meowabunga

[meowabunga]

I love this

lovestruck and looking out the window

pairing: clark kent x fem reader 4.6k

summary: you see your friend clark without his glasses for the first time. he looks… oddly familiar

content: clark kent invents what it's like to be a gentleman time and time again. reader finds herself in trouble quite a bit lol. title from superman by tswift of course. divider from hyuneskkami ♡

Addy19 @Addison_Malii Anyone else in Arkham District hear the evacuation sirens turn on and off? Was that a test or should I be running for my life lol Mark 💸 @markusup ↳ replying to @Addison_Malii That’s what you get for living in “Arkham District” bro 💀💀💀 cait (old acc got hacked…) @batmanslawyer ↳ replying to @markusup don’t speak on arkham district with metropolis in ur bio lmfao. i hope ur insurance covers ur house the next time superman drops a building on ur ass Mari ♡ @mightycrabjoysluvr ↳ replying to @batmanslawyer superman haters can not be real. like damn do you guys hate joy happiness fun and rainbows too cait (old acc got hacked…) @batmanslawyer ↳ replying to @mightycrabjoysluvr are we forgetting the fact that he’s an ALIEN from KRYPTON? i don’t care how hot he is i will take batman over him any day Mari ♡ @mightycrabjoysluvr ↳ replying to @batmanslawyer a vigilante defender in my replies shitting on superman… i have really seen it all. bookmarking this tweet for when the police finally catch batmans ass btw

“—you want some?”

“Hm?” 

Clark sinks into the couch next to you, his weight tipping you closer in his direction. The edge of the bowl in his hand prods your side.

“You really shouldn’t hold your phone so close to your face. You’re going to wreck your vision.”

You finally look up at him, unimpressed. “Didn’t know you believed in old wives’ tales.”

“It’s not a myth!” He insists. “Put your phone down. We’re putting the movie on, and I know you’re going to complain when you don’t understand what’s happening—”

“I don’t complain, you liar.”

“—but you do, and then you’re gonna beg me to rewind. But then you’re gonna fall asleep and ask me to rewind it again, but I won’t want to because I’ve rewatched the same part five times—”

“That’s never happened before,” you lie blatantly. It happened last week and he won’t stop bringing it up. You toss your phone somewhere onto his couch and ignore the look he’s giving you when you take the bowl from his hands. “You made popcorn? Why didn’t you say anything?”

Clark laughs, the sound full and warm. He drapes a throw blanket over your laps — one of yours that he stole from your apartment — and hands you the remote. “I did. You were too busy scrolling.”

“Sorry.” You make yourself comfortable on his couch, pressing yourself into his side and stretching your legs out onto the ottoman. “I was busy doing some very important things.”

“Such as?” he asks, watching you flick through his TV subscriptions. “Oh, come on. We aren’t watching that one again.”

You frown as you click past one of your favorite movies. “I was just looking at it.”

“I’m sure.”

You kick at his ankles and watch the dimples crease on his face. It’s hard not to stare too long at the way he looks in the golden lighting from the TV. The brown of his eyes seems warmer.

“Whatever,” you grumble. “You can pick. As long as it’s not that trashy zombie show you like.”

He takes the remote from you, leveling a look at you from under the frames of his glasses. “It’s not trashy.”

“We can agree to disagree, babe.”

You fight the urge to laugh. You aren’t sure Clark realizes it, but he has the same reaction to that nickname every time — he looks up at the ceiling, and then away from you as the blush creeps up his neck. It’s even easier to see when his face is lit up like this, his sweet face tinged pink.

The two of you scroll through the movie and show selections in relative silence after. You’re sitting close enough that you can nudge him in the side when you want him to skip something, and he does so with only some complaints. You make it all the way down to the romcom section before he breaks the silence. 

He coughs. Then asks, “So, what were you doing on your phone? Texting someone?”

You hum absentmindedly, inspecting the movie thumbnails. “I was reading through some Superman hate posts, actually.”

It’s not the most accurate description of what you were doing, but you say it just to get a rise out of him. Clark would never admit it, but you’re almost one hundred percent sure that he’s a secret Superman megafan. 

There’s a look that he gets in his eyes whenever he reads something about him. It’s hard to place, but it kind of looks like he’s a little kid again, his entire face lit up with emotion.

But if he really is as big of a fan as you think he is, you have no idea how he’s so blasé about all those interviews he gets with him. Clark Kent really is one of the most interesting people you’ve ever met.

He looks at you sideways, glancing away from the TV. “You were,” he says, less of a question and more of a statement.

“Kidding. Kinda. You know what people are like. Your friend’s famous, you know. People are going to scrutinize him no matter what he does.”

Clark clears his throat and his eyes dance back to the screen, but you know he’s only half paying attention to it now. “And you… do you agree with them? With what people say about him?

Something in his voice is odd. You sit up against the couch to look at him properly, though all you can see is his side profile. 

On the screen in front of you, he clicks past the titles the second they load, uncaring of what he’s scrolling past.

“I think Superman’s great,” you say honestly. You speak slowly, trying to gauge his reaction. The only change in expression you get is the slight twitch of his mouth. “Don’t know why people complain so much about someone who saves lives. Like, who cares if he’s from Kirpton?”

“Krypton,” he corrects.

You smile. “Right, sorry.”

The slight tension in his shoulders release. “You really think he’s great?”

“Yeah.” You slip the remote out of his hands and click play on the first movie you recognize. Surprisingly, Clark doesn’t complain. “He’s gorgeous, too. You think you could introduce us? I hear his harem has quite the waiting list.”

He laughs, tossing the blanket back over your leg where it’s exposed. “He’s not my friend, and there’s no harem. And hopefully, you won’t be meeting Superman anytime soon.”

“Why not? Don’t want to mix your friend groups?”

He nudges your side, relaxing into his cushions again. His arms cross over his chest, and you try not to focus on the way his biceps pull against the sleeves of his shirt. “No. If you ever run into Superman, it probably means you’re somewhere you shouldn’t be.”

The two of you sit quietly with the weight of his words. Sure, he’s right, but you’re sure a totally normal Superman interaction isn’t out of the realm of possibility. 

You wonder if the superhero has a favorite coffee shop. And how he would even order from it if he did. Would he wait in line? Maybe he’d have a priority lane specifically for him on the roof.

“Wait, what?” Clark’s voice cuts into the silence. His features have scrunched up in confusion. “When did we agree on watching this?”

“It’s Saw.”

“I can see that.”

“I chose it when you were too busy talking.” 

“You sure you want to watch this one? You remember what happened when we watched The Exorcist, right?”

“The lights went out, Clark. What was I supposed to do, not scream?”

“I was sitting right next to you. Nothing was going to happen. If anything, we’d get possessed together.”

“That’s so not funny. As long as nothing supernatural happens, I’ll be good with this one, I swear.”

He blinks at you.

“I swear.”

You wake up drooling on Clark’s t-shirt. 

Thirty minutes into Saw you were holding onto his arm so tightly that he put you out of your misery and put on National Treasure instead. The last thing you can remember is Nicolas Cage asking for lemon juice before the comfort of Clark’s shoulder became too much to resist drifting off.

You untangle your legs from his to sit up properly, a different movie playing in the background. Much like you a few seconds ago, your friend is fast asleep, his head leaning against the armrest in a way that can’t be comfortable.

His glasses are askew now, resting politely on his chest. You worry about the chances of them getting squished and leave them on the side table for him to find.

It’s only then, when you’re staring at the black frames on the wood, that you realize something silly. 

You’ve never seen Clark without his glasses on. 

He often talks about how his bad eyesight is why he’s so adamant about wearing them. You’ve asked him once before about wearing contacts, and he’d said something about how he has sensitive eyes and didn’t like them much.

You don’t mind at all. He looks very gorgeous with them on, and you find it very cute how they fog up when he gets flustered enough. 

You’re grateful for the light of the TV, because it means you can still somewhat see Clark’s face. You rub the sleep from your eyes to look at him, and—

Huh. 

You wonder if it’s normal to look this different without your glasses on. Sure, they can sometimes change the size of a person’s eyes, and losing a significant feature on anyone’s face is bound to make them look a little different, but… 

Clark looks different. Still familiar, but undoubtedly different.

It’s weird. The changes are so subtle you wonder if you’re hallucinating. The differences are written clear as day on his face, but it feels impossible to put them into words. 

Is it the shape of his jaw? You don’t remember it always looking so carved, and you would know, with how often you look at him. Maybe it’s the shape of his mouth.

Something in the back of your mind twitches, like a memory begging to come to the surface. It’s a slight tension against your skull, a pressing feeling trying to nudge you in the direction of something.

You have no idea why you do it, but your hand moves without thinking. Your fingers thread through his hair, the same way you do when you tease him for looking like he’s just rolled out of bed in the morning. As you do it, the features of his face shift just so, and…

Woah. 

Clark doesn’t just look familiar. 

He looks exactly like fucking Superman.

You pull your hand away so quickly the joints in your arm protests. Clark shifts underneath you, his eyes twitching as he rouses from sleep. He pats the fabric of the couch before he feels you under his hand, and he squeezes your thigh when he does.

“You alright?” he mumbles, voice rough with sleep. “What’re you doin’?”

“Nothing. I just woke up.” 

The sentence is true in more ways than one. It feels like you’re seeing Clark’s face for the first time. How had you not noticed just how much he looks like the same man that saves the city for a living? 

He blinks himself awake, and it’s like your heart flips. Staring at his devastatingly long eyelashes, it’s like everything becomes ten times clearer. 

You weren’t hallucinating — he looks just like Superman. It’s uncanny.

He pats you as he sits up, still clearly in the last dregs of sleep. His words slur together when he asks you, “What time is it?”

“Uh,” your eyes search the couch for where you’d ditched your phone earlier, and you find it on the floor next to the ottoman. It’s covered in spilled popcorn from the bowl that must’ve fallen off Clark’s lap during the night. “It’s two.”

The reminder is enough to make you yawn, and you rub your eyes to clear your vision. He leans over to the side table to get the lamp, and the room is filled again with warm light.

“Geez,” Clark says. “My neck hurts like crazy. Is your back okay?”

You turn back to face him, and with the lights on you can see him a lot better. His glasses are back on, and he…

Looks absolutely nothing like Superman anymore.

You must look a little surprised, because he stops massaging the back of his neck to scan you with his eyes. “Is everything okay?”

“Has anyone ever told you that you look just like Superman without your glasses on?”

The words land awkwardly. 

Clark laughs, but it’s not real. He scrubs his hand over his jaw. “What?” 

“You…” It feels like you’ve said something you really shouldn’t have. “You just look a lot like him.”

“Oh,” he says. His hand rises to adjust where his glasses sit on his face. “That’s funny.”

If he really thinks so, you aren’t hearing much laughter from him.

You aren’t sure why he’s so unsettled at the thought. Based on the limited information you have about him, Superman kind of seems like the perfect guy. He’s kind, selfless, great with kids, and…

Oh no.

It’d been such a brief stint in your conversation — there’s no way he remembers it. It’d been a joke, albeit one wrapped in underlying truth. 

“He’s gorgeous, too. You think you could introduce us?”

Clark is one of the most rational people you know. It’s no question that he knows you were kidding about that — hell, he’d laughed — but your technical confession is enough to make embarrassment rush through your entire body.

He seems completely upended by your comparison between the two of them. You stand abruptly, suddenly wishing you were anywhere but here. 

“It’s late. I should go back to my apartment.”

It’s not far. Few people in the world live closer to Clark actually, with your apartment being directly below his. When that dog he’s fostering is running around too much, you can hear his footsteps scurry above your head.

(Oddly enough, you’ve never actually seen the dog in person, and Clark refuses to tell you what his name is, but you’re pretty sure he’s real.)

The furrow Clark gets between his brows is so deep you wonder if it hurts. “You don’t want to take the bed?”

You slip your phone in your pocket and start looking for where you’d kicked off your shoes. “No, it’s okay. Your neck deserves a break from the couch,” you say, busy checking underneath the kitchen table. 

There’s nothing there. You wonder if it’d be weird to leave without them.

Clark places one of his broad hands on your lower back before he passes your shoes to you. He is so irritatingly perfect it borders on unfortunate for you.

“Thanks,” you say, quickly. You’re even faster to slip them on, uncaring of the way the heels fold uncomfortably inward. 

“Hey. Hey.” His hand encircles your wrist when you turn away from him. He’s frowning, eyes darting over your face like he’s looking for something. “Are you okay? You know I don’t mind taking the couch.”

The smile that softens your expression is real. “So selfless, Clark Kent. I just want to sleep in my own bed tonight. Thank you, though.”

He tries one last time. Glances furtively at the door, like he’s hesitant to let you go. “It’s late.”

You feel evil. It can’t be ethical to turn down Clark when he looks like this, sleep mussed and soft and a little worried about you.

“You can watch me walk to the elevator if you’d like.”

“I’ll walk you downstairs,” he offers instead, opening his door for you and stepping out. “It’ll help me sleep better.”

Looking at him waiting for you in his pajama pants and his wrinkled shirt, you wonder how you haven’t proposed. 

But when he leans against the doorway of your apartment downstairs, smiling at you with sleep in his eyes and telling you to get some rest, you come very close to it.

Your friendship with Clark Kent kind of started the same way — with him taking you home.

The Daily Planet is a block away from your office building, a much smaller structure with just enough windows that you can watch the next world-ending threat from anywhere inside. Once, you got to watch Superman save an entire floor of people in the building across from you before some creature gutted half the skyrise.

You’ve witnessed enough extraterrestrial villains to not be too surprised when you see them on the news, or catch a glimpse of them in real life.

The one thing you didn’t expect, though, was to run into one from this planet.

It’s late when you’re walking to the metro after work. You’re barely half awake, exhausted after dealing with some data issue that had you and a few other people on cleanup duty late into the night.

You’re digging around in your purse, searching frantically for your phone. To make a bad night even worse, you come up empty.

“Shit,” you say under your breath, stopping to press your fist to your forehead. You remember it vividly, now. You’d left it on the counter when you’d cleaned up the cup of coffee you spilled when you were dead on your feet.

You let out a few more curses under your breath as you continue walking, hoping that you didn’t throw out that old alarm clock you found in your closet.

It happens a few minutes later, and it’s nothing like in the movies. There’s no anticipatory music, or a suspicious sound that makes you turn your head, or the hair on the back of your neck standing up. You’ve walked down this street countless times before, one well-lit by the street lights and store signs, and felt safe every time.

The universe gives you no warning. It only lets you make it three blocks before someone seizes your arm and tugs you into a damp, dark, Metropolis alley.

You don’t have time to scream. A hand, grimy with sweat and something else clamps hard over your mouth, muffling any sound you could’ve let out.

Your back presses into the rough brick of the alley. You recognize where you are immediately — a small deli that you and your coworker frequent. You don’t know how you’re going to tell her that you’re never coming back here ever again.

“I’m going to take my hand off your mouth. And you’re not going to scream, or lie to me, because I will stab you.” The man’s voice is thick and gravelly, almost as sharp as the blade he presses into the give of your stomach. “Nod if you understand me.”

You jolt when he presses hard enough to nick your skin. The nod comes immediately after.

“You’re going to give me all the money in that purse of yours, and your phone. I need your phone.” 

You glance over to your purse where it sits on the pavement. It must’ve fallen when he’d pulled you into this alley.

“Take it,” you say quickly, voice wavering with stress. You aren’t going to fight with this man over chump change and your lip balm. “You can have all of it.”

He ducks down immediately to reach for the purse, and sniffs out the money quickly. He shoves the few pathetic crumpled bills into the pockets of his worn out jeans, before turning his attention back to the inside of the bag.

You swallow, glancing towards the entrance of the alley. He wouldn’t chase you if you made a run for it, would he? 

There’s a sickening crack as your stuff hits the floor, and your daydream is crushed. The man is shaking his head, pressing his hand to his forehead, mumbling to himself in hushed tones. 

You press yourself further against the wall, like the extra inch of space between you will save you.

“Your phone. I need your phone.”

Your tongue feels heavy in your mouth. You know he won’t believe you. You’ve never been more scared to speak.

“Did you hear me?” His voice shakes uncontrollably, his eyes narrowed to near slits. “Your phone. I need… You have to give me your phone.”

“I don’t have it with me,” you choke out. Your hands curl protectively in front of you. “I forgot it at work.”

He turns the knife back at you, though his hand wavers. Spit flies from his mouth and onto the ground in front of you. “You’re a liar.”

“I’m not lying, I swear. I swear. Please, you can take whatever I have—”

Another voice pierces the silent street, one firm and so authoritative that both of you turn to look.

The man doesn’t waste another second. He turns and flees down the dark alley, taking the few things of worth in your purse with him. You don’t feel strong enough to move until he’s completely gone from your sight.

The adrenaline crash doesn’t take long to set in. Your head feels light, like it’s filled with helium. You think that’s why you don’t notice yourself walking directly into the other person there with you.

The universe had been the reason why you’d gotten mugged, but the universe also brought Clark Kent into your life.

You had caught glimpses of him at your shared apartment all the time, your similar schedules meaning you often left for work and came back around the same time. He’d held the door open for you a few times, and you’d seen him help some of your neighbors with their groceries before. You’d always known he was nice, but you had no idea stopping crime was on his list of talents as well.

After he’d saved you from that man in the alley that night, he’d walked you back to your apartment.

He did the same the next night. And almost all of the nights after that, too.

It didn’t take long for the two of you to become close friends, and for your lives to start merging together. You’d invited him over for dinner as a thank you, and it slowly turned into a regular thing. You soon found yourself splitting your time between your apartment and his. 

You really like Clark, and can barely remember life in Metropolis without him. 

That’s probably why it feels so terrible to ignore him.

[4:29] farmboy kent: I’ll be running a little late today

[4:29] farmboy kent: White sent us out to Park Ridge and the train back is delayed. I’ll be by your building around 5:20

[4:33] you: No problem!! also no need to swing by today. my cousin invited me over to hers so i’ll be in civic city until late

The message is marked as read a few seconds after you send it, making the next few minutes agonizingly long. 

Around 4:35, Clark finally starts typing, only to delete his message. A minute later, he continues again.

[4:38] farmboy kent: Ok. Be safe

[4:39] farmboy kent: I’ll pick you up at the station later

[4:39] you: Are you okay with that? i’m not sure when i’ll get back

[4:40] farmboy kent: Of course. Text me when you know what time your train will get in

You feel like a dick pressing the thumbs up reaction on his last message. What kind of person lies to Clark Kent?

You aren’t even sure why you do it. It’s probably the lingering embarrassment from last night — it was the closest you’ve ever come to telling him how you feel about him.

So… maybe a Clark-free day is what you need. 

You can’t remember the last day you’ve spent without seeing him at least once. On your days off from work he’d come by after his shifts, and even on days that one of you were busy, you would still show up at his place to say hello.

No wonder he makes you crazy. You haven’t had a Clark Kent detox since the day you met him.

Surely all good friendships need time apart, right? You’ll just spend a day by yourself and when you see him again tomorrow, you’ll be back to normal. There won’t be any more slips where you compare him to one of the most gorgeous people you’ve ever seen, or where you tell him he’d be a great husband, or something friendship-ending like that.

It’ll be good for you. Tomorrow will be a great, much needed, neighbor-free day.

You’re buying a paperweight for Clark when a building falls on top of the Metropolis Museum of Art.

The remorse from your little white lie followed you through every second of your Clark Kent boycott, effectively ruining it. Your plan was to head down to the park and enjoy the weather, but you found yourself making a quick detour to the souvenir store inside the museum. 

You’d come here with him a few months ago, and he’d seen the paperweight and loved it. It was a little glass sphere depicting Superman flying over Metropolis, and he’d almost bought it before reading the price tag. The guilt following you around now was enough to choke a horse, and you decided that it’d make for a great apology gift. 

(Not that he was aware you were apologizing for anything.)

The crash of the building sends plumes of dust into the room, coating everything in a haze of white. The emergency sirens start their crying almost immediately, joining in what sounds like the actual crying of children on an after-school field trip. 

You cough to clear your throat and find that even the air is saturated in thick dust, the cloud becoming even worse as more debris drops from the ceiling.

The roof of the museum is clearly trying its best, but it seems like the entire structure groans in protest. One of the overhead lights hangs precariously above your head, and you take a few healthy steps back from it.

Distantly, you can see the blinking red light that marks the exit. The cashier you were talking to a second ago makes a mad dash for it, ducking under a fallen beam while she does. Hordes of people crowd by the door as everyone rushes out, eager to flee.

The sun shines through the gaping hole in the museum made by the other building, and through the light it offers, you see it on the floor— the gift you’d gotten Clark.

The little paperweight sits sadly on the tile about five feet away from you. 

If you weren’t afraid of inhaling too much dust, you would’ve groaned. There’s no way you’re abandoning the thing after all this trouble you’ve gone through to get it. 

Against your better judgement, you move further from the exit to go and pick it up.

In the end, though, it doesn’t matter. 

There’s a strong gust of wind and a bright flash of light, and you’re outside again. 

When your feet hit the pavement, you resist the urge to vomit. It feels like your stomach has been flipped inside out and then put back again. The dizziness makes you double over, but you’re braced by a pair of firm hands around your forearms.

You’re halfway through a mumbled thank you when you look up. 

You blink a few times to clear your vision. When nothing changes, you’re forced to wonder if you hit your head somewhere in the museum.

Standing in front of you, with his perfect hair disheveled and windswept, is Superman.

notes: theyre both losers LOL. thank u for tuning into my fic lmk if u enjoyed! :) i do have a part 2 planned bc i think clark kent deserves to be kissed

[meowabunga]

show stealer!

[meowabunga]

edging & overstim w clark kent (m receiving, f!reader)

“shhhi… ahhh. o-oh, gosh. gosh, you feel so good.”

he’s been in this predicament for nearly an hour. body slack against one of the kitchen chairs, his wrists bound haphazardly around the back. his jeans are shucked to his ankles, and the first few buttons of his shirt have been undone by your eager hands clawing at his chest. you straddle his thighs, completely naked, bouncing yourself in heavy, languid strokes, up and down his swollen cock, twitching on the precipice of relief.

he could get out of this, surely. easily. your feeble doing of his shackles no match for superhuman strength. but he wants to be good.

he wants to be good for you.

and jesus, if you don’t look perfect like this. every contour of your body on display for his reverent eyes, moving to a rhythm only you can hear, but he feels it. rattling him to the bone.

you’d started with your hands. then your mouth, warm and enveloping, getting up to the very edge, until the tip of him gleamed red, and he asked, begged you to lead him all the way.

but you shook your head, flashed him your teeth and those pretty eyes, and told him to be patient, clark. good things come to those who wait.

it’s a bit cruel, maybe, but he likes it. he’s ashamed of how much he likes it, but you’ve never judged him for it. always taken what he is, in all walks of life, at face value. and it’s easy for him to forgo his shame like this, his jaw hanging open, a little saliva pooling at the edges, as he watches you ride him. head thrown back, moaning melodically, nipples so close he can almost taste them. he feels you clench around him, the space between your cunt and his cock gleaming with slick.

he knows your close, too, but he can hardly think straight. all the thoughts that run through his numbing mind are solely of you. so soft, and supple, and fuck he wishes—

“wish i could touch you,” he rasps. “please, wanna touch you.”

your bounces slow to an equally tantalizing grind, and you prop your head back up getting nose to nose with him, cupping his sweaty cheeks between delicate hands.

“soon,” you hum, voice dripping in delight. you place a chaste kiss to his parted lips. “soon, my love. just a little longer.”

“can’t-can’t wait any longer.”

and he’s certain you know he isn’t just talking about getting his hands on you. he’s been twitching inside of you for the last ten minutes, his abdomen clenched tight as he tries to fend off the release only you can gift him. he’s not even sure he wants it anymore. afraid of what all this waiting will make of it.

you’re just as breathless as he, chasing your own release, but far more coherent. this is your power, he thinks; you’re radiant with a taste of control.

“you can come if you want,” and you say it so nonchalant, he could scream, “but i’m not stopping till i get what i want.”

he’s gritting his teeth then, as your bouncing ensues. you seek purchase on his shoulders, digging your nails into the flesh, and it’s that bit of pain, he thinks, that sends him over. his eyes roll back, and something guttural, animal-like, reverberates through his chest.

his entire body goes taut, and his gut feels like it’s on fire. you don’t slow, even when he bursts inside of you, seemingly endless ropes of release. and each one evokes a cry, his cheeks flushing a dark shade of crimson, tears prickling his eyes.

you use his spend to your advantage, and he feels it dripping out of you, pooling between your thighs. it makes each thrust easier, smoother, and you’ve lost yourself to the pleasure again, head slack, jaw agape with pretty little moans.

he’s shaking, trembling. his cock won’t go down, blood still rushing toward the sensitive flesh to accommodate your needs. he’s whining, a pathetic sound, but he can’t help it. panting, toes digging into the wood below him, thrashing against the seat.

“it’s-it…ahh, no. t-too much.”

it’s too much. and not enough. and it aches and it hurts and it’s unlike anything else, a never-ending stream of pleasure, almost too much to enjoy, and he doesn’t know what to make of it. and when you do finally do come, he thinks he may actually pass out. gripping him like a vice, silken walls squeezing him so tight. the sound you make when it first hits you, the way your body spasms and clings to his. he’s so enraptured with the display that it’s the only thing that seems to curb his own suffering. even dutifully leans forward to take one of your nipples into his mouth, sucking gently, groaning against your skin when it sends another sharp squeeze of you around him.

when you finally come down, you collapse into his chest. the two of you still conjoined, the smell of sweat, and cum, and sex in the air. you laugh a little, something cathartic, and slowly lift your head to show him your sleepy smile and half-lidded eyes.

“did real good, superman,” you tease, leaning forward to give him a proper kiss, one that lingers. “real good.”

he’s spent, almost too much to even render that you’re speaking to him. but if there’s one thing he knows, it’s that he never feels as brave as when he’s with you. if nothing else, that makes him feel heroic.

“your turn to tie me up next time,” you add, and he snorts, tiredly shaking his head, but the idea nearly makes his gradually softening cock stir again.

little do you know what he’s got planned for you.

[meowabunga]

Super! - 2

Superman!Clark Kent x Reader

Summary: Late nights and looming deadlines are part of the job when you’re a journalist at the Daily Planet. But getting mugged on your way home wasn’t in the assignment list. When Metropolis’s favorite hero swoops in and saves you, what starts as a scraped knees and shared soup slowly becomes something deeper when you find yourself caught up with two versions of the same man.

The newsroom is bustling as usual.

You walked in right on time, 9 AM sharp. Eyes slightly bloodshot and puffy, knees pulsing and bandaged from last nights assault.

Voices faded in and out as you slipped through conversations about Superman’s latest save. Co-workers passing eachother articles, photos, murmuring connections between the meta humans and different events happening around Metropolis.

“One caramel latte, extra cinnamon. And a backup stir-stick, because I know you always snap the first one by accident.” Clark approaches with two coffee in hand, passing you your usual.

You raise a brow, taking the cup. “Is this some elaborate ploy to get me to stop accusing you of stealing my leads, Clark?”

He shrugs. A little too innocent. “Its not a ploy if I’m just.. being nice”

You sip the drink and narrow your eyes playfully. “Trying to one up me again, hmm?” 

Clarks face flushes red. “N-no. I mean. Not unless you’re keeping score?”

As you set the coffee down with a dull thunk, steam curls from the top, you laugh softly. Placard engraved with metallic gold of your last name pushed to the corner, pens and crumpled up sticky notes from last night tossed around it half hazardly.  You didn’t have time to organize, the Daily Planet paid you in ‘opportunity’ and ‘exposure’.

You slid into your chair with a different kind of exhaustion, fake leather and foam hissing as it dips. As you scooted forward, your knees banged against the underside of your desk. “Ah- Shit,” you hissed, biting your lip and gripping the edge of the desk. Your knees burned.

From the cubicle over, Clark was instantly on you. “You alright?” He asked, concern written across his brow as he leaned against the edge of your desk.

You waved him off with a half smile. “Yeah. Just.. residual knee trauma. Nothing too exciting.”

He didn’t back off.

“Did something happen?”

“Kind of,” you took a sip of coffee, then sighed. “I, uh… got mugged? Last night?”

“What?”

“Shhh!” You threw your hand up, glancing around to the other cubicles. “Im not trying to become office gossip before noon. I don’t want Lois and the intern squad forming a human wall around me with pepper spray and alarms!”

Clark looked anything but calm. His jaw clenched slightly, and his eyes scanned you, like he was checking for bruises he hadn’t noticed earlier.

“Are you hurt?” He asked, softer now, but with a kind of quiet intensity that made your chest warm.

You raise your hand once more, and felt a knot building behind your ribs . “Relax, I’m fine. Seriously. Superman showed up. Tossed the jerk into a dumpster nearby and reappeared next to me so fast I nearly got whiplash.”

