no-not-without-you-blog

[no-not-without-you-blog]

Lexxxxxxiiiiiiii. I am salivating. So ready for more!

Hideout (4.2)

touch-starved!Nomad Steve Rogers x motel employee!Reader

Horny Teen, part two (see previous or series)

Summary: A late-summer heat wave hits you and Steve hard.

Warnings for smut (kinda unprotected sex, momentarily--guess that's dubcon to be safe--fingering, lots of foreplay things and dirty talk but Steve can't actually talk dirty, so...hot talk? IDK, gang, I 'bout died writing this. Prepare thy loins, babes). MINORS DNI. There is plenty for you to read on my Light Masterlist, but this series is not for you! WC 3.1k

A/N: This part contains a cannibalized version of the original idea for this series, but since we've developed differently to this point, it is very different.

He calls ahead. For the first time in a year of visiting, he calls ahead and knows you aren’t working the night he’ll be here.

You work in the garden as long as you can stand before hopping in a cool shower. You aren’t even wrapped in a towel when the trill of your room phone—extension 14, as Steve now knows it—blares through multiple closed doors.

He’s checked-in, and in Room Two, but no pressure, if you want, if you don’t have plans, he’s here. It is the most adorable and awkwardest conversation of all time. It also never gets old to hear him scramble for the simplest of sentiments.

Translation: I’m excited to see you.

Your heart soars then immediately stalls in the stifling weather.

“I’ll be down in a few minutes,” you chuckle.

Of course, he opens his arms for a bear hug the instant the door labeled ‘2’ swings wide. Steve has fewer troubles with platonic affection when alone, that’s for sure, but who could blame him? You’re elated he’s here under any circumstances.

Record-setting heat this late in the summer has left all the AC units taxed to the brink, running constantly, and even with the in-room thermostat set stupidly low, a tank top and shorts is too much.

This means another first: both of you, in bed, naked.

Nothing’s happened, mind, because the swelter of the day zapped energy out of every creature for miles and miles around. The ice machine can’t keep up with eight rooms and your family needing relief from the blaze. From the bright stripe of red across Steve’s cheeks and his earthy musk, he was outside plenty. He’s wiped, too.

You wonder absently when the last time he wore cologne was and what it smelled like. Perhaps he never used it. Perhaps he misses small luxuries more than he ever realized.

Steve looks on the brink of heat-stroke, so you inched yourself onto one side of the bed to start, thinking skin-to-skin contact might be unwelcome. You barely got your palms on the sheets before he pulled you to him. You did not fight it.

It’s meant to be a profound comfort—your weight atop him—and it is.

Your cheek settles on his chest, eyes watching through the sheer curtains as dusk takes over the sky, a happy man stretched like a cat beneath you, smiling, heart beat slowing in your ear. So strong, so steady, so secure.

He’s safe. He’s comfortable. That’s all that matters.

You peer up from your perch. The thin worry lines on his forehead have relaxed. He seems younger. Freedom looks good on Steve Rogers, just as good as it looks on Captain America, maybe better.

You fall asleep straddling his hips, one knee hitched so the crook of your ankle drapes his thigh, slowly pushed up and down by his deep breaths.

You’re drifting, rocked gently by powerful waves in the nothingness of your blank mind, free like him, blooming in the warmth of a bright sun embracing you.

The glow continues until Steve gently shakes you awake.

The room is pitch black, the lights of the parking lot too muted to pass through the gossamer layer over the window.

“You’re…you were squirming a lot. Thought you might be having a nightmare,” his rough timber booms close to your ear.

“No, I—“ you wipe at your face “—I don’t think I was dreaming.”

Steve’s not so relaxed under you now. His abs quake slightly, and those slow breaths have become stunted, shallow with control.

“Did you?” you ask, looking towards his face, useless in the dark but your drowsy brain hasn’t caught up yet.

There’s a shuffling noise above you.

“Is that a ‘yes?’ Did you have a nightmare? You alright?”

The shuffling repeats, accompanied by a strangled “yes,” and you lift your arm to brace on his chest. It unhooks your leg from his, and the hard length of his erection moves from its perch at your ass, nudging the joint of your hip and thigh from below.

“Not—not a nightmare,” he whispers. “Just ignore it.”

Steve’s voice is husky, his grip on the back of your knee tight and unyielding, keeping you from trapping him between your legs.

Your impulse is to soothe him, to tell him he is fine and it is okay to be turned on, generally, when naked and pressed to someone you find attractive—hell, you definitely are—but if he wants you to ignore it, if he’d rather not, if it’s too soon or too hot (metaphorically, physically) or just too much right now, then you respect that. None of this has ever been about making him feel like how he chooses to receive affection is wrong.

Without moving any limbs, your fingers retract and relax, a gentle, nailless scratch to his broad pec beneath your hand, and his cock twitches, tapping your leg.

“Sorry,” Steve huffs.

“Do you want me to get off of you?” You suppress the urge to make a minor edit in that statement because it’s very close to what you want to do.

The shuffling noise sounds different.

“No,” he says softly.

You slide your hand up his chest to his neck and around the back of his head, petting the corner of his bearded jaw just below his ear, careful to use as few muscles as possible.

His cock taps you again anyway. “Sorry,” he mumbles.

You ignore it, as asked, and continue scratching lightly at his scalp.

“Hey,” you start in the darkness, “is this comfortable?”

You run your fingertips over his features while he nods, following his jaw up and down. 

Unable to see, this paints the most vivid picture of Steve’s reactions. You feel the vibration of a hum through his cheek, the draw and release of his brow as you skate over his forehead. You hear his short chuckle when you brush ever-so-gently across his long lashes and boop his nose. Finally, you trace his open-mouth smile with the edge of your thumb, his ragged exhale rushing over your palm.

Tap.

“Sorry.”

“Comfy though?”

His voice is deeper than you’ve ever heard it. “Yeah.”

The drag of your fingers past the edge of bristly stubble and down his throat makes him shiver.

Twitch.

“Sorry.”

You flutter across his collarbone, wondering if that means he’s ticklish on more than just his sides.

“Comfy?”

He hums. You feel it rattle your cheek as much as you actually hear it in your ears.

You continue. His corded muscles giving only slightly to the pressure of your touch. His arm, his chest, down to the hand he keeps on your leg.

Several more breathy apologies sound above you. Steve’s other arm is draped over your waist, and with every pulse of need that betrays him, his grip tightens just a little. His fingers now dig into your soft flesh absently.

It’s hard to hide how desperate he’s made you, but the issue is mutual based on how his abs won’t stop tensing, searching for attention where he denies it. 

You flatten your hand to his chest and make to move.

“May I?”

Steve’s swallow is louder than the ‘okay’ he returns.

You are careful not to push him in any weird angles as you raise up to your knees and straddle him, pinning his erection beneath you, not directly between your folds but nestled at the apex of your legs, just so he won’t have to worry about every involuntary poke. 

With such fresh contact, he clenches his ass hard in response, lifting your whole weight completely before he settles again. The surge of heat to your core has you biting your lip to muffle a moan.

“Comfy?” you rasp at the same moment Steve offers a strangled “sorry.”

The low, constant whine of the air conditioner fills the hollow space around your cocoon of anticipation.

“New plan,” you laugh, relaxing your fingers to splay across his warm skin, “both of us stop doing that, huh? You have nothing to be sorry for, and I’ll trust you to tell me if you aren’t comfortable.”

“So…” Steve shuffles on the sheets, but whatever he moves doesn’t affect your position. “Can I touch you?”

You bite your lip harder before answering, your voice dropping to a sweet reassurance. “Yes. Of course you can, Stevie.”

You keep your pets of his chest and arms light, trying not to tickle him. He’s always so hesitant; you’re worried the tiniest misstep will send him back into his head—not in a good way.

The silence now feels purposeful, dense with possibility, and then rough fingertips land like a foreign explorer who’s braved months at sea solely to experience this moment.

A calculated inhale and exhale rock your pelvis, a wave of nerves foaming in your gut.

He starts innocently enough, mapping your thighs, muttering something about how soft they are, but you don’t dare lean to hear him better. No sudden movements. None. Even though your skin lights up as explosive as those 4th of July fireworks you missed.

Since there’s nothing to see in the room, you feel everything.

He keeps to the periphery of you at first, abandoning your legs to brush the same arms touching him, running fingers together, separating them just as quickly, caressing your palms gently, and dragging his short nails up your wrists without pressure.

You stiffen in pleasure, fighting not to shrink away from the purest intimacy you’ve ever experienced.

His long arms reach the curve of your shoulders, flit across your collarbone, and you’re doing your damndest to keep it together, leaning your head back in lieu of talking.

Don’t scare him.

It can’t last; you’re only human.

Steve’s hands slowly descend over your breasts, middle fingers catching your peaking nipples, and a lewd and aching cry tumbles from your bitten lips.

The force of it surprises you, but more surprising still is him, unfazed, encouraged to linger.

In that low timber, he growls.

“You like that… Knew you would.”

Your body throbs, pulsing with need and emptiness.

That means he thinks of you. He’s imagined this. He’s wanted this.

Stunning electricity shoots through your body as he pinches and twists, squeezes and kneads. Nothing too harsh, but he’s highly motivated when you purr and gasp atop him.

What else does he think about doing? How long has he fantasized? Is this as good as his imagination?

Yours aren’t the only noises now. He sounds tortured with little pleas and whimpers escaping before each guttural moan.

Arousal pools at your folds, and without realizing you started to move, the shy momentum of your hips has nudged his length to lay flush with your dripping center. His tip glides over your clit.

Again and again.

Again and again.

A hot pressure builds in you, faster than ever, kerosene dumped on your wet-dreams and burned to life, a spell manifest in the night.

Steve shakes beneath the palms you brace flat on his chest, the heels digging into his diaphragm.

He moves to grip your thighs hard.

Fire spreads beneath your skin as you two pant and gasp, his whole cock slick and slotted so close to where you truly long for him.

“Wait,” Steve groans, but you can’t understand.

No one could imagine how good this feels, how much you need this, how—

He sits up to stop you, accidentally notching himself at your entrance, your residual motion sliding the thick head of him past the that first, tight ring.

Steve’s lusty moan is barely eclipsed by your own, and you’re too close to halt sheathing him within you, arms instinctively wrapping his shoulders. Desire winds the coil in your belly too taut, the thought of losing this climax unbearable.

“N-uhhh god—“

He’s too sensitive though. He flips you both so your back crashes to the soft sheets and digs his grip into your side, his other hand thumping to anchor on the headboard. Steve sucks air through his teeth like he’s afraid the faintest smell of sex will set him off.

“Don—don’t move,” he orders in thick command.

It makes things worse.

You’re so close, vaulting off the ground and suspended by legs clamped around his waist, dangling on the precipice of ecstasy. You whine and clench, totally unable to control yourself, your nails digging into his back.

Steve cries out, choked at the hilt by your desperation and lost to his own finish.

His hand races from your side to your ass. He pulls out of you only to slot himself there and thrust his cock between your cheeks, cum shooting on the sheets below.

Mindlessly, you ride the cut of his abs, his course pubic hair adding almost enough friction to keep ascending toward your own end, but the void left behind is too consuming. The fire sputters and dims.

Steve buries his face in your neck, breath cooling the sweat lining your skin as he curls away from you, overwhelmed.

“Swear I was gonna wait,” he confesses to the tender spot behind your ear. “I swear.”

“Please,” you croak, tears prickling your eyes in lament for your ruined orgasm.

“Was gonna be better. Swear I’ll do better for you.”

You grope and claw at those thick arms which hold all but his face far away. “Please,” you beg pathetically, “fucking touch me, please.”

A drawn out grunt vibrates the column of your throat.

“Y’shouldn’t have ta beg...”

He shifts to his forearm, caging you in as you plead over and over. He kneels to hover, and your thighs weakly squeeze at his own to emphasize what you need.

“Sounds so pretty when you do…”

Something between a screech and a snarl erupts from your chest.

Steve shushes you, smoothing a big hand across your damp cheek, and quietly, he commands you, “show me what to do.”

Your quivering hold guides him by the wrist down your body. Words to instruct him won’t form in your sex-steeped brain. As luck would have it, he doesn’t need specifics.

“Next time I’ll taste you.” One finger teases your folds in search of his entrance. “Next time you’ll have to beg me to stop.” Two fingers drive forward, displacing a gush of your shared juices. “So wet,” he groans, agonized to silence when you jerk his hand to thrust faster.

“More.” 

He sets a loving and delicate pace, the heel of his palm working your clit. 

Too delicate.

“More,” you gasp.

He obliges, muttering how good he’ll be to you from now on. You’ll always be first. He promises.

The fire takes over again.

“More, Stevie. Please.”

You grind down on him to prove your point, and he marvels that this isn’t too rough for you.

Each strangled breath ties your moans together in a crescendo worthy of Carnegie Hall.

“God,” he rumbles by your ear again, “I know that sound. You’re close, aren’t you?”

Steve’s pumping fingers bully your body farther and farther up the bed, using only a taste of his real strength.

Your chant of ‘yes’ catches in your taxed lungs. He doesn’t need an answer though.

The super-stretched band snaps, a plateau of peace and weightlessness tipped at the vertex until—crash—nerves are razed all along you like a carpet-bombed battlefield.

“Uhnn, is that what you’re gonna feel like around me?” He sighs at the thought and stills his hand just to commit the ripple to memory. “How’m I s’pose to last?”

You slap a hand over his mouth, trying and failing to hold in your yelp of relief.

That mouth…that fucking mouth of his is a weapon all its own.

Tiny explosions wreak havoc on you, body and soul, as his fingers greedily coax you to keep coming—just a little more—just for him—one last rush—give him everything.

His lips open in your palm, but you grip his face harder.

You can’t. You can’t listen right now. You can’t hear one more dangerously sexy, completely innocent thing fall from his beautiful mouth.

Steve lets his hand go lax but doesn’t take it away from your clenched and spasming thighs.

He tries to speak again then gives up, waiting.

Finally, before you can collapse boneless to the bed, he hooks his arm behind your leg so you don’t land on the cold, cum-stained sheets.

He shakes off your forgotten grip of his jaw.

“Tops?” he whispers, patience personified in the long pause before you hum acknowledgment. “Can I kiss you?”

That fucking mouth…

There’s barely enough breath in you to make a sound, but the instant the ‘ye—’ forms in the back of your throat, Steve’s lips are on yours.

It's your first real kiss, of all the ways, after all this time, following all that.

You’d laugh if you weren’t smiling, suffocating in the gentle press that becomes deep and adoring. He kisses you thoroughly after each frantic gasp for air, savoring you, even in the reckless passion of the moment.

Steve rolls to lay you atop him again, more intimately than before. He keeps his face close, sharing breath even in the heat and stench of sex in the room, your wetness now smeared from his navel to his knee.

Turns out, he is a very good kisser, focusing on the act of physical connection. Not only do your lips touch, but he likes to nudge you into whatever minutely different position with his nose. He likes to nuzzle his beard on your sensitive skin until you giggle and squirm. He relishes you like you relish him. 

He whispers things too soft to make out at first. It takes him a while to find his voice, to push past his insecurities, to find his confidence, but eventually, you hear it.

He mumbles how he should have been better, more prepared.

You weave all your fingers through his hair, propped on his chest by your elbows, smiling so he’ll be able to tell in your tone.

“Take the win, Cap.” 

You freeze.

You’ve never called him that, and Steve stays silent for an excruciating beat.

“Sorry,” you offer in the dark, air conditioner churning out sobering drafts of reality.

Steve runs his knuckles gently in patterns across your bare back. There’s a short huff and an amused snort, you mind scrambling to plan some explanation as to why you’d haul the drama of out there into his safe space.

He guides you to settle against him again, tucking you into his strong hold with his chin resting on your forehead.

After what feels like an eternity, he simply asks, “comfy?”

A/N: In case you were wondering...

[Next part: Desperate Man, part one]

[Main Masterlist; Ko-Fi]

@supraveng @1950schick @patzammit @whiskeytangofoxtrot555 @yiiiikesmish @ashesofblackroses @jaqui-has-a-conspiracy-theory @brandycranby @buckysprettybaby @ellethespaceunicorn @rogersbarber @bucky-fricking-barnes-reads @fallinallinmendes @mrsevans90 @lemonadygirl

[no-not-without-you-blog]

A celebration prompt!! 🥳

I don’t think I’ve ever seen a Curtis Everett + there’s only one bed AU 👀 Emphasis on the AU because Snowpiercer is depressing AF 🤣❤️

womp womp, this got 🌶️🌶️🌶️ but perhaps in a tamer way than you think?? whatever happened, i want it. let's leave it at that.

regional political candidate!curtis x staffer!reader

Warnings for smut (act surprised, I dare you), dry-humping, woah-nessie sexual tension, realistic concerns about stains lol, and my knowing the poli-ladder only from watching West Wing, sorry. MINORS DNI. Youngins, you can find plenty to read on my Light Masterlist, but not this! WC 1608

It's a simple mistake.

When Pete called to book for your group of four people (because Mr. Everett is running a very small campaign to keep it very personal for this rural tour), the older woman who owns the tiny B&B heard "a family of four" and held only two rooms. The old, converted mansion doesn't have connecting suites or a basement full of cots to request. There's naught but a high-backed chair in the corner other than the single queen-sized bed against the other wall, and considering you heard Tommy exclaim, "two twins, you gotta be kidding me," no better options exist.

There's three grown men and you. That's it. So either two six-footers struggle--you know what? This isn't your fault, it's just one night, and the hour is too late already.

You don't care anymore.

If Mr. Everett says nothing, you won't say anything. Better to suck it up now instead of ruin the rotation of who bunks with whom. Your boss and candidate is professional enough under all sorts of pressure. It will be fine.

He lets you use the bathroom first, and you immediately get into your comfy (but ample coverage) pajamas, hydrate, wash, moisturize, and brush quickly. No need to make a whole show of being the only woman. Believe it, they know.

"All yours," you announce, reorganizing your bag to have tomorrow's necessities up top.

He simply grunts while flipping through the factory info for the morning meet-and-greet.

As casually as you can, you setup on the farther side of the bed so as not to block him from his suitcase and review the schedule on your phone, resetting your alarm for the right time based on driving distance to the first stop. You get lost in the whole process for a while then look up to see Mr. Everett throwing a blanket over himself in the chair as if he's going to sleep right there, sitting up.

"Sir, you can't do that."

"Why not? I'm tired and I'm here and it's cushioned," he grumbles, purposefully being inarticulate because you've mentioned more than once that he mumbles when answering 'stupid questions.' "We've had a long enough day, you should call me 'Curtis' or I'll make you ride in the backseat."

"Curtis, then," you respond, "if you sleep in that chair, you will look more like shit than you already do. I will put concealer on you. Do not test me."

He gives you the stink eye, contemplating his options, and eventually tosses the blanket off to slide onto the mattress beside you.

It creaks fiercely. You and Curtis make faces at the sounds but don't say anything more about it. He tucks an arm under his head, stretching out with his feet completely off the bed, and after another minute or so, you click off the bedside lamp and turn over to fall fast asleep, the bunched up quilt in between you as a barrier, and the slightly wonky fan above you sounding like a distant warp engine.

You don't know what actually woke you. You didn't startle from a dream, didn't have a feeling of fallen, or feel any movement around you. You're not too hot or too cold. You're just right and...weighted down...but not?

You yawn and blink to focus, stiffening when you realize the weight is Curtis's arm across your waist and your own leg is tossed over his hip. Your boss's head is pressed into your chest, the buzzed hairs prickling through the fabric of your pajama top.

The quilt you probably each thought the other was is wadded near your feet, precariously ready to fall off the bed entirely.

He must not have been in this position for long because the arm he's laying on (your arm) isn't numb yet. Your other arm is draped over his on you, hand hanging off the edge of his tricep.

It's very...comfortable.

You've never really seen Curtis's arms. He always wears button-downs and at least 3/4 sleeve shirts, but tonight, his t-shirt is loose and stretched out, rolled up by tossing, turning, and gravity. He's not tan--he's never tan--but it's so dark in the room that his pale skin only slightly differs from the charcoal of the clothes and near-black of his hair. You can see enough though.

Even with his body relaxed, the muscles of his arm are thick, prominent, pushing veins to the surface like a road map to victory for you to study--

Nope. NO! Bad brain!

You need to find a way to untangle yourself from your boss without embarrassing yourself, or him, or your inner horny gremlin now enjoying the slight, involuntary clench of his fingers in the small of your back. The sudden tickle of that makes you jerk forward, grabbing the arm already in your hand for stability.

Shit.

So much for subtlety.

Curtis rouses, inhaling deeply where his nose is practically lodged between your breasts, and begins to straighten out, lifting his head slowly. The move is not enough to knock your leg off of him. In fact, his shuffling places his top knee directly in the middle of your thighs.

The gravelly way he says your name, sleepy, hopeful, questioning, calling...it's so sexy, it stops you in your tracks.

His lashes flutter against your chin as his beard drags over your arm, and Curtis looks up at you.

The dark obscures any nuance you could discern from his expression, leaving your breath to catch like a caged animal desperate to be free. Your heart hums in anticipation while you wait for an apology, or a scolding, or disgust, anything but what you want, what he actually does next.

His hips roll forward, elongating his spine so his lips can reach yours. The kiss is tender and heated.

Stunned, your reactions--though excited--seem jumpy in comparison to the assured and casual way Curtis devours you, so slowly, so confident, but you're never held down or shut up. Each time he closes what few gaps remain between you, there's a pause, a chance for you to voice some concern, to halt him.

Curtis doesn't trap you; he cradles you.

Without words, you know he's wanted this, but you don't know for how long. The most you know of his personal life is women don't come and go like a revolving door. He's not a fuck-and-fuck-off type, but in your wildest--most suppressed--dreams, you never imagined he'd be so intense and devoted from the first kiss.

You're both still clothed, for christ's sake.

Unrushed, the hand at your back goes from teasing the strip of skin exposed above your waistband to tugging you up his leg. Higher and higher you rock, bit by bit so that the creaky springs don't give away what's happening in the dark.

He feels so wonderful, and he's sure to make you feel him everywhere, the only words he offers whispered against your swollen lips warn that you're moaning, gasping too loudly.

"Be good."

You run your hands over the soft bristle of his hair and nod, ghosting a 'yes, sir' before grinding into the bulge he's perfectly positioned, hips maneuvered to seat perfectly between yours, both arms encircling you perfectly.

So fucking perfect in that intense, quiet, dark way.

The rippling buzz of the ceiling fan drowns out the pleased rumble from Curtis's chest, but the vibrations seep from his skin to yours.

You're climbing high, wet enough for your bottoms to stick in place while the bulbous head of his cock grows distinct through damp fabric.

He holds you, grips your ass to keep you exactly where you need to be, muttering "come on, come on" in a demanding, wrecked tone more devastating than any fantasy you've ever had. He peppers your neck and jaw with kisses because the quick little movements keep your lips from aligning. Concentrating on staying silent delays the inevitable, but not for long.

Though you want that praise, those phrases that could wash you slowly back down to Earth, you still relish his touch, those broad shoulders you hang onto, those large hands bracing you during impact. He's everywhere.

Curtis steadily relaxes as your own breathing settles.

A lone groan precedes his "I--I'll be right back," and just like that you're left alone in the bed, straining to hear after the bathroom door shuts.

Worry sets in.

Have you crossed a line? Well, more of a line or one you didn't know about?

You roll over to your other side, watching the shadowy leaves and swaying branches through the window, bathed in dim moonlight, until there's a flush and a literal washing sound behind you. Your whole body dips when he climbs back in.

Curtis has brought the quilt back up, lays it over you both, and curls around you.

The renewed warmth makes you keen, a whimper of peaceful pleasure escaping you, louder than all the rest that was said and done.

He props himself up, leaning to press a gentle kiss to your cheek.

"I will do--" his beard grazes the shell of your ear "--anything you ask of me. Always have," he breathes, "always will."

Curtis tucks in behind you again, weighty arm lacing beneath yours, deflating the worry filling your chest.

"But let's go to sleep now," he grumbles, "and make sure tomorrow there's a king...that doesn't shriek like a banshee."

"Condoms, too," you add before your eyes shut and your brain realizes.

