead pressed to yours. “You’re drivin’ me crazy. You feel that?”

You nodded, dazed. “You’re hard…”

“For you,” he said, his voice nearly breaking. “Been hard since you kissed me on that damn carousel.”

You shifted then, adjusting your angle — straddling one of his jean-clad thighs while reaching down between you, just bold enough now to cup him through his jeans. He choked out a groan and buried his face in your shoulder.

“Oh fuck—don’t do that unless you wanna see me lose it right here,” he growled, laughing breathlessly.

“I do,” you whispered with a smirk, rolling your hips down against him.

The air around you turned hot and thick, full of panting and groans and need. You rubbed against his thigh, hips rocking, slick and desperate beneath your clothes. And Bucky — Bucky met your rhythm, hands on your ass, pressing you down against him as he thrust up into the crook of your thigh.

The moment was messy, wild, completely clothed — but somehow more vulnerable than anything you’d ever felt.

“I’m close,” you gasped, shaking.

“Me too,” he rasped, voice wrecked. “Let go for me. Wanna feel you come on me like this.”

And you did — with a broken cry muffled against his lips, your body wracked with waves of pleasure as your hips stuttered against his thigh.

Moments later, Bucky came too, groaning into your shoulder, holding you tight as his body trembled. The press of his cock against you went rigid, twitching through his jeans as he spilled into his boxers, panting like he’d just gone ten rounds in the ring.

Silence followed — just the crashing of waves and the sound of both your hearts hammering out of sync.

Then Bucky laughed softly, breathless and warm. “First date, huh?”

You buried your face in his neck. “Best one I’ve ever had.”

“Don’t tell the carousel horse,” he teased. “It’ll be jealous.”

You giggled, tightening your hold on him.

And neither of you moved — not right away. The stars shone down, and for now, the weight of the multiverse didn’t exist.

Just him. Just you. And the soft, sweet echo of everything you were becoming together.

────✪────

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[mandoalorian]

Oh my god Rach the latest chapter of If This Is War…

Is Bucky going to come face to face with “Steve” ?????? When Reed introduced reader to him, my heart dropped. I understand her wanting to protect Bucky from even more hurt but somehow I think it’s gonna end up bad 🥺

YUUUUUPPPP i am not saying anything , but all will be revealed in the next few chapters!!!! hope you’re enjoying the drama so far 😬😬it’s only about to get crazier

[mandoalorian]

the night we stole the stars [bucky barnes x f!reader]

pairing: new avenger!bucky barnes x f!reader

synopsis: you and bucky chase the glow of a forgotten fairground, where soft kisses taste like memories in the making. beneath the boardwalk lights and scattered starlight, the night becomes yours—wild, sacred, and fleeting. but even as your hearts sync in stolen rhythm, something waits in the quiet edges of the multiverse, changing everything

word count: 7900

rating/warnings: 18+ explicit content, dry humping in public place, grinding, making out, plenty of sexual tension, angst in the making (sorry in advance), a little sambucky if you squint

masterlist

previous chapter | current | next chapter [coming soon]

It was early. Not sunrise-early — city early. Horns honked like an orchestra warming up. A dog barked three times in a row. Somewhere, a jackhammer stuttered to life.

Bucky liked mornings like this. Loud enough to drown out memories. Soft enough that everything still felt... possible.

He waited outside the Tower with two coffees in hand, both black. No sugar, no nonsense. He knew Sam would complain. That was kind of the point.

When Sam stepped outside, hoodie pulled over his head, he squinted at the sky like it had personally offended him. His eyes landed on Bucky, then on the second coffee. He walked over wordlessly and took it.

“No sugar?” he asked, sipping anyway.

Bucky shrugged. “You’re sweet enough.”

Sam huffed. “You flirting with me, Barnes?”

“You wish.”

They started walking with no clear destination, boots hitting pavement in sync. The Tower loomed behind them, and Bucky felt a little lighter the farther they got from it.

“So,” Sam said after a beat. “I signed Valentina’s accords, we’re on the same team now, what’s all this about?”

Bucky winced. “Us.”

“Okay, now you’re definitely flirting.” Sam smirked and Bucky stifled a laugh.

“Outside all of this: Doom and the multiverse and… her,” Bucky stopped as he noticed Sam’s face soften. “I really miss you man,” he sighed, the revelation hard for him to admit. If only he had communicated better months ago. Then maybe the fallout wouldn’t have been so bad.

“I miss you too, Buck, but none of this has been easy. Abandoning me and teaming up with John Walker?” Sam replied, not angry but not amused either. “Seriously?”

Bucky thought ‘abandoned’ sounded harsh, but it wasn’t the time to mention it. He took a sip of his coffee. “I know, but the world really needs Captain America. I need Captain America. And I just want us to be okay again.”

“I want that too.” Sam sighed. “Come here.”

And in that moment, Captain America pulled the Winter Soldier in for a hug, solid and comforting, and for the first time in months, Bucky felt like he could breathe again.

“Now that we’re okay,” Sam said, pulling away but keeping his hands on Bucky’s shoulders. “You gotta tell me how the hell you ended up on a team with a literal black widow assassin, the Red Guardian, and Walker. And those billboards… damn Bucky, they had you overlooking New York City like you were some kind of God.”

Bucky looked down at his coffee. “Yeah. That wasn’t my idea.”

“Valentina?”

“Yup. She created this whole PR thing. Wheaties boxes and magazine covers and merchandise. Wanted Yelena and Walker to pretend to date each other, but like hell they would,” Bucky explained. “At the time, they couldn’t be in the same room as each other for longer than ten minutes. So she decided it would look good if me and her pursued this fake relationship. I think she thought the public would put more faith in her if they saw she was dating an Avenger.”

Sam slowed. “Buck… that’s fucking crazy.”

Bucky nodded. “Yeah. Wasn’t easy. But eventually the team started trusting each other. And because I was leading, it meant they were trusting me. And for once… I felt like I was actually doing something right.”

Sam took another long sip. “That’s not nothing.”

“I didn’t agree with the logistics,” Bucky said. “The secrecy, the contracts, the way Valentina tried to puppet us from behind the curtain. But when we were out there, actually fighting for people, it felt... good. Like I belonged somewhere.”

“You’ve always belonged somewhere.”

Bucky gave a quiet, humourless laugh. “You have to say that. You’re my friend.”

“I’m also the guy you iced out when I was trying to rebuild the Avengers. The real Avengers.”

That landed like a punch. Bucky rubbed the back of his neck.

“I thought you didn’t need me,” he admitted.

“Bullshit,” Sam said calmly. “We both know that’s not true. I needed you. I wanted you in it with me. You’re the one who stepped off to be with your Thunderbolt buddies.”

Bucky took a breath. “Maybe. But now you know the truth. Not everything was so rosy. I think from this point forward, we phase Val out for good. We do this, together. We lead, together.”

“Doom’s coming,” Sam muttered, eyes scanning the skyline like he expected Victor to emerge from the clouds. “We both feel it. And now we’ve got all these pieces— The Fantastic Four, the Avengers, tech from a different world—and no time to get our footing.”

“We’ve got each other,” Bucky said. 

They walked another block in silence.

“I hated that billboard,” Sam finally said, like he couldn’t keep it in any longer. Bucky let out a snort.

“Me too.”

“I hated seeing you in it more.”

“That one hurts a little.”

Sam stopped walking and turned to him. “Because you’re mine, Barnes. My grumpy, murderous, 108-year-old sidekick.”

“Sidekick? You’re pushing it now,” Bucky smirked. “I prefer ‘combat veteran with emotional baggage.’”

Sam cracked a grin. “Same thing.”

There was a pause. Then Sam added, “I get it now, though. You felt useful. That matters.”

“It does,” Bucky said. “But it doesn’t matter more than you. More than this.”

They locked eyes. A shared history of battlefields and therapy chairs between them. A bond forged in grief, hammered into something solid by time.

“I’m still with you, Sam,” Bucky said. “Even when the world spins sideways.”

Sam nodded. “Alright, then. Let’s go clean this mess up together.”

They stood there another beat.

Then Sam extended a hand, and Bucky pulled him in for another hug instead—tight, firm, warm.

“I love you, buddy,” Sam murmured.

Bucky’s voice was rough. “Love you too.”

A car honked behind them. The city marched on.

But for the first time in weeks, something clicked back into place. Like the world might still be fixable after all.

────✪────

Sam had given the Fantastic Four a floor of their own in the Avengers tower, on the condition of their cooperation. 

The door to the secure living quarters slid open with a hiss.

Reed Richards stepped inside, eyes scanning the space with something between dread and longing. It wasn’t much—a makeshift living area hastily assembled—but within it stood three faces he thought he might never see again.

Sue was the first to spot him. Her posture stiffened instinctively, shielding mode kicking in before she even registered the emotion. Then her face cracked—just slightly—at the corners.

“Reed,” she said.

Johnny moved faster. “You look like hell.”

Reed blinked. “You look... exactly the same.”

Ben Grimm chuckled from the couch, deep and gravelly. “We had better lighting than you did, pal.”

Sue took a slow step forward. “I didn’t think they’d actually let us—”

“They didn’t,” you said, emerging from behind her, voice firm but not unkind. “I did.”

He turned. You leaned in the doorway with arms crossed, tired but steady. “I reminded Valentina that you’re not much use locked in a cage. Reed agreed that you would help. So now you help.”

Ben gave you a small, grateful nod. “And in return?”

“In return,” you said, “you get your family. But if you step out of line, or Reed, if you try to vanish into a black hole of your own genius—”

“Understood,” Reed said, lifting his hands in surrender. “No disappearing acts. No more secrets.”

Sue was still watching him. She didn’t smile. But she didn’t stop him when he crossed the room and touched her hand.

The silence stretched. Then Johnny cleared his throat loudly. “So, uh. Doom’s back?”

“Doom’s coming,” you corrected. “We’re not sure from where yet. But the tech that attacked the safe house... it wasn’t from here.”

Reed’s brow furrowed. “Alternate universe signatures?”

You nodded.

“That explains the Stark resemblance,” he muttered.

“Exactly,” you said. “We thought Doom was a myth or at least dormant. But if he's tied into a multiverse collapse, we’re going to need your expertise. You said before that you’ve studied this stuff—doppelgängers, alternate selves—what can you do now?”

Reed’s expression turned calculating. Focused. Alive.

“I need to run some tests. The multiverse... it’s like a shattered mirror. Some pieces reflect you exactly, others distort you beyond recognition. I want to start with Johnny.”

“Me?” Johnny blinked. “Why me?”

“Because you’re a perfect test subject. Young, genetically altered by cosmic radiation, and narcissistic enough that if another version of you existed, you’d want to find him immediately.”

“Aw, you do know me,” Johnny said, grinning.

Reed stepped away from the group, already talking to himself. “I’ll need quantum mapping. Multiversal scans. If I can trace even the smallest residue of variant DNA…”

“Reed,” you interrupted. “Focus.”

He blinked and looked at you. “Right. Yes. I’ll start with the scans now.”

As he swept out of the room, Sue sighed deeply. “Same Reed. Different apocalypse.”

Ben snorted. “At least we got him back.”

You watched him go, already lost in theory, hands moving like they were drawing math from the air. Something about it unsettled you—but also gave you hope.

You wandered back to the upper levels, catching the tail end of soft laughter in the training hall. Inside, Yelena was perched cross-legged on a bench, casually tossing a butterfly knife between her fingers. Her gaze lifted when she saw you.

“Was wondering when you’d check in,” she said.

You leaned on the wall beside her. “Reed’s reunited with his family. The science-freak reunion went about as expected.”

“Any theories yet?”

“He wants to test Johnny first. See if he’s got a doppelgänger. Maybe map how the multiverse is pulling apart.”

Yelena tilted her head. “You think that’s what this is? A multiversal pull?”

“I think it’s something worse. Doom doesn’t just appear without reason. And he doesn’t send attack drones for fun.”

Yelena sighed. “You have a point.”

You smiled faintly, then looked around. “Have you seen Bob?”

Her fingers paused over the knife. “No.”

“How long’s it been?”

She gave a small shrug, too casual. “He wasn’t at the morning check-in. I figured he was with Bucky. Or maybe passed out somewhere dramatic.”

You frowned. “I thought he might’ve come to see you.”

“Nope,” she said. “But now that you mention it...”

The two of you exchanged a look. Yelena tucked her knife away and stood up. “You think something’s wrong?”

“I think something’s different,” you said carefully. “He’s been... off. Ever since the void.”

Her brow furrowed. “He said he felt weird. More... powered.”

“Exactly,” you murmured. “Like something in him activated.”

You both stood in silence a moment longer.

“I’m gonna go look for him,” she announced.

“Want some help?” You offered, already tapping into your aura to scan the room for life. 

“It’s okay, he can’t have gone far. Besides, I want all the glory for finding him.” Yelena joked. 

When Yelena left the room, you paused for a moment, taking in the silence. It felt good to have a moment alone, away from the stress of John and Ava arguing, or Bob disappearing, or the upcoming potential multiversal collapse. You inhaled, your fingers starting to tingle and burn a pale lilac colour, sparkling like iridescent flecks of glitter as you tapped into your own aura. Your own feelings. 

Calmness. Wonder. Peace.

You felt relaxed. 

You exhaled and pinched your fingers together, shooting a burst of energy towards a punching bag. The power snapped the chain and the bag went flying into the wall, knocking over a stack of weights in the process. The loud clatter made you jump. How were you ever going to learn to control your powers, when there was no one who could teach you?

You stood and sauntered towards the weights, reaching out to put them back into place. You turned back toward the far end of the room, brushing a hand over your arm to dispel the unease. That’s when you felt it.

Arms wrapped gently around your waist from behind, pulling you into a solid chest.

You gasped, instincts kicking in before your mind caught up.

“Whoa,” came the familiar voice, rough and apologetic. “Too much?”

You exhaled, your heartbeat thudding against your ribs as you melted back into him. “No,” you said, breathless. “Not too much.”

Bucky let out a soft laugh behind you. His metal hand rested low on your stomach, while his warm one splayed across your ribs like he needed to hold you closer. “Sorry. I saw you and just... wanted to be close.”

You turned your head slightly, cheek brushing against his stubble. “Then don’t apologise.”

He leaned in, his lips grazing the shell of your ear. “You okay?”

You nodded. “Bob’s missing. Yelena’s out looking for him. We’ve got Reed researching but there is so much to do, and so little time. And the universe might just collapse in on itself in,” you checked your watch. “Six days,”

Bucky hummed quietly, acknowledging your concern. He dropped his hands to your hips, fingertips brushing skin. “What were you doing in here? Training?”

“I just needed some space to think, and uh— I was trying to understand my powers but I ended up just knocked over a punching bag. The chain snapped… we might need a new one.”

“Forget about the punching bag.” He gave you a gentle squeeze. “Your powers? We’ll figure it out. Besides, for now we just need to make sure we have reinforcements for when Doom comes. We plan for the worst.”

You smiled softly and turned in his arms. His eyes searched yours, his features soft in the training room’s dim light. He looked at you like you were something fragile and holy all at once.

“Bucky, I’m scared.”

He pressed his lips into the top of your head, letting them linger there. “I won’t let anything happen to you.”

But that’s exactly what you were afraid of. You had seen just how protective Bucky was of you, even back when you hated him. He’d die for you. And you were too powerful… too chaotic and unruly. What if you hurt him?

You swallowed, and it cut like glass in your throat. Uncomfortable. Fear. Nearly impossible to repress. You tapped his chest lightly, trying to change the subject. “I had fun last night.”

“Me too, uh— I actually wanted to ask you if you’d maybe wanna come out on a date with me again, tonight? But a real date this time. I can show you how I did it in the 40s,”A pink blush appeared over his cheeks. Was Bucky Barnes nervous? When you didn’t reply, he stumbled over his words. “You can say no. I know we have a lot going on but I really think it might be a good distraction and I had this idea…”

Your hand stayed against his chest, feeling the steady thud of his heart beneath your palm. “Yes.”

“Yes?” Bucky’s voice softened. “Okay then. I’ll drop by your room at midnight.”

“That’s late. Where are you taking me?” You asked, looking up at Bucky with curious doe-eyes.

“That, doll, is classified information,” Bucky smirked before sinking to the floor and pulling you down with him, your bodies tangled together on a training mat.

The hush of the empty gym held the moment like a secret. Bucky leaned against the mirrored wall behind him, legs stretched out, and you leaned sideways into him. His arm rested loosely around your shoulders.

“You ever think about the past?” he asked softly. “The good bits, I mean. Not the nightmares.”

You glanced up at him. “Sometimes. I try to remember my brother like that.”

Bucky hummed. “What was he like?”

You smiled faintly, your fingers tracing idle shapes on your own knee. “He was funny. And so patient. He taught me how to ride a bike, you know? Held the seat the whole time until I was halfway down the street. Then I realised he’d let go, and I panicked, wiped out completely. Skinned knees. Total mess.”

Bucky chuckled gently. “Bet he ran straight to you.”

“He did.” Your voice softened with the memory. “Carried me back like I weighed nothing. Gave me the whole pep talk while Mom cleaned me up. Said, ‘you didn’t fall, you learned where the limits were.’” You paused. “He always believed in me, even when I didn’t.”

“You were close.”

You nodded. “He was my best friend. And when he died, I found myself searching for him in other people. I just wanted to feel protected again. Somehow I got caught up with Shane…”

There was a moment of reverent silence between you both. Bucky’s hand slipped from your shoulder to your back, running slow, comforting circles there.

“Shane wasn’t like him?” Bucky asked cautiously, voice almost a whisper, like he was afraid of breaking you.

You stiffened for a second, but then exhaled slowly, leaning a little harder against him. “No. Not even close. My brother protected me. Shane... hurt me. Controlled me. Made me feel like I wasn’t allowed to be myself.”

Bucky’s jaw tensed at that, but he said nothing. Just listened.

“You saw it,” you continued, your voice steadier now. “In the apartment. God Bucky, I’m so glad you came after me. I was a jerk to you and still, you kept coming after me. Saving me when I was in trouble.”

Bucky’s hand stopped moving for a moment. “Shane had a darkness in him,” he said, low. “I’ve seen a lot of monsters, but... the way he tied you up and looked at you—like he owned you—it made my blood boil.”

You swallowed, heart squeezing. “I used to think I’d never get away. And then one day... I did. I just ran. I didn’t even grab my coat.”

“And now look at you,” Bucky murmured, the faintest smile tugging at his lips. “Powerful. Brave. Still standing.”

You looked at him, heart caught in your throat.

“You were the one who showed me I could be more than what he made me believe I was,” you whispered.

He leaned his head down, brushing his forehead gently against yours. “And you showed me I’m more than what they made me.”

Your fingers curled in the fabric of his Henley. “We’re more than our pasts.”

“We are,” he agreed.

And for a long moment, neither of you said anything. You just sat there in the quiet, warmth shared between you, breathing steady, hearts beginning to heal—together.

Your breath mingled with his, both of you hovering on the edge of something that had been growing for days—weeks, maybe. The gravity of everything that had happened, the closeness, the confessions—it all pulled you closer.

Bucky’s hand gently cupped your cheek, his thumb brushing along your skin like he was afraid you’d vanish. His steel-blue eyes searched yours, his breath hitching.

“I want to kiss you,” he murmured, his voice rough and vulnerable. “Is that okay?”

You nodded, your voice caught in your throat. “Yes.”

He started leaning in, slowly—tentatively, reverently—like he was asking one last time. His nose brushed yours. His lips were just a breath away.

And then—

BZZZT.

Your comm crackled to life in your ear. Both of you froze.

“Sorry to interrupt,” came Reed Richards’ voice, clipped and urgent. “But I need you down in Lab 3. Now. I’ve found something. Something... important.”

You pulled back, blinking, heart pounding in a completely different rhythm now. Bucky sighed, his forehead dropping to your shoulder.

“You’ve got to be kidding me,” he muttered.

You couldn’t help the small, exasperated laugh that escaped you. “Of all the times…”

He pulled away, clearly frustrated, but kissed your forehead in a soft, lingering motion. “We’ll come back to this.”

You nodded, already rising to your feet. “We better.”

────✪────

The lab was dimly lit, a low blue glow cast across the polished floor from the array of holographic panels circling Reed Richards like orbiting satellites. You stepped in quietly, the door hissing shut behind you. Reed didn’t even glance up at first — he was too focused, his hands weaving through data streams as if conducting invisible symphonies of code.

Only when you cleared your throat did he look up.

“Reed?” you called softly, drawing his attention.

He looked up, pale and drawn, like someone who had seen something they wished they could unsee. “You’re here. Good,” he said, his voice clipped, too fast. “I’ve made progress. Or maybe a mistake. I’m still deciding.”

You furrowed your brows and approached, arms crossed. “What kind of progress?”

Reed turned and gestured to the swirling portal behind him, a shimmering ring of translucent energy buzzing low. “Multiversal resonance,” he said, tapping rapidly on the console. “It’s more stable than I expected. I managed to create a soft tether. A gateway. Not just a window, but a bridge. I was able to bring something—someone—through.”

Your stomach dropped. “You brought someone here? From another universe?”

“Yes,” he said. “And that’s where it gets... complicated.”

You glanced at the portal. “Is this about the doppelgängers? Doom looking like Tony Stark?”

Reed nodded grimly. “Exactly. What we’re seeing—these strange overlaps in appearance—comes down to multiversal genetic convergence. Some universes don’t just echo ideas, they echo faces. Patterns of DNA that play out across timelines. It’s rare, but not impossible. You’ll see repeating archetypes, especially in people tied to strong cosmic forces. Heroes. Villains.”

“So this Doom, the one we saw,” you said slowly, “he looks like Tony not by coincidence.”

“No,” Reed said. “And... that brings me to what I have to show you.”

You stilled. Something in his voice changed. He wasn’t the overly confident, casually arrogant genius you were used to. He was nervous. Genuinely nervous. You had never seen Reed Richards unsure before, and it sent a chill through you.

He gestured for you to follow. You walked in silence through the back corridor, the tension thick as lead. When he paused at a reinforced door with a biometric scanner, your pulse quickened.

“Before I open this... I want to be clear,” Reed said, turning to face you. “I didn’t know this was going to happen. And I don’t know what to do with him.”

“Him?” you asked, confused. “Who is it?”

Reed looked at you, his eyes apologetic. Then he unlocked the door.

The lights inside were dimmed, but you saw him instantly.

Sitting on the edge of the cot was a man in a form-fitting fireproof suit, silver gauntlets hanging loosely from his hands, his posture relaxed but guarded. He turned as the door opened.

And your breath was punched out of you.

Blonde hair. Blue eyes. That face.

Steve Rogers' face.

No—not Steve. You knew that. Your brain knew that.

But your heart didn’t.

He stood slowly, confusion flickering in his gaze. “Hi,” he said cautiously. “I’m Johnny. Johnny Storm.”

You couldn’t speak. You couldn’t breathe. It was like your body had frozen solid, horror and heartbreak twisting in your gut. Steve had been gone for years—but this? Seeing that face, alive, familiar, animated with new inflection and different energy—it shattered something in you.

“I don’t know how he ended up like this,” Reed said quietly beside you. “In his universe, Johnny Storm looks like this. I tried to trace the genetic divergence, but the more I dug... the more I lost track of our Johnny.”

Your head whipped toward him. “Wait—what do you mean, you lost him?”

“I think I displaced him accidentally,” Reed admitted, rubbing his forehead. “I was tracing multiversal threads and he slipped through one of them. I don’t know where he ended up. But I brought this Johnny in before I realised. Now I don’t know what to do.”

You turned back to the man in the cell—this Johnny who smiled like Steve, tilted his head like Steve, and radiated warmth with that same impossible familiarity.

You saw Bucky’s face in your mind. His grief. His softness. The way his voice broke when he said Steve’s name.

No. He couldn’t see this.

You stepped forward and placed a hand on Reed’s chest. “You cannot tell anyone about this. Especially not Bucky.”

Reed blinked. “I don’t—why? He’s harmless.”

“No, Reed,” you said sharply. “He’s not. Not to him.”

You swallowed hard, forcing back the storm behind your eyes. “Bucky already saw Doom with Tony’s face. He’s still dealing with that. But Steve? That’s different. That was his brother. His anchor. You show this to Bucky and you break him.”

Reed was quiet for a long time. “So what do you want me to do?”

“Hide him,” you said. “No one can know. Not yet. Until we figure out what this means, and where our Johnny is, you keep him locked away. Please, Reed.”

He hesitated... and then nodded.

“I understand,” he said. “I’ll keep this between us.”

You exhaled softly, the tension in your shoulders loosening just a little.

“I’ll run deeper scans,” Reed added, his tone shifting back toward the scientific. “I want to study this version’s neurological data. If there’s even a trace of Steve’s consciousness—”

“Then we tell Bucky,” you said. “Together.”

He nodded again. “Agreed.”

You looked back at the projection one more time before turning away.

It wasn’t Steve. But it felt like him. Like a phantom echo. A mirage your heart wanted to chase — but couldn’t.

You turned away from the door before the man inside could speak again. Before he could smile and tear another hole in your chest.

As the door sealed shut behind you, your legs nearly gave out from beneath you. You caught yourself on the cold wall, heart racing.

Steve’s face was back in the world.

And you had no idea how long you could keep it secret.

────✪────

The tower was quieter at night — no footsteps in the halls, no voices echoing through the common areas, no alerts pinging from the comms. Just silence, heavy and still.

You were lying in bed, eyes on the ceiling, the room bathed in soft, warm light from the bedside lamp. You’d changed into something comfortable hours ago, ready for your date night, and were trying to relax beforehand. Process everything that had happened. But rest hadn’t come. Every time you closed your eyes, your mind dragged you back to the lab. To Reed.

To the way Johnny Storm’s variant looked like Steve Rogers.

It had been hours since you left the lab. You hadn’t told anyone — not Sam, not Yelena, and definitely not Bucky. You’d eaten half a protein bar, drank some tea, and curled into your bed, hoping for sleep. But instead, you were stuck inside your own head, spinning in circles of guilt and protective instinct.

You didn’t even hear the knock at first. Just a soft thunk thunk at the door.

You sat up slightly, blinking.

“Yeah?” your voice rasped.

“...It’s me,” came the muffled voice.

Your heart tugged in recognition.

You padded barefoot to the door and cracked it open to find Bucky standing in a loose shirt and sweatpants, hair tousled like he’d run his hand through it a hundred times. His eyes searched yours, worry etched into every line on his face.

“You didn’t come to dinner” he said softly. “You okay?”

Your lips parted, but for a second, you didn’t know what to say. You finally nodded, stepping aside to let him in.

“Just… a lot on my mind,” you murmured.