He blinked. “He… threw someone into a dumpster?”

You smiled softly, “Yup, Lid and everything”

He exhaled a short laugh, but it didn’t reach his eyes. His shoulders were still tight and his eyes were scanning. 

“Still,” he said, “you shouldn’t be walking alone that late. You were working overtime again, weren’t you?”

You tossed him a knowing look over the rim of your coffee. “What, were you going to come walk me home, Kent?”

His ears turned red.

“No, I’m just… I’m just saying it’s dangerous. That’s all”

You couldn’t help but smile. And neither could he.

“Oh! And he came inside of my apartment after he brought me home last night”

“Wh-“

“Hey!” Jimmy Olsens voice cut through the moment.

You jumped slightly as he popped over the top of your cubicle, folder waving over.

“Either of you seen the file on Luthor Corp’s Weapons deal? Billion dollar contract with Boravia just leaked. Perry’s going crazy trying to find more deets, he wants this done A-S-A-P.”

Jimmy snorted and wandered off, but the interruption left a gap in the conversation you weren’t sure how to fill. 

You shook your head as you felt Clarks eyes on you. “Right, Boravian weapons deal, stat.”

—

What was supposed to be a semi- calm afternoon, turned for the worst when a fire broke out downtown.

By the time you reached 37th Street, the block was a blur of sirens, smoke, and officers ushering civilians away. Flames licked at the 4th story windows of a brick apartment building, the air thick with heat and panic. You ducked under the tape with your notepad already out, phone recording as your hand flashed your ‘press’ badge.

A firefighter barked into his radio, “there’s still a kid up there!, 4F, window right side!”

Your stomach did a flip, and you craned your neck, eyes narrowing in on the window.

And then, the wind changed. 

Not naturally, it burst against you like a wave, sudden and unreal. A flash of red and blue tore across the sky and the crowd gasped as one.

Superman.

He cut through the smoky air, angling toward the building in a blur. Your camera was on him. He crashed through the 4th story, glass shattering on the left side, flames being forced out of the windows as he made his way through the floor.

It took maybe ten seconds. Maybe less.

Then he was out. Cradling a small girl in his arms, cradling a stuffed animal in hers.

Onlookers cheered as he lowered. EMTs rushed forward when he landed and gently passed the girl to safety. He knelt, whispered something to her, then stood slowly as they moved.

His eyes met yours

You start to lift your camera for photos when he approaches you. 

“I hope this doesn’t mess up your deadline.” He quietly teases.

“Wh- wait!” Before you could say anything further, he was already in the sky. You lifted the camera and the shutter fired rapidly, snapping countless photos of streaks of red and blue, the curve of his cape, the glint of sunlight on his inky black hair

You stood there long after he vanished, blinking through the smoke as firefighters continued to battle the flames, your heart racing harder than it had before.

Something about him felt.. familiar.

—

Not long after, you’re staring at your photos and typed-up eye witness interview transcripts, half distracted. Clark sits nearby, scribbling notes and swiping eraser shavings off his desk. You keep glancing at him, brows drawn together.

You’d made a beeline for your desk after the incident. Shoving your notepad down beside your half drunk coffee, your mind wasn’t entirely on the article. But on him.

He’d returned later than the rest of the group. Dawning a slightly smoky scent that kept finding its way over to you.

Superman’s voice still echoed in your head, not the words exactly, but the way they fell. The easy rhythm of his voice, the way he said it like he knew you. Like you’d spoken before. Like Clark.

You glanced across the isle and found him at his desk. Sleeves rolled up, shirt wrinkled just enough to suggest he’d been doing something more than snapping photos and getting quotes. You didn’t recall seeing him on scene. No camera bag slung over his shoulder, nor a “hollar if you get a good quote!”. Nothing.

“Hey Kent, do you have any good photos?” You said, keeping your tone casual.

Clark glanced up quickly, like he hadn’t realized you were watching. He blinked behind his frames and nudged them up with his knuckle.

“Only a few,” His chair swiveled around, passing a computer loaded with his photos in your hands.

You squinted and leaned over. The usual, crisp perfectly times shots of superman in action, cape floating in the wind, crowd awestruck, somehow turned into blurry messes.

“Wow. These are… not your best.” You were genuinely shocked as your nail clicked the next button. Superman was only half in frame in one. One was the sky. Another was completely blurry. over half only had the sky and maybe a corner of his boot.

Clark laughed awkwardly, rubbing the back of his neck. “Yeah… I was stuck across the street behind some trucks when he showed up. Couldn’t really get a clean view.”

You nodded, lips pressed together. “That’s odd, usually your right on top of these things” 

He looked at you for a second. Just a second too long. Then back at the screen. “I guess I’m just off my game today.”

You didn’t reply. Instead, you let your eyes linger on him. He shifted again, posture stiff and lips pursed, and he reached for his coffee cup even though it was clearly already empty.

Then the corner of your mouth twitched. “Okay, whatever you say.” And you swiveled back to your desk, and began to gather your papers.

Where were you really, clark?

“I think I’m just too tired, also. Y’know, smoke, adrenaline, whatever.” You sighed, grabbing your purse. “Im heading out”

Clark still sat in the isle. “Get home safe,” he said, quieter then usual.

You glanced back over your shoulder, “You too, Kent.”

When the elevator doors slid shut, you found yourself staring your own reflection in the metal, brows furrowed.

There was something in the way he looked at you. Something in the way he sounded. You couldn’t quite name it yet, but it was there.

Tags: @kissmxcheek @rorysbrainrot @wordacadabra

[meowabunga]

glasses are the sluttiest thing a man could wear.

[meowabunga]

feels so good to know that superman fics are gonna surge especially now that we have the hottest superman ever

[meowabunga]

Super! - 1

Superman!Clark Kent x Reader

Summary: Late nights and looming deadlines are part of the job when you’re a journalist at the Daily Planet. But getting mugged on your way home wasn’t in the assignment list. When Metropolis’s favorite hero swoops in and saves you, what starts as a scraped knees and shared soup slowly becomes something deeper when you find yourself caught up with two versions of the same man.

authors note: I just saw the superman movie and were so back

You always told yourself you’d stop working late.

But here you were, 12:37AM, bag clutched tightly against your side, heels clicking against the pavement. The Daily Planets towering glow fading behind you as you turned down the familiar side street shortcut.

The street grow darker the more turns you took. The usually bustling streets now quiet as the pale moons cast conveniently stopped at the narrow sidewalks between buildings.

It happened fast. A sharp voice behind you, “Purse, Now.” And cold metal pressed against your back.

You turned, breath catching in your throat. A tall man in a black hoodie and jeans. Mask covering the bottom half of his face.

You didnt think. You just ran.

Heels clicked against the ground before catching on a crack in the pavement. Shit!

The concrete dug into your knees. Skin peeled off and blood quickly soaking the open wounds. The mugger caught you quickly, steel toed boot meeting your side forcefully. “The purse, NOW!”

You blinked back tears, and heard a whoosh. As you opened your eyes he was gone. A loud band came from the alleyway a few feet away from you and you could vaguely make out papers fluttering to the ground around the dumpster at the end as the lid slammed shut.

A sigh escaped your lips.

The wind came back, this time next to you.

“You’re safe now ma’am. Are you alright?” A hand expended out next to you. Superman.

You blinked up at him, too stunned to move. Or speak. Or think.

Minutes later, you sat on a bench near the corner of 8th and Morris St. The streetlights flickered. Bits of concrete were still stuck in your bloodied knees. And superman, the actual superman, was crouched in-front of you, brushing it away with delicate fingers that somehow felt too soft for someone that could punch through meteors.

You hated crying in-front of anyone, let along a living legend. So you tilted your head back and blinked furiously. Your hands wouldn’t stop shaking, and you were trying to control your breathing so you wouldn’t have an anxiety attack.  You cracked your knuckles, once, twice, trying to distract yourself.

“Im okay,” you managed to choke out, voice embarrassingly wobbly.

He gave you a look. Not quite buying it.

“I can get home myself, really. I just..”

“Nope.” He said, gently but firmly. “Hang on”

You barely had time to object before his arms were scooping you up, lifting you effortlessly against his chest. Warm and solid. Safe.

You buried your face in his shoulder and hoped your tears would stain his cape too much.

—

You weren’t entirely sure how he knew which building was yours. You pointed halfway through the flight, and he murmured, “got it.”

He didn’t just drop you at the door. He walked up six flights of stairs, because your elevator was broken, and stopped outside your apartment, waiting as you fumbled for your keys.

“I can’t thank you enough,” you mumbled as you nudged the door open.

He still hadn’t left.

The hallway somehow felt warmer with him inside.

“I, um…” you rubbed your arms, looking everywhere around the hallway but at him. “Are you… hungry? I don’t know if aliens eat human food..” You cut yourself off “I mean, sorry, that sounded..”

Superman laughed. “No offense taken. And yeah, I do. Not everything, but I can try.”

“Ah, okay. I have chicken and rice soup. Its my dad’s recipe, your more than welcome to stay. It’s good, I promise.” You stepped inside holding the door open for him.

The two of you shuffled inside and moments later you had scooped leftovers into a pot and began stirring over the heat of your stove. Superman sat politely at the end of your couch, looking wildly out of place and yet perfectly comfortable.

A few minutes later, you were both cradling mismatched bowls, the scent of warm oily broth and herbs filling the small space.

He took a bite. Paused, and smiled softly. “This is amazing”

“See?” You said, shoulders held a little higher, “my dad knows his stuff, I told you.”

You didn’t realize how much your were smiling until your cheeks began to ache. The tension in the room was slowly easing.

“So…” you rolled the spoon between your fingers. “I know this is totally unprofessional timing, but… how do you feel about interviews?”

He raised an eyebrow. 

“Not right now! Obviously, but someday. I work at the Daily Planet. My friend… well, coworker, Clark always gets interviews. I swear he has some telepathic link or something. He’s always on scene, Gets the best photos too.” 

You rolled your eyes and switched the bowl between hands with a laugh. “I swear he’s trying to one up me.”

Superman leaned back slightly, the corner of his mouth twitching. “Maybe,” he said slowly, “he’s trying to impress you.”

You blinked. Spoon paused halfway to your lips. “What?”

He smirked. “Ill tell clark to let his friend…”

“(Y/N).”

“Right. I’ll tell clark to let his friend (Y/N) get more interviews. Just don’t tell Lois.”

You let out a real laugh this time, “Deal.”

[meowabunga]

HE SAVED THE FUCKING SQUIRREL

[meowabunga]

HELLLLLOOOOOOOOOOO SAILORRRRR

[meowabunga]

material girl

THIS CONTAINS MATERIALISTS SPOILERS!

harry castillo x reader

age gap, female reader, contains themes of body image, chapter has not been edited

─────

You were born in the penthouse suite of Lenox Hill Hospital, wrapped in lavender silk instead of muslin.

The first sound you heard was the laugh track of your mother’s favorite 1950s sitcom playing softly in the background as she recovered on morphine.

You grew up in a six-story limestone townhouse off Fifth Avenue, the kind with frescoed ceilings and staircases so wide they made women feel like swans. The house smelled like bergamot and old paper. Always.

Your last name meant something—meant everything—in film. Directors paused when they heard it. Festival organizers offered you rooms. Cinematographers tried not to blink. Your family didn’t just fund films, they curated the atmosphere in which they were watched. Museums asked for your grandfather’s reel collection like relics. Your father’s voice had been immortalized in Criterion commentary tracks. You were born into the lighting. You were born on set.

By the time you were five, you knew what a backlot was.

By ten, you’d learned how to tell when a director was faking their references.

You could cry on cue, not because you were trained—but because crying got you what you wanted. You were always told you looked like your mother, which you hated.

But you knew it was true.

Same feline cheekbones, same bloodless complexion, same way of arching an eyebrow so it felt like an accusation.

Your sister, younger by three years, had always been the darling of brunch tables. You were the one who drew headlines when you spilled wine on a Cannes jury member’s lap and didn’t apologize. You were called “feisty” by Vanity Fair and “difficult” by your aunt’s third husband.

You hadn’t worked a day in your life, not in the way people mean it. You’d attended Columbia briefly, then left because someone on the faculty looked at you wrong. You dated mostly artists—photographers who lived in lofts and sculptors who never returned your YSL coat. Occasionally a screenwriter, someone who claimed he was writing you into something. They never did.

But lately, it had begun to sour.

Parties were too loud. Everyone looked like someone you’d already met. Men your age were either married or trying to get you to invest in something blockchain-related. Your doorman had started to pity you. He looked at you like you were an orchid in the wrong light.

It didn’t help that the world had shifted.

The industry, the city, the people you once dismissed as temporary had begun to stick. There were new families at the Met Gala now, new surnames attached to legacy tables at Polo Bar. You knew the kind of men you wanted. You just hadn’t seen one in a very long time. Not really.

But elsewhere, in a different corner of the city, another life was ticking along with equal weight and silence.

Harry Castillo stood in front of the floor-to-ceiling windows in his penthouse and read a memo he didn’t care about. The building was newer than yours, all glass and good taste. The kind of place where appliances whispered and marble was warm to the touch.

He was tall, broad-shouldered, wearing a slate-gray sweater that looked like it belonged in a film about grief. His hair was dark but threaded with silver, curling at the back of his neck. His eyes were the color of wet earth. There was something old-fashioned about the way he stood—shoulders slightly back, like he was ready to say something difficult but necessary.

Harry was born into money too, though it was newer and quieter than yours.

His mother founded the Castillo Group after taking an inheritance and multiplying it tenfold in under a decade. She built the firm with the kind of discipline normally reserved for surgeons. Harry's father and brother now worked under her. So did he. Not because he had to—but because it was what Castillos did.

Private equity didn’t thrill him, but it made sense.

And Harry liked things that made sense.

He liked structure. He liked the rhythms of quarterly reports and the smell of ink on legal pads. His world ran on spreadsheets and quiet dinners with men who owned things you’d never see.

He had recently ended things with Lucy Mason, a woman who had once been important to him. She was a professional matchmaker—poised, brilliant, and deeply concerned with emotional compatibility indexes.

He’d liked her. He’d tried to love her. But there had always been a small door inside his chest that wouldn’t open for her. Not all the way.

They ended things late at night.

It was civil, almost eerie in its neatness. She told him that if he ever wanted to try her service, he should.

“If you call the office,” she said. “They'll assign someone great for you.”

He nodded and never called. Not yet.

Back uptown, you were barefoot on the heated terrazzo floor of your kitchen, making a mess out of truffle honey and sourdough. Your sister was at the counter, scrolling through her phone like it was her real job. She looked too pleased. You didn’t trust her when she looked pleased.

“You’re not wearing those boots again, are you?” she asked, not looking up. “They’re very…divorcee.”

You ignored her. You’d been feeling unstable lately, a little trapped in the amber of your own life. You’d been googling people you once hated and found out they might have figured something out.

Before you.

You hated how that felt.

Your sister put down her phone. Too deliberately.

“So,” she said. “Promise not to get mad?”

You looked up. “No.”

She beamed. “Okay. Don’t freak out. But I might have filled out a little thing for you.”

You blinked. “What kind of thing.”

“It’s nothing. Just…a profile. For a matchmaking service. Very elite. Very low-profile. Super bespoke.”

You said nothing. You stared at her, hard enough that she briefly flinched.

“I knew you’d react like this,” she groaned. “But come on. You’ve dated everyone in Manhattan who’s not in rehab or under federal investigation. You need a reset. A new algorithm. Let the universe—or a very qualified stranger—take the wheel.”

You turned away, grabbed the spoon, stirred your espresso like it was someone’s fault.

“Please tell me you didn’t use my real name,” you said quietly.

She hesitated.

“I used your middle name,” she said brightly. “That counts, right?”

Outside, the city shuddered to life—cars moving like brushstrokes, old buildings watching from behind limestone brows.

You didn’t know it yet but Harry Castillo would open a drawer that night and find the business card Lucy once left behind. He’d hold it in his hand a little too long.

Today was for disbelief. For the kind of quiet before something tilts. For looking out at the city and wondering—against all logic—if maybe someone was already looking back.

You didn’t go out much that week.

Not in any performative way—no detoxes, no dramatic declarations to your group chat, just a slow unspooling of invitations you didn’t RSVP to.

A dinner at Lucien you skipped.

A gallery opening where someone’s assistant texted, They’re asking if you’re coming.

You weren’t.

You sat barefoot on the windowsill instead, eating cold papaya and watching the fog crawl up like it was trying to forget where it came from.

Your sister had gone quiet. Not in a guilty way—she’d never been wired for guilt—but in that annoying, practiced stillness she slipped into when she was waiting to be proven right. You could feel it in the one word texts. The silence that followed. The smug, hovering dot-dot-dot that never became a message.

You lasted about two weeks like that. Then your mother called.

Lunch, she said. Cipriani, obviously. She didn’t ask if it worked for you. She didn’t need to.

You arrived ten minutes late on principle. She was already seated, already picking mint from her cocktail, already tilting her cheek for a kiss she never quite gave.

Her hair was perfect.

It always was.

Still pulled into a chignon so tight it made her face look slightly unreal. Her scarf—Hermès, naturally—was twisted just so, like she'd stepped out of a 1970s Italian film and never aged past the good lighting.

“I ordered the risotto for the table,” she said. “You look pale.”

“I’m fine.”

“Have you been working out? Your stomach looks soft.”

“I said I’m fine.”

She waved you off, already bored. Her nails tapped her wine glass with deliberate disdain. You knew the rhythm by heart.

She asked how you’d been, and you told her the sanitized version—books you were pretending to read, your new pilates instructor with that Finnish accent, something about how you were considering showing up on dad's set in Los Angeles just to feel something.

She nodded politely through all of it, eyes scanning the room.

Then, as the waiter laid down the salmon, she struck.

“You know,” she said. “There’s nothing wrong with wanting to be chosen.”

You didn’t look up. You kept slicing bread. Slowly. Cleanly.

She kept going, of course.

“I worry you’ve built this little moat around yourself. And for what? So no one can disappoint you? That’s not strength, darling.”

“Are you seriously—”

“And don’t say you’re not lonely. Everyone’s lonely. It’s boring.”

You could feel your jaw set. That was the thing with her. She never said it cruelly. She said it like it was just another fact, like the weather or your blood type. Like cruelty wasn’t personal unless you let it be.

“I didn’t come here for a lecture.”

“No. You came because I asked you to.” She smiled over her wine. “And because no one else did.”

The silence that followed was sour and expensive. The kind that doesn’t get broken by apologies, only by checks and limousines and the distraction of someone else’s scandal.

You got into the back of your car with your stomach a tight little fist. You didn’t cry. Not there, not then. You weren’t that girl.

But that night, the email came.

From a stranger.

Subject line: Matchmaker Profile Review – Please Confirm Details.

At first, you thought it was spam. Then you saw your middle name typed like it belonged to someone else. The same photo your sister had forced you to take last year, standing on the terrace in a white dress that had made you feel like a ghost. It was you. You, in some unnervingly accurate bullet points. Preferences. Dealbreakers. Love languages.

You hovered over the trash icon. Didn’t click.

Not yet.

Harry sat in his bedroom in silence.

The penthouse—more glass than walls—was hushed, interrupted only by the occasional hum of temperature regulation or the sigh of traffic five stories down. He liked it that way. Controlled. Calibrated. No echoes of someone else’s taste.

He sat in the reading chair by the window, laptop balanced across his thighs, a page open with the pale gray header: Castillo, H — Matchmaker Profile Review Requested.

Rose—his matchmaker—had told him to look it over. See if anything felt off. “Even the smallest thing,” she’d said, with her clipped precision. “We don’t want anything distorting the signal.”

He didn’t believe in signals. Not really.

Still, he scrolled.

He scanned the words—edited, carefully neutral. No photos. He’d opted out. There were photos of everyone now. He didn’t want that. He liked the idea of someone reading first. Imagining. Filling in the edges wrong.

Then he saw it.

Height: 6’0

He paused.

It was true. Now.

But it wasn’t always.

He shifted in the chair, legs stiff. That familiar ache, dull and ghostlike, stirred beneath his skin.

It had been eight years.

Still, some mornings he swore he could feel the break. The phantom throb of it. The remembering.

He’d been thirty-seven when he did it. His brother had gone first, dragging him into the consultation like it was some secret rite. The doctor spoke with an accent and wore a Rolex that glinted like a challenge.

They broke the bones. Femurs. Tibias. Stretched them millimeter by millimeter over months. Metal rods inside the legs. Physical therapy that made grown men cry.

Four hundred thousand dollars.

Each.

They were lucky.

Rich boys.

They healed in penthouses with private nurses and blackout curtains. Harry read biographies of ruined men while his legs screamed.

He never told anyone. Not even Lucy. Until she found his scars while he was sleeping.

The scars were faint. A pair of pale, wicked lines running along the outside of each leg, like punctuation marks on a story he didn’t talk about. He saw them in the mirror sometimes and thought, What did I gain, really?

Six inches, yes.

But also… something unspoken. Some strange edge. A new way men listened when he spoke. The way women didn’t ask questions, just tilted their heads in approval, as if the air had shifted.

It wasn’t vanity. Not exactly.

It was about scale. About not disappearing in rooms where power stood tall.

Still, seeing it there, written down, made something in his throat tighten.

He shut the laptop and leaned back. The city glowed below him. Red tail lights inching up West Broadway. People moving, choosing, being chosen.

He reached down and rubbed his shin gently, as if to remind himself...this is yours.

You paid for this height.

You earned it in bone.

Meanwhile in another penthouse just a few blocks away...you were lying on your back, staring up at the crown molding, thinking about the things your mother said.

The idea that being chosen was something worth wanting.

You hated that it echoed.

You hated more that it almost sounded true.

Downstairs, your doorman signed for a package. Something sent from an office you’d never heard of. A folder sealed in black. Your name printed in serif.

You wouldn’t see it until morning.

But it was already in the building.

Already waiting.

When you woke, the light in your bedroom was soft and dull, filtered through gauzy curtains your mother had once called tragically optimistic. The air had that filtered morning silence that felt vaguely judgmental, like even your apartment was waiting to see what kind of person you were going to be today.

You padded barefoot across the terrazzo floor, still in last night’s silk camisole, your stomach a soft ache from too much wine or not enough food. You didn’t remember which.

And there it was.

A black envelope.

Just outside your penthouse door. Laid neatly on the marble like it belonged there. No branding. No return address. Only your middle name printed in thin serif font.

You stood there for a moment, coffee-less, suspicious, bare-legged in a building where people wore jewelry to take out the trash.

You thought...spam. PR. A strange flex from a failed suitor.

But then you saw the initials etched lightly on the back seal...R.S.

Your stomach curled slightly.

Your sister. That smug, beautiful demon.

You carried the envelope inside like it was cursed.

At the kitchen island, you made espresso and stared at it like it might blink. Your phone had seven unread messages and none of them mattered. You’d spent too many mornings like this—floating in your own life like it was someone else’s bathwater.

Eventually, you slid your finger under the flap.

Inside a slim folder. Matte cardstock. Minimalist. Heavy enough to feel expensive.

A letter on the front.

Your sister mentioned you were hesitant. I understand hesitation—it can be a sign of intelligence. But I also know a match when I see one. The following is not a pitch, nor a promise. It’s just a possibility. — Rose

You blinked. That was it. No company logo, no contact info. Just a name and a voice like the inside of a glass of wine—dry, elegant, a little smug.

You flipped the page.

There were bullet points. Controlled, curated, clinical. Every line written like it had been vetted by lawyers and therapists.

Age: 47

Height: 6'0

Marital Status: Never married

Children: None

Occupation: Private Equity (Partner, Family Firm)

Residency: Tribeca

Education: Ivy League (Economics)

Religion: Agnostic

Languages: English, Spanish

Temperament: Observant. Principled. 

Emotional Availability: High—when trust is earned.

Love Language: Acts of service. 

Looking for: The real thing.

You stared at it.

Private equity. Tribeca. Forty-seven. You groaned.

He sounded like the kind of man who corrected waitstaff and had a framed blueprint of a yacht in his office. The kind of man your mother would politely destroy with a single glance and a casually cruel remark about his tie.

But you kept reading.

There were notes. Margins full of them. From the matchmaker, apparently—this unseen curator pulling invisible strings.

"He listens more than he speaks. But when he speaks, everyone listens."

"Very tactile with people he trusts. Rare, but notable."

"He likes reading before bed. Not out of habit. Out of need."

"Wants children. Not urgently. But honestly."

You felt yourself bristle. Then soften. Then bristle again.

Because you knew men like this didn’t exist. Not really. And if they did, they didn’t submit themselves to algorithms. They didn’t hand over their inner lives to professional matchmakers in New York City. They didn’t wait around for women with baggage and beautifully designed boundaries.

But then—

Then there was the smaller envelope.

Sealed. Black wax. No flourish, just the words...

Only open if interested.

Which, of course, was exactly the kind of thing that made you want to open it.

So you did.

Inside, a deeper profile. Not his answers. Her notes.

No photo. Of course not.

But somehow, without seeing him, the image began to form anyway.

Tall. Broad-shouldered. A man who dressed like he didn’t think about it—because someone else always had. Dark hair, graying in a way that made you think of salt, of restraint, of stories not told too soon. Eyes like wet bark. The kind of brown that held heat, not just color.

There was a line under Romantic Compatibility, written in Rose's careful script...

“He doesn’t flirt. He focuses. Makes you feel like the only room he’s ever stood in is the one you’re in now.”

Your stomach did a thing.

You hated that it did a thing.

You closed the file. Too fast. Like the words could see you, like they knew.

Who was this man?

You’d known hundreds of men. Dated enough to recognize types. Models. Trust fund poets. One devastating poet’s assistant. You could smell performative vulnerability from two rooms away. But this wasn’t that.

This was something else.

Across the city, Rose sipped her espresso in a glass office with zero personal items. She tapped a pen against her tablet and refreshed her inbox.

Harry still hadn’t responded.

She didn’t blame him. He was slower than most. A man who considered decisions like he was building a bridge over water he hadn’t named yet.

So she’d done it herself.

She'd read your sister’s submission, then read between the lines.

Googled you. Googled your grandfather.

Saw the name in festival archives, on lost reels from the sixties. Watched the grainy interview with your mother in a Paris cinema.

Saw the haunted brilliance in your face, the face of a legacy you hadn’t asked for.

She knew then.

She knew.

It wasn’t about wealth or aesthetic parity—it was energy. Containment. Quiet power looking for a counterpart.

So she sent it.

Let the rich girl read. Let the serious man stall.

Let the city do the rest.

Back in your kitchen, you refilled your espresso. Opened the file again. Not because you believed in it. But because something in your chest had begun to hum.

You hadn’t seen his face.

But you couldn’t stop picturing it.

And when you went to bed that night, you didn’t throw away the folder like you had planned to do.

You didn’t talk to your sister about it either.

You just let it sit there, glowing in your building.

A match you hadn’t chosen.

But maybe—

Just maybe—

One that saw you anyway.

The next tine you blinked it had been six days since the envelope.

Time moves fast when you are stressing over a man who doesn't even know you exist. 

You hadn’t opened the envelope again. You’d slid it back into the matte folder and tucked the whole thing into the shallow drawer of your vanity—the one usually reserved for lipsticks in limited-edition packaging and love letters you never responded to.

You told yourself it didn’t mean anything, that it was just some expensive exercise in curated loneliness.

Like horoscopes for people with trust funds.

You’d stopped searching the internet.

There were too many men. Too many firms.

Every time you typed “New York private equity, 47, no kids,” the results made you want to burn your laptop. Sleek men in sleeker suits, blinking across LinkedIn headshots like a smug carousel. Half of them looked like the villain in a thriller, the other half like your ex’s father.

None of them looked like him—whoever he was.

And you told yourself you didn’t care.

You were busy, anyway.

Your grandmother had summoned the family.

She did this sometimes. Not for holidays, not for birthdays. Only for matters. The kind that required linen blazers and polite expressions, and the ceremonial silence that came when she mentioned death like it was something chic and inevitable.

Your grandfather had passed five years ago in Italy, holding a cigarette and laughing at a joke you never heard. He’d left behind vaults of film, four ex-lovers at his funeral, and a will that could’ve passed for a screenplay. Your grandmother had been quiet since. Not sad, exactly—just...theatrical in a colder register. As if grief was a role she’d aged out of but still wanted to audition for.

She’d asked the family to meet with a firm. Something about reorganizing trusts. Future-proofing. “Estate things,” your mother had said vaguely while buttering toast with her rings on.

All you heard was...meetings.

So now you had one. A meeting with a private equity firm that sounded like a wine label. It was supposed to be “the best,” of course. It always was.

The name meant nothing to you.

Castillo Group.

Sounded clean. Impersonal. Like a gallery that only sold work in black and white.

You were barely listening when your sister explained the structure of the meeting.