That pleased rumble still gets drowned out by the fan, but you feel it anyway.

Because he's everywhere, and you're his everything.

[Main Masterlist; Sleepover Masterlist]

A/N: I'm fine. I can live without him. I'm fine. ::dies::

@supraveng @patzammit @whiskeytangofoxtrot555 @yiiiikesmish @ashesofblackroses @jaqui-has-a-conspiracy-theory @brandycranby @buckysprettybaby @ellethespaceunicorn @late-to-the-party-81 @bigtreefest @mistressmkay @astheskycries @veryprairieberry @rogersbarber @blogbog710 @yenzys-lucky-charm @thiquefunlover63

[no-not-without-you-blog]

Omg!!! I have been hoping and praying for hideout! Steve for so long!!! Yay!

oh, hello, Hideout!Steve...long time no see

[no-not-without-you-blog]

hearts on fire

pairing: au!bucky barnes x avenger!reader

summary: in an alternate universe, bucky never falls to his death and instead is with steve rogers when the plane crashes to destroy hydra's base. decades later they are found and bucky is an original member of the avengers. his only problem besides adjusting to the new century? he can't help but mercilessly flirt with his teammate.

word count: 2.7K

a/n: based on this request!

Living in close quarters with your co-workers everyday would be most people’s idea of hell. For you? It was a part of the job, a requirement really. Luckily, the compound was spacious enough where most days you could get some peace and quiet, but on mission days … it was usually quite the shit show.

You were sitting in the lounge, it was your hideaway. There was something about it that made you feel at ease. Maybe it was the way your body sunk into the dark brown leather couch after a long night or the way the fireplace was always on, illuminating the dark grey walls. Regardless, it was your haven. 

“You’re needed,” a voice calls out to you, interrupting your peace and quiet.

Your head looks up from the book you’re reading to catch the eye of Bucky Barnes, your teammate and the permanent pain in your ass.

He’s leaning against the entrance to the room, his arms crossed over his broad chest, a smirk on his features as he watches you. There always seemed to be a fire in his eyes that only ignited when he looked at you.

“By who?” you ask, placing the bookmark in the page before letting the cover fall close.

“By me,” he responds back, sending you a wink.

You can’t help but roll your eyes in response, that was his usual move with you, flirting relentlessly to see you get all flustered. He may have missed decades of his life frozen in ice, but it was actually quite remarkable how good he still was at it. 

Standing from the couch, you take a few steps forward towards him, Bucky’s eyes never straying from you as you do. Actually, it only makes him stand straighter, flexing his arm muscles hoping to impress you. The veins popping on either arm, his shirt sleeves rising a bit from the tension. Bucky loved the attention.

“For what, Barnes?” 

He hummed in response, licking his bottom lip as his mind filled with all the ways that he really could use your help. You playfully shove his shoulder when you realize that’s what he’s thinking about.

“I didn’t even say anything,” he protests.

“You didn’t have to. I know what goes on in that big head of yours,” you tease.

Bucky’s laugh fills the air, his eyes crinkling at the edges that make you melt a bit on the inside. As much as you hated to admit it, you did have a bit of a crush on Bucky, though you tried to keep your work separate from your personal life. Even if living in the tower tended to muddle that line.

“Jerk,” he mutters. “Okay, seriously … Steve’s calling a meeting in the briefing room. Asked me if I’d come get you.”

“Let me guess, you couldn’t say no, could you?”

“And miss out on such a beautiful sight?” His eyes wander over you again before settling on your gaze. “Absolutely not.”

You do everything you can to stop the blush from sinking into your cheeks, your face suddenly hot. When you can't, you dip your head down and brush past Bucky, your shoulder accidentally colliding with his as you make your swift exit.

There’s a haze around you as you make your way down the hallway, the grey walls blurred, trying to ignore the way your body feels after that conversation. Both full of want and completely confused; that seemed to be normal when talking to him. Bucky had a way of getting under your skin that was hard to ignore, especially with that stupid smile of his. 

It takes a moment but he follows after you, the sound of his footsteps against the tile floor as he keeps his eyes trained on your back. You were too good of a sight to let go of.

The briefing room is mostly full by the time you arrive. The team had picked a random office to hold as the formal briefing space, boxes still scattered around as the team tried to make it feel less like a boardroom and more of a place where important world-saving-issues were discussed.

Bruce is sitting in the corner, his glasses low on his nose as he types on his computer, Tony and Steve arguing at the front of the room, Clint muttering something to Natasha - whose arms are crossed over her chest and her eyebrows seem to raise as you and Bucky enter the room only seconds apart.

“Shut up,” you mumble to her as you take a seat next to her.

“I didn’t say anything.” Her voice is quiet and oozing with sarcasm, the smirk on her lips enough to make you want to roll your eyes, but you control yourself.

“He just came to find me. That’s all.”

Natasha hums in response, turning to watch the man that followed you.

Bucky sits away from you, which is a blessing in disguise because the last thing you needed was a distraction. These missions were important and you didn’t need Bucky making googly eyes at you the entire time to undermine your need to understand the assignment.

“He’s staring, you know,” Nat says, her head now looking straight ahead at Tony and Steve who were getting more and more into it.

“I don’t care.”

“You’re a bad liar,” Nat calls you out before continuing. “Besides, what’s the harm? He’s cute.”

You swallow at her words, obviously he was cute, but you didn’t have time for that right now. Not when the Avengers initiative was still so new, not when there were so many threats in the world. 

“He follows me around like a lost dog, like he’s waiting for me to look in his direction,” you reply, though you’re not entirely convinced that’s the reason you won’t give him the time of day.

“Oh poor you. Handsome super soldier who would do anything for you, it must be super hard.”

Before you can respond, Tony claps his hands together to start the meeting.

You kept your attention ahead, although you did find yourself sneaking a few glances at Bucky a few times. When he was paying close attention his jaw would flex and his fingers would drum on the table. You never realized how long his fingers were –

Focus.

The briefing was quick but thorough. There’s a small group of ex-SHIELD members who have been robbing high level tech out of ammunition depots around the country, they strike late into the night and leave no traces behind. The whole team, minus Bruce and Thor, would be stationed at what is assumed to be the next, and final, depot waiting to ambush the group.

Sounded easy enough.

The artillery room was always the last place the team stopped at before making their way to the quinjet, it was where all the gear needed for the mission was stored; behind locked cabinets and drawers with combinations. 

Not everyone was Tony Stark and had their suit in the palm of their hands.

Zipping up your vest, you make a mental note of everything you had on you and what you still needed to grab, mumbling under your breath as you try to remember.

“Gun, knife, ammo …” you repeat to yourself, nodding your head along with your words.

“Wanna make a bet?” 

Bucky’s voice breaks through your checklist causing you to look over at him, watching as tightens his utility belt around his waist. You can’t say you’re not intrigued at both the sight and his offer.

“Depends,” you grab the gun in front of you, inspecting it. “What’s the bet?”

“If we can neutralize this group in less than an hour, you’ll finally let me take you out.” 

The words come out of him so easily that you’re taken aback. Your hand freezes on the gun for a half second but you try to quickly recover, not wanting to show him how his words affect you. Your eyes stay locked ahead, though you can see him smirking down at you in the corner of your eye.

“And if we don’t?”

He considers your words as he loads his utility belt, grabbing his signature switchblade and opening and closing it absentmindedly as he tries to think of a good enough counter to his side of the bet.

“If we don’t … then I’ll let you pick my training out for the next month.”

“Two months.”

“Deal.”

You load your gun into your own utility belt before turning towards Bucky, your hand shutting the locker door in one swift movement. He towers over you in a way that makes your head dizzy and your pulse race. You hate how that shit eating grin on his face is purposeful.

“Hope your super soldier stamina can keep up for when I win.”

Bucky chuckles as he flips the knife in his hand, the metal blade twinkling in the dim light in the room as it closes shut mid-air so he can safely catch it and place it in his utility belt. Leaning down, his lips right next to your ear. 

“Make sure you’re ready at six, I have somewhere special in mind for us,” he whispers.

He bumps past you the same way you did on the way to the briefing and it leaves you stunned into silence. You’re almost positive there’s a spark of electricity that goes through your body. 

Sure, he was a flirt and always had been when it came to you, as if it was just in his nature - but it seemed like he had picked up more steam recently. Like he couldn’t help himself.

You take a deep breath. You needed to focus. You couldn’t be this flustered.

Turning on your heels you follow Bucky and the rest of the crew onto the jet. It would take just under two hours to get to the location. Enough time to get you into the zone and focused on the mission at hand.

Not on Bucky.

Not on the way that he kept talking to Clint but making eyes over at you.

Not on how you were almost positive you heard him say your name.

Absolutely not. It was time to get shit done.

The depot was a giant warehouse in the middle of nowhere, hidden by a deep forest, which meant that most people wouldn’t stumble upon it unless they were looking for it. 

Inside were crates of weapons, tech, plans - basically anything you could think of that would help build an empire - stacked as high as the eye could see. It was slightly cold and damp, but temperature never affected the way the Avengers worked. And for you? It helped cool you down since all you could think about was Bucky’s lips next to your ears

Steve was stationed with his shield in the front of the building, Tony surrounded the perimeter from above which left Nat, Clint, Bucky and yourself all patrolling some area of the warehouse. Sprawled out to cover more area.

You kept your hand on your belt as you waited to hear any clearance from the team. When you looked to your right you could see Bucky at the other end of the room, his finger tapping his watch. 

The timer had started.

And judging from the disgruntled sounds of Steve and Tony ringing in your earpiece.

So had the fight.

Truthfully, when the brief was read you didn’t think it would take longer than an hour, but you were shocked by how fast the team was able to dismantle the group. Thirty seven minutes and twenty five seconds according to Bucky’s timer, which he made sure to promptly show you the moment the team stepped back onto the jet.

He was breathing heavily, covered in a thin layer of sweat as he beelined his way over to you, his chest rapidly rising and falling. It was distracting how good he looked as if the world seemed to zero in on him for a moment. 

Bucky ran his fingers through his hair, it was short but somehow still tidy despite the mess everyone was caught in. His face was clean shaven and a bead ran down the side of his face, almost as if to mock you.

“Told you,” he muttered, elbowing you playfully.

“Damn, I was really looking forward to torturing you too.”

There’s that twinkle in his eye again when he looks at you, one that makes you feel like maybe the galaxy was created there. 

“I know the idea of staring at me shirtless and sweaty is tempting, but I won.”

“Remember what I said earlier today about you having a big head?” you tease.

“I remember everything you say,” he replies, as if it’s the most normal statement he could make.

You decide to ignore him and take a seat, grabbing a water bottle for the both of you as you do. Handing it over, your fingers brush lightly but enough that the hairs on the back of your neck stand up. Quickly, you uncap the bottle and down the contents inside, trying not to pay close attention to how close the two of you were when seated; the way your thighs are touching, or how, you could hear him gulping down the water. 

The rest of the flight was quiet, it was early in the morning. The windows showed the beginnings of a light blue sky, sprinkled in with some dark purples from the fading night. 

All you could think about was sleep. And this date that Bucky had won fair and square, but sleep first. 

The exhaustion was seeping into your bones, your eyes could barely stay open as the adrenaline started to fade. Bucky was absentmindedly playing with a strand on his vest, his mind working in overdrive as if he was nervous - which he rarely, if ever, was.

“Cat got your tongue, Barnes?”

“You’ve got my heart, is that the same thing?”

“You’re unbelievable, you know that?” you mutter, shaking your head. “Do you happen to flirt as often as you breathe?”

“I can’t help it,” he holds his hands up in defense, though it’s clear he doesn’t think he’s done anything wrong … which he really hasn’t. “You intrigue me.”

Your eyes are still heavy as you look up at him, drooping slightly as you let out a yawn, but you won’t deny that it feels good to be wanted, even if it was a game of cat and mouse most of the time. Though now you’d have to admit to Nat that you accepted this date and that she was, ultimately, correct.

“How so?”

Bucky searches your features for a moment, biting down on his bottom lip as if he was deep in thought. And he was, about you. About all the ways he wanted to get to know you. About all the ways you make him feel like he’s floating on air. 

He had a new profound look on life since being found in the ice, he wasn’t going to let time slip past him again.

“I don’t know …” his voice is delicate as he speaks. “Something about those eyes.”

The blush that you so desperately tried to resist all day creeps its way back onto your features. There’s a need in the air to say something - anything , but the jet is lowering and you know you’re almost back at the tower. 

Sleep is finally within reach.

“Mmm,” you half moan, half hum as you stand, stretching your back out. “These eyes have to go to sleep.”

The jet docks and the ramp opens allowing you to finally allow the crew to disembark. Bucky watches you carefully, making sure you’re okay as you begin to follow the crowd.

“Sweet dreams,” he calls out, still sitting in the seat you left him in. “Maybe you’ll see me there.”

You don’t look back, but your heart beats a bit faster with each passing second as you make your way back to your room. A quick shower and change is over in a blink of an eye, settling down into the bed to sleep soundly. 

You do, in fact, dream of Bucky.

You thought about him before your eyes were even closed.

You would think about him again when you woke later that afternoon; waiting patiently for six o’clock to come.

[no-not-without-you-blog]

Cycle

Summary : Bucky gets jealous of your friendship with Bob… until he realises he has nothing to worry about

Pairing : New Avenger! Bucky Barnes x New Avenger! reader (she/her), Best Friend! Bob Reynolds

Warnings/tags : Hurt/comfort, jealousy, addiction recovery, sobriety milestones, protective!Bucky Barnes, found family, angst with a happy ending, trauma recovery, mentions of violent pasts. (Please let me know if I miss anything!!!)

Word count : 4.7k 

Requested by : @princekooks Based on this request

Note : I did add an addiction recovery plot loosely based on my own recovery to the request, just because I think it added depth, I hope you don’t mind! If you’d like to be on the taglist, message me! It gets lost in the comments sometimes. Enjoy!

Request Guidelines

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It had been a Tuesday afternoon when you first met Bucky Barnes.

You were standing in a corner of a small, independent bookstore tucked between a laundromat and a bakery, thumbing through a well-worn copy of a book on recovery—one of those ones with a gently optimistic title and a forward written by someone who’d clearly survived something. You were trying to decide whether it sounded real or like the usual hollow platitudes when a voice spoke behind you, “I’ve read that one.”

You turned and met the eyes of a man who looked like he’d lived a few dozen lives. Hair tied back, red flannel rolled to the elbows, dark circles under his eyes like he'd been fighting sleep—or himself—for a long time.

“How is it?” you asked.

“It’s… okay,” he shrugged. “A little preachy.”

You gave him a half-laugh. “Most of them are.”

You found out his name a few minutes later—he introduced himself as Bucky, but quickly added, “You… probably know of me,” as his metal arm fidgeted under his sleeve.

You did, but you didn’t make it a big deal. You just smiled and told him your name, and that was the start of it.

At first, it was casual. You bumped into each other at the bookstore, exchanging recommendations, venting about how hard it was to find recovery books that didn’t make you want to scream or punch the wall or both. You started meeting every other Thursday at a cafe down the street, sharing dog-eared paperbacks and coffee that tasted burnt. You both playfully called it a “book club,” but really, it was just two people trying to connect.

Bucky knew you were addicted to something, based on the little notes you scribbled in your books, but he never asked what your addiction was. You knew he was the Winter Soldier, but never asked, either. There was a mutual understanding, and that trust was perhaps why you became so close so quickly.

But then…. one Thursday, you didn’t show up.

He waited an hour and forty minutes before paying for both coffees and walking out. He tried not to assume the worst, but he cared too many times not to worry. That night, when he knocked on your door, it was just to check in. Just to be sure.

You didn’t answer.

The second time, you did— but barely. You cracked the door and he saw you. 

You were sweating, shaking. Your eyes were unfocused and your skin was crawling. Bucky recognised it instantly as withdrawal. You tried to say something snarky, to act fine, but you stumbled halfway through the sentence.

He caught you before you hit the ground and carried you to the couch.

And he stayed all night.

While your body trembled and your teeth chattered and you swore and wept and curled in on yourself like you were trying to disappear, he stayed. He saw the emptied out vodka bottles on the sink and threw them out so you didn't have to see or smell them. He made you drink water, wiped your forehead with a cold cloth, and when you muttered apologies through half-conscious shame, he just said, “You don’t have to be sorry.”

You don’t remember when you finally fell asleep. But when you woke up, the sun was peeking through the blinds and he was there, sitting in your worn-out armchair, a book in his lap. 

He looked at you and said, “You don’t have to do this alone.”

This was the moment you realised he meant it.

That he’d seen you— ugly, sick, scared —and he stayed.

That’s when you started healing.

That’s when you started loving him, even if you didn’t know it yet.

—

You became better friends over the next few months. He even introduced you to Sam, who you affectionately said, “try to counsel me during brunch again and I will break your arm, cap.”

He introduced you to Joaquin, who recognised you but couldn’t remember why.  

You shrugged and laughed nervously saying how you “Must’ve just had one of those faces.”

The topic didn’t come up again until weeks later, when you were hanging out with Bucky past midnight.

You and Bucky were sitting on the fire escape outside your apartment, sharing a blanket and a pot of tea— it curbed your craving.

You watched the smoke from your mug swirl in the cold night air before you finally said it.

“I used to kill people for money.”

You didn’t look at him right away. You kept your eyes on the street below. Like maybe if you didn’t see his face, you could pretend the words didn’t hurt on their way out.

“I had to, to survive. That’s why Joaquin… recognised me. I crossed paths with his unit during the blip,” you added quietly. “I—I walked away. One day, I looked in the mirror and I didn’t recognise my own eyes.”

You heard Bucky shift beside you, moving closer. 

Bucky never said it outright, but he did suspect you were a veteran of violence, one way or another. 

“I started drinking to forget their faces,” you continued. “And then I drank to forget mine.” Your voice cracked, but you kept going. “I used to think if I just didn’t talk about it, it didn’t exist. But it does— in my mind, in my dreams, in reflections. And I still feel like maybe I don’t deserve to be sitting here— drinking tea with a friend.”

It was quiet again.

Then Bucky said, “I used to be a ghost too.”

You turned toward him. You knew, of course, but you let him speak.

“I didn’t have a choice,” he said, eyes locked on some distant memory. “But that doesn’t make it easier. They erased me, rewrote me, pointed me at people and made me pull the trigger.”

He let out a deep breath, like he'd been holding it in for years. “When I got out, I thought I’d never be more than what they made me. I didn’t think I could be someone good.”

You wiped a tear from your eyes as you placed your hand over his vibranium arm.

“I guess we were both weapons,” you whispered.

He looked at you then, really looked.

“No,” he said. “We are people. The world made us weapons.”

Your lower lip trembled, and this time you let yourself lean into him. He wrapped his arm around you, held you close, and the two of you sat there, sipping warmth from chipped mugs.

It wasn’t peace.

But it was a step in the right direction.

—

It had been exactly one year since you last drank.

Three hundred and sixty-five days since you’d woken up shaking, drenched in sweat and shame and pain, and found Bucky Barnes sitting in your armchair with a book in his lap.

One year since your body had begged for the thing that almost destroyed you—and you said no.

And somehow, for every day after, you kept saying no. Sometimes barely or screaming or crying on the floor. But you refused.

One-ish year since you started going to meetings, too.

You didn’t have a party. You didn’t post about it. You just stood by your window, holding a mug of herbal tea, trying to believe it was real.

Then there was a knock at your door.

You weren’t expecting anyone.

When you opened the door, it was Bucky.

He was still in his suit, no doubt fresh from a flight from DC. It’s been a month since you’ve seen him— campaigns and congress and all— but he always made time for you. He even kept his Thursday evening schedules clear just to talk to you on video call for hours when he couldn’t be here in person.

He looked a little awkward, like maybe he thought he was intruding. But in his hands, there was a small white bakery box.

He cleared his throat. “Hey.”

“Hey,” you smiled. “What’s this?”

He shrugged, looking sheepish. “Well, uh… it’s a cupcake.”

You arched a brow, letting him in and letting the door shut behind you.

“With a candle,” he added, following you in the kitchen. “One candle. For one year.”

You blinked as he held the box out to you, and you took it. Inside was a single cupcake— chocolate with vanilla frosting, slightly smushed on one side like maybe he’d carried it a bit too far in his work bag before giving up and just holding it. In the center of the frosting was a short blue candle.

“Bucky…” your voice cracked.

He rubbed the back of his neck, eyes flicking away for a second before returning to yours. “I figured… I know you didn’t want a huge thing. But also, it is. A year is a big deal. I thought maybe… we could light the candle and eat this together? Unless that’s weird.”

You shook your head, too choked up to speak right away. Instead, you shakily lit it. The flame danced gently, between you.

“I didn’t know what flavour you’d want,” he admitted. “I just got chocolate because you like mochas and statistically that seems like the safest bet.”

You let out a watery laugh, covering your mouth.

“Make a wish,” he said gently.

You looked at the candle, then at him, and for a second your heart skipped a beat. You didn’t need to wish. Everything you wanted was standing right in front of you.

Still, you closed your eyes, breathed in, and blew out the candle.

When you opened them again, Bucky was watching you like you were the most important thing he’d ever seen.

“I’m really proud of you,” he said.

Tears welled in your eyes again. “I wouldn’t have made it without you,” you whispered.

Bucky blinked hard and nodded, like he was trying to stay composed. But you could see the way his teeth clenched, how he looked down at the floor, then back at you, like he was trying to find the courage to jump off a cliff. “Okay, uh. Okay. So,” he tried to compose himself, running his free hand through his hair. I didn’t just come here for the cupcake.”

“No?” you furrowed your brows,

He shook his head. “I mean—I did come for that. But there’s more. There’s something I’ve been… sitting on. For a while. And I thought maybe… today… maybe I could just…” he stopped abruptly. He let out a shaky laugh that sounded like it might turn into a sob.

You stepped closer. “Bucky?”

He looked at you, and his eyes were glassy. “I’m sorry, I’m just— really nervous.”

“Why?” you asked, tilting your head.

“Because,” he said, his voice cracking. “It’s probably not the right time, but… I think if I don’t say it, I’ll regret it forever.”

“You can say anything to me,” You reached out and took his human hand, squeezing gently. “Whatever it is.”

He looked at your hands clasped together, then up at your face like it was the scariest thing he’d ever had to do. This man had been brainwashed and tortured,  yet here he was, more afraid of this than anything else.

“I love you,” he whispered. “I’m in love with you.”

Your breath was caught in your throat. You didn’t speak—couldn’t. His hand tightened in yours, and he rushed on, eyes wide, almost panicked.

“I didn’t mean for it to happen, okay? It just did. I started caring about you and then I couldn’t stop. You’d leave me little notes in your books and you’d laugh at my stupid jokes and I’d think about it for hours. You let me be there for you—you—you let me stay when you were at your worst and I’ve never felt more needed in my life and it’s not because you’re getting better or because I want to save you or anything like that. I just… —God, I don’t even know what I’m saying.”

He laughed again, wiping at his eyes with the heel of his hand.

But then… he saw tears welling in your eyes, and he panicked.

You were crying again—harder now. Real tears. Ugly, joyful, aching ones.

“I know it might be too soon,” he rushed on, “and if you’re not ready, I get it. You don’t owe me anything, and I swear I’ll still be here. But I just… I needed you to know.”

You were deathly close to full-bodied sobs now, streaks streaming down your cheeks.

“Fuck,” he said softly, heart dropping and already regretting everything, “I’m so— I’m sorry. I should’ve known it was too much and—

“I love you, too,” You interrupted with cute little hiccups.

His eyes widened. “You—?”

“You’re such an idiot.” You finally put the cupcake down, slightly squished on the sides too from your grip. “Of course I love you.”

His arms wrapped around you instantly, tightly, like he thought you might disappear. You buried your face in his chest, both of you crying now, holding onto each other. “I’ve loved you since the day you carried me to that couch and stayed,” you whispered. “Since you threw out those bottles so I didn’t have to look at them.”

He pulled back just enough to look at you, and then he kissed your forehead, your temple, then finally your lips.

It wasn’t perfect—it was messy and wet with tears and maybe your noses bumped— it was desperate and gentle all at once. He cupped your cheek like he was terrified you’d slip away, and you kissed him back like you finally understood what it meant to be safe.