He stepped inside quietly. The door clicked shut behind him. He didn’t go far, just stood near the edge of your bed like he wasn’t sure if he should sit or stay.

You climbed back into the bed and looked over your shoulder at him. “You can lie down. If you want.”

That was all it took. Bucky crossed the room slowly, eased onto the bed, and lay facing you. It was quiet for a beat — the kind of quiet that presses into your ribs.

“What did Reed find?” he asked gently.

You hesitated. Then lied. “Just more data. Another anomaly he’s investigating. But nothing solid.”

His gaze lingered on yours for a long second. Maybe he knew you weren’t being fully honest. Maybe he just trusted you enough not to push.

“Mm,” he hummed. “Okay.”

You studied him. His face was shadowed but soft. Less guarded than usual. His shoulders weren’t quite so tense.

“How are you doing?” you asked, voice barely above a whisper.

He gave you a tired little smile. “I promised I’d stop lying when you ask me that, didn’t I?”

You nodded.

“I’m tired,” he said, exhaling slowly. “Not from the fighting. Not even from Doom or the mission. I’m just tired of feeling like I’m chasing ghosts. Of trying to make peace with who I was and not knowing if I deserve any of this.”

Your heart squeezed. You reached out without thinking, your fingers grazing his forearm.

“I’m glad you’re here,” you said.

A silence stretched, but this one was comfortable.

His hand found your hip beneath the blanket. Warm and gentle. He rested it there for a moment, like he was testing how close he could be without scaring you off.

You didn’t flinch.

“I like it,” you said softly, not looking away. “When you touch me.”

Bucky’s brows lifted slightly, a flicker of surprise in his eyes. “Yeah?”

You nodded. “I feel… safe.”

His thumb swept across your hip, tracing slow circles. “That’s all I ever wanted,” he murmured. “To make you feel safe.”

You swallowed, heart fluttering as he leaned in just a bit closer, their noses almost touching. You could feel his breath against your lips. His eyes searched yours, and then dropped briefly to your mouth, like he was weighing a decision.

“I had feelings for you,” he whispered, “even when you hated me.”

Your breath caught.

“I didn’t want to,” he added quickly. “You had every reason to hate me. And I told myself I didn’t deserve to want anything from you. But I’d watch you on missions. Hear you laugh in the hallway. See you stand your ground with Sam. And I couldn’t help it.”

A soft sound escaped your lips — a whimper somewhere between awe and disbelief.

“I didn’t hate you,” you whispered back. “Not really. I wanted to. But deep down… I think I was so afraid to come to terms with what I really felt. It was easier to fight with you than… the other thing.”

Your hand found his jaw and held it, thumb brushing across the stubble along his cheek.

“I think,” you added, ready to elaborate. “I was scared to forgive you, because if I did… I’d have to admit how badly I wanted you too.”

His breath stilled.

You leaned in closer, your foreheads almost touching.

“I wanted you when I thought I shouldn’t,” you said, lips barely brushing his. “And now… I just want you.”

Bucky closed the gap, but it wasn’t desperate — it was soft, sweet, tender. The kind of kiss that lingered. His hand slid up to your waist, holding you gently. Yours tangled in his hair.

And for a moment, the weight of everything — of multiversal threats, of ghosts in the shape of Steve and Tony — melted away.

It was just the two of you. Whispering warmth and safety into each other’s mouths.

And when the kiss broke, and Bucky tucked you against his chest, his arm curling around your back, you finally felt content. 

You were lying face to face with Bucky, your noses almost touching, the warmth of his palm still resting gently against your waist. You were both content to just be. To breathe each other in. To exist in the same sliver of peace.

His thumb made slow circles over your shirt, right above your hip. You’d long forgotten how to keep your heart from racing around him.

“As much as I love lying here with you, I did promise I’d take you out tonight.” He said, his voice low and husky from the hour. You hummed in response, eyes half-lidded, fingers absently brushing the seam of his sleeve.

He reached up and gently tucked a piece of hair behind your ear, fingertips barely skimming your skin. You shivered—not from the chill, but from the softness of it. From him.

“Oh, so you did.”

“Come sneak out with me,” he whispered, right against your temple.

You blinked, caught off guard. “What?”

His grin was slow and teasing. “Let’s get outta here. Just for a while.”

You stared at him, half laughing, half suspicious. “Bucky. It’s nearly one in the morning.”

“Exactly. Everyone’s asleep. No one will miss us.”

You raised a brow. “What are we, sixteen?”

“Not since the Great Depression,” he said with a smirk. “But I still know how to cause a little trouble.”

You shook your head, biting back a grin. “Where would we even go?”

“I told you earlier, it’s a surprise.”

You groaned. “I hate surprises.”

He tilted his head, eyes sparkling. “Do you trust me?”

The question hung there, weighty, gentle, honest.

Your smile faded, but in its place came something deeper—something vulnerable. You nodded, slow. “Yeah. I trust you.”

His smile softened. “Then come with me. I promise you’ll like it.”

You stared at him, your breath catching—completely and utterly gone for him.

“All right, James Barnes,” you whispered. “Let’s go break the rules.”

────✪────

The rusted gate creaked behind you as you both dropped onto the sand-dusted boardwalk, giggling like you were teenagers again—though Bucky technically had at least a century on that title. The whole place was draped in shadows, lit only by the flickering remnants of carnival lights left on for maintenance or nostalgia. The sea whispered behind you, and the wind tugged at your clothes as Bucky caught your hand and tugged you deeper in.

Coney Island was asleep, but somehow more alive than it had ever been.

"Okay, rules of the fair," Bucky said, voice low, full of mischief. "One: you have to let me win every game we don't actually play. Two: you must pretend to be utterly charmed when I twirl you. And three—most important—no phones, no mission talk, just you and me."

You held up three fingers like a scout. “Scout’s honor.”

“You were never a scout.”

“You were never charming.” You bit back, with a smile painting your face and stars in your eyes.

“Ouch,” he grinned, already pulling you toward the carousel. It sat still and silent, the hand-painted horses frozen in place. Most of the lights had been turned off, but the moonlight cast a silver sheen across the platform.

“I dare you to ride one,” he said, eyes glinting.

“You dare me?”

He nodded solemnly. “Ride it like a princess.”

“Oh, I see. And what does that make you?”

He stepped closer, voice dropping theatrically as he tugged on his jacket. “Your loyal knight in shining leather.”

You threw your head back and laughed. “God, you’re cheesy.”

“Excuse you, I’m gallant.”

Still laughing, you mounted the tallest horse, gripping the pole, dramatically tossing your hair. “Take me on my steed, knight!”

“Yes, Your Majesty,” he said with a faux-bow, pretending to draw an invisible sword. “I vow to protect your honour and steal your cotton candy.”

The wind whooshed around you as he stepped up onto the carousel and reached for your waist. With a playful grunt, he lifted you off the horse, spun you once in the air, and planted you gently back down—your laughter ringing loud in the night.

Your cheeks were hot, and your grin stretched ear to ear.

“I hate how strong you are,” you said breathlessly.

“You love it,” he teased, his hands not leaving your waist just yet.

“I’m not confirming or denying anything.”

Then, you noticed it—the Ferris wheel. Set a little ways off, mostly dark, except for one lone cabin light that blinked weakly every few seconds. The wheel wasn’t running, but it was gently rotating—just enough for someone to sneak a ride.

You glanced at Bucky.

He raised a brow. “You thinking what I’m thinking?”

“Depends. You thinking felony trespassing?”

“I was thinking romance. But felony trespassing is a close second.”

You grabbed his hand. “Then let’s go commit a crime.”

He laughed all the way there, helping you climb into one of the cars. It creaked as it lifted, slow and lazy. You shivered from the chill, and Bucky immediately shrugged off his leather jacket and wrapped it around your shoulders.

“Look at that,” you said softly, curling into his side. “A gentleman and a criminal.”

“Only for you.”

You rested your head against his shoulder, your breath fogging slightly in the air.

“I used to bring girls here,” Bucky said after a long pause, voice low and nostalgic. “Back before the war. Before everything. It was always Coney Island.”

You sat up a little, narrowing your eyes. “Wow. I feel so special.”

He laughed quietly, the sound bittersweet. “Hey, I haven’t brought anyone here since, well... not for about ninety years.”

You blinked. “Seriously?”

He nodded. “Not since Steve and I shipped out.”

Your chest ached, but in the warm, aching way.

His hand found yours again, intertwining your fingers like it was the easiest thing in the world.

“I used to think what I felt for those girls was real,” he said. “Back then, everything felt real. But it wasn’t. Not like this.”

You turned to him slowly. “Like what?”

He looked at you—not just looked, saw you. In a way that made your skin warm beneath your clothes, even in the cold wind.

“Like this,” he whispered, brushing a thumb across your cheek. “This is different.”

Your breath hitched. “Yeah… it is.”

The Ferris wheel turned on, just enough to shift the car you were in, giving you a sweeping view of the empty boardwalk below. Everything quiet, timeless. Like the world had pressed pause and made space for just the two of you.

Bucky leaned in, his lips brushing yours with a softness that made your stomach flutter. When he kissed you, it wasn’t rushed. It was reverent. Like every part of him was savoring the moment.

When you pulled away, he pressed his forehead to yours.

“Best first date I’ve ever had,” you whispered.

He smiled, brushing your nose with his. “I’m not even done yet.”

You grinned. “What else is there?”

He nodded toward the beach. “Stars.”

────✪────

You kicked off your shoes the second your feet touched the sand, the grains still warm in patches from the sun earlier that day. Bucky followed, boots in hand, his rolled-up sleeves brushing against his forearms as the two of you wandered toward the tide. The moon hung low above the ocean like it was watching you, soft and golden.

You dropped onto the sand with a sigh, hugging your knees as the waves whispered their endless lullaby. Bucky sat beside you, then stretched out on his back with his arms behind his head. You glanced at him—his profile soft, more boyish in the moonlight than you'd ever seen him before.

“Lie down,” he murmured, patting the space beside him.

You did, your head on his shoulder, his jacket draped over you like a cocoon. He turned slightly, adjusting to cradle you better, one hand resting protectively over your waist, fingers splayed like he wanted to memorise every curve.

The stars were scattered across the sky like glitter tossed by a careless god.

“This was our favorite thing,” Bucky said after a while, voice quieter than the ocean. “Me and Steve. We'd come out here late, lay on the boardwalk or the roof of my building, and just… stare. No talking. No noise. Just… stars.”

You closed your eyes for a second, imagining that younger version of him. Smiling. Carefree. Unburdened by war or metal arms or trauma.

“I think he saw something up there I never did,” Bucky continued, “Hope. A future. Something good waiting.”

You swallowed hard, feeling the weight of the secret tucked behind your ribs. A Johnny Storm variant that looked just like Steve Rogers. Too much like him. The resemblance had sent ice down your spine. You touched Bucky’s chest lightly, feeling the slow, steady rhythm of his heart.

“He was right, though,” you whispered. “There is something good waiting.”

He looked down at you, his mouth twitching into the ghost of a smile. “Yeah?”

You nodded. “It’s this. Right here. You and me.”

He didn’t answer right away. Instead, he tilted his head to kiss the top of yours, lingering for a beat too long, like he was scared the moment might vanish if he moved too quickly.

“I don’t know what I did to deserve this,” he said against your hair.

You tilted your head up toward him. “Maybe it’s not about what you did. Maybe it’s about what you do now.”

He stared at you. And there it was again—that open, wounded awe in his eyes, like he still couldn’t believe you were real. That you’d forgiven him. That you’d chosen him.

“Can I ask you something?” he murmured.

“Anything.”

His hand moved from your waist to your cheek. “Back there, in the tower… before this. When you said you like when I touch you—was that just a line? Or…”

You leaned in, kissing the corner of his mouth.

“Not a line,” you whispered. “It’s the truth.”

His smile was shy but electric. “Good. Because I don’t think I can stop.”

You laughed, the sound melting into the sound of the waves. “Then don’t.”

You closed the distance, pressing your lips to his in a slow, deliberate kiss that melted into something deeper. His breath hitched, and his hands moved—one sliding under your shirt, fingers grazing the bare skin of your side, the heat of his touch making you shiver.

Your hands found their way to the front of his shirt, fingers tracing the hard muscles beneath, before boldly slipping beneath the fabric to feel the warmth of his skin. 

The stars were wide and endless above you, a smattering of silver across the dark velvet sky. You lay together in the soft, cool sand at Coney Island, wrapped in the folds of Bucky’s worn leather jacket. The wind carried salt and sea and silence, but none of that mattered — not with the weight of him over you, his mouth locked on yours like he was starved for every taste.

And you kissed him back just as hungrily, gasping when his tongue swept against yours, when his hips shifted against yours, slow and searching.

You felt everything.

The rough denim of his jeans against your thighs. The warmth of his hands sliding beneath your jacket, fingers curling under the hem of your shirt. The press of his clothed thigh between your legs where you’d unconsciously slotted yourself against him.

“God,” he muttered against your mouth, voice strained, reverent. “You feel so good like this.”

Your breath hitched as he adjusted his thigh just right — and you instinctively moved, hips rocking forward, rubbing against the strong line of muscle. It was clothed, it was barely anything — but your body jolted, craving more.

“Bucky…” you whispered, dizzy.

He kissed you again, slower this time, almost tentative. But his hands were not — one slid up the length of your back to hold you close, the other trailing down, past your waist to where your leggings hugged tight to your hips.

“Can I?” he asked, voice hoarse, palm resting at the curve between your thighs. “I won’t go any further unless you want—”

You nodded before he could even finish.

“I want,” you breathed. “Please, I want—”

That was all it took.

His hand moved over you, warm and steady, rubbing slow circles over the heat that pulsed between your legs. The pressure sent a jolt through your spine. Your hands clawed at his back through his shirt, needing something to anchor yourself as your hips rutted against him, desperate for friction.

“Jesus,” Bucky groaned, voice muffled against your throat. “Watching you like this — grinding on me — you’re gonna kill me.”

You whimpered when he pressed harder, a precise, perfect drag of his fingers over your leggings, right where you needed him most. Your body was trembling now, breath catching with each stroke.

And then — his thigh shifted again beneath you, and you found yourself rocking against it while he kept his fingers working you through your leggings. A filthy, delicious rhythm.

You gasped his name.

His mouth crashed to yours, swallowing your sounds as he pressed into you with equal urgency — the thick line of his erection clearly outlined through his jeans now, grinding against your hip.

“Fuck, baby,” he whispered, forehead pressed to yours. “You’re drivin’ me crazy. You feel that?”

You nodded, dazed. “You’re hard…”

“For you,” he said, his voice nearly breaking. “Been hard since you kissed me on that damn carousel.”

You shifted then, adjusting your angle — straddling one of his jean-clad thighs while reaching down between you, just bold enough now to cup him through his jeans. He choked out a groan and buried his face in your shoulder.

“Oh fuck—don’t do that unless you wanna see me lose it right here,” he growled, laughing breathlessly.

“I do,” you whispered with a smirk, rolling your hips down against him.

The air around you turned hot and thick, full of panting and groans and need. You rubbed against his thigh, hips rocking, slick and desperate beneath your clothes. And Bucky — Bucky met your rhythm, hands on your ass, pressing you down against him as he thrust up into the crook of your thigh.

The moment was messy, wild, completely clothed — but somehow more vulnerable than anything you’d ever felt.

“I’m close,” you gasped, shaking.

“Me too,” he rasped, voice wrecked. “Let go for me. Wanna feel you come on me like this.”

And you did — with a broken cry muffled against his lips, your body wracked with waves of pleasure as your hips stuttered against his thigh.

Moments later, Bucky came too, groaning into your shoulder, holding you tight as his body trembled. The press of his cock against you went rigid, twitching through his jeans as he spilled into his boxers, panting like he’d just gone ten rounds in the ring.

Silence followed — just the crashing of waves and the sound of both your hearts hammering out of sync.

Then Bucky laughed softly, breathless and warm. “First date, huh?”

You buried your face in his neck. “Best one I’ve ever had.”

“Don’t tell the carousel horse,” he teased. “It’ll be jealous.”

You giggled, tightening your hold on him.

And neither of you moved — not right away. The stars shone down, and for now, the weight of the multiverse didn’t exist.

Just him. Just you. And the soft, sweet echo of everything you were becoming together.

────✪────

Sebastian Stan taglist: @notreallythatlost @houseofaegon @bunnyfella @sunday-bug @wintrsoldrluvr @maryevm @mcira @monsteraddicts-world @positivenergy @cherriesnmango @navs-bhat @hits-different-cause-its-you @avivarougestan

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[mandoalorian]

Uhhhhm rach.. Hymns of Hunger was *delicious*. yes come over to the dark side, it wa such a nice surprise to see you write for Bob. please write a part two! you can’t just leave us with a cliffhanger like that!

Also, would you ever write a bob x reader series? even just a miniseries. I feel like i have read everything out there for bob atm and I am dying for new content. 😌

I have lots of ideas if you are taking requests!

Thank you 💐💐💐🥹🥹🥹 i’d actually received so many requests for Bob in the past month or so, I figured I’d shoot my shot at it, but I wanted to start with writing something on my own terms. I don’t plan on writing a series for Bob or even opening requests for him at the moment, not until I feel more confident writing for him. But the feedback on the fic so far has been so lovely and encouraging so never say never

If you have Bucky requests though… send them my way! Thoughts/feelings/literally anything. I wanna hear it.

I say it all the time but I recommend @ava-starrs-girlfriend ‘s multi chapter werewolf Bob AU which you can read here , it’s actually what made me fall for Bob. Like sure i thought he was cute in the movie but lance’s story made me actually yearn for him soooooo

[mandoalorian]

the night we stole the stars [bucky barnes x f!reader]

pairing: new avenger!bucky barnes x f!reader

synopsis: you and bucky chase the glow of a forgotten fairground, where soft kisses taste like memories in the making. beneath the boardwalk lights and scattered starlight, the night becomes yours—wild, sacred, and fleeting. but even as your hearts sync in stolen rhythm, something waits in the quiet edges of the multiverse, changing everything

word count: 7900

rating/warnings: 18+ explicit content, dry humping in public place, grinding, making out, plenty of sexual tension, angst in the making (sorry in advance), a little sambucky if you squint

masterlist

previous chapter | current | next chapter

It was early. Not sunrise-early — city early. Horns honked like an orchestra warming up. A dog barked three times in a row. Somewhere, a jackhammer stuttered to life.

Bucky liked mornings like this. Loud enough to drown out memories. Soft enough that everything still felt... possible.

He waited outside the Tower with two coffees in hand, both black. No sugar, no nonsense. He knew Sam would complain. That was kind of the point.

When Sam stepped outside, hoodie pulled over his head, he squinted at the sky like it had personally offended him. His eyes landed on Bucky, then on the second coffee. He walked over wordlessly and took it.

“No sugar?” he asked, sipping anyway.

Bucky shrugged. “You’re sweet enough.”

Sam huffed. “You flirting with me, Barnes?”

“You wish.”

They started walking with no clear destination, boots hitting pavement in sync. The Tower loomed behind them, and Bucky felt a little lighter the farther they got from it.

“So,” Sam said after a beat. “I signed Valentina’s accords, we’re on the same team now, what’s all this about?”

Bucky winced. “Us.”

“Okay, now you’re definitely flirting.” Sam smirked and Bucky stifled a laugh.

“Outside all of this: Doom and the multiverse and… her,” Bucky stopped as he noticed Sam’s face soften. “I really miss you man,” he sighed, the revelation hard for him to admit. If only he had communicated better months ago. Then maybe the fallout wouldn’t have been so bad.

“I miss you too, Buck, but none of this has been easy. Abandoning me and teaming up with John Walker?” Sam replied, not angry but not amused either. “Seriously?”

Bucky thought ‘abandoned’ sounded harsh, but it wasn’t the time to mention it. He took a sip of his coffee. “I know, but the world really needs Captain America. I need Captain America. And I just want us to be okay again.”

“I want that too.” Sam sighed. “Come here.”

And in that moment, Captain America pulled the Winter Soldier in for a hug, solid and comforting, and for the first time in months, Bucky felt like he could breathe again.

“Now that we’re okay,” Sam said, pulling away but keeping his hands on Bucky’s shoulders. “You gotta tell me how the hell you ended up on a team with a literal black widow assassin, the Red Guardian, and Walker. And those billboards… damn Bucky, they had you overlooking New York City like you were some kind of God.”

Bucky looked down at his coffee. “Yeah. That wasn’t my idea.”

“Valentina?”

“Yup. She created this whole PR thing. Wheaties boxes and magazine covers and merchandise. Wanted Yelena and Walker to pretend to date each other, but like hell they would,” Bucky explained. “At the time, they couldn’t be in the same room as each other for longer than ten minutes. So she decided it would look good if me and her pursued this fake relationship. I think she thought the public would put more faith in her if they saw she was dating an Avenger.”

Sam slowed. “Buck… that’s fucking crazy.”

Bucky nodded. “Yeah. Wasn’t easy. But eventually the team started trusting each other. And because I was leading, it meant they were trusting me. And for once… I felt like I was actually doing something right.”

Sam took another long sip. “That’s not nothing.”

“I didn’t agree with the logistics,” Bucky said. “The secrecy, the contracts, the way Valentina tried to puppet us from behind the curtain. But when we were out there, actually fighting for people, it felt... good. Like I belonged somewhere.”

“You’ve always belonged somewhere.”

Bucky gave a quiet, humourless laugh. “You have to say that. You’re my friend.”

“I’m also the guy you iced out when I was trying to rebuild the Avengers. The real Avengers.”

That landed like a punch. Bucky rubbed the back of his neck.

“I thought you didn’t need me,” he admitted.

“Bullshit,” Sam said calmly. “We both know that’s not true. I needed you. I wanted you in it with me. You’re the one who stepped off to be with your Thunderbolt buddies.”

Bucky took a breath. “Maybe. But now you know the truth. Not everything was so rosy. I think from this point forward, we phase Val out for good. We do this, together. We lead, together.”

“Doom’s coming,” Sam muttered, eyes scanning the skyline like he expected Victor to emerge from the clouds. “We both feel it. And now we’ve got all these pieces— The Fantastic Four, the Avengers, tech from a different world—and no time to get our footing.”

“We’ve got each other,” Bucky said. 

They walked another block in silence.

“I hated that billboard,” Sam finally said, like he couldn’t keep it in any longer. Bucky let out a snort.

“Me too.”

“I hated seeing you in it more.”

“That one hurts a little.”

Sam stopped walking and turned to him. “Because you’re mine, Barnes. My grumpy, murderous, 108-year-old sidekick.”

“Sidekick? You’re pushing it now,” Bucky smirked. “I prefer ‘combat veteran with emotional baggage.’”

Sam cracked a grin. “Same thing.”

There was a pause. Then Sam added, “I get it now, though. You felt useful. That matters.”

“It does,” Bucky said. “But it doesn’t matter more than you. More than this.”

They locked eyes. A shared history of battlefields and therapy chairs between them. A bond forged in grief, hammered into something solid by time.

“I’m still with you, Sam,” Bucky said. “Even when the world spins sideways.”

Sam nodded. “Alright, then. Let’s go clean this mess up together.”

They stood there another beat.

Then Sam extended a hand, and Bucky pulled him in for another hug instead—tight, firm, warm.

“I love you, buddy,” Sam murmured.

Bucky’s voice was rough. “Love you too.”

A car honked behind them. The city marched on.

But for the first time in weeks, something clicked back into place. Like the world might still be fixable after all.

────✪────

Sam had given the Fantastic Four a floor of their own in the Avengers tower, on the condition of their cooperation. 

The door to the secure living quarters slid open with a hiss.

Reed Richards stepped inside, eyes scanning the space with something between dread and longing. It wasn’t much—a makeshift living area hastily assembled—but within it stood three faces he thought he might never see again.

Sue was the first to spot him. Her posture stiffened instinctively, shielding mode kicking in before she even registered the emotion. Then her face cracked—just slightly—at the corners.

“Reed,” she said.

Johnny moved faster. “You look like hell.”

Reed blinked. “You look... exactly the same.”

Ben Grimm chuckled from the couch, deep and gravelly. “We had better lighting than you did, pal.”

Sue took a slow step forward. “I didn’t think they’d actually let us—”

“They didn’t,” you said, emerging from behind her, voice firm but not unkind. “I did.”

He turned. You leaned in the doorway with arms crossed, tired but steady. “I reminded Valentina that you’re not much use locked in a cage. Reed agreed that you would help. So now you help.”

Ben gave you a small, grateful nod. “And in return?”

“In return,” you said, “you get your family. But if you step out of line, or Reed, if you try to vanish into a black hole of your own genius—”

“Understood,” Reed said, lifting his hands in surrender. “No disappearing acts. No more secrets.”

Sue was still watching him. She didn’t smile. But she didn’t stop him when he crossed the room and touched her hand.

The silence stretched. Then Johnny cleared his throat loudly. “So, uh. Doom’s back?”

“Doom’s coming,” you corrected. “We’re not sure from where yet. But the tech that attacked the safe house... it wasn’t from here.”

Reed’s brow furrowed. “Alternate universe signatures?”

You nodded.

“That explains the Stark resemblance,” he muttered.

“Exactly,” you said. “We thought Doom was a myth or at least dormant. But if he's tied into a multiverse collapse, we’re going to need your expertise. You said before that you’ve studied this stuff—doppelgängers, alternate selves—what can you do now?”

Reed’s expression turned calculating. Focused. Alive.

“I need to run some tests. The multiverse... it’s like a shattered mirror. Some pieces reflect you exactly, others distort you beyond recognition. I want to start with Johnny.”

“Me?” Johnny blinked. “Why me?”

“Because you’re a perfect test subject. Young, genetically altered by cosmic radiation, and narcissistic enough that if another version of you existed, you’d want to find him immediately.”

“Aw, you do know me,” Johnny said, grinning.

Reed stepped away from the group, already talking to himself. “I’ll need quantum mapping. Multiversal scans. If I can trace even the smallest residue of variant DNA…”

“Reed,” you interrupted. “Focus.”

He blinked and looked at you. “Right. Yes. I’ll start with the scans now.”

As he swept out of the room, Sue sighed deeply. “Same Reed. Different apocalypse.”

Ben snorted. “At least we got him back.”

You watched him go, already lost in theory, hands moving like they were drawing math from the air. Something about it unsettled you—but also gave you hope.

You wandered back to the upper levels, catching the tail end of soft laughter in the training hall. Inside, Yelena was perched cross-legged on a bench, casually tossing a butterfly knife between her fingers. Her gaze lifted when she saw you.

“Was wondering when you’d check in,” she said.

You leaned on the wall beside her. “Reed’s reunited with his family. The science-freak reunion went about as expected.”

“Any theories yet?”