“…and we’re meeting with one of the partners,” she said, scrolling through her phone while icing her jaw. “They assigned us someone directly. It’s serious, apparently. Gran wants to talk about legacy clauses.”

You made a vague sound of acknowledgement and stole a sip of her green juice.

She slapped your hand without looking up.

“Don’t be weird,” she said.

You weren’t weird. You were bored.

The week passed in lacquered hours.

Days filled with pilates, wine, group chats muted indefinitely.

You ignored texts from men you didn’t remember giving your number to.

You wore sunglasses indoors. You bought a vintage Schiaparelli coat you didn’t need. You stared out windows longer than was socially acceptable.

And still—

The man lingered.

The match. Him.

Not directly. Just in flashes. The way someone brushed your wrist on the subway. The way the barista called your name too softly. The memory of Rose’s notes, scribbled like a diary for someone else’s soul.

You didn’t even know his name.

So you stopped thinking about it.

You went to pilates instead.

It was one of those spaces that didn’t call itself a gym—more like a “wellness lab.” All eucalyptus mist and minimalist lighting. The front desk staff were beautiful in that beige, uncanny way, like they’d been grown in a vat labeled Miu Miu campaign.

Your friends were already on the reformers when you arrived.

“Nice of you to join us,” said Inez, legs in straps, gold hoops catching the morning light. “Thought maybe you’d died of aesthetic fatigue.”

You dropped your mat bag dramatically. “I almost did. Someone tried to pitch me a podcast on legacy healing at Dries.”

Sophia snorted and gestured for you to take the spot beside her.

“Guess who’s instructing today,” she whispered, eyes gleaming.

You didn’t have to guess long.

The instructor—Matteo—looked like a poem someone wrote after watching too many Prada ads. Italian. Arms covered in tattoos that didn’t need stories.

You tried not to notice. You failed.

Midway through class, he came over to adjust your form. His hands grazed your hips, featherlight, intentional. He said something low in your ear—“You hold tension here, no?”—and you didn’t even pretend not to smirk.

After class, he caught up with you by the locker rooms. Said your movement was better than anyone in that class. You laughed, genuinely. He asked if you wanted to get a drink sometime.

You paused. Tilted your head. Let the moment breathe.

And then, “You wouldn’t survive my family,” you said, brushing past him with the smile you reserved for temporary men.

Your friends howled when you told them.

“I give it two weeks before you sleep with him,” said Sophia, adjusting her sunglasses.

“Two days,” Inez countered. “Max.”

You shook your head. “He’s a rebound I haven’t even earned yet.”

You didn’t tell them about the envelope. You hadn’t told anyone. Not really. It wasn’t shame—just…a strange refusal to share something you didn’t understand.

The man. The notes. The way they settled under your skin like they belonged there.

Later that evening, your mother texted.

Confirming tomorrow’s appointment. 11 AM. Don’t wear that thing with the fringe.

You didn’t respond.

Instead, you stood by your window, barefoot again, staring down at the city.

Somewhere out there was a man who might’ve been made for you.

And you were about to walk into his building.

Without even knowing it.

The next morning, the light came in soft again—but this time, you were ready for it.

You woke early. Not from an alarm, but from something subtler...the shifting silence of the city beyond your window, the almost imperceptible creak of your building adjusting to the day. There was a feeling in the air, taut and irritable, like silk snagged on a nail.

You didn’t hesitate.

Slipped out of bed, bare feet meeting cold terrazzo, body moving through the motions of your morning like choreography. Coffee first. Then the shower, where steam curled like memory and water hit your back in steady, punishing streams. Your playlist—jazz, something you played when you needed stability.

At your vanity, you moved with purpose.

Silk robe open at the shoulders. Skin dewy from serum. Hair twisted into a low chignon so severe your mother might approve. Your makeup was minimal. A little contour, a matte lip, the faintest shimmer on your cheekbones.

Then the dress.

Vintage Givenchy, the kind of black that absorbs your body. Sleeveless, high-necked, sculpted like you’d been poured into it. It flared just slightly at the hem. You added earrings your grandmother had once described as “impractical for daylight” which of course meant they were perfect.

You checked your reflection only once.

Perfect posture. Unbothered elegance.

Then, you descended.

At the lobby, your driver was already waiting.

Claude had been with your family since before you were born. He'd taught you how to parallel park in Montauk and once threatened paparazzi with a tire iron outside your prep school formal. He didn’t ask questions. He didn’t need to.

You slid into the back seat, legs crossed at the knee, coat draped over one shoulder. He merged onto Fifth with surgical precision.

“Traffic?” you asked.

“Not terrible.”

You nodded. Looked out the window.

Then the camera flashes hit.

Paparazzi. Two of them—lurking just outside the florist’s on 74th, lying in wait like roaches with thousand-dollar lenses. You didn’t flinch. You turned slightly, letting them get your better side.

Later, someone would send you a tabloid screenshot with the headline...Heiress En Route to High-Stakes Family Meeting. Your hair would tried to be recreated on TikTok. Someone in the comments would say you looked like a bitch.

Everything is great.

You arrived fifteen minutes late.

Because of course you did.

Claude pulled up in front of the building, not caring about the no parking sign,

Castillo Group read on the glass. The entrance was flanked by planters so perfectly symmetrical it felt aggressive.

You didn’t wait for the concierge. You just walked in, heels clicking like punctuation, coat draped over your forearm, eyes scanning the marble-and-brushed-brass lobby like it might bore you.

The receptionist blinked.

Everyone blinked.

You were used to that.

You gave your name. She gave a floor number.

“Your family’s already up there.”

Of course they were.

The elevator was silent, mirrored. You caught your own reflection and didn’t look away. You didn’t fidget. You didn’t check your phone. When the doors opened, you walked out like you belonged there.

Upstairs, in a glass-walled conference room designed for bids and negotiations, Harry Castillo was already seated.

He didn’t see you at first. He was focused on your grandmother—who’d arrived ten minutes early and was now seated at the head of the table like a bored monarch.

Your mother was beside her, glancing at her nails like they might betray her. Your sister, chewing invisible gum, scrolling on her phone. Your father, thank God, smiled when Harry greeted him. Warmly, even.

Harry liked your father. Had met him briefly before—quietly magnetic, the kind of man who’d aged into his cynicism with charm.

The meeting was already in motion.

Legacy clauses. Trust restructuring. Long-term tax shelters.

Harry had learned long ago how to focus on the numbers without being distracted by the jewelry, the veiled insults, the family lore. Your grandmother referred to their fortune like it had been bestowed by Zeus himself.

Then the door opened.

And you entered.

Harry didn’t look up right away. He was mid-sentence, something about generational liquidity and stepped-up basis calculations. Then his eyes lifted.

And the sentence died in his mouth.

You walked in like the room had been built around your arrival. Back straight. Expression unreadable. Not arrogant—just certain.

Black dress. Earrings that shouldn’t have worked, but did. A face that held a thousand stories and dared you to ask for one. You didn’t apologize for being late. You didn’t even pretend to care.

You took the empty seat beside your father.

Harry watched you like a man trying not to be caught watching.

His colleagues—the senior associate, the analyst, even the usually-unflappable estate attorney—reacted like something seismic had shifted. A cough. A fidget. A clearing of the throat.

You didn’t notice.

Or you did—and chose not to respond.

Harry looked down at his notes.

You, he thought, were exactly what Rose had sent. Except he didn’t know that yet. Couldn’t know. Because the sleek black envelope was still unopened. Still sealed. Still sitting in his office under a stack of quarterly earnings reports.

And you?

You barely looked at him.

You were polite. Dismissive. Tired in a way that didn’t show on your face but echoed in the way you crossed your legs. You asked two questions—sharp, surgical. You answered one of your grandmother’s passive-aggressive remarks with a half-smile so lethal the paralegal accidentally knocked over his water glass.

Harry watched it all.

Took it in like a study.

You didn’t look like a woman who needed anything.

Which is why, when you leaned slightly toward your father and murmured something that made him laugh, Harry felt something strange stir behind his ribs.

You were nothing like Lucy.

You were...burnt edges and quiet glamour, the kind of presence that made people straighten their posture without knowing why. The kind of woman who didn’t smile to make others comfortable.

The meeting continued.

You didn’t speak much.

But when you did, it changed the tone.

You challenged who would earn the rights to certain films.

Asked about film archive clauses.

Corrected your mother without blinking.

And when Harry finally did address you—only once, to clarify a section on trust structure—you nodded.

“Understood,” you said.

No smile. No flirtation.

Just clarity.

And still—Harry felt it. That tilt. The quiet shift. The thing that lives in the breath between two people before they ever really speak.

When the meeting ended, your grandmother rose first.

She didn't thank anyone. She didn’t need to. Her rings did the talking.

Your mother followed. Your sister made a quip about the chairs being bad for her hips. Your father lingered, shaking hands, making small talk with the estate attorney about his late father-in-law's cinema.

You were the last to stand.

And Harry—Harry watched you go.

Not in a way anyone would notice. Just a glance. A flicker. But enough to feel something crack inside his well-constructed, well-curated sense of detachment.

He didn’t know your name.

You didn’t know his.

Not yet.

And the black envelope in his office remained untouched.

But the city was shifting.

And the string had already pulled tight.

That night, Harry couldn’t sleep.

He didn’t usually have this problem. His apartment—if it could still be called that—was engineered for silence. Floor-to-ceiling windows, blackout shades, temperature calibrated to lull any insomniac into submission. The kind of place where sound had to ask permission.

But still, he laid there, one arm behind his head, shirt off, the city beyond the glass blinking like a pulse.

You’d been in his head all day.

Since you walked into that conference room like it owed you something. Since you’d crossed your legs and tilted your chin and answered your grandmother like a diplomat with a dagger under her tongue.

He’d barely heard a word of the financial summary after that. The analyst had repeated himself twice.

He’d nodded. Pretended. Said all the right things. But your face had lingered—cool, sculptural, with eyes that didn’t wander. Like you didn’t need the room’s approval. Like the room had already lost its chance to impress you.

Which is exactly why he needed to get you out of his head.

He rose sometime past midnight. The floor was cold against his feet. He poured himself a glass of water and crossed to his office.

The space was minimalist, but not impersonal. Books lined the walls. A single photograph—his brother Peter’s wedding—sat framed in the corner of his desk.

He had been Peter’s best man. Smiling, tailored, solemn in that way that made women say he looked like someone who had stories and the discipline not to tell them.

Peter had married Charlotte—sharp, beautiful, meticulous. A match made by Adore Matchmaking, by Lucy herself. The agency Harry had never believed in.

But Rose...Rose had sent him something weeks ago. Something he hadn’t touched.

He got to his desk slowly. The envelope was still there. Black wax seal. No branding. Just two letters.

R.S.

No flourish. Just intent.

He cracked the seal. Slowly. Like it might burn.

Inside, a folder. Matte. Heavy. Clinical. His name written at the top in neat serif.

Castillo, H. — Match Profile Review

He almost laughed. Almost.

Then he flipped the page.

And saw your photo.

It hit him like a held breath.

You.

You, in a white dress, standing on a terrace that looked vaguely Roman, vaguely imagined. You weren’t smiling. Just watching something beyond the frame, your posture perfect, your mouth slightly parted like you were about to say something.

The city dimmed around him.

He set the photo down, too gently.

The rest came after—your name (middle only, smart), your background, the carefully-worded notes Rose had stitched together like myth.

He read the line about your grandfather and felt it click into place. The film family. The legacy. The reason everyone in the room had sat straighter when your father entered.

But it was you.

It had been you all along.

And you had no idea.

He sank into the leather chair, your photo still resting beside his wrist like something too sacred to touch again.

It felt impossible. Too neat. And yet—

He thought about that moment in the meeting. When your eyes flicked over him once, unreadable. When you barely spoke to him at all.

He’d assumed it was because you were used to men noticing you. That it was nothing.

But now he wondered...was it better that you didn’t know? Or worse?

He rubbed his hand absently along the outside of his thigh. Scar tissue.

The faint ridge where bone had once been broken, slowly stretched, made new.

If you ever saw it—if you ran your fingers down his legs in the dark, tracing those pale punctuation marks—would you recoil? Would you laugh? Would you ask why?

Would he tell you the truth?

That it wasn’t vanity. Not really. That it was something more primitive than that.

Survival.

He closed the folder. Not to hide it. Just to think.

Because suddenly the idea of seeing you again—of meeting you, really meeting you—felt unbearable and inevitable all at once.

He hadn’t believed in fate. Not until now.

He looked out at the city.

Somewhere, not far, you were probably asleep in a bed the size of a country, one arm flung over your eyes, dreaming of nothing because you refused to give the universe the satisfaction.

And he—

He leaned back in his chair, your name like an electric thread running behind his ribs.

He would see you again.

He knew it.

He just didn’t know when.

But he hoped—quietly, selfishly—that it would be soon.

tag list: @lizziesfirstwife @bluevelvetpedro @thatpinkshirt @i-wanna-be-your-muse @okiegal68 @buckyandlokirunmylife @sohaaa6 @saltyfartdreamland @catharinamarea @cassiuspascal

[meowabunga]

★ group grocery run

[meowabunga]

i need some absolute heart shattering angst about bucky "dying" and then a few years later he suddenly shows up at the door

AND YOUR WRITING IS SOOOOK CHEFS KISS 🤭🤭🤭🤭🤭

lmao babe, I'm not gonna lie, this was soooo vague so I went off the rails with this one a bit, lol, which means I accidentally wrote a mini 15k fanfic

Come Home To Me

pairing | 40s!bucky x fem!reader & platonic!steve x reader

word count | 14.7k words (lowkey this is like a three part story put together)

summary I during the rise and ruin of the second world war, a sharp-tongued brooklyn girl falls for james buchanan barnes—only to lose him to the battlefield, a presumed death, and the silence that follows.

but almost two years later, when the war is long over and the wounds have scarred over, he comes back through her door, proving that some promises do survive the fire.

tags | (18+) brief smut, canon divergence, slow burn, friends to lovers, soft!bucky barnes, strong female character, angst with a happy ending, angst and feels, domestic fluff, pregnancy, bucky barnes needs a hug, period-typical attitudes, racially ambiguous reader, no use of y/n

a/n | I hope this satisfies you guys for the rest of the week, because I will be working unfortunately. lowkey have no idea where this idea even came from, but I'm actually in love with this. for context, they're all the same age so, 1936 - 18, 1941 - 23, 1944 - 26, 1946 - 28

likes comments and reblogs are much appreciated ✨✨

ᴍᴀsᴛᴇʀʟɪsᴛ

Brooklyn, Summer of 1936

Bay Ridge streets smelled like hot pavement, coal smoke, and fresh bread — if you were lucky. If you weren’t, it was just piss and heat and someone hollering three blocks away.

You were leaning against the iron railing outside your building, arms crossed, one scuffed boot propped up behind you. Hair pinned up in a rush, streak of grease on your cheek from helping your mother with the busted fan in the window. You didn’t hear them so much as feel them coming — like a ripple in the rhythm of the block.

“Morning, boys,” you said without looking, voice dry as kindling.

“Sun’s barely up and she’s already packin’ attitude,” Bucky Barnes replied, that usual drawl in his voice like he thought he was the second coming of James Cagney.

You gave him a sideways glance. “And you’re packin’ delusions. Must be somethin’ in the water on your end of the street.”

Steve gave a tired chuckle, already wedged between the two of you in spirit if not in body. He had a half-eaten apple in one hand and worry in his eyes — like always. “Can we go one day without a brawl before lunch?”

You raised a brow. “You think this counts as a brawl? Stevie, this is foreplay.”

Bucky damn near choked. Steve went red all the way to the tips of his ears.

You let the silence sit for just a second too long before snorting, then pushed off the railing. “Relax, Rogers. I wouldn’t flirt with this guy if he was the last swing dancer in Manhattan.”

Bucky smirked. “Don’t flatter yourself, trouble. You’d miss me if I dropped dead.”

“Only thing I’d miss is the peace and quiet.”

But he knew, and you knew, that wasn’t exactly true. You butted heads with Bucky like it was your second job, but there was something magnetic about him — the kind of boy who knew the weight of every girl’s stare but still acted like the world owed him one more.

He dressed like he owned the sidewalk — suspenders slung loose over a plain white tee, sleeves pushed up to show the muscle he never stopped bragging about. Hair slicked back, grin sharp enough to cut a streetcar in half.

You hated that he could smile like that and get away with murder.

Steve, sweet and lean, kept his shoulders tight like he was always bracing for something. He didn’t speak unless he meant it, and when he did, people listened — not because he was loud, but because he was honest. If Bucky was a firecracker, Steve was the matchbook — quiet, flammable, and always trying to keep things from going up in flames.

“Where we headin’?” you asked, pulling a cigarette from your purse. You didn’t light it — just liked the feel of something between your fingers when you talked. “We going to that theater again?”

“Nickel matinee starts in twenty,” Steve said, tossing the apple core into the gutter. “Double feature — G-Men and something with Myrna Loy.”

“Ugh,” you groaned. “Another damn fed movie? They’re just propaganda with prettier faces.”

Bucky gave you a lopsided grin. “You just don’t like cops ‘cause they keep catchin’ you runnin’ your mouth.”

You stepped in close enough that he blinked, caught off guard by how quickly you cut the distance. “I don’t like cops ‘cause they don’t care about girls like me unless we’re dead or useful. Big difference, soldier boy.”

His grin faltered — just a flicker — and Steve, ever the peacemaker, cleared his throat and gently nudged his way between you both.

“She’s not wrong,” Steve said quietly, adjusting the strap of his satchel. “Cops only come to our side of the block when someone’s bleeding. Or brown.”

Bucky glanced between you two, then dropped the grin altogether. His voice went soft — maybe even respectful. “I didn’t mean it like that.”

You didn’t answer right away. Just tucked the cigarette behind your ear and started walking. “You never do, Barnes. That’s the problem.”

But still — still — when your shoulder brushed his as you passed, you didn’t pull away.

And he didn’t move either.

After the movie, the three of you settled along the edge of the promenade overlooking the East River, legs swinging above water that glinted dull and gray under the setting sun.

You were mid-rant. Again.

“And don’t even get me started on the benches,” you said, jabbing a thumb behind you like the injustice was sitting right there. “I mean, really? A freakin’ bench? Can’t share a place to sit ‘cause someone’s skin looks different? What kind of country invents trains and planes and peanut butter and still can’t figure out where a person should be allowed to sit?”

Steve nodded slowly, elbows resting on his knees, listening like he always did — not with judgment, not with pity. Just taking it in, quiet and steady.

Bucky popped the cap off a soda bottle with his belt buckle, because of course he did, and took a long sip before muttering, “You sure you don’t wanna run for office? You talk enough for three senators.”

You shot him a glare. “If I ran for office, I’d be dead before I made it to the first speech. They don’t like girls who say what they mean — especially ones who don’t smile while doin’ it.”

Steve winced. “She’s got a point.”

You gestured at him. “Thank you. Steve gets it.”

Bucky held up both hands, defensive but grinning. “I didn’t say you were wrong. I’m just sayin’, maybe the bench thing ain’t our fight. Not really.”

You stared at him. “See? That right there. That’s the problem.”

He blinked. “What is?”

“You thinking just because it doesn’t hurt you means it ain’t your fight.”

Steve looked over at Bucky, brows raised slightly. “You walked into that one.”

Bucky sighed and leaned back on his palms, looking up at the sky like it might hold some kind of answer. “I’m not tryin’ to be the bad guy, alright? I know the country’s busted. I know some people got it worse than me. I just—” He shook his head. “It’s not like I can do anything about it.”

You snorted. “That’s what they all say. ‘Ain’t my place,’ or ‘it’s just the way it is.’ Then you blink, and it’s been seventy years since slavery ended and we’re still out here arguing about who gets to use a water fountain.”

Bucky looked over at you — really looked. You were staring at the river like it had betrayed you personally, eyes hard, jaw set, that fire in your belly burning so bright it practically radiated off you.

“I just think,” you said, softer now but still fierce, “if you’re not mad, you’re not paying attention.”

Steve nodded again, quiet and firm. “You’re right about that.”

Bucky was silent for a beat. Then he said, quieter than either of you expected, “I am payin’ attention.”

You didn’t say anything back. You just sighed.

────────────────────────

One Week Later

It was too damn hot for anything. The kind of sticky, breathless heat that made the whole neighborhood move slow. You were sitting on the curb outside the corner store, nursing a warm soda and fanning yourself with a folded-up newspaper when Bucky came jogging around the corner, looking far too pleased with himself.

“Oh no,” you muttered as soon as you saw his face. “You’ve either done something stupid or something worse.”

He stopped in front of you, grinning and breathless, hands on his hips. “You remember that diner on 10th? The one with the best cherry pies in Brooklyn?”

Your eyes narrowed. “The one with the ‘whites only’ sign in the window?”

“Yeah, that one.”

You stared at him. “Bucky. What did you do?”

He pulled something from his back pocket and held it out — a metal sign, rectangular, scratched and dented, but unmistakable.

The words “WHITES ONLY” had been spray-painted over in red.

“I may or may not’ve borrowed this,” he said, tossing it onto the sidewalk with a loud clank. “And I may or may not’ve told the guy behind the counter he could shove it where the sun don’t shine.”

You stared at him. Blinked. Then burst out laughing — not because it was perfect (it wasn’t), or smart (definitely wasn’t), but because it was so Bucky. Loud, impulsive, dramatic, and maybe even a little dangerous.

He looked proud of himself, then uncertain. “Was that… stupid?”

You stood, brushing your hands on your skirt. “It was loud. It was reckless. And it was probably illegal.”

He winced. “Okay, so yes.”

“But,” you said, stepping closer, eyes locked on his, “you listened.”

Bucky shrugged, suddenly sheepish. “Don’t really like the idea of a place that’d take my money but not someone else's. Doesn’t sit right with me.”

Your throat tightened at that. You hadn’t expected much — just the usual back-and-forth, the teasing and fighting. But this? This was real. Maybe not world-changing, but it was Bucky-changing. And that mattered.

“You know,” you said slowly, “for a guy who runs his mouth like it’s his job, sometimes you say the right thing.”

He gave you that damn grin again. “I’m a man of many talents.”

You rolled your eyes — but this time, you smiled too.

────────────────────────

Brooklyn, August 1936

It was late afternoon, and the sun had dipped just enough to turn everything golden. The heat still clung to the brick and concrete like a second skin, but a breeze finally cut through, lifting the hem of your skirt as you stood outside Wilson’s Department Store, eyeing the newest window display.

There it was. The dress.

Soft yellow with a sweetheart neckline, pleated skirt, and delicate white piping along the seams, like something you’d see on the pages of Ladies’ Home Journal if you ever had the spare coins to buy one. It was soft, feminine, ridiculous — and perfect.

And looking like it belonged to a girl who didn’t have to count pennies or scrub floors.

You stood there staring, thumb hooked into your belt loop, brow furrowed. You weren’t wearing anything special — a hand-me-down skirt that was a little too loose at the waist, and a blouse with a stain near the hem you’d tried to cover with a brooch. Your heels were scuffed. Your nails had oil under them from helping patch the neighbor’s busted radio.

You weren’t ashamed, not exactly. You’d worked for every thread on your back. But you still wanted to look nice, sometimes. Wanted to feel like a girl instead of just a fighter.

“Ey,” a voice behind you called. “You gonna rob the place or just stare it down ‘til it surrenders?”

You didn’t need to turn to know who it was. That voice had been haunting you since you were thirteen.

“Don’t tempt me,” you muttered.

Bucky chuckled and stepped up beside you, Steve just a step behind with a tired smile already forming.

“What’s the occasion?” Steve asked, looking at the dress too. “Not your usual color.”

You shrugged, arms crossed, jaw tight. “Just lookin’. Ain’t a crime.”

“We were headed to Deluca’s,” Steve offered. “Thought you might wanna come.”

You hesitated — just for a second — then gave a shrug. “Sure. Can’t afford the pie but I’ll steal bites off your plate.”

The three of you fell into step down the sidewalk, the usual rhythm settling in. Bucky tossing a coin up and down in one hand, Steve quietly narrating neighborhood gossip in a tone that suggested he didn’t quite believe half of it, and you walking just a little ahead, tongue sharp and posture tougher than you felt.

“Y’know,” Bucky said after a while, like the thought had only just occurred to him, “never figured you for the dress type. Thought you were more… y’know. Practical.”

You turned to look at him.

“Practical?“

“Yeah,” Bucky said, encouraged by your silence. “Like… you don’t care about all that frilly stuff. You’re not like the other girls. You don’t care about all that stuff. Lipstick and ribbons and whatnot. You’re... different.”

“Different,” you repeated, flat.

Your jaw tensed.

Steve gave Bucky a sharp side-eye, already sensing disaster. “Buck—”

“I mean,” Bucky went on, oblivious, “you’re always talkin’ about politics, and unions, and—hell, you cursed out that priest last week for callin’ Roosevelt a communist—so like you don’t need to be pretty. You’re, y’know... rough around the edges. But in a good way.”

Steve groaned under his breath.

You stopped walking. “Rough around the edges?”

Bucky, to his credit, froze. “No, I meant— Not rough like bad rough. Just— You’ve got character.”

Steve tried. “He’s saying you’re—uh—authentic.”

You turned on Bucky, arms folded. “Let me see if I’ve got this. I’m not like other girls, I don’t care how I look, and I’ve got rough edges and character.”

“No, no—dammit,” Bucky rubbed a hand over his face. “That’s not what I meant. I’m saying you don’t have to put on airs. You’re... you.”

Steve muttered under his breath, “You should stop talking.”

“I meant,” Bucky tried again, hands up, “you’re—different in a good way. You’re smart, and tough, and you don’t need a dress to be beautiful.”

You stared at him, arms folded so tight across your chest you could’ve snapped a rib.

“Oh, so I’m not beautiful now, and I get points for not trying?”

“No! That’s not—Jesus, that’s not what I meant—”

Steve pinched the bridge of his nose. “Buck, for the love of God, please.”

“I meant you are beautiful, but not because you try, just… ‘cause you don’t? Like, you’re not… shallow.”

“So girls who like pretty things are shallow now?”

“No! Not shallow. Just, y’know—less…” He trailed off, realizing he had no end to that sentence that wouldn’t get him killed.

You scoffed. “You’re lucky you’re pretty, Barnes, ‘cause your brain’s hangin’ on by a shoestring.”

Steve coughed into his hand to cover a laugh.

Bucky was flustered now — flushed, nervous, trying to backpedal in boots made of wet cement. “All I’m saying is, you don’t gotta change a damn thing. You’re already—you’re already you, and I like you.”

“That’s rich,” you said, backing away him. “Coming from the guy who just said I’m not like other girls. Like being other girls is some kind of disease.”

Steve sighed. “He’s an idiot. He means well—”

“She knows I didn’t mean it like that,” Bucky said to Steve, then looked at you. “C’mon, honey—”

“Don’t patronize me,” you snapped.

His face fell. Just a bit. But enough.

You took a step back, jaw tight. “I do care how I look, Barnes. I just don’t have the luxury of pretending I don’t. I like dresses. I like lipstick. I like feelin’ pretty. But you know what I don’t like?”

You didn’t wait for an answer.

“Feelin’ like the only reason a guy’s got anything nice to say about me is because I’m not like the girls he thinks are too much. Like I’m some prize for not askin’ for nothin’.”

Bucky looked stunned, like he hadn’t even considered that angle. Like he’d been trying to give you something and dropped it straight into the gutter.

Steve, quietly, said, “She’s right, Buck.”

You held your stare with Bucky a moment longer, then exhaled — sharp, frustrated, done.

“I’m goin’ home.”

“Wait—hey, hold on—”

You were already turning, fists clenched, eyes burning — not with tears, never that — just anger. Embarrassment. The ache of being seen just enough to sting.

“I said I’m goin’ home,” you called over your shoulder, “before I break somethin’ you can’t sweet-talk your way out of.”

You didn’t stop walking.

And this time, neither of them followed.

────────────────────────

Brooklyn, Early September 1936

It had been a month.

Thirty long days of radio silence — no knocking on the stoop, no wisecracks outside the shop where you helped your uncle sort through junked radios, nothing.

Steve had tried. Lord, had he tried — showing up at your stoop like a walking apology letter, rambling about how Bucky was a jackass “but not that kind of jackass,” and half a dozen “he means well” speeches. You’d listened, arms crossed, jaw tight, thanked him politely, and shut the door with the kind of finality that said grudge fully intact.

And honestly? You didn’t miss Bucky Barnes. Not really. Not much.

...Maybe a little.

Now it was a Saturday night. Crickets chirped under the hum of streetlamps and jazz drifted faint from a neighbor’s radio. You were stretched out on the front parlor couch in your slip, your hair pinned halfway, half-heartedly reading a borrowed copy of Gone with the Wind that you’d dog-eared so often you were certain the library’d start charging you.

That was until your Ma called out from the kitchen, voice thick with flour and annoyance.