When you finally pulled apart, foreheads pressed together, his breath hitched like he couldn’t quite believe it was happening.

That night, you ate the cupcake on the couch, curled into each other, sharing bites and jokes up until you were too tired.

Wrapped in Bucky’s arms as you drifted to sleep, you thought This is what healing looks like. 

—

Less than a year later, New York happened. The Void happened. When the dust finally settled and the new Avengers debuted unwillingly, you finally found a family, and more importantly— a chance to put your skills to good use.

Then, you both moved into the watchtower.

Bucky had always chosen the corner of any room he was in—somewhere with a clear view of the exits. So when you both moved in, it wasn’t a surprise that he picked the bedroom furthest from the common area. What did surprise you was how his arm always seemed to find its way around your waist when another person entered the room, even if they were just teammates. It wasn’t aggressive but it was a bit… possessive.

After the first couple of weeks, you grew close to Bob, in a way that went beyond team camaraderie. Bob became your best friend— someone you could talk to about the little things, the hard things, the stuff about addiction you didn’t want to tell Bucky because he couldn’t possibly understand the way Bob did. You shared jokes, late-night talks, and countless cups of terrible pod coffee in the common kitchen.

And Bucky noticed.

He noticed the way you laughed with Bob. The way Bob always seemed to get your pop culture references, the way your eyes lit up talking to him. The way you leaned in just a little closer. And Bucky hated it— but he felt the creeping, gnawing of jealousy  he hadn’t felt in years.

It was most obvious when the group was watching some dumb sci-fi rerun you and Bob insisted on, quoting every line like it was sacred scripture. You laughed until you snorted, nudging Bob’s arm, sharing a private joke. Bucky sat stiffly in the armchair nearby, not saying a word. He didn’t get the references, didn’t get the inside jokes— but more than that, he didn’t like how naturally Bob seemed to. He tried not to glare, but his eyes kept drifting to where your shoulders touched, and he hated that his stomach twisted every time you leaned in.

One evening,  Bucky finally brought it up.

“You spend a lot of time with Bob,” he said, almost unsure.

You looked up from the book in your hands—one of those new recovery guides Bob had given you earlier that day. You smiled, brushing a strand of hair behind your ear. “We’re just friends.”

“Just friends.” You could tell he didn’t quite believe it.

You reached out and took his hand gently. “Bob’s a good guy. He’s been there for me, just like you have.”

But Bucky was stuck. His mind was a tangle of 1940s beliefs, a world where men and women didn’t just be friends. There was always something underneath the surface— and he couldn’t unlearn that overnight. 

The week after, Bucky looked up from where he sat, elbows on knees. “You were gone a while,” he said, casual on the surface.

“Debrief with Bob,” you replied, not meeting his eyes. 

Bucky’s nod was wary. “Just the two of you?”

You gave a small laugh. “It wasn’t a date, Buck.” 

He knew that, but hated how much he still needed to hear it.

Every time you handed Bob another self-help book, Bucky’s chest clenched with an ache he despised himself for feeling. Because he liked Bob.

He really did. 

Bob liked him, too. Bucky was one of the only people Bob could talk to without a filter. After all, he trained him in hand-to-hand combat, and Bucky made him feel like he could survive without his powers, that he was worth more as himself than as the Sentry. But the fear was there nonetheless. What if you left him for Bob? What if Bob was everything Bucky couldn’t be?

Bucky’s jealousy wasn’t about mistrust or anger. It was fear. Perhaps, he was terrified of losing the person he spent so long finding.

Sometimes, late at night, you’d find him staring out the window, hands curled into fists, fidgeting with his fingers,

And even though you felt nothing for Bob but friendship, the knot of jealousy didn’t unravel.

—

A couple months later, you celebrated your important date.

The morning light slipped softly through the blinds of your shared room, casting stripes across the rumpled sheets. Bucky was already awake, bustling around the kitchen. You were asleep, the duvet wrapping around you like a cocoon, but the smell of coffee and sugar pulled you toward consciousness.

You blinked up at Bucky when he returned to the bedroom, a tray balanced in his hands. There was a steaming mug of coffee, a small vase with a single wildflower, and a plate piled high with pancakes and fresh berries. 

“Happy anniversary,” he said gently, his blue eyes gleaming.

You propped yourself up on one elbow, smiling so wide it hurt in the best way. “You’re spoiling me.”

“You deserve it,” he shrugged as he sat down on the edge of the mattress, but there was a shy grin tugging at the corners of his mouth. “Two years sober, one year dating me. That’s… something.”

You reached out, fingers curling around his wrist. “You’re something, Buck.” You kissed his cheek, and still, after a year, his ears turned pink.

The day unfolded like a dream. 

Later, Bucky took you out to dinner at that cozy Italian place you’d talked about forever but never tried. You laughed as Bucky tried to sneak a taste of your food when you weren’t looking. He even gave you a necklace with a compass pendant, a reminder that you’d always find each other.

Back at the Watchtower, Yelena caught you both in the hallway just before you slipped into your room. Her arms were crossed, a smirk playing on her lips as she whispered, “We know it’s your anniversary, but could you at least keep it down?”

“No promises,” You grinned wickedly at her, and Bucky just shrugged with a playful glint in his eyes.

When you finally closed the door behind you, the world melted away.

A massive chocolate cake sat on the table, decorated simply but beautifully with two sparklers flickering like tiny fireworks — one for two years sober, one for your anniversary. You both laughed as Bucky fumbled to light them, the flame dancing wildly before settling steady.

Bucky helped you blow them with a smile full of pride and love.

Your heart felt like it might burst.

​​You leaned into him, your nose brushing his, your breath warm against his lips.

“I still can’t believe you’re real,” he murmured.

You kissed him in answer, the kind of kiss that made time feel like it didn’t exist. 

Your hands threaded into his hair, tugging gently, and he groaned into your mouth— and you felt it everywhere. 

He lifted you without effort, his metal arm cradling you against him like you were weightless, and carried you toward the bedroom, never once breaking the kiss.

The rest of the night unfolded like a slow-burning fire—each button, each kiss, each whispered word stripping away the armour you wore for the rest of the world.

​​There were soft gasps and laughter and tangled limbs and the kind of intimacy that didn’t need to be explained. 

—

The digital clock on the nightstand blinked quietly in the dark—11:00 PM. The only sounds in the room were the distant hum of the city through the window and the even breaths coming from Bucky’s side of the bed.

You shifted under the blanket, careful not to disturb the man beside you. His presence was comforting, the warmth of his body acted like a shield from the chill. 

Still, you slipped out of bed. The sheets rustled faintly as your feet touched the floor. You moved quietly, avoiding the creaky board near the dresser. Your fingers ghosted over one of Bucky’s hoodies as you grabbed it.

Behind you, Bucky’s eyes opened.

He didn’t move. He stayed still, keeping his breathing even— watching you through half-lidded eyes. His mind, though, was alert. 

He’d felt you stir. And now he watched you tiptoe toward the door like you were sneaking off into the night.

He didn’t ask or call your name. He waited.

You eased the door open with practiced care and slipped out into the hallway.

A few seconds later, Bucky sat up quietly, no sudden movements. He grabbed a shirt  from the chair and padded barefoot to the door.

His hand hovered over the door for a second. He wasn’t angry. Just… concerned. You hadn’t told him anything was wrong. 

And so, like a shadow, he followed.

He followed you out to the Watchtower’s common room, padding silently down the hall. The lights were low, the city glowing faintly through the massive windows. There, by the kitchen counter, he saw you— and Bob.

The first thing Bucky felt was that same old rusted gear of jealousy clicking into place, until…

He saw that you had a small cupcake in your hands, chocolate with vanilla frosting, nearly identical to the one Bucky had given you last year. Two slim candles flickered on top.

Bob held one too—his was a yellow cake with blue frosting and the same number of candles.

“Happy two months of sobriety, Bob,” you said quietly, smiling at him.

Bob smiled back, eyes glassy. “And happy two years,” he replied, nodding toward you.

From the doorway, Bucky stood still, hidden in the shadow just enough to not disturb the moment. He watched as you and Bob leaned in together and blew out the candles in one quiet breath.

Two months?

Bob was two months sober?

Bucky hadn’t known.

Bob must’ve told you. And only you.

And you had respected that trust. You kept it quiet and protected it. Because you knew what it meant to want for it not to be a big deal— the way you don’t want it to be a big deal at first.

You both blew the candles and laughed. 

It finally clicked, that this was platonic. 

Slowly, jealousy gave way to a small smile. You didn’t need protecting from Bob. But maybe Bob needed protecting from the world. 

So this was just your way of continuing the kindness the way Sam had done for Bucky, and the way Bucky had done for you. 

This was the cycle repeating itself.

This was you, healing— and helping someone else do the same.

Bucky’s hand dropped from where it had been resting against the doorway.

Then, Bob saw him.

He glanced up from the extinguished candles, his eyes catching the figure in the doorway—and immediately stiffened.

“I, uh… I—” Bob stammered, his hands fumbling awkwardly with the cupcake. “I didn’t know you were— I mean, I wasn’t— I just—”

You turned, following his eyes, and saw your boyfriend standing there.

You didn’t flinch. You just smiled, as if you were expecting him. 

“Come in,” you said, patting a seat on the couch next to you. 

Bucky stepped forward, his eyes lingering on the cupcakes, then on Bob, and finally on you.

He leaned in and pressed a kiss to your temple, letting it linger for just a moment. Then he looked between the two of you.

“I’m proud of you,” he said, just above a whisper. He turned to Bob, sincerity in his blue eyes. “I’m proud of you both.”

Bob's breath hitched.

Proud? 

He was proud of him?

At first, he tried to blink them away, but the tears gathered faster than he could stop them. His hand went up, like maybe he could physically hold it all in. He dropped his gaze and let out a quiet, shaky laugh that sounded far too much like a sob. “Shit,” he muttered, rubbing at his eyes. “Sorry, I just… damn it.”

Bucky frowned. “I didn’t mean to intrude,” he said gently, tone almost apologetic. “It’s just… two months. That’s good. I guess you didn’t want me to know. I…” he hesitated, hands placed on your thighs. “I want you to know you’re doing good.”

Bob shook his head, shoulders trembling slightly. “No—no. It’s not that. It’s not bad,” he sniffled, finally looking up. “This… these are happy tears.”

You gently placed a hand on Bob’s arm.

He drew a shaky breath. “I— well, no one’s ever said they were proud of me before.” His voice got rougher, quieter. “I didn’t grow up with that kind of family.”

You and Bucky both went still.

“I used to think being proud of someone was fake,” he continued, “Like something people said in movies. But you two—”

He paused, struggling again, eyes glancing from you to Bucky. “You two are like… I dunno. You’re like the mom and dad of the group,” he said with a small, embarrassed laugh, knowing you were not too different in age from him. “And not in a weird way, I just mean— being around you? It feels safe. Like how it probably should’ve felt with my parents, y’know?”

Your eyebrows gentled immediately. Bucky’s chest tightened.

Bob kept going, voice quieter but more honest than ever. “Thank you for letting me be the kid, I guess.”

Bucky was silent for a long moment.

Inside, his mind reeled.

Fuck, he thought. I’m such an idiot.

He should’ve known, even before tonight, that this wasn’t romantic.

Bob didn’t want what Bucky had. He didn’t envy it or try to take it.

He respected it, and was drawn to it because no one had ever let him be a child— seeing you and Bucky together was probably his first example of a healthy relationship— so seeing you two exist and love each other, he must’ve felt like a kid watching the stars to believe there’s light beyond the dark.

Bob looked at Bucky then. “You’re a good man,” he said. “Both of you are… good people. Even if you don’t think you are.”

You could only nod.

Bucky blinked a few times before surprising himself as he reached out and pulled Bob into a hug.

It was awkward and a little stiff at first, but Bob didn’t pull away. His arms came up around Bucky’s back, and he held on like maybe—for the first time—he believed someone wouldn’t let go first.

-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

@torntaltos @seventeen-x @ren-ni @iilsenewman @slayerofthevampire

@hiphip-horray @jbbucketlist @melotyy @ethereal-witch24 @samfunko

@lilteef @hi172826 @pklol @average-vibe @shanksstrawhat

@shower-me-with-roses @athenabarnes @scarwidow @thriving-n-jiving @dilfsaresohot

@helloxgoodbi @undf-stuff @sapphirebarnes @hzdhrtss @softhornymess

@samfunko @wh1sp @anonymousreader4d7 @mathcat345 @escapefromrealitylol

@imjusthere1161 @sleepysongbirdsings @fuckybarnes @yn-stories-are-my-life @rIphunter

@cjand10 @nerdreader @am-3-thyst @wingstoyourdreams @lori19

@goldengubs @maryevm @helen-2003 @maryssong23 @fan4astic

@yesshewrites1 @thewiselionessss @sangsterizada @jaderabbitt @softpia 

@hopeofwinter @nevereclipse @tellybearryyyy @buckybarneswife125 @buckybarneswife125

@imaginecrushes @phoenixes-and-wizards @rowanthomasknapp @daystarpoet @thefandomplace

@biaswreckedbybuckybarnes @herejustforbuckybarnes @kitasownworld @shortandb1tchy @roxyym

@badl4nder

[no-not-without-you-blog]

Idk why I just started imagining Malyshka watching movies about mafia / crime documentaries and being excited when the mob guy gets caught by the police and Bucky being like ???

Nah she wouldn't get excited about a mobster getting caught. That would make her worry about her own mobster potentially getting caught. Not that Bucky would let that happen.

Pairing: Mafia!Bucky x Reader

WC: Less than 1k

A/N: Part of my mafia series. Written on my phone and unbetad.

One night he finds you in the living room, wrapped up in a blanket, watching a reenactment of a police raid in a small coastal town. Bucky leans over the back of the couch, his chin on your head as his hands slide down your arms. "That's not right. Andrea wasn't there that night. He sent his Capo in his place. Andrea is somewhere on the Ionian conducting business on one of his yachts."

Your head slowly tilts back, eyes widening. "What?"

Bucky nods at the shackled man on the screen. "They got the wrong man. Only a handful of people know what Andrea looks like. He spends more time hiding his identity than he does on his businesses. I thought the fucker was paranoid but guess he was right. Don't tell him I said that when we meet up next month, he's already insufferable. Last thing I need is to hear him brag about this."

Your eyes can't get any wider but it feels like they're trying. You understand the words he's saying, they make sense individuality but you're trying to piece them together. Because if you're hearing him correctly that means he knows the guy you spent the past hour watching.

And apparently he's not in prison like the host is claiming.

Bucky laughs under his breath and gently smoothes your raised brows back down with his thumb.

"Are you being serious?" You searches his eyes, finding a quiet amusement reflecting back at you

"I am. He's not a bad guy. Does good business. You'll like him. Don't bring up football, you'll never get him to shut up."

You scramble for a response to that. What do you say when your mobster boyfriend casually mentions that you're going to meet the head of the Italian mafia. Oh okay. Sure that's an every day occurrence. But then again your man is the Pakhan so you guess it is an every day occurrence now. At least in his world. Which is slowly becoming your world too.

A preview for the next episode plays, rolling images of a dark eyed man flash across the screen and Bucky grins. "Amado. He's already escaped. They haven't announced it yet, they're hoping to catch him before they have to admit they lost him again."

Your mouth drops open, before the stunned question can spill out, Bucky leans down and brushes his lips over yours. There's a heady little thrill winding around your spine. Bucky can tell the shock is wearing off and your curiosity is taking over. So he gives you a little more.

"I'm the one who helped him. Now he owes me a favor," he murmurs between kisses. He stands, stretching his arms over his head with a groan, the bottom of his shirt rising, exposing his tattoed six pack.

"And I get access to a couple of ports in his territory," he casually tacks on. "If you're so curious about the life, you can just ask me. At least you'll get the truth instead of"—he gesture dismissively at the host—"whatever bullshit they come up with."

"And you'll tell me everything?"

Bucky gazes down at you, an indulgent smile pulling at his lips, his hands resting on your shoulders. You holds all the cards and you still doesn't know it. "Everything and more Malyshka."

[no-not-without-you-blog]

Loverboy

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x F!Reader

Word Count: 4.3k

Summary: Bucky, a lovesick, pining super soldier, vows to keep his feelings for you a secret — no matter how obvious his crush may seem. Those plans are ruined between a meddling Sam, an embarrassing fall, and a visit to the medbay with you.

Warnings: Avengers AU, Bucky’s POV, fluff, crack (my lame attempt at comedy), suggestive thoughts (no smut), just our boy being a lovesick little bean with a big ol’ crush.

Author’s Note: Dividers by @saradika. Proofread by @buckys-wintersoldier, thank you so much sweetie, I love you!! This was inspired by a wonderful request from @prettyboy56, thank you so much! Hope you enjoy x

“Hi, Bucky.” 

Instantly, he sputtered over his mouthful of cereal, eyes watering from his food going down the wrong way. 

Bucky knew that melodic voice before his gaze even reached its owner. You entered the kitchen, wiggling your fingers at him in greeting. 

Clearing his throat, he swiped his bowl to the side, his breakfast now forgotten about, and directed his attention solely onto you. “Hi—um h—hello, doll.” 

The muscles of your cheeks lifted up to your eyes in a smile that made Bucky swoon. Hard.

Your eyes fell to Sam then, who stood in the corner, fresh from a workout with a shit eating on his face. “Good morning, Samuel.” 

“Mornin’, beautiful. How did you sleep?” 

Bucky fought the growl rising in his throat, the unprecedented possessiveness caving its way through its internal barriers in your presence. 

You grabbed a bottle of water out of the refrigerator and closed the door, leaning your back against it to take a big gulp. 

“Not bad at all.” You licked your lips, ridding the dryness that came from a long slumber before your eyes lit up. “Oh, by the way! I drank some of that tea you recommended. It’s helped a bunch—”

Bucky zoned out while you continued to express your gratitude to Sam. He couldn’t help the way his eyes dilated as he rested his head in the palm of his vibranium hand, a lovesick sigh escaping his lips. You were just so gorgeous – a deity in human form right in front of his own very eyes. Bucky had never considered himself so lucky in all his time on earth to be within your vicinity. 

In his own world of oggling, Bucky didn’t notice how the conversation fell short between you and Sam. Neither did he realise how the two of you were staring at him; you with concern and Wilson smothering his laughter with his hand. 

“Bucky? Sweetheart?” He finally registered that you were speaking to him and almost choked, again, on his own spit.

“Mhm?” Bucky murmured, drunk off your attention. 

You smiled once again, so devastatingly beautiful that his left arm whirred in stupor. “Are you okay? You feeling alright?” Not waiting for a response, you walked over to him and Bucky almost let his eyes roll to the back of his head when you lifted your wrist to his forehead. “Jeez, you’re a little hot, Buck.” 

Sam keeled over in hysterics, unable to keep his composure any longer. Meanwhile, a bright red blossom of colour rose up from the skin of Bucky’s neck all the way up to his cheeks. 

Had Bucky not been embarrassingly infatuated by you, the throwaway comment wouldn’t have had any effect on him. But this was you. The woman who had the ability to make him melt on the spot. 

While logic and a basic level of common sense screamed at him that you were talking about his temperature, his mind could only conjure up the fact you had called him hot. 

Bucky saw your mouth moving, however he couldn’t concentrate on the sound of the words coming out of it. You were still touching him, patting his cheeks and sweeping the tendrils of hair that had fell out from behind his ears out of his face. The close proximity of your bodies threw him through a loop and without even realising, his thighs spread further, subconsciously begging you to forego all boundaries and smother yourself against him. 

Gently tapping his nose three times, you managed to gain his full attention again. “You seem out of it, sweetie. Maybe you should go down to the medbay. See if you’re coming down with a fever or something.” 

Sam blew out a breath of air. “Yeah, because that’s what’s wrong with him.” 

You threw a lighthearted glare his way before bringing your eyes back to Bucky. “Promise me you’ll get seen to?” 

How could he refuse when you asked so sweetly? “Anything you want.” He vowed sincerely. 

Scrunching your nose, you chucked his chin and whispered under your breath, “Good boy.”

Bucky almost whimpered when you withdrew your hands and stepped back. He so desperately wanted to follow you and nudge your arm until you paid attention to him once more. Your touch was fire and a cool breeze all at once. Electricity that created static across his stubbled cheek, yet also stoked a warmth through his entire body.  

Peace. He’d never felt anything like it. Never before felt drunk from just the delicate essence of a perfume or experienced the loosening of his limbs, relaxing until his legs felt like jelly whenever you so much as cast him a glance. 

You grabbed a piece of fruit from the table, ready to go down to the gym and train. “Catch you later, Sam,” you called over your shoulder. Meeting Bucky’s eyes a final time, you winked while you headed for the elevator. “Bye, sweetheart.”  

Bucky’s gaze was glued to you, following you out hopelessly until you were completely out of sight. 

He was fucked — well and truly out of his depth. 

Sam crossed his arms and smirked. “You are down bad, man.” 

Bucky swiped a hand over his face, sighing deeply. “Fuckin’ tell me about it.” 

“This is serious.” Sam sobered up, his lips softening into an honest smile. 

With an embarrassingly loud thud against the island countertop, Bucky let his head drop. “I have no idea what to do, Sam. I thought this crush would have passed by now but it’s been months.”

“Well,” Sam raised an eyebrow. “Have you even tried asking her out?” 

“And why would I do that?” Bucky asked, genuinely confused. 

Sam sputtered over his words. “What do you mean—Because that’s what people do when they like someone, you dumbass!” 

Bucky had lost enough braincells daydreaming about you constantly. He didn’t need to be told what he already knew. But the pressure of asking you out to then have a chance of being rejected? He would never come back from that. “Yeah, no thanks,” he mumbled.

“Come on, man. What’s the worst that could happen?” Sam asked. 

Bucky lifted his head up and huffed sarcastically. “Oh, I don’t know. Maybe she could turn me down and rip my heart out into little pieces, so much that I would hide out in my room for the rest of eternity never to be seen again?” 

“Now you’re just being dramatic.”

Bucky sighed longingly. “Let me wallow in my misery alone, Sam.” 

“Why? So you can spend your days staring at her with your googly eyes and drooling over her.” 

“I have never drooled over her,” Bucky snarled. 

A twinkle shone in Sam’s eye, a mischievous grin donning his face. “Then what’s that on your chin?” 

Bucky’s eyes widened and he quickly brought his hand up to his face to check if he did in fact have any wetness coating his mouth. Finding none, he looked back to Sam with a scowl. “I hate you.”

Sam shook his head with laughter. “You shouldn’t make it so easy to tease you, loverboy.”  

With a growl, Bucky lifted from his seat and stormed out of the kitchen. 

The irritating voice followed him. “Don’t forget training tomorrow morning, loverboy!” 

The sun was shining over the compound the next morning and so came the bright idea from Steve that all exercise activities should be held outside. While the recruits in training buffed up on their sparring with the Captain, the rest of the avengers worked out as they saw fit. 

As usual, Sam took any opportunity possible to annoy Bucky, which brought them together, running laps around the outdoor track. 

“When are you gonna man up and ask her out then, Cyborg? Pretty girl ain’t gonna be available forever.” 

Bucky wasn’t entirely sure why he didn’t run ahead of Sam. It wasn’t as if he couldn’t. Maybe the pace he kept alongside Wilson allowed him to stare at you so clearly in your tight workout leggings and sports bra as sweat sensually rolled over your skin. Maybe. 

“I’m not asking her out, Sam. Drop it.” 

Sam huffed out an annoyed breath. “Listen, man. It’s not as if you’ve got nothing going for you. As much as you’re a grumpy shit, you’ve got them blue eyes the chicks love. Gets them all gooey when you give them intense eye contact, y’know?” He reluctantly added, “And they dig the brooding, bad boy, leather jacket vibe.”

Bucky let out a rare smile within the presence of Sam. “You tryna hit on me, Wilson?” 

“Look, all I’m saying is you have a chance.” Sam slyly glanced over the field. “And if you don’t quit fuckin’ around, that chance is gonna disappear.”  

The smile instantly dropped from Bucky’s face. “What do you mean by that?” 

Sam’s signature smirk came back with vengeance. “Your girls lookin’ kinda cute today. So I’m not sure if you’ve noticed, but you ain’t the only one who’s got their eye on her.” 