“He wants to test Johnny first. See if he’s got a doppelgänger. Maybe map how the multiverse is pulling apart.”

Yelena tilted her head. “You think that’s what this is? A multiversal pull?”

“I think it’s something worse. Doom doesn’t just appear without reason. And he doesn’t send attack drones for fun.”

Yelena sighed. “You have a point.”

You smiled faintly, then looked around. “Have you seen Bob?”

Her fingers paused over the knife. “No.”

“How long’s it been?”

She gave a small shrug, too casual. “He wasn’t at the morning check-in. I figured he was with Bucky. Or maybe passed out somewhere dramatic.”

You frowned. “I thought he might’ve come to see you.”

“Nope,” she said. “But now that you mention it...”

The two of you exchanged a look. Yelena tucked her knife away and stood up. “You think something’s wrong?”

“I think something’s different,” you said carefully. “He’s been... off. Ever since the void.”

Her brow furrowed. “He said he felt weird. More... powered.”

“Exactly,” you murmured. “Like something in him activated.”

You both stood in silence a moment longer.

“I’m gonna go look for him,” she announced.

“Want some help?” You offered, already tapping into your aura to scan the room for life. 

“It’s okay, he can’t have gone far. Besides, I want all the glory for finding him.” Yelena joked. 

When Yelena left the room, you paused for a moment, taking in the silence. It felt good to have a moment alone, away from the stress of John and Ava arguing, or Bob disappearing, or the upcoming potential multiversal collapse. You inhaled, your fingers starting to tingle and burn a pale lilac colour, sparkling like iridescent flecks of glitter as you tapped into your own aura. Your own feelings. 

Calmness. Wonder. Peace.

You felt relaxed. 

You exhaled and pinched your fingers together, shooting a burst of energy towards a punching bag. The power snapped the chain and the bag went flying into the wall, knocking over a stack of weights in the process. The loud clatter made you jump. How were you ever going to learn to control your powers, when there was no one who could teach you?

You stood and sauntered towards the weights, reaching out to put them back into place. You turned back toward the far end of the room, brushing a hand over your arm to dispel the unease. That’s when you felt it.

Arms wrapped gently around your waist from behind, pulling you into a solid chest.

You gasped, instincts kicking in before your mind caught up.

“Whoa,” came the familiar voice, rough and apologetic. “Too much?”

You exhaled, your heartbeat thudding against your ribs as you melted back into him. “No,” you said, breathless. “Not too much.”

Bucky let out a soft laugh behind you. His metal hand rested low on your stomach, while his warm one splayed across your ribs like he needed to hold you closer. “Sorry. I saw you and just... wanted to be close.”

You turned your head slightly, cheek brushing against his stubble. “Then don’t apologise.”

He leaned in, his lips grazing the shell of your ear. “You okay?”

You nodded. “Bob’s missing. Yelena’s out looking for him. We’ve got Reed researching but there is so much to do, and so little time. And the universe might just collapse in on itself in,” you checked your watch. “Six days,”

Bucky hummed quietly, acknowledging your concern. He dropped his hands to your hips, fingertips brushing skin. “What were you doing in here? Training?”

“I just needed some space to think, and uh— I was trying to understand my powers but I ended up just knocked over a punching bag. The chain snapped… we might need a new one.”

“Forget about the punching bag.” He gave you a gentle squeeze. “Your powers? We’ll figure it out. Besides, for now we just need to make sure we have reinforcements for when Doom comes. We plan for the worst.”

You smiled softly and turned in his arms. His eyes searched yours, his features soft in the training room’s dim light. He looked at you like you were something fragile and holy all at once.

“Bucky, I’m scared.”

He pressed his lips into the top of your head, letting them linger there. “I won’t let anything happen to you.”

But that’s exactly what you were afraid of. You had seen just how protective Bucky was of you, even back when you hated him. He’d die for you. And you were too powerful… too chaotic and unruly. What if you hurt him?

You swallowed, and it cut like glass in your throat. Uncomfortable. Fear. Nearly impossible to repress. You tapped his chest lightly, trying to change the subject. “I had fun last night.”

“Me too, uh— I actually wanted to ask you if you’d maybe wanna come out on a date with me again, tonight? But a real date this time. I can show you how I did it in the 40s,”A pink blush appeared over his cheeks. Was Bucky Barnes nervous? When you didn’t reply, he stumbled over his words. “You can say no. I know we have a lot going on but I really think it might be a good distraction and I had this idea…”

Your hand stayed against his chest, feeling the steady thud of his heart beneath your palm. “Yes.”

“Yes?” Bucky’s voice softened. “Okay then. I’ll drop by your room at midnight.”

“That’s late. Where are you taking me?” You asked, looking up at Bucky with curious doe-eyes.

“That, doll, is classified information,” Bucky smirked before sinking to the floor and pulling you down with him, your bodies tangled together on a training mat.

The hush of the empty gym held the moment like a secret. Bucky leaned against the mirrored wall behind him, legs stretched out, and you leaned sideways into him. His arm rested loosely around your shoulders.

“You ever think about the past?” he asked softly. “The good bits, I mean. Not the nightmares.”

You glanced up at him. “Sometimes. I try to remember my brother like that.”

Bucky hummed. “What was he like?”

You smiled faintly, your fingers tracing idle shapes on your own knee. “He was funny. And so patient. He taught me how to ride a bike, you know? Held the seat the whole time until I was halfway down the street. Then I realised he’d let go, and I panicked, wiped out completely. Skinned knees. Total mess.”

Bucky chuckled gently. “Bet he ran straight to you.”

“He did.” Your voice softened with the memory. “Carried me back like I weighed nothing. Gave me the whole pep talk while Mom cleaned me up. Said, ‘you didn’t fall, you learned where the limits were.’” You paused. “He always believed in me, even when I didn’t.”

“You were close.”

You nodded. “He was my best friend. And when he died, I found myself searching for him in other people. I just wanted to feel protected again. Somehow I got caught up with Shane…”

There was a moment of reverent silence between you both. Bucky’s hand slipped from your shoulder to your back, running slow, comforting circles there.

“Shane wasn’t like him?” Bucky asked cautiously, voice almost a whisper, like he was afraid of breaking you.

You stiffened for a second, but then exhaled slowly, leaning a little harder against him. “No. Not even close. My brother protected me. Shane... hurt me. Controlled me. Made me feel like I wasn’t allowed to be myself.”

Bucky’s jaw tensed at that, but he said nothing. Just listened.

“You saw it,” you continued, your voice steadier now. “In the apartment. God Bucky, I’m so glad you came after me. I was a jerk to you and still, you kept coming after me. Saving me when I was in trouble.”

Bucky’s hand stopped moving for a moment. “Shane had a darkness in him,” he said, low. “I’ve seen a lot of monsters, but... the way he tied you up and looked at you—like he owned you—it made my blood boil.”

You swallowed, heart squeezing. “I used to think I’d never get away. And then one day... I did. I just ran. I didn’t even grab my coat.”

“And now look at you,” Bucky murmured, the faintest smile tugging at his lips. “Powerful. Brave. Still standing.”

You looked at him, heart caught in your throat.

“You were the one who showed me I could be more than what he made me believe I was,” you whispered.

He leaned his head down, brushing his forehead gently against yours. “And you showed me I’m more than what they made me.”

Your fingers curled in the fabric of his Henley. “We’re more than our pasts.”

“We are,” he agreed.

And for a long moment, neither of you said anything. You just sat there in the quiet, warmth shared between you, breathing steady, hearts beginning to heal—together.

Your breath mingled with his, both of you hovering on the edge of something that had been growing for days—weeks, maybe. The gravity of everything that had happened, the closeness, the confessions—it all pulled you closer.

Bucky’s hand gently cupped your cheek, his thumb brushing along your skin like he was afraid you’d vanish. His steel-blue eyes searched yours, his breath hitching.

“I want to kiss you,” he murmured, his voice rough and vulnerable. “Is that okay?”

You nodded, your voice caught in your throat. “Yes.”

He started leaning in, slowly—tentatively, reverently—like he was asking one last time. His nose brushed yours. His lips were just a breath away.

And then—

BZZZT.

Your comm crackled to life in your ear. Both of you froze.

“Sorry to interrupt,” came Reed Richards’ voice, clipped and urgent. “But I need you down in Lab 3. Now. I’ve found something. Something... important.”

You pulled back, blinking, heart pounding in a completely different rhythm now. Bucky sighed, his forehead dropping to your shoulder.

“You’ve got to be kidding me,” he muttered.

You couldn’t help the small, exasperated laugh that escaped you. “Of all the times…”

He pulled away, clearly frustrated, but kissed your forehead in a soft, lingering motion. “We’ll come back to this.”

You nodded, already rising to your feet. “We better.”

────✪────

The lab was dimly lit, a low blue glow cast across the polished floor from the array of holographic panels circling Reed Richards like orbiting satellites. You stepped in quietly, the door hissing shut behind you. Reed didn’t even glance up at first — he was too focused, his hands weaving through data streams as if conducting invisible symphonies of code.

Only when you cleared your throat did he look up.

“Reed?” you called softly, drawing his attention.

He looked up, pale and drawn, like someone who had seen something they wished they could unsee. “You’re here. Good,” he said, his voice clipped, too fast. “I’ve made progress. Or maybe a mistake. I’m still deciding.”

You furrowed your brows and approached, arms crossed. “What kind of progress?”

Reed turned and gestured to the swirling portal behind him, a shimmering ring of translucent energy buzzing low. “Multiversal resonance,” he said, tapping rapidly on the console. “It’s more stable than I expected. I managed to create a soft tether. A gateway. Not just a window, but a bridge. I was able to bring something—someone—through.”

Your stomach dropped. “You brought someone here? From another universe?”

“Yes,” he said. “And that’s where it gets... complicated.”

You glanced at the portal. “Is this about the doppelgängers? Doom looking like Tony Stark?”

Reed nodded grimly. “Exactly. What we’re seeing—these strange overlaps in appearance—comes down to multiversal genetic convergence. Some universes don’t just echo ideas, they echo faces. Patterns of DNA that play out across timelines. It’s rare, but not impossible. You’ll see repeating archetypes, especially in people tied to strong cosmic forces. Heroes. Villains.”

“So this Doom, the one we saw,” you said slowly, “he looks like Tony not by coincidence.”

“No,” Reed said. “And... that brings me to what I have to show you.”

You stilled. Something in his voice changed. He wasn’t the overly confident, casually arrogant genius you were used to. He was nervous. Genuinely nervous. You had never seen Reed Richards unsure before, and it sent a chill through you.

He gestured for you to follow. You walked in silence through the back corridor, the tension thick as lead. When he paused at a reinforced door with a biometric scanner, your pulse quickened.

“Before I open this... I want to be clear,” Reed said, turning to face you. “I didn’t know this was going to happen. And I don’t know what to do with him.”

“Him?” you asked, confused. “Who is it?”

Reed looked at you, his eyes apologetic. Then he unlocked the door.

The lights inside were dimmed, but you saw him instantly.

Sitting on the edge of the cot was a man in a form-fitting fireproof suit, silver gauntlets hanging loosely from his hands, his posture relaxed but guarded. He turned as the door opened.

And your breath was punched out of you.

Blonde hair. Blue eyes. That face.

Steve Rogers' face.

No—not Steve. You knew that. Your brain knew that.

But your heart didn’t.

He stood slowly, confusion flickering in his gaze. “Hi,” he said cautiously. “I’m Johnny. Johnny Storm.”

You couldn’t speak. You couldn’t breathe. It was like your body had frozen solid, horror and heartbreak twisting in your gut. Steve had been gone for years—but this? Seeing that face, alive, familiar, animated with new inflection and different energy—it shattered something in you.

“I don’t know how he ended up like this,” Reed said quietly beside you. “In his universe, Johnny Storm looks like this. I tried to trace the genetic divergence, but the more I dug... the more I lost track of our Johnny.”

Your head whipped toward him. “Wait—what do you mean, you lost him?”

“I think I displaced him accidentally,” Reed admitted, rubbing his forehead. “I was tracing multiversal threads and he slipped through one of them. I don’t know where he ended up. But I brought this Johnny in before I realised. Now I don’t know what to do.”

You turned back to the man in the cell—this Johnny who smiled like Steve, tilted his head like Steve, and radiated warmth with that same impossible familiarity.

You saw Bucky’s face in your mind. His grief. His softness. The way his voice broke when he said Steve’s name.

No. He couldn’t see this.

You stepped forward and placed a hand on Reed’s chest. “You cannot tell anyone about this. Especially not Bucky.”

Reed blinked. “I don’t—why? He’s harmless.”

“No, Reed,” you said sharply. “He’s not. Not to him.”

You swallowed hard, forcing back the storm behind your eyes. “Bucky already saw Doom with Tony’s face. He’s still dealing with that. But Steve? That’s different. That was his brother. His anchor. You show this to Bucky and you break him.”

Reed was quiet for a long time. “So what do you want me to do?”

“Hide him,” you said. “No one can know. Not yet. Until we figure out what this means, and where our Johnny is, you keep him locked away. Please, Reed.”

He hesitated... and then nodded.

“I understand,” he said. “I’ll keep this between us.”

You exhaled softly, the tension in your shoulders loosening just a little.

“I’ll run deeper scans,” Reed added, his tone shifting back toward the scientific. “I want to study this version’s neurological data. If there’s even a trace of Steve’s consciousness—”

“Then we tell Bucky,” you said. “Together.”

He nodded again. “Agreed.”

You looked back at the projection one more time before turning away.

It wasn’t Steve. But it felt like him. Like a phantom echo. A mirage your heart wanted to chase — but couldn’t.

You turned away from the door before the man inside could speak again. Before he could smile and tear another hole in your chest.

As the door sealed shut behind you, your legs nearly gave out from beneath you. You caught yourself on the cold wall, heart racing.

Steve’s face was back in the world.

And you had no idea how long you could keep it secret.

────✪────

The tower was quieter at night — no footsteps in the halls, no voices echoing through the common areas, no alerts pinging from the comms. Just silence, heavy and still.

You were lying in bed, eyes on the ceiling, the room bathed in soft, warm light from the bedside lamp. You’d changed into something comfortable hours ago, ready for your date night, and were trying to relax beforehand. Process everything that had happened. But rest hadn’t come. Every time you closed your eyes, your mind dragged you back to the lab. To Reed.

To the way Johnny Storm’s variant looked like Steve Rogers.

It had been hours since you left the lab. You hadn’t told anyone — not Sam, not Yelena, and definitely not Bucky. You’d eaten half a protein bar, drank some tea, and curled into your bed, hoping for sleep. But instead, you were stuck inside your own head, spinning in circles of guilt and protective instinct.

You didn’t even hear the knock at first. Just a soft thunk thunk at the door.

You sat up slightly, blinking.

“Yeah?” your voice rasped.

“...It’s me,” came the muffled voice.

Your heart tugged in recognition.

You padded barefoot to the door and cracked it open to find Bucky standing in a loose shirt and sweatpants, hair tousled like he’d run his hand through it a hundred times. His eyes searched yours, worry etched into every line on his face.

“You didn’t come to dinner” he said softly. “You okay?”

Your lips parted, but for a second, you didn’t know what to say. You finally nodded, stepping aside to let him in.

“Just… a lot on my mind,” you murmured.

He stepped inside quietly. The door clicked shut behind him. He didn’t go far, just stood near the edge of your bed like he wasn’t sure if he should sit or stay.

You climbed back into the bed and looked over your shoulder at him. “You can lie down. If you want.”

That was all it took. Bucky crossed the room slowly, eased onto the bed, and lay facing you. It was quiet for a beat — the kind of quiet that presses into your ribs.

“What did Reed find?” he asked gently.

You hesitated. Then lied. “Just more data. Another anomaly he’s investigating. But nothing solid.”

His gaze lingered on yours for a long second. Maybe he knew you weren’t being fully honest. Maybe he just trusted you enough not to push.

“Mm,” he hummed. “Okay.”

You studied him. His face was shadowed but soft. Less guarded than usual. His shoulders weren’t quite so tense.

“How are you doing?” you asked, voice barely above a whisper.

He gave you a tired little smile. “I promised I’d stop lying when you ask me that, didn’t I?”

You nodded.

“I’m tired,” he said, exhaling slowly. “Not from the fighting. Not even from Doom or the mission. I’m just tired of feeling like I’m chasing ghosts. Of trying to make peace with who I was and not knowing if I deserve any of this.”

Your heart squeezed. You reached out without thinking, your fingers grazing his forearm.

“I’m glad you’re here,” you said.

A silence stretched, but this one was comfortable.

His hand found your hip beneath the blanket. Warm and gentle. He rested it there for a moment, like he was testing how close he could be without scaring you off.

You didn’t flinch.

“I like it,” you said softly, not looking away. “When you touch me.”

Bucky’s brows lifted slightly, a flicker of surprise in his eyes. “Yeah?”

You nodded. “I feel… safe.”

His thumb swept across your hip, tracing slow circles. “That’s all I ever wanted,” he murmured. “To make you feel safe.”

You swallowed, heart fluttering as he leaned in just a bit closer, their noses almost touching. You could feel his breath against your lips. His eyes searched yours, and then dropped briefly to your mouth, like he was weighing a decision.

“I had feelings for you,” he whispered, “even when you hated me.”

Your breath caught.

“I didn’t want to,” he added quickly. “You had every reason to hate me. And I told myself I didn’t deserve to want anything from you. But I’d watch you on missions. Hear you laugh in the hallway. See you stand your ground with Sam. And I couldn’t help it.”

A soft sound escaped your lips — a whimper somewhere between awe and disbelief.

“I didn’t hate you,” you whispered back. “Not really. I wanted to. But deep down… I think I was so afraid to come to terms with what I really felt. It was easier to fight with you than… the other thing.”

Your hand found his jaw and held it, thumb brushing across the stubble along his cheek.

“I think,” you added, ready to elaborate. “I was scared to forgive you, because if I did… I’d have to admit how badly I wanted you too.”

His breath stilled.

You leaned in closer, your foreheads almost touching.

“I wanted you when I thought I shouldn’t,” you said, lips barely brushing his. “And now… I just want you.”

Bucky closed the gap, but it wasn’t desperate — it was soft, sweet, tender. The kind of kiss that lingered. His hand slid up to your waist, holding you gently. Yours tangled in his hair.

And for a moment, the weight of everything — of multiversal threats, of ghosts in the shape of Steve and Tony — melted away.

It was just the two of you. Whispering warmth and safety into each other’s mouths.

And when the kiss broke, and Bucky tucked you against his chest, his arm curling around your back, you finally felt content. 

You were lying face to face with Bucky, your noses almost touching, the warmth of his palm still resting gently against your waist. You were both content to just be. To breathe each other in. To exist in the same sliver of peace.

His thumb made slow circles over your shirt, right above your hip. You’d long forgotten how to keep your heart from racing around him.

“As much as I love lying here with you, I did promise I’d take you out tonight.” He said, his voice low and husky from the hour. You hummed in response, eyes half-lidded, fingers absently brushing the seam of his sleeve.

He reached up and gently tucked a piece of hair behind your ear, fingertips barely skimming your skin. You shivered—not from the chill, but from the softness of it. From him.

“Oh, so you did.”

“Come sneak out with me,” he whispered, right against your temple.

You blinked, caught off guard. “What?”

His grin was slow and teasing. “Let’s get outta here. Just for a while.”

You stared at him, half laughing, half suspicious. “Bucky. It’s nearly one in the morning.”

“Exactly. Everyone’s asleep. No one will miss us.”

You raised a brow. “What are we, sixteen?”

“Not since the Great Depression,” he said with a smirk. “But I still know how to cause a little trouble.”

You shook your head, biting back a grin. “Where would we even go?”

“I told you earlier, it’s a surprise.”

You groaned. “I hate surprises.”

He tilted his head, eyes sparkling. “Do you trust me?”

The question hung there, weighty, gentle, honest.

Your smile faded, but in its place came something deeper—something vulnerable. You nodded, slow. “Yeah. I trust you.”

His smile softened. “Then come with me. I promise you’ll like it.”

You stared at him, your breath catching—completely and utterly gone for him.

“All right, James Barnes,” you whispered. “Let’s go break the rules.”

────✪────

The rusted gate creaked behind you as you both dropped onto the sand-dusted boardwalk, giggling like you were teenagers again—though Bucky technically had at least a century on that title. The whole place was draped in shadows, lit only by the flickering remnants of carnival lights left on for maintenance or nostalgia. The sea whispered behind you, and the wind tugged at your clothes as Bucky caught your hand and tugged you deeper in.

Coney Island was asleep, but somehow more alive than it had ever been.

"Okay, rules of the fair," Bucky said, voice low, full of mischief. "One: you have to let me win every game we don't actually play. Two: you must pretend to be utterly charmed when I twirl you. And three—most important—no phones, no mission talk, just you and me."

You held up three fingers like a scout. “Scout’s honor.”

“You were never a scout.”

“You were never charming.” You bit back, with a smile painting your face and stars in your eyes.

“Ouch,” he grinned, already pulling you toward the carousel. It sat still and silent, the hand-painted horses frozen in place. Most of the lights had been turned off, but the moonlight cast a silver sheen across the platform.

“I dare you to ride one,” he said, eyes glinting.

“You dare me?”

He nodded solemnly. “Ride it like a princess.”

“Oh, I see. And what does that make you?”

He stepped closer, voice dropping theatrically as he tugged on his jacket. “Your loyal knight in shining leather.”

You threw your head back and laughed. “God, you’re cheesy.”

“Excuse you, I’m gallant.”

Still laughing, you mounted the tallest horse, gripping the pole, dramatically tossing your hair. “Take me on my steed, knight!”

“Yes, Your Majesty,” he said with a faux-bow, pretending to draw an invisible sword. “I vow to protect your honour and steal your cotton candy.”

The wind whooshed around you as he stepped up onto the carousel and reached for your waist. With a playful grunt, he lifted you off the horse, spun you once in the air, and planted you gently back down—your laughter ringing loud in the night.

Your cheeks were hot, and your grin stretched ear to ear.

“I hate how strong you are,” you said breathlessly.

“You love it,” he teased, his hands not leaving your waist just yet.

“I’m not confirming or denying anything.”

Then, you noticed it—the Ferris wheel. Set a little ways off, mostly dark, except for one lone cabin light that blinked weakly every few seconds. The wheel wasn’t running, but it was gently rotating—just enough for someone to sneak a ride.

You glanced at Bucky.

He raised a brow. “You thinking what I’m thinking?”

“Depends. You thinking felony trespassing?”

“I was thinking romance. But felony trespassing is a close second.”

You grabbed his hand. “Then let’s go commit a crime.”

He laughed all the way there, helping you climb into one of the cars. It creaked as it lifted, slow and lazy. You shivered from the chill, and Bucky immediately shrugged off his leather jacket and wrapped it around your shoulders.

“Look at that,” you said softly, curling into his side. “A gentleman and a criminal.”

“Only for you.”

You rested your head against his shoulder, your breath fogging slightly in the air.

“I used to bring girls here,” Bucky said after a long pause, voice low and nostalgic. “Back before the war. Before everything. It was always Coney Island.”

You sat up a little, narrowing your eyes. “Wow. I feel so special.”

He laughed quietly, the sound bittersweet. “Hey, I haven’t brought anyone here since, well... not for about ninety years.”

You blinked. “Seriously?”

He nodded. “Not since Steve and I shipped out.”

Your chest ached, but in the warm, aching way.

His hand found yours again, intertwining your fingers like it was the easiest thing in the world.

“I used to think what I felt for those girls was real,” he said. “Back then, everything felt real. But it wasn’t. Not like this.”

You turned to him slowly. “Like what?”

He looked at you—not just looked, saw you. In a way that made your skin warm beneath your clothes, even in the cold wind.

“Like this,” he whispered, brushing a thumb across your cheek. “This is different.”

Your breath hitched. “Yeah… it is.”

The Ferris wheel turned on, just enough to shift the car you were in, giving you a sweeping view of the empty boardwalk below. Everything quiet, timeless. Like the world had pressed pause and made space for just the two of you.

Bucky leaned in, his lips brushing yours with a softness that made your stomach flutter. When he kissed you, it wasn’t rushed. It was reverent. Like every part of him was savoring the moment.

When you pulled away, he pressed his forehead to yours.

“Best first date I’ve ever had,” you whispered.

He smiled, brushing your nose with his. “I’m not even done yet.”

You grinned. “What else is there?”

He nodded toward the beach. “Stars.”

────✪────

You kicked off your shoes the second your feet touched the sand, the grains still warm in patches from the sun earlier that day. Bucky followed, boots in hand, his rolled-up sleeves brushing against his forearms as the two of you wandered toward the tide. The moon hung low above the ocean like it was watching you, soft and golden.

You dropped onto the sand with a sigh, hugging your knees as the waves whispered their endless lullaby. Bucky sat beside you, then stretched out on his back with his arms behind his head. You glanced at him—his profile soft, more boyish in the moonlight than you'd ever seen him before.

“Lie down,” he murmured, patting the space beside him.

You did, your head on his shoulder, his jacket draped over you like a cocoon. He turned slightly, adjusting to cradle you better, one hand resting protectively over your waist, fingers splayed like he wanted to memorise every curve.

The stars were scattered across the sky like glitter tossed by a careless god.

“This was our favorite thing,” Bucky said after a while, voice quieter than the ocean. “Me and Steve. We'd come out here late, lay on the boardwalk or the roof of my building, and just… stare. No talking. No noise. Just… stars.”

You closed your eyes for a second, imagining that younger version of him. Smiling. Carefree. Unburdened by war or metal arms or trauma.

“I think he saw something up there I never did,” Bucky continued, “Hope. A future. Something good waiting.”

You swallowed hard, feeling the weight of the secret tucked behind your ribs. A Johnny Storm variant that looked just like Steve Rogers. Too much like him. The resemblance had sent ice down your spine. You touched Bucky’s chest lightly, feeling the slow, steady rhythm of his heart.

“He was right, though,” you whispered. “There is something good waiting.”

He looked down at you, his mouth twitching into the ghost of a smile. “Yeah?”

You nodded. “It’s this. Right here. You and me.”

He didn’t answer right away. Instead, he tilted his head to kiss the top of yours, lingering for a beat too long, like he was scared the moment might vanish if he moved too quickly.

“I don’t know what I did to deserve this,” he said against your hair.

You tilted your head up toward him. “Maybe it’s not about what you did. Maybe it’s about what you do now.”

He stared at you. And there it was again—that open, wounded awe in his eyes, like he still couldn’t believe you were real. That you’d forgiven him. That you’d chosen him.

“Can I ask you something?” he murmured.

“Anything.”

His hand moved from your waist to your cheek. “Back there, in the tower… before this. When you said you like when I touch you—was that just a line? Or…”

You leaned in, kissing the corner of his mouth.