“Get the door! I’m elbow-deep in potatoes!”

You muttered a few curses under your breath — ones your Ma would swat you for if she heard — and pulled on a robe as you headed for the front door.

You pulled it open, half-ready to bark, “What?” — and then froze.

There he was.

James Buchanan Barnes.

Hair slicked back like always, but a little messy, like he’d run his hands through it too many times. No smirk. No swagger. Just Bucky, standing there with his hands shoved into his coat pockets like a schoolboy who’d lost his lunch money.

“Hey,” he said softly.

You blinked at him, arms crossing out of instinct.

“What do you want?”

Bucky shifted on his feet. “Can I... can I talk to you?”

You glanced over your shoulder, then stepped halfway onto the stoop, leaving the door cracked open behind you.

“I’ve been practicin’ this,” he admitted, eyes down. “For, uh. For a while. In my head.”

“Didn’t get a chance to use it on the other girls you insulted this month?”

He winced, hands tightening in his pockets. “No. Just you.”

You said nothing.

“I’m sorry,” he began, voice low. “For what I said. For how I said it. I was tryin’ to say you don’t need all that stuff to be beautiful, but it came out like you weren’t allowed to want it. And that’s... that’s not fair. You can want lipstick and dresses and still want to break the whole damn system.”

You arched an eyebrow, still guarded. “Where’d you hear that?”

“Steve,” he muttered. “Well, mostly. And maybe a little from this pamphlet I found at the co-op, but it was all in real small print, and the lady at the desk was real intense.”

That made you almost smile. But not quite.

“I know I talk too much,” he continued. “And I don’t always think before I do. But I’ve been thinkin’ a lot. About how I made you feel. And how I hate the thought that you might’ve thought... you weren’t enough. Or too much. Or whatever the hell it was I made it sound like.”

You sighed quietly, leaning against the doorframe. “I don’t wanna be angry all the time, James. It’s like—people expect me to be. Like the minute I open my mouth, it’s just bark, bark, bark. Sometimes I wish I could just... be. Y’know?”

He looked at you like he understood. Not fully. Not yet. But enough.

“I like your bark,” he said, almost sheepish. “But I like when you’re just you, too.”

You looked down, toes tapping the wooden stoop.

There was a pause — soft, honest, unpressured — before he asked, gently, “Did I blow it? Or... have you forgiven me?”

You tilted your head, narrowing your eyes like you were calculating the weight of the whole damn thing.

“I’m takin’ one of those quiet moments where I weigh your good qualities against your bad ones,” you said slowly, “to decide if you’re actually worth the trouble.”

He straightened, hands dropping from his pockets like he wanted to prepare for a punch.

You tilted your head. Composed. Narrowed your eyes.

“You made it.”

His grin bloomed across his face — that trademark Bucky Barnes smile, the one he used when he won a game of stickball or caught the last seat on the trolley.

It knocked the breath out of you a little, not that you’d admit it.

“I, uh—” He rubbed the back of his neck, suddenly shy. “I got somethin’. For you.”

He stepped back a bit and pulled something from his coat pocket— a neatly folded bundle wrapped in brown paper and tied with string. He held it out.

You looked at him, suspicious. “What is it?”

“Just... open it.”

You frowned, lips already pursed, but your fingers tugged at the twine anyway.

You tugged the string loose and unwrapped the paper — and then you saw it.

Your breath caught.

Soft yellow cotton. Sweetheart neckline. White piping at the seams. The exact dress from the department store window. The one you’d stared at. The one you’d fought about.

Your heart tightened like a fist. “Bucky—this ain’t—this wasn’t cheap.”

“I know.”

You pushed it back into his hands. “Take it back.”

“No.”

“Did you steal this?”

“What? No!” he raised his hands. “I took extra shifts at my pop’s shop. I’m still covered in oil under this shirt. Go ahead, check.”

You gave him a flat look.

He softened. “I remembered you starin’ at it. That’s all.”

You looked down at the dress. Ran your fingers over the hem.

“I’m not takin’ this.”

“You are,” he said firmly. “Because if you give it back, I’ll just sneak it in through your window next time you leave it cracked.”

You stared at the dress. Then him. Then the dress again.

Your lips twitched — damn him — and you rolled your eyes, but you didn’t hand it back.

He noticed the smile threatening to appear on your face.

“Stop lookin’ so pleased with yourself,” you muttered.

“You’re smilin’.”

“I’m not.”

“You are.”

Then, slowly, you held it close, not too obvious, just enough to breathe in the new fabric. Your lips twitched. “Fine.”

He smiled wider. “Fine?”

“Don’t make me repeat it.”

He chuckled under his breath. “Alright.”

Bucky hesitated again, rocking back on his heels. “I should probably head home. Don’t wanna push my luck.”

You looked over your shoulder, then back at him. “Ma’s makin’ shepherd’s pie.”

His brows rose. “Yeah?”

You nodded. “You know it's just me and her, and she always makes too much.”

He cleared his throat. “I mean... if you need help eatin’ it...”

“You comin’ in or what, Barnes?”

His grin turned boyish again — a little crooked, a little sheepish, all charm. “You sure ’cause I wouldn’t want to impose—”

“Oh for God’s sake, Barnes, come in before I change my mind.”

He stepped over the threshold so fast you’d think you’d offered him gold.

And just like that, you shut the door behind him.

Five years Later

Brooklyn, September 1941

The diner smelled like strong coffee, burnt toast, and a little bit of grease — same as it always had. The bell over the door jingled as Steve and Bucky stepped in, the wind from the street trailing in behind them. The place was half-full, same old chipped counter, same tired cook hollering from behind the swinging door.

Bucky slid into a booth near the window, knocking his shoulder against Steve’s as he grinned.

“You’re buyin’. I got grease on my pants for you this morning.”

Steve rolled his eyes, shrugging off his coat. “You volunteered to fix the radiator, Buck.”

“Doesn’t mean it didn’t take effort, punk.” He kicked his boots up under the table and leaned back like he owned the place.

“Always with the dramatics,” Steve muttered.

Just then, the bell on the counter gave a sharp ding, and a voice called over it:

“Well, well. If it ain’t Barnes and Rogers. Lookin’ like you crawled outta a sewer and a church basement, respectively.”

You.

You were in your uniform dress — nothing fancy, blue apron tied at your waist, hair pinned back (mostly), a pencil tucked behind your ear. You had a rag slung over one shoulder and that trademark glint in your eyes.

Steve smiled. “Hey. Didn’t know you were workin’ today.”

“Pulled a double,” you said, striding over. “Mrs. Fratelli called out again. Probably ran off with the meat truck driver like she threatened.”

Bucky’s face lit up the second he saw you.

“Hello, sweetheart,” he said smoothly. “Miss me since this mornin’, or you too busy dreamin’ about me in your sleep?”

You gave him a flat look. “I dreamt I ran you over with a trolley. Twice.”

Steve snorted into his water.

Bucky grinned wider. “Still think that’s your love language.”

You leaned in, eyes narrowing as you placed two menus on the table, voice low and teasing. “You keep talkin’, Barnes, and I’ll slip hot sauce in your coffee.”

“I like it when you threaten me,” Bucky said, eyes gleaming. “It means you’re thinkin’ about me.”

You rolled your eyes before bending just a little and pressed a quick kiss to his mouth — soft, familiar, like it wasn’t even a question anymore. Just something you did. His hand instinctively brushed your hip as you pulled away.

Steve groaned and dropped his forehead to the table. “Not in front of me. Please.”

You raised your eyebrows. “I kissed his face, Rogers. Relax.”

“Yeah, but then he’s gonna get all dopey and start sayin’ stuff that makes me wanna drown myself in syrup.”

“Too late,” Bucky said dreamily, eyes still on you. “Already feel like I’m swimmin’ in sugar.”

You grabbed the coffee pot from behind you and poured two cups — sliding one in front of each of them with a pleased smile. “And that’s why I’m rationing how much coffee you get today.”

Bucky raised a hand solemnly. “If lovin’ you means sufferin’ through caffeine withdrawals, I’ll take it.”

“Awful,” Steve mumbled. “You’re both awful.”

You winked at Steve. “You love us.”

“I tolerate you.”

“I’ll take it,” Bucky said.

You were already walking off to the next table, hips swaying, head turned just enough to catch Bucky watching you. You rolled your eyes at him, but there was no bite in it.

He looked across at Steve, still grinning like a damn fool.

Steve sipped his coffee. “You’re pathetic.”

“Maybe,” Bucky said, watching you over the rim of his cup, “but I’m in love with a girl who can verbally eviscerate me and still kiss me like I hung the moon.”

“...Pathetic and doomed.”

Bucky just smiled wider. “Can’t wait.”

The diner’s usual low hum was alive with clinks of silverware and the hiss of coffee pots, but Bucky’s eyes were fixed on only one thing — you.

You were making your rounds like you ran the place, pouring coffee into mugs with an easy flick of your wrist, tossing back quips with regulars who knew better than to get fresh.

Your hair was coming undone in the back, a curl slipping down your neck, and your apron had a grease smudge near the hem — and Bucky swore he’d never seen anything prettier.

Steve followed his line of sight and let out a sigh into his coffee. “You ever blink when she’s in the room?”

Bucky didn’t even look away. “Would you, if that was yours?”

Steve snorted. “She ain’t yours. She lets you hang around.”

“She’s got that look in her eyes today,” Bucky said, head tilting as he watched you swipe a rag across a booth. “Like she’s two seconds away from smashing a sugar jar over someone’s head.”

“That’s just her face, Buck.”

Bucky finally turned to Steve, flashing that familiar smirk. “You remember last fall? That night in Fort Greene, after the street fair? I kissed her—right outta nowhere. Thought she was gonna sock me in the jaw—”

“She probably should’ve.”

“—but instead,” Bucky said, practically glowing, “she grabbed me by the shirt and kissed me back.” He smiled wider, tapping the side of his head. “Swear to God, I thought I’d been knocked out cold. Like I won the damn lottery.”

Steve made a face. “I think I liked you better when you were pining and pathetic.”

Bucky raised his cup in mock toast. “I still am. Just, y’know, happily pathetic now.”

Steve shook his head, a quiet laugh slipping from him. “She keeps you humble.”

“She keeps me honest,” Bucky corrected, and turned back to watch you.

That’s when the radio near the register crackled a little louder than before, catching just enough attention to lower a few voices.

“…German U-boats continue patrolling the Atlantic, with reports of more attacks on British convoys. American destroyer Greer engaged by German submarine in recent weeks. Though no formal declaration has been made, the Roosevelt administration urges continued readiness…”

Your hand slowed on the countertop, just slightly. Conversations across the diner dipped low or stopped altogether. The cook leaned halfway through the window to turn the volume up.

“—and while President Roosevelt affirms America’s stance as non-combatant, whispers out of D.C. suggest it’s only a matter of time. Should Congress act, all eligible men eighteen and up may be called to serve.”

The old man in the booth behind Bucky snorted and muttered, “Guess the boys better enjoy their hot dinners while they can.”

Someone else murmured, “Been coming for a while now.”

And just like that, the warmth in the diner cooled by a few degrees.

Steve rubbed the back of his neck. “It’s just talk. Same as last month. Same as the month before.”

Bucky didn’t answer right away. His eyes were still on you as you busied yourself clearing a table, like if you just kept moving, it wouldn’t matter what was on the radio.

That look was on your face again, the one Bucky knew well: that mix of anger and weariness you always wore when the world decided to take something instead of fix it.

Finally, he spoke, voice low. “Nah. It’s real now.”

Steve looked at him. “Buck—”

“I know it’s coming,” Bucky said, trying to sound casual but not quite managing it. “Same way my pop did. He knew in ’17. Signed up before they even came knockin’. Said if it’s gonna come for you anyway, you meet it head-on.”

Steve was quiet. He hated this part — the inevitability of it. Watching people he loved step into something they might never come back from.

Bucky looked down at his hands, fingers running over a small tear in the napkin dispenser. “If I go…”

“You don’t know that you’re going—”

“If I do,” Bucky cut in gently, “look after her.”

Steve blinked. “Me?”

“You’re the only one I trust to,” Bucky said. “She’s got no one left but you and me. Since her Ma passed…”

His voice faltered a little. Just enough for Steve to notice, but not enough to make Bucky admit it.

Steve leaned back, gave a dry laugh. “Buck, she’s more likely to look after me. She’d have me patched up, scolded, and fed before breakfast.”

Bucky smiled faintly. “Then look after each other. Promise me.”

Steve held his gaze. “Alright. I promise.”

They both turned to look at you, now laughing softly with a little girl sitting at the counter, sliding her a cherry from behind the counter when the cook wasn’t looking.

Bucky’s voice was soft, but firm. “She acts tough. Mouth like a sailor. But she’s got this big heart, y’know?”

Steve nodded. “Yeah. I know.”

The radio crackled again.

And in the brief stillness that followed, Bucky looked like he was trying to memorize everything — the sounds, the feel of the place, the curl of your lips and the way your smile came slow but full.

Just in case.

────────────────────────

Brooklyn, November 1941 – Atlantic Avenue Train Station

The wind was bitter that morning, the kind that bit through layers and settled into your bones. Steam hissed from the train engine as the platform filled with a quiet hum of voices — families clustered close, trying not to show just how tight they were holding on.

You stood a little behind Steve, arms crossed over your chest, Bucky’s coat wrapped tight around you. The sleeves were a little too long — he always said he liked seeing you swallow up in it. But you kept your chin high, eyes fixed on the tracks like if you didn’t look at him, this whole thing wouldn’t be happening.

Bucky stood a few feet away, saying his goodbyes. He bent to hug his ma first — her face pulled tight and red with holding back tears. His father clapped him on the back with a hand that lingered longer than usual. And Rebecca, red-nosed and blinking back tears, hugged her big brother like she couldn’t believe he was actually leaving.

You shifted your weight, watching the family scene in silence. Steve nudged your shoulder lightly, offering the smallest smile. You didn’t return it, just stared ahead.

Then Bucky turned. Said his final goodbye to his folks, kissed Rebecca's temple and whispered something that made her laugh through her tears.

You watched it all, arms crossed, jaw set.

Steve stood beside you, shoulders hunched, breath curling in the air. He wasn’t saying anything, which you were grateful for.

And then Bucky turned.

He made his way over, bag slung over one shoulder, grin already blooming on his face even though his eyes didn’t match it. He stopped in front of Steve first.

“Well, punk,” Bucky said, trying to keep it light.

“Jerk,” Steve answered, just as steady.

They clasped hands — firm and fast, pulling into one of those hugs that ended with a clap on the back that said all the things they weren’t going to say.

“Stay outta trouble,” Bucky said, forcing a smirk.

Steve gave a small laugh. “How can I? You’re takin’ all the trouble with you.”

Bucky chuckled, low and tired. “Somebody’s gotta stir things up overseas.”

Steve looked at him, jaw flexing. “You’ll be alright.”

“’Course I will.” Bucky bumped his fist against Steve’s arm. “You think I’m gonna let you get taller and better looking than me? Not a chance.”

Steve laughed softly, blinking fast. “Write when you can.”

“I will.”

They lingered a beat longer, then Bucky turned to you.

You didn’t move. Didn’t meet his eyes. Just stared out over his shoulder at the trains, the people, the nothing that didn’t matter.

Bucky stepped toward you, slower than usual. You kept your arms wrapped around yourself, shoulders stiff, almost as if you were protecting yourself.

“Hey,” he said gently. “You’re really gonna make me leave without seein’ those eyes?”

You swallowed, jaw clenched as you pulled your coat tighter. “Train’s gonna leave whether I look at you or not.”

He reached out, gloved fingers brushing your elbow gently. “You’re wearin’ my coat.”

“I was cold,” you said flatly, eyes still fixed on something past him. “Not like I did it for sentimental reasons or anything.”

He smiled. “Course not.”

You didn’t answer. Just shrugged tighter into the coat, blinking fast. Bucky stepped in closer, so close the brim of his cap was nearly brushing your brow.

“I’ll be back before you know it,” he said quietly. “Just a little while. You’ll barely notice I’m gone.”

“Don’t lie.”

That made him pause.

You finally looked at him. Really looked. And the moment your eyes locked, something in your face cracked — not broken, but bent under the weight of all the things you weren’t saying. The world behind your eyes was loud, and Bucky could hear every scream of it.

“I’m scared,” you said finally, voice small.

“Me too.”

Another silence. Longer this time.

Bucky’s face softened. “You think I ain’t comin’ back, don’t you?”

“I think a lot of boys say that to their girls before they leave,” you said, voice even but tight. “And not all of ’em get to mean it.”

Bucky reached up, thumb brushing the side of your face, glove rough against your cheek. “I’m not all of ’em. I’m me. And I’m coming back to you.”

You looked down at his chest, fingers curling slightly like you wanted to hold on and didn’t know where to start.

You bit your lip. “If… if something happens—”

“Don’t,” he cut in gently. “Don’t say it.”

“I need to say it, James. I need to—”

“No.” His voice was firmer this time, but not harsh. He leaned in, pressing his forehead lightly to yours. “I’m comin’ home. You hear me? I’m gonna come back and you’re gonna yell at me for leavin’ my boots at your door again, and you’re gonna steal all the covers, and we’re gonna forget this whole goodbye thing ever happened.”

You blinked fast, breathing shaky.

“If you need anything,” Bucky said, “go to my ma. She’ll take care of you.”

You raised your brows, voice dry. “Your ma hates me.”

Bucky blinked, then huffed a quiet laugh. “She doesn’t hate you.”

“She glares at me like I taught Rebecca to swear.”

He paused, then grinned crookedly. “She just doesn’t love you as much as I do.”

You let out a small, breathy laugh — not quite whole, but better than nothing.

He kissed you then. No heat, no show — just steady and sure, like he was trying to anchor the both of you in the moment. Your hands clutched at his coat, pulling him closer for one more second, two, three.

When you pulled back, your voice was quiet.

“Come home to me.”

Bucky rested his forehead against yours. “You’re all I wanna come home to.”

The train let out a loud hiss. Passengers began calling their goodbyes, some already starting to board.

Bucky kissed your forehead, quick and sure. Then stepped back — one step, then two — still looking at you like he didn’t want to turn around.

“You stay warm, alright?” he called, voice louder over the bustle. “Eat something other than burgers and coffee once in a while!”

You scowled faintly. “You’re one to talk!”

He gave you that big, crooked grin, the one that always made your stomach flip.

Then he turned and walked toward the train, duffel slung over one shoulder.

And you stood there in his coat, trying not to let your eyes water in the cold, with Steve silently stepping closer beside you — not saying anything. Just being there.

The train pulled out of the station a few minutes later. And Bucky was gone.

Three years later

Brooklyn, October 1944 – Atlantic Avenue Train Station

The train pulled into the station with a shriek of steel and smoke, hissing to a stop under the gray Brooklyn sky. The platform was packed — families pressed up against the rails, hopeful and desperate, faces turned toward the windows of the arriving train like it might spit out salvation.

You were right at the front, your press badge pinned to your coat as you tapped your heel anxiously against the concrete, not even trying to play it cool. You looked good — hair pinned sharp, lipstick bold, a belted coat cinched over your skirt, the hem just brushing your knees. You always made a point to look good when he came back.

You weren’t just you anymore — not the loudmouthed girl with calloused fingers and second-hand dresses. You were a name in print now. Famous columnist at The Brooklyn Standard, known for stirring the pot and refusing to let anyone — the government, the public, or the boys back home — forget the hypocrisy of this so-called land of the free.

You had a national voice now, but today, that didn’t matter. Today, you were just the girl waiting on her boys to come home.

And then you saw him.

Steve stepped down first, tall and broad and shining like something out of a poster — because, well, he was now. The star-spangled uniform clung to him like it belonged there, a coat trying and failing to hide it, but that open smile on his face? That was all Steve. Your Steve. Brooklyn Steve. The one who carried extra change for the subway because he was sure one day you’d forget.

You didn’t even have time to shout before Bucky followed behind him — slightly thinner than you remembered, bruised under the eyes, but real. Whole. Alive. Still him.

And when he saw you—

“Doll—!”

You didn’t wait. You shoved past a vendor and a couple of sailors, arms already out. You practically launched yourself at him.

Bucky caught you mid-stride, arms wrapping around your waist and pulling you clean off the ground. Your legs lifted, and you buried your face in the crook of his neck, arms tight around him like you were afraid he might vanish if you let go. His duffle bag dropped to the ground with a heavy thump as he spun you once, breathless and warm.

“I missed you,” he murmured against your temple. “God, I missed you, baby.”

He held you like he was afraid you weren’t real. Like if he let go too fast, you’d vanish into the smoke and the station noise and all the things he saw out there in the dark.

“I’m not crying,” you muttered against his neck.

You pulled back just enough to kiss his face — everywhere. Cheek, brow, nose, temple. He laughed, a sound somewhere between hysterical and joyful, as you brushed your fingers over the short edge of his hair.

“I’m kissing you so you know it’s me,” you whispered. “So next time you disappear, I’ve got your damn face memorized.”

He grinned, breathless. “Don’t plan on disappearing again.”

You pressed your forehead to his for one more second before turning to Steve, who stood nearby with a patient smile.

“Well, well,” you said, arching a brow and resting your hands on your hips. “Would you look at that. Steve Rogers. Has anyone seen him? Small fella, polite, sketchbook always tucked under his arm? You’re wearin’ his face, stranger.”

Steve laughed — loud and whole and rich. “That’s me, alright. Just with a bit more… calcium.”

Bucky snorted behind you, still clinging to your waist like he hadn’t seen you in a decade. “You mean steroids.”

“Super-serum,” Steve corrected.

“Fancy steroids.”

You grinned, stepping forward to pull Steve into a hug, strong and sure. He hugged you back with those new arms of his, still gentle like he might break you.

You whispered to him as you held tight: “Thank you for bringing him home to me.”

His voice was quiet. “Would’ve brought him back sooner if I could.”

You pulled back and cupped his cheek. “You brought each other back. That’s more than most people get.”

Just then, a kid across the station shouted, “Hey! It’s Captain America!”

Steve flinched slightly, and you rolled your eyes. “Great. They spotted you.”

“You’ve been in the papers too, y’know,” Steve said, tugging his bag higher. “Every time I see your name, someone’s mad about it.”

“Means I’m doing it right.”

Bucky watched you, chin tilted slightly, pride glinting behind tired eyes. “Told the fellas you were raising hell while we were gone.”

“I did more than raise it. I printed it in bold.”

He slid his hand into yours, fingers tight between yours like he hadn’t remembered what it felt like until now.

“We got you for a few days?” you asked, voice softer now.

“Four,” he answered. “Four days, and then they send us back to God knows where.”

You nodded. “Then I’ll make ‘em count.”

He glanced at you, and a little smile flickered on his face.

“You already are.”

────────────────────────

Your Apartment — 2:47 a.m.

The radiator hissed in the corner, clanking loud enough every so often to make you flinch. The warmth it gave off didn’t quite reach the corners of the old apartment. You were used to that — this was the place you’d grown up, after all. The chipped paint, the creaky floors, the faded wallpaper your ma had put up in '28.

Bucky had crashed in your bed as soon as you'd gotten home. You'd followed later, after checking in on Steve — who was passed out in your old room, still fully dressed. Poor guy had barely gotten the boots off before slumping on your old too small twin bed.

Now it was late, maybe two, maybe three in the morning. Outside, the city hummed quiet and cold. Inside, the room was dim, lit only by the soft amber glow of the streetlamp filtering through the thin curtains. You'd drifted in and out of sleep — curled against Bucky’s side, your head on his shoulder — until the sudden jolt of his body broke the stillness.

He gasped sharp, sucking in air like he’d been drowning, his muscles tensed tight beneath you. You sat up instinctively.

“Bucky?” you whispered, brushing your hand over his chest.

His eyes were wide and wild, not quite seeing. Sweat clung to his brow, and his breath came hard and fast. You gently cupped his face and leaned closer.

“Hey. Baby, it’s me. It’s just me.” You reached up to stroke his hair, fingers tangling through the soft brown strands. “You’re not there. You’re here. You’re home.”

He blinked, chest still heaving as he tried to slow his breathing. Your other hand rubbed soothing circles against his sternum.

“There you go,” you murmured, voice barely a breath. “Breathe with me, okay? You’re safe. You’re with me.”

He was quiet for a long beat. Just breathing. Then he shifted, head pressing into the crook of your neck, his arm curling tight around your middle as if he was trying to burrow into you, as if your body was the only thing tethering him to this world.

The room was quiet save for the sputter of the radiator and the soft rhythm of your fingers in his hair. You didn’t ask too soon. You knew better than to push.

After a long while, his voice emerged — low, ragged.

“They kept us underground,” he murmured finally, voice rough. “No light. Cold. No names. Just numbers. They… they strapped us down, filled us with something. And when the pain started, it didn’t stop. I thought my head was gonna split open. I couldn’t scream after a while. My throat just gave out.”

You didn’t move, just kept your fingers stroking slow, steady lines along his scalp, the other hand curling along the back of his neck.

“I thought…” he swallowed. “I really thought that was it. That I was gonna die in some freezing hellhole in the Alps with no name and no grave.”

“Hey,” you whispered, voice cracking. “But you didn’t. You came back to me.”

He was quiet for a long beat. Then, “Sometimes I feel like I left pieces of myself behind. Like I didn’t all make it back.”

Your chest ached at that. You tightened your hold around him, pressing a kiss to his temple.

“You’re all here,” you whispered. “And the rest… the rest we’ll find together, yeah?”

Your throat tightened, but you didn’t cry. You didn’t let yourself. Not while he needed you steady.

Silence again. But the kind that wasn’t heavy. Just close. Breathing. Rebuilding.

His head rested over your heart, and you felt him calm as he focused on the steady beat beneath your ribs. Then—

“Marry me,” he said suddenly, muffled against your skin.

You blinked, startled. “What?”

He lifted his head, eyes locked with yours now — clear, steady, fierce in a way that made your stomach flip.

“Let’s get married,” he said again. “Tomorrow. Or today. Whenever you want. Just—let’s do it.”

You sat up a little more, still blinking at him, mind spinning. “James—”

“I don’t want to wait,” he cut in, softer this time. “I’ve been through hell and back, and every time I thought I wasn’t gonna make it, all I wanted was to get to you. Just to be here again. To hear your voice and feel your hands and—”

He grabbed your hand then, pressed it to his chest like he needed you to feel how real he was. “We’ve been through too much. We’re already each other’s, right? So let’s make it real.”

You stared at him — this man you’d grown up with, fought with, fell for. His eyes never left yours.

“I got it all in my head,” he added, quick like he was afraid you’d talk him out of it. “We’ll go down to the courthouse, get the papers. You can wear that yellow dress I got you. I’ll wear that suit Ma made me save for ‘something good.’ Steve and my family can be our witnesses. We’ll get egg creams after and laugh about how fast it all was.”

“You sound like you’ve been planning this,” you muttered, heart thudding.

“I have,” Bucky said, without missing a beat. “Since the day you kissed me instead of sockin’ me in the jaw.”

You looked at him — really looked at him — hair a mess, face a little pale under the moonlight slipping in through the window. He looked tired and strong and so, so sure.

You swallowed. “You know I always wanted more than marriage and housewives and babies, right?”

“I know,” he said gently. “That’s not what I’m askin’ for. I want you, just how you are. Loud and brash and brilliant. I just want to be yours — proper.”

You met his gaze, fierce and full of something too big to name. “I love you. So… yeah. Let’s get married, Bucky.”

Bucky smiled. That slow, boyish, heartstopping smile you hadn’t seen since before the war.

Then you leaned forward, kissed him slow, and pulled back just enough to whisper against his lips, “You better not change your mind in the morning.”

“Not a chance, doll.”

──────────────────────────────

The Next Evening

The second that Bucky opened the door, he bent low and scooped you clean off the stoop with a dramatic flair that made you yelp and burst into laughter.

“James Buchanan Barnes!” you gasped, arms flailing before looping around his neck. “What the hell are you doin’?”

“I’m carrying my wife across the threshold,” he grinned, eyes bright with mischief as he marched toward the living room like it was a palace. “That’s what a gentleman does, ain’t it?”

You tossed your head back laughing. “This dump is the same place I've been sleeping for years, James—”

“Not the point, sweetheart,” he said, adjusting his grip under your thighs “I’m startin’ traditions here. And one day, when I come home for good, I’m gonna carry you over the threshold of a real house. Big porch. Little garden. No leaky faucets.”

“You’re outta your mind,” you muttered fondly, brushing his hair back from his forehead as he leaned in and kissed you — quick, then long, then quick again.

Your feet finally hit the ground again and your fingers immediately went to the neckline of your dress — the same pale yellow one he’d bought you all those years ago. The satin straps slipped off your shoulders as you took a breath and said, “Can’t believe this thing still fits.”

Bucky tilted his head like a puppy, eyes scanning your body like he hadn’t already memorized every inch of you.