Naturally, Bucky followed his instinct and let his eyes look over at you. You were a fucking wonder, of course he knew that. But heeding Sam’s ominous warning, Bucky allowed his gaze to venture out, only allowing you to blur into the background for a couple of seconds while he took stock of the other male, and female, recruits. 

Low and behold, plenty of other people wantonly stared at you while you completed your circuit, almost salivating over their barely concealed pining. As much as Bucky hated to admit it, the fucker was right. You were the pinnacle of everyone’s attention. 

With the way you were bending over, squatting and looking like an angel amidst the perspiration the sun brought on, Bucky wasn’t sure if he could actually blame anyone for it. 

That didn’t stop the ugly, green eyed beast within him that wanted to tear everyone’s eyes out for daring to glimpse at you. 

It was silly, he knew he had no right to feel any sort of possessive nature for you. Unfortunately, you didn’t belong to him. Still, he couldn’t control the deep rooted urges that whispered the kinds of fun he’d have gouging out eyeballs that looked where they weren't supposed to. 

Knowing he had stirred the pot enough, Sam figured it was time to try and hit the final nail in the coffin in order to make his friend move his ass. “Y’know what gives you an advantage though, man?” 

Bucky continued to death stare the surrounding agents, while keeping up with his steady jog. “What’s that?”

“Guess who’s making eyes at you right now.” 

At breakneck speed, Bucky snapped his head back around to you, only to indeed find you staring at him with a fire in your eyes and your bottom lip trapped between your teeth. 

A violent shudder ran down his spine and for a moment, the whole world stopped on its axis, allowing Bucky to revel in a daydream brought to life. 

That was until his mind snapped him back into the present. The super soldier was majestic on his feet in a fight, graceful yet utterly dangerous out on the field even with the pressure a mission came with. 

However to his utter bewilderment, you happened to be the most dangerous being he had ever come across, because in all of his years as a trained, professional assassin, Bucky had never, never, tripped over his own feet. 

And so, inevitably, Bucky’s face ungracefully met the asphalt of the outside track with an audible thunk. 

A collective of gasps, oo’s, and ah’s, rang around the large group. Bucky could physically feel the coating of red, hot embarrassment climbing up to his now scratched cheeks.  

Bucky couldn’t see the look of shame and pity on Sam’s face as he dropped his head into his hands. All he was capable of was fantasizing faking his own death and moving far, far away where no one who witnessed his fall could ever find him.  

With a painful, deep groan, Bucky managed to roll himself over. He couldn’t bear to open his eyes and allow himself to accept reality yet and so he kept them closed, waiting for the ground to swallow him up or for the beaming sun to slowly incinerate him, melt him into the ground with his shame and dignity. 

But instead of either of those, a shadow casted over him, the harsh brightness behind his eyelids dulling down. Slowly, he peeked an eye open, only for mortification to kick him in the gut when he found you standing over him. 

“You alright there, Soldier?” Your hands were set on your hips, those deliciously curved grooves of your body that he had shamelessly stared at one too many times during gym sessions. 

“Mhm,” he gulped, his Adam’s apple bobbing roughly. “Just peachy.” 

Even though you’d just seen him eat dirt, in front of hundreds of learning recruits and the rest of the avengers, your smile was kind as you held out your hand. “Need some help?” 

Bucky took your offering, sliding his clammy palm into your dry one and hoisted himself up with your grip. He hadn’t needed your help, he was a super soldier with a metal arm; an agility and strength beyond normal human ability. But he wouldn’t pass up an opportunity to feel your soft skin against his. 

He couldn’t look you in the eye as he stood up, aware of your gaze glued to him. “Th-Thanks.” 

“It’s not a problem,” you said. “Although, you’ve got a few nasty looking cuts on your cheeks.” 

Bucky brought his left hand up to his face, hissing when the cool vibranium stung the open wounds. “Ah, it’s nothin’—don't worry about it. Nothing a few hours won’t fix.” 

You shook your head fondly. “Well, how about I walk you to the infirmary and we get some ointment on them? It wouldn’t hurt to be cautious.” 

Bucky choked on his own spit and snapped his eyes to yours. “W-We?” 

Your smile was blinding — so beautiful with an ability to stop time. At least for him anyway. “Yeah, why not? It looks like you could use a hand—y’know, since you’re a little clumsy on your feet today.” The cheeky smirk that followed your words almost sent him to an early grave.

His cheeks blazed. Bucky was sure he looked utterly stupid, with his mouth opening and closing like a fish out of water. But he couldn’t help the effect you had on him. “I um—I— ha, I guess.” 

Your eyes glinted mischievously. “I’ll take that as a yes?” 

Not trusting his voice to hold steady, Bucky simply nodded. 

“Great,” you approved. “Just one question though, are we going to keep holding hands on the way?”

Looking down to the space between you, Bucky felt his mouth dry when he saw that he hadn’t yet released his hand from yours. “I’m—oh fuck—I’m so sorry.” 

Still, he made no move to slacken his grip. 

You tightened your lips, and he knew you were willing yourself not to laugh for his sake. Sam would have a fucking field day with this. 

Though to his surprise, instead of pulling away like he expected you to, you began pulling him along, hands still interweaved. “Let’s go get you cleaned up, Bucky.”  

His name on your lips was akin to a siren singing her song; dragging helpless seamen to their deaths. A thought crossed his mind then, that he didn’t think he would mind so much if he sank to his reckoning, not if your voice was the last thing he ever heard. 

“Okay.” Bucky followed you blindly, eyes glued to your conjoined hands and disbelieving of his luck. 

You had led the way towards the medbay and found a cozy, private room that the doctors used for small injuries. Bucky sat impatiently on the side of the medical bed, twiddling his thumbs and fidgeting restlessly. Never had he been so close to you, alone. 

Bucky internally prayed with all his faith that you couldn’t hear the rapid staccato of his heartbeat. He was sure if he was hooked up to a monitor, the doctors would be thoroughly concerned about his health. 

Finally having gathered all the supplies you deemed necessary along with a first aid box, you walked back over to the bed and dumped everything next to him. 

“So,” you began, an uneasy conspiratorial tone to your voice that weirdly reminded him of Sam. “Wanna tell me what happened out there?”  

“I—,” Bucky sheepishly scratched the back of his neck while his cheeks bloomed crimson red. “I must’ve just tripped over my own feet.” 

He tried to shrug off his nonchalance, but he knew by your raised eyebrow you didn’t believe him. “Somehow, I have a hard time believing a big, strong super soldier such as yourself has any trouble finding his footing.”

Before Bucky could muster up any other excuse but the truth, you ripped open the packet of a medical wipe and warned him, “I’m sorry. This is gonna sting.”

“Nothing I can’t handle,” he said with bravado. 

Bucky wasn’t prepared for the twinkle in your eye as you mumbled under your breath, “I’m sure it isn’t, Sargeant.” 

The breath got knocked out of his lungs. Oh did that do things to him. 

Suddenly, vivid images of you spread out on his bed wearing nothing but his old army hat while you screamed out his rank ran wild in his mind. 

Luckily, you were too preoccupied with cleaning the dried blood of his wound to notice him discreetly palming the bulge in his athletic shorts, trying to hide the effect you had on him. 

“Are you certain there is absolutely no other reason as to why I’m playing nurse right now, then?” Your feline grin was sexy and scary. “No possible distractions that led you off path?” 

There was no way you could read minds, right? Bucky doubled down on his denial, shaking his head from side to side and letting the length of his hair hide the truth in his eyes. 

“I’ll take your word for it then.” You finished up and reached for the healing gel. “I know the serum enhances your ability to repair the cuts, but I’d still like to use this.” Looking into his eyes, you asked, “Only as long as you’re okay with that, of course.” 

Time stopped and the two of you were caught in the other’s gaze. It was such a small gesture, one you probably didn’t even realise meant the world to him. But you asked him for permission on something that would affect his autonomy and if Bucky didn’t already have a hundred ways he was falling for you, that would have been the cherry on top. 

“Yeah,” he breathed airily. “Yeah, I’m good with it, doll.” 

Unseen to him before, you ducked your head and sweeped your hair behind your ear and if Bucky didn’t know any better, he was sure you were shy. 

He couldn’t help the large grin he sported. He was always so enamored with you, quick to falter in your presence and become unsure of himself. Right now though, a small bout of bravery returned. “Ready when you are,” he cheekily murmured. 

You hastily rushed to compose yourself. Clearing your throat, you squeezed the tube of gel, allowing a small drop of the cool liquid on the tip of your finger and stepped between his legs to gently dab it onto his cuts. 

“Okay, you’re all fixed up now.” With a last swipe of his forehead, you smiled. “Don’t worry, Buck. You still look handsome.” 

He tugged his plump bottom lip between his teeth. “You think I’m handsome?”

You giggled. “I would be blind if I didn’t.” 

Bucky blinked at you slowly, still processing your words and trying to calm the excited bubble rising in his throat. 

You rolled your eyes playfully. “Oh, don’t act all coy, Bucky. You must have heard the whispers of the recruits. They stare at you all the time, whispering and giggling to each other.” 

With the most confidence he had ever mustered up, he responded, “Truthfully, I’m too busy staring at someone else to notice, doll.” 

The shock of his sudden boldness was glaringly obvious on your face — it was you this time who held your mouth open, lost for words. 

Bucky’s body screamed at him to tell you that he was in fact head over heels for you. That had he known falling over in front of the full compound would lead him within a hair’s breadth away from you, he’d do it all over again. 

But you seemed to recover after a couple of seconds, clearing your throat and making yourself busy to avoid his eyes. “So, I’ve got another question.” 

“Oh?” Bucky cocked his head. 

“Yeah.” You smiled while placing everything back into the first aid box as you found it. “I’ve been hearing a few rumours around the compound recently.” 

Bucky’s stomach dropped with dread. 

“You wouldn’t know anything about those, would you?” 

“I—” Bucky swallowed the lump in his throat. “I have no idea what you mean.” 

“Oh,” you hummed. “So it’s not true then? You don’t have a crush on me?” 

Fuck.

Panicking, Bucky scoffed, though it came off sounding too pathetic, too breezy. “Me? Have a crush on you? That’s—Ha! Nope. No way. Not at all.” 

He watched as you nodded to yourself. Internally, he was begging for the floor to swallow him while he cringed at his own stupidity. 

“Well,” you shrugged. “That’s a shame, I guess.”  

Bucky’s head shot up, eyes wide and shock written over his features. “E-Excuse me?” 

“Oh, it's nothing really.” There was a sparkle in your eye that screamed trouble. “You said you didn’t have a crush on me, so it doesn’t matter.” 

Within seconds, Bucky jumped off the bed and leapt towards you, not even noticing how he had grabbed your hands. “Doll, please. You can’t leave a guy hanging like that.” 

Playfully rolling your eyes, you dramatically exhaled and decided to put him out of his misery. “Leave you hanging? Damn, Buck. It’s not as if I’ve been waiting patiently for you to ask me out for months or anything like that.” 

The air became humid and stuffy and suddenly the clothes attached to Bucky’s body felt too tight and restricting. “You—What now?” 

You rolled your lips inwards, trying to smother your laughter. “Bucky, honey,” you gently murmured. “I’ve heard what the others have been gossiping about. I’ve definitely heard Sam telling the team about your crush on me.” 

Bucky squeezed his eyes shut and groaned. “That fuckin’ punk.” 

You squeezed his hands reassuringly and offered him a warm smile when he looked at you. “I’ve just been waiting to hear it from the horse's mouth himself.” 

Bucky’s eyes darted between yours, trying to find any hint of decievement. “You’re serious.”

“Mhm,” you whispered. “Deadly.” 

It took him a couple of seconds to let the new information sink in. Clearing his throat, Bucky untightened his fierce grip on your hands and hesitantly slid them down to latch onto your waist. “So,” he mumbled. “Say if I asked you out to dinner tonight… You wouldn’t tell me I’m a fool and break my heart into a million pieces?” 

Butterflies erupted in Bucky’s stomach at the sensation of your hands sliding over his chest to rest against his neck. “No, Bucky,” you chuckled. “I would tell you that I’m looking forward to our first date, tonight. Nowhere fancy, just casual. Six o’clock sharp.” 

Bucky smiled, all beaming and ecstatic. “I wouldn’t dream of being late.” 

“Good.” You leaned up onto your tip toes and ghosted your lips over his ear. “See you very soon then, Sargeant.” 

Tingles shot down Bucky’s spine and his eyes rolled to the back of his head. He fought tooth and nail to crush the moan that rose up his throat and in his internal struggle, he missed how you’d sneakily slipped out of his hold and started to saunter towards the door. 

He almost begged you to come back; the thought of having to wait for you until the evening was unbearable. But those pesky butterflies that invaded his stomach came back strong and fierce as his gaze became glued to the sway of your hips and the sweet perfume that lingered in your exit. 

“Oh,” you stopped suddenly at the doorway and looked over your shoulder. “One more thing. Don’t go tripping over again, you hear me?” You raised an eyebrow and grinned. “Can’t have you falling for me.”

Your damn smirk was intoxicating and Bucky thought himself the luckiest fella alive to be the one taking you out. He licked his lips and crossed his arms over his chest. “I’m afraid I’m gonna have a little trouble with that request, Ma’am.” 

The clench of your thighs was unmissable. The way your eyes dilated called to him. Bucky had more game than he realised and he kept that new information tucked safely into the corner of his mind for a later date. 

You didn’t reply. You didn’t need to. Your actions told Bucky everything he needed to know and so he wiggled his fingers with a huge grin locked onto his face and watched you longingly as you left his sight. 

The minute he couldn’t hear your footsteps any longer, Bucky pumped his fist up into the air and began dancing on the spot. 

In his own bubble of happiness, he didn’t hear the footsteps of a new person entering the hallway. Only when an amused clearing of the throat echoed from the doorway did Bucky abruptly stop his dancing and slowly swivel to the intruder. 

Sam stood there, all cocky and mirthful with a shit eating grin on his face. “About time you bagged the girl, man. Dont’cha think?” 

Instantly, Bucky growled and grabbed the closest apparatus. With a pair of medical scissors, he charged towards Sam, who was quick to wipe the smirk off his face and skid out of the room with a scream. 

[no-not-without-you-blog]

Devoted - bucky barnes x f!reader

Husband! Bucky Barnes can’t take his eyes or his hands off of you. He has to make the biggest effort around the kids, and honestly, it’s all you’ve ever dreamed of.

A/N: Growing up with parents who you've never seen kissing, hugging, or saying "love you" to each other, yeah, it does something to you. I recommend you listen to like real people do while reading.

warnings: domestic fluff, humor, hurt/comfort, bucky being a dream husband, vulnerable talk, parental PDA and kids being grossed out (but funny), so so so wholesome.

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minors dni with this story or blog. you're responsible for what you do. do not copy, translate or claim this story as your own.

Hope you enjoy this as much as I enjoyed (and cried) writing this!

You grew up in a house where love was... quiet. If it was there at all, it never spoke. No kisses over coffee. No lingering glances. No hands held on road trips. “I love you” was said with the same flat tone as “dinner’s ready.” It taught you that love was restraint. Conditional. Measured.

No one yelled, but no one kissed. No one fought, but no one held hands. “I love you” was something you overheard in movies — not around the dinner table.

You grew up unsure if your parents loved each other, or just… merely existed beside one another. Tolerated each other. Did they love each other? You still don’t know. Maybe they didn’t, and maybe that’s what scared you the most.

Because it made you wonder if that was all love ever was.

And then you met Bucky Barnes.

And he rewrote everything.

When Bucky Barnes came into your life, it felt like getting hit with sunlight after decades in the dark.

He's unapologetically soft for you. Hands always reaching—brushing your hair back, pulling you close, squeezing your hip as he walks by. Your kids are so over it.

“Do you have to do that now?” your oldest groans as Bucky kisses your cheek in the middle of the grocery store. “Yes,” he answers simply. “Your mom’s hot.” You roll your eyes, but your cheeks warm. Every single time.

It’s the little things Bucky does that undo you.

Like when you're driving the kids to school, and he insists on holding your hand — even when you're the one behind the wheel. His fingers slide between yours easily, resting on your thigh, warm and grounding. His thumb draws lazy circles against your skin as you maneuver turns, one hand on the wheel, one hand in his.

“You know this is wildly impractical,” you tease, eyes flicking over to him.

He grins, eyes hidden behind his sunglasses, voice low and smug. “Don’t care. I gotta hold my girl.” “Can you not be in love for five minutes?” your son groans.

You and Bucky just laugh. He lifts your hand to his lips and kisses your knuckles like some old-timey gentleman who also happens to be a menace. And still doesn’t let go.

Bucky, who hugs you from behind while you’re cooking and whispers in your ear like a menace "Skip dinner, let’s order in and make out on the couch."

Your daughter and son groan loudly from the couch, “OH MY GOD.” “I’m gonna pour bleach in my eyes!” Bucky laughs, holding you tighter with his metal arm snug around your waist, “Love you too, buddy.”

He kisses you while you're folding laundry. He dances with you in the kitchen just because the song is good. Tells you he loves you like it’s as natural as breathing — because for him, it is.

And yeah, sometimes he says dumb things like,

"Bucky, why is the car so hot?" He throws you a wink. “Cause you got in it.” A chorus of “Daaaaaad!” erupts from the backseat.

“Oh my god.” Your son gags. “I’m gonna be ill.” Bucky glances at them through the mirror, unfazed. “Good. Builds immunity.”

But under all the dramatics, they smile when they think you’re not looking. They giggle when he slow dances with you in the kitchen, or calls you doll like it’s sacred. They see it. They know it’s real. They know it’s safe.

You didn’t grow up with love like this — but you’re raising them with it. And that matters.

That night, after the kids are asleep and the house is finally quiet, you curl up beside him on the bed, wearing one of his old shirts and nothing else. The air is warm and soft-lit, and you’re sunk so deep into the quiet you almost don’t want to break it.

But you do.

“Can I tell you something kind of dumb?” you murmur.

“Doll, you could talk nonsense for hours and I’d still nod along like it’s gospel.”

You laugh, but it fades. “Sometimes I still wait for it to stop.”

He tilts his head, confused. “Stop?”

You bite your lip. “I grew up thinking love didn't exist or wasn't meant to be shown. That it had to be quiet. Conditional. Measured. So sometimes I still catch myself waiting for the moment it… ends. That you leave. That it all disappears.”

Bucky’s quiet for a moment. Then he reaches out and touches your cheek like he’s holding something fragile and precious. Because he is.

“Doll… whoever taught you that love had to be small, they were so wrong. I need to love you like this. Big. Loud. Always. I need to hold your hand while we’re driving and kiss your neck while you're stirring the pasta.” He swallows hard. “I want to love you in a way you never have to question. Ever.”

Tears prick your eyes, and he pulls you into his lap, pressing kisses to your temple, your cheek, and your mouth.

You kiss him like you’re trying to press every word you haven’t said yet into his mouth. And he lets you—hands on your waist, grounding you, holding you like he’s scared you might vanish if he lets go.

When you finally pull back, just far enough to breathe, he’s looking at you like you hung the stars in the damn sky.

“I think about it a lot,” he says softly, voice rough, “how lucky I got.”

You blink, heart thudding. “Bucky…”

“No, listen.” He brushes your hair back, thumb tracing the curve of your jaw. “After everything I’ve seen—everything I’ve done—I didn’t think I’d get this. I thought my story ended in blood and silence. And then there you were. Warm, loud, bossy as hell—loving me without flinching.”

You shake your head, tears building. “You don’t have to thank me—”

“I do.” His voice breaks. “I have to thank you every damn day. For seeing me when I couldn’t. For staying when it was hard. For giving me this life. The kids. You. All of it.”

You don’t say anything at first. You just kiss him again, slow and deep, a promise pressed into skin.

And as his hands slide up your back, pulling you impossibly closer, you think— Yeah. You got lucky too.

You pull back eventually, breathless, heart full. And then you rise to your feet.

He looks up, dazed. “Where you goin’, sweetheart?”

You smirk, already halfway to the hallway. “Gotta make sure the door’s locked,” you call over your shoulder. “We don’t want to traumatize them.”

Bucky groans, laughing, throwing himself back against the pillows. “You’re killin’ me.”

“And I’ll bring you back to life, Barnes.” You wink, hovering over him, straddling his waist as his hands slide up, thumbs rubbing slow, hiking closer to the hem of your shirt.

You smirk, leaning over him, ready to take your place on top — but before you can, his hands slide around your waist. In one smooth motion, he flips you over, pinning you gently beneath him.

“Not so fast, doll,” he murmurs, grinning as he settles between your legs. “You always think you’re in charge.”

You arch a brow, breath hitching. “And you love it.”

He laughs under his breath, eyes dark and soft all at once. He leans down, brushing your hair back to kiss your neck — slow and deep, with a bite that makes you shiver.

“Let me take care of you tonight.”

You exhale a laugh, heart skipping. “You always wanna take care of me.”

He smiles against your skin, lips trailing lower, worship in every movement.

“Damn right I do.”

Because loving you isn’t a duty. It’s instinct. It’s devotion.

I am a mix of emotions! 🥹💕😫🤧 I really enjoyed writing husband! Bucky and I will definitely do it again!

I hope you enjoyed reading this, feel free to leave your opinion!

Reblogs, likes and comments are encouraged as they help this story grow! ✨✨✨

[no-not-without-you-blog]

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.

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[no-not-without-you-blog]

um men who are bigger than you and tower over you in every way possible but he's obsessed with the overwhelming intimacy of missionary sex. his whole entire body covers yours, and he loves the way it's almost like he's shielding you from the world, that the wanton expressions you're making and the way your body reacts is all for his eyes only. he can control how deep he fucks into you, can carefully watch the faces you make to see if he's hitting all the right spots. loves the way he can hold your hand as he thrusts into you; especially loves the feeling of every cell in his body going weak from how overwhelmed with his love for you he gets. the eye contact is the best and worst part for him; best because he loves looking at you, to know you feel the same, but worst because you always make him go weak in the knees. his arms can barely keep him upright, and he has to bury his face into the hollow of your neck and shoulder and-

[no-not-without-you-blog]

30: REAL, FOR US

Previous chapter < MASTERLIST > Next chapter (pending)

Summary: Bucky returns from a long mission to find you by Winnie’s side at the hospital, exhausted but steadfast. After a quiet evening spent in her company, he opens up about his feelings for you, no longer willing to leave things unspoken. As the night unfolds, a playful moment turns intimate, with Bucky finally taking a step toward deepening your connection.

Warnings: Mild medical content, emotional angst, vulnerability and relationship talk, explicit sexual content, smut, mentions of past trauma

Word Count: 3409

The midmorning light filtered through the hospital room blinds, casting soft shadows over the crisp white sheets. Winnie looked a little better than she had done the previous night. She was still pale and weak, but her breathing was steadier and the greyish tinge that had colored her lips had disappeared. You heaved a sigh of relief as you sat down at her bedside, your fingers curling loosely around hers.

“You gave us quite a scare, Winnie,” you murmured, smoothing the blanket at her side.

Winnie’s eyelids fluttered open and she hummed faintly, squeezing your hand with the little strength she had. “Not going anywhere yet, sweetheart,” she rasped, a ghost of her usual humor in her voice.

“Good!” You smiled, squeezing her hand back.

You didn’t talk much, Winnie fell asleep very quickly after you arrived. She was exhausted and you worried about how she would be when she returned home. After sitting silently for a while, you stepped outside to send Bucky an update on her condition.

11:32 AM - You: Winnie’s awake. Weak, but stable. Docs say she’ll need to rest, but she’s going to be okay.

You wonder how he was doing, if he was safe. It only took a few minutes for you to receive a response.

11:36 AM - Bucky: Thank you for letting me know.

11:37 AM - Bucky: Wish I was there.

You chewed on your lip, staring down at his words. He should have been here. And you knew that if Sam hadn’t called, he would be. You typed out a response before you had time to overthink things.

11:38 AM - You: I know.

A beat later, your phone vibrated again.

11:38 AM - Bucky: I’ll be back soon.

You sighed, shoving your phone back in your pocket and slipping back into Winne’s room. She stirred when you sat down, but didn’t open her eyes. You sighed, leaning back in your chair. For now, all you could do was wait.