“Not a line,” you whispered. “It’s the truth.”

His smile was shy but electric. “Good. Because I don’t think I can stop.”

You laughed, the sound melting into the sound of the waves. “Then don’t.”

You closed the distance, pressing your lips to his in a slow, deliberate kiss that melted into something deeper. His breath hitched, and his hands moved—one sliding under your shirt, fingers grazing the bare skin of your side, the heat of his touch making you shiver.

Your hands found their way to the front of his shirt, fingers tracing the hard muscles beneath, before boldly slipping beneath the fabric to feel the warmth of his skin. 

The stars were wide and endless above you, a smattering of silver across the dark velvet sky. You lay together in the soft, cool sand at Coney Island, wrapped in the folds of Bucky’s worn leather jacket. The wind carried salt and sea and silence, but none of that mattered — not with the weight of him over you, his mouth locked on yours like he was starved for every taste.

And you kissed him back just as hungrily, gasping when his tongue swept against yours, when his hips shifted against yours, slow and searching.

You felt everything.

The rough denim of his jeans against your thighs. The warmth of his hands sliding beneath your jacket, fingers curling under the hem of your shirt. The press of his clothed thigh between your legs where you’d unconsciously slotted yourself against him.

“God,” he muttered against your mouth, voice strained, reverent. “You feel so good like this.”

Your breath hitched as he adjusted his thigh just right — and you instinctively moved, hips rocking forward, rubbing against the strong line of muscle. It was clothed, it was barely anything — but your body jolted, craving more.

“Bucky…” you whispered, dizzy.

He kissed you again, slower this time, almost tentative. But his hands were not — one slid up the length of your back to hold you close, the other trailing down, past your waist to where your leggings hugged tight to your hips.

“Can I?” he asked, voice hoarse, palm resting at the curve between your thighs. “I won’t go any further unless you want—”

You nodded before he could even finish.

“I want,” you breathed. “Please, I want—”

That was all it took.

His hand moved over you, warm and steady, rubbing slow circles over the heat that pulsed between your legs. The pressure sent a jolt through your spine. Your hands clawed at his back through his shirt, needing something to anchor yourself as your hips rutted against him, desperate for friction.

“Jesus,” Bucky groaned, voice muffled against your throat. “Watching you like this — grinding on me — you’re gonna kill me.”

You whimpered when he pressed harder, a precise, perfect drag of his fingers over your leggings, right where you needed him most. Your body was trembling now, breath catching with each stroke.

And then — his thigh shifted again beneath you, and you found yourself rocking against it while he kept his fingers working you through your leggings. A filthy, delicious rhythm.

You gasped his name.

His mouth crashed to yours, swallowing your sounds as he pressed into you with equal urgency — the thick line of his erection clearly outlined through his jeans now, grinding against your hip.

“Fuck, baby,” he whispered, forehead pressed to yours. “You’re drivin’ me crazy. You feel that?”

You nodded, dazed. “You’re hard…”

“For you,” he said, his voice nearly breaking. “Been hard since you kissed me on that damn carousel.”

You shifted then, adjusting your angle — straddling one of his jean-clad thighs while reaching down between you, just bold enough now to cup him through his jeans. He choked out a groan and buried his face in your shoulder.

“Oh fuck—don’t do that unless you wanna see me lose it right here,” he growled, laughing breathlessly.

“I do,” you whispered with a smirk, rolling your hips down against him.

The air around you turned hot and thick, full of panting and groans and need. You rubbed against his thigh, hips rocking, slick and desperate beneath your clothes. And Bucky — Bucky met your rhythm, hands on your ass, pressing you down against him as he thrust up into the crook of your thigh.

The moment was messy, wild, completely clothed — but somehow more vulnerable than anything you’d ever felt.

“I’m close,” you gasped, shaking.

“Me too,” he rasped, voice wrecked. “Let go for me. Wanna feel you come on me like this.”

And you did — with a broken cry muffled against his lips, your body wracked with waves of pleasure as your hips stuttered against his thigh.

Moments later, Bucky came too, groaning into your shoulder, holding you tight as his body trembled. The press of his cock against you went rigid, twitching through his jeans as he spilled into his boxers, panting like he’d just gone ten rounds in the ring.

Silence followed — just the crashing of waves and the sound of both your hearts hammering out of sync.

Then Bucky laughed softly, breathless and warm. “First date, huh?”

You buried your face in his neck. “Best one I’ve ever had.”

“Don’t tell the carousel horse,” he teased. “It’ll be jealous.”

You giggled, tightening your hold on him.

And neither of you moved — not right away. The stars shone down, and for now, the weight of the multiverse didn’t exist.

Just him. Just you. And the soft, sweet echo of everything you were becoming together.

────✪────

Sebastian Stan taglist: @notreallythatlost @houseofaegon @bunnyfella @sunday-bug @wintrsoldrluvr @maryevm @mcira @monsteraddicts-world @positivenergy @cherriesnmango @navs-bhat @hits-different-cause-its-you @avivarougestan

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[mandoalorian]

hymns of hunger [bob reynolds x f!reader]

synopsis: training with bob turns into something more.

warnings: 18+ explicit content, mdni, unprotected p in v, riding, f recieving oral, m recieving oral, sub!bob, he's super needy lol, reader is defo kinda more on the dom side, bob is inexperienced ig?, praise kink, porn with no plot, oh and a certain someone walks in on them...

masterlist ⋆✴︎˚｡⋆

The New Avengers Tower training room was a ghost town at 2 a.m., the mirrors catching the city’s neon pulse like a silent dare. Bob Reynolds stood on the mats, looking like a kicked puppy in his worn tee and loose sweatpants, hair a sweaty mess. Bucky had thrown him a lifeline—a shot at the New Avengers if he could prove himself—and you were tasked with moulding him into something more than just a washed-up Sentry.

Leaning against the wall in a tight tank top and leggings, you smirked, all confidence. “Ready to sweat, Reynolds? Or you just here to stare?”

Bob’s blue eyes flicked up, nervous but burning with something raw. “I don’t know if I’m good enough, but I’ll try,” he mumbled, voice rough, laced with that self-loathing that made your chest ache.

Once a god, now just Bob, he was a tangle of guilt and grit, and fuck if his effort didn’t pull you in. Bucky saw potential; but you saw a man who needed to be wanted.

You started with drills—jabs, dodges, footwork. Bob was clumsy, all elbows and heart, but his determination was hot as hell. “Eyes on me, rookie,” you snapped, ducking his sloppy punch. 

He landed one, grinning like a kid, and your “Not bad, Bob” made him flush, a needy edge in his eyes that hit you low. An hour in, sweat soaked his shirt, clinging to every lean inch of him, and you called for a spar, stepping close, hips cocked. “Show me what you got.”

He lunged, all eagerness, no finesse, and you grabbed his wrist, twisting until you had him pinned, his back to the mat, your thighs straddling his hips. “Down already?” you teased,  smirking. His chest heaved, eyes dark, locked on your lips.

“I’m fucked,” he rasped, voice low, trembling with want, and that whimpering tone sent a jolt straight to your core. The air crackled, the city’s glow painting you both in electric hues.

“You’re not fucked,” you purred, leaning closer, your breath hot against his ear. “Not yet.” 

His whine was desperate, hips shifting under you, the hard press of him through his sweatpants betraying his need. “Please,” he breathed, voice cracking, and that plea—raw, unguarded—lit you up.

“Bucky wants you ready,” you said, trailing a finger down his chest, “but I want you mine first.”

You kissed him, hard and claiming, swallowing his soft moan as his tongue fumbled against yours, eager but unsure. “Slow down, needy,” you murmured, tugging his hair, guiding him. 

He whimpered, hands shaking as they hovered over your hips. “Good boy,” you whispered, yanking your tank top off, baring yourself.

His eyes widened, reverent, and he whined, “Fuck, you’re perfect.” You grinned, guiding his hands to your breasts, teaching him how to touch, his thumbs circling your nipples until you gasped, heat pooling between your thighs.

“Want to make me feel good?” you asked, voice low, commanding. He nodded, frantic, a soft “Yes, please” spilling out. You slid up, peeling off your leggings, and his breath hitched, eyes locked on you, desperate. “On your knees,” you ordered, and he scrambled to obey, kneeling on the mat, hands gripping your thighs like a lifeline. You tangled your fingers in his hair, guiding him to your core. “Lick,” you said, and he dove in, tongue tentative at first, then eager, lapping at you with sloppy, needy devotion.

“Fuck, Bob,” you moaned, thighs trembling as his tongue found your clit, circling with growing confidence as you coached him. “Just like that—yes, you’re so good.” His whimpers vibrated against you, his hands clutching your hips, pulling you closer as he devoured you, eyes flicking up for approval.

The sight of him—sweaty, flushed, desperate to please—pushed you closer to the edge, your moans echoing in the empty room. “Don’t stop,” you gasped, grinding against his mouth, and he groaned, the sound sending you spiralling, your climax hitting hard, leaving you shaking as he lapped up every drop.

You pulled him up, kissing him, tasting yourself on his lips. “My turn to drive,” you purred, shoving his sweatpants down, freeing his aching cock, hard and leaking. He whined, hips bucking as you stroked him, slow and teasing.

“Please, I need—” he stammered, voice wrecked, and you smirked, pushing him onto his back.

“I know what you need,” you said, straddling him, sinking down onto him in one smooth motion.

The stretch was perfect, his thick length filling you as you both groaned. “Fuck,” he whimpered, hands clutching your hips, eyes wide with awe. You rode him, slow at first, then harder, setting a rhythm that had him gasping, his hips jerking up to meet you.

“Follow my lead,” you said, guiding his hands to your clit, showing him how to touch, your moans spurring him on.

“Yes, ma’am,” he panted, voice trembling, and you laughed, grinding down, chasing the heat building between you.

The mirrors caught it all—your bodies slick with sweat, his desperate whimpers, your commanding gaze. “Tell me you’re mine,” you ordered, nails raking his chest, and he moaned, “I’m yours, fuck, all yours.” The words, raw and needy, pushed you over, your second climax crashing through you as you clenched around him. He followed, a broken cry of your name as he came, hot and shuddering, his hands gripping you like you were his anchor.

You collapsed against him, panting, his arms wrapping around you, soft and clingy. “Holy shit,” he mumbled, voice hoarse, a shy smile breaking through. You kissed his jaw, tracing his scars. “You’re gonna kill it with the Avengers.”

Then—thud. The door swung open, and Bucky Barnes leaned against the frame, metal arm glinting, a wicked grin spreading across his face. “Well, fuck me,” he drawled, eyes raking over you both—Bob, flushed and wrecked, still tangled in you. “Training’s lookin’ real intense, huh?”

Bob froze, a mortified whimper escaping, but you just smirked, still straddling him. “Jealous, Barnes? Wanna join next time?”

Bucky’s laugh was low, dangerous, his gaze lingering a beat too long. “Keep that up, and I just might, doll.” He winked, stepping back, leaving the door cracked. “Clean up before John sees this shitshow.” The door clicked shut, but his words hung in the air, a promise that sent a new spark through you.

Bob groaned, hiding his face in your shoulder. “I’m dead.”

You grinned, ruffling his hair.

“Nah, you’re just getting started—and next time, we might have company.”

[mandoalorian]

about me

✎ hey! and welcome to my blog.

my name is rach and i am an aspiring writer from uk. i have been writing on this blog, on and off, since 2020. feel free to stop by and indulge, and ask me anything!

day-to-day i am a university student and i work a part-time job whilst studying. when i have a little spare time, or feel inspired, i like to bring it here and share it with the world. i love star wars, dc, and marvel. i like to read and watch television; my favourite tv show is friends. i also love video games, whether it be resident evil, silent hill, the last of us, or red dead redemption; my playstation is where i go to escape. you can find me nearly always with my airpods in, listening to taylor swift. my favourite albums are evermore, red and midnights. i am esfp and also a taurus.

i love to chat so please feel free to send me a message! if you like my writing and want to support me further, you can find my ko-fi here. i am open to requests, but i can’t promise to do every one. if i feel a particular way about one, i would love to try and write it for you. 

hope you have fun exploring! ₊˚ෆ

[mandoalorian]

hymns of hunger [bob reynolds x f!reader]

synopsis: training with bob turns into something more.

warnings: 18+ explicit content, mdni, unprotected p in v, riding, f recieving oral, m recieving oral, sub!bob, he's super needy lol, reader is defo kinda more on the dom side, bob is inexperienced ig?, praise kink, porn with no plot, oh and a certain someone walks in on them...

masterlist ⋆✴︎˚｡⋆

The New Avengers Tower training room was a ghost town at 2 a.m., the mirrors catching the city’s neon pulse like a silent dare. Bob Reynolds stood on the mats, looking like a kicked puppy in his worn tee and loose sweatpants, hair a sweaty mess. Bucky had thrown him a lifeline—a shot at the New Avengers if he could prove himself—and you were tasked with moulding him into something more than just a washed-up Sentry.

Leaning against the wall in a tight tank top and leggings, you smirked, all confidence. “Ready to sweat, Reynolds? Or you just here to stare?”

Bob’s blue eyes flicked up, nervous but burning with something raw. “I don’t know if I’m good enough, but I’ll try,” he mumbled, voice rough, laced with that self-loathing that made your chest ache.

Once a god, now just Bob, he was a tangle of guilt and grit, and fuck if his effort didn’t pull you in. Bucky saw potential; but you saw a man who needed to be wanted.

You started with drills—jabs, dodges, footwork. Bob was clumsy, all elbows and heart, but his determination was hot as hell. “Eyes on me, rookie,” you snapped, ducking his sloppy punch. 

He landed one, grinning like a kid, and your “Not bad, Bob” made him flush, a needy edge in his eyes that hit you low. An hour in, sweat soaked his shirt, clinging to every lean inch of him, and you called for a spar, stepping close, hips cocked. “Show me what you got.”

He lunged, all eagerness, no finesse, and you grabbed his wrist, twisting until you had him pinned, his back to the mat, your thighs straddling his hips. “Down already?” you teased,  smirking. His chest heaved, eyes dark, locked on your lips.

“I’m fucked,” he rasped, voice low, trembling with want, and that whimpering tone sent a jolt straight to your core. The air crackled, the city’s glow painting you both in electric hues.

“You’re not fucked,” you purred, leaning closer, your breath hot against his ear. “Not yet.” 

His whine was desperate, hips shifting under you, the hard press of him through his sweatpants betraying his need. “Please,” he breathed, voice cracking, and that plea—raw, unguarded—lit you up.

“Bucky wants you ready,” you said, trailing a finger down his chest, “but I want you mine first.”

You kissed him, hard and claiming, swallowing his soft moan as his tongue fumbled against yours, eager but unsure. “Slow down, needy,” you murmured, tugging his hair, guiding him. 

He whimpered, hands shaking as they hovered over your hips. “Good boy,” you whispered, yanking your tank top off, baring yourself.

His eyes widened, reverent, and he whined, “Fuck, you’re perfect.” You grinned, guiding his hands to your breasts, teaching him how to touch, his thumbs circling your nipples until you gasped, heat pooling between your thighs.

“Want to make me feel good?” you asked, voice low, commanding. He nodded, frantic, a soft “Yes, please” spilling out. You slid up, peeling off your leggings, and his breath hitched, eyes locked on you, desperate. “On your knees,” you ordered, and he scrambled to obey, kneeling on the mat, hands gripping your thighs like a lifeline. You tangled your fingers in his hair, guiding him to your core. “Lick,” you said, and he dove in, tongue tentative at first, then eager, lapping at you with sloppy, needy devotion.

“Fuck, Bob,” you moaned, thighs trembling as his tongue found your clit, circling with growing confidence as you coached him. “Just like that—yes, you’re so good.” His whimpers vibrated against you, his hands clutching your hips, pulling you closer as he devoured you, eyes flicking up for approval.

The sight of him—sweaty, flushed, desperate to please—pushed you closer to the edge, your moans echoing in the empty room. “Don’t stop,” you gasped, grinding against his mouth, and he groaned, the sound sending you spiralling, your climax hitting hard, leaving you shaking as he lapped up every drop.

You pulled him up, kissing him, tasting yourself on his lips. “My turn to drive,” you purred, shoving his sweatpants down, freeing his aching cock, hard and leaking. He whined, hips bucking as you stroked him, slow and teasing.

“Please, I need—” he stammered, voice wrecked, and you smirked, pushing him onto his back.

“I know what you need,” you said, straddling him, sinking down onto him in one smooth motion.

The stretch was perfect, his thick length filling you as you both groaned. “Fuck,” he whimpered, hands clutching your hips, eyes wide with awe. You rode him, slow at first, then harder, setting a rhythm that had him gasping, his hips jerking up to meet you.

“Follow my lead,” you said, guiding his hands to your clit, showing him how to touch, your moans spurring him on.

“Yes, ma’am,” he panted, voice trembling, and you laughed, grinding down, chasing the heat building between you.

The mirrors caught it all—your bodies slick with sweat, his desperate whimpers, your commanding gaze. “Tell me you’re mine,” you ordered, nails raking his chest, and he moaned, “I’m yours, fuck, all yours.” The words, raw and needy, pushed you over, your second climax crashing through you as you clenched around him. He followed, a broken cry of your name as he came, hot and shuddering, his hands gripping you like you were his anchor.

You collapsed against him, panting, his arms wrapping around you, soft and clingy. “Holy shit,” he mumbled, voice hoarse, a shy smile breaking through. You kissed his jaw, tracing his scars. “You’re gonna kill it with the Avengers.”

Then—thud. The door swung open, and Bucky Barnes leaned against the frame, metal arm glinting, a wicked grin spreading across his face. “Well, fuck me,” he drawled, eyes raking over you both—Bob, flushed and wrecked, still tangled in you. “Training’s lookin’ real intense, huh?”

Bob froze, a mortified whimper escaping, but you just smirked, still straddling him. “Jealous, Barnes? Wanna join next time?”

Bucky’s laugh was low, dangerous, his gaze lingering a beat too long. “Keep that up, and I just might, doll.” He winked, stepping back, leaving the door cracked. “Clean up before John sees this shitshow.” The door clicked shut, but his words hung in the air, a promise that sent a new spark through you.

Bob groaned, hiding his face in your shoulder. “I’m dead.”

You grinned, ruffling his hair.

“Nah, you’re just getting started—and next time, we might have company.”

[mandoalorian]

to be yours [bucky barnes x f!reader]

·:*¨༺ ♱✮♱ ༻¨*:·

“nothing makes me stronger than your fragile heart.”

inspired by the song turning page — sleeping at last.

·:*¨༺ ♱✮♱ ༻¨*:·

synopsis: when you break up with your boyfriend, you seek comfort and solace in the arms of your best friend, bucky barnes.

warnings: 18+ explicit content (unprotected p in v, f receiving oral, m receiving oral, fingering, body worship, bucky is obsessed with you) mdni, lots of pining and slow burn, friends to lovers, a smidge of angst in the middle, mentions of alcohol, bucky is in therapy, allusions to a toxic ex boyfriend, bucky comforts you through a bad breakup. set post endgame, pre tfatws.

w/c: 11,600>

masterlist

The Brooklyn skyline flickered through Bucky’s window, a jagged line of lights against the autumn dusk. Inside, his apartment was quiet, save for the soft crackle of a vinyl record spinning on the turntable—some old jazz standard Sam had insisted he’d like. Bucky didn’t hate it, but it wasn’t the music that held his attention. It was the phone in his hand, the screen glowing with a photo he couldn’t stop staring at.

You and him, last summer, sprawled on a picnic blanket in Prospect Park. You were laughing, head thrown back, eyes crinkled in that way that made his chest ache. He’d been mid-eye-roll in the shot, pretending to be annoyed at your bad joke about his “grumpy cat face,” but the corner of his mouth had betrayed him, curling into a smile. Sam had snapped the picture, saying something dumb like, “Y’all look like an old married couple.” Bucky had brushed it off, but the words had stuck, burrowing deep.

He set the phone face-down on the coffee table, like that could shut off the feeling. It didn’t. Bucky leaned back on the couch, running his flesh hand through his hair, the metal one resting heavy on his thigh. The apartment felt too big tonight, too empty. He’d gotten used to the quiet since moving back to Brooklyn after the Blip, after Wakanda, after everything. Therapy, amends, trying to be a person again—it was a routine, but it wasn’t a life. Not really. Not without you.

He’d known you for two years now, ever since Sam introduced you at one of those post-Blip support group things. You’d been volunteering, handing out coffee with that smile that could light up a room, and Bucky, fresh off his Wakandan reset, had barely known how to talk to you. But you’d made it easy, teasing him about his gloves, asking if he was hiding “super-secret spy gear.” He’d mumbled something sarcastic, and just like that, you were friends. Best friends, eventually. The kind who texted at 3 a.m., who showed up with takeout when the other needed it, who knew each other’s silences as well as their words.

And somewhere along the way, Bucky had fallen for you. Hard. Stupidly. The kind of love that made him feel like a kid again, all nerves and hope, but also like a fool, because who was he kidding? You were bright, whole, alive. He was a hundred-and-nine years old in a body that didn’t age, with a rap sheet longer than the Brooklyn Bridge and nightmares that didn’t quit. You deserved better. Always had.

His phone buzzed, snapping him out of it. Your name lit up the screen, and his heart did that traitor thing—skipping a beat before he could tell it to calm down. He grabbed the phone, swiping to open the message.

You: Hey Buck, you free this weekend? Things with Josh are… kinda weird. Could use some bestie time.

Bucky’s jaw tightened. Josh. Your boyfriend of eight months, the guy who’d swept you off your feet with his easy charm and lawyer job. Bucky had met him a few times—dinners, game nights—and every time, he’d had to swallow the urge to say something. Josh wasn’t bad, not exactly, but he didn’t see you. Not the way you deserved. He didn’t notice how your laugh changed when you were nervous, or how you’d ramble about your day when you were happy, or how you’d curl your fingers into your sleeves when you felt small. Bucky noticed. He always noticed.

He typed back, fingers steady despite the knot in his chest: Yeah, I’m free. Name the time, I’m there. You okay?

The three dots appeared, then vanished, then appeared again. Finally: Not sure. Just… need you. Talk soon?

Need you. The words hit like a punch, soft but deep. He wanted to be everything you needed—friend, protector, more—but he’d settle for what you gave him. He always did.

Always, doll, he replied, the old nickname slipping out before he could stop it. He hoped it made you smile.

He set the phone down and stood, pacing to the window. The city hummed below, indifferent to the war in his head. He’d never told you how he felt, not once. At first, it was because he didn’t trust himself, didn’t think he could love anyone without breaking them. Then Josh came along, and Bucky had locked his feelings up tight, because your happiness mattered more than his. But every time you hugged him, every time you fell asleep on his couch during movie nights, every time you looked at him like he was more than a ghost of a man, it got harder to keep quiet.

He pressed his metal hand against the glass, the cold grounding him. Maybe he was selfish, hoping things with Josh were falling apart. Maybe he was broken, wanting you to need him in a way you never had. But he couldn’t help it. He loved you in the quiet way he did everything—fierce, steady, unspoken.

The record skipped, pulling him back. He crossed the room, lifting the needle and setting it back gently. The music started again, a saxophone weaving through the melody like a sigh. He sank onto the couch, staring at the ceiling, and let himself imagine, just for a moment, what it’d be like to hold you. Not as a friend, but as something more. Your head on his chest, his fingers in your hair, your breath against his skin. The thought was so vivid it hurt.

He closed his eyes. One day, maybe, he’d be brave enough to tell you. But not tonight. Tonight, he’d wait, like he always did, ready to be whatever you needed.

A sudden knock at the door jolted Bucky upright, waking him in an instant. It was sharp, desperate, not the casual rap you’d usually give. His heart kicked up a notch, and he crossed the room in three strides, the metal arm whirring softly as he moved.

He opened the door, and there you were—soaked to the bone, hair plastered to your face, mascara streaking down your cheeks like dark rivers. Your eyes were red, swollen, and you were shivering, arms wrapped around yourself like you could hold the pieces together. Bucky’s breath caught, a pang of something fierce and protective twisting in his chest.

“Jesus, doll,” he said, voice rough with worry. “Get in here.”

You didn’t move at first, just stood there, lips trembling. “He’s gone, Buck,” you whispered, voice breaking. “Josh… he just—ended it. Said I’m too much, said he’s done.” A sob choked out, and you pressed a hand to your mouth, like you could shove the hurt back inside.

Bucky didn’t think. He reached for you, pulling you inside and kicking the door shut. The rain had soaked through your jacket, your shirt, leaving you dripping on his hardwood floor, but he didn’t care. He grabbed a blanket from the couch—a soft, gray thing he’d bought because you’d once said it looked cozy—and wrapped it around your shoulders, guiding you to sit. “Stay there,” he said, softer now, but firm. “I’m getting you something warm.”

You nodded, barely, your eyes distant as you sank onto the couch, clutching the blanket like a lifeline. Bucky moved fast, filling a kettle, digging through his sparse kitchen for the chamomile tea you liked. His hands were steady, but his mind was a mess—anger at Josh, worry for you, and that selfish, nagging ache that always flared when you were this close. He shoved it down, like always.

When he came back with the steaming mug, you were still shivering, staring at the floor. He set the tea on the coffee table and crouched in front of you, his flesh hand hovering near your knee before he pulled it back. “Talk to me,” he said, voice low, like he was coaxing a scared animal. “What happened?”

You swallowed, eyes flicking to his, and the raw pain there hit him like a punch. “I don’t even know where to start,” you said, voice small. “It’s been bad for weeks. He’s been… distant, snapping at me for nothing. Tonight, we fought, and he just—he said I’m too emotional, too needy. Said he can’t deal with me anymore.” Your voice cracked, and you looked away, ashamed. “Maybe he’s right.”

“He’s not,” Bucky said, sharper than he meant to. He softened his tone, leaning closer. “He’s a damn idiot, and he never deserved you. You’re not too much. You’re…” He stopped himself, the words you’re everything catching in his throat. Instead, he said, “You’re enough. More than enough.”

You gave a shaky laugh, wiping your eyes with the edge of the blanket. “You’re biased. You’re my best friend.”

Friend. The word stung, but he forced a small smile. “Yeah, well, doesn’t make me wrong.” He stood, grabbing one of his hoodies from the armchair—a navy one you’d stolen before, the one he secretly loved seeing you in. “Put this on. You’re gonna catch pneumonia.”

You took it, fingers brushing his, and he felt that spark, the one he always tried to ignore. You peeled off your wet jacket, and he turned away, giving you privacy as you changed. When he glanced back, you were drowning in his hoodie, the sleeves too long, the hem hitting your thighs. His heart did a slow, painful flip.