“Why wouldn’t it fit?”

You scoffed, rolling your eyes as you turned toward the mirror. “Bucky, you got me this dress when we were teenagers. I was still livin’ on Ma’s grocery scraps and bad coffee.”

He stepped up behind you, hands curling around your waist as he dipped his head into the crook of your neck. “You look the same to me,” he murmured against your skin. “Just more beautiful.”

You turned toward him at that — letting your forehead rest against his chest. “You always been such a smooth-talker.”

“No,” he whispered, drawing his fingers slowly down your back, “I just speak the truth when it comes to you.”

He kissed you again, deeper this time. His hands slid lower, anchoring you against him. Your fingers reached for the buttons on his shirt with practiced ease.

“You know,” he murmured between kisses, “if you keep smilin’ like that, I’m not gonna make it to the bed.”

You raised an eyebrow. “You got somethin’ against the couch?”

“No,” he laughed, scooping you up again — this time with a little less ceremony — “I just figured the bed deserves the honor tonight.”

You squealed and let your head fall back as he carried you down the short hallway, your yellow dress now barely hanging on. Once in your bedroom, he laid you down gently, reverently, like he was handling something holy.

“You sure you don’t wanna wait till tonight?” you teased as he hovered above you, eyes dark with love and want. “Make it real proper?”

Bucky’s laugh was low and quiet, almost a hum. He leaned down, brushing his lips against your jaw, then your throat. “We’re married. That is proper.”

Your breath hitched as he kissed the hollow of your collarbone.

“You know I love you, right?” he said, suddenly serious — eyes locking with yours. “I’ve loved you since you threatened to throw a shoe at my head for callin’ you mouthy in ‘31.”

You smiled softly and cupped his cheek. “You still talk too much, Barnes.”

“Then maybe I’ll shut up and show you instead.”

And he did.

He kissed you like a promise. He kissed you like you’d never have to say goodbye again.

His kiss deepened slowly, and when his hand slid behind your neck to cradle you closer, you let yourself fall into it. Into him. Into the warmth and security and the slow realization that this was it. You were married. This was your forever.

Bucky kissed like he meant to remember every second.

He tugged gently at the fabric of your dress, fingertips moving with reverence, not rushing, not demanding—just feeling. When you shifted beneath him, he helped you sit up, fingers fumbling a little with the tiny row of buttons down your back.

“Too many of these damn things,” he muttered.

You laughed softly, leaning back into him. “You’ve been wanting to get me out of this dress since the ceremony, admit it.”

His breath ghosted hot against your shoulder as he kissed your skin between each word. “Since before that. Since I saw you this morning and realized I was gonna be lucky enough to call you my wife.”

The dress slipped down your arms, the delicate fabric pooling at your waist, revealing the soft cream of your slip underneath.

Bucky stilled for a second, eyes roaming over you like you were some rare treasure unearthed in candlelight.

“You’re beautiful,” he said, hoarse. “God—look at you.”

You reached up and tugged at his loosened tie, pulling him down into another kiss. “Then look closer, Barnes.”

That broke something in him.

He pressed you back down into the bed, hands everywhere now—still gentle, but needier. His mouth trailed kisses across your collarbone, then lower, tracing the edge of your slip with aching slowness.

“Can I?” he asked, lips brushing the swell of your breast.

You nodded.

He peeled the slip down carefully, like undressing a secret. When your breasts spilled free, he groaned, breath catching like it hurt. His lips closed over your nipple, tongue flicking gently before he began to suck, slow and deep.

You gasped, arching into him.

His hand moved down, smoothing over your stomach, then lower, over the delicate lace of your underwear. He kissed lower still, murmuring against your skin.

“You’re trembling.”

“I’ve wanted this,” you whispered, “for so long.”

“I know,” he said, voice thick. “Me too.”

He kissed the inside of your thigh, then dragged your underwear down, baring you completely. You heard the sharp inhale he took as he looked at you—eyes blown wide, filled with awe.

Then he was over you again, chest pressing to yours, and you were tugging at the waistband of his slacks, unfastening the button, the zipper, until he was bare too��hard and flushed and shaking slightly in your hand.

“You sure?” he asked, voice barely steady.

“I married you,” you whispered, guiding him to you. “Of course I’m sure.”

And when he slid into you—slow, deep, stretching you in the most perfect, heart-wrenching way—it was everything. You both gasped, your fingers digging into his shoulders, your legs wrapping around his waist.

He moved slow at first, reverent, lips brushing over yours with every thrust.

“Love you,” he whispered. “So much. Always.”

You held his face as he made love to you, feeling him fill you again and again until your breath came in soft cries and your heart was a song in your chest. The pace built gradually—never rushed, just more. Deeper. Closer.

When you finally came, it was with his name on your lips and his body pressed fully into yours. He followed seconds later, buried deep, gasping your name against your skin like a prayer.

After, you held each other.

Naked. Married. Home.

And when Bucky whispered another love you against your neck, you kissed his temple and whispered back:

“We’ve got forever now.”

────────────────────────

Six Months Later

Austria – Hydra Territory, March 1945 | Before the Assault on Zola’s Train

The snow howled outside the makeshift command tent like a restless animal. A biting wind cut through even the thickest of coats, but inside, by the dull light of a single hanging lantern, Bucky sat hunched over a folded piece of paper — his hands trembling just a little.

He had read it once.

Then twice.

Now a third time.

Each word hit harder than the last, scrawled in your handwriting — slightly rushed, ink smudged near the edge where you’d probably leaned your elbow like you always did.

Steve stepped in, brushing snow off his jacket, eyes narrowing immediately at the look on Bucky’s face.

“Hey,” Steve said gently, careful. “What’s wrong?”

Bucky didn’t answer right away. He just kept staring at the paper like it held the entire universe.

Steve leaned forward, concern building. “Buck?”

Bucky's gaze stayed fixed on the paper, his thumb rubbing over the last line like it might vanish if he stopped touching it. Then — slowly — he looked up.

And Steve’s heart dropped. Because Bucky Barnes, mouthy ladies’ man, unshakable Sergeant Barnes, had tears in his eyes.

“She’s pregnant,” Bucky whispered, his voice barely there. He blinked, breath catching.

There was a beat of silence — and then Steve's mouth opened in a stunned, breathless laugh.

“Jesus, Buck,” Steve breathed, standing as the words hit him. “You’re gonna be a dad?”

Bucky shook his head, jaw tightening, smile breaking free like light through clouds. “Six months along. She found out just after I left. She didn’t wanna tell me sooner — didn’t wanna distract me.”

Steve stepped forward, gripping Bucky’s shoulder. “Buck…”

Bucky let out a short, shaky laugh and folded the letter up carefully, tucking it back into the inside pocket of his coat, close to his heart. “A kid, Steve. I’m gonna have a baby. With her.”

“She’ll be a hell of a mother,” Steve said softly.

Bucky pulled him into a hug before he even realized what he was doing. The kind of hug men didn’t give each other unless it was earned through blood, war, and years of brotherhood. Steve hugged him back just as tight.

“You gotta come home for this,” Steve said against Bucky’s shoulder. “You hear me?”

“I will,” Bucky said fiercely, pulling back, that old steel in his voice. “We finish this mission. We stop Zola. Then I go home. I’m not missing that. I won’t.”

Steve gave him a firm nod. “One last job.”

“One last,” Bucky echoed, eyes lifting to the mountains beyond the tent wall. “Then I get to hold her. Both of ‘em.”

The snow kept falling. The train would be here soon.

But for a moment, there was warmth in that tent — a pulse of hope beating hard and stubborn against the cold world outside.

And in Bucky’s chest, beneath layers of wool and metal and grief, your letter sat close to his heart — a promise of what was waiting if he could just survive the night.

────────────────────────

One Month Later

Brooklyn, April 1945

Sunlight slanted through the lace curtains, warm and golden on the worn floorboards. Your fingers moved fast across the keys, glasses perched low on your nose, your rounded stomach nudging the edge of the desk.

You were working on an article about women in shipyards. Words came easier when you didn’t think about how long it’d been since the last letter.

You tried not to count the days anymore.

Then — a knock.

Your hands paused over the keys. You glanced at the clock on the wall. Just past four.

With a soft grunt, you pushed yourself up, one hand bracing the small of your back. You crossed the room slowly, brushing crumbs from your sweater, muttering, “If that’s Mrs. Klemanski again askin’ for sugar—”

You opened the door.

And saw Steve.

Your heart jumped up into your throat before you could stop it.

His uniform looked sharper than ever, chest full of medals, that familiar bashful way he stood with his cap held between both hands. Your smile came without permission.

“Steve,” you said, relief threading through your voice. “You’re—wait—where’s Bucky?”

Then your eyes dropped. You saw what he was holding — a folded jacket, a bundle of letters tied in twine, something metal glinting dully between his fingers.

Your smile vanished.

“No,” you whispered, instantly shaking your head. “No—”

Steve’s face cracked. Like something in him broke the second you said it. He didn’t speak. Just stepped forward with trembling hands, like he could soften the blow if he was gentle enough.

You backed away, hand flying to your mouth.

“No, no, no—don’t. Don’t say it.”

“Sweetheart—” he started softly.

“Don’t call me that, Steve—where is he?” Your voice shook, louder now. “Where is he?”

Steve’s eyes welled up. “The train—we were ambushing Hydra. Something went wrong, Buck—he—he fell.”

Your knees buckled a little. You reached for the edge of the wall to steady yourself.

“I don’t understand,” you croaked. “He promised—he said he’d come back. He promised me, Steve.”

“I know,” Steve said, stepping inside, setting Bucky’s things down on the table like they were sacred. “I know. He meant it.”

“No, no—he wouldn’t leave me.” Your voice cracked, nearly childish in disbelief. “He—he was coming home, we were—he was gonna hold the baby, we hadn’t even picked names—”

Steve crossed the space in two strides and caught you just as your legs gave out. He held you tightly against him, like he was trying to keep you from falling apart with just his arms.

“I’m so sorry,” he whispered, over and over again, into your hair. “I’m so sorry. I tried—I tried to get to him. He was—he was just gone.”

You were shaking. Hands fisting into Steve’s shirt, crying so hard your whole body trembled.

“He was supposed to come home,” you rasped, face buried in his chest. “He promised me, Steve. He swore it. He said—he said after this—he’d come back.”

“I know. I know.” His voice cracked and you felt his tears fall against your hair.

You cried like the world had ended. And for you, it had.

You didn’t even notice the letters scattered across the table, or the chain with the dog tags hanging over the edge. Not yet.

You just held on to Steve like he was the last piece of Bucky left in the world.

And in that moment, maybe he was.

One Year Later

Brooklyn, April 1946, 6:04 PM.

You juggled your bag, house keys, and the folded newspaper under one arm as you pushed open the door to your apartment. It clicked shut behind you with a satisfying clunk — thicker walls, newer locks, good insulation. Worth every penny.

You hadn’t gotten two steps in when the smell hit you.

Garlic, tomatoes, something rich and savory wafting in the air. Your brows furrowed.

You didn’t cook. Not when you’d been running around chasing sources all day.

The quiet babble of a baby's voice reached your ears before you could say anything.

You moved toward the kitchen, already shrugging off your coat.

“Jamie?” you called, more out of instinct and confusion than alarm.

“Hey,” a familiar voice called from the kitchen.

There he was—Steve, of all people—standing at your tiny stove like he owned it, sleeves rolled to his elbows, stirring something in a pot. His cheeks flushed a little as he turned toward you, sheepish.

“I, uh… hope it’s alright. Didn’t mean to intrude,” he said with that boyish, bashful charm.

You leaned your hip against the doorframe, staring. “You're not intruding. Just surprising. Last I heard you were in Marseille.”

“Got back yesterday,” he replied, gently bumping Jamie’s foot with his hand as your son giggled, “And I figured I’d surprise you. Hope you don’t mind.”

You blinked, then shook your head with a soft huff of laughter. “Mind? I’m just surprised Mrs. B let you walk away with Jamie. She told me she was keepin’ him overnight so I could get some rest.“

Steve chuckled, rubbing the back of his neck. “She said I could take him. Only because I promised to bring him back with no less than ten fingers and ten toes.”

You raised a brow. “And?”

He grinned. “I counted twice. All still there.”

“I'm just glad Mrs B loves Jamie more than she dislikes me,” you teased lightly, stepping forward.

Steve snorted as he wiped his hands on a towel. “I think she’s finally warming up to you.”

“Only took her a decade and a half,” you said dryly.

Your eyes shifted toward the high chair near the small table.

There he was—your Jamie. James Steven Barnes. Nine months old, dark hair a soft mess on his head, cheeks full and pink, legs kicking in slow, distracted rhythm as he banged a wooden spoon against the tray. He lit up the moment he saw you.

“Hey, baby,” you cooed, crossing the room quickly. You scooped him into your arms with ease, planting soft kisses across his face as he squealed in delight. “Mama missed you somethin’ awful.”

He babbled and reached for your face, hands warm and sticky.

Steve leaned over the counter, watching the two of you with something unspoken in his eyes. Something soft and heavy.

“Thanks,” you murmured without looking up, brushing Jamie’s hair back. “For watchin’ him.”

“Always,” he said quietly.

You glanced at him, then down at the little boy now tucked against your chest. You bounced him gently, kissing the crown of his head.

He looked so much like Bucky.

Jamie’s eyes had his smile in them. That crooked brightness. That same stubborn little crease between his brows when he concentrated. Every day he got older, he looked more like him. Sometimes it ached. Sometimes it made you laugh.

“Dinner’s almost ready,” Steve said, breaking the silence. “Nothing fancy. Chicken and potatoes. I followed a recipe from one of those little books Mrs. Barnes keeps in her kitchen. The ones with the oil stains and notes in the margins.”

Your eyes narrowed playfully. “You can read her notes?”

“She writes in cursive. I’m not illiterate.”

You snorted. “I didn’t say it, you said it.”

Jamie giggled, delighted by your laugh.

The apartment had gone soft with golden lamplight. The radio murmured low jazz in the background, and your living room-kitchen hybrid felt, for once, more like home than like memory.

Jamie sat now wriggling in your lap, pudgy fingers smacking the edge of the table as he made soft, happy grunts. You held a spoon in one hand, alternating between your own plate and coaxing tiny, mashed-up bites of potato toward your son’s mouth.

Steve, across from you, ate slower now. The nervous energy that had filled him while cooking seemed to have drained, leaving him thoughtful as he glanced between you and Jamie.

You scraped the spoon along the edge of Jamie’s dish, gently cooing at him, “You’re makin’ more mess than you’re eatin’, baby.”

Jamie shrieked with laughter and kicked his legs against your thigh. You rolled your eyes, smiling, brushing his hair back.

Steve watched, silently fond.

After a moment, you leaned back slightly, sighing. “Steve…”

He looked up.

You hesitated, then spoke, voice gentler than your usual sharpness. “You gotta stop putting your life on pause for us.”

Steve’s brows furrowed. “What’re you talking about?”

“I’m serious,” you said. “You’re here all the time, runnin’ yourself ragged makin’ sure we’re okay. You don’t owe us that.”

“I don’t see it like that,” he said.

“Well, maybe you should,” you said, a bit sharper now. “For God’s sake, Steve… there’s a woman across the damn ocean who’s in love with you. Who you love.”

Steve was quiet, picking at his food. “I do love her,” he admitted softly, after a beat. “I think about her every day.”

You nodded slowly, adjusting Jamie in your lap as he reached for your plate.

“But,” Steve added, eyes lifting to meet yours, steady and sure, “I love you. And I love Jamie. It’s not one or the other. It just… is. And Peggy understands that.”

You looked down at Jamie, brushing your thumb across his cheek as he leaned into you, content. You kissed his temple. “You were here when I needed someone. I’ll never forget that.”

“I wasn’t just here because you needed someone,” Steve said. “I wanted to be here.”

You swallowed thickly.

He cleared his throat, his demeanor shifting. More serious now. “I, uh… I need to tell you something.”

You looked at him. “What is it?”

“I’m going away for a while. Longer this time.”

You froze. “What do you mean?”

“They think Hydra’s back,” he said quietly. “There’s a lead—small, but real. I’ve gotta follow it. Could take a few months. Maybe more.”

Your fingers curled instinctively around Jamie’s waist, holding him tighter.

You were quiet for a long moment. The kind of quiet that stretches over aching bones.

Then you asked, voice tight, “Are you comin’ back?”

He nodded. “I’ll always come back.”

You stared at him, gaze sharp, testing him for truth. “You can’t promise that.”

Steve’s jaw tightened. “No. But I’ll try.”

You looked away, blinking hard. “Just… don’t die, Stevie. I can’t lose another man I love.”

You sighed before kissing the top of Jamie’s head and gently passed him across the table. “Take him while I clean up.”

Steve took him easily, and Jamie reached for his face like he always did.

You stood at the sink, your back to both of them, hands trembling as you rinsed plates that suddenly felt too heavy.

Behind you, Jamie giggled.

And Steve said softly, “You’re not alone. You’ll never be alone.”

────────────────────────

Siberia – June 1946

It was colder than Steve had ever felt. The kind of cold that went through bones and memories, through war medals and stitched-up wounds. Snow drifted down in ghost-silent flurries outside the base, the world unnervingly still.

One of the lasts Hydra holdouts. Tucked into a mountain, almost forgotten.

The air inside was sharp with antiseptic and old blood. The hallways were long and shadowed, cracked concrete walls humming under the weight of hidden horrors. The Howling Commandos moved ahead in silence, boots heavy on the ground. Dum Dum took point. Gabe and Morita swept the side halls. But Steve… something had pulled him down this one, this narrow corridor lined with rusted steel doors and buzzing fluorescent lights.

He felt it before he saw it. Something like instinct. Like memory rising from his gut.

Then he saw him.

Encased in thick glass. Wires attached to skin. A cryogenic pod humming low and blue, the frost crawling up from the base, covering the sides in veils of condensation.

Steve froze.

He didn't breathe.

“God…” His voice was barely more than air.

Bucky.

Hair longer, tangled. Face gaunt. But it was him.

Still him.

And his arm…

Steve’s breath shuddered. The left arm was gone. Replaced with cold, glinting steel. Matte black plating layered in Hydra’s signature design, trailing from shoulder to fingertips. Wires snaked from the seams into the pod.

Steve's mouth opened, but no sound came out. It felt like grief all over again—but this time crueler. Because this time, Bucky was here. And Hydra had done this to him. The scars on his shoulder where steel met flesh were jagged and red, raw as if they'd been carved with no thought for healing. His ribs showed under his skin. His hair was matted. There were bruises on his face, half-healed and sunken.

He looked like a ghost.

“Cap?” Dum Dum’s voice came, low and hesitant behind him. “What do we do?”

Steve swallowed hard, eyes locked on Bucky's face. “We don’t touch it. We don’t dare open it. We don’t know what it’s keeping him alive from.”

────────────────────────

Somewhere in Southern England – Allied Base Hospital, One Week Later

It took seven days to move the chamber.

Howard Stark and his team worked around the clock. Peggy Carter coordinated intelligence and security. The best British and American minds worked shoulder-to-shoulder in the converted medical wing of the base. Stark called in every favor he had left. The facility practically vibrated with tension.

And then the pod was opened.

Slowly. Carefully. Oxygen, sedatives, heart monitors. He was intubated, stabilized, removed from cryo. They monitored every breath. Every neural spike.

And then…

Bucky screamed.

Woke like a beast torn from hell.

Hands strapped down immediately. His body thrashed, nearly flipping the bed. He screamed again—no words, just noise. Animal, broken, panicked. One arm flailed wildly—metal catching the edge of a tray, sending it clattering to the floor. A doctor tried to restrain him and got nearly thrown across the room.

Steve rushed in, yelling over the chaos. “Bucky! It’s me—it’s Steve! You’re safe, pal, it’s me!”

But Bucky didn’t hear him.

Didn’t see him.

His eyes—those warm, familiar blue eyes—were wide and glassy. Vacant and terror-stricken. He screamed again and then curled into himself, sobs ripping from his chest. A medic got a sedative in him. Slowly, the tremors faded. His breathing slowed.

Steve stood frozen.

Peggy stepped beside him, placing a hand on his arm. “He doesn’t recognize you.”

Steve didn’t respond. His hands curled into fists at his sides. “They broke him,” he whispered. “They really broke him.”

────────────────────────

Later That Night

The room was dim now. Quiet. Just the steady beep of a monitor and the gentle hiss of the IV.

Steve sat at Bucky’s bedside. His best friend lay still, unconscious again. Shackled loosely—just in case. The metal arm still gleamed under the muted lights. Stark had examined it with thinly veiled horror. “Cut nerves, fused bone, direct-to-brain wiring,” he’d muttered. “Barbaric. Brilliant. Inhuman.”

Bucky’s skin was a mess of faded bruises and whip-thin scars. The tips of electrodes had left circular burns along his chest and temples.

Steve brushed a strand of hair back from Bucky’s forehead, gently. “I should’ve found you sooner.”

He wasn’t sure if he was talking to Bucky or himself.

Behind him, Peggy lingered in the doorway. Watching quietly. “You never stopped believing he was out there.”

Steve didn’t turn around. “I don't what I believed. I just thought that he'd somehow come back.”

Peggy stepped into the room, her voice gentle. “And now he has. It’s just going to take time.”

Steve finally looked up at her, eyes tired. “How do I tell her? How do I go back to Brooklyn, look her in the eye, and say… he’s alive, but not really?”

Peggy didn’t have an answer.

────────────────────────

Southern England – Allied Base Hospital, September, 1946

It had been five months since Steve had last seen you. And it tore at him every time he thought about it. You’d written him faithfully, letters worn with fingerprints and smudged ink by the time he finished rereading them—every one a small, steady light.

You wrote about how Jamie had taken his first steps at the park, how he reached for a pigeon and toppled into the grass with a giggle so loud people turned to look. How his first word, predictably, had been “mama.” How you were trying to wean him off the bottle and that it wasn’t going well.

You’d written with joy—exhaustion sometimes—but joy, nonetheless. You never asked much in return. You never demanded updates. You let Steve share what he could when he could. And he had written back. But he hadn’t told you about Bucky.

Not because he didn’t want to.

Because he didn’t know how.

What was he supposed to say? “Bucky’s alive, but he doesn’t know he has a son. He wakes up screaming and cries for you like a man who doesn’t know time has moved on.”

You deserved rest. Not more weight.

So Steve kept it in. And he sat with Bucky. Every day.

────────────────────────

Hospital Recovery Wing.

It had been three months since they’d opened the pod.

Bucky was healing—physically, at least. The bruises were fading, and the medical team had finally managed to remove the rusted remnants of Hydra’s control nodes from his scalp. Howard Stark had designed a brace to help ease strain on the shoulder where flesh met steel. There were less screams at night now. Sometimes, there were even full nights of sleep.

But the mind—that was still a maze.

Steve watched from the hallway as Bucky sat near the window, a blanket over his shoulders, hair tucked back behind his ears. He was paler than usual. Leaner. His hands—his real one and the metal one—trembled sometimes when he tried to hold a cup of tea.

But his eyes had life again.

And pain.

And hope.

Steve stepped in. Bucky looked up, and for a second, Steve saw the old grin threatening the corner of his mouth.

“You got news?” Bucky asked, voice still rasped and lower than it used to be, like his throat hadn’t fully recovered from the screaming.

Steve nodded, sitting across from him. “Another lead on Hydra. A nest in the Alps. Small.”

Bucky didn’t care about that. He never did.

His fingers gripped the edge of the blanket. “Steve… just take me home.”

Steve’s heart cracked—again. “You’re not strong enough yet, Buck. You know that.”

Bucky’s eyes were bloodshot, a tremor in his jaw. “I don’t care. I can’t do this anymore, Stevie. I need her. Please—please—just let me see her. She’ll fix me. She always does.”

Steve looked down at his hands, swallowing the knot in his throat.

“She’s pregnant,” Bucky said suddenly. Desperate. “She told me. In the last letter. She’s pregnant and I’m here doing nothing. What if something happens? What if she needs me?”

Steve looked up slowly. He hadn’t told him. Bucky didn’t know.

“No,” Steve said softly. “Buck… she’s not pregnant.”

Bucky’s eyes snapped up in alarm.

Steve stood, pacing. “She was. A year and a half ago. You remember… pieces of it, I know. But it’s been almost two years since the train.”

Bucky looked lost. “But… the dreams. I keep reading her say she’s pregnant.”

“You remember what you needed to. What your heart clung to.”

Bucky’s voice dropped to a whisper. “What… what happened?”

Steve pulled a folded photo from his breast pocket. It was worn. The corners curled from too much handling. He handed it to Bucky gently.

It was you.

Holding Jamie.

In your lap, both of you bundled in coats on a bench, smiling at the camera. The baby’s grin was unmistakably Bucky’s.

“That’s your son, Buck,” Steve said quietly. “James Steven Barnes. He’s… he’s beautiful. He just turned one in July.”

Bucky stared at the photo for what felt like forever. His hand trembled as he held it. His lip quivered.

“I missed it.” His voice cracked. “I missed his first breath. First cry. First birthday. His first… everything.”

Steve crouched in front of him. “You survived. That’s what matters now. You get to be there now. And you will. He’s got your hair, you know. Wild as anything. And your laugh. Same crooked smile too, only shows when he’s about to get into trouble.”

Bucky gave a broken, watery laugh. “God. Steve. I gotta see ‘em.”

“I know.”

“I can’t wait ‘til I’m better. I need to see her, Stevie. Please. I need her. She keeps me here—just thinking about her. I hear her voice sometimes, I see her, clear as day. I need—” His voice broke again. “I need to know she’s real. That she’s safe. That she didn’t forget me.”

Steve rested a hand gently on Bucky’s shoulder, firm and steady. “She never forgot you, Buck. Not for a second.”

Bucky looked down, eyes wet. “Do you think she’ll still want me?”

Steve nodded slowly. “She’s never stopped. And Jamie—he’s going to know his father. Just… let’s get you strong enough to hold him first.”

Bucky clutched the photo to his chest and closed his eyes, whispering your name like a prayer.

────────────────────────

Brooklyn, October 1946 – Late Afternoon

The apartment was warm and golden with late afternoon light, soft jazz floating low from the radio, and the scent of clean laundry still faint in the air.

You sat cross-legged on the floor, your skirt fanned around your knees, Jamie sprawled across your lap in all his squirmy, wiggly glory. His tiny hands tugged at your necklace with single-minded glee.

“Alright, Jamie bear, time to close those eyes,” you said gently, as Jamie giggled, flopping onto his side in a dramatic act of defiance. “I mean it, Mr. James Steven Barnes—fifteen minutes, that’s all I ask.”

He shrieked in laughter.

“Mama,” he giggled, pointing at you like he’d won something. “Mamaaaaa.”

“Oh, you think I’m funny now?” You leaned in, kissing his cheek noisily. “I’ll remember that when you’re sixteen and I’m threatening to walk you to school in curlers.”

Jamie laughed again, grabbing for your nose this time.

You gave him a side-eye. “Baby, I’m gonna be honest—you’re dangerously close to getting tickled into submission.”

He squealed, thrashing happily as you wiggled your fingers near his sides.

“You little tyrant,” you murmured affectionately, brushing his dark hair back from his forehead. “How can something so small hold me hostage with just a smile? I used to be terrifying, you know. Ask anyone. Your mother used to demand respect.”

He blinked up at you like you were the sun, gurgling some nonsense about “ba-da!” before grabbing his foot and trying to chew it.

You sighed, wrapping your arms around him. “You’re exhausting, and perfect. And I’m already losing this war.”

Just as you rocked him gently, trying to coax him into at least entertaining the idea of sleep, there was a knock at the door.

knock knock knock.

You froze, your hand resting on Jamie’s head. His body went still too, his laughter pausing as he tilted his head in curiosity, those wide, wondering blue eyes staring at the door.

There was nothing ominous about the knock. It was solid. Simple. But something in your bones went cold. Something deep and hidden in your belly clenched the way it had when Steve stood in that doorway a year and a half ago—holding a folded uniform and dog tags, with grief weighing down his eyes like stone.

You swallowed, whispered, “Stay here, baby,” as Jamie stared at you with a questioning look, still quiet.

You padded barefoot to the door slowly, every nerve in your body humming. The familiar creak of the hardwood beneath your feet didn’t comfort you like it usually did. Your hand trembled slightly on the knob, your heart pounding without rhythm.

You opened the door.

Steve stood there, tall and square-shouldered in his uniform, his hat tucked under one arm, and that soft, almost apologetic look in his eyes. You blinked, stunned, still registering the sudden appearance of him. Before you could even form a word—

He shifted.

And behind him stood someone else.

You didn’t breathe.

He was thinner and yet... bigger. Paler. His hair longer, jaw unshaven. The blue of his eyes more haunted. His shoulders stooped, as if the air itself weighed too much. A right hand holding a duffle. The other—

Your eyes dropped involuntarily.