The hospital room was quiet, except for the steady beep of Winnie’s cardiac monitor. It was later than he had expected to return. He stood in the doorway, shoulders tense. He scanned the room, like he half expected something to be wrong. But Winnie’s breathing was slow and steady, reassuringly so. His eyes finally fell on you. You were curled up in a chair beside Winnie’s bed, fast asleep, your head resting against your folded arms on the hospital mattress. Even in sleep, he could see the exhaustion and worry in your features. It probably matched his own expression, but seeing you eased some of the tightness in his chest. He exhaled slowly. He hadn’t been able to get away for a few days and every second away from you had been agony.

“‘Bout time you got back,” Winnie murmured, her voice scratchy but warm.

Bucky dragged his eyes away from you to find Winnie watching him with a knowing expression. Despite the IV in her arm, and the loose fitting hospital gown, there was a twinkle in her eye. There was very little that could dampen Winnie’s spirit. Bucky admired that about her. 

“Came straight here,” he mumbled, rubbing his hand over the back of his neck.

“I can see that, you’re a right mess, James.”

Bucky chuckled sheepishly, his eyes flicking back to you now and again. Winnie hummed softly, trying to make herself comfortable against her pillows. Immediately Bucky moved around to the other side of the bed so he could help her.

“She’s been here every day, you know,” she said, nodding toward you. “Hasn’t left my side much.”

Bucky glanced at you again, his jaw tightening. He already knew that. You had updated him about Winnie’s condition over the phone, but hearing it like this— from Winnie herself— made his insides ache with guilt. He didn’t want you to have to shoulder this burden alone.

“She worries,” Winnie continued, watching him carefully. “About me. About you.”

Bucky swallowed, shifting his weight from one foot to the other. “I know.”

There was a long pause before Winnie tilted her head slightly, a knowing smile on her face. “So what happened between the two of you?”

Bucky froze, his fingers twitching slightly.

“I don’t need details, dear,” she added dryly, one brow arching. “But I’m not blind.”

Bucky let out a short breath, shaking his head. “We… talked,” he admitted. “I think we came to an understanding.”

Winnie hummed again, a small, knowing smile tugging at the corner of her lips. “And does she know what it meant to you?”

Bucky hesitated, fingers flexing at his sides.

“She should,” Winnie said simply, her tone matter-of-fact. “You boys never say things when you should. Always think you’ve got more time.” She sighed, then fixed him with a stern look. “You want her? Tell her. Don’t leave her guessing.”

Bucky exhaled through his nose, huffing out a quiet laugh. “Yes, ma’am.”

Winnie followed his eyes as he looked over at you. You were still fast asleep, trying to maintain work while being at the hospital had worn you out. 

“You gonna wake her up?”

Bucky shook his head. “Not yet.”

He grabbed a spare blanket from the side cabinet and draped it over the back of your shoulders, his fingers ghosting over your wrist for a moment before he straightened up. He picked up the spare chair and put it down right next to you.

“Get some rest, Winnie,” he murmured. “I’ll be here until they ask us to leave.”

Winnie smiled at him for a moment before closing her eyes. Bucky sighed, leaning his head against the wall. He was exhausted, his body was aching from the mission and the stress and worry he had felt while he was away. He could finally put the weight down— now he was here next to you.

And when you eventually stirred, sleepily blinking up at him, his decision was already made. He was going to tell you everything.

As you woke, you groaned softly, the stiffness in your neck made you wince as you shifted in your chair. The sun had set and the hospital room’s lighting had been dimmed. And for a moment, you were disoriented about where you were. You sat bolt upright in a confused panic, that is until your eyes landed on Bucky sitting right beside you. He looked tired, his broad frame was bent over his chair at an awkward angle. The only thing that looked steady was his eyes on you. He offered you a small smile and you felt your heart melt.

“Hey, Sleeping Beauty,” he murmured.

You relaxed a little, rubbing at your eyes before glancing at Winnie, who was now sleeping peacefully.

“You’re back,” you said, your voice still thick with sleep.

Bucky nodded. “Came straight here… so sorry about the smell.”

You covered your mouth to suppress the noise of your giggle, a warmth blossoming in your stomach at his words. You twisted around to look at the clock before letting out a soft sigh. “Visiting hours are almost over.”

He nodded, glancing toward Winnie one last time. “Come on, I’ll take you home.”

“I feel like I should tell her we’re leaving, but I don’t want to wake her up,” you whispered.

“It’s okay,” he answered back in the same hushed tone. “She knows.”

The two of you left quietly, stepping out into the cool night air. Bucky had brought his bike. Wordlessly, he handed you the spare helmet and waited for you to clamber onto the back. He pulled your arms tighter around his waist when you only gripped him loosely.

When you reached your apartments, Bucky hesitated at his door. “Gonna shower,” he said, rubbing the back of his neck. “Then I’ll come by?”

You nodded. “I’ll order dinner.”

His lips twitched. "Ordering for me now?"

You rolled your eyes. “You look like you haven’t eaten in days. Gotta get some flesh on those bones.”

Bucky huffed a small laugh before unlocking his door. “Be there soon, Princess.” He gave you a cheeky wink before closing the door behind him.

By the time his distinctive knock sounded on your door, you’d already set out the food, the smell of warm takeout filled your apartment. You pulled open the door to find Bucky standing in front of you, his damp hair looking tousled and his dark t-shirt clung to his torso.

“You okay?” you asked. “I was about to send out a search party!”

“Sorry,” he apologized sheepishly, eyeing the food over your shoulder. 

You stepped aside to let him in.

“You fall asleep in the shower or something?” you joked.

“I don’t even know how I got dirt in all the places I found it,” Bucky laughed. “This smells good.”

You snorted. “You haven’t even sat down yet.”

Bucky smirked, his shoulder brushing yours as you came up beside him. “Still smells good.”

The two of you settled yourselves at the table, an easy silence falling between you as you filled your stomachs. For a while the only sounds that were heard was the clinking of your forks on plates, maybe an occasion clanking of a glass as you washed down your meal.

Once you had satisfied some of the immediate pangs of hunger, you spoke up.

“How was your mission?”

“Mission was fine,” he said, reaching for his drink. “Not the hardest I’ve had, but… long. Longer than I wanted.”

You gave him a reassuring nudge with your elbow, indicating that you understood his absence.

“Sam needed an extra set of hands,” he continued. “Some government convoy got caught up in a bad storm. Cargo spilled everywhere, and local gangs saw an opportunity. By the time we got there, it was already a mess.”

“Sounds exhausting.”

“More annoying than anything else,” Bucky huffed out a quiet laugh. “Sam kept trying to talk them down while I was getting shot at.”

“Classic Cap,” you snorted.

He smirked. “Yeah. Got it handled, though.”

You studied him for a moment, noting the way his fingers tapped against the table, the slight crease in his brow. “You okay?”

Bucky leaned forward on the table, he propped his chin up on his vibranium hand and shovelled some more chicken into his mouth and mumbled, “Yeah… just tired.”

You reached across the table before you could stop yourself, fingers brushing against his wrist. “You’re back now,” you said softly as he looked at you curiously. “That’s what matters.”

His eyes held yours for a moment, a smile twitching at his lips. Slowly, he nodded before reaching for another container of rice. “Enough about that. What’ve I missed?”

You smirked, spearing a piece of chicken with your fork. “I don’t know… things have been pretty quiet without you causing trouble.”

“Trouble?” Bucky scoffed. “I’m a delight.”

You snorted. “Sure, Barnes.”

The conversation died down a little, the two of you picking up on your easy banter. Things had shifted between you, the barrier that you had put up between you and him had slowly been crumbling and you realized that it had disappeared completely. And as you sat there, eating dinner with him like nothing had ever changed, you realized just how much you had missed him.

After dinner, you carried the empty containers to the kitchen while Bucky lingered in the living room. By the time you returned, he had settled on the couch, leaning back like he belonged there, one arm stretched across the backrest. You grabbed the blanket on the arm rest and curled up in the middle of the couch right next to him. You offered him a corner of the blanket which he pulled over his legs half heartedly, not wanting to take away from your warmth. You leaned back and sighed with contentment. Bucky shifted slightly so his knee brushed against yours and you let yourself relax, knowing you could finally be completely and utterly yourself. No reservations or barriers.

For a while, neither of you spoke. The low hum of the city outside filled the quiet, the sound of a distant car horn bled through the walls. You sighed softly and glanced over at Bucky out of the corner of your eye, he was rubbing his sweaty palm on his thigh, fingers tapping in a seemingly restless movement.

“What?” you asked.

He blinked, like he hadn’t realized he was being so obvious. “What?”

You huffed a quiet laugh. “You’re overthinking… something.”

He hesitated, his jaw working as he stared ahead. Then, with a sigh, he let his head drop back against the couch. “I don’t know how to say it.”

You turned toward him slightly, the blanket shifting around you. “Then don’t think about saying it the right way. Just… say it.”

He pressed his lips together, his throat bobbing up and down as he swallowed. His fingers flexed, then curled into a fist before he relaxed them again. “I keep thinking about something Winnie said.”

Your brows furrowed slightly. “What about?”

Bucky took a slow breath, then turned his head to look at you. His gaze was steady, but there was something uncertain beneath it. “Us.”

Your breath hitched slightly, your muscles tensing. Bucky noticed the change in your expression because he was quick to reassure you. “Hey, no— not in a bad way.”

You didn’t say anything, letting him find the words at his own pace.

He sighed, rubbing the back of his neck. “I just… I’ve been thinking a lot. About everything. About how I feel. And about what I want.” He swallowed hard, his voice quieter when he added, “About… what we are.”

The room suddenly felt warmer, a flush creeping up your neck.

“And?” you prompted gently.

Bucky looked at you then, really looked at you, his blue eyes searching. His fingers twitched against his thigh like he wanted to reach for you but didn’t know if he should.

“I think,” he started, then stopped, shaking his head like he was frustrated with himself. “No. I know. I want to be with you.”

Your breath stopped.

“I don’t want this to be some— some undefined thing,” he continued, his voice rough and vulnerable. “I don’t want to leave things unspoken anymore. I want this to be real. For us to be real.”

You stared at him, your chest tight, your heart pounding so loudly you were sure he could hear it.

Then, after a long pause, a playful grin spreading across your face, you asked, “James Bucky Barnes… are you asking me out?”

His lips parted slightly, like he hadn’t expected you to phrase it that way. Then, after a beat, he let out a short, almost incredulous laugh.

“Yeah,” he admitted, his voice so much softer now. “I guess I am.”

You bit your lip, fighting the smile threatening to break free. For the first time in what felt like forever, Bucky Barnes looked nervous.

You blinked at him, processing his words. Then, as if it was second nature to you, you muttered, “So… do we, like, need a real relationship agreement?”

“What?” Bucky huffed out the word through a laugh.

Without hesitation, you leaned over his lap and grabbed your laptop from the small table beside the couch and flipped open the display with practiced ease. It only took you a few seconds to pull up a new Excel document.

Bucky stared at you, his mouth slightly open. “You’ve gotta be kidding me.”

You shot him a deadpan look. “A good relationship needs structure, Barnes. Clear expectations.”

His eyebrows shot up. “And you think a spreadsheet is the way to do that?”

“I have different tabs,” you said, scrolling through. “One for boundaries, one for communication preferences—”

“Oh my God,” Bucky ran a hand down his face, looking like he was questioning every life choice that had led him to this moment.

You smirked. You had fully expected him to roll his eyes and call you out for being ridiculous. But instead, he reached over and plucked the laptop from your hands, carefully setting it aside. Then he turned back to you, his gaze darkening, his expression morphing into something else entirely.

“This,” he murmured, sliding closer, “is how we make an agreement.”

Before you had the chance to ask for more details, his hands were on you— one warm, one cold, but both firm as they slid up your thighs. He leaned towards you until your head was resting on the arm of the couch. A shiver ran through you as he dipped his head, his lips ghosting over your skin. And when his mouth found you, hot and eager, all thoughts of spreadsheets and agreements melted away.

His hands were slow, deliberate in the way they massaged your thighs with a steady rhythm that made you melt into the cushions. Up and down, slow and soft, they teased away any lingering tension in your body. Each pass of his palms inched closer to your core, kneading, coaxing, making your breath hitch in anticipation.

The path of his hands was followed promptly by his mouth, leaving gentle kisses along the sensitive skin of your thighs. The warmth of his lips sent shivers up your spine. He paused, reaching the delicate line of your underwear, his breath fanning out over your lower stomach. His fingers traced the soft fabric and his featherlight touches had your hips arching toward him instinctively.

Then, with an excruciatingly slow pace, he hooked his fingers under the waistband of your panties and oh, so slowly pulled them down, his gaze transfixed on yours as he bared you to him. Bucky groaned, his lips against your core. The vibration sent another jolt of pleasure rippling through your body. His hands gripped your thighs again, keeping you spread open for him as he worked his tongue over you with incredible precision. It moved in languid strokes at first, teasing and tasting, before the pressure increased— flicking, circling, sucking until your legs trembled against his shoulders.

You gasped, your fingers tangling into his hair, desperate for something to anchor yourself as he now devoured you with fervor. Every sensation built upon the last, a crescendo of pleasure winding tighter and tighter inside you.

“Bucky,” you whimpered. Your hips lifted involuntarily, chasing his mouth, the firmness of his tongue, his relentless hunger for you.

His laugh rumbled against you, the sound almost dark and sinister, sending another shiver down your spine.

“That's it, Princess,” he murmured against your soft skin before he dived back in, as though his sole purpose was to unravel you completely.

There was no stopping him. Even as your orgasm overtook you. He lapped at you gently, coaxing every last tremor from your body as you gasped for breath. His fingers stayed inside you, moving slower now, savoring the way you pulsed around him. Your thighs twitched against his shoulders, oversensitive but unwilling to pull away just yet. He pressed one last kiss to your clit before finally retreating, his fingers slipping out of you with deliberate care.

As he moved up your body, his hands roamed over your flushed skin, grounding you, bringing you back down from the high he had so thoroughly sent you spiraling into. He hovered above you, watching you with a mix of satisfaction and reverence.

“You okay, Princess?”

You let out a shaky laugh, still breathless from your climax. “Give me a second. I think you just melted my brain.”

Bucky smirked, pressing a kiss to your jaw, then another to the corner of your mouth. “Good.” 

His hands rested on your thighs, thumbs stroking absent patterns as he deepened the kiss, letting you taste yourself on his tongue. And when he finally pulled back, he lingered— barely a breath away, his blue eyes darkened with lust but laced with a welcome tenderness. Better?” he murmured.

You let out a contented sigh, brushing your fingers over his stubbled jaw. “Much.”

He looked down at you, eyes flickering over your face, like he was trying to commit you to memory… almost like he couldn’t believe you were real. That you were really his.

“You’re staring,” you teased, tilting your head.

His thumb traced a slow line up your thigh. “Just admiring my work.”

You huffed a laugh, rolling your eyes. “You’re insufferable.”

His grin widened as he leaned in again, kissing you once more. His fingers curling around your waist as if he wasn’t ready to let go.

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[no-not-without-you-blog]

29: WORDS THAT HEAL

Previous chapter < MASTERLIST > Next chapter (pending)

Summary: A quiet evening interaction between you and Bucky reader takes an unexpected turn when you find your elderly neighbor in distress. At the hospital, with emotions running high, the night uncovers more than either of you anticipated, leaving you with a deeper understanding of each other.

Warnings: Medical emergency, anxiety, heavy emotional themes, past trauma, implied sexual intercourse

Word Count: 4874

The lobby had always been dimly lit, giving off a horror movie vibe on late nights, worsened only by the faint hum of the elevator and the occasional flicking of the old fashioned lights that the landlord refused to bring into the modern era. The eerie quietness was broken by the shuffle of letters being sorted. You slowed your stride and glanced over to see Bucky standing in front of the row of mailboxes, sifting through envelopes with a furrowed brow.

“Hey,” you said softly, coming up beside him.

He glanced over, eyes softening just a little. “Hey.”

You took the opportunity to open your own mailbox, flipping through the usual stack of bills and flyers. Then, something bright caught your eye— a thick envelope with a gold seal. You ripped it open, skimming the contents before letting out an excited squeal.

Bucky tensed on instinct, turning toward you. “What—?”

"I won!" you exclaimed, holding up the paper. Not that he could read it with the way you were bouncing up and down “I actually won something! A whole set of vouchers to that fancy chocolatier downtown!” You fanned out the vouchers to display.

He watched, bemused, as you practically jumped up and down on your feet. There was something about seeing you like this— so genuinely happy, eyes sparkling and mouth curled into an unrestrained smile— that made his chest tighten in the best possible way. He lifted his own mail with a dry smirk. “Meanwhile, I’ve got bills. Exciting, huh?”

Without thinking, you blurted out, “Come with me?”

Bucky stilled. “What?”

“To the chocolatier. You should come with me.” You shifted on your feet, suddenly feeling shy about your forwardness. “It’s not an imposition or anything. I just…” You hesitated, voice quieter now. “I miss your company. And I… we’re still friends, right?”

His heart stumbled over your last words. Still friends. But it was the soft way you said it, the slight unsteadiness in your voice, that caught his attention. The unspoken still lingering in the air between you. For a moment, he just looked at you, trying to figure out if you meant more than you were saying. Then, he nodded. “Alright.”

You exhaled a relieved breath, offering a small smile. You turned towards your apartment, stepping towards the stairwell. Bucky raised an eyebrow, glancing at the elevator doors before looking back at you.

“So, you not taking the elevator anymore?” he asked, his tone was light but curious, like he already knew the answer.

Your steps faltered slightly before you recovered, giving a nervous little laugh. “Better not to risk it,” you answered, focusing on the steps ahead, trying not to think about the way the elevator had trapped the two of you together. Then, more quietly you confessed, “I don't know what I would have done if you hadn't been in there with me.”

Bucky stopped for a second, watching you. There was something in your voice, something unguarded, and it made his chest tighten. “You got through it,” he said. “With or without me, you would've figured it out.”

You huffed a soft laugh, shaking your head. “I don’t know about that.”

“Yeah, well,” he murmured, taking another step up beside you, “I do.”

You peeked over at him, meeting his gaze for just a beat too long before you cleared your throat and kept climbing. There was something different in the air between the two of you. It lingered over you, just out of reach.

You were still smiling as you climbed the last few steps to your floor, the warmth of Bucky’s presence beside you. The conversation had been easy, almost light— something you hadn’t felt in a long time. The two of you were almost at the end of the corridor while he was teasing you about the vouchers, and you were playfully rolling your eyes when you heard it.

A thump. The sound was heavy, sudden— just wrong. Your smile vanished in an instant and the air shifted between you.

Bucky stilled beside you, his entire body tensing. Your stomach twisted as you glanced around, trying to pinpoint the source. It had come from somewhere close. Another beat of silence as you listened. It was too quiet. Your skin prickled. Bucky's eyes darted across the hall, his instincts razor-sharp. And then you both realized— you were standing right outside Winnie’s apartment. Your breath caught in your throat and a cold dread seeped into your chest.

“Winnie?” you called out. There was no answer.

You knocked. Hard. “Winnie! Are you okay?”

Nothing. A terrible feeling settled in your bones. You reached for the doorknob, your pulse hammering. It was locked. You turned to Bucky, and before you could even ask, he was already moving.

“Move,” he said, gently pushing you to the side. Before you could protest, he braced himself and slammed his shoulder into the door.

The door gave way with ease, the force of Bucky’s shoulder knocking it clean off the latch. The sound was loud, echoing in the stillness of the apartment. You had stopped breathing before you even saw her.

Winnie was on the floor, her gray cardigan bunched beneath her, one arm bent awkwardly at her side. Her hair had fallen forward, obscuring her face, and for a horrible, breathless moment, you couldn’t tell if she was breathing. A cold dread clawed up your spine.

“Winnie?” Your voice wobbled as you dropped to your knees, hands trembling as you reached out. You rolled her onto her back, trying to dredge up the basic CPR training you’d had years ago. You opened her mouth, but there was nothing there other than her tongue which had fallen backwards and she was making the most terrifying noises whenever she took a shallow breath.

“She’s alive,” you managed, though it barely felt like relief as you tilted back her head and lifted her chin and the grunting noise stopped.

Bucky was already pulling his phone out, fingers flying over the screen. “I need an ambulance,” he said, voice clipped and steady, though you could see the tension in his jaw, the sharp set of his shoulders. “Elderly woman, unconscious, breathing but unresponsive.” His eyes flicked to you.

“She’s clammy,” you supplied, feeling the damp chill of her skin against your fingertips. “Pulse is weak.”

He relayed the information with practiced efficiency, but your own hands were shaking as you pushed Winnie’s hair back.

“Winnie, can you hear me?” you murmured. You checked her pupils, ran through possibilities in your head. She had told you she was diabetic. Was it hypoglycemia? Was it a stroke? Maybe something worse?

She didn’t respond. And the silence was unbearable. Bucky knelt beside you, his hand hovering near your shoulder like he wanted to ground you, but didn’t know if he should.

“We should put her in the recovery position,” you said, voice tight. “Just in case.”

Bucky nodded, and together you moved her as gently as possible. Her breathing stuttered, and your stomach lurched, glancing toward the door, willing the ambulance to get here faster. Every second dragged out like an eternity while you waited. The weight of worry was suffocating as it pressed down on your ribs. You felt helpless… and you hated feeling helpless.

Then— finally— the distant sound of sirens cut through the quiet.

The rest of the evening passed in a strange, hazy blur. You and Bucky trailed after the paramedics, watching as they lifted poor Winnie into the ambulance, their actions efficient but controlled. Someone asked if you were family, and when you hesitated, Bucky spoke up, his voice calm and confident. “We’re her neighbors. She doesn’t have anyone else.”

They let you come. But the ride to the hospital was silent… and tense. You sat across from Winnie’s supine form, your hands clenched in your lap, the cold plastic bench beneath you grounding but uncomfortable. The ambulance rocked over a pothole, and your stomach lurched with it, making you feel rather queasy. Bucky sat beside you, shoulders hunched, his hands clasped between his knees. He didn’t say anything, but the pressure of his thigh against yours felt like a steadying force.

At the hospital, they wheeled Winnie through double doors where you couldn’t follow. Now came the waiting.

You sank into one of the stiff plastic chairs, emotional exhaustion settling deep into your bones. The adrenaline that had propelled you through the past hour was fading fast, leaving you drained and cold. You folded your arms over your stomach, trying to contain the restless, gnawing worry. Bucky sat down beside you. To your surprise, he didn’t fidget, he didn’t pull out his phone, he didn’t try to fill the silence. He just sat, still and quiet, his knee brushing against yours now and again.

You stole a glance at him. His face was unreadable, but you saw the subtle signs of his distress— the tightness in his jaw, the dullness in his eyes.

“She’s tough,” he said finally, his voice low. “She’ll pull through.”

You wanted to believe him. You wanted to tell him that this reminds you too much of another hospital, another night, waiting for good news that never came. You wanted to tell him that you hate how fragile everything feels. Instead, you just nodded.

Minutes stretched into an hour, maybe more, you had lost all track of time. The fluorescent lights overhead hummed softly, the waiting room half-empty except for a tired-looking receptionist  at the front desk and an older man dozing in the corner.

At some point, Bucky shifted. “You should eat something,” he murmured.

You shook your head. “I can’t.”

His brow furrowed, like he wanted to argue, but he didn’t push. Instead, he leaned back, arms crossed, staying close. You didn’t realize how much you needed that until now. Your stomach was twisted in knots and you lowered your head into your hands, fingers tangling into your hair. The waiting was unbearable— the time dragging on like feeling like an eternity as the uncertainty gnawed at you.

"Why is this taking so long?" you whispered in a strained voice. You leaned forward again, elbows on your knees, trying to steady yourself against the overwhelming weight of your own fear.

Bucky sighed beside you. “I don’t know.” His voice was quiet, but there was something in it, something tired that told you he’d been here before. Waiting. Hoping. Dreading. You heard him shift in his seat, then you felt a warm, steady hand pressed against your back. He didn’t say anything, he didn’t have to. No attempts at false reassurances, he just rubbed slow, grounding circles between your shoulders.