“Thanks,” you murmured, pulling the blanket back around you. You picked up the tea, cradling it, and patted the couch beside you. “Sit with me? Please?”

He didn’t need to be asked twice. He sat, close but not too close, though every nerve screamed to pull you into him. You sipped the tea, then leaned your head back, eyes closing. “You’re too good to me, Buck. I don’t know what I’d do without you.”

“You’d be fine,” he said, but his voice was rough, betraying him. “You’re tougher than you think.”

You opened your eyes, looking at him with something he couldn’t quite read—gratitude, maybe, or something deeper. “I don’t feel tough right now.”

He wanted to say a thousand things, but instead, he reached out, his flesh hand resting lightly on your arm. “You don’t have to be. Not tonight.”

You set the mug down and, without warning, shifted closer, curling into his side. Your head found his shoulder, your body pressing against his, and Bucky froze. The blanket slipped, and you were so close—too close—your warmth seeping through the hoodie, your breath soft against his neck. His body burned, every muscle taut as he fought the urge to wrap his arms around you, to pull you even closer. She’s hurting, he told himself. She needs a friend, not you losing it.

But then you tucked yourself tighter against him, one arm sliding across his chest, and he was done for. His heart pounded, and he was sure you could hear it, feel it. Your fingers curled into his shirt, and you sighed, a small, broken sound. “Can I just… stay here for a bit?” you whispered.

“Long as you need,” he managed, voice low, almost a growl. He draped his arm around you, careful, like you might break, but you only nestled closer, your legs curling up under the blanket. His metal arm stayed rigid at his side, afraid to touch you, afraid of what it’d mean.

The storm roared outside, but inside, it was just the two of you, the quiet stretching until you spoke again. “You ever feel like… you’re just going through the motions?” you asked, voice soft. “Like, no matter how hard you try, you’re stuck?”

Bucky’s throat tightened. He knew that feeling too well. “Yeah,” he said, staring at the rain-streaked window. “More than you know.”

You tilted your head, looking up at him. “Your therapy… is it helping? You don’t talk about it much.”

He stiffened, caught off guard. He hadn’t planned to go there, but your eyes were searching, and he couldn’t lie to you. “It’s… something,” he said, exhaling. “Dr. Raynor’s got me journaling, making amends. Says it’s supposed to make me feel like I’m moving forward. But most days, it feels like I’m just… checking boxes. Like I’m still the guy who did all those things, and no amount of talking’s gonna change that.”

You frowned, your hand tightening on his shirt. “You’re not that guy anymore, Buck. You’re not the Winter Soldier. You’re you. The guy who makes me tea at 1 a.m., who remembers I hate olives on my pizza. The guy who’s here, right now, when I’m falling apart.”

He swallowed hard, your words cutting deeper than you knew. “You make it sound easy,” he said, a bitter edge to his voice. “Like I can just… be normal.”

“You don’t have to be normal,” you said fiercely. “You just have to be you. That’s enough for me.”

His chest ached, and he looked down at you, your face so close he could count the flecks in your eyes. You were still curled against him, your body warm and soft, and his control was fraying. He wanted to kiss you, to pour everything he felt into it, but you were raw, broken from Josh’s cruelty. So he just held you, his flesh hand stroking your arm in slow, soothing circles, even as his body screamed for more.

“You don’t know how much that means,” he said finally, voice barely above a whisper. “You… you’re the best part of my day, you know that?”

You smiled, small but real, and it was like the sun breaking through the storm. “Right back at you, Barnes.” You shifted, your head resting heavier on his shoulder, and within minutes, your breathing slowed, your body relaxing into his as sleep took you.

Bucky didn’t move, didn’t dare. You were asleep in his arms, your warmth seeping into him, and it was everything he’d ever wanted and everything he couldn’t have. His heart was a warzone—love, guilt, need, all fighting for space. He pressed his lips to the top of your head, so light you wouldn’t feel it, and whispered, “I’m here, doll. Always.”

The rain kept falling, but for the first time in a long time, Bucky didn’t feel alone.

The first morning you woke up in Bucky’s apartment, the smell of coffee hit you before your eyes even opened. You were curled on his couch, still wrapped in his navy hoodie, the blanket tucked around you like he’d checked on you in the night. The storm had passed, leaving a soft gray light filtering through the windows, and from the kitchen came the clink of dishes, the low hum of Bucky moving around.

You sat up, rubbing sleep from your eyes, and caught sight of him—hair pulled back in a messy bun, wearing a black t-shirt that hugged his shoulders, his metal arm glinting as he flipped a pancake with surprising finesse. He hadn’t noticed you yet, and for a moment, you just watched him, this man who’d become your anchor. The ache in your chest from Josh’s betrayal was still there, sharp and raw, but seeing Bucky—steady, quiet, there—made it feel like maybe you could breathe again.

“Morning, sleepyhead,” he called without turning, his voice warm but teasing. “Thought you’d sleep till noon.”

You grinned, despite yourself. “Not all of us are super-soldiers with no need for rest.” You stretched, the hoodie riding up, and caught his quick glance before he busied himself with the coffee pot.

“Pancakes?” he asked, sliding a plate across the counter. “Figured you could use some comfort food.”

You padded over, barefoot, and leaned against the counter, peering at the stack. “You made these from scratch? Who are you, and what’d you do with Bucky Barnes?”

He chuckled, low and rough, and the sound warmed you more than the coffee. “Sam’s fault. Kept going on about his mom’s recipe. Had to learn it to shut him up.”

You took a bite, and damn if it wasn’t perfect—fluffy, just sweet enough. “Okay, Barnes, you’re hired. Personal chef from now on.”

He smirked, but his eyes were soft, watching you like you were the only thing in the room. “Deal. Long as you keep stealing my hoodies.”

The next few weeks blurred into a rhythm you hadn’t expected to feel so… right. You’d gone back to your place once, just to grab clothes and essentials, but the apartment felt haunted—Josh’s cologne still lingered on the couch, his half-empty beer in the fridge. You’d packed a bag and fled back to Bucky’s, and when you’d mumbled something about not wanting to impose, he’d just given you that look—half-exasperated, half-tender—and said, “Stay as long as you need, doll. I got you.”

So you stayed. His apartment became your sanctuary, a bubble of quiet warmth against the world. Mornings were coffee and pancakes or sometimes just cereal, the two of you bumping elbows at the tiny kitchen counter, trading sleepy smiles. Evenings were takeout or Netflix marathons, you sprawled on the couch with your feet in his lap, him grumbling about your cold toes but never pushing them away. You’d catch him watching you sometimes, his blue eyes soft but guarded, like he was holding something back. You didn’t push, though. You were too raw, too afraid of what you’d find if you looked too close.

But the moments piled up, small and intimate, stitching you closer. One night, you burned popcorn in his microwave, and he laughed so hard he nearly fell off the couch, teasing you about your “culinary skills” until you threw a pillow at him. Another day, he taught you how to shadowbox, his hands guiding your wrists, his voice low and patient as he corrected your stance. His touch lingered a beat too long, and you both pretended not to notice.

Then there was the morning you almost broke him.

You’d showered, forgetting to grab a clean towel, and figured you could dart to the linen closet without being seen. Bucky was out getting groceries—or so you thought. You stepped out of the bathroom, damp hair sticking to your shoulders, a towel barely wrapped around you, and froze when you heard the front door click open. Bucky stood there, bags in hand, his eyes locking onto you before he quickly turned away, cheeks flushing red.

“Shit, sorry,” he muttered, staring hard at the wall, his jaw tight. “Didn’t know you were…”

“It’s fine!” you squeaked, clutching the towel tighter, your own face burning. You bolted for the closet, grabbing a towel and scurrying to the guest room—his room, really, since he’d insisted you take the bed. When you emerged, fully dressed in his hoodie and your jeans, he was in the kitchen, unpacking groceries like his life depended on it.

You tried to laugh it off. “Guess I owe you for the heart attack, huh?”

He snorted, not meeting your eyes. “Yeah, warn a guy next time.” But his voice was strained, and you caught the way his hands shook slightly as he shoved a carton of milk into the fridge. You didn’t know it, but his mind was a mess—your bare shoulders, the water droplets on your skin, the way the towel had clung to you. He’d spent a decade as a weapon, trained to stay calm under pressure, but you in a towel? That was a mission he wasn’t equipped for.

That night, you sat cross-legged on the couch, a pizza box between you, some old rom-com flickering on the TV. You were quieter than usual, the weight of the breakup creeping back in. Bucky noticed—he always did. He set his slice down, turning to you, his knee brushing yours.

“You okay?” he asked, voice soft but searching. “You’ve been… off tonight.”

You sighed, picking at the crust. “Just thinking about Josh. Not him, exactly, but… how I didn’t see it. How I let myself feel so small with him.” Your voice cracked, and you hated it, hated how fragile you still felt. “I keep wondering what’s wrong with me.”

Bucky’s jaw clenched, a flicker of anger in his eyes—not at you, never at you. “Nothing’s wrong with you,” he said, firm but gentle. “He didn’t see you, not the way you deserve. You’re…” He stopped, swallowing hard, like the words were too big, too dangerous. “You’re incredible, you know that? The way you light up a room, the way you make people feel like they matter. He was too weak to handle that.”

You looked at him, eyes glassy, and something shifted in the air—something heavy, unspoken. “You really think that?”

“I know it,” he said, and his voice was so earnest it made your chest ache. You reached for him, needing the comfort of him, and he didn’t hesitate. He pulled you into his arms, your cheek against his chest, his heartbeat steady under your ear. You wrapped your arms around him, sinking into the warmth of him, the familiar scent of cedar and soap that was so Bucky.

His body tensed for a split second, like he was bracing himself. You were so close, your arms tight around him, your breath warm against his shirt, and it was torture. His flesh hand rested on your back, fingers flexing like he was fighting the urge to pull you closer. His mind was screaming—she’s hurting, she’s your friend, don’t ruin this—but his body wasn’t listening, heat pooling low in his stomach, his pulse racing. He’d dreamed of holding you like this, but not like this, not when you were broken and he was supposed to be your safe place.

“You’re too good to me,” you murmured, voice muffled against him. “I don’t deserve you.”

He laughed, a low, shaky sound. “You got that backward, doll.” His metal arm stayed rigid at his side, afraid to touch you, afraid of what it’d mean if he let himself feel too much. But you didn’t notice, just held him tighter, and he let himself have this moment, even if it was all he’d ever get.

When you finally pulled back, your eyes were softer, a small smile tugging at your lips. “Thanks for letting me crash here,” you said. “I don’t know what I’d do without you.”

He smiled, but it didn’t reach his eyes. “Anytime,” he said, and he meant it—every word, every syllable, every beat of his heart that belonged to you, even if you didn’t know it.

Weeks had gone by and the storm outside persisted, thunder cracking loud enough to rattle your nerves. Inside, the tension was worse—a coiled, unspoken thing that had been simmering all evening, growing sharper with every glance, every forced smile. You sat on the couch, legs tucked under you, your phone gripped too tightly in your lap, the screen dark but burning with the memory of Josh’s text from earlier that day: Still living with Barnes? Figures. You were always his, even when you were mine. No wonder you’re alone now.

The words had sunk their claws into you, dragging up every doubt, every fight you’d had with Josh about Bucky. “You’re obsessed with him,” Josh had snapped once, months ago, when you’d canceled dinner to help Bucky through a rough night. “It’s not normal, you know? You’re too close, and he’s too screwed up to be just a friend.” You’d defended Bucky then, furious, but now, weeks after the breakup, living in Bucky’s apartment, leaning on him for everything, Josh’s voice echoed louder. Were you too much? Too needy? Had you pushed Josh away by being too close to Bucky? And worse—were you dragging Bucky down with you, burdening him with your broken pieces?

You glanced at Bucky, who was in the kitchen, drying dishes from your earlier dinner with that quiet focus you’d come to rely on. His hair was loose, brushing his jaw, his henley clinging to his frame, the metal arm glinting under the soft light. He was beautiful, you’d realised weeks ago, but tonight that thought felt like a betrayal—of Josh, of your friendship, of yourself. You didn’t deserve Bucky’s kindness, not when you were such a mess, not when Josh’s words made you question everything about who you were to him.

“You’ve been staring at that phone like it’s gonna bite you,” Bucky said, his voice cutting through the silence, light but tinged with concern. He leaned against the counter, towel slung over his shoulder, his blue eyes fixed on you. “Wanna tell me what’s up?”

You forced a shrug, setting the phone face-down on the couch, but your fingers twitched, betraying your nerves. “Just… nothing. Stupid stuff.”

He raised an eyebrow, crossing his arms, the metal one whirring softly. “You’ve been off all day, doll. Don’t give me that ‘nothing’ crap. What’s going on?”

The nickname—doll—hit you harder than usual, warm and familiar but laced with something you couldn’t name. You looked away, your chest tight, Josh’s text looping in your head. “It’s Josh,” you admitted, voice barely above a whisper. “He texted me today.”

Bucky’s expression darkened, his jaw clenching. He stepped into the living room, sitting on the coffee table in front of you, close enough that his knee brushed yours. “What’d that asshole say?” His voice was low, controlled, but you could hear the anger simmering beneath it.

You hesitated, the words stuck in your throat. Telling Bucky felt like opening a wound, but his eyes were steady, waiting, and you couldn’t lie to him. “He said I’m still… living with you. That I was always yours, even when I was with him.” Your voice cracked, and you swallowed hard, forcing the rest out. “He said that’s why I’m alone now.”

Bucky’s hands balled into fists, his knuckles whitening. “He’s got some nerve,” he growled, leaning forward. “He’s the one who hurt you, and now he’s throwing this shit at you? He’s wrong, you know that, right?”

But you didn’t know that. Not anymore. The doubt had taken root, and it was choking you. You stood abruptly, needing to move, pacing toward the window where the rain streaked the glass. “What if he’s not wrong?” you said, voice rising, sharp with self-loathing. “What if I am too much? Too clingy, too dependent? He always said I was too close to you, that I leaned on you too much, and now look at me—living here, eating your food, crying on your shoulder every damn night. Maybe I pushed him away because I was always running to you.”

Bucky stood, his boots heavy on the hardwood, and you could feel his presence behind you, solid and warm. “That’s his poison talking,” he said, voice firm but strained. “He wanted to control you, make you feel small. You’re not too much. You’re—”

“Then why did he leave?” you snapped, spinning to face him, tears burning your eyes. “Why did he say I was never really his? Because of this—because of us, because I can’t seem to function without you! And now I’m here, dragging you into my mess, making you deal with me when you’ve got your own life, your own demons. I’m screwing this up too, aren’t I? Just like I screwed it up with him.”

The words poured out, raw and jagged, and you saw the hurt flash across Bucky’s face, his eyes widening like you’d slapped him. He stepped back, his expression tightening, and your stomach dropped. Oh god, what did I just say? Your inner voice was screaming, replaying your words, realizing how they must’ve sounded—like you blamed him, like your closeness was the problem. But it wasn’t him, it was you, always you, ruining everything.

“Bucky, I didn’t mean—” you started, but he cut you off, his voice low, almost dangerous.

“You think you’re screwing this up?” he said, stepping closer, his eyes blazing with something you’d never seen before—anger, yes, but something deeper, more desperate. “You think being here, being with me, is some kind of mistake? Because let me tell you something, doll, I’ve been carrying this for years, and I’m done pretending it’s nothing.”

Your breath caught, confusion and fear mixing with the pounding of your heart. “Carrying what?” you whispered, but you knew, deep down, you knew, and it terrified you.

He laughed, a bitter, broken sound, running his flesh hand through his hair. “You really don’t see it, do you? I’m in love with you. I’ve been in love with you since the day I met you, and every single day since has been me trying to be what you need without asking for anything back. But hearing you say you’re dragging me down, that we’re the problem? I can’t take it anymore.”

The words hit you like a thunderclap, stealing your air, your thoughts, everything. You stared at him, his chest heaving, his eyes glistening with unshed tears, and your mind reeled. He loves me. The realisation crashed through you, shattering every doubt, every wall you’d built. You thought back to the nights he’d stayed up with you, the mornings he’d made you laugh, the way his touch lingered, soft and reverent. Josh’s accusations had twisted it, made you question your bond, but now it was clear—Bucky wasn’t just your friend. He was your home, your heart, and you’d been too blind to see it.

“Bucky,” you said, voice trembling, stepping closer, but he shook his head, backing away like your nearness hurt him.

“Don’t,” he said, voice rough, his hands clenched at his sides. “Don’t come closer, because if you do, I’m not gonna be able to stop myself. I’ve been holding this in for so long, and I can’t—I can’t keep pretending I don’t want you.”

Your heart was racing, tears streaming down your cheeks, and you hated yourself for hurting him, for making him think he was anything less than everything. Josh’s words were ash now, meaningless against the truth standing in front of you. You’d been running from your feelings, afraid of ruining what you had, but now you saw it—the way your heart leapt when he smiled, the way your body craved his touch, the way you felt whole with him in a way you never had with Josh.

“I’m sorry,” you choked out, stepping toward him, ignoring his warning. “I didn’t mean it like that. I’m not blaming you—I’m blaming me, because I’m scared, Bucky. I’m scared I ruined everything with Josh, and I’m terrified I’m going to ruin us too. But I don’t want to lose you. I can’t lose you, because…” Your voice broke, and you took another step, close enough to feel the heat of him. “Because I love you too.”

He froze, his eyes searching yours, like he couldn’t believe what he’d heard. “What?” he whispered, voice raw, vulnerable.

“I love you,” you said again, louder, surer, the words spilling out like it was the purest thing you’ve ever known. “I was too stupid to see it, but I love you, Bucky. I’m in love with you.”

He stared at you, his breath ragged, and then he moved—fast, desperate, his hands cupping your face as he crashed his lips against yours. The kiss was fire, years of longing and pain pouring into every press of his mouth, his teeth grazing your lip, his tongue sweeping against yours like he needed to taste you to believe you were real. You gasped into him, your hands gripping his shirt, pulling him closer as you kissed him back with everything you had. His metal arm wrapped around your waist, pulling you flush against him, and you felt the hard planes of his body, the heat of him, the way he trembled like he was afraid you’d slip away.

You stumbled back, his arms steadying you, and you hit the wall, his body pressing into yours, pinning you there. His lips moved to your jaw, your neck, hot and urgent, and you moaned softly, your fingers tangling in his hair. “I’m sorry,” you gasped between kisses, tears mixing with the rain on your cheeks. “I didn’t mean to hurt you.”

He pulled back, his forehead against yours, his breath coming in sharp pants. “You didn’t,” he said, voice rough but soft, his thumb brushing your cheek. “You’re here. You love me. That’s all I need.”

You kissed him again, slower this time, deep and tender, savoring the taste of him, the feel of his hands, the way he held you like you were everything. Your heart was still racing, but it wasn’t fear anymore—it was certainty, love, the kind that burned away every doubt. “I’m yours,” you whispered against his lips, and he groaned, kissing you harder, his hands sliding under your hoodie, his touch setting your skin alight.

“Bucky,” you breathed, tugging at his shirt, needing more, needing him, but he pulled back, his eyes dark with desire but searching, checking.

“You sure?” he asked, voice strained, like it was killing him to pause. “Because I’m all in, doll, but I need you to be too.”

You nodded, your hands framing his face, thumbs tracing his jaw. “I’m sure. I want you. I want us.”

He exhaled, a shaky, relieved sound, and then he was kissing you again, lifting you effortlessly as he carried you toward the bedroom, the storm outside fading as you fell into each other, ready to claim what you’d both been denying for too long.

His kiss was a wildfire, consuming, years of unspoken love and longing poured into every slide of his mouth, every graze of his teeth. Your legs were wrapped around his waist, your hands tangled in his hair, pulling him closer as he pressed you against the doorframe, his metal arm holding you effortlessly, his flesh hand gripping your hip like you were his lifeline.

“Bucky,” you gasped, breaking the kiss, your forehead pressed to his, your breaths mingling in the dim light. His eyes were dark, pupils blown wide with desire, but beneath the hunger was something softer—reverence, awe, like he couldn’t believe you were here, in his arms, saying you loved him after all this time. “I need you.”

He groaned, a low, guttural sound that sent heat pooling in your core, his lips brushing your jaw, trailing hot, open-mouthed kisses down your neck. “You don’t know what you’re doing to me,” he murmured, his voice rough with need, his teeth grazing your pulse point, a soft nip that made you shiver, your hips rocking against him instinctively. “I’ve wanted you for so long, doll—every day, every night, for years.”

His words were a spark, igniting something deep inside you, a mix of love and desire so intense it stole your breath. You tugged at his henley, your fingers clumsy with urgency, needing to feel his skin, to know he was real. He set you down gently, just long enough to pull the shirt over his head, tossing it to the floor. The bedside lamp cast a soft glow across his chest, illuminating the hard planes of muscle, the faint lines of old wounds, and the stark, jagged scars where his metal arm fused with his shoulder. He froze, his breath hitching, his eyes flickering with a shadow of doubt, like he expected you to pull away, to see the broken parts of him and flinch.

You didn’t. You stepped closer, your hands trembling as they reached for him, your fingers tracing the raised scars with a tenderness that made his breath catch. The skin was uneven, a map of pain and survival, and you felt a lump in your throat, not from pity, but from love—so fierce it hurt. “Bucky,” you whispered, your voice thick, “these don’t make you less. They make you you. And you’re beautiful—every part of you.”

He closed his eyes, leaning into your touch, his chest rising and falling unevenly. “You’re gonna ruin me, doll,” he said, his voice raw, almost broken, and when he opened his eyes, they were glistening, a mix of desire and vulnerability that made your heart ache. “You don’t know what it means… hearing you say that.”

“I mean it,” you said, stepping closer, your hands sliding up his chest, feeling the warmth of his skin, the steady thump of his heart. “I love you—all of you. The scars, the past, everything.” Your fingers traced the line where metal met flesh, and he shivered, a low sound in his throat as you pressed a soft kiss to the scarred tissue, your lips lingering, reverent.

He exhaled shakily, his hands—flesh and metal—finding your waist, pulling you closer. “You’re too good for me,” he murmured, but there was no conviction in it, only wonder, and then he was kissing you again, slow and deep, his lips soft but urgent, like he was trying to memorise the taste of you. His hands slid under your hoodie—his hoodie, the navy one you’d claimed weeks ago—and he paused, his fingers brushing the bare skin of your waist, his eyes searching yours for permission.

You nodded, lifting your arms, and he peeled the hoodie off, slow and deliberate, like he was unwrapping something sacred. The air was cool against your skin, your bra the only thing left, and his gaze was searing, drinking you in like you were a dream he was afraid to wake from. “Fuck,” he breathed, his hands hovering, trembling, before they settled on your shoulders, tracing the curve of your collarbone, the dip of your throat. “You’re so goddamn beautiful. I’ve imagined this so many times, but you’re… more.”

Your cheeks flushed, your body humming under his touch, and you reached for him, needing to feel him too. Your hands roamed his chest, mapping the planes of muscle, the faint scars from battles long past, the warmth of him that felt like home. You traced the line of his metal arm, marveling at the smooth, cool vibranium, and he watched you, his eyes dark with something like awe. “You don’t mind it?” he asked, voice low, almost hesitant, nodding toward the arm.

“No,” you said, firm, your fingers curling around the metal, feeling its strength, its weight. “It’s you. I love every part of you.” You pulled his metal hand to your lips, kissing the knuckles, and he groaned softly, his eyes fluttering shut.

“You’re gonna be the death of me,” he said, but his voice was thick with emotion, and he pulled you closer, his hands sliding down your sides, exploring every curve, every inch of skin like he was committing you to memory. He unhooked your bra with a flick of his fingers, letting it fall, and his breath caught, his hands cupping your breasts, thumbs brushing over your nipples, making you gasp. “So perfect,” he murmured, his lips following his hands, kissing the swell of your breast, his tongue flicking against your skin, teasing but reverent.

You arched into him, your hands gripping his shoulders, feeling the contrast of warm flesh and cool metal under your palms. “Bucky,” you whispered, your voice shaky with need, and he looked up, his eyes meeting yours, raw and unguarded.

“Tell me what you want,” he said, his voice low, almost a growl, his hands stilling on your hips. “Anything, doll. I’ll give you anything.”

“You,” you said, your hands sliding to his face, framing his jaw, your thumbs brushing his stubble. “I want you. All of you.”

He groaned, kissing you again, his hands roaming lower, tracing the curve of your hips, the dip of your waist, his fingers slipping under the waistband of your jeans, teasing but not yet undoing them. He was taking his time, savouring every touch, every gasp you let out, and you could feel his obsession, the way he worshipped every inch of you like you were a miracle. Your hands explored him too, sliding down his back, feeling the ripple of muscle, the faint scars, the way his body tensed under your touch.

He pulled you toward the bed, sitting on the edge and pulling you onto his lap, your thighs straddling his, the denim of his jeans rough against your bare skin. His dog tags dangled between you, cool against your chest, and you tugged at them, pulling him into another kiss, deep and slow, your tongues tangling as you pressed yourself closer. His hands roamed your back, one warm, one cool, and you shivered, the contrast driving you wild.

“God, I’ve wanted this for so long,” he murmured against your lips, his hands sliding to your thighs, squeezing gently, then up to your ribs, his thumbs brushing the undersides of your breasts. “Dreamed of touching you, feeling you like this.” His lips moved to your neck, kissing, nipping, a soft bite that made you moan, your hips rocking against him, feeling the hardness of him through his jeans.

“Bucky,” you gasped, your hands sliding to his chest, your fingers brushing his scars again, and he tensed, his breath hitching. You pulled back, meeting his eyes, seeing the flicker of insecurity there. “Hey,” you said softly, your hands framing his face. “These scars? They’re proof you survived. They’re proof you’re here, with me. And I love you for it.”

He swallowed hard, his eyes glistening, and he pressed his forehead to yours, his hands tightening on your hips. “I don’t deserve you,” he whispered, but you shook your head, kissing him softly, your lips lingering on his.

“You do,” you said, fierce, your hands sliding to his shoulders, tracing the scars again, kissing them, one by one, until he was trembling under your touch. “You’re everything, Bucky. Everything.”

He groaned, flipping you gently onto the bed, hovering over you, his dog tags brushing your skin as he looked down at you, his eyes dark with desire and love. “I’m never letting you go,” he said, his voice rough, and then he was kissing you again, his hands exploring every inch of you, slow and deliberate, like he was worshiping you, like he’d never get enough.

You reached up, your fingers threading through his hair, tugging gently to pull him closer. “I’m here,” you whispered, your voice thick with emotion. “And I want you, Bucky. Every part of you.” Your hands slid down his shoulders, tracing the scars where his metal arm met flesh, a reminder of his past, his survival, his strength. He shivered under your touch, his breath hitching, and you leaned up, pressing a soft kiss to the scarred tissue, your lips lingering as you murmured, “You’re perfect to me.”