And your breath stopped cold.

A gleam of dull silver. Seamless metal. The joints so real, so smooth, that for a split second, your brain couldn’t compute what you were seeing.

Your gaze snapped back to his face.

Bucky.

You stared.

And so did he.

Your knees almost gave out, hand flying to your mouth.

His eyes found yours—and they filled like floodgates breaking. He didn’t smile. He didn’t say anything.

He looked at you, like he’d been starved and was seeing food for the first time. He took one shaking step forward and whispered your name.

You didn’t think. You didn’t breathe. You just ran.

The tears came fast, blurring your vision, and then your arms were around his neck, and his good arm dropped the bag and wrapped around your waist as you collapsed into him.

You clung to him like your body remembered something your mind was still catching up to. Your fingers brushed the metal at his shoulder for half a second and you froze—staggered, breath caught—but then pressed your face to his throat, choosing his warmth over your confusion.

He was real. Cold metal and warm skin and heartbeat thudding under your hand. He was real.

Bucky buried his face in your neck, inhaling like he didn’t believe you were real, holding you with his one good arm like he’d never let go again.

“I thought—I thought I’d lost you,” you choked out, pressing your face against his cheek. “I thought—I held your dog tags, Bucky—God, I—”

“I know,” he choked. “I know, baby. I’m so sorry.”

Behind you, a little voice called from the living room. “Mama?”

You stilled. Bucky lifted his head.

His eyes were wide.

“That... is that him?” His voice cracked.

You nodded. Gently untangling yourself, you stepped back, reached for his hand, and led him a few steps inside.

You pulled him gently into the apartment, guiding him just far enough for Jamie to come into view—standing wobbly on two legs, gripping the edge of the couch for balance, his gaze locked on the stranger, with big, curious eyes.

“Jamie,” you said softly, crouching beside him, heart pounding, “baby, this is your daddy.”

Bucky’s breath hitched audibly. He dropped into a slow, careful crouch, almost like he was afraid he’d scare the child by existing.

Jamie waddled closer, curious, and unafraid.

Bucky stared, completely still.

Jamie blinked at him. Then his face cracked into a gummy, delighted grin. “Pup!” he declared, mispronouncing it as he pointed at Bucky.

Bucky let out a choked breath of a laugh—half-sob, half-shock. “Hi, buddy,” he whispered, opening his arm slowly, still scared.

Jamie stepped into it without hesitation.

And Bucky wept as he held his son for the first time, cradling that tiny body like porcelain.

You moved beside them, touching his shoulder—his metal shoulder. He flinched slightly, but relaxed when your hand stayed steady.

You leaned in, whispering against the side of his head. “He’s been waiting for you.”

“I missed so much,” Bucky whispered hoarsely. “God... he looks like me. But he’s got your nose. He—he said Mama. He can talk?”

“Just a few words,” you murmured. “He took his first steps this summer.”

Bucky’s face crumpled, and he pulled Jamie closer to his chest. “I’m here now,” he said softly. “I swear. I’m here.”

Jamie reached up, tugging gently at his hair, and Bucky actually laughed—a real one this time.

And for the first time in so long, the ache in your chest loosened—just a little.

Because he came home to you.

And he was real.

And he was yours.

.

[meowabunga]

neglected guinea pig + scary cat

[meowabunga]

[meowabunga]

Elevator, Baby!

Summary : The team thinks Bucky has a crush on the tower’s interior designer. They don’t know that they’re already married.

Pairing : New Avenger!Bucky Barnes x Interior designer!reader (she/her) 

Warnings/tags : Thunderbolts* spoilers!!!!!!! Secret wife trope. Tower fic! Secret-ish baby. Cursing, not-too-detailed descriptions of sex, pregnancy, (Please let me know if I miss anything!!!)

Word count : 6.7k 

Requested by : two anons! Based on this and this.

Note : I combined two requests, I hope that’s alright, anons! Enjoy!

Bucky only stayed at The Watchtower three days a week.

Officially, those days were for debriefings, strategy syncs, mission prep, and what Alexei affectionately called team bonding.

The rest of the week, he goes off-grid and minimal contact, calling it rest and recuperation. 

He spent those days outside the city, tucked away in a modest, two-story house in the suburbs. 

The walls were painted in earthy tones. The porch creaked when it rained. The neighbours didn’t ask questions. But most importantly, it was where you, the love of his life, resided full time. 

It was home.

Bucky had closed on the house exactly nine months and fourteen days ago. A week later, he’d married you under a willow tree in the backyard with no fanfare, only Sam, Joaquin, and Isaiah Bradley as guests, and a ring you both picked out from a vintage shop in Brooklyn. Sam had joked that it must have been the best day of his overextended, complicated life.

He was right. 

Still, not a single member of his newly assembled team had a clue.

They knew Bucky Barnes, the leader of the New Avengers, war-hardened and famously chronically single. They knew the efficient, don’t-ask-me-about-my-weekends version of him. They did not know that the same man kissed his wife’s temple every morning before she left for work, took out the trash without being asked, and spent his evenings slow dancing with you in the kitchen to whatever jazz record was spinning on the old turntable.

That part of him was private.

He didn’t keep you a secret out of shame — Bucky showed how much he loved you in the ways that mattered. But with many of his old enemies still out there, keeping you out of the spotlight was non-negotiable. 

It was especially necessary now that the New Avengers were under public scrutiny, the media hounding them with every move, and Val running ops like a government-sponsored reality show.

But, of course, what he least expected happened.

When Val asked Mel to source a top-tier interior designer for the Watchtower’s massive renovation, Bucky didn’t say anything.

He didn’t pull any strings. He didn’t say a word.

But of course, Mel found your firm. It was one of the best in town, after all.

Of course, all he could do was stare blankly when Mel casually dropped your name in a team meeting two weeks later. You, who’d been growing your design firm from the ground up, known for clean lines and warm spaces and zero tolerance for pretentious decor.

And when you told Bucky that you’d accepted the Watchtower job, he’d smiled weakly and said, “We’ll figure it out.”

Which led to this moment.

—

Your first day on the job was a Monday morning. 

You stepped into the lobby of the newly renamed Watchtower, hard hat hooked on your hip, leather-bound notebook under one arm, and your chewed up pencil behind your ear.

You, as planned, acted completely unfamiliar with the man you’d kissed goodbye at 7 a.m. over toast.

You approached the cluster of Avengers who’d been haphazardly gathered for your arrival — Ava, John, Yelena, Bob, Alexei, and Bucky. Your husband leaned against a column, arms folded, feigning indifference while silently praying his face didn’t give away his precious little secret.

But then your eyes met.

For one fleeting moment, your smile brightened. But you covered it up and offered him a hand like you hadn’t fallen asleep his bare chest fourteen  hours ago, and said, “Nice to meet you. I’m your interior designer.”

Bucky took your hand.

The handshake lasted two seconds too long.

“James Barnes,” he said. “Pleasure.”

Ava raised an eyebrow.

You let go of his hand, nodded politely, and turned to the others to introduce yourself. 

Your voice was steady, your posture perfect, but Bucky noticed the way you tapped your thumb against the spine of your notebook — the tiniest nervous habit. He kissed that hand every night.

When you walked off to start your tour, Ava elbowed Bucky in the ribs.

“She is too pretty. If you don’t ask her out, I will.”

“M’ not into her,” Bucky said. It was the worst lie he’d told in years.

“C’mon man,” John chuckled. “That looked like love at first right.”

Bucky just shrugged and turned away, pretending to be interested in a support beam.

—

Six Weeks Later

You were everywhere.

Literally everywhere inside the Watchtower. 

You were in hallways, stairwells, and repurposed labs. You were under floorboards to check for old wiring. You were balancing precariously on scaffolding with paint samples in one hand and a clipboard in the other. You had a team, sure, but you were the kind of interior designer who believed that breathing the same dust as your contractors was the only way to truly understand your art.

Within a month, you turned a gutted superhero facility into your battlefield.

And you made it look good.

You had turned bare concrete into well thought out sketches, made a temporary lounge out of broken furniture and vintage rugs, and wrestled the tower’s unmaintained lighting grid into semi-functional compliance. You worked long hours. You cursed openly at bad insulation. You drank your coffee black and your water in gallons, and somewhere along the way, the tower became a passion project, your baby. 

And the New Avengers grew fond of you. 

They tried to be subtle about it, watching you from doorways or pausing in their sparring sessions whenever you passed through to say hi. 

You’d wave a friendly hi back, before going back to being all-business.

At this point, you and Bucky had practiced your we-just-met act to an Oscar-worthy level. You faked polite smiles, formal greetings, and total lack of familiarity, even when you showered together the night before. 

But sometimes, it slipped through the cracks. 

You can help but steal glances at each other — each one lasting just a little too long. His hand would find your lower back when he leaned over your desk to study a blueprint, fingertips brushing that sensitive spot just beneath your shirt hem. Your voice dropped half an octave whenever you addressed him in front of others, slipping in sergeant under your breath like it wasn’t a private reference from your bedroom.

Sometimes, you’d pass him in the hallway and murmur things quiet enough only he could hear. A reminder of what you’d do to him the moment he got home. Or what he’d done to you the last time he snuck back to the house for the night. You’d say it just loud enough to leave him frozen in place for a second — then he’d look like he needed to punch a wall or take a very cold shower to stay professional.

You made it impossible to concentrate.

So Bucky, for all his practiced stoicism and control, was coming undone.

Which was probably why the team started to notice.

Or, more accurately, why John Walker lost his goddamn mind one Tuesday afternoon.

The makeshift common room — still mid-renovation — was still half-furnished, but they made it work. Yelena was scrolling through her phone while Bob napped on a deflated air mattress. Ava cleaned her knives at the dining table that had mismatched chairs. Alexei was rearranging the fridge after someone messed up his system.

Bucky stood near the large window, arms folded, pretending to be interested in the HVAC schematics you were showing to one of your contractors across the room.

You laughed at something the guy said, and Bucky’s eyes twitched in jealousy. 

That was all it took.

John groaned loud enough to echo off the half-installed acoustic panels. Then, on his last straw, he flopped onto the couch dramatically.

“If you like her, Barnes, just ask her out already. Jesus,” John said, dragging a hand down his face. “You’ve been eye-fucking her across the hall for a month.”

Bucky just raised an eyebrow, unimpressed.

“She’s out of my league,” he said coolly. It was a textbook deflection. “Besides, she’s not even my type.”

Yelena immediately snorted. “Liar.”

Ava didn’t look up from her knives. “Liar.”

Even Bob, barely conscious, mumbled. “Liarrrr.”

Alexei only chuckled.

“What is wrong with you?!” John sat up, “You’re literally, like—what? A hundred and ten years old? You can’t still be doing the whole ‘girls don’t like me’ routine.”

Bucky gave a half-shrug, still not looking away from where you were, now climbing a ladder with a pencil behind your ear.

“She’s here to work,” he said. “I respect that.”

“Ah,” Alexei scoffed. “Is that why you follow her around like Roomba?”

Bucky had no answer to that.

—

One Afternoon

Today had been a long day

It was dusty. It was loud. Contractors bickered, blueprints got smudged, and Bucky had looked unreasonably good doing absolutely nothing — just standing around in that damn new uniform with the red star on his right arm.

You hadn’t had more than a couple hours alone where you weren’t sleeping or eating— not at home, and especially not in the Tower, when at least one other team member would be hovering like a nosy, overgrown child.

So when you saw Bucky slipping into the elevator alone, you called out for him.

“Mr. Barnes,” you half-shouted to get his attention, jogging across the hall. “Hold the door.”

He pressed the button with his metal hand, glancing up with a fond smile. “Didn’t know we were doing last names now,” he said, just above a whisper.

“Would you rather I call you Sergeant?” you replied quietly as you slipped inside, brushing past him just enough to make it intentional.

The doors slid shut.

And then, just as the elevator began its slow descent, you heard a mechanical in the belly of the Watchtower. The lights above flickered once—then again—before cutting out entirely.

A single red emergency light buzzed to life.

You stumbled slightly, grabbing onto Bucky’s arm instinctively. 

“What was that?” you asked.

“Power’s off,” he confirmed, chuckling when you jumped, kissing your temple to let you know that it was going to be okay, that the elevator was ventilated well enough for you to survive a long time in there. 

You slapped the emergency call button, and…. Nothing. Not even a buzz.

You blinked up at the ceiling like divine intervention might come through the grates. 

“Bucky,” you pouted, clutching his arm a little tighter, “do something.”

“I am doing something,” he said as he crouched down and nudged at the panel, making no real effort. “It's just not working.”

“Well, pry the door open or—use your metal arm or something!”

He shot you a dry look over his shoulder. “Can’t. This thing was built to withstand the hulk.”

You watched him stand and lean back against the wall like he was settling in. Like… he didn’t mind this.

“You have got to be kidding me,” you sighed, “I’ve got to meet the people installing wallpaper in ten minutes.”

Bucky folded his arms across his broad chest, his eyes maddeningly calm. “Could be worse,” he offered with a shrug.

“Bucky,” you warned, eyes narrowing.

“What?” he replied, too innocently, too calmly.

“We’re technically both on the clock,” you reminded him.

He shrugged. “We’re also stuck. Sounds like PTO to me.”

You rolled your eyes, but can’t help the smile on the corners of your mouth. “You’re impossible.”

That crooked grin formed on his face. “You’re tellin’ me you haven’t missed me, doll?”

“Don’t,” you said, pointing a finger to his chest.

“Don’t what?”

“That voice. That look. You're gonna  get us in trouble.”

He pushed off the wall and stepped closer. He was not touching you, but he was near enough that your heart began its traitorous dance, even after all this time. “We’ve barely touched each other. Last time was what— four days ago?”

“Four days is not that long,” you said.

He leaned in, lips brushing the shell of your ear. “It used to be four hours.”

You swallowed hard, but he was not done yet. 

“Used to be I couldn’t walk past you in our house without stopping to touch you.”

You looked away, heat creeping up your neck.

“Used to be I’d wake up with your thighs already wrapped around my face,” his voice dropped an octave lower, “And now I’m lucky if I get a quick kiss before you run off to yell at plumbers.”

“I did give you a kiss this morning,” you looked up at him.

“Not the kind I meant,” he said, eyes glued to your mouth, then back to your eyes.

You choked on a laugh, shoving at his chest weakly. “That’s very inappropriate, Mr. Barnes.”

“I’m your husband.” He bit your earlobe gently. “And I’m tired of pretending we don’t wake up in the same bed.”

“We’ve got… responsibilities.” Your fingers were already in his hair. “People are counting on us.”

“Let them wait,” he muttered, kissing you slow and deep now, mouth moving with that sinful confidence that made your knees buckle. “You’ve been killing me all week, walking around this place like you don’t belong to me.”

“I am yours,” you whispered against his lips, heat coiling in your belly. “But the cameras—”

“Power’s off.” He reminded, hand sliding up your thigh, curling behind your knee and hiking your leg around his hip. “You need this. I know you do.”

“You’re cocky.”

“I’m right,” he said, kissing you again. This time you kissed him back harder.

Your body gave in before your words did. It always did with him.

And as his fingers slipped past the lace of your underwear and his mouth returned to your neck, you forgot entirely about the elevator, the job, the rules.

You weren’t the Watchtower’s interior designer anymore.

You were just his wife.

And he was very, very good at reminding you why.

Neither of you noticed the faint red light in the ceiling blink back to life. Didn’t notice the tiny lens in the far corner of the elevator was still functional. 

You had no idea Yelena had rigged a backup battery into the surveillance system.

And you definitely didn’t know the power outage wasn’t an accident.

It was a setup.

—

Later that afternoon 

The new Avengers gathered in the security room like kids about to witness an R-rated movie.

And in a way… they were.

Yelena had the footage queued up. She sat with arms folded, boots propped up on the console, a smug grin across her face.

This was her idea, after all— playing matchmaker as a favour to Bucky. 

“It’s visual-only,” she said, almost too casually. “No audio. You know—normal CCTV stuff. But we don’t need sound to read body language.”

She hit play.

The plan was simple: trap Bucky Barnes and that absurdly hot interior designer in the Watchtower elevator to see if he finally made a move.

“Ten bucks says he doesn’t even talk to her,” Ava declared, leaning against the wall.

“I say he kisses her,” Bob offered gently, still half-asleep in sweatpants, rubbing his eyes. “Just a little one. He’s always so tense, it would be nice to see him… be sweet.”

John had brought popcorn like it was a movie premiere. “I want to believe he asked her out,” he said. 

“Today is the day,” Alexei nodded in agreement, “ I can feel it.”

The screen flickered to life.

Bucky stepped into the elevator first, holding the door for you. 

The doors closed.

Nothing out of the ordinary at first. It looked like normal conversation.

Then the elevator stopped.

You pressed the emergency call button. Nothing. 

Bucky tried the panel, giving up too quickly.

Yelena’s grin widened. “Showtime.”

And then, Bucky stepped closer, whispering something into your ears.

“Classic,” John said, leaning in. “Here we go. Here comes the kiss on the cheek.”

The kiss landed on your lips instead.

It was not a peck. To everyone’s surprise, it was hungry.

The room went deathly silent.

Ava’s arms slowly uncrossed. “Okay….”

Bob’s mouth parted. “Oh…”

Then— then came the second kiss.

It was longer. 

Your hands in his hair. His metal arm was up… your skirt? 

Your back hit the elevator wall.

John sat forward slowly. “Wait… wait.”

Then, you climbed him.

It got very explicit very quickly.

John’s popcorn slid from his lap, forgotten.

Alexei was blinking like he’d witnessed a cult ritual.

Ava whispered, “Jesus Christ.”

Bob clutched the arms of his chair. “That’s— that’s not him asking her out on a date.”

“Is the—” Alexei squinted, his voice dry, “—is the camera shaking?”

“No,” Ava said hoarsely. “That’s the elevator shaking.”

“Fuck,” John gasped. “We should— we should stop.”

Yelena stared at the screen, frozen. “I didn’t mean for this to happen.”

Alexei held up a trembling finger. “He has not taken her to dinner. There was no courtship. There was no honour.”

Ava turned away from the monitor. “Turn it off. Turn it off!”

Yelena did.

The room plunged into an eerie silence.

Bob was still cross-legged on the floor. “I… I think there was a round two. Like… halfway through. I think I counted it. Different positions. Less vertical.”

They were all pale now.

Yelena stood up like she’d survived a car crash. “We are never speaking of this.”

“Delete the footage,” Ava added. “Burn it. Hack the cloud. Scrub the backups.”

“Gone,” Yelena said grimly. “It’s already gone.”

Alexei placed his mug down. “He has not even taken her out on date yet,” he repeated, horrified.

John slumped back into his chair, stunned “I’ll never look at elevators the same way.”

No one—not one of them—suspected marriage. No one suspected long-time commitment.

Not even a little.

They thought they’d witnessed a slip. A one-time break in Barnes’ solitude, a rare show of his desire.

They had no idea he fucked you like that at home every other day.

They just thought Bucky Barnes had the most soul-shattering game any man had ever possessed.

And not a single one of them ever got in that elevator without wincing ever again.

—

Six Weeks Later

It started out like any other off-day in the suburbs.

The early morning was quiet, with pale light spilling across the hardwood floors, the distant hum of a lawn mower down the street, and the smell of Bucky’s burnt-but-endearing attempt at breakfast wafting in from the kitchen. 

It was supposed to be peaceful.

But you were in the bathroom, staring at the positive pregnancy test with your hands trembling and your heart threatening to beat out of your chest.

Pregnant.

Three times, all different brands.

It wasn’t planned, not really. You have been talking about it, and even said you’d give it a go by the end of the year. 

Hell, you were on even the pill. But the last couple months had been a blur— long hours at the tower and stress-induced forgetfulness. 

Somewhere in the chaos of overtime and rushing out the door with a protein bar instead of breakfast, you must’ve slipped up. Maybe once. Maybe twice. Maybe that was enough.

You barely heard your own footsteps as you tiptoed down the hallway in a fog, still holding one of the tests like it might disappear if you blinked. Bucky was at the kitchen counter, humming under his breath, shirtless in his gray sweatpants, a bowl of strawberries in front of him with his dog tags reflecting in the morning sun.

He turned when he heard you come in, and his smile immediately faltered.

He could tell by the look on your face that something was… off.

“Sweetheart?” His brow furrowed as he stepped toward you, eyes looking over as if scanning for wounds. “Are you okay?”

You tried to say something, but nothing came out. You just looked at him with wide eyes, parted lips, and the test clenched tightly in your hand. 

His hands gently closed around your arms.

“Hey, hey, hey,” he said, his voice a little rough. “Breathe, doll. Tell me what’s going on. Did something happen?”

You shook your head, lip trembling. “No. Nothing like that. I just… I…”

He ducked his head, trying to catch your eyes. “Look at me,” he said, less demanding but more gentle. “It’s okay. Whatever it is, we can fix it. Just tell me.”

Your breath hitched. You looked down, uncurled your fingers, and held out the test.

Bucky looked at it.

Then up at you.

“…What is this?” he asked, almost cautiously. Like he needed confirmation.

You opened your mouth, but your voice cracked before it even came out. “I think I’m pregnant.”

He blinked twice. “You’re—”

You nodded, tears welling in your eyes. “I—I know. I was on the pill. I swear I was. But with everything going on at the tower and those back-to-back all-nighters and fuck, James, I must’ve messed up, I must’ve missed one or two—”

“Wait. Wait—wait,” he said suddenly. He stepped back just enough to look at you fully, like he needed the whole picture to understand. “You’re serious?”

You nodded again. “I wouldn’t—I wouldn’t joke about this.”

He was completely still, like the words were sinking into him bit by bit.

And then, to your surprise, he let out a shaky breath, laughed a little, and ran a hand through his hair.

“Jesus Christ,” he whispered. “You’re pregnant.”

You looked at him nervously, heart pounding. “I—I mean, it’s early. Like really early. Just a few weeks, I think. We don’t have to freak out. We can talk about it. Think about it. We can—”

But he cut you off, stepping forward again and cupping your face in both hands, his thumbs brushing away the tears on your cheeks. His eyes were glistening.

“Hey,” he said gently. “I’m not freaking out. I’m not freaking out. I’m just—holy shit, baby. I— you’re growing a little version of us in there. We’re doing this... if you… if you want this, too.”

You let out a breath you hadn’t realised you were holding, your arms wrapping around him instinctively.

“We’re doing this,” you whispered back, like saying it out loud made it more real. “I… I do want this.”

He kissed the top of your head, your temple, your cheek. “We were headed here anyway. Maybe I didn’t know it’d happen now, but…” He leaned back to look at you, eyes full of wonder. “I love you so much.”

You sniffled, laughing through it. “I was so scared.”

“You don’t have to be,” he said, “Never with me.”

There was a long moment where the two of you just held each other, breathing in the warmth of the moment. When…

“So, uh. What do we tell the team?”

You chuckled. “About what? The baby or the fact that we’re married?”

He winced. “Shit.”

“Yeah.”

Bucky wanted to share his joy, he really did. 

But he still had enemies. The kind who would use anything, anyone, to get to him.

And he would rather die than see your name — and his baby’s— end up on one of their lists.

“You still want to keep it quiet?” you asked quietly.

He didn’t answer right away. He looked at your stomach, his teeth clenching. 

“I don’t want anyone knowing if it puts you in danger,” he said finally. “I don’t care what they think of me. I just want you safe. Our family safe.”

You nodded. “Okay. So... in two or three months— the tower renovations’ll be done by then. I can just wear baggy clothes.”

He gave you a wary look. “You already wear baggy clothes.”

You shrugged. “I’ll wear bigger ones.”

Surely, this was a foolproof plan, right? 

—

It was successful for all of two weeks. You played your part, showed up to the tower, exchanged the usual small talk with the team, and pretended everything was normal, all while avoiding harmful construction materials and focusing on furnishing.

Then one morning, you looked pale coming out of the toilet, wiping acid from the corner of your mouth with tissue. Bob looked over, eyebrows raised in concern. You waved him off with a smile. 

“Fuck morning sickness,” you muttered, more to yourself than to him.

And that was it. You didn’t even think twice. You were too focused on the nausea, the spinning room, the unpleasant taste in your mouth. You didn’t realise you’d said it.

Bob didn’t clock it right away either. You’d already left the room by the time the words caught up with him. He was halfway through his coffee, reading a book, when—

He froze. His eyes widened.

“Wait…”

Morning sickness?

—

Bob didn’t say anything right away.

He sat there for a moment, staring at the spot where you’d stood. 

Morning sickness, his brain repeated again, louder now.

He stood up so fast his chair rolled back and hit the wall.

Fifteen minutes later, there was a closed-door meeting in Conference Room 7.

Ava, Yelena, Alexei, and John filed in, curious and worried—it wasn’t often that Bob called a we-need-to-talk-right-now meeting that didn’t involve a breach or a fire drill.

Bob stood at the head of the table, arms crossed, unreadable.

“She’s pregnant,” he said flatly.

Everyone blinked.

“…Who?” Ava asked, tilting her head.

Bob stared at her. “Bucky’s little elevator secret.”

Yelena raised an eyebrow. “How… How do you know?”

“She….” Bob started. “She said something about morning sickness.”

There was a beat of silence.

“Oh,” said Alexei, thoughtfully.

“...Oh,” Ava echoed.

Yelena’s eyes widened. “OH?”

John straightened up in his chair. “Hold on. Do you think—” He looked around the room, dropping his voice to a whisper, “—do you think Bucky could be the dad?”

They all looked at each other. The memory hit them at once like a suppressed group hallucination.

No one’s talked about it since. 

Not out of respect, but out of sheer trauma suppression and the fact that, frankly, they weren’t paid enough to bring it up.

“I mean,” Ava said slowly, “Did anyone see him with a condom?”

“Not that I can remember,” Yelena shuddered, brow furrowed. “But I wasn’t exactly memorising it.”

“Elevator baby,” Alexei whispered, stunned.

Bob just nodded grimly.

Then John, who’d been thinking too hard, looked up. “Do you think Bucky knows?”

The room went completely silent.

Ava blinked. “Shit.”

Yelena exhaled through her nose. “He’s either going to marry her in a panic or pass out.”

John rubbed his temples. “Do we… do we tell him?”

Bob looked down nervously. “Better question—who’s going to tell him?”

Everyone looked at each other.

No one volunteered.

So they did it together.

—

They confronted Bucky two hours later. In the gym, of all places.

He was mid-rep when they approached—shirt damp with sweat, and music blaring in his ears. His brows furrowed in concentration as he finished his set and racked the barbell with a clang.

That’s when he noticed them.

Five fully-grown adults in a semicircle, watching him. Staring, like it was going to be a goddamn intervention.

He tilted his head. “...who did you kill and where did you bury the body?”

Bob cleared his throat, stepping forward like a nervous HR rep. “Umm, that’s not why we’re here.”

Bucky pulled out one earbud. “Then what’s going on?”

“We need to talk.”

That phrase never meant anything good, and they all knew it. Ava shifted her weight from foot to foot like she had somewhere more pleasant to be (a landmine field, perhaps). John had his arms crossed and was chewing the inside of his cheek. Alexei was trying to look fatherly and failing spectacularly. And Yelena—oh, Yelena—was vibrating with the kind of energy that suggested she either had bad news or gossip so juicy it came with a side of fries.

Bucky glanced at them, suspicious. “Okay… what is this? Am I getting voted off the team?”

Yelena stepped forward, and just… spat it out. “She’s pregnant.”

That landed like a punch to the solar plexus. His brain buffered.

Oh shit. Oh shit. 

They knew. They’d figured it out.

How?

He licked his lips, then attempted to play dumb. “….Who?”

Ava folded her arms. “We have a feeling,” she started, unimpressed, “you might be able to figure it out. Considering you had some… fun… in the elevator a couple months ago.”

Bucky’s eyes twitched.” I—what? You’re saying—how do you even know about that?” 

Yelena raised a hand, almost sheepishly. “We, uh… we might’ve set up the elevator failure.”

John immediately smacked the back of her shoulder. “You. Not we. That was your idea.”

“I said might’ve!” she hissed.

“What we’re saying,” Alexei interjected, rubbing a hand down his face like a weary dad at a PTA meeting, “is that there is chance you are going to be dad.”

Bucky tried to laugh. It came out like a goose being strangled. “I’m not ready to move on from the elevator camera. That’s a massive violation of privacy. I—what kind of sick—”

“You did it in public,” Ava interrupted coldly.

“And you’re not denying it,” Bob added.

“I’m just saying,” Bucky snapped, pointing wildly, “you kept it? You still have the tape? Can I see it?”

Everyone groaned in unison.

John pinched the bridge of his nose. “You might have gotten a hook up pregnant, and the first thing you care about is your sex tape? Seriously?”

Bucky didn’t respond, which said a lot.

Bob said plainly, “But we’re pretty sure you didn’t use protection.”