Your breath hitched, the tension inside you threatening to spill over. "I can’t deal with this," you choked out, your voice cracking.

Bucky didn’t answer. He just kept rubbing your back, slow and steady, anchoring you in place and letting your tempestuous thoughts calm. 

Just as your mind settled, a different thought hit you.

“Oh, shit,” you groaned.

Bucky froze, his hand stilled for a fraction of a second before he pulled it away, giving you space. You sat up abruptly, heart hammering in fresh panic.

“Fuck, I was supposed to text Aditi and Hanna when I got home. I promised them.”

You dug through your bag frantically, fingers fumbling for your phone. But when you pulled it out, the screen stayed dark. The battery was dead. “Dammit,” you growled in frustration.

Before you could spiral any further, Bucky wordlessly, he held out his phone. You accepted it slowly looking surprised that he had Hanna’s number and the message app open. Your thumbs hovered over the keyboard as you started typing a message to your friend, reassuring her that you're okay, that you're at the hospital, that you’re sorry for not checking in sooner.

But as soon as you were done, you noticed that your message wasn’t the only one on the screen. You scrolled up slightly. There were messages. Not just yours. Not just from tonight— but from before. Your fingers stilled. Your stomach tugged with unease. You didn’t read them, but you could see enough to know that there had been exchanges between Bucky and Hanna

You frowned, tilting your head to look over at Bucky. “You’ve been talking to Hanna?”

He hesitated, only for a second, before nodding. “Yeah.”

You searched his face, trying to make sense of it. A flare of apprehension sparked inside you. Why? What had they been saying? What had he told her? 

“About what?”

He exhaled, rubbing a jaw before meeting your gaze again. “You, mostly.”

Your heart skipped a beat. “Me?”

“They were worried about you,” he said simply. “I guess… I was too.”

You gripped the phone a little tighter and cleared your throat, looking down at the phone to skim over Hanna’s reply. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

Bucky watched you carefully. “Would it have changed anything?”

You didn’t know if it would have then. But now… 

Something inside you changed, know that despite everything, despite the hurt, despite the walls still standing between you— Bucky had been looking out for you. In ways you hadn’t even noticed.

Bucky shifted in his seat once more. “And… I've been trying to help them get visitation with Mr. Sharma.”

Your head snapped up. “What?”

“It's been complicated,” he continued, his eyes fixated on his hands. “Not easy to arrange, especially with everything still so fresh. But I’ve been pulling some strings, trying to make it happen.”

You blinked, struggling to process it. He’d been doing this? Helping your friends without telling you? “Why didn’t you say anything?”

Bucky exhaled softly through his nose. “Because I didn’t want you to think I was just doing it to get in your good graces,” he admitted. “That’s not why I did it.”

You stared at him for a moment, completely baffled. Your initial thought would have been that he had done it to curry favor with you but now, you believed that he had really done it for them. He watched you carefully, then sighed, rubbing a metal hand over the back of his neck.

“Sorry,” he muttered. “One of the conditions of my pardon was seeing a therapist— to help me with the whole Winter Soldier thing. She came up with this… statement. Some ridiculous mantra for me to say when I tried to make amends with the people I hurt when I was… him.”

His voice dropped slightly on the last word. Then he gave you a small, sad smile before looking at you directly, eyes impossibly blue under the harsh hospital lights.

“I am no longer the Winter Soldier. I am James Bucky Barnes, and you are part of my efforts to make amends.”

The words sounded rehearsed. Not because he didn’t mean them, but because he’s clearly said them before. Maybe to others. Maybe in that same exhausted, pained tone. But something about this moment felt different. Maybe because you could hear what remained unspoken beneath them.

You stared at him, not even realizing you’re shaking your head slightly, like you’re trying to piece something together. Like there was something still missing in all of this.

“You keep saying that,” you murmured. “Making amends. But it’s not just about Mr. Sharma, is it?”

Bucky’s lips pressed together, staying quiet.

You took a slow breath, gripping his phone tighter in your hands. “This is about HYDRA.”

The silence between you stretched out further and Bucky looked away. His fingers flexed slightly, like there was a ghost of something he wanted to hold onto, but he didn’t move.

You swallowed, a new understanding dawning on you. “That’s why you did what you did at the wedding.”

His throat bobbed as he swallowed nervously, eyes still fixed on some invisible point beyond the waiting room. His voice was rougher and more quiet when he spoke again.

“I needed to stop them.”

You waited, your heart pounding, because you knew there was more. You knew him better now.

“I needed to make sure they never got the chance to evolve,” he whispered.

Your breath hitched.

“HYDRA isn’t gone,” he sighed. “They’ve just gone underground. Regrouping, waiting. They don’t need to start from scratch— they’re already there, in the shadows, gathering their forces. I know how they work. They don’t stop. They adapt.”

His fingers tighten into a fist.

“If I let them keep going— if I don’t cut them off before they get strong enough again—” He exhaled sharply through his nose. “I know what happens next. I’ve seen it before. And I’ll be damned if I let it happen on my watch .”

The implication of his words sunk deep into your chest.

Bucky looked over at you and then away, looking like he was struggling to decide how much more to say. His shoulders tightened, like he was carrying the weight of the world on them.

“Do you think stopping them will change anything?” you asked quietly. “That it… I dunno, balances the scales?”

The breath that left his mouth sounded almost like a bitter laugh. “Nothing balances the scales,” he muttered and shook his head. “Not after what I’ve done.”

You stared at him, feeling the weight of his crushing burden.

“So this isn't just about stopping HYDRA… It's about proving that you’re not still—”

He looked at you then. No anger. No defensiveness. Just exhaustion painted across his face. “That I'm not still a weapon.”

The words hit you harder than expected.

Bucky exhaled, leaning back in his chair, scrubbing a hand over his face. “Every time I close my eyes, I see them,” he admitted. “The people they sent me after. The ones I didn’t save. And I think about how easily it could’ve been someone else… someone like you.” His voice softened on the last three words.

You froze.

Bucky shook his head slightly, his gaze dropping to the floor. “If things had gone differently… if the wrong people wanted to hurt me, or use me again—” His jaw clenched, his voice going quieter now. “They’d go after you just to get to me.”

Something cold ran through you.

You’d seen some of what HYDRA was capable of. What they did to him. To others. And even if you weren’t someone they’d target for their own use— there was another risk entirely.

If they knew what Bucky cared about, if they saw you as a way to control him… the thought was suffocating. You exhaled shakily, gripping the edge of your chair.

“I couldn’t let them do it again.” His fingers flexed slightly against his knee and his voice was rough in his admission. “So, yeah. I wanted to stop them. And maybe that doesn't fix anything, it certainly doesn’t erase what I did. But at least this time, I wasn’t the one pulling the trigger.”

For the first time, you realized that Bucky wasn’t just trying to make amends. He was trying to rewrite the narrative.

To prove to himself and to the world that he could still be something other than what HYDRA had made him.

Your chest ached.

“Bucky…” you murmured, not knowing what you even wanted to say.

He shook his head, offering you a small, sad smile. “I’m really sorry, Princess. For all of it.”

And for the first time you felt like you could accept it. He wasn’t saying it just to fulfill some part of his redemption. He was saying it because he meant it. Because he wished he could take it all back. Not because it was an obligation, but because he truly cared. Because Bucky Barnes was still trying to figure out how to be more than what HYDRA made him.

And maybe, just maybe you were willing to let him try. There was an understanding in your silence now.

Bucky exhaled slowly again, leaning his head back against the wall. His eyes were heavy and his sagging shoulders showed the exhaustion in his usually strong body. He had been carrying so much for so long.

You weren't sure if it was the weariness of the day, the conversation, or just the healing effects of time, but you found yourself wanting to be closer to him. You leaned back against the chair, inching closer until your shoulder brushed against his.

He didn't move away. And at some point, without you realizing it, your head was resting lightly against his arm. He was so still, but the tension he carried seemed to ease. He exuded warmth and safety and you allowed yourself to close your eyes. Just for a moment, you told yourself.

You didn't know long your eyes stayed closed, only that when you woke up, Bucky hadn't moved. He was the same warm, steady, solid man who you'd fallen for.

“Mr. and Mrs. Barnes?”

The doctor's voice snapped both of you back to awareness. You blinked blearily, sitting up, your heart galloping in your chest as Bucky straightened beside you. Neither of you quite corrected the mistake that the doctor has made about your relationship.

“Hi, I’m Dr Robinavitch. You’re Mrs. Winifred Burke’s family?

You and Bucky nodded without hesitation.

“Well unfortunately Mrs. Burke suffered a heart attack,” he explained, his voice gentle and calm. “But, you should know that your prompt action saved her life. The cardiologists performed an angioplasty, and she’s stable now— resting and sedated.” She gave you and Bucky a small nod. “She’ll be in the ICU overnight for observation, but she won’t be awake until tomorrow.”

You didn’t quite understand half of what the doctor had said, but the words stable and resting were reassuring. Winnie may not be totally out of the woods, but she was fighting, and that’s what mattered. You exhaled slowly, your shoulders sagging in relief.

Bucky nodded, but he still had a question. “So she’s gonna be okay?”

The ER attending offered both of you a reassuring look. “We’re optimistic. But, it’s late. She’s asleep. So I suggest you go home and get some rest. You can come back to visit her tomorrow.”

“Thank you.” Both of you mumbled and watched Dr Robinavitch walk back into his ER.

Slowly you looked up at Bucky, only to find his eyes already on you. There was so much in his gaze— relief, exhaustion and something softer.

You nodded, exhaling softly. “Okay… tomorrow…” you murmured. And for the first time since you’d arrived, you felt like there was room in your chest to take a breath.

Surprisingly, Bucky was able to call a cab at 1am and you rode home in shared silence. The night’s events were weighing heavily on both of you and neither of you had anything left to say. But you still craved the comfort of each other’s presence and you found yourself sitting close together in the back of the cab, barely any space between you. The backs of your hands brushed against each other, the touch almost accidental— neither of you made any effort to pull away, but not quite finding the courage to close the distance, either.

When you reached your apartment building, everything felt eerily still. The two of you made your way up to your floor, where Winnie’s door remained ajar, a quiet reminder of the chaos from earlier. The place was a mess— a knocked over chair, overturned pill bottles when the paramedics had taken stock of Winnie’s condition. The atmosphere was still filled with remnants of fear, it clung to the empty space. Together, you and Bucky straightened up what you could. It wasn’t much but at least now it felt less like something terrible had happened. You grabbed Winnie’s keys and slipped them into your pocket and Bucky pulled the door back into the frame. 

And then, finally, it was just the two of you again. Standing outside your respective doors, like you had done so many times before.

You turned to Bucky. “She’s gonna be alright, isn’t she?” You voice quiet and uncertain, despite Dr Robinavitch’s reassurances.

Bucky nodded, offering the faintest smile. “She’s a pretty tough cookie.”

“I’m glad you were here,” you said, trying to let Bucky’s words reassure you. “Not sure I could have done this alone.”

Bucky tilted his head to one side, assessing you. His expression was soft and his eyes gentle. He only hesitated for a second before stepping forward slowly. When you didn’t step back or stop him, he wrapped his arms around you. You melted immediately, falling into his solid, warm chest, letting his steady presence ground you. His arms tightened around you, like he needed this just as much as you did… maybe more.

“I don’t wanna lose anyone else,” he murmured. “Not again.”

You reached around his back and under his jacket, your fingers curling into his shirt, anchoring him to you. “Me neither.”

You pulled back just slightly, just enough to look up at him. His deep blue eyes looked down into yours, his ruggedly handsome features looked so soft in the dim light. You could just make out the faint freckles dusted across his tanned skin from the hot summer months, they were barely visible but you knew them. Your eyes flicked to his lips, the way they curved beautifully, looking impossibly soft despite the cracks from forgotten hydration. They were so inviting.

Gods, you missed him. Not just his presence, but the closeness, the comfort, the intimacy. The way it felt to be held by him, to be known by him. The weight of the past couple of months pressed down heavily in your chest— grief, fear, longing, pain, love— all of it trying to escape. 

Before you could stop yourself, before you could even think, you closed the distance between you.

Your lips met his, and every feeling you’d been holding in, everything you hadn’t been able to say, spilled into the kiss— desperate and aching, a silent plea for comfort, for the familiarity in all the chaos.

Bucky froze, startled by your forwardness. But then, with a quiet, almost broken sound, he was kissing you back. He pulled you in, arms tightening around you like he was afraid to let go. And right here, at this moment, nothing else existed. No fear, no nightmares, no betrayal or ghosts of the past— just this, you and him, holding each other, keeping each other from falling apart.

You needed more, pushing your body closer to him, into his, seeking more— more warmth, more closeness, more of him, all of him. When you grinded against him, a guttural moan escaped his lips and his arms tightened around you instinctively. Your hands slid up his back, tangling into his hair, pulling him down to deepen the kiss.

Bucky’s grip shifted and he straightened, and suddenly your feet were no longer touching the ground. His hands had slid down under your ass, pulling you flush against him, sparks flying between you. Without thinking, you wrapped your legs around his waist, gasping as his arms secured you against him.

Your fingers fumbled over the keys in your pocket and you pressed them into his palm, a silent plea. He understood. Without breaking the kiss, he maneuvered the two of you toward your door. He blindly found the lock, the metal clinking as he pushed it open, and then you were stumbling inside together, breathless and wanting. The door swung shut behind you.

He didn’t stop, lips still on yours, hands holding you close. He carried you through the darkened apartment. Every step he took sent waves of anticipation and need rushing through you. And then, you felt the edge of your bed against the back of your legs. He lowered you down, his weight on top of you.

You’d missed this. You’d missed him. And tonight, you weren’t going to let him go.

You rubbed the sleep from your eyes and rolled over, instinctively reaching for the warmth of Bucky’s embrace that had been beside you only hours ago. Except his side of the bed was cold and empty. Your stomach sank.

You lifted your hand up to touch the spot where his head had been. And that’s when you felt it. A note. Folded on the pillow where he should have been. You sat up slowly, picking up the paper and smoothing out the creases. You had ignored his last letter for too long, you wouldn’t make the same mistake again. His handwriting was messier than the last note, like he had written it in the darkness and in a hurry, but the words were more thoughtful than you’d expected.

Princess,

I’m so sorry. I didn’t want to leave, but Sam called— he needs backup, and I owe it to him.

That doesn’t mean I wanted to go.

I’d give anything to stay, to hold you a little longer. This is a part of who I am, but it doesn’t change how I feel about you.

I love you. I hope you know that.

I’ll call as soon as I can.

Bucky

You traced the words with your fingertips, a smile tugging at your lips. He was trying. You realized that now. And despite the ache of loneliness in the cold sheets, you believed him.

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27: THE HUNGER GAMES: SUPER SOLDIER EDITION

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Summary: A late-night grocery run leads to an unexpected encounter with Bucky Barnes, a carton of eggs, and a reluctant truce. A simple offer of pancakes turns into something more: a quiet step toward mending what was broken.

Warnings: Past conflict/strained relationship, excessive amounts of maple syrup

Word Count: 2427

The local grocery store was far from busy, but there was a strange vibe in the quiet— the hum of the overhead lighting, the quiet chatter, the squeak of rolling carts and the occasional beeping of the checkout scanner. You wandered through the aisles, tossing random items into your basket until you reached the refrigerated aisle. It was late in the day and you noticed that there was only one carton of eggs left on the shelf.

There were a few people making their way down the aisle, so you quickened your pace, slipping past the stragglers and made your way to your target. Your eye was caught by a deal on a pot of Greek yoghurt which you deposited in your basket before you reached up for the eggs. Just as your hand was about to close around it, another hand— a larger, rougher and very familiar hand beat you to it. Your fingers had barely brushed against the cardboard when you pulled back like you’d been burned.

“Oh, you’ve got to be shitting me,” you muttered under your breath after turning to see who had taken your eggs.

Bucky Barnes stood beside you, his face impassive. But you could see a glint in his blue eyes, something dangerously akin to amusement. He glanced down at the eggs, then back at you, one brow lifting.

“Go ahead.” He held out the eggs to you.

It threw you. Although you weren’t sure what you’d been expecting— a sarcastic comment, maybe a fight for possession— but this, this quiet surrender was disarming.

You narrowed your eyes at him. “Not feeling competitive today?”

Bucky shrugged, he scratched the back of his neck and shifted his weight from one leg to the other. “Figured I owe you more than eggs.”

The simplicity of his words knocked you for six. You just stared at him, not touching the eggs in his outstretched hand. Everything that had happened between you swirled through your mind. First the betrayal and anger, the loneliness, but the good memories also slipped in right behind. The moments of laughter, your closeness, the intimacy. And lastly, the consistency he had shown in his support and remorse.

For a second, you almost said something sharp. Something that would keep you on the battlefield you’d been fighting on for weeks. Instead, you huffed and accepted the carton. “Thanks,” you mumbled.

Bucky didn’t stop you when you turned away, but as you moved down the aisle, you could feel the ghost of his smirk following you. And somehow, you weren’t quite as annoyed by it as you should’ve been.

The line at the checkout was moving excruciatingly slowly, just the right amount of time for you to overthink your encounter with Bucky. “Figured I owe you more than eggs.” A few weeks ago, you would have agreed, now you were not so sure it even mattered. You tried to shake off the unsettled feeling inside you. His words hadn’t been that deep. You paid and loaded your groceries into the bags you had brought with you. As you picked them up, you noticed that the load was uneven, throwing you a little off balance, but before you could adjust your grip, the bottom of the bag gave out completely. A number of your items hit the floor, a plastic tub of soup burst open across the linoleum, and you heard a very unimpressed sigh from the cashier behind the counter.

“Seriously?” you muttered under your breath, kneeling down quickly to start gathering your things.

Before you could even blink, Bucky was there. He crouched beside you without hesitation, grabbing an apple before it could roll any further. “You always this graceful, Princess?” His voice was light, but his hands worked efficiently, scooping up your fallen groceries.

You didn’t even realize how close he was until his shoulder brushed against yours as he passed you a now-dented box of pasta. You could feel him watching you, the warmth of his presence making your frustration flicker into something else entirely.

The cashier was not at all amused by your exchange. He watched you attempt to clean up and exhaled sharply with frustration. “You two need to move. Now. Just leave it. Take your things and just go.”

You fled, with Bucky on your heels. Your arms were full, with your remaining bags and the items that he had helped you rescue.

“I got it,” Bucky muttered, pulling a spare bag from his pocket. He held it open, and without thinking, you started loading your unbroken groceries into it.

Once you’d unburdened your arms, he straightened up, holding the bag like it weighed nothing. Wordlessly, he took the other bag from your hand and started walking away from the store.

“Come on,” he said. “Let’s get out of here before they ban you for life.”

You let out a huff of laughter despite yourself and followed him outside.

The air was cooling as the sun set and the scent of September rain lingered faintly on the pavement as you fell into step beside Bucky. It was nice. The silence wasn’t awkward, and he wasn’t hovering around you, like he was on edge in your presence. Just walking with you. Eventually, you glanced over at the bags in his hands, counting only two— both of them yours.

“You didn’t get anything?” you said, realization dawning.

Bucky barely looked over, shrugging lightly. “Only came for the eggs.”

You stopped walking for half a second before quickly catching up again. “But you gave them to me.”

“Good thing they survived.”

Embarrassment flushed through you.

“All that, and you—” You let out an incredulous laugh. “God, you must think I’m a disaster.”

Bucky smirked, shrugging. “Nah… maybe a little dramatic?”

You rolled your eyes but still felt the heat rise to your cheeks. “…What’d you need the eggs for, anyway?”

“Had a hankering for pancakes,” he said simply. “Figured I’d make some.”

You shot him a look, still trying to process the fact that this entire interaction had happened over a craving for pancakes. “Seriously?”

He just shrugged, like that was a perfectly normal explanation.

As the apartment building came into view, Bucky’s voice cut through the quiet.

“You look good, you know,” he said, his tone quieter this time. “Happier.”

You glanced at him, surprised by his words, but he wasn’t looking at you. He was just walking, eyes forward, bags around his wrists and hands tucked in his pockets. You thought about what he had said and he was right, you had found a sense of peace and you realized that it had come after you had read his letter.

“Yeah,” you admitted, the corner of your lips twitching up. “I feel better.”

And for the first time in a long time, it didn’t feel like a lie.

Bucky handed you your bags once you’d opened your apartment door and bid you good night, quickly disappearing into his own abode. The apartment door shut behind you with a soft click, and you exhaled, setting your shopping bag down on the counter. You glanced over your haul— what was left of it, anyway— and then at the carton of eggs.

You hesitated. Only for a second.

Then, with a quiet sigh, you picked up the carton and turned back to your door. You went outside and knocked on his door.

“Here,” you said, holding it out to him as he opened the door.

Bucky blinked at you, then at the eggs. “I can’t take those.”

“You came for eggs and left with nothing,” you reasoned. “Seems unfair.”

He shook his head and held up his hands. “You went through the whole Hunger Games for these. I’m not stealing your victory.”

“You watched the Hunger Games?”

“No, I read the books.”

You snorted, shoving them toward him again. “Just take them, Barnes.”

Bucky’s lips twitched, but he still hesitated. “What if we go half and half?”

You tilted your head. “That… is the most unnecessary compromise I’ve ever heard.”

Bucky huffed a quiet laugh. Then, before he could second-guess himself, he threw caution to the wind.

“Or,” he said slowly, watching you carefully, “you could just come over and we’ll make pancakes.”

The question hung in the air between you, heavier than it should have been. It wasn’t just about pancakes. It was about… this. Whatever this was.

A tentative step forward. A quiet peace offering. A small, deliberate choice.

You eyed him for a beat, considering. Then, finally, you exhaled, rolling your eyes like you weren’t completely softening.

“Fine,” you said, grabbing the eggs. “But I get first pick of the toppings.”

Bucky smirked. “Not if I beat you to it, Princess.”

And just like that, you knew you could be friends.

You stuck your fork into the pile of pancakes between you, scooping up two of them and depositing them onto your plate. Bucky pushed a bottle of maple syrup towards you and you proceeded to empty half its contents onto your plate, ignoring the grimace on Bucky’s face. You cut a piece and speared it onto your fork, brandishing it at Bucky.

“Alright, Bucky. The real question— are you team Peeta or team Gale?”

Bucky barely paused, cutting into his own stack. “Peeta.”

Your fork hovered mid-way to your mouth. “Huh.”

He glanced up at you, brow furrowed. “What?”

“I just… didn’t expect you to have an answer that fast.”

Bucky shrugged, focusing on his plate. “Seemed obvious.”

You studied his face for a second, chewing thoughtfully. “Why, though?”

His knife scraped against his plate, his movements slowing just a fraction. “I dunno.”

“You don’t know?” you asked incredulously, narrowing your eyes at him. “Come on, Barnes. You’ve got opinions on everything. Why Peeta?”

He exhaled sharply and set down his fork as though your questions were unnecessary and you should automatically know his reasoning. “Gale’s an ass.”

“That’s true,” you snorted. “But that’s not really an explanation.”

Bucky shifted in his seat, suddenly looking like he regretted entering into this entire conversation. He could have refused to pick, but he knew how stubborn you were and wouldn’t drop the topic until he gave you an answer. He rubbed a hand over his jaw and scratched his beard thoughtfully. “I just— I dunno. Peeta deserved better.”

Something about the way he answered, it made your chest tighten and you weren’t sure if he was still talking about the Hunger Games. The silence hung between you for a moment and you watched, almost mesmerized by the way he tapped his vibranium fingers against his coffee mug. His jaw flexed a fraction, as though there was something more he could say, but he just couldn’t find the words to express his feelings. 

And then it clicked. Peeta was the boy who was tortured, manipulated, turned into something he didn’t want to be. The boy who lost so many pieces of himself after the war, that he couldn’t recognize himself anymore. The one who had to keep fighting to feel real again. Just like him.

You swallowed, suddenly regretting asking in the first place. “Yeah,” you said quietly, offering him an easy way out. “Peeta did deserve better.”

Bucky narrowed his eyes at you as he took another bite. “So? You still haven’t answered.”

You smirked, twirling your fork between your fingers. “I don’t know… Gale had that whole strong, silent hunter thing going for him.”