He groaned, a sound that vibrated through you, and kissed you deeply, his tongue sweeping against yours, slow and deliberate, tasting of desperation and devotion. His hands roamed your sides, warm flesh and cool metal igniting every nerve, and you arched into him, needing more, needing him. He pulled back, his lips trailing down your jaw, your neck, nipping softly at your pulse point, the sting of his teeth making you gasp, your hips bucking against his.

“Need to taste you,” he rasped, his voice almost pleading, his hands moving to the button of your jeans. His eyes flicked to yours, asking permission, and you nodded, your breath shaky, your body already aching for him. He unbuttoned your jeans with deft fingers, sliding them down with your panties in one slow, deliberate motion, his hands grazing your thighs, your calves, as he bared you completely. You kicked the jeans aside, vulnerable under his gaze, but the way he looked at you—like you were a goddess, like he’d worship at your altar—made you feel powerful, desired, loved.

“Fuck,” he breathed, his hands settling on your thighs, spreading them gently as he knelt between your legs, his eyes drinking you in. “You’re… everything. So goddamn perfect.” His voice was reverent, his fingers trembling as they traced the sensitive skin of your inner thighs, teasing, exploring, making you squirm. He leaned down, pressing a soft kiss to your hipbone, then another, lower, his stubble scraping deliciously against your skin. “I’ve wanted this for so long,” he murmured, his lips hovering just above your core, his breath warm and teasing. “Wanted to make you feel good, to show you how much you mean to me.”

“Bucky, please,” you whimpered, your hands fisting the sheets, your body already trembling with anticipation. Your inner voice was a whirlwind, marveling at the intensity of this moment, at the man before you who’d held your heart for years without you realising.

He didn’t make you wait. His tongue flicked out, a slow, deliberate stripe through your folds, and you cried out, your hips bucking as pleasure sparked through you. “Oh, god, Bucky,” you gasped, your hands flying to his hair, tangling in the dark strands as he groaned against you, the vibration sending another wave of heat through your core. His tongue circled your clit, teasing, then flattening, licking with a reverence that made you feel cherished, worshipped. His metal hand gripped your thigh, holding you steady, while his flesh fingers traced your entrance, teasing but not yet entering, drawing out your need.

“You taste so good,” he murmured between licks, his voice muffled, raw with desire. “Sweet, perfect, mine.” He sucked gently on your clit, and you moaned, your body arching, your mind blanking as he lavished you with attention. His fingers finally slipped inside, one at first, then two, curling just right, finding that spot that made you see stars. He pumped them slowly, matching the rhythm of his tongue, and you felt the coil tightening, your body trembling as he pushed you closer to the edge.

“Bucky, I’m—” you started, but the words dissolved into a moan as he grazed his teeth softly over your clit, a hint of a bite that sent you spiraling. Your orgasm crashed over you, sudden and intense, your body shaking as you cried his name, your hands tugging his hair, grounding yourself in him. He didn’t stop, his tongue and fingers working you through it, drawing out every shudder, every gasp, until you were oversensitive, trembling, pulling him up to kiss you.

You tasted yourself on his lips, the intimacy of it making your heart race, and you kissed him harder, your hands roaming his chest, his shoulders, needing to feel him. “Your turn,” you whispered, your voice husky, your fingers trailing down his abs, feeling the muscles tense under your touch. You reached for his jeans, your hands fumbling with the button, and he chuckled, low and shaky, helping you push them down with his boxers, freeing him.

He was thick, hard, the sight of him making your mouth water, your core clenching with renewed desire. You wrapped your hand around him, stroking slowly, feeling the velvety heat of him, and he hissed, his hips bucking into your touch. “Fuck, doll,” he groaned, his head falling back, his hands gripping the sheets like he was holding himself back. You looked up at him, his eyes dark with need, his chest heaving, and felt a surge of power, knowing you could unravel him like this.

“I want to taste you,” you said, your voice firm, and his eyes widened, a mix of awe and desperation. “Let me, Bucky.” You pushed him gently, guiding him to sit on the edge of the bed, and he obeyed, his hands trembling as they settled on your shoulders. You knelt between his thighs, your hands spreading them wider, and he watched you, his breath ragged, his dog tags glinting against his chest.

“You don’t have to—” he started, but you cut him off with a soft bite to his inner thigh, making him gasp, his hands tightening on your shoulders. “Jesus, doll,” he breathed, and you smiled, kissing the spot you’d bitten, then higher, your lips brushing the sensitive skin near his base.

“I want to,” you said, echoing your earlier words, and then you took him into your mouth, your tongue swirling around the tip, tasting the salt of him. He groaned, a deep, guttural sound, his hands tangling in your hair, not pushing, just holding, like he needed the anchor. You took him deeper, hollowing your cheeks, bobbing slowly, your hand stroking what your mouth couldn’t reach. His thighs tensed under your hands, his breath coming in sharp pants, and you moaned around him, the vibration making him curse, his grip tightening.

“God, your mouth,” he gasped, his voice rough, his hips twitching like he was fighting not to thrust. “Feels so fucking good, doll.” You looked up at him, meeting his eyes, and the way he looked at you—like you were his everything—made your heart swell, your movements growing bolder. You took him as deep as you could, your tongue pressing against the underside, and he groaned your name, his hands trembling, his control fraying.

You pulled back, licking a slow stripe along his length, your hand pumping him as you kissed the tip, teasing, drawing it out. “I love you,” you whispered, your lips brushing against him, and he shuddered, his eyes glistening with something more than desire.

“I love you too,” he said, voice breaking, and you took him back into your mouth, working him faster now, your hand and lips in sync, determined to make him feel as good as he’d made you. His groans grew louder, his hips bucking slightly, and you felt him tense, his breath hitching. “Doll, I’m close,” he warned, his voice strained, but you didn’t pull back, wanting to give him this, to show him how much you wanted him.

He came with a groan, hot and sudden, spilling into your mouth, and you swallowed, your hands stroking him through it, drawing out his pleasure until he was shaking, pulling you up to kiss you. His kiss was desperate, messy, tasting of both of you, and he held you close, his hands roaming your back, your hips, like he couldn’t get enough.

“Fuck, you’re incredible,” he murmured against your lips, his voice rough, his forehead pressed to yours. “I don’t deserve you, but I’m never letting you go.”

You smiled, kissing him softly, your hands framing his face. “Good, because I’m not going anywhere.” Your body was still humming, your desire for him burning hotter, and you knew this was only the beginning, the storm outside a mere echo of the one you’d unleash together.

Bucky pulled back, his forehead pressed to yours, his eyes dark and glistening, pupils blown wide with need but softened by something deeper—love, raw and unguarded. His dog tags dangled between you, brushing your chest, cool against the flush of your skin, and you reached up, tugging them gently, pulling him into another kiss, slow and deep, your tongues tangling as you savoured the taste of him, of us. He groaned into your mouth, a low, guttural sound that sent heat pooling in your core, and you pressed yourself closer, your thighs straddling his, feeling the hardness of him against you, still bare from the jeans you’d stripped away.

“God, doll,” he murmured, his voice rough, almost broken, as he kissed along your jaw, his stubble scraping deliciously against your skin. “You’re everything I’ve ever wanted. I can’t believe you’re here, that you’re mine.” His hands slid down your sides, warm flesh and cool vibranium tracing the curve of your waist, your hips, like he was memorising every inch of you, worshipping you with every touch. His lips found your neck, nipping softly, a hint of teeth that made you gasp, your hips rocking instinctively, seeking friction.

“Bucky,” you whispered, your voice shaky with desire, your hands roaming his chest, feeling the hard planes of muscle, the faint scars, the warmth of him that felt like home. Your fingers brushed the jagged lines where his metal arm met his shoulder, and he tensed, just for a moment, his breath hitching. You paused, pulling back to meet his eyes, seeing the flicker of vulnerability there, the fear that his past, his scars, might still push you away. “You’re so beautiful,” you said, fierce and sure, your hands framing his face, thumbs brushing his cheekbones.

He exhaled shakily, his eyes glistening, and leaned into your touch, his metal hand cupping the back of your neck, pulling you into a kiss that was soft but searing, pouring everything he couldn’t say into it. “You’re gonna ruin me,” he murmured against your lips, his voice thick with emotion, and you smiled, kissing him deeper, your hands sliding to his shoulders, tracing the scars again, grounding him in your love.

“I love you,” you whispered, and he groaned, flipping you gently onto your back, the mattress dipping under his weight as he hovered over you, his dog tags brushing your skin. His hands roamed your body, slow and deliberate, one cupping your breast, his thumb brushing your nipple, making you arch into him, a soft moan escaping your lips. His lips followed, kissing the swell of your breast, his tongue flicking against your skin, teasing, reverent, before trailing lower, nipping at the sensitive skin just above your hipbone.

“Need to feel you,” he murmured, his voice low, almost pleading, his hands settling on your thighs, spreading them gently. His fingers—flesh first—traced the sensitive skin of your inner thighs, teasing, making you squirm, your body already aching for him. “Gonna take my time, doll,” he said, his eyes meeting yours, dark with promise. “Wanna make you feel so good you forget everything but me.”

Your breath hitched, your inner voice a whirlwind of love and desire. He’s here, he loves me, and he’s looking at me like I’m his whole world. The thought made your heart swell, your body humming with need, and you reached for him, your hands tangling in his hair. “Please, Bucky,” you whispered, your voice trembling, and he smiled, soft but wicked, his fingers finally slipping between your thighs, brushing your folds, already slick from your earlier release.

“Fuck, you’re so wet,” he groaned, his voice rough, his fingers teasing your entrance, circling but not yet entering, drawing out your need. “All for me, doll?” His eyes flicked to yours, and you nodded, biting your lip, your hips bucking slightly, seeking more. He leaned down, kissing your thigh, his teeth grazing the skin, a soft bite that made you gasp, the sting blending with pleasure. Then his fingers—two, warm and sure—slipped inside you, slow and deliberate, curling just right, finding that spot that made you see stars.

“Oh, god,” you moaned, your hands fisting the sheets, your body arching as he pumped his fingers, slow at first, then faster, his thumb circling your clit in perfect rhythm. His metal hand gripped your hip, holding you steady, the cool vibranium a contrast to the heat of his touch, and you felt the coil tightening, your body trembling under his attention. He watched you, his eyes dark and intense, drinking in every gasp, every shudder, like he was committing it to memory.

“Look at you,” he murmured, his voice low, reverent. “So fucking beautiful, falling apart for me.” He leaned down, kissing your stomach, his lips soft but urgent, his fingers relentless, pushing you closer to the edge. “Come for me, doll,” he whispered, his thumb pressing harder on your clit, and you did, shattering beneath him, your orgasm ripping through you, your body shaking as you cried his name, your hands reaching for him, needing him closer.

He worked you through it, his fingers slowing but not stopping, drawing out every wave until you were trembling, oversensitive, your breath coming in sharp pants. He kissed his way up your body, his lips soft on your ribs, your breasts, your neck, until he reached your mouth, kissing you deeply, letting you taste yourself on his tongue. “You’re so good,” he murmured, his voice rough with desire, his fingers slipping out, leaving you empty, aching for more.

“Bucky, please,” you gasped, your hands sliding to his back, feeling the scars, the muscle, the warmth of him. “I need you—now.” Your hips rocked against him, feeling the hardness of him, and he groaned, his eyes fluttering shut, his control fraying.

“Gonna give you everything,” he said, his voice low, almost a growl, as he positioned himself between your thighs, his hands guiding your legs around his waist. He teased you first, dragging the tip of himself through your folds, slick and warm, making you whimper, your body desperate for him. “You sure, doll?” he asked, his eyes searching yours, his voice strained, like it was taking everything in him to hold back.

“Yes,” you said, fierce, your hands framing his face, pulling him into a kiss. “I’m sure. I love you.” Your words seemed to break something in him, and he pushed in, slow and deliberate, inch by inch, filling you, stretching you in a way that was perfect, overwhelming. You both groaned, your foreheads pressed together, his breath ragged as he stilled, letting you adjust, his hands gripping your hips like he was anchoring himself.

“You feel so good,” he whispered, his voice breaking, his lips brushing yours. “So tight, so perfect, like you were made for me.” He started to move, slow and sensual, every thrust deep, deliberate, hitting that spot inside you that made you gasp, your nails digging into his back. His hands roamed your body, one cupping your breast, the other sliding to your thigh, pulling you closer, deeper, like he couldn’t get enough.

“Bucky,” you moaned, your hips meeting his, matching his rhythm, your body humming with pleasure. His lips found your neck, kissing, nipping, a soft bite that made you cry out, the sting blending with the heat building inside you. He was everywhere—his hands, his mouth, his body—filling you, consuming you, and you wanted it all, wanted him in a way you’d never wanted anyone else.

“Love you,” he gasped, his thrusts growing faster, harder, the slow sensuality giving way to something raw, desperate. “Love you so much, doll.” His metal hand slid between you, fingers circling your clit, and you arched into him, your body trembling, the pleasure building to a crescendo. His other hand gripped your hip, hard enough to bruise, and you loved it, loved the way he held you like you were his, like he’d never let go.

“More,” you gasped, your hands sliding to his ass, pulling him deeper, and he growled, his pace quickening, his thrusts rougher, the bed creaking beneath you. He bit your shoulder, not hard enough to break skin but enough to make you moan, the sting sending you closer to the edge. His fingers on your clit were relentless, his thrusts primal, desperate, like he was pouring years of longing into every movement.

“You’re mine,” he rasped, his voice rough, possessive, but there was love in it, a vulnerability that made your heart ache. “Say it, doll.”

“Yours,” you gasped, your body clenching around him, the pleasure overwhelming. “I’m yours, Bucky.” Your words seemed to push him over the edge, his thrusts erratic, his breath coming in sharp pants, his fingers circling faster, pushing you both toward release.

“Come with me,” he groaned, his lips crashing into yours, his kiss messy, desperate, and you did, shattering beneath him, your orgasm ripping through you, your body shaking as you screamed his name. He followed, his body shuddering, his release hot and deep, his face buried in your neck as he gasped your name, his hands gripping you like he was afraid you’d slip away.

You held each other, trembling, the storm outside a distant hum as your breathing slowed. He didn’t pull out right away, staying close, his lips brushing your temple, your cheek, soft and reverent. “You okay?” he whispered, his voice raw, his eyes searching yours, and you nodded, your hands stroking his back, feeling the scars, the sweat, the warmth of him.

“Perfect,” you said, smiling, and he laughed, a soft, shaky sound, rolling you both so you were on top, still connected. You leaned down, kissing him slow, deep, tasting the salt of sweat and tears—yours, his, it didn’t matter. His hands traced your spine, gentle now, and you felt cherished, worshipped, loved in a way you’d never known.

“I’ve got you,” he murmured, his eyes soft, and you believed him, every word, every touch, every beat of his heart against yours.

By the time morning crept into Bucky’s Brooklyn apartment, soft gray light filtered through the bedroom curtains, casting a warm glow over the tangled sheets. You woke slowly, your body heavy with a delicious ache, every muscle humming with the memory of last night—Bucky’s hands, his lips, his desperate, reverent love poured into every touch. He was still beside you, his arm draped across your waist, the cool vibranium a soothing contrast to the warmth of his bare chest pressed against your back. His breath was steady, soft against your neck, and for a moment, you just lay there, savouring the weight of him, the reality of us.

You shifted slightly, careful not to wake him, but his arm tightened, pulling you closer with a low, sleepy murmur. “Where you goin’, doll?” His voice was rough with sleep, laced with that familiar warmth that made your heart flutter, and you smiled, turning in his arms to face him.

His eyes were half-open, blue and soft in the morning light, his hair a messy halo on the pillow. The dog tags rested against his chest, glinting faintly, and you reached out, tracing them with your fingers, feeling the engraved letters under your touch. “Nowhere,” you whispered, your voice thick with emotion. “Just… looking at you.”

He chuckled, low and lazy, his flesh hand sliding up your back, fingers tracing lazy patterns on your bare skin. “Creep,” he teased, but his eyes were warm, crinkling at the corners, and you laughed, the sound light and free in a way you hadn’t felt in weeks.

“Guilty,” you said, leaning in to kiss him, soft and slow, your lips lingering against his. He hummed into the kiss, his hand cupping the back of your neck, pulling you closer, and for a moment, it was just this—just you and him, tangled together, the world outside a distant hum. The kiss deepened, a spark of last night’s heat flickering, but you pulled back, grinning. “Careful, Barnes. You’re gonna start something we don’t have time for.”

“Who says we don’t have time?” he murmured, his voice low and playful, his metal hand sliding to your hip, squeezing gently. But his eyes softened, and he leaned his forehead against yours, his breath warm on your lips. “You okay? After… everything?”

You nodded, your hand resting on his chest, feeling the steady thump of his heart. “More than okay,” you said, your voice soft but sure. “Last night was… perfect. You were perfect.” You traced the scars where his metal arm met his shoulder, a habit now, and he didn’t tense like he used to, just watched you with a quiet intensity. “I love you, Bucky. I’m just… still wrapping my head around the fact that this is real.”

His expression faltered, just for a second, a shadow of doubt flickering in his eyes. “Real enough for you to stick around?” he asked, his voice low, almost hesitant, like he was bracing for an answer he wasn’t sure he could handle. “I mean, you’ve got your life, your place… I don’t wanna hold you back, doll. Not after everything you’ve been through.”

Your heart ached at the vulnerability in his voice, the way he still thought he might not be enough, even after last night, after you’d poured your love into every kiss, every touch. You shifted, propping yourself up on your elbow to look at him fully, your hand framing his face, forcing him to meet your eyes. “Bucky, listen to me,” you said, fierce but gentle. “You’re not holding me back. You’re my home. I don’t want to go back to my place, not if it means leaving this—leaving us. I’m all in, okay? For you, for us, for whatever comes next.”

He stared at you, his eyes glistening, and for a moment, he didn’t speak, just swallowed hard, his hand tightening on your hip. “You mean that?” he asked, his voice rough, and you nodded, leaning down to kiss him, soft and sure, pouring your certainty into it.

“Every word,” you said, pulling back, your thumb brushing his cheekbone. “I love you, and I’m not going anywhere unless you’re with me.”

He exhaled, a shaky, relieved sound, and pulled you into his arms, rolling you both so you were tucked against his chest, his lips pressing to your forehead. “Good,” he murmured, his voice muffled against your hair. “’Cause I don’t think I could let you go now, even if I tried.”

You laughed, the sound muffled against his skin, and nuzzled closer, relishing the warmth of him, the way his arms felt like the safest place in the world. “You’re stuck with me, Barnes,” you teased, and he chuckled, the vibration rumbling through you.

“Worst punishment I ever heard,” he shot back, but his voice was warm, playful, and you swatted his chest lightly, grinning.

You lay there for a while, tangled together, the drizzle outside a soft backdrop to the quiet intimacy. His fingers traced idle patterns on your back, and you let your hand wander his chest, feeling the scars, the steady rise and fall of his breath. The weight of last night—of your confessions, your fight, the way you’d finally given in to years of love—settled over you, not heavy but grounding, like a promise you both intended to keep.

“So,” you said eventually, your voice soft, playful, “what’s the plan now, super-soldier? You gonna keep cooking me pancakes every morning, or is that just a temporary-roommate perk?”

He laughed, the sound rich and warm, and rolled you onto your back, hovering over you with a grin that made your heart skip. “Pancakes are a lifetime deal, doll,” he said, his eyes twinkling. “But I’m thinking we upgrade from roommates to… something else. What do you say? Wanna make this official?”

Your breath caught, not from surprise but from the joy that flooded you, the certainty that this was right, that he was your future. You reached up, tugging his dog tags to pull him closer, your lips brushing his. “Official sounds good,” you whispered, smiling. “Boyfriend has a nice ring to it, don’t you think?”

“Boyfriend,” he repeated, testing the word, his grin widening. “Yeah, I like that. Long as you’re my girl.”

“Always,” you said, and he kissed you, deep and slow, like he was sealing the promise. The kiss lingered, soft and sweet, until your stomach growled, loud and unromantic, and you both burst out laughing, the tension breaking in the best way.

“Guess that’s my cue,” Bucky said, rolling out of bed, and you couldn’t help but admire him—his broad shoulders, the way his muscles moved under his skin, the scars that told his story. He grabbed a pair of sweatpants, pulling them on, and caught you staring, smirking. “Keep looking at me like that, and breakfast is gonna have to wait.”

You grinned, sitting up, the sheet clutched to your chest. “Tempting, but I’m starving. You promised pancakes, Barnes. Don’t make me regret this whole boyfriend thing.”

He laughed, tossing you his navy hoodie—the one you’d claimed weeks ago—and you pulled it on, the familiar scent of cedar and Bucky wrapping around you like a hug. You followed him to the kitchen, barefoot, the hardwood cool under your feet, and leaned against the counter as he started pulling out ingredients, his movements easy, practiced.

The morning unfolded like a dream—Bucky flipping pancakes with that super-soldier precision, you stealing bites of batter and teasing him about his “grumpy cat face” when he pretended to scold you. You sat at the counter, knees brushing, trading stories about nothing and everything—memories of your friendship, plans for a real date, the quiet hope of a future together. He reached over at one point, brushing a smear of syrup from your lip with his thumb, and the simple touch sent a spark through you, a reminder of last night, of the love that had finally broken free.

“So,” he said, setting his fork down, his eyes soft but serious, “you really wanna stay here? Not just crash, I mean… move in, make this our place?”

You paused, your heart swelling at the question, the way he said our like it was a prayer. “Yeah,” you said, reaching for his hand, lacing your fingers with his. “I want that. This feels like home, Bucky. You feel like home.”

He smiled, a rare, unguarded smile that lit up his face, and pulled you into his lap, his arms wrapping around you, his lips brushing your temple. “Then it’s yours,” he said, his voice rough with emotion. “We’ll make it ours.”

You leaned into him, your head resting against his chest, listening to the steady beat of his heart, and for the first time in weeks, the ache of your breakup, the doubts Josh had planted, felt like a distant memory. With Bucky, you were whole, loved, and ready for whatever came next—pancakes, late nights, fights, and all.

·:*¨༺ ♱✮♱ ༻¨*:·

Sebastian Stan taglist: @notreallythatlost @houseofaegon @bunnyfella @sunday-bug @wintrsoldrluvr @maryevm @mcira @monsteraddicts-world @positivenergy @cherriesnmango @navs-bhat

Let me know if you want to be tagged in future works<3

[mandoalorian]

to be yours [bucky barnes x f!reader]

·:*¨༺ ♱✮♱ ༻¨*:·

“nothing makes me stronger than your fragile heart.”

inspired by the song turning page — sleeping at last.

·:*¨༺ ♱✮♱ ༻¨*:·

synopsis: when you break up with your boyfriend, you seek comfort and solace in the arms of your best friend, bucky barnes.

warnings: 18+ explicit content (unprotected p in v, f receiving oral, m receiving oral, fingering, body worship, bucky is obsessed with you) mdni, lots of pining and slow burn, friends to lovers, a smidge of angst in the middle, mentions of alcohol, bucky is in therapy, allusions to a toxic ex boyfriend, bucky comforts you through a bad breakup. set post endgame, pre tfatws.

w/c: 11,600>

masterlist

The Brooklyn skyline flickered through Bucky’s window, a jagged line of lights against the autumn dusk. Inside, his apartment was quiet, save for the soft crackle of a vinyl record spinning on the turntable—some old jazz standard Sam had insisted he’d like. Bucky didn’t hate it, but it wasn’t the music that held his attention. It was the phone in his hand, the screen glowing with a photo he couldn’t stop staring at.

You and him, last summer, sprawled on a picnic blanket in Prospect Park. You were laughing, head thrown back, eyes crinkled in that way that made his chest ache. He’d been mid-eye-roll in the shot, pretending to be annoyed at your bad joke about his “grumpy cat face,” but the corner of his mouth had betrayed him, curling into a smile. Sam had snapped the picture, saying something dumb like, “Y’all look like an old married couple.” Bucky had brushed it off, but the words had stuck, burrowing deep.

He set the phone face-down on the coffee table, like that could shut off the feeling. It didn’t. Bucky leaned back on the couch, running his flesh hand through his hair, the metal one resting heavy on his thigh. The apartment felt too big tonight, too empty. He’d gotten used to the quiet since moving back to Brooklyn after the Blip, after Wakanda, after everything. Therapy, amends, trying to be a person again—it was a routine, but it wasn’t a life. Not really. Not without you.

He’d known you for two years now, ever since Sam introduced you at one of those post-Blip support group things. You’d been volunteering, handing out coffee with that smile that could light up a room, and Bucky, fresh off his Wakandan reset, had barely known how to talk to you. But you’d made it easy, teasing him about his gloves, asking if he was hiding “super-secret spy gear.” He’d mumbled something sarcastic, and just like that, you were friends. Best friends, eventually. The kind who texted at 3 a.m., who showed up with takeout when the other needed it, who knew each other’s silences as well as their words.

And somewhere along the way, Bucky had fallen for you. Hard. Stupidly. The kind of love that made him feel like a kid again, all nerves and hope, but also like a fool, because who was he kidding? You were bright, whole, alive. He was a hundred-and-nine years old in a body that didn’t age, with a rap sheet longer than the Brooklyn Bridge and nightmares that didn’t quit. You deserved better. Always had.

His phone buzzed, snapping him out of it. Your name lit up the screen, and his heart did that traitor thing—skipping a beat before he could tell it to calm down. He grabbed the phone, swiping to open the message.

You: Hey Buck, you free this weekend? Things with Josh are… kinda weird. Could use some bestie time.

Bucky’s jaw tightened. Josh. Your boyfriend of eight months, the guy who’d swept you off your feet with his easy charm and lawyer job. Bucky had met him a few times—dinners, game nights—and every time, he’d had to swallow the urge to say something. Josh wasn’t bad, not exactly, but he didn’t see you. Not the way you deserved. He didn’t notice how your laugh changed when you were nervous, or how you’d ramble about your day when you were happy, or how you’d curl your fingers into your sleeves when you felt small. Bucky noticed. He always noticed.

He typed back, fingers steady despite the knot in his chest: Yeah, I’m free. Name the time, I’m there. You okay?

The three dots appeared, then vanished, then appeared again. Finally: Not sure. Just… need you. Talk soon?

Need you. The words hit like a punch, soft but deep. He wanted to be everything you needed—friend, protector, more—but he’d settle for what you gave him. He always did.

Always, doll, he replied, the old nickname slipping out before he could stop it. He hoped it made you smile.