“She was on the pill!” Bucky snapped.

“You still don’t do hookups bare, Bucky!” Ava exclaimed, voice rising.

“She hadn’t had sex with anyone else in years!”

“Anyone… else?” John asked, skeptical.

Bucky opened his mouth.

Closed it.

Opened it again.

And shut up.

Bucky groaned, dragging his hands down his face like he was trying to scrape the stress off his skin.

Then, finally, with a voice so quiet it barely made it through the hum of fluorescent lights, he finally said, “She’s…my wife.”

A beat passed with silence.

Then Ava shrieked, “I’m sorry—WHAT?!”

“When?!” John thundered.

“About a year ago,” Bucky admitted. “We kept it a secret. It wasn’t safe for her. I didn’t want anyone coming after her because of me.”

Alexei frowned, tone softer now. “And now…”

“Now she’s having my baby,” Bucky said. His throat bobbed as he swallowed. “And I don’t know how to protect her from this. From all of this.”

“Fuck,” John let out a low whistle. “Is it… is it the elevator baby?”

“We did the math,” Bucky turned beet red, “there is a… pretty good chance that’s the case.” 

“Elevator baby,” Yelena echoed, eyes wide. 

She sounded almost proud.

Bucky looked at each of them— serious now. “You can’t tell anyone,” he warned, “She’s… she’s everything to me. If this gets out—if she’s hurt, if someone uses her to get to me—I wouldn’t— couldn’t— live with myself.”

And just like that, gone was the teasing.

They stood there, in a loose circle around him, the lights humming overhead, the scent of sweat in the air. A line crossed, and secrets spilled open. This was a line where their friendship was tested—and affirmed.

John, finally, clapped Bucky on the shoulder. “Congrats, man. You’re gonna be a dad.”

“Elevator dad,” Yelena added.

“Don’t,” Bucky warned, but he was smiling, just a little.

—

The shift was subtle at first.

Alexei started carrying things for you.

You’d walk into a room with a stack of sample boards or fabric swatches for a renovation pitch, and before you could even blink, he’d be at your side, snatching half of them away and saying, “You should not be lifting this.”

You tilted your head the first time. “I… I’m okay, Alexei.”

He just stared back, deadpan. “Does not mean you should.” And then walked away before you could argue.

Then there was Ava, who started checking the air quality constantly.

“Gotta keep the air pure,” she’d say, making sure your workstation was well-ventilated from paint fumes. 

You started to get suspicious after the third can of air purifier she smuggled into the conference room.

And then came John, who strolled past your desk one morning with a coffee in one hand and a brochure in the other. He stopped like he just happened to remember something.

“Oh hey,” he said, waving the paper around. “That new baby store down the street? Massive sale. Car seats, little shoes, those bib things shaped like bandanas? You know, the cool ones. Just… figured I’d pass it along. Y’know. In case… anyone.”

You squinted. “Anyone?”

He coughed. “Just in case anyone… likes sales.”

Right.

It wasn’t until Yelena hugged you, that the alarm bells started getting harder to ignore.

She pulled away, uncharacteristically gentle, and said, “You’re good at taking care of things.”

“…Okay,” you said cautiously, “Are you dying?”

She just blinked. “No. I just think you are doing great.” She paused. “And you should not wear heels. They’re bad for your ankles.”

That was it.

You came home that night, dumped your bag by the door, and found Bucky on the couch eating mac and cheese he probably stole from the tower. 

He looked up, beaming. “Hey, doll. You okay?”

You squinted at him. “Do you know something I don’t?”

He tilted his head. “About what?”

You flopped next to him, sighing. “Yelena hugged me today.”

His eyes widened. “…Oh.”

“And told me I’m good at taking care of things.”

He was dead silent.

“John is talking about baby boutiques to me. Ava keeps purifying the air. And I’m pretty sure Bob gave me vitamin water.”

Bucky looked down.

You gave him a pointed look. “So, I’m just gonna ask: Did you tell them?”

He winced. His whole face did the oh-no-don’t-be-mad-at-me scrunch.

“Umm…” he said.

“Oh my god.”

“I—I didn’t tell them, technically,” he started, clearly floundering. “They figured it out! Bob overheard something, and then there was a meeting, and I got cornered at the gym and they were all standing in a circle like some kind of intervention and they were like ‘we know,’ and I panicked and I didn’t want to lie and—”

“Bucky.”

He stopped, biting his lip.

“I’m not mad,” you said, cutting him off before the ramble could spiral into an apology monologue. “I’m… relieved.”

His brow furrowed. “You are?”

You nodded. “Do you know how exhausting it is trying to hide a whole human and pretend I’m not in love with you?”

“I just wanted you to be safe.” He looked down, a little guilty. “I thought if they didn’t know, there’d be less risk.”

“I know,” you murmured, reaching over to take his hand. “But honey…  they’re not strangers. They’re your people. Our people, now.”

He smiled, fingers threading through yours. “Yelena did threaten to murder anyone who so much as looked at you wrong.”

“See?” You leaned in, kissing his cheek. “That’s the kind of prenatal care I’m talking about.”

He chuckled, pulling you close, one hand resting gently against your stomach. “We’ll still keep it quiet outside the tower. For safety.”

“Of course,” you said. “But at least I don’t have to hide there.”

Then Bucky said, “Also… Bob wants to throw you a secret baby shower. In the hangar. With… themed cupcakes.”

—

Eight Months Later

Jamie was six weeks old the first time you brought him to the Watchtower.

He was bundled up in a little blue onesie with a cartoon white wolf on the chest, swaddled like a burrito in a cotton blanket, and blissfully asleep in your arms.

The 87th floor had been converted for the three of you— a secure residential wing with baby gates and blackout curtains and a surprisingly tasteful wallpaper Bucky picked himself. You were here to check it out, and also introduce your baby to the team.

Most days, you would stay at the house in the suburbs, where birds chirped and neighbors waved and no one could hear Bucky singing lullabies off-key at 2 a.m. But it was nice to know you had a home in the Watchtower.

You barely stepped in the common room when the team got up.

“Is that him?” Ava whispered like she was approaching royalty.

“Don’t crowd the baby,” Bucky said, holding out an arm protectively.

John peered over Ava’s shoulder. “He looks like a tiny Bucky. But like, angrier. Is that even possible?”

Jamie yawned.

Yelena, unusually soft-voiced, leaned in “Look at him. So small. So squishy. Like a baby potato with many opinions.”

“He does look judgmental,” Bob offered.

“He is judgmental,” you smiled.

—

There were a couple more visits after that before your first official night at the tower. 

They’d been asking for weeks to hold him now. 

Every visit, every mission debrief, every team meeting that you attended with Jamie snoozing in a carrier strapped to your chest, someone would inevitably ask:

“Can I hold him?”

The answer had always been not yet.

Not until he had more of an immune system than a fruit fly.

Especially not until Bob stopped referring to his hands as “clean-ish.”

But today, Jamie was twelve weeks old. 

Today was the day.

You warned them ahead of time, sending them a group text. Bucky enforced it like a drill sergeant, passing non-alcohol hand sanitiser around like communion.

The baby was clean. The adults were clean. The air smelled faintly of lemon.

Yelena was first, practically vibrating as she took Jamie into her arms like a sacred artifact.

“Bozhe moi,” she whispered, eyes wide. 

“He’s real,” Bob said, as Jamie curled his arm around his finger, “we can touch him.”

Then John took a turn, cradling Jamie like he was made of glass. Bucky, perhaps knowing he had some experience and was trying to make amends with his own son, trusted him most. “He’s so… light.“

Eventually, one by one, everyone got their turn.

And then… Alexei.

He stepped forward quietly, hands extended, palms open and ready. There was a certain fondness in his eyes.

You gently handed Jamie over, and Alexei took him with a grace that didn’t match his usual bull-in-a-china-shop aesthetic. He rocked him slightly and began saying something soft in Russian. It sounded like a lullaby.

Jamie adorably blinked up at him.

And then, with the seriousness of a priest delivering a sermon, Alexei slowly walked across the room… and stopped in front of the elevator.

“Little Jamie,” he said in a soothing voice, still swaying, “this, my sweet little cherub, is where you were conceived.”

“Dad!” Yelena whisper-shouted, her hands in the air. “Stop!”

“I’m just telling him the truth!” Alexei protested.

“He’s a baby!” Ava barked. 

“He needs context!”

“HE NEEDS A NAP!” John insisted.

Alexei looked down at Jamie, who stared back, completely unbothered.

“I think he gets it,” Alexei said, beaming.

Jamie sneezed.

Bucky buried his face in your shoulder. “I can’t believe we let him hold the baby.”

You, already laughing, said, “At least he didn’t point out the exact panel of the wall.”

Alexei turned around, lifting Jamie like Simba. “And over here, by button 13, that’s where your father’s ass was—”

“OH MY GOD,” Yelena wailed, launching a pillow at him.

Bob hastily caught it. “We shouldn’t throw things when the baby is airborne.”

John held out his arms. “Give him back before you scare him with a detailed retelling.” 

Alexei sighed, but passed Jamie over. “You are going to be great warrior like your father, Jamie.”

You settled onto the couch beside Bucky, your body relaxing as you leaned into him. He pressed a kiss to your temple, then let his lips linger in your hair. He never failed to remind you that you were safe. That Jamie was safe.

Your eyes drifted across the room— your strange, chaotic, beautiful little makeshift family in a room that was a labour of your love. Bob was wiping down a clean countertop for the third time. Ava and Yelena were mid-argument about the correct way to swaddle a baby, neither remotely qualified but equally committed. 

Jamie, unfazed by the commotion, cooed contentedly in John’s arms, his tiny fingers reaching for the man’s bead as Alexei kept talking to him in russian.

Your heart felt like it might burst.

He had your nose, Bucky’s eyes, and all the love in the world.

In the background, Alexei’s voice rose again, brimming with mischief. “Next time, I’ll show him the armoury.”

“NO!” came the instant chorus from everyone in the room.

You couldn’t help it, so you laughed.

Jamie was loved. Fiercely, ridiculously loved.

And there wasn’t a person in this room who wouldn’t burn the world down for him.

-end.

General Bucky taglist:

@hotlinepanda @snflwr-vol6 @ruexj283 @2honeybees @read-just-cant

 @shanksstrawhat @mystictf @globetrotter28 @thebuckybarnesvault @average-vibe

@winchestert101 @mystictf @globetrotter28 @boy--wonder--187 @scariusaquarius

@reckless007 @hextech-bros @daydreamgoddess14 @96jnie @pono-pura-vida

@buckyslove1917 @notsostrangerthing @flow33didontsmoke @qvynrand @blackbirdwitch22

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@hiphip-horray @jbbucketlist @melotyy @ethereal-witch24 @samfunko

@lilteef @hi172826 @pklol @average-vibe @shanksstrawhat

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@yesshewrites1 @thewiselionessss @sangsterizada @jaderabbitt @softpia 

@hopeofwinter @nevereclipse @tellybearryyyy @buckybarneswife125 @buckybarneswife125

@imaginecrushes @phoenixes-and-wizards

[meowabunga]

this is (not) fine [one-shot]

marvel au bucky x personal assistant!reader

personal assistant rules: don’t crush on bucky barnes. definitely don’t misinterpret a flower purchase and spiral into silent heartbreak, and absolutely never ever get stuck alone with him in an elevator.

Warnings: 18+ content minors dni, smut, oral (f receiving), public (ish) sex?, wall sex (?), okay they fuck in an elevator guys, kissing, angst, miscommunication (not badly), hurt/comfort, there's some plot if you squint, insecure/self-conscious reader undertones, reader is an overthinker, reader is horny lol, no use of y/n, lmk if i've missed anything

Word Count: 9.1k

A/N: hi, hopefully this will keep you all fed while i work on part five to lessons in lovemaking. finally getting around to some of these requests in my inbox. this one is based off this request, but i changed it up so the reader is a PA instead of an avenger. lmk your thoughts thanx for reading <3 sorry for any typos - not proof read.

main masterlist

You’d never pegged Natasha as the type who enjoyed flowers.

No, she struck you more as the encrypted-flash-drive-on-a-park-bench type, the kind of woman who appreciated mysteries with teeth. A custom leather jacket, stitched with the same precision she used to dismantle a glock. One of those sleek, low motorcycles. Not daisies. Not peonies. And definitely not whatever soft, pastel nonsense Bucky was currently handing over cash for.

You stood a few feet away, halfway hidden behind a sidewalk sign advertising oat milk lattes and gluten-free muffins, clutching a cardboard drink tray and a bag full of vegan pastries in a death grip. The barista had spelt ‘Bruce’ as ‘Broose’ again, and under any other circumstance, that would've made you laugh, but now it felt like the most irrelevant thing in the world.

You liked Natasha. You respected her. You just didn’t think she had it in her to giggle over roses like the girls in those sappy rom-coms Clint insisted he hated (right before he would watch three in a row, a beer in each hand). But there Bucky was, brushing pollen off a bouquet of pale pink ranunculus, face soft in a way you’d never seen during mission briefings or sparring sessions.

And suddenly, you were building a list in your head of all the things you were sure Natasha Romanoff would rather receive as a romantic gesture: a knife, balanced perfectly for throwing, an expensive bottle of vodka, a vintage chess set with hand-carved pieces, a bottle of expensive ink and a fountain pen with a sharp nib, cookies—messy ones—overloaded with chocolate chips, or simply just black coffee, straight from the pot, no sugar, no cream. Yet, as Bucky handed it over to the redhead, she smiled. Smiled. And suddenly you felt like you were witnessing a scene you were not welcome to. 

Truthfully, it stung. Maybe it stung a little more than what was appropriate. You’d been harbouring a quiet crush on the dark-haired, sullen supersoldier from the moment he joined the team. Fresh out of Wakanda, new vibranium arm in tow, and god, he was handsome. Not in the polished, television commercial way Steve was, but in a way that made your pulse skip and your thoughts stall mid-sentence. He had the kind of face you didn’t know how to look at for too long, sharpened jaw, stormy-blue eyes, and a mouth that always looked on the verge of saying something he’d regret.

There was something electric about his stillness. Like if you leaned in close enough, you’d hear the hum of danger beneath his skin. He walked like a man who never quite trusted, drifting through the tower like he expected a fight around every corner. He barely spoke, but when he did, his voice was low and gravel-worn, something that settled right in your gut and made its home there.

He never smiled. Not really. But sometimes—sometimes—you’d catch a flicker of it when Sam teased him, or when Steve nudged him just right, and it was devastating.

And yeah, maybe you had a soft spot for broken things trying to heal.

As the Avengers’ personal assistant, it was your job to keep everyone comfortable, informed, and running like clockwork. You were a one-person organisational machine, constantly juggling the chaos that came with managing a tower full of enhanced individuals with the emotional range of a brick wall to a nuclear reactor. Your days were a blur of colour-coded schedules, back-to-back briefings, and the never-ending group chats.

You coordinated mission debriefs, booked international flights with military clearance, and handled press requests that would make most people cry. You endured complaints when Thor overloaded the power grid again, trying to make toast, and even replaced the mugs he shattered before anyone noticed. You wrangled Clint’s kids when they came to visit, sourced obscure snacks from remote parts of the world because Sam liked those protein bars, not the other ones, and Steve wouldn’t touch anything processed. You replaced a record number of coffee machines, hunted down whatever special detergent could get oil out of Tony’s designer shirts. You knew which brand of muscle balm Banner preferred and how to order it without triggering a random Homeland Security check.

And then there was Bucky.

With him, it was always a little extra, whether he noticed or not. His schedule came first in your Monday morning rounds. You made sure the pantry was stocked with the Eastern European tea he liked but never asked for, and remembered the exact setting he preferred on the tower’s training room temperature controls. You adjusted group plans so he’d be paired with Steve or Sam, just in case the crowds and questions became overwhelming. When he disappeared for a few hours, you didn’t ask questions, but you made sure no one came looking. You even swapped out the scratchy tags in his mission gear with soft ones, because he never complained, but you noticed the way he fidgeted with them.

Every day, you’d beam at him like some hopelessly love-struck idiot when you handed over his usual coffee—black, two brown sugars, just the way he liked it—and in return, he’d offer little more than a grunt. A low, barely-there sound that most people wouldn’t even register as a greeting. But you did. Somehow, that grunt became the highlight of your day.

So yeah, maybe seeing him hand over flowers to Natasha broke something in you. Not just a hairline fracture, but a quiet, splintering break that left your chest aching in places you didn’t know could hurt. Still, you understood. Natasha belonged to his world, effortlessly cool, all smoke, shadows and secrets. Yet she was kind. Not cold or unapproachable, just… carved from something rarer than you. The kind of woman who didn’t need to try to be extraordinary, she just was.

And you? You were the sweet, well-meaning assistant who made people laugh in the kitchen, who fetched dry cleaning and remembered everyone’s birthdays. You were the one who labelled tupperware and chased down Clint’s kids with bandaids. You were an afterthought, the background noise in the buzzing hive which was the Avengers Tower. 

So maybe you could justify feeling jealous, but angry? No. Not really. They didn’t know. They couldn’t know. And it wasn’t their fault that you’d let yourself hope.

—

Two weeks later, and you timed it perfectly, like you always did.

Just as the door to Bucky’s apartment clicked open, you rounded the corner—folder in hand, clipboard tucked tight to your side. The hallway was quiet, save for the low hum of ventilation and the soft thud of your heels against the carpet. Bucky stepped out, his gym bag slung over his shoulder, hair tied back, and his hoodie sleeves shoved up just enough to show the gleam of vibranium. Predictable. It was routine, every morning just before six he would meet with Steve in the gym. On Mondays, you’d catch him just as he exited his apartment, unload the details for the week, a freshly printed schedule and all. 

“Morning,” you said lightly, handing him the week’s itinerary. His reply was his usual, a grunt. Not annoyed. Not grateful. Just Bucky. That gruff, barely-there sound that once felt like a small victory. The kind of grunt that used to warm your chest when he followed it with a question, even if you knew the answer was printed in the folder you’d triple-checked. You always answered anyway. You liked having his attention, even just for a few seconds.

You used to dress the folders up with care, multicoloured sticky notes marking key tasks (blue for meetings, yellow for reminders, red for anything urgent and green for personal events). You’d highlight sections like traffic lights, add stickers you thought might make him smile, sometimes even scribble little crooked cartoons in the margins with cheesy encouragements—seize the day! 

The folder looked rather sad today, just a plain manila folder packed with stapled papers. No colours. No stickers. No effort. Just the essentials. You didn’t let your fingers dawdle when he took it. Didn’t smile like you used to. Just handed it over and kept your gaze somewhere past his shoulder.

Bucky took it slowly, eyes flicking down at the cover like he was trying to spot something that wasn’t there. His brow pinched, barely, but enough for you to notice. His fingers lingered on the edge of the folder, like he thought maybe he’d missed a note tucked inside.

You nodded and turned to leave, forcing yourself to shift your mind to your next chore mentally, restocking med supplies in the Quinjet, cross-checking Clint’s revised travel forms, hunting down the coffee machine Tony had threatened to ‘repurpose as target practice’. You’d have to order a replacement before the morning debrief. Double-check everyone’s dietary preferences. Update Steve on the tech room schedule. Get maintenance to repaint the lines in the training room because someone (probably Thor) had scuffed them again.

You stayed busy. It helped. Kind of.

But the guilt still trailed you like a shadow.

It was probably obvious how abruptly you changed. The way your voice had lost its warmth. The way your gaze dodged his like it might burn you. You wondered if he noticed, if he thought you'd simply grown tired of him. Maybe he had. That was better than the truth that you couldn’t stand to be near him, not when every glance felt like pressing fingers to a bruise you’d caused yourself. 

You had made your choice, professionalism. The kind of cool, curated detachment you admired in Natasha, only it felt all wrong on you, like an ill-fitting coat. You knew it was for the better, not mixing up work and matters of the heart. You’d already let your little crush spiral too far, thinking maybe—just maybe—if you tried hard enough, you’d earn more than a grunt. That he might see you as something more than the charming assistant with her clipboard and her stupid stickers. But he didn’t. And he wouldn’t. And that was fine. It had to be.

You couldn’t afford to fall apart over a man who had no idea he’d broken your heart.

But it was Bucky’s voice, soft and unsure, that startled you from your thoughts. “Hey.”

You paused mid-step and turned, forcing a tight smile that didn’t quite meet your eyes as your fingers curled against the clipboard. “What’s up?”

He shifted his weight, clearly caught off guard by the fact that you stopped walking at all. He was rather devastating to look at when he grew all shy and unsure, fingers fidgeting against the edge of the folder like he didn’t know what to do with them. He didn’t quite meet your eye as his weight shifted nervously, like he hadn’t thought before he called out. 

“Uh. Nothin’. Just—” He raised the folder slightly, an awkward gesture. “You usually give me the rundown. Y’know… what everyone’s doing. Who’s where. Who I’m stuck with.”

You swallowed. Of course, he’d noticed. Of course, he’d grown used to your chatter about meetings and mission rosters, about who was off-world and who was due back, like it was the weather. The casual, effortless way you used to tell him what movie was playing, who cheated at Monopoly the night before, or which team member had stolen the last protein bar. You’d always done it to help, keep him grounded, and make him feel like part of the team, like he belonged. 

But after what you’d seen two weeks ago, you were sure he didn’t need that from you anymore. Natasha would look out for him now. She’d keep him balanced, keep him fed, keep him from slipping through the cracks.

“Nothing interesting’s happening,” you shrugged. “Just the usual.”

He didn’t move. “Well… there’s that dinner. On Friday.”

You gave a curt nod, tone clipped. “Yes.”

“Wanda’s dinner,” he added, as if you hadn’t already acknowledged it.

“Correct.”

He hesitated again, brows drawing together in a faint crease of worry. You could see him floundering, stuck in some internal scramble. It made your chest ache because you knew that look. You’d helped talk him down from that look more times than anyone else in the tower probably realised.

You sighed quietly through your nose, against your better judgment, against every wall you’d tried to build in the past week, you caved. He looked five seconds away from spiralling.

“It’s in there,” you offered gently, nodding toward the folder. “On your schedule.”

“Right. It’s just… for me, you usually…” His voice trailed off, frustration and uncertainty knotting in his brow. “Sorry. You’re probably busy—”

That felt like a punch to the gut. 

You shook your head and, before your pride could stop you, your feet were already moving back toward him. His eyes dropped as you reached into your pocket for a pen, scribbling ‘Wanda’s Dinner – Friday’ on a green sticky note. Green for personal events, always. You hesitated, then added a smiley face underneath. You peeled it off and stuck it neatly onto the folder in Bucky’s hands. 

His eyes dropped to it, finger brushing over the paper like he didn’t quite understand why it mattered so much. “Thanks.”

You just nodded, already stepping back, spine straight, pretending your heart wasn’t hammering in your throat.

“She said…” Bucky cleared his throat, clearly not done with the conversation. “Wanda said she’s going to do curry.”

You paused, unsure what to do with the information. Why was he telling you that? Why was he still talking?

“That’s nice,” you said carefully, not sure what to do with this strange, lingering version of him.

“Are you going?” he asked suddenly, and you frowned.

“I wasn’t invited—” You began, already covering from the invasive thoughts, already working to mask the sting. You didn’t want to imagine them next to each other over curry, leaning close, whispering in the way people did when they thought no one else was watching. It would only make the crack in your chest worse.

“You should go,” Bucky said quickly, cutting across your thoughts. “I’ll tell Wanda you’re coming.”

“That’s not necessary. I’ll be busy that night anyway…” You lied through your teeth, heart thumping hard against your breastbone as Bucky’s face crumpled a bit. You cut in before he could argue any further.  “You’re going to be late. For the gym. It’s nearly six.”

“Right, shit, yeah. Sorry, I just…” He trailed off again, rubbing the back of his neck. “Thanks. I’ll… I’ll see you around.”

You raised an eyebrow at him, unsure if you were more confused or stunned by his sudden jitters.

—

Before the whole flowers incident, you made it your unofficial mission to ‘accidentally’ bump into Bucky as many times as humanly possible in a day. Now? It was the opposite. Every hallway was a trap to avoid, every room a potential ambush. Navigating the Tower had turned into something between a tactical stealth op and a personal game of hide-and-seek.

Unfortunately, your strategy for quiet withdrawal hadn’t gone unnoticed.

In fact, Bucky had picked up on your sudden cold shoulder almost immediately. The folder debacle had only been the first of many increasingly awkward run-ins.

There was the time you’d practically sprinted away from the elevator when the doors slid open to reveal him standing inside, a brow raised and coffee in hand. Or when you turned a corner too fast and walked straight into him, muttering a rushed apology before disappearing again like you were being hunted. Then there was the silent, painful breakfast you’d shared at the communal kitchen counter, where you busied yourself with peeling an orange for ten minutes straight while he sat beside you, occasionally glancing over like he wanted to say something but didn’t know how to begin.

You’d even pretended to be asleep on the common room couch when he walked in one evening, piles of paperwork scattered, laptop still open, only for him to drape a throw blanket over you before quietly leaving again.

And yet, instead of giving you space like you’d expected and hoped for, he seemed to find any excuse to be around you. He trailed after you like some misplaced puppy whenever he wasn’t buried in a mission or holed up in a meeting.

You’d assumed that the moment you stepped back, he’d naturally gravitate toward spending more time with Natasha. It made sense. Why wouldn’t he want to be around her? They were obviously dating, even if they hadn’t made it official yet. Maybe it was one of those quiet, close things kept just between friends, like Steve and Sam. Who were you to come barreling in and expose their secret entanglement? You expected Bucky to be relieved to no longer be on the receiving end of your babbling, your perfectly-timed coffee deliveries, or the not-so-subtle gifts you littered around. 

But if anything, Bucky seemed determined to figure you out. Like your sudden shift had become his new pet project, and he was personally committed to cracking the case.

You’d taken the back hallway, the long, winding route that steered well clear of the gym on your way to the shared office. High-traffic areas were too risky now—too many chances to run into him. But clearly, Bucky had caught onto your little detours, because as you turned the corner, there he was, headed straight toward you.

You froze for half a second, pulse quickening. Turning around would be too obvious. Suspicious. He’d know exactly what you were doing, and then your carefully-constructed avoidance strategy would unravel entirely. If he suspected anything now, you were one panicked backpedal away from confirming it.

It was a nightmare. And a daydream.

A part of you, some soft, hopelessly romantic piece, ached at the sight of him, at the quiet way he seemed to look for you, worry always etched into his brow like you were some puzzle he couldn’t quite solve. But the rational part of your mind, the part that had dragged you into this self-imposed emotional lockdown, screamed that letting him get closer again would only undo all the fragile healing you’d managed to piece together.

So you steeled yourself.

Shoulders squared. Laptop and paperwork clutched like a lifeline. Eyes locked on an imaginary point just past his shoulder. If you kept walking and moved quickly, calmly, maybe he’d let you go. Perhaps he’d pretend not to notice how your pace picked up and your gaze carefully avoided his.

You nearly made it.

But of course, he noticed.

“Hey, wait—”

His voice was hesitant, just enough pressure to pull you to a stop. Your footsteps faded into the hush of the corridor, your spine straightening instinctively as you turned. Bucky stood a few paces behind, one hand lifted halfway between reaching and retreating, like he’d almost grabbed your arm but lost the nerve. 

He looked sheepish. Timid, even. It killed you.

You swallowed. “Yeah?”

He scratched the back of his neck, boots scuffing lightly against the floor. “Did I… forget to grab my coffee this morning? Or… did you not bring it?”

A pause. Too long. You could feel the beat of your pulse behind your sternum as you forced a casual shake of your head.

“No, sorry. That’s on me. Slipped my mind.”

The lie didn’t sit well in your mouth.

It hadn’t slipped your mind, in fact, it was still sitting on the corner of your desk, cooling beside a stack of unfinished paperwork. You’d brewed it, as always. Even used the brown sugar he liked. But then you’d walked away from it, deliberately, like some idiotic breadcrumb trail you hoped he might follow.

God, you were pathetic.

Your stupid fucking brain couldn’t even decide what it wanted anymore. One half of you was charting escape routes through the tower to avoid him, the other was fantasising about him pinning you to the nearest wall. From the way your thighs pressed together now, breath catching as his voice brushed over you, maybe the answer wasn’t distance at all. Perhaps you just wanted to taste him—

He didn’t move. Just stood there, one brow lifted, faint worry creasing the edge of his expression.

“You’re usually down by the gym by nine,” he said, his voice low. “It’s eleven.”

“I’m running a bit behind today.”

“You usually text me if you’re running behind.”

“Well,” you said, shrugging like it didn’t matter, “I didn’t this time.”

He paused, the silence between you laced with something dangerously close to concern. “Is everything alright?”

You forced a small laugh, trying to shake off how his low, worried voice made heat pool in your gut. “Yeah. Why?”

“You seem off.”