Bucky scoffed. “Oh, please. Guy had one personality trait, and it was ‘angry.’”

You bit your lip to hide your grin. “He was passionate.”

“He was vengeful.” Bucky pointed his fork at you. “You think he would’ve taken care of Katniss? Fed her when she was starving? Kept her sane?”

You hummed thoughtfully. “Maybe she didn’t need taking care of.”

Bucky’s jaw clenched. “That’s not the point.”

You shrugged, keeping your expression neutral even as amusement bubbled inside you. “Gale was strong. Reliable. He knew how to hunt…”

“Oh yeah, great skill set. Too bad he also made bombs that killed kids.”

You gasped dramatically, your face the perfect picture of mock offence. “Are you calling me out for supporting war crimes?”

Bucky gave you an unimpressed look. “I’m calling you out for having trash taste.”

That was it. You lost it completely, dissolving into laughter as you dropped your fork onto your plate.

Bucky narrowed his eyes at you. “You… don’t actually think Gale was the better choice…”

You wiped a tear from your eye and sniffed, finally regaining some composure and giving him a grin. “Nope.”

His brows furrowed. “So you’re Team Peeta?”

“Obviously.” You huffed the word and followed it up with a laugh and grabbed the last pancake from the center of the table.

He exhaled sharply, shaking his head as he leaned back in his chair. “I hate you.”

“No, you don’t.” You smirked, reaching for the syrup again.

He watched you with narrowed eyes before suddenly swiping the last pancake off your plate and taking a massive bite.

Your jaw dropped. “You absolute menace.”

Bucky just smirked, chewing smugly. “Call it a reward for being right.”

You pointed your fork at him. “This means war.”

He shrugged. “Bring it, Princess.”

And just like that, you both dissolved into laughter again.

As the last of the dishes were dried and put away, a comfortable quiet settled between you. The kind that didn’t feel awkward, it felt easy— just like it used to. Bucky wiped his hands on a dish towel and glanced over at you, like he was waiting for you to say something first. But you didn’t. Instead, you gave him a small, knowing smile before stepping toward the door.

“I should get going,” you said, reaching for the handle.

Bucky nodded once, something flickering behind his eyes. The look was hesitant, like he wanted to say something more, but couldn’t quite find the words.

You let the silence stretch for just a second longer before finally offering him an out. “See you around, Sarge.”

His lips twitched, and for the briefest moment, you thought you saw a hint of a smirk. He gave you a lazy salute, tipping two fingers to his forehead. “Yeah. See you around, Princess.”

You rolled your eyes and shook your head but felt the warmth bloom in your chest despite yourself. Then, without another word, you stepped out into the hallway, leaving behind the lingering scent of pancakes and something else— something so familiar. And as you shut your own door behind you, you realized just how much you had missed him.

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26: FORGIVENESS COMES EASY, TRUST DOES NOT

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Summary: An unexpected visitor brings painful truths and old wounds to the surface. With tensions still raw and guilt weighing heavily, you must decide if there's a way forward— both with Aditi and with Bucky.

Warnings: Emotional hurt/comfort, themes of grief and depression, guilt, past deception, implied past mental health struggles, reconciliation, soft moments with Bucky, food mentions, minor angst with hopeful undertones.

Word Count: 3636

The knock on your door was unexpected and startling. For a few moments all you could do was stare like a deer in headlights.

There it was again… 

It wasn’t the knock you’d grown accustomed to from Bucky and you wondered who it might be.

You peeked through the hole and immediately reached for the handle, pulling it open. There was Hanna, standing with her hands in the pockets of her jacket. It was all you could manage to hold back tears.

“Hanna,” you breathed.

For a while, she didn’t speak, staring at you. Her eyes scanned your face before they moved up and down, assessing you. She was silent for so long, you started doubting her appearance. Then, with a small sigh, she stepped forward and wrapped her arms around you.

For a second you couldn’t move, but then you relaxed into her embrace, clinging to her as though you hadn’t seen her for four years instead of four weeks.

“I missed you,” Hanna whispered.

“Yeah,” you murmured, your voice muffled by her hair. “Me too.”

You stayed wrapped in her arms until she finally pulled away.

Her face darkened as she looked at you. “We need to talk.”

The knot in the pit of your stomach tightened. “Yeah, I know,” you sighed, suspecting that you were about to get reamed out for your actions.

Hanna ran a hand through her hair, giving you a worried look. “It’s Aditi,” she said quietly.

You hadn’t been expecting that. But you immediately knew what was going on and it filled you with dread. “How bad is it?”

Hanna’s jaw tightened. “Worse than I’ve seen in years.”

“Hanna…” You let out a shaky exhale.

“She won’t talk about it,” Hanna continued, voice thick with frustration and fear. “But I can see it. She’s slipping back into that place she was in during college. And you remember what that was like.”

A cold chill ran through you. Of course you remembered. College had been a tough time for the three of you, having all chosen different places to study. It had been hard to be apart, but hardest on Aditi, spiraling to a dark place that made you shudder to think back on.

“She’s shutting down,” Hanna whispered. “She’s angry at you. She feels betrayed. But she misses you… so much. And with everything else— Samir being taken away— she’s breaking under the pressure.”

Guilt crashed down on you, crushing you, suffocating you. You shook your head and whispered, “I never wanted this.”

Hanna’s expression softened. “I know.”

“What can I do?”

“Talk to her. Try?”

“Do you think she’d even want to see me?” you asked hesitantly.

“I don’t know,” Hanna said pitifully, shrugging her shoulders. “But I know she needs you. Even if she doesn’t realize she does.”

You nodded. “I’ll come, of course I’ll come.” A flash of sadness enveloped you, Hanna had probably only considered reconciliation with you because of her concern for her wife, but you would take any vine they offered.

Hanna studied you carefully, then sighed. “Good.”

Silence stretched between you before she added, “You know… for something that started as a lie, you and Bucky sure looked real.”

You stiffened. “Hanna—”

“Was it?” she asked, cutting off your protest.

Your mouth went dry, making it hard to swallow the lump in your throat. “No,” you admitted, quietly. “It wasn’t.”

“Damn,” she huffed, letting out a dry laugh.

“Yeah,” you agreed sadly.

Her gaze softened. “Do you love him?”

The question caught you off guard, as did the knowing look in her eyes. “I don’t know if it matters.”

Hanna sighed. “Maybe not.” She hesitated before adding, “But for what it’s worth… I think he loves you.”

The words struck something deep inside you, but you couldn’t bring yourself to say anything.

“So,” Hanna took a small step backward. “I should probably go… get back to…”

But before she could go any further, you reached for her, throwing your arms around her neck in another much needed hug. Only this time she held you just as tightly.

“I need you to take care of yourself better, okay?” Hanna looked at you and the gaunt look on your face.

You nodded, feeling ashamed that she had noticed. As Hanna let go of your arm, she tapped your chin, getting you to look at her. “Hey, you know I didn’t come here just because of Aditi, right? I really did come for you.”

You nodded again, this time not succeeding in holding back the tears that slipped down your face. Hanna wiped them away gently before holding you one last time.

The next morning, you decided to take Hanna’s words to heart. The air was humid and sweat dripped down your skin as you ran through the park. The rhythmic clap of your sneakers against the pavement was like a meditative process for you, focusing on the beat helped quiet your thoughts, letting your body take over. By the time you reached the end of your route, hunger was gnawing in the pit of your stomach. You glanced down at your watch and it was definitely time for Sunday brunch— ideally at your favorite blue and silver chromium diner. You wiped the sweat from your brow and glanced at your reflection in the glass as you pictured an avocado toast with eggs waiting for you, accompanied by a steaming cup of coffee.

With a swift tug, you pulled open the door and stepped inside, only to be met with a waft of noise from the crowd of people inside. You groaned, the café was packed. It seemed like every table was full, every seat taken.

You stood, drowning in a feeling of disappointment and hunger as you scanned the room in the hopes that by some miracle that someone would be leaving. But no such luck until…

“Hey, over here.”

A familiar voice drew your attention.

You turned and there he was. Bucky. He was sitting alone in a booth by the window with a mug of coffee between his hands, his fingers idly tracing the rim. His piercing blue eyes met yours, soft and inviting.

And for a moment, you stayed frozen, trying to decide what to do.

He nodded at the empty seat across from him. “You can sit here.”

You could say no, simply walk away. There were only two options to choose from and somehow the decision was made by the ache in your stomach, not from hunger, but something deeper. So you took a step forward, just as he slid towards the edge of the booth and rose to his feet.

You frowned, glancing down at the steaming beverage still on the table.

“You haven’t finished your coffee.”

Bucky shrugged. “It’s fine. I’ve probably had too much anyway.”

A pang of disappointment shot through you, but you smiled at him anyway. “Is there such a thing as too much coffee?” You slid into the booth. “You should finish it, seems like a waste of perfectly good caffeine.”

If he was surprised by your invitation he didn’t show it, dropping back down opposite you. And just like that, something shifted between you. A tentative truce of sorts. You picked up the menu, hiding behind it, taking an occasional peek over the top. Across the table, Bucky took a slow sip of his coffee, watching you over the rim of his mug. Every once in a while, you made eye contact, but it wasn’t uncomfortable… just quiet. Not the charged silence that had existed between you in the elevator, when you’d last seen him. No, this was different.

The waitress came over to take your order and took the menu with her, leaving you no place left to hide.

“Did you see it?” he asked, finally setting down his mug.

“See what?” you blinked in confusion.

“The ducklings.”

You frowned. “Ducklings?”

The conversation stopped for a moment as the waitress returned with a fresh coffee pot and poured you some and topped up Bucky’s mug.

As soon as you could see Bucky again, you watched him nod his head toward the window, gesturing vaguely in the direction of the park where you’d taken your run that morning. “At the pond? Under that bridge on one side. Remember you pointed out a small nest in the reeds… that time we went running before—” He bit his lip softly dropping his gaze momentarily and he finished in a whisper. “Before the wedding.”

You exhaled softly, the memory of that moment rising to the surface of your mind. It had been one of those rare days when everything seemed perfect and effortless, a time where you’d almost forgotten that your whole relationship had been built on a lie. You had been so excited to see the light green Mallard eggs in a nest. You had gotten so frustrated trying to get Bucky to see where you were pointing that it had taken you a long time to realize that he had just been teasing you. He had made it up with a kiss and a promise to come back and check to see if they had hatched.

And he had remembered.

“They finally hatched?” you asked softly.

He nodded. “Saw ‘em yesterday. Figured you might’ve, too?”

A smile curled on your lips, an unexpected warmth budding in your chest. You had run by the pond but you hadn’t even bothered looking for the ducklings. But Bucky had. You imagined him standing at the edge of the water, watching the tiny birds make their first splash. Something that usually happened around four weeks after they hatched which fit with the timeline since you’d seen them. You pictured the tiny ducklings trying to paddle clumsily after their parents, and it made your smile widen.

“They’re all small and fuzzy,” Bucky added with a sheepish grin on his face. “Kinda cute.”

You huffed out a quiet laugh, shaking your head. “Never thought I’d hear the big bad White Wolf call something cute.”

“Guess you learn something new every day.” His lips twitched, trying to suppress the smirk that pulled at his lips.

You stared down at your coffee, stirring it idly, letting the silence settle around you again. It wasn’t awkward. It wasn’t heavy. It was just… comfortable. And God, you’d missed this. Not the tears. Not the anger. Just this. Being able to sit across from him, listening to him talk, watching the way his eyes softened when he wasn’t on guard.

That’s when it hit you— with a startling clarity— you weren’t angry anymore. You actually had forgiven him.

But trust— that was something else entirely. Forgiveness usually came easy to you, it was often passive, sometimes settling in without your permission when your anger faded away. But trust? That was harder to come by, something that needed to be rebuilt from the ground up. And you weren’t sure you were ready for that yet.

Across the table, Bucky shifted slightly, watching you with a careful curiosity, as if trying to decipher your change in demeanor.

“Next time I’ll be sure to make a stop there.” You smiled, lifting your coffee to your lips.

His gaze lingered on you for a second longer before he nodded. “Yeah,” he murmured. “Next time.”

Your food arrived and you moaned as the smell of your avocado toast and eggs wafted up into your nostrils, your stomach rumbling in anticipation. Picking up your cutlery, you attacked the eggs to start with. The noise of the café around you was still loud, but it didn’t bother you in your quiet little corner, separated from the rest of the world.

You noticed Bucky watching you and you pushed your plate toward him, offering him a bite. But he shook his head, just happy to sit silently and watch you devour the meal.

“I’m going to see Aditi tomorrow,” you said finally, breaking the lull between you.

Bucky’s gaze flickered to you, but he didn’t say anything right away. Waiting.

“Hanna came to see me yesterday,” you continued, fingers tightening around your mug as you raised it to take a sip. “She’s worried.”

Bucky nodded slightly, listening.

“She— Aditi— she had a hard time in college,” you explained, glancing away as you relived the bad memories in your mind. “When she first left for pre-med, she really struggled. She had to move across the country, away from her parents… Hanna, away from all of us. And at first, it seemed like she was handling it, but…” You sighed. “It got bad.”

Bucky’s expression didn’t change, but there was something in the way he sat, a quiet patience that made you keep going.

“She wasn’t sleeping, wasn’t eating right. She’d spend days holed up in her room, pushing herself too hard with studying, isolating herself because she didn’t have the energy to socialize. And when she did reach out, it was… like she was drowning, but she didn’t want to admit it.”

Bucky nodded again, slow and thoughtful.

“She started therapy, went on meds. But even then, it didn’t really get better until she transferred schools. She needed to be closer to the people who loved her, and once she had that, she was okay again. Her dad was her rock. Anyway, she finished medical school, went on to do amazing things. She built this incredible life,” you swallowed. “But now, she’s slipping back into that place, and I—” You broke off, shaking your head.

Bucky watched you for a long moment. Then, in a voice so quiet you almost missed it, he said, “Being alone can do that to you.”

His words made your breath catch. He didn’t elaborate, didn’t explain. But he didn’t need to. You understood.

You sat in silence for a while longer as you finished your food. Bucky reached for a sugar packet tapping it lightly against the table in an absent, steady rhythm. It was small, almost unnoticeable, but something about it felt deliberate. Soothing.

You sighed softly, putting down your fork and pushing your empty plate to one side, focusing on the beat of his finger, letting it calm your anxiety. And maybe tomorrow, when you finally saw Aditi, you’d be able to help her in the same way.

Hanna pulled you into a tight hug the moment you stepped inside. “Come in,” she murmured. She was smiling but looked exhausted and worried.

You let yourself be held for longer than you might have done on any other day. You needed it. So did Hanna.

The moment you crossed the threshold of the Sharma residence, you could feel the weight of grief and resentment surrounding you. Aditi’s mother passed you by without so much as a word, her silence and lack of acknowledgement of your smile felt worse than any scolding you could have received. You swallowed back your tears, the guilt in your chest feeling heavier than it had moments ago.

Would Aditi react in the same way?

You braced yourself for it as Hanna led you upstairs.

The door to their bedroom was slightly ajar. You remembered your teenage years and the countless hours the three of you spent in her deluxe suite. Aditi’s wealth had never sullied her generosity of spirit. Things hadn’t changed dramatically, the king sized bed that the three of you used to sleep on was now shared by the two women. The only difference now was that the air felt still, the room cast into darkness by the half drawn curtains. Aditi lay in bed, curled up beneath a mess of blankets.

She looked so small. And oh so tired. You crept into the room, almost afraid to intrude. Cautiously you approached the bed, sitting on the edge, you gently called your friend’s name. “Aditi?”

You got no answer. She didn’t move, other than the rise and fall of her slow breathing. You slipped off your shoes and climbed into the bed and slipped under the covers and wrapped your arm around her. She didn’t pull away. It wasn’t a warm welcome, but it wasn't a push, it wasn’t a door slammed in your face and it broke your composure.

Hot tears spilled out of your eyes before you could stop them, your grip tightening as you held on like you could somehow will Aditi back to herself.

“I’m sorry,” you choked out. “I’m so, so sorry.”

You didn’t even know where to start. It all came tumbling out, every thought, every feeling, everything you’d so desperately wanted to say over the last few weeks.

“I didn’t mean for any of this to happen, I swear. I would never intentionally hurt you. It’s just— I see you and Hanna together, and you’re so happy and I know you want the same thing for me. I didn’t want you to worry about me once you got married. You always have, even when you didn’t need to. You guys drop everything to take care of me when I’ve been on a shitty date or broke up with whatever idiot I was in a relationship with. And I felt like— like I was broken, because I can’t find someone to be with. I didn’t want you to hold you back from your lives together.”

A sob ripped through you.

“I just wanted you to be happy. I wanted you to go into your marriage without worrying about me being a mess, so I— I asked Bucky to pretend to be my date. Just to make it easier. To make it look like I was fine.”

Your breath hitched.

“But then… I fell for him. Like really fell for him, and I thought— I thought he felt the same way. I didn’t think he would ever do something like this to you. To all of us.”

Finally, silence settled between you.

And then, slowly and a little hesitantly, Aditi’s arms wrapped around you. You froze, surprised by the action, but finally all your walls came down and you clung to her, crying even harder. Slowly, you felt her arms tighten around you in an awkward embrace and you bit back your tears, barely breathing in the fear that you would scare her away.

“You’re an idiot,” Aditi muttered, voice rough and weak from disuse. “But you’re my idiot.”

A wet, broken laugh tumbled out of your throat. Relief flooding through you. From the doorway, Hanna was watching with wet eyes. 

After letting the two of you have a few more moments, she said quietly, “Come downstairs when you're ready. I'll make some tea.”

You nodded, but you didn’t move. You weren’t ready. Not yet.

You turned back to Aditi, watching her carefully, taking in the dark circles beneath her eyes, the way she had barely moved from her spot in bed. Gently, you reached up, brushing tangled hair from your best friend’s face.

“Can I stay for a while?” you asked in a small voice.

Aditi didn’t answer right away. But then slowly she gave you a small nod.

Something your grandmother had often said came to mind. The steps you take don't need to be big, they just need to take you in the right direction.

It wasn’t forgiveness, but it was a start. And for now, that was enough.

When you returned home late that night, you dropped your bag by your desk with the intention of unpacking it another time. As you straightened up, you noticed that one of the drawers was ajar. Sticking out of it was a slip of paper. A letter. Bucky’s letter. You opened the drawer and pulled it out. Taking off your shoes, you padded to your bedroom and sat down with the letter. With a deep breath you unfolded it and started reading.

Dear Y/N,

I don’t know if you’ll read this, but I’m going to write it anyway. I want to explain. I know I hurt you. I know how this looks. And I know I don’t deserve your forgiveness. But I need you to hear this.

I never meant to lie to you. I never meant to hurt you. And I swear I never planned for any of this to happen.

When we made our deal, everything seemed so easy. Pretend to be your date. Get Sam to stop setting me up. The only price was to go to a couple of weddings.

Simple, right?

But nothing about you has ever been simple. You snuck up on me. I didn’t know it was happening. Didn’t realize I was letting my guard down until it was already gone.

And by the time I figured it out, it was too late. I wasn’t pretending anymore. That night at Sarah’s wedding, when I told you it wasn’t fake… I meant it. I meant all of it.

I know you feel used. I know you think I made up some lie to investigate your friends. But I need you to believe this— you were NEVER a job or mission to me.

You were the first real thing I’ve had in longer than I can remember. I don’t let people in. You know that. Maybe that’s why it was so hard to tell you the truth.

I was scared. Of what would happen if I let you in. Scared that you’d see who I really was. And maybe that’s why I screwed this up so badly. You made me feel like I could have more than just the mission.

And losing you… it’s killing me. I don’t expect you to forgive me. But I need to tell you the truth. I should have told you everything. It should have been different. And for that I’m truly sorry. For everything.

Just… know that it was real for me. You were  are real.

And I love you.

Bucky

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[no-not-without-you-blog]

25: LOCKED IN OR LOCKED OUT

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Summary: Bucky catches you sneaking out at 3 AM, leading to a tense confrontation in the elevator. When the lift unexpectedly stalls, the two of you are forced into an unplanned moment of reckoning. Emotions run high as buried grief, betrayal, and unresolved feelings come to the surface. Trapped together, there’s nowhere to run from the pain of what’s been lost— or the lingering pull that refuses to fade.

Warnings: Angst, unresolved tension, arguments, emotional distress, references to grief and loss, mild language.

Word Count: 3034

Bucky had been awake for hours. Not that this was unusual; sleep had never come easy to him, even before the war. But for some reason tonight was worse than most. Sleep just couldn’t seem to find him. His nightmares had changed. His mind insisted on replaying recent events, all the mistakes he had made with you. He lay on his couch, glaring up at the ceiling with his arms folded over his chest, as though it was that only thing keeping him from getting a few hours of shut eye.

He was just drifting off when he heard it. A door opening.

Sometimes his enhanced hearing felt like a curse; he could sometimes hear you crying if he stood outside your door. But today, he easily picked up on the sound of quiet footsteps moving through the hallway. He sat up with a frown. The clock read 3am— where the hell were you going at this hour?

Bucky sat up abruptly, listening. Your footsteps were light— you were probably wearing those old worn out sneakers you ran in; he had your shoes memorized by now. He heard your front door click shut behind you and it was enough to get him to his feet. He stepped out into the hallway just in time to see you walking toward the elevator, dressed in leggings and a hoodie, your hair pulled back in a messy ponytail.

“Where’re you going?” he called out, voice hoarse from disuse.

You jumped slightly, surprised at his unexpected appearance, but once you saw it was him, you turned and kept walking. “Out,” you called out.

Bucky frowned. “It’s 3 am.”

“It’s none of your business.”

“It’s not safe.”

You paused, scoffing softly before restarting your exit. You quickened your pace, your arms tightly crossed over your chest in an attempt to shield yourself from him.

“Wait!” Bucky called behind you.

You didn’t.

Muttering curses under his breath, he turned back into his apartment, grabbed the nearest pair of shoes, and shoved them on hastily. By the time he got outside, you were already stepping into the elevator.

In a moment of blind panic, Bucky lunged forwards, covering the hallway in five long strides and slipping into the steel box just before the doors slid shut.

You glared at him. “I told you—”

“I told you to wait,” he interrupted, breathing a little heavier than usual.

Your eyes narrowed. “You don’t get to tell me what to do.”

A tense silence settled between you as Bucky took a second to catch his breath. As the elevator started its descent, neither of you spoke. You were huddled in one corner, determinedly staring down at your grubby sneakers, refusing to look at him. Bucky leaned back against the opposite wall, examining your tired face.

Out of nowhere, the elevator lurched violently, the jolt sending you stumbling forward. There was nothing to grab to steady yourself, no handrail, only the slippery walls which gave no purchase for your sweaty palms. You felt your stomach drop as your balance teetered for a moment and you found yourself falling forward— until a pair of  strong hands caught you.

They were Bucky’s.

His strong arms slipped around you, bracing you against him before you could fall. It was instinct, the way your hands curled into the fabric of his henley. Your breath hitched quietly as you found yourself pressed against his warm, solid form. And for a moment— a very brief moment— you let him hold you. And you relaxed. For the first time in four weeks, you let yourself feel the rise and fall of his chest under your palms. It felt good. It felt right. Like the thing that had been missing from your life, leaving you feeling hollow.

Unfortunately, reality pulled you out of your reverie. With a sharp inhale, you pushed yourself away, smoothing out your hoodie with a small huff.

“I’m fine,” you muttered, as if the words and your actions could somehow erase the way you had just let yourself melt into him.

Bucky didn’t argue with you, in fact he didn’t say a word. But you could feel his eyes on you as you tried to gather your thoughts and assess the situation. The elevator had stopped moving and remained frozen in place. Slowly, you reached for the control panel and pressed the button for the lobby.

Nothing happened.

Frowning, you pressed it again… and again. Then you jabbed several other buttons, groaning in frustration when nothing happened and the doors didn’t budge.

“Oh, come on!” You grumbled, smacking the panel repeatedly. “Not now!”

Bucky stood by silently as you shook your head and huffed with annoyance.

“You good?” he asked softly when you’d stopped muttering under your breath.

You shot him a venomous glare. “No, I’m not good. The elevator’s stuck.”