He set the phone down and stood, pacing to the window. The city hummed below, indifferent to the war in his head. He’d never told you how he felt, not once. At first, it was because he didn’t trust himself, didn’t think he could love anyone without breaking them. Then Josh came along, and Bucky had locked his feelings up tight, because your happiness mattered more than his. But every time you hugged him, every time you fell asleep on his couch during movie nights, every time you looked at him like he was more than a ghost of a man, it got harder to keep quiet.

He pressed his metal hand against the glass, the cold grounding him. Maybe he was selfish, hoping things with Josh were falling apart. Maybe he was broken, wanting you to need him in a way you never had. But he couldn’t help it. He loved you in the quiet way he did everything—fierce, steady, unspoken.

The record skipped, pulling him back. He crossed the room, lifting the needle and setting it back gently. The music started again, a saxophone weaving through the melody like a sigh. He sank onto the couch, staring at the ceiling, and let himself imagine, just for a moment, what it’d be like to hold you. Not as a friend, but as something more. Your head on his chest, his fingers in your hair, your breath against his skin. The thought was so vivid it hurt.

He closed his eyes. One day, maybe, he’d be brave enough to tell you. But not tonight. Tonight, he’d wait, like he always did, ready to be whatever you needed.

A sudden knock at the door jolted Bucky upright, waking him in an instant. It was sharp, desperate, not the casual rap you’d usually give. His heart kicked up a notch, and he crossed the room in three strides, the metal arm whirring softly as he moved.

He opened the door, and there you were—soaked to the bone, hair plastered to your face, mascara streaking down your cheeks like dark rivers. Your eyes were red, swollen, and you were shivering, arms wrapped around yourself like you could hold the pieces together. Bucky’s breath caught, a pang of something fierce and protective twisting in his chest.

“Jesus, doll,” he said, voice rough with worry. “Get in here.”

You didn’t move at first, just stood there, lips trembling. “He’s gone, Buck,” you whispered, voice breaking. “Josh… he just—ended it. Said I’m too much, said he’s done.” A sob choked out, and you pressed a hand to your mouth, like you could shove the hurt back inside.

Bucky didn’t think. He reached for you, pulling you inside and kicking the door shut. The rain had soaked through your jacket, your shirt, leaving you dripping on his hardwood floor, but he didn’t care. He grabbed a blanket from the couch—a soft, gray thing he’d bought because you’d once said it looked cozy—and wrapped it around your shoulders, guiding you to sit. “Stay there,” he said, softer now, but firm. “I’m getting you something warm.”

You nodded, barely, your eyes distant as you sank onto the couch, clutching the blanket like a lifeline. Bucky moved fast, filling a kettle, digging through his sparse kitchen for the chamomile tea you liked. His hands were steady, but his mind was a mess—anger at Josh, worry for you, and that selfish, nagging ache that always flared when you were this close. He shoved it down, like always.

When he came back with the steaming mug, you were still shivering, staring at the floor. He set the tea on the coffee table and crouched in front of you, his flesh hand hovering near your knee before he pulled it back. “Talk to me,” he said, voice low, like he was coaxing a scared animal. “What happened?”

You swallowed, eyes flicking to his, and the raw pain there hit him like a punch. “I don’t even know where to start,” you said, voice small. “It’s been bad for weeks. He’s been… distant, snapping at me for nothing. Tonight, we fought, and he just—he said I’m too emotional, too needy. Said he can’t deal with me anymore.” Your voice cracked, and you looked away, ashamed. “Maybe he’s right.”

“He’s not,” Bucky said, sharper than he meant to. He softened his tone, leaning closer. “He’s a damn idiot, and he never deserved you. You’re not too much. You’re…” He stopped himself, the words you’re everything catching in his throat. Instead, he said, “You’re enough. More than enough.”

You gave a shaky laugh, wiping your eyes with the edge of the blanket. “You’re biased. You’re my best friend.”

Friend. The word stung, but he forced a small smile. “Yeah, well, doesn’t make me wrong.” He stood, grabbing one of his hoodies from the armchair—a navy one you’d stolen before, the one he secretly loved seeing you in. “Put this on. You’re gonna catch pneumonia.”

You took it, fingers brushing his, and he felt that spark, the one he always tried to ignore. You peeled off your wet jacket, and he turned away, giving you privacy as you changed. When he glanced back, you were drowning in his hoodie, the sleeves too long, the hem hitting your thighs. His heart did a slow, painful flip.

“Thanks,” you murmured, pulling the blanket back around you. You picked up the tea, cradling it, and patted the couch beside you. “Sit with me? Please?”

He didn’t need to be asked twice. He sat, close but not too close, though every nerve screamed to pull you into him. You sipped the tea, then leaned your head back, eyes closing. “You’re too good to me, Buck. I don’t know what I’d do without you.”

“You’d be fine,” he said, but his voice was rough, betraying him. “You’re tougher than you think.”

You opened your eyes, looking at him with something he couldn’t quite read—gratitude, maybe, or something deeper. “I don’t feel tough right now.”

He wanted to say a thousand things, but instead, he reached out, his flesh hand resting lightly on your arm. “You don’t have to be. Not tonight.”

You set the mug down and, without warning, shifted closer, curling into his side. Your head found his shoulder, your body pressing against his, and Bucky froze. The blanket slipped, and you were so close—too close—your warmth seeping through the hoodie, your breath soft against his neck. His body burned, every muscle taut as he fought the urge to wrap his arms around you, to pull you even closer. She’s hurting, he told himself. She needs a friend, not you losing it.

But then you tucked yourself tighter against him, one arm sliding across his chest, and he was done for. His heart pounded, and he was sure you could hear it, feel it. Your fingers curled into his shirt, and you sighed, a small, broken sound. “Can I just… stay here for a bit?” you whispered.

“Long as you need,” he managed, voice low, almost a growl. He draped his arm around you, careful, like you might break, but you only nestled closer, your legs curling up under the blanket. His metal arm stayed rigid at his side, afraid to touch you, afraid of what it’d mean.

The storm roared outside, but inside, it was just the two of you, the quiet stretching until you spoke again. “You ever feel like… you’re just going through the motions?” you asked, voice soft. “Like, no matter how hard you try, you’re stuck?”

Bucky’s throat tightened. He knew that feeling too well. “Yeah,” he said, staring at the rain-streaked window. “More than you know.”

You tilted your head, looking up at him. “Your therapy… is it helping? You don’t talk about it much.”

He stiffened, caught off guard. He hadn’t planned to go there, but your eyes were searching, and he couldn’t lie to you. “It’s… something,” he said, exhaling. “Dr. Raynor’s got me journaling, making amends. Says it’s supposed to make me feel like I’m moving forward. But most days, it feels like I’m just… checking boxes. Like I’m still the guy who did all those things, and no amount of talking’s gonna change that.”

You frowned, your hand tightening on his shirt. “You’re not that guy anymore, Buck. You’re not the Winter Soldier. You’re you. The guy who makes me tea at 1 a.m., who remembers I hate olives on my pizza. The guy who’s here, right now, when I’m falling apart.”

He swallowed hard, your words cutting deeper than you knew. “You make it sound easy,” he said, a bitter edge to his voice. “Like I can just… be normal.”

“You don’t have to be normal,” you said fiercely. “You just have to be you. That’s enough for me.”

His chest ached, and he looked down at you, your face so close he could count the flecks in your eyes. You were still curled against him, your body warm and soft, and his control was fraying. He wanted to kiss you, to pour everything he felt into it, but you were raw, broken from Josh’s cruelty. So he just held you, his flesh hand stroking your arm in slow, soothing circles, even as his body screamed for more.

“You don’t know how much that means,” he said finally, voice barely above a whisper. “You… you’re the best part of my day, you know that?”

You smiled, small but real, and it was like the sun breaking through the storm. “Right back at you, Barnes.” You shifted, your head resting heavier on his shoulder, and within minutes, your breathing slowed, your body relaxing into his as sleep took you.

Bucky didn’t move, didn’t dare. You were asleep in his arms, your warmth seeping into him, and it was everything he’d ever wanted and everything he couldn’t have. His heart was a warzone—love, guilt, need, all fighting for space. He pressed his lips to the top of your head, so light you wouldn’t feel it, and whispered, “I’m here, doll. Always.”

The rain kept falling, but for the first time in a long time, Bucky didn’t feel alone.

The first morning you woke up in Bucky’s apartment, the smell of coffee hit you before your eyes even opened. You were curled on his couch, still wrapped in his navy hoodie, the blanket tucked around you like he’d checked on you in the night. The storm had passed, leaving a soft gray light filtering through the windows, and from the kitchen came the clink of dishes, the low hum of Bucky moving around.

You sat up, rubbing sleep from your eyes, and caught sight of him—hair pulled back in a messy bun, wearing a black t-shirt that hugged his shoulders, his metal arm glinting as he flipped a pancake with surprising finesse. He hadn’t noticed you yet, and for a moment, you just watched him, this man who’d become your anchor. The ache in your chest from Josh’s betrayal was still there, sharp and raw, but seeing Bucky—steady, quiet, there—made it feel like maybe you could breathe again.

“Morning, sleepyhead,” he called without turning, his voice warm but teasing. “Thought you’d sleep till noon.”

You grinned, despite yourself. “Not all of us are super-soldiers with no need for rest.” You stretched, the hoodie riding up, and caught his quick glance before he busied himself with the coffee pot.

“Pancakes?” he asked, sliding a plate across the counter. “Figured you could use some comfort food.”

You padded over, barefoot, and leaned against the counter, peering at the stack. “You made these from scratch? Who are you, and what’d you do with Bucky Barnes?”

He chuckled, low and rough, and the sound warmed you more than the coffee. “Sam’s fault. Kept going on about his mom’s recipe. Had to learn it to shut him up.”

You took a bite, and damn if it wasn’t perfect—fluffy, just sweet enough. “Okay, Barnes, you’re hired. Personal chef from now on.”

He smirked, but his eyes were soft, watching you like you were the only thing in the room. “Deal. Long as you keep stealing my hoodies.”

The next few weeks blurred into a rhythm you hadn’t expected to feel so… right. You’d gone back to your place once, just to grab clothes and essentials, but the apartment felt haunted—Josh’s cologne still lingered on the couch, his half-empty beer in the fridge. You’d packed a bag and fled back to Bucky’s, and when you’d mumbled something about not wanting to impose, he’d just given you that look—half-exasperated, half-tender—and said, “Stay as long as you need, doll. I got you.”

So you stayed. His apartment became your sanctuary, a bubble of quiet warmth against the world. Mornings were coffee and pancakes or sometimes just cereal, the two of you bumping elbows at the tiny kitchen counter, trading sleepy smiles. Evenings were takeout or Netflix marathons, you sprawled on the couch with your feet in his lap, him grumbling about your cold toes but never pushing them away. You’d catch him watching you sometimes, his blue eyes soft but guarded, like he was holding something back. You didn’t push, though. You were too raw, too afraid of what you’d find if you looked too close.

But the moments piled up, small and intimate, stitching you closer. One night, you burned popcorn in his microwave, and he laughed so hard he nearly fell off the couch, teasing you about your “culinary skills” until you threw a pillow at him. Another day, he taught you how to shadowbox, his hands guiding your wrists, his voice low and patient as he corrected your stance. His touch lingered a beat too long, and you both pretended not to notice.

Then there was the morning you almost broke him.

You’d showered, forgetting to grab a clean towel, and figured you could dart to the linen closet without being seen. Bucky was out getting groceries—or so you thought. You stepped out of the bathroom, damp hair sticking to your shoulders, a towel barely wrapped around you, and froze when you heard the front door click open. Bucky stood there, bags in hand, his eyes locking onto you before he quickly turned away, cheeks flushing red.

“Shit, sorry,” he muttered, staring hard at the wall, his jaw tight. “Didn’t know you were…”

“It’s fine!” you squeaked, clutching the towel tighter, your own face burning. You bolted for the closet, grabbing a towel and scurrying to the guest room—his room, really, since he’d insisted you take the bed. When you emerged, fully dressed in his hoodie and your jeans, he was in the kitchen, unpacking groceries like his life depended on it.

You tried to laugh it off. “Guess I owe you for the heart attack, huh?”

He snorted, not meeting your eyes. “Yeah, warn a guy next time.” But his voice was strained, and you caught the way his hands shook slightly as he shoved a carton of milk into the fridge. You didn’t know it, but his mind was a mess—your bare shoulders, the water droplets on your skin, the way the towel had clung to you. He’d spent a decade as a weapon, trained to stay calm under pressure, but you in a towel? That was a mission he wasn’t equipped for.

That night, you sat cross-legged on the couch, a pizza box between you, some old rom-com flickering on the TV. You were quieter than usual, the weight of the breakup creeping back in. Bucky noticed—he always did. He set his slice down, turning to you, his knee brushing yours.

“You okay?” he asked, voice soft but searching. “You’ve been… off tonight.”

You sighed, picking at the crust. “Just thinking about Josh. Not him, exactly, but… how I didn’t see it. How I let myself feel so small with him.” Your voice cracked, and you hated it, hated how fragile you still felt. “I keep wondering what’s wrong with me.”

Bucky’s jaw clenched, a flicker of anger in his eyes—not at you, never at you. “Nothing’s wrong with you,” he said, firm but gentle. “He didn’t see you, not the way you deserve. You’re…” He stopped, swallowing hard, like the words were too big, too dangerous. “You’re incredible, you know that? The way you light up a room, the way you make people feel like they matter. He was too weak to handle that.”

You looked at him, eyes glassy, and something shifted in the air—something heavy, unspoken. “You really think that?”

“I know it,” he said, and his voice was so earnest it made your chest ache. You reached for him, needing the comfort of him, and he didn’t hesitate. He pulled you into his arms, your cheek against his chest, his heartbeat steady under your ear. You wrapped your arms around him, sinking into the warmth of him, the familiar scent of cedar and soap that was so Bucky.

His body tensed for a split second, like he was bracing himself. You were so close, your arms tight around him, your breath warm against his shirt, and it was torture. His flesh hand rested on your back, fingers flexing like he was fighting the urge to pull you closer. His mind was screaming—she’s hurting, she’s your friend, don’t ruin this—but his body wasn’t listening, heat pooling low in his stomach, his pulse racing. He’d dreamed of holding you like this, but not like this, not when you were broken and he was supposed to be your safe place.

“You’re too good to me,” you murmured, voice muffled against him. “I don’t deserve you.”

He laughed, a low, shaky sound. “You got that backward, doll.” His metal arm stayed rigid at his side, afraid to touch you, afraid of what it’d mean if he let himself feel too much. But you didn’t notice, just held him tighter, and he let himself have this moment, even if it was all he’d ever get.

When you finally pulled back, your eyes were softer, a small smile tugging at your lips. “Thanks for letting me crash here,” you said. “I don’t know what I’d do without you.”

He smiled, but it didn’t reach his eyes. “Anytime,” he said, and he meant it—every word, every syllable, every beat of his heart that belonged to you, even if you didn’t know it.

Weeks had gone by and the storm outside persisted, thunder cracking loud enough to rattle your nerves. Inside, the tension was worse—a coiled, unspoken thing that had been simmering all evening, growing sharper with every glance, every forced smile. You sat on the couch, legs tucked under you, your phone gripped too tightly in your lap, the screen dark but burning with the memory of Josh’s text from earlier that day: Still living with Barnes? Figures. You were always his, even when you were mine. No wonder you’re alone now.

The words had sunk their claws into you, dragging up every doubt, every fight you’d had with Josh about Bucky. “You’re obsessed with him,” Josh had snapped once, months ago, when you’d canceled dinner to help Bucky through a rough night. “It’s not normal, you know? You’re too close, and he’s too screwed up to be just a friend.” You’d defended Bucky then, furious, but now, weeks after the breakup, living in Bucky’s apartment, leaning on him for everything, Josh’s voice echoed louder. Were you too much? Too needy? Had you pushed Josh away by being too close to Bucky? And worse—were you dragging Bucky down with you, burdening him with your broken pieces?

You glanced at Bucky, who was in the kitchen, drying dishes from your earlier dinner with that quiet focus you’d come to rely on. His hair was loose, brushing his jaw, his henley clinging to his frame, the metal arm glinting under the soft light. He was beautiful, you’d realised weeks ago, but tonight that thought felt like a betrayal—of Josh, of your friendship, of yourself. You didn’t deserve Bucky’s kindness, not when you were such a mess, not when Josh’s words made you question everything about who you were to him.

“You’ve been staring at that phone like it’s gonna bite you,” Bucky said, his voice cutting through the silence, light but tinged with concern. He leaned against the counter, towel slung over his shoulder, his blue eyes fixed on you. “Wanna tell me what’s up?”

You forced a shrug, setting the phone face-down on the couch, but your fingers twitched, betraying your nerves. “Just… nothing. Stupid stuff.”

He raised an eyebrow, crossing his arms, the metal one whirring softly. “You’ve been off all day, doll. Don’t give me that ‘nothing’ crap. What’s going on?”

The nickname—doll—hit you harder than usual, warm and familiar but laced with something you couldn’t name. You looked away, your chest tight, Josh’s text looping in your head. “It’s Josh,” you admitted, voice barely above a whisper. “He texted me today.”

Bucky’s expression darkened, his jaw clenching. He stepped into the living room, sitting on the coffee table in front of you, close enough that his knee brushed yours. “What’d that asshole say?” His voice was low, controlled, but you could hear the anger simmering beneath it.

You hesitated, the words stuck in your throat. Telling Bucky felt like opening a wound, but his eyes were steady, waiting, and you couldn’t lie to him. “He said I’m still… living with you. That I was always yours, even when I was with him.” Your voice cracked, and you swallowed hard, forcing the rest out. “He said that’s why I’m alone now.”

Bucky’s hands balled into fists, his knuckles whitening. “He’s got some nerve,” he growled, leaning forward. “He’s the one who hurt you, and now he’s throwing this shit at you? He’s wrong, you know that, right?”

But you didn’t know that. Not anymore. The doubt had taken root, and it was choking you. You stood abruptly, needing to move, pacing toward the window where the rain streaked the glass. “What if he’s not wrong?” you said, voice rising, sharp with self-loathing. “What if I am too much? Too clingy, too dependent? He always said I was too close to you, that I leaned on you too much, and now look at me—living here, eating your food, crying on your shoulder every damn night. Maybe I pushed him away because I was always running to you.”

Bucky stood, his boots heavy on the hardwood, and you could feel his presence behind you, solid and warm. “That’s his poison talking,” he said, voice firm but strained. “He wanted to control you, make you feel small. You’re not too much. You’re—”

“Then why did he leave?” you snapped, spinning to face him, tears burning your eyes. “Why did he say I was never really his? Because of this—because of us, because I can’t seem to function without you! And now I’m here, dragging you into my mess, making you deal with me when you’ve got your own life, your own demons. I’m screwing this up too, aren’t I? Just like I screwed it up with him.”

The words poured out, raw and jagged, and you saw the hurt flash across Bucky’s face, his eyes widening like you’d slapped him. He stepped back, his expression tightening, and your stomach dropped. Oh god, what did I just say? Your inner voice was screaming, replaying your words, realizing how they must’ve sounded—like you blamed him, like your closeness was the problem. But it wasn’t him, it was you, always you, ruining everything.

“Bucky, I didn’t mean—” you started, but he cut you off, his voice low, almost dangerous.

“You think you’re screwing this up?” he said, stepping closer, his eyes blazing with something you’d never seen before—anger, yes, but something deeper, more desperate. “You think being here, being with me, is some kind of mistake? Because let me tell you something, doll, I’ve been carrying this for years, and I’m done pretending it’s nothing.”

Your breath caught, confusion and fear mixing with the pounding of your heart. “Carrying what?” you whispered, but you knew, deep down, you knew, and it terrified you.

He laughed, a bitter, broken sound, running his flesh hand through his hair. “You really don’t see it, do you? I’m in love with you. I’ve been in love with you since the day I met you, and every single day since has been me trying to be what you need without asking for anything back. But hearing you say you’re dragging me down, that we’re the problem? I can’t take it anymore.”

The words hit you like a thunderclap, stealing your air, your thoughts, everything. You stared at him, his chest heaving, his eyes glistening with unshed tears, and your mind reeled. He loves me. The realisation crashed through you, shattering every doubt, every wall you’d built. You thought back to the nights he’d stayed up with you, the mornings he’d made you laugh, the way his touch lingered, soft and reverent. Josh’s accusations had twisted it, made you question your bond, but now it was clear—Bucky wasn’t just your friend. He was your home, your heart, and you’d been too blind to see it.

“Bucky,” you said, voice trembling, stepping closer, but he shook his head, backing away like your nearness hurt him.

“Don’t,” he said, voice rough, his hands clenched at his sides. “Don’t come closer, because if you do, I’m not gonna be able to stop myself. I’ve been holding this in for so long, and I can’t—I can’t keep pretending I don’t want you.”

Your heart was racing, tears streaming down your cheeks, and you hated yourself for hurting him, for making him think he was anything less than everything. Josh’s words were ash now, meaningless against the truth standing in front of you. You’d been running from your feelings, afraid of ruining what you had, but now you saw it—the way your heart leapt when he smiled, the way your body craved his touch, the way you felt whole with him in a way you never had with Josh.

“I’m sorry,” you choked out, stepping toward him, ignoring his warning. “I didn’t mean it like that. I’m not blaming you—I’m blaming me, because I’m scared, Bucky. I’m scared I ruined everything with Josh, and I’m terrified I’m going to ruin us too. But I don’t want to lose you. I can’t lose you, because…” Your voice broke, and you took another step, close enough to feel the heat of him. “Because I love you too.”

He froze, his eyes searching yours, like he couldn’t believe what he’d heard. “What?” he whispered, voice raw, vulnerable.

“I love you,” you said again, louder, surer, the words spilling out like it was the purest thing you’ve ever known. “I was too stupid to see it, but I love you, Bucky. I’m in love with you.”

He stared at you, his breath ragged, and then he moved—fast, desperate, his hands cupping your face as he crashed his lips against yours. The kiss was fire, years of longing and pain pouring into every press of his mouth, his teeth grazing your lip, his tongue sweeping against yours like he needed to taste you to believe you were real. You gasped into him, your hands gripping his shirt, pulling him closer as you kissed him back with everything you had. His metal arm wrapped around your waist, pulling you flush against him, and you felt the hard planes of his body, the heat of him, the way he trembled like he was afraid you’d slip away.

You stumbled back, his arms steadying you, and you hit the wall, his body pressing into yours, pinning you there. His lips moved to your jaw, your neck, hot and urgent, and you moaned softly, your fingers tangling in his hair. “I’m sorry,” you gasped between kisses, tears mixing with the rain on your cheeks. “I didn’t mean to hurt you.”

He pulled back, his forehead against yours, his breath coming in sharp pants. “You didn’t,” he said, voice rough but soft, his thumb brushing your cheek. “You’re here. You love me. That’s all I need.”

You kissed him again, slower this time, deep and tender, savoring the taste of him, the feel of his hands, the way he held you like you were everything. Your heart was still racing, but it wasn’t fear anymore—it was certainty, love, the kind that burned away every doubt. “I’m yours,” you whispered against his lips, and he groaned, kissing you harder, his hands sliding under your hoodie, his touch setting your skin alight.

“Bucky,” you breathed, tugging at his shirt, needing more, needing him, but he pulled back, his eyes dark with desire but searching, checking.

“You sure?” he asked, voice strained, like it was killing him to pause. “Because I’m all in, doll, but I need you to be too.”

You nodded, your hands framing his face, thumbs tracing his jaw. “I’m sure. I want you. I want us.”

He exhaled, a shaky, relieved sound, and then he was kissing you again, lifting you effortlessly as he carried you toward the bedroom, the storm outside fading as you fell into each other, ready to claim what you’d both been denying for too long.

His kiss was a wildfire, consuming, years of unspoken love and longing poured into every slide of his mouth, every graze of his teeth. Your legs were wrapped around his waist, your hands tangled in his hair, pulling him closer as he pressed you against the doorframe, his metal arm holding you effortlessly, his flesh hand gripping your hip like you were his lifeline.

“Bucky,” you gasped, breaking the kiss, your forehead pressed to his, your breaths mingling in the dim light. His eyes were dark, pupils blown wide with desire, but beneath the hunger was something softer—reverence, awe, like he couldn’t believe you were here, in his arms, saying you loved him after all this time. “I need you.”

He groaned, a low, guttural sound that sent heat pooling in your core, his lips brushing your jaw, trailing hot, open-mouthed kisses down your neck. “You don’t know what you’re doing to me,” he murmured, his voice rough with need, his teeth grazing your pulse point, a soft nip that made you shiver, your hips rocking against him instinctively. “I’ve wanted you for so long, doll—every day, every night, for years.”

His words were a spark, igniting something deep inside you, a mix of love and desire so intense it stole your breath. You tugged at his henley, your fingers clumsy with urgency, needing to feel his skin, to know he was real. He set you down gently, just long enough to pull the shirt over his head, tossing it to the floor. The bedside lamp cast a soft glow across his chest, illuminating the hard planes of muscle, the faint lines of old wounds, and the stark, jagged scars where his metal arm fused with his shoulder. He froze, his breath hitching, his eyes flickering with a shadow of doubt, like he expected you to pull away, to see the broken parts of him and flinch.

You didn’t. You stepped closer, your hands trembling as they reached for him, your fingers tracing the raised scars with a tenderness that made his breath catch. The skin was uneven, a map of pain and survival, and you felt a lump in your throat, not from pity, but from love—so fierce it hurt. “Bucky,” you whispered, your voice thick, “these don’t make you less. They make you you. And you’re beautiful—every part of you.”

He closed his eyes, leaning into your touch, his chest rising and falling unevenly. “You’re gonna ruin me, doll,” he said, his voice raw, almost broken, and when he opened his eyes, they were glistening, a mix of desire and vulnerability that made your heart ache. “You don’t know what it means… hearing you say that.”

“I mean it,” you said, stepping closer, your hands sliding up his chest, feeling the warmth of his skin, the steady thump of his heart. “I love you—all of you. The scars, the past, everything.” Your fingers traced the line where metal met flesh, and he shivered, a low sound in his throat as you pressed a soft kiss to the scarred tissue, your lips lingering, reverent.

He exhaled shakily, his hands—flesh and metal—finding your waist, pulling you closer. “You’re too good for me,” he murmured, but there was no conviction in it, only wonder, and then he was kissing you again, slow and deep, his lips soft but urgent, like he was trying to memorise the taste of you. His hands slid under your hoodie—his hoodie, the navy one you’d claimed weeks ago—and he paused, his fingers brushing the bare skin of your waist, his eyes searching yours for permission.