There it was. Soft, plain and far too knowing. He said it in that maddeningly sincere way that only he could manage. Like he actually gave a damn. Like this wasn’t unravelling you by the day.

Your shoulders tensed. “Off?”

“Yeah,” he said gently. “Just… I dunno. You’ve been quiet lately.”

He didn’t know. He couldn’t know about the hours you spent spinning in your head like a lunatic, trying to compartmentalise this crush until it shrank into something survivable. About the way you’d stared blankly at Tinder profiles, your phone clutched in your hand, wondering why no one else ever came close, why none of them were him.

Why you couldn’t stop thinking that if you’d just told him—confessed that stupid crush before Natasha did—maybe you wouldn’t be standing here now like some stray mutt, sniffing around for scraps of attention.

Maybe then he’d be yours.

Maybe then you wouldn’t be fantasising about quitting just to put yourself out of your own misery like some lame racehorse.

“I’ve just got a lot on my plate,” you finally mustered, tone strained. “Tony’s soirée. The fittings. Admin crap. Didn’t even have breakfast today.”

His brows furrowed further. “That’s not good.”

“I’ll survive.”

Would you, though?

Would you survive the heat that flared low in your stomach every time he got too close? Would you survive the ache that gnawed behind your ribs every time he glanced over at Natasha like you didn’t exist? Would you survive the constant, desperate craving to be touched by him? To be looked at like she was looked at?

He didn’t speak for a second, and for a moment, you were sure he could smell the reek of desperation on you.

“The oranges in the fridge are gone.”

You blinked. “What?”

“And the tea. The fancy one,” he added. “The one with the dried raspberries in it. You’re the one who always restocks them, aren’t you?”

You looked down, fingers clenching around your folder. “I’ll add it to the list.”

“I didn’t mean it like that,” he said quickly, stepping forward a half-inch, enough to make your breath hitch. “I just… I didn’t realise it was you. Doing all of that.”

Of course, he hadn’t because you’d made it invisible. Seamless. That was the kind of care you practised—silent, anticipatory, never asked for, never returned. You had cared for him with a thousand tiny efforts, but he never noticed until you stopped.

You looked up, and the hallway felt suddenly too narrow. His face was open in a way you hadn’t seen in a long time. Gentle, confused, like he was trying to work you out and couldn’t quite bear not knowing.

You dropped your gaze. “I said I’ll do it.”

He paused. You could feel him thinking again.

Then, to your disappointment, he slowly nodded. “Okay.”

But he didn’t move. Not right away. He lingered like someone who hadn’t yet decided if leaving was the right call, like he was caught between concern and curiosity. 

“I’ll leave you to it, I guess.”

You didn’t answer. Couldn’t. You just nodded and turned, walking away quickly before he could see your face fall, before he could catch the naked want in your expression, the way your heart was clawing against your ribs, screaming for you to turn around and ruin everything.

—

If time travel were an option, you'd gladly launch yourself into a wormhole and strangle your past self for being stupid—no, lovesick—enough to organise this little errand. You deserve it, really. A swift kick to the gut from future-you for being this hopeless.

It had all started a month ago, when you, like a fool, volunteered to collect the tailored suits and dresses for some little soirée Tony Stark had decided to throw. Of course, in true Tony fashion, what was pitched as a ‘casual get-together’ had evolved into a full-blown, black-tie spectacle. The first warning sign? Tony footing the bill for everyone to have custom outfits made to their specifications. Translation…this was going to be a thing.

You’d spent weeks wrangling Avengers into fitting appointments, helping them choose fabrics and cuts, managing last-minute alterations and tracking shipments. It was exhausting but under control…until the catch. The aggravating, absurdly attractive, brooding catch currently sitting across from you in the tailor’s waiting room, his knee bounced like it was transmitting a detailed morse code manifesto on every possible way he planned to ruin your day.

The plan had been simple: grab an Uber, pick up the garments, pressed, stitched, and boxed to perfection and head back to the tower. But then you got the call. The one that told you Bucky Barnes had missed his final fitting, and that his suit needed some last-minute adjustments...

Of course he did.

Of all your perfectly laid plans, it only took one missed appointment to bring it all crashing down. Now here you were, stuck waiting beside the man who occupied far too much of your brain lately, silently praying the tailor would finish quickly so you could escape before your sanity, or your dignity, completely unravelled.

“I really am sorry,” Bucky said for what felt like the fiftieth time.

Between the brooding and the nervous leg tapping, he’d spent the last five minutes watching the side of your face with an expression so guilty it was practically carved into him.

“Like I said, it’s fine.” You replied, though it came out a little too tight, a little too forced, like you were speaking through clenched teeth. Which, maybe you were. Not that it mattered. Not when you could smell his cologne from how damn close he was sitting. God, you wanted to lean over and bury your face in his chest and just inhale—

You straightened abruptly, shoulders stiffening as the tailor entered the room, and mentally reacquainted yourself with the concept of boundaries.

It had been an hour—sixty minutes of waiting while Bucky’s suit got its final adjustments. An hour of you trying to distract yourself with work emails and unanswered texts, pretending the man beside you wasn’t single-handedly causing your emotional stability to nosedive. At least when he’d stepped away to get re-measured, you could breathe without risking spontaneous emotional combustion.

This wasn’t like you. You weren’t usually this wound up. Maybe it was the exhaustion, days of juggling your regular duties with Tony’s ever-growing list of soirée demands. Perhaps it was the heartbreak. Or the missed meals. Or the fact that you genuinely had no idea what day it was anymore.

“Would you like to try it on before we package it up for travel?” the tailor asked, her voice gentle. A measuring tape hung loosely around her neck, her pinned bun fraying slightly at the edges.

Bucky looked at you again, eyes flicking toward yours like he needed permission. You swallowed what was left of your pride and gave him a slight, strained nod.

“It’s okay,” you said quietly. “Go on.”

“I’m sorry—again—this is probably eating into your whole afternoon, I know how busy you are—”

“It’s fine. Really. Just go.”

He offered a sheepish smile before disappearing behind the velvet curtain, tugging it closed with a rustle. You pressed your fingers to your temples, let your head drop into your hands, and exhaled through your nose like it might stop your heart from trying to break out of your chest.

Across the counter, the tailor glanced up at you with a sympathetic look as she readied the boxes for the other garments. “Long day?” she asked gently.

You lifted your head, managing a tight smile that didn’t quite reach your eyes.

“Only going to get longer.”

You were still nursing the tail end of your sigh when the velvet curtain swished open again.

And then your brain stopped working.

Bucky stepped out in full formal attire, sharp navy suit, tailored within an inch of its life. The cut of it hugged his frame perfectly. Broad shoulders, tapered waist, long legs. A deep navy waistcoat peeked out beneath the jacket, the subtle sheen of the fabric catching the light just enough to look expensive without being flashy. His tie was already perfectly knotted, like he’d done this a hundred times, and the sleeves of his shirt revealed just enough of the polished metal edge of his vibranium arm to make your mouth dry.

He cleared his throat softly, tugging at one cuff. “How’s it look?”

You blinked. Opened your mouth. Closed it again.

Words? No. Words were gone. Your vocabulary had packed up and left the building.

Bucky shifted his weight, clearly mistaking your slack-jawed silence for disapproval. “It’s weird, right? The waistcoat maybe doesn’t work, I told her I wasn’t sure about it—”

“No,” you said quickly—too quickly. “No, it’s… It’s perfect. You look… great. Seriously.”

His brows lifted slightly, a flicker of something you couldn’t quite place crossing his face. Relief, maybe? 

“Yeah?” he said, glancing down at himself, tugging slightly at the jacket hem. “I feel better about it now. The sleeves fit properly this time. Thanks for waiting.”

The tailor beamed from behind the counter, clearly proud of her work. “Wonderful. I’ll box it up immediately once you’re out of it.”

Bucky nodded, but the tailor turned to you with a friendly smile before he could disappear again.

“And for you, would you like to try your gown on as well before I pack it away?”

You blinked, suddenly snapped out of your holy-shit-Bucky-hot-hot-hot haze. “My what?”

She gestured toward the row of garment bags. “Mr. Stark sent over your measurements earlier this month. There’s a gown here for you.”

You frowned. “That must be a mistake. I’m just the assistant. None of those are for me.”

The tailor hesitated. “I don’t think so… He was very clear. Your name was attached to the order.”

Before you could argue, Bucky cut in smoothly, like he’d seen this train coming and stepped in to redirect it.

“Tony probably just wanted you to look the part, too,” he said, voice low and casual. “You’ve done all the work, he probably figured you deserved to enjoy the night a little. Might as well try it on, just in case.”

You glanced at him, but he didn’t look smug or teasing. Just… earnest. Calm. Like he meant it. Which made it all the harder to protest.

“Fine.” You sighed, scrubbing a hand down your face. “Just to check it fits.”

The tailor clapped her hands together. “Wonderful. It’s a beautiful gown, I promise.”

You gave Bucky one last side-eye before following her toward the changing rooms, the fabric bag already in her hands.

From behind, you could hear him chuckle under his breath.

“Just wait 'til you see her,” the tailor murmured to herself, and you weren’t sure whether to be flattered or deeply, deeply nervous.

The gown was heavier than you expected. Luxurious fabric slipped off the hanger like water, pooling in your arms as she handed it over with the kind of reverence usually reserved for wedding dresses.

“I’ll give you a minute,” she smiled, disappearing to finish boxing up the suits.

Left alone in the changing room, you peeled out of your clothes, letting the gown slide on over your hips, your waist, up past your ribs. It clung like it had been sewn directly onto your body, the bodice snug, the neckline just daring enough to make you blush. 

You twisted to try to reach the zipper at the back, fingers fumbling and straining, but the angle was impossible. You spent the better part of five minutes twisting in the mirror like a lunatic, trying to reach the zipper that refused to budge. Your arms ached. The corset bodice was half-fastened. You were flushed, annoyed, and far too aware of the sliver of bare spine still exposed.

You were about to peek your head out and ask the tailor for help when a low voice cut in behind the curtain.

“Need a hand?”

You flinched, fabric clutched to your chest. “Jesus, Bucky! Don’t sneak up on me like that!”

“Didn’t mean to scare you.” His voice was rougher than usual, like he’d just cleared his throat. “Heard you cursing. Tailor said she’d be a minute out back.”

You hesitated, and your voice came out thin. “Yeah. I—I can’t get it up.”

“Okay,” he replied, oddly determined. “Turn around.”

You cracked the curtain open a pinch. He ducked inside, too broad for the narrow space, his frame practically filling it. He was careful not to look at you directly, at least at first.

You turned slowly, presenting your back. “Just the zipper,” you murmured, barely trusting your own voice.

“Sure,”

A single fingertip, cold metal, dragged up from the base of your spine to the dip between your shoulder blades. It barely touched the skin, but you shuddered from the sensation. Bucky wasn’t even fastening yet, just tracing the line the zipper would follow. The sound you made was too soft to catch. 

The zipper came up slowly. Agonisingly. His knuckles brushed your skin every inch of the way, not by accident. No, this was too slow, too precise, to be innocent.

He was savouring it.

His other hand steadied you, palm ghosting just over your hip. His breath fanned warm against your shoulder.

“You’re trembling,” he commented.

You swallowed hard, unable to muster a response. 

When he reached the top, his hand didn’t fall away. Instead, he swept your hair off your shoulder completely, fingertips grazing the line of your throat as he let it fall over one side.

He leaned in. Not touching, but close. Mouth just behind your ear. The heat of his breath against your neck. 

“Should’ve let me help sooner,” he whispered, voice like a purr. “Would’ve had you dressed in seconds.”

You didn’t answer. You couldn’t. Your lips parted slightly, breath caught somewhere halfway as your lungs deflated in shock. And maybe it was the gown. Or the silence. Or the way your thighs pressed together of their own accord, but you didn’t move. You didn’t step away.

You leaned in.

Only a fraction. Just enough.

He noticed.

You could feel it in the slight shift of his stance. The faint sound of him exhaling a chuckle through his nose. The way his hand brushed ever-so-slightly along the small of your back before falling away.

And then he was gone.

He stepped back like nothing had happened. Like the tension wasn’t choking the air between you. You turned toward the mirror in a daze.

The dress shimmered in the soft light. Deep, elegant, form-fitting. The neckline exposed the curve of your breasts, the slit at your thigh scandalous enough to make you self-conscious.

You caught his reflection in the mirror. He was watching you, but not with the restrained professionalism you were used to. It was only the sudden reentrance of the tailor that made him hesitate in whatever words were forming on his tongue. He stepped aside, finally giving you space to exit. And you did—legs shaky, palms sweating—like a deer walking straight back into the forest fire, pretending it wasn’t about to burn.

—

Your plan to avoid Bucky after the tailor incident had gone off without a hitch, maybe a little too well. You'd buried yourself in helping Tony pull together the final touches for his ‘soirée’ (which, if you were honest, was less soirée and more ‘black tie circus in a penthouse’).

You'd been so laser-focused on your tasks that you'd almost managed not to think about Bucky in that goddamn changing room. His fingers ghosting up your bare spine like a spark setting fire to dry kindling. You’d folded instantly. Your body betrayed you instantly while your brain screamed to keep it together. Pathetic.

The moral implications of whatever that moment had been were filed away for another day. Were you the other woman? Was Natasha going to slit your throat in your sleep? What was Bucky doing, touching you like that—in a public changing room, no less—when he had a bombshell redhead waiting for him back at the Tower?

No time for that now. Not when Tony’s precious ‘soirée’ was already in full swing upstairs and the caterers had somehow forgotten an entire section of the food. You’d scrambled together an emergency order from some overpriced restaurant Tony swore he was ‘basically family’ with, and by some miracle, they came through in the nick of time.

Now you were in damage control mode, hauling three boxes of overpriced canapés up to the penthouse. Your heels bit into your feet with every step, your dress clung too tightly to bend properly without your tits spilling out, and your patience was hanging on by a single goddamn thread.

You pressed the elevator button with your elbow and exhaled as the doors slid open.

Drop off the food. Grab a free drink. Drown your Bucky-related sorrows. Maybe, just maybe, keep the beast between your legs from waking at the mere sight of him.

The doors began to close. You shifted your weight, careful with the boxes balanced in your arms—

Then someone slipped through at the last second.

Him.

Bucky fucking Barnes.

Tall and devastating as usual in his dark navy suit, his tie loosened just enough to suggest mischief, or maybe carelessness. You weren’t sure which one made you feel worse.

Your breath hitched. Instinctively, your gaze dropped to the floor, feigning sudden, all-consuming interest in the stability of your precarious tower of hors d'oeuvres. But teetering stacks of overpriced finger food or not, Bucky didn’t seem inclined to play along with your avoidance act. Not now. Not when the elevator doors had sealed you in together, finally, and you were without escape.

You winced at the sound of his sharp inhale, the question already pressing past his lips before the elevator even jolted into motion.

“Did I do something to piss you off?”

You didn’t look up. Eyes fixed firmly on the floor, you muttered, “What?”

“I just…” His voice was rough. Tired. “It feels like you’ve been avoiding me.”

Shit.

He stepped forward slightly. Not enough to be invasive. Just enough to make your stomach flip.

“You hardly talk to me anymore,” he continued. “Won’t even look at me unless it’s about work. And even then, it’s like you’re somewhere else. Did I do something to offend you? Hurt you? Just tell me what I did so I can fix it.”

The elevator hummed to life beneath your feet, gliding upward smoothly. You shifted your weight, bracing against the cool metal rail, eyes stubbornly fixed on the buttons, anywhere but his maddeningly perfect face.

“You haven’t done anything,” you said quietly, the words tasting sour the second they left your mouth.

“Then why are you doing it now?” he asked, eyes searching yours. “Why won’t you even look at me?”

“Bucky…”

“Please. Just tell me.”

You hesitated. His hand twitched like he meant to reach for your arm, then faltered, falling back to his side. Your grip tightened on the containers, your fingers slick with sweat. “It’s not you,” you murmured. “It’s me… I just…”

He didn’t move. Didn’t even blink.

“Please,” he said again, quieter now. “Tell me the truth.”

And that was what did it. The tremor in his voice. The way his brow creased like he couldn’t stand not knowing. Something broke open inside your chest, raw and unhealed. The dam cracked, split, then gave way completely, and the truth came spilling out before you had the chance to swallow it back down. You were exhausted. Wound tight. Running on fumes and nerves and far too many feelings. You’d tell him, you decided. Then drop off the canapés, quit on the spot, and flee the country if necessary. Stark would write you a killer reference. You’d survive.

“Okay,” you said, breath hitching as a nervous laugh bubbled out, half-bitter, half-resigned. “You want the truth? Fine. You’re going to think I’ve completely lost it.”

He stayed quiet, letting you spiral.

“This is so stupid,” you muttered. “I like you, Bucky. There. I said it. I like you. And it was fine—manageable—until it wasn’t. Until I started imagining things. Thinking maybe… maybe you liked me too.”

His eyebrows lifted, surprised but unreadable.

“I’ve had this massive, embarrassing crush on you since the moment I met you. And I know it’s weird, and probably unprofessional because you’re kinda my boss, but not. Technically, Tony’s my boss, but I basically manage everything around here, and—ugh, I’m rambling.” You squeezed your eyes shut. “I like you. And I’ve been avoiding you because it was getting out of hand. I couldn’t stop thinking about you. And it felt wrong. Especially since you’re dating Natasha, which just made everything worse—”

“What?” he interrupted, voice sharp. “I’m not dating Natasha.”

Your eyes snapped open. “That’s what you took from all of that?”

“No, I—wait. You think I’m dating Natasha?”

“Yes!” you burst out, cheeks flaming. “I saw you! At the Sunday market about a month ago with the flowers—”

His brow furrowed. “What flowers?”

“The bouquet you gave her.”

“I didn’t give Natasha flowers.”

You let out a dry, disbelieving laugh. “I saw you. It was that dumb little market Tony makes me go to for those overpriced vegan pastries Pepper loves—”

Bucky stared at you, confused. And then, slowly, understanding clicked into place. His face contorted like he’d just remembered he’d left his stove on.

“Oh my god,” he muttered, dragging a hand down his face. “The flowers. Those weren’t for Natasha. They were for Wanda.”

Your heart stuttered. “What?”

“Vision,” Bucky groaned. “It was their anniversary. He was stuck on the phone trying to get a fancy reservation and begged me to pick them up. Natasha tagged along because she was hunting for jewellery for Maria’s birthday. That’s all it was.”

You blinked at him. “You’re joking.”

“I’m not,” Bucky replied earnestly. “I didn’t know you thought that. I swear, I’m not with Natasha. I never was.”

Your stomach dropped. “Oh god.”

“Hey—”

“No. No-no-no.” You squeezed your eyes shut, wanting to sink straight through the floor. “This is mortifying. I literally thought you were in a secret relationship. I’ve been avoiding you like the plague. I’ve been thinking about moving cities. I googled how hard it is to change your name legally.”

He snorted. “You’re not serious.”

You opened your eyes, and the horror must have been plain on your face because Bucky’s expression melted into something far too amused. “Oh, you are.”

“I might never recover from this,” you mumbled. 

“Hey, c’mon. It’s not that bad.”

“I confessed my undying crush and accused you of being in love with someone else in the span of like, sixty seconds.”

His mouth twitched, lips threatening a smile. “You’re kind of adorable when you’re spiralling.”

“I’m going to chuck these hors d'oeuvres at your head.”

As if mocking your attempt at dignity, the elevator gave a slight mechanical whirr, nearly at the top floor. The distant hum of the party pulsed just beyond those sleek doors.

You straightened suddenly, panic creeping into your chest. “Okay, I’m going to deliver these and then I’m leaving. Possibly forever. Please never speak to me again.”

But Bucky, ever faster than you, stepped in.

And before you could react, he pressed the emergency stop button.

The elevator jolted to a halt. The tower of overpriced hors d'oeuvres wobbled dangerously in your arms. “Oh my god,” you gasped, teetering.

Bucky was already moving, steady hands catching the top box before it could topple, plucking the rest from your shaking grasp. He crouched to stack them on the floor carefully, then rose slowly, smirking as you stood frozen, mouth agape in pure horrified disbelief.

“Bucky, what the hell are you doing?”

“No more running,” he said simply, as if that explained everything.

You could barely breathe. “You stopped the elevator?”

“Didn’t want to risk the doors opening and you disappearing into the night,” he said, a little too pleased with himself.

“I hate you,” you whispered, eyes wide.

He leaned in, just close enough for you to feel his breath. “No, you don’t.”

You were going to die right here in a metal box. With your dignity in ruins and the man of your dumb, desperate daydreams giving you that look.

And somehow, somehow, you didn’t even want to stop him.

“I’m serious,” he said, stepping closer. “Don’t shut down. Please.”

You glanced up at him, finally meeting his eyes and immediately wished you hadn’t. They were dark. Hungry. That gaze alone could melt you to the floor.

He stepped closer again. And again. Until his frame caged in you, his arms braced on either side of your head, the heat of his body swallowing you whole.

“I like you too,” he said, low, rough, like it was pulled from deep inside. “Christ, I was so blind. I didn’t see it. It didn’t click until that day at the tailor, until I saw you in this damn dress.”

Your breath hitched.

“I can’t stop thinking about you,” he murmured. “I’ve been looking for excuses just to be near you. I keep the notes you leave me with the stupid little drawings. I like looking at them. Thinking about you.”

Your heart felt like it might crack your ribs.

“I smelled every shampoo at the store one day,” he confessed, almost sheepish, almost proud. “Hoped I’d find the one you use. Because you smell so fucking good. It’s been driving me crazy.”

“Bucky…”

“I don’t know. You make me feel special. Seen. Like I’m not some monster, like I’m normal. And then one day you were just… gone. I didn’t realise all the little things you did for me that I never noticed.” He groaned, somehow pressing closer. “I missed the sound of your voice… and it made it hurt even more… I lie awake at night, every night, thinking about you and how much I want to kiss you—”

“Bucky.” You interrupted, and he looked back at you with a barely contained hunger. “Are you going to kiss me or not?”

And then his mouth was on yours.

Hot. Messy. Desperate.

You gasped into it, and he swallowed it whole, groaning as he pressed harder, deeper, hands sliding down to your thighs as he grabbed one and hitched it up around his waist. You clung to his shoulders, lips parted as he slotted himself between your legs, guiding you up until your ass was perched on the elevator’s handrail bar.

“Fuck,” he breathed against your mouth. “Tell me that you want this, tell me that you want me.”

Your head fell back against the wall, lips swollen, breath shaking. His mouth travelled to your jaw, your throat, hands digging into your hips.

It was dizzying. Chaotic. Perfect. 

“I want you, Bucky.” You panted.

“Fuck,” Bucky muttered again, but this time it was different, lower. Hungrier.

His hand slid along your thigh, fingertips brushing beneath the hem of your dress. You panted as he kissed across your collarbone, his breath hot against your skin. His hands settled on your knees, then slowly, deliberately, he spread them apart.

“Bucky—” your voice was barely more than a whisper, a tremble of anticipation and disbelief.

But he didn’t answer. He dropped to his knees.

Right there. In the goddamn elevator.

You almost came on the spot at the sight, lips swollen and slick with saliva, pupils blown, the slight smudge of your lipstick on his chin. His hands slid up the back of your calves, kneading into the flesh like he was savouring the shape of you. Your dress inched upwards, his mouth suddenly pressing a kiss to the inside of your knee.

Your breath hitched. Your hands shot to the railing behind you, clutching tight.

“You have no idea,” he said, voice wrecked with want, “how long I’ve thought about this.”

His eyes flicked up to yours, dark with something dangerous. Devotion, desire, something molten and drowning. Then his mouth moved higher.

Another kiss. Inner thigh this time. Then another, and another, slow, lingering, like he was memorising you. He disappeared until the fabric of your skirt, only the back of his head, dark locks messy peaking out from between the slit. 

You moaned, soft and involuntary, your hips twitching at the heat of his breath through the thin fabric of your panties. He nuzzled in close, his nose brushing against you, and his hands pressed firmly to your thighs to keep you spread.

“I’ve thought about how you’d taste,” he muttered, lips grazing the soaked lace. “How you’d sound.”

You whimpered.

And then, he peeled your panties to the side.

The groan that tore from him was obscene.

“Jesus,” he hissed, voice muffled. “You’re fucking perfect.”

And then, his mouth was on you.

Hot. Wet. Relentless. You cried out, one hand flying to his hair, tangling in it as his tongue licked into you with precision, with hunger, with something close to worship. He devoured you like he was starving. Slow circles, then quick flicks, his mouth dragging across your clit with maddening rhythm. You writhed against the rail, your leg still wrapped around his shoulder, the other trembling against the elevator wall.

“Oh my god—Bucky—fuck—”

Your words slurred together, breath coming in ragged gasps as he groaned into you, the vibration shooting straight through your core. One of his arms snaked around your thigh, pinning you in place, as if he thought you might try to escape. As if he’d let you.

His tongue slid down, dipping into you, then back up, his mouth latching onto your clit with a filthy, wet sound that made your spine arch. You were unravelling, fast, dizzy, overwhelmed.

He pulled back just enough to pant. “I could stay here all night.”

His mouth was merciless. His grip was unrelenting on your thighs, mouth working you over like a man possessed—

Bzzzzt.

A shrill, sudden buzz sounded from the elevator’s emergency panel, followed by a crackling voice.

“Hello? This is Tower Maintenance. We’re registering an emergency stop on lift three. Is there an issue?”

You froze. Every muscle in your body went rigid, as if someone had cracked open your spine and poured ice water down it. Dread spread like frost through your veins. Your heart thudded painfully in your throat, threatening to climb up and out entirely.

You could barely breathe. Could barely think.

This was it. This was how you died—legs spread, Bucky between them, and Tower Maintenance on the fucking line.

Bucky, in sharp contrast, did not freeze.

He groaned softly with wicked glee, his mouth still very much between your legs. The sound vibrated against the most sinful part of you, and then he doubled down. Mouth and hands working with infuriating, diabolical precision, like he’d just taken the intercom as a challenge.

You clamped a hand over your mouth, the other shaking as you reached blindly for the emergency call button, trying not to sound like you were seconds away from being ruined.

Your voice came out like a panicked squeak. “Hi! Uh—h-hi, yes, sorry! Must’ve been a—a small electrical fault. I’m fine! Everything’s… fine!”

Bucky nipped at your thigh in response.

There was a pause. You could feel the suspicion through the line.

“Ma’am, we’re not showing any electrical inconsistencies in that shaft. Did you press the stop button?”

You shot a wide-eyed glare down at the man currently devouring you.

Another wave of pleasure threatened to knock the air from your lungs. You were barely holding it together, every nerve ending aflame, skin flushed, thighs shaking. The cool metal of the elevator wall against your spine did little to ground you.

You cleared your throat, struggling to piece together something—anything—resembling human speech. “Oh. Oh, that—um, I must’ve bumped it. With my elbow. While holding a tray. It’s, uh—crowded. In here.”

Bucky chose that exact moment to suck hard, and you slapped your hand over your mouth to muffle the helpless sound that nearly escaped.

A longer pause. You could practically hear them frowning.

“…Right. Well, we’re releasing the stop now. Please remain calm.”

The line disconnected.

The elevator jolted slightly as it roared back to life.

Bucky gave a dark chuckle. “Crowded, huh?” Then—with zero mercy—he sped up.

“Bucky,” you gasped, head falling back against the wall, “I’m—I’m gonna—”

You shattered.

It hit hard, hot and blinding. You cried out, thighs clamping tight around his head as he groaned against you, mouth not stopping for a second, drawing it out, milking every twitch, every whimper. You barely had time to breathe, let alone moan, your hands flying to steady yourself just as the elevator dinged cheerily and the doors slid open.

Right into the penthouse. Packed full of people, who by some miracle, were utterly oblivious to your predicament. 

You staggered slightly as Bucky stood smoothly, wiping his mouth with his sleeve, one arm slipping around your waist to steady you while the other casually reached down and grabbed the stack of forgotten canapés off the floor like he hadn’t just—

“Evening,” he greeted a passing staff member, utterly unbothered.

You were glowing crimson, pupils blown, lips parted, trying hard to fix your face. Bucky guided you forward, his hand warm on your back, keeping you between him and the crowd as your legs trembled. You barely managed to set the tray on the nearest table before someone whistled.

“Well, damn,” came Sam’s voice from the drinks bar. He gave you both a once-over, a wicked grin spreading. “Buck, next time you’re gonna eat face in the elevator, maybe wipe the lipstick off your chin first.”

Bucky only smirked and licked his bottom lip slow, on purpose, you were sure of it.

You nearly combusted on the spot.

“Bathroom?” he murmured into your ear, low and gravelly.

You nodded quickly and wordlessly.

He guided you with all the smugness of a man who had no regrets, his hand just a little too low on your back to be innocent.

---

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[meowabunga]

Kunt culture hasn't served this hard since The Avengers premiered in 2012