You nodded, lifting your arms, and he peeled the hoodie off, slow and deliberate, like he was unwrapping something sacred. The air was cool against your skin, your bra the only thing left, and his gaze was searing, drinking you in like you were a dream he was afraid to wake from. “Fuck,” he breathed, his hands hovering, trembling, before they settled on your shoulders, tracing the curve of your collarbone, the dip of your throat. “You’re so goddamn beautiful. I’ve imagined this so many times, but you’re… more.”

Your cheeks flushed, your body humming under his touch, and you reached for him, needing to feel him too. Your hands roamed his chest, mapping the planes of muscle, the faint scars from battles long past, the warmth of him that felt like home. You traced the line of his metal arm, marveling at the smooth, cool vibranium, and he watched you, his eyes dark with something like awe. “You don’t mind it?” he asked, voice low, almost hesitant, nodding toward the arm.

“No,” you said, firm, your fingers curling around the metal, feeling its strength, its weight. “It’s you. I love every part of you.” You pulled his metal hand to your lips, kissing the knuckles, and he groaned softly, his eyes fluttering shut.

“You’re gonna be the death of me,” he said, but his voice was thick with emotion, and he pulled you closer, his hands sliding down your sides, exploring every curve, every inch of skin like he was committing you to memory. He unhooked your bra with a flick of his fingers, letting it fall, and his breath caught, his hands cupping your breasts, thumbs brushing over your nipples, making you gasp. “So perfect,” he murmured, his lips following his hands, kissing the swell of your breast, his tongue flicking against your skin, teasing but reverent.

You arched into him, your hands gripping his shoulders, feeling the contrast of warm flesh and cool metal under your palms. “Bucky,” you whispered, your voice shaky with need, and he looked up, his eyes meeting yours, raw and unguarded.

“Tell me what you want,” he said, his voice low, almost a growl, his hands stilling on your hips. “Anything, doll. I’ll give you anything.”

“You,” you said, your hands sliding to his face, framing his jaw, your thumbs brushing his stubble. “I want you. All of you.”

He groaned, kissing you again, his hands roaming lower, tracing the curve of your hips, the dip of your waist, his fingers slipping under the waistband of your jeans, teasing but not yet undoing them. He was taking his time, savouring every touch, every gasp you let out, and you could feel his obsession, the way he worshipped every inch of you like you were a miracle. Your hands explored him too, sliding down his back, feeling the ripple of muscle, the faint scars, the way his body tensed under your touch.

He pulled you toward the bed, sitting on the edge and pulling you onto his lap, your thighs straddling his, the denim of his jeans rough against your bare skin. His dog tags dangled between you, cool against your chest, and you tugged at them, pulling him into another kiss, deep and slow, your tongues tangling as you pressed yourself closer. His hands roamed your back, one warm, one cool, and you shivered, the contrast driving you wild.

“God, I’ve wanted this for so long,” he murmured against your lips, his hands sliding to your thighs, squeezing gently, then up to your ribs, his thumbs brushing the undersides of your breasts. “Dreamed of touching you, feeling you like this.” His lips moved to your neck, kissing, nipping, a soft bite that made you moan, your hips rocking against him, feeling the hardness of him through his jeans.

“Bucky,” you gasped, your hands sliding to his chest, your fingers brushing his scars again, and he tensed, his breath hitching. You pulled back, meeting his eyes, seeing the flicker of insecurity there. “Hey,” you said softly, your hands framing his face. “These scars? They’re proof you survived. They’re proof you’re here, with me. And I love you for it.”

He swallowed hard, his eyes glistening, and he pressed his forehead to yours, his hands tightening on your hips. “I don’t deserve you,” he whispered, but you shook your head, kissing him softly, your lips lingering on his.

“You do,” you said, fierce, your hands sliding to his shoulders, tracing the scars again, kissing them, one by one, until he was trembling under your touch. “You’re everything, Bucky. Everything.”

He groaned, flipping you gently onto the bed, hovering over you, his dog tags brushing your skin as he looked down at you, his eyes dark with desire and love. “I’m never letting you go,” he said, his voice rough, and then he was kissing you again, his hands exploring every inch of you, slow and deliberate, like he was worshiping you, like he’d never get enough.

You reached up, your fingers threading through his hair, tugging gently to pull him closer. “I’m here,” you whispered, your voice thick with emotion. “And I want you, Bucky. Every part of you.” Your hands slid down his shoulders, tracing the scars where his metal arm met flesh, a reminder of his past, his survival, his strength. He shivered under your touch, his breath hitching, and you leaned up, pressing a soft kiss to the scarred tissue, your lips lingering as you murmured, “You’re perfect to me.”

He groaned, a sound that vibrated through you, and kissed you deeply, his tongue sweeping against yours, slow and deliberate, tasting of desperation and devotion. His hands roamed your sides, warm flesh and cool metal igniting every nerve, and you arched into him, needing more, needing him. He pulled back, his lips trailing down your jaw, your neck, nipping softly at your pulse point, the sting of his teeth making you gasp, your hips bucking against his.

“Need to taste you,” he rasped, his voice almost pleading, his hands moving to the button of your jeans. His eyes flicked to yours, asking permission, and you nodded, your breath shaky, your body already aching for him. He unbuttoned your jeans with deft fingers, sliding them down with your panties in one slow, deliberate motion, his hands grazing your thighs, your calves, as he bared you completely. You kicked the jeans aside, vulnerable under his gaze, but the way he looked at you—like you were a goddess, like he’d worship at your altar—made you feel powerful, desired, loved.

“Fuck,” he breathed, his hands settling on your thighs, spreading them gently as he knelt between your legs, his eyes drinking you in. “You’re… everything. So goddamn perfect.” His voice was reverent, his fingers trembling as they traced the sensitive skin of your inner thighs, teasing, exploring, making you squirm. He leaned down, pressing a soft kiss to your hipbone, then another, lower, his stubble scraping deliciously against your skin. “I’ve wanted this for so long,” he murmured, his lips hovering just above your core, his breath warm and teasing. “Wanted to make you feel good, to show you how much you mean to me.”

“Bucky, please,” you whimpered, your hands fisting the sheets, your body already trembling with anticipation. Your inner voice was a whirlwind, marveling at the intensity of this moment, at the man before you who’d held your heart for years without you realising.

He didn’t make you wait. His tongue flicked out, a slow, deliberate stripe through your folds, and you cried out, your hips bucking as pleasure sparked through you. “Oh, god, Bucky,” you gasped, your hands flying to his hair, tangling in the dark strands as he groaned against you, the vibration sending another wave of heat through your core. His tongue circled your clit, teasing, then flattening, licking with a reverence that made you feel cherished, worshipped. His metal hand gripped your thigh, holding you steady, while his flesh fingers traced your entrance, teasing but not yet entering, drawing out your need.

“You taste so good,” he murmured between licks, his voice muffled, raw with desire. “Sweet, perfect, mine.” He sucked gently on your clit, and you moaned, your body arching, your mind blanking as he lavished you with attention. His fingers finally slipped inside, one at first, then two, curling just right, finding that spot that made you see stars. He pumped them slowly, matching the rhythm of his tongue, and you felt the coil tightening, your body trembling as he pushed you closer to the edge.

“Bucky, I’m—” you started, but the words dissolved into a moan as he grazed his teeth softly over your clit, a hint of a bite that sent you spiraling. Your orgasm crashed over you, sudden and intense, your body shaking as you cried his name, your hands tugging his hair, grounding yourself in him. He didn’t stop, his tongue and fingers working you through it, drawing out every shudder, every gasp, until you were oversensitive, trembling, pulling him up to kiss you.

You tasted yourself on his lips, the intimacy of it making your heart race, and you kissed him harder, your hands roaming his chest, his shoulders, needing to feel him. “Your turn,” you whispered, your voice husky, your fingers trailing down his abs, feeling the muscles tense under your touch. You reached for his jeans, your hands fumbling with the button, and he chuckled, low and shaky, helping you push them down with his boxers, freeing him.

He was thick, hard, the sight of him making your mouth water, your core clenching with renewed desire. You wrapped your hand around him, stroking slowly, feeling the velvety heat of him, and he hissed, his hips bucking into your touch. “Fuck, doll,” he groaned, his head falling back, his hands gripping the sheets like he was holding himself back. You looked up at him, his eyes dark with need, his chest heaving, and felt a surge of power, knowing you could unravel him like this.

“I want to taste you,” you said, your voice firm, and his eyes widened, a mix of awe and desperation. “Let me, Bucky.” You pushed him gently, guiding him to sit on the edge of the bed, and he obeyed, his hands trembling as they settled on your shoulders. You knelt between his thighs, your hands spreading them wider, and he watched you, his breath ragged, his dog tags glinting against his chest.

“You don’t have to—” he started, but you cut him off with a soft bite to his inner thigh, making him gasp, his hands tightening on your shoulders. “Jesus, doll,” he breathed, and you smiled, kissing the spot you’d bitten, then higher, your lips brushing the sensitive skin near his base.

“I want to,” you said, echoing your earlier words, and then you took him into your mouth, your tongue swirling around the tip, tasting the salt of him. He groaned, a deep, guttural sound, his hands tangling in your hair, not pushing, just holding, like he needed the anchor. You took him deeper, hollowing your cheeks, bobbing slowly, your hand stroking what your mouth couldn’t reach. His thighs tensed under your hands, his breath coming in sharp pants, and you moaned around him, the vibration making him curse, his grip tightening.

“God, your mouth,” he gasped, his voice rough, his hips twitching like he was fighting not to thrust. “Feels so fucking good, doll.” You looked up at him, meeting his eyes, and the way he looked at you—like you were his everything—made your heart swell, your movements growing bolder. You took him as deep as you could, your tongue pressing against the underside, and he groaned your name, his hands trembling, his control fraying.

You pulled back, licking a slow stripe along his length, your hand pumping him as you kissed the tip, teasing, drawing it out. “I love you,” you whispered, your lips brushing against him, and he shuddered, his eyes glistening with something more than desire.

“I love you too,” he said, voice breaking, and you took him back into your mouth, working him faster now, your hand and lips in sync, determined to make him feel as good as he’d made you. His groans grew louder, his hips bucking slightly, and you felt him tense, his breath hitching. “Doll, I’m close,” he warned, his voice strained, but you didn’t pull back, wanting to give him this, to show him how much you wanted him.

He came with a groan, hot and sudden, spilling into your mouth, and you swallowed, your hands stroking him through it, drawing out his pleasure until he was shaking, pulling you up to kiss you. His kiss was desperate, messy, tasting of both of you, and he held you close, his hands roaming your back, your hips, like he couldn’t get enough.

“Fuck, you’re incredible,” he murmured against your lips, his voice rough, his forehead pressed to yours. “I don’t deserve you, but I’m never letting you go.”

You smiled, kissing him softly, your hands framing his face. “Good, because I’m not going anywhere.” Your body was still humming, your desire for him burning hotter, and you knew this was only the beginning, the storm outside a mere echo of the one you’d unleash together.

Bucky pulled back, his forehead pressed to yours, his eyes dark and glistening, pupils blown wide with need but softened by something deeper—love, raw and unguarded. His dog tags dangled between you, brushing your chest, cool against the flush of your skin, and you reached up, tugging them gently, pulling him into another kiss, slow and deep, your tongues tangling as you savoured the taste of him, of us. He groaned into your mouth, a low, guttural sound that sent heat pooling in your core, and you pressed yourself closer, your thighs straddling his, feeling the hardness of him against you, still bare from the jeans you’d stripped away.

“God, doll,” he murmured, his voice rough, almost broken, as he kissed along your jaw, his stubble scraping deliciously against your skin. “You’re everything I’ve ever wanted. I can’t believe you’re here, that you’re mine.” His hands slid down your sides, warm flesh and cool vibranium tracing the curve of your waist, your hips, like he was memorising every inch of you, worshipping you with every touch. His lips found your neck, nipping softly, a hint of teeth that made you gasp, your hips rocking instinctively, seeking friction.

“Bucky,” you whispered, your voice shaky with desire, your hands roaming his chest, feeling the hard planes of muscle, the faint scars, the warmth of him that felt like home. Your fingers brushed the jagged lines where his metal arm met his shoulder, and he tensed, just for a moment, his breath hitching. You paused, pulling back to meet his eyes, seeing the flicker of vulnerability there, the fear that his past, his scars, might still push you away. “You’re so beautiful,” you said, fierce and sure, your hands framing his face, thumbs brushing his cheekbones.

He exhaled shakily, his eyes glistening, and leaned into your touch, his metal hand cupping the back of your neck, pulling you into a kiss that was soft but searing, pouring everything he couldn’t say into it. “You’re gonna ruin me,” he murmured against your lips, his voice thick with emotion, and you smiled, kissing him deeper, your hands sliding to his shoulders, tracing the scars again, grounding him in your love.

“I love you,” you whispered, and he groaned, flipping you gently onto your back, the mattress dipping under his weight as he hovered over you, his dog tags brushing your skin. His hands roamed your body, slow and deliberate, one cupping your breast, his thumb brushing your nipple, making you arch into him, a soft moan escaping your lips. His lips followed, kissing the swell of your breast, his tongue flicking against your skin, teasing, reverent, before trailing lower, nipping at the sensitive skin just above your hipbone.

“Need to feel you,” he murmured, his voice low, almost pleading, his hands settling on your thighs, spreading them gently. His fingers—flesh first—traced the sensitive skin of your inner thighs, teasing, making you squirm, your body already aching for him. “Gonna take my time, doll,” he said, his eyes meeting yours, dark with promise. “Wanna make you feel so good you forget everything but me.”

Your breath hitched, your inner voice a whirlwind of love and desire. He’s here, he loves me, and he’s looking at me like I’m his whole world. The thought made your heart swell, your body humming with need, and you reached for him, your hands tangling in his hair. “Please, Bucky,” you whispered, your voice trembling, and he smiled, soft but wicked, his fingers finally slipping between your thighs, brushing your folds, already slick from your earlier release.

“Fuck, you’re so wet,” he groaned, his voice rough, his fingers teasing your entrance, circling but not yet entering, drawing out your need. “All for me, doll?” His eyes flicked to yours, and you nodded, biting your lip, your hips bucking slightly, seeking more. He leaned down, kissing your thigh, his teeth grazing the skin, a soft bite that made you gasp, the sting blending with pleasure. Then his fingers—two, warm and sure—slipped inside you, slow and deliberate, curling just right, finding that spot that made you see stars.

“Oh, god,” you moaned, your hands fisting the sheets, your body arching as he pumped his fingers, slow at first, then faster, his thumb circling your clit in perfect rhythm. His metal hand gripped your hip, holding you steady, the cool vibranium a contrast to the heat of his touch, and you felt the coil tightening, your body trembling under his attention. He watched you, his eyes dark and intense, drinking in every gasp, every shudder, like he was committing it to memory.

“Look at you,” he murmured, his voice low, reverent. “So fucking beautiful, falling apart for me.” He leaned down, kissing your stomach, his lips soft but urgent, his fingers relentless, pushing you closer to the edge. “Come for me, doll,” he whispered, his thumb pressing harder on your clit, and you did, shattering beneath him, your orgasm ripping through you, your body shaking as you cried his name, your hands reaching for him, needing him closer.

He worked you through it, his fingers slowing but not stopping, drawing out every wave until you were trembling, oversensitive, your breath coming in sharp pants. He kissed his way up your body, his lips soft on your ribs, your breasts, your neck, until he reached your mouth, kissing you deeply, letting you taste yourself on his tongue. “You’re so good,” he murmured, his voice rough with desire, his fingers slipping out, leaving you empty, aching for more.

“Bucky, please,” you gasped, your hands sliding to his back, feeling the scars, the muscle, the warmth of him. “I need you—now.” Your hips rocked against him, feeling the hardness of him, and he groaned, his eyes fluttering shut, his control fraying.

“Gonna give you everything,” he said, his voice low, almost a growl, as he positioned himself between your thighs, his hands guiding your legs around his waist. He teased you first, dragging the tip of himself through your folds, slick and warm, making you whimper, your body desperate for him. “You sure, doll?” he asked, his eyes searching yours, his voice strained, like it was taking everything in him to hold back.

“Yes,” you said, fierce, your hands framing his face, pulling him into a kiss. “I’m sure. I love you.” Your words seemed to break something in him, and he pushed in, slow and deliberate, inch by inch, filling you, stretching you in a way that was perfect, overwhelming. You both groaned, your foreheads pressed together, his breath ragged as he stilled, letting you adjust, his hands gripping your hips like he was anchoring himself.

“You feel so good,” he whispered, his voice breaking, his lips brushing yours. “So tight, so perfect, like you were made for me.” He started to move, slow and sensual, every thrust deep, deliberate, hitting that spot inside you that made you gasp, your nails digging into his back. His hands roamed your body, one cupping your breast, the other sliding to your thigh, pulling you closer, deeper, like he couldn’t get enough.

“Bucky,” you moaned, your hips meeting his, matching his rhythm, your body humming with pleasure. His lips found your neck, kissing, nipping, a soft bite that made you cry out, the sting blending with the heat building inside you. He was everywhere—his hands, his mouth, his body—filling you, consuming you, and you wanted it all, wanted him in a way you’d never wanted anyone else.

“Love you,” he gasped, his thrusts growing faster, harder, the slow sensuality giving way to something raw, desperate. “Love you so much, doll.” His metal hand slid between you, fingers circling your clit, and you arched into him, your body trembling, the pleasure building to a crescendo. His other hand gripped your hip, hard enough to bruise, and you loved it, loved the way he held you like you were his, like he’d never let go.

“More,” you gasped, your hands sliding to his ass, pulling him deeper, and he growled, his pace quickening, his thrusts rougher, the bed creaking beneath you. He bit your shoulder, not hard enough to break skin but enough to make you moan, the sting sending you closer to the edge. His fingers on your clit were relentless, his thrusts primal, desperate, like he was pouring years of longing into every movement.

“You’re mine,” he rasped, his voice rough, possessive, but there was love in it, a vulnerability that made your heart ache. “Say it, doll.”

“Yours,” you gasped, your body clenching around him, the pleasure overwhelming. “I’m yours, Bucky.” Your words seemed to push him over the edge, his thrusts erratic, his breath coming in sharp pants, his fingers circling faster, pushing you both toward release.

“Come with me,” he groaned, his lips crashing into yours, his kiss messy, desperate, and you did, shattering beneath him, your orgasm ripping through you, your body shaking as you screamed his name. He followed, his body shuddering, his release hot and deep, his face buried in your neck as he gasped your name, his hands gripping you like he was afraid you’d slip away.

You held each other, trembling, the storm outside a distant hum as your breathing slowed. He didn’t pull out right away, staying close, his lips brushing your temple, your cheek, soft and reverent. “You okay?” he whispered, his voice raw, his eyes searching yours, and you nodded, your hands stroking his back, feeling the scars, the sweat, the warmth of him.

“Perfect,” you said, smiling, and he laughed, a soft, shaky sound, rolling you both so you were on top, still connected. You leaned down, kissing him slow, deep, tasting the salt of sweat and tears—yours, his, it didn’t matter. His hands traced your spine, gentle now, and you felt cherished, worshipped, loved in a way you’d never known.

“I’ve got you,” he murmured, his eyes soft, and you believed him, every word, every touch, every beat of his heart against yours.

By the time morning crept into Bucky’s Brooklyn apartment, soft gray light filtered through the bedroom curtains, casting a warm glow over the tangled sheets. You woke slowly, your body heavy with a delicious ache, every muscle humming with the memory of last night—Bucky’s hands, his lips, his desperate, reverent love poured into every touch. He was still beside you, his arm draped across your waist, the cool vibranium a soothing contrast to the warmth of his bare chest pressed against your back. His breath was steady, soft against your neck, and for a moment, you just lay there, savouring the weight of him, the reality of us.

You shifted slightly, careful not to wake him, but his arm tightened, pulling you closer with a low, sleepy murmur. “Where you goin’, doll?” His voice was rough with sleep, laced with that familiar warmth that made your heart flutter, and you smiled, turning in his arms to face him.

His eyes were half-open, blue and soft in the morning light, his hair a messy halo on the pillow. The dog tags rested against his chest, glinting faintly, and you reached out, tracing them with your fingers, feeling the engraved letters under your touch. “Nowhere,” you whispered, your voice thick with emotion. “Just… looking at you.”

He chuckled, low and lazy, his flesh hand sliding up your back, fingers tracing lazy patterns on your bare skin. “Creep,” he teased, but his eyes were warm, crinkling at the corners, and you laughed, the sound light and free in a way you hadn’t felt in weeks.

“Guilty,” you said, leaning in to kiss him, soft and slow, your lips lingering against his. He hummed into the kiss, his hand cupping the back of your neck, pulling you closer, and for a moment, it was just this—just you and him, tangled together, the world outside a distant hum. The kiss deepened, a spark of last night’s heat flickering, but you pulled back, grinning. “Careful, Barnes. You’re gonna start something we don’t have time for.”

“Who says we don’t have time?” he murmured, his voice low and playful, his metal hand sliding to your hip, squeezing gently. But his eyes softened, and he leaned his forehead against yours, his breath warm on your lips. “You okay? After… everything?”

You nodded, your hand resting on his chest, feeling the steady thump of his heart. “More than okay,” you said, your voice soft but sure. “Last night was… perfect. You were perfect.” You traced the scars where his metal arm met his shoulder, a habit now, and he didn’t tense like he used to, just watched you with a quiet intensity. “I love you, Bucky. I’m just… still wrapping my head around the fact that this is real.”

His expression faltered, just for a second, a shadow of doubt flickering in his eyes. “Real enough for you to stick around?” he asked, his voice low, almost hesitant, like he was bracing for an answer he wasn’t sure he could handle. “I mean, you’ve got your life, your place… I don’t wanna hold you back, doll. Not after everything you’ve been through.”

Your heart ached at the vulnerability in his voice, the way he still thought he might not be enough, even after last night, after you’d poured your love into every kiss, every touch. You shifted, propping yourself up on your elbow to look at him fully, your hand framing his face, forcing him to meet your eyes. “Bucky, listen to me,” you said, fierce but gentle. “You’re not holding me back. You’re my home. I don’t want to go back to my place, not if it means leaving this—leaving us. I’m all in, okay? For you, for us, for whatever comes next.”

He stared at you, his eyes glistening, and for a moment, he didn’t speak, just swallowed hard, his hand tightening on your hip. “You mean that?” he asked, his voice rough, and you nodded, leaning down to kiss him, soft and sure, pouring your certainty into it.

“Every word,” you said, pulling back, your thumb brushing his cheekbone. “I love you, and I’m not going anywhere unless you’re with me.”

He exhaled, a shaky, relieved sound, and pulled you into his arms, rolling you both so you were tucked against his chest, his lips pressing to your forehead. “Good,” he murmured, his voice muffled against your hair. “’Cause I don’t think I could let you go now, even if I tried.”

You laughed, the sound muffled against his skin, and nuzzled closer, relishing the warmth of him, the way his arms felt like the safest place in the world. “You’re stuck with me, Barnes,” you teased, and he chuckled, the vibration rumbling through you.

“Worst punishment I ever heard,” he shot back, but his voice was warm, playful, and you swatted his chest lightly, grinning.

You lay there for a while, tangled together, the drizzle outside a soft backdrop to the quiet intimacy. His fingers traced idle patterns on your back, and you let your hand wander his chest, feeling the scars, the steady rise and fall of his breath. The weight of last night—of your confessions, your fight, the way you’d finally given in to years of love—settled over you, not heavy but grounding, like a promise you both intended to keep.

“So,” you said eventually, your voice soft, playful, “what’s the plan now, super-soldier? You gonna keep cooking me pancakes every morning, or is that just a temporary-roommate perk?”

He laughed, the sound rich and warm, and rolled you onto your back, hovering over you with a grin that made your heart skip. “Pancakes are a lifetime deal, doll,” he said, his eyes twinkling. “But I’m thinking we upgrade from roommates to… something else. What do you say? Wanna make this official?”

Your breath caught, not from surprise but from the joy that flooded you, the certainty that this was right, that he was your future. You reached up, tugging his dog tags to pull him closer, your lips brushing his. “Official sounds good,” you whispered, smiling. “Boyfriend has a nice ring to it, don’t you think?”

“Boyfriend,” he repeated, testing the word, his grin widening. “Yeah, I like that. Long as you’re my girl.”

“Always,” you said, and he kissed you, deep and slow, like he was sealing the promise. The kiss lingered, soft and sweet, until your stomach growled, loud and unromantic, and you both burst out laughing, the tension breaking in the best way.

“Guess that’s my cue,” Bucky said, rolling out of bed, and you couldn’t help but admire him—his broad shoulders, the way his muscles moved under his skin, the scars that told his story. He grabbed a pair of sweatpants, pulling them on, and caught you staring, smirking. “Keep looking at me like that, and breakfast is gonna have to wait.”

You grinned, sitting up, the sheet clutched to your chest. “Tempting, but I’m starving. You promised pancakes, Barnes. Don’t make me regret this whole boyfriend thing.”

He laughed, tossing you his navy hoodie—the one you’d claimed weeks ago—and you pulled it on, the familiar scent of cedar and Bucky wrapping around you like a hug. You followed him to the kitchen, barefoot, the hardwood cool under your feet, and leaned against the counter as he started pulling out ingredients, his movements easy, practiced.

The morning unfolded like a dream—Bucky flipping pancakes with that super-soldier precision, you stealing bites of batter and teasing him about his “grumpy cat face” when he pretended to scold you. You sat at the counter, knees brushing, trading stories about nothing and everything—memories of your friendship, plans for a real date, the quiet hope of a future together. He reached over at one point, brushing a smear of syrup from your lip with his thumb, and the simple touch sent a spark through you, a reminder of last night, of the love that had finally broken free.

“So,” he said, setting his fork down, his eyes soft but serious, “you really wanna stay here? Not just crash, I mean… move in, make this our place?”

You paused, your heart swelling at the question, the way he said our like it was a prayer. “Yeah,” you said, reaching for his hand, lacing your fingers with his. “I want that. This feels like home, Bucky. You feel like home.”

He smiled, a rare, unguarded smile that lit up his face, and pulled you into his lap, his arms wrapping around you, his lips brushing your temple. “Then it’s yours,” he said, his voice rough with emotion. “We’ll make it ours.”

You leaned into him, your head resting against his chest, listening to the steady beat of his heart, and for the first time in weeks, the ache of your breakup, the doubts Josh had planted, felt like a distant memory. With Bucky, you were whole, loved, and ready for whatever came next—pancakes, late nights, fights, and all.

·:*¨༺ ♱✮♱ ༻¨*:·

Sebastian Stan taglist: @notreallythatlost @houseofaegon @bunnyfella @sunday-bug @wintrsoldrluvr @maryevm @mcira @monsteraddicts-world @positivenergy @cherriesnmango @navs-bhat

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