“Yeah,” he nodded slightly. “Looks like it.”

You stared at him furiously. The complete lack of reaction from him, his calm demeanor and acceptance of the situation made your blood boil. “You did this, didn’t you!?” you rounded on him.

Bucky blinked with surprise. “What?” he stuttered.

“You did something.” You cried in an accusatory tone. “You said you didn’t want me to go out, and oh, look— now we’re stuck in this tin box.”

The look of shock on Bucky’s face would have been comical, had you been in the mood to appreciate it. His eyebrows were raised so high, they were hidden in his hairline, his mouth opening and closing in true goldfish manner a few times before he managed to speak. “You think I—?” He huffed out an incredulous laugh. “I swear, I didn’t do anything.”

“Sure.” You folded your arms skeptically. “This is just a total coincidence.”

“Yeah… just a coincidence,” he agreed softly.

The sincerity in his voice ought to have soothed you, but your pent up frustration was reaching boiling point and you had nowhere to direct it. The restlessness you’d been feeling, the anger, the grief— it was all swirling inside you, round and round, winding into a tight coil, just longing for release, for something… someone to lash out at.

And Bucky was the only one there.

“You really can’t help yourself, can you?” you exploded, pacing the two steps of space within the tiny steel box. “Always the protector. Doing your job. Being a hero.”

Bucky didn’t move, his hands stayed by his side, taking the brunt of your frustration. When you stopped for a breath, he offered his opinion. “I just don’t think running around Brooklyn alone at 3 am is a great idea,” he said quietly.

You let out a loud, bitter laugh. “But it’s not a problem when you do, right? Because it’s different for you.”

His jaw tensed, but he didn’t argue.

You scoffed. “Right. Of course it is.”

He watched you, his face impassive, expression completely unreadable. When he did finally speak, his voice was so quiet, you leaned in to hear his words. “I didn’t trap you in here, Prin—Y/N. I wouldn’t do that to you.”

Five seconds ago, his words would have had you incensed. I wouldn’t do that to you. You would have come back with a scathing retort. But his tone made you falter. It was the way he said it— the quiet certainty, the sincerity— it made you wonder if you were overreacting. 

But it was too late, the damage was done. You’d made your accusations and you were too stubborn to take them back. You turned away and crossed your arms like a petulant child. “Whatever,” you grumbled, refusing to meet his gaze.

After a couple of deep, steadying breaths, you pulled out your phone and tapped on the screen. It lit up for a second, in time for the low battery iron to flash angrily at you before the device went completely dark. 

You shook your head incredulously. “Of course,” you muttered under your breath. “This is just perfect.” You shook the device, pressing the power button repeatedly before giving up and shoving it back into your leggings pocket.

You turned to him and held out your hand. “Gimme yours.”

Bucky shook his head. “Didn't have a chance to grab it.”

Your jaw clenched as you turned back to the control panel, pressing your thumb down on the assistance button with more force than necessary. You waited. But there was nothing— no cracking, no static, definitely no annoyed voice on the other end offering aid— just silence. 

You pressed it again. And again.

Still nothing.

A feeling of helplessness was building up inside of you and you hated it. You were desperate to escape the situation you had found yourself in and the only way out was the set of steel doors in front of you. So you did the only thing you could think of, you wedged your fingers into the small gap between them to try and pry them apart. Your muscles strained, but they didn’t so much as budge.

“Dammit!” you hissed, stepping back with a small growl of frustration.

As you took a step back, a wave of weariness overcame you. The whole night, the current situation, your exhaustion and anger and the gnawing ache  of everything you were avoiding was slowly eating away from you. You kept stepping back until you hit the wall, backed into the corner of the elevator, you sank down to the floor, pulling your knees to your chest. You wrapped your arms around them, resting your head against the fluffy sleeves of your hoodie and squeezed your eyes shut.

Bucky didn’t speak. He just sat down on the other side of the elevator, his legs stretched out in front of him, arms resting loosely on his thighs as he watched you carefully. He didn’t push, or pry… he was just there. His solid presence was almost comforting.

The silence between you seemed to stretch out between you, made even louder by the absence of the usual hum of the elevator. Bucky sighed softly, still watching you from across the small space, trying to figure out what to do. His fingers drummed idly against his knee before he finally spoke.

“You okay?”

You shot him a dirty look before responding. “What do you think?”

“I think you’re pissed at me,” he said, quietly.

“Oh, really?” You rolled your eyes. “What gave that away?”

Bucky scratched his beard thoughtfully. He tilted his head to try and catch your eye. “Oh I dunno, maybe the part where you won’t even look at me.”

You let out a bitter laugh. “Like you even care”

“I care,” he answered softly.

“You didn’t care enough to give me the courtesy of respect.”

“Y/N—”

“I lost my whole family because of you,” you spat, your voice shaking with emotion. “Do you even know what that’s like? To lose everyone in your li—”

The words caught in your throat, the weight of them suddenly feeling unbearable. There you were again, putting your foot in your mouth. Because of course he knew. He more than knew.

His expression didn’t change, but you could see the change behind his eyes, the same flash of darkness you’d seen now and again when he spoke of his past.

“I’m sorry,” he said, and this time it was raw, like it cost him something to say.

“It doesn’t change anything.” You looked away with a sharp exhale.

“No,” he admitted quietly. “It never does.”

Silence surrounded you again, but it wasn’t fraught with the same tension as before. You let out a shaky sigh, resting your head back against the cold steel walls.

Then, you looked at him, really looked at him and in a low, almost defeated voice, you asked, “What do you want from me?”

He opened his mouth to answer, but then closed it, like he couldn’t quite put his feelings into words.

“You want me to forgive you?” you asked bitterly. “Is that it? You need that to move on?”

“Y/N—” he said softly, like your name was something fragile in his mouth.

“I forgive you, Bucky,” you said, too quickly, too easily. “You were just doing your job. I understand that.”

“Y/N.”

“You’re free, okay?” you continued, voice tight. “I absolve you from all responsibility— the relationship agreement, all of it. Okay?”

“Y/N—”

“Stop it.” Your voice cracked, thick with unshed tears. “Stop saying my name like it means something. Like we meant something.”

Bucky leaned toward you, his hands curling into fists at his sides like he wanted to reach for you but knew he couldn’t. “It did mean something,” he said, quiet but firm.

Your breath hitched. “Then why—” Your voice cracked completely, the impact and stress of the last four weeks crashing down all at once— the heartbreak, the betrayal, the unbearable ache of losing not just him, but everything you thought you had. “Why?”

You could see his Adam’s apple bob up and down as he swallowed. He looked wrecked, like this was hurting him just as much as it was hurting you. “I had to. You understand that, don’t you?” he pleaded desperately. “I didn’t want to.”

“I understand,” you whispered, tears slipping down your cheeks. “I understand why you did what you had to do.”

Bucky’s brow furrowed, anguish flickering across his face. “Then why? Why won’t you even look at me?”

“Because every time I do, it fucking hurts!”

The words burst out of you and Bucky closed his eyes, as though your words had physically struck him. When he opened them again, there was a glassy film over them, shimmering remorsefully.

“I’m sorry, Y/N,” he murmured. “I’m so sorry.”

“I know, Bucky.” You wiped at your face with your sleeve, sniffling, your voice gentler now. “I know you are.”

Bucky let out a shaky breath, and it felt like he wanted to say more, but there was nothing left for him to explain. Nothing that he could undo to fix what was already broken. Silence fell again, but now the anger you felt wasn’t burning as brightly, the flames were dulled and even though the hurt was still there, it was replaced by exhaustion. You sniffled, dragging a hand down your face, suddenly too tired to keep holding yourself together. You wanted to be anywhere but here.

An involuntary shiver ran through you. One that Bucky noticed. Of course he noticed. His gaze roved over you, concern etched into the creases on his forehead.

“You’re cold,” he murmured.

You didn’t respond. You were shattered, your fury had burned through the remains of your energy, leaving you feeling completely hollowed out. You leaned your head against the wall, your body sluggish and eyelids heavy, but the idea of resting here, beside him, felt unbearable.

Bucky shifted a little closer to you, hesitantly reaching out to you. “Come here… just for a second,” he pleaded.

You flinched, shrinking even further into the corner before he could make contact. “Don’t,” you whimpered, your voice barely audible.

Bucky let out a sharp breath, it whistled through his pursed lips. He should have expected this reaction. Was he really surprised? But that didn’t stop him trying.

Wordlessly, he stood up and turned to the elevator doors, his jaw clenched as he jammed his fingers into the crack between them. You watched as he forced them apart with a low grunt as his muscles flexed beneath his Henley, the veins along his right forearm bulging from the pressure. At first the metal groaned in protest and you thought it wouldn’t budge yet, slowly but surely, the doors gave way to the super soldier’s actions. He didn’t stop until he had pried them open just enough for you to crawl through to the floor beyond.

Bucky looked back at you, tilting his head toward the gap. “Go,” he said, stepping back.

You scrambled across the floor, dropping your legs over the edge, and for a moment you hesitated— a scene from a movie from your teen years flashed through your mind. You shook the image away, gripping the doors of the elevator for support as you dropped down. As soon as you were clear, Bucky hauled himself through the doors and landed on the floor with a quiet grunt. He didn’t say anything, just fell into step beside you as you made your way toward the stairs.

The climb was slow, your body burdened by fatigue, your limbs heavy and every step screamed in reminder of how drained you felt. Bucky stayed close, just one step behind, matching your pace silently.

Neither of you spoke. The only sound now was your footsteps echoing through the stairwell. You didn’t have to turn and look for him, you could feel his presence behind you.

Even though it felt like an eternity, it only took a few minutes for you to reach your floor. You stopped at the end of the hallway. Bucky did the same. And you realized that you couldn’t escape him. He lived right across the hall.

You stopped outside your door. So did he.

Neither of you moved for a moment. Until you turned your head slightly, stealing a glance out of the corner of your eye. He was already looking at you, his hands clenched and held stiffly at his sides, like he was trying to hold back… like he wanted to reach out… like he wanted something more.

You turned back to your door, shoving your key into the lock and turning until it clicked open.

“Y/N…” Bucky’s voice called softly behind you.

But you couldn’t do this. Not now. You shook your head and without another word, you opened the door and stepped inside, closing it firmly behind you. With a shaky sigh, you leaned your back against the door, taking a second to bite back a fresh wave of tears, before forcing yourself to walk away.

And on the other side, Bucky stood there for a long time, staring at your door like it might open again. That maybe, just maybe, you would change your mind. He reached out his hand toward the door for just a second before finally turning away.

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[no-not-without-you-blog]

Clementine

Summary : Your mother wants you to marry a proper man. Too bad you fell in love with a bull rider instead.

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

Warnings/tags : Rodeo au. Fluff, angst, sex scene (not too graphic), emotionally abusive dynamic at the start (your parents). Cusing, threat, forbidden love, sneaking around, angst with a happy ending! Set in the late 1800s. You and Bucky eventually become parents. The fanfic is named after a horse in the story.

Requested by : anon (based on this request)

Word count : 11k

Note : I won't be active tomorrow, or Thursday since I’m seeing Thunderbolts on Thursday night and avoiding spoilers! So enjoy!

The evening light slanted across the fields, washing your family estate in golden glow. The house stood proud and familiar, wrapped in ivy. The air smelled of saddle leather and sweet hay, of fresh bread cooling on the windowsill, and the distant tang of woodsmoke from the kitchen hearth.

You watched from the front steps, apron still tied around your waist, as Bucky lifted Rebecca high into the air, her small boots kicking with laughter.

"Hold on tight, sweetheart," he said, setting her astride her pony, Daisy. "You remember what I told you? Sit straight. Reins loose in your fingers, not strangled like you're wranglin' a cat."

"I remember, Pa!" Becca exclaimed, pushing her messy brown hair out of her eyes. She adjusted her seat proudly, her little boots barely brushing the stirrups.

Rebecca was eight now — bright as the sun, stubborn as a mule, and sweeter than wild honey. She had learned to read fluently at six, and had once — memorably — corrected the local judge on a misquoted constitution.

She was everything good in the world.

And Bucky — God, Bucky had taken to fatherhood like a moth to a flame.

The days of bull riding were long behind him now. Five years ago, when Becca was too young to remember anything, he had a fall that nearly cost him more than he was willing to pay, so he had hung up his spurs for good.

These days, he owned the rodeo grounds outright. Sam and Steve ran it— kept it alive, loud, dragging in new talent and bigger crowds every summer— but Bucky stayed here, where his heart lived. 

Tonight, the three of you sat around the long oak table after you’d spent the whole day tending to your horse, Clementine, brushing her down. She was ancient now, gray-faced and hollow-hipped, her once strong legs struggling just walking across the paddock. She still nickered when she saw you. Still nudged your shoulder like she remembered the secrets you'd whispered to her.

But tonight... tonight, her eyes looked dim. Her breath was shallow. She hadn’t touched the grain.

You didn’t know if she’d see morning.

To get some momentary relief, you called for dinner, where you served up hot stew, steam rising with the scent of rosemary and garlic. Bucky poured the water, his hand brushing yours as he passed the pitcher, a touch that after all these years still made your stomach flip.

Rebecca, her face smudged with flour from helping you in the kitchen, was unusually quiet, studying Bucky with a thoughtful look.

You caught that gleam in her eyes immediately— that look that usually meant mischief, or a very dangerous question.

Sure enough, halfway through her second helping of stew, she set her spoon down with great ceremony, folded her hands in her lap, and asked, "Pa, were you really a bull rider?"

You nearly dropped your spoon.

Bucky blinked, caught mid-sip of water. He coughed once, setting the cup down.

"And how," you said with a smile you couldn’t help, "did you hear about that?"

Rebecca's face broke into a triumphant grin. "Uncle Sam and Uncle Steve gave me some old newspapers this morning!” she said excitedly. "And you were there, Pa! There was a picture of you ridin' a bull! And your name was real big on the page!"

You bit your lip to hold in a laugh.

Bucky ran a hand through his hair, sighing. He nervously fidgeted with his wedding ring.

"Traitors," he muttered under his breath. "Both of 'em."

Becca leaned forward eagerly, chin in her hands. "Was it true?" she asked. "Were you the best?"

Bucky smiled then — a little sheepish, a little proud. "Well," he started, "depends on who you ask."

"You won the Deadwood Grand Rodeo three years in a row, Pa!" Becca said indignantly. "The paper said so!"

You laughed then, reaching across the table to squeeze your husband’s hand. "He was the best," you said softly. "No matter who you ask."

Bucky turned his hand over, intertwining his fingers through yours, his thumb brushed over your knuckles.

Rebecca watched this little moment with a wide, solemn gaze. 

"You don't do it anymore," she said, an observation that wasn’t accusing, just curious. 

"No, sweetheart," he said gently. "Some things are more important."

"Like what?"

He smiled, that sweet smile that only the two of you ever got to see. "Like stayin' alive long enough to watch you grow up," he said. "Like takin' care of your Ma and this place."

He squeezed your hand again.

Becca beamed, clearly satisfied.

You stood to clear the plates, but Bucky caught your wrist as you passed, pulling you down into his lap with a playful chuckle. You squealed, laughing as he buried his face against your neck, his scruff rough and familiar against your skin.

"Pa!" Rebecca groaned, dramatically covering her eyes. "That's gross!"

"You'll think it's sweet someday," you teased, pressing a kiss to Bucky’s temple. Bucky looked up at you, those blue eyes bright, boyish, and adoring.

But it hadn’t always been this easy, has it?

—

Ten years ago…

You weren't supposed to be there.

Girls like you — polished, raised in grand halls, a daughter of fortune made in the earliest days of the gold rush — weren't supposed to hang around dusty rodeo grounds, breathing in sweat and whiskey fumes. But you were sick of being kept under lock and key, and you were curious.  

So you tugged on your stiff new boots, tried to look like you belonged, and wandered in.

That's when you saw him.

Bucky Barnes.

The name was muttered around the corral like a prayer. Supposedly, he was a young bull rider with a crooked smile and sin in his gorgeous blue eyes. He sat atop the meanest bull like he was born in the saddle, one hand in the air like he could touch the damn heavens if he wanted.

You swore you stopped breathing.

The bell rang, the gate flew open, and Bucky rode. He was wild and perfect and feral, hips grinding with the bull’s buck like the filthiest kind of dance. You gripped the fence rail so tight your knuckles went white.

His shirt clung to every inch of him, soaked through with sweat. His jawline was as sharp as the knife you helped sharpen this morning, hair just long enough to curl at the nape of his neck. His thighs— good god, those thighs gripped the beast like he was daring it to throw him.

You couldn't look away.

He stayed on longer than anyone else that day, finally jumping down and landing hard, grinning as the crowd whooped and cheered. 

Dust clung to him, blood dripped from a split lip, and he looked beautiful.

And then he looked… right at you.

Like he knew you weren’t supposed to be here. Like he could smell the clean linen and silk underneath the newly acquired grime on your dress, like he could see the way you tried to hide your fancy breeding under a plain dress. Like he could feel the way your whole body flushed hot just watching him.

He walked over and stopped too close — way too close — so you could smell leather, sweat, and the sweet bite of tobacco clinging to him.

"You ain't from 'round here, are you, sweetheart?" he asked, tone tough enough to scrape down your spine.

You swallowed hard, tried to summon some pride. "Maybe not," you said, forcing yourself to lift your chin. "Maybe I'm looking for something different."

He smiled, eyes trailing down your body like he had all the time in the world to savor you. 

You swore you felt his gaze like a hand, teasing places no decent man should've been looking at in public.

"Well," he said, "you found it."

God, you wanted to ruin yourself for him.

Instead, you let him tip his hat back, revealing those messy dark curls, and he offered his hand. They were big and rough and calloused from a life of hard work.

You put your soft, spoiled hand in his.

"Name's James Barnes," he said, voice smaller now, almost intimate, “But people call me Bucky.”

You told him yours, and he repeated it like a vow.

And Bucky Barnes didn’t look anything like the gentlemen your parents paraded in front of you back home — the senators, the young bankers, the heirs to fortunes carved out of railroads and cotton soaked with blood. Those men were polished, their smiles practiced, their hands too soft.

Bucky was rough around the edges, a devil’s grin stitched across his mouth — but he treated you more like a gentleman than those rich men could ever. 

That night, you followed him around as he sat you up on the splintered bar counter with a laugh and let you sip from his bottle, whiskey burning down your throat and making you shiver. You coughed, and he grinned real soft, like he thought you were the prettiest thing he'd ever seen.

"You'll get used to it," he said, wiping a thumb across the corner of your mouth where the whiskey had caught.

You kept drinking — sipping too fast, too eager, giddy on the first taste of freedom you’ve ever had — until Bucky gently slid the bottle away from your hand.

"Easy, sweetheart," he laughed patiently. "A little’s fun. Too much’s trouble."

You pouted, playful and tipsy, but he just chuckled and took your hand again, weaving your fingers through his.

"C'mon," he said, tugging you off the bar, "lemme show you somethin' better."

He led you out behind the stables, away from the smoke and noise of the betting crowd. 

That night, he told you he had a couple of horses under his care. He introduced you to each of them by name, all of them calm and patient under your clumsy touch.

Your favorite was the golden mare with eyes like melted amber and a coat that shimmered like wheat at the end of summer. “That one there’s Clementine,” Bucky had said, rubbing under her jaw with affection. “She was caged her entire life before she came to me last year.”

You fed her an apple swiped from the kitchen, giggling when her soft lips tickled your palm.

You were so happy you forgot how far you were from the world you’d come from — the grand halls and new-money chandeliers, the endless etiquette lessons and carefully rehearsed smiles. Of knowing when to sit, when to speak, when to smile just enough to be polite but never too much to be scandalous.

And Clementine — well, you could’ve sworn she saw straight through to your heart. Maybe that’s why she let you touch her. Maybe she recognized a girl who, like her, was learning the meaning of freedom the first time.

“Clementine likes you,” Bucky said. 

You smiled, brushing her mane back from her eyes. “I like her too.”

—

Later that night — drunk on whiskey and wonder — you turned to him, heart hammering reckless in your chest, and said the first wild thing that came to mind.

"Bucky," you slurred slightly, stumbling closer, "I want you to fuck me... right here. On the hay."

You gestured dramatically at the loose piles of straw stacked along the stable wall, like it was a throne and you were offering yourself up. Your cheeks were flushed, your eyes bright and drowsy.

For a long moment, he just looked at you, then he shook his head slowly and huffed a breath like it physically hurt to say it.

"Sweetheart,” he said, wrecked and tender all at once, "you're in no condition to fuck anybody tonight."

Before you could argue, before you could even wilt with shame, he scooped you up, lifting you like you weighed nothing, cradling you against his chest.

You mumbled something — maybe a protest about how you were completely sober, maybe a plea — into his shoulder, but he only pressed a kiss to your temple. 

He carried you to his quarters tucked behind the stables — a little room with nothing but a cot, an armchair, and a trunk. 

He laid you down on his narrow bed gently, tucking a rough wool blanket up to your chin. His hands were gentle, tugging off your boots, smoothing your hair back from your flushed face.

You grabbed his wrist before he could move away.

"Stay," you whispered.

He smiled, sad and sweet, and brushed his knuckles down your cheek.

"I’m not far, sugar," he said.

True to his word, he didn’t leave. But he didn’t climb into the bed either.

Instead, Bucky grabbed an old blanket and made himself a place on his armchair just a few feet away. You watched him settle in, curling one arm behind his head, the other resting across his stomach.

"Sleep, darlin’," he said, his voice the last thing you heard before the world blurred and spun into dreams. “Ain't gonna let nothin' happen to you."

– 

You kept coming back. How could you not?

Bucky was more than a respectable man, even if your parents wouldn’t agree. Half the 50-year old men your ma wanted you to marry would take advantage of a drunk 20-something year old they just met, especially if she was begging for something she didn’t not truly understand.

Bucky didn’t. He took care of you. 

So yes. You went back. 

At first, you told yourself it was just curiosity. Just a taste of freedom you could put away once you'd had your fill.

But that was a lie. 

You knew it the moment you slipped into those stiff boots again, dust clinging to your hem as you slipped through the fence, searching the rodeo grounds for one face and one face only.

Bucky Barnes.

God, you loved watching him.

Every week, when he wasn’t away for some national competition, he was there — sinfully beautiful atop those beasts that tried and failed to throw him. His smile was always wicked every time he landed on his feet, bathing at the adoring roar of the crowd.

And after, he'd find you.

Sometimes he'd sneak you sips of his whiskey behind the stables; other times he just leaned on the fence post, arms crossed with that smirk tugging at his mouth as you teased him.

He'd listen when you ranted about the suffocating life waiting back home — the endless parade of polished men, the life you'd never asked for. And you listened when he grumbled about busted saddles and aching bones and dreams of stability he wouldn’t say too loudly for fear they'd vanish. You listened when he told you about leaving home too young, about nights he'd slept under the stars with nothing but a beat-up hat for a pillow.

You listened when he said you made all the rough years feel worth it somehow.

Because lord, what a man.

Strong and rough and real in a way none of those cotton-suited boys hoping to court you could ever hope to be.

That night, you and Bucky were sitting at one of the tables at the bar after the venue cleared out.

That was when you started complaining about the men who wanted to court you, and father’s endless parade of “eligible gentlemen.” They were all bankers, lawyers, soft-handed men who’d never lifted anything heavier than a ledger in their lives.

Not a single one with dust on their boots. Not a single one knew the sting of a hard day's labour. Not a single one who could make your heart beat like Bucky Barnes did.

“Ma introduced me to two more bankers during lunch today,” you grumbled, fumbling with your glass of whiskey. "Thinks if she marries me off quick enough, I won't notice I'm being sold like a bag of goods."

Bucky chuckled low in his throat, but there was an edge to it. He stood, boots scuffing the dirt. "Ain't a man alive worth trading you for a stack of coins," he said roughly.

"I don’t want any of them," you said, your voice almost breaking.

Bucky looked at you the way no one else ever did. Like he saw past the corset and the frills and the obedient smile you wore for your family’s sake. And maybe you were a little foolish — or maybe you just couldn't bear it another second — but you stood up onto your toes and kissed him.

It wasn’t graceful. You were too eager, your hands fisting in the front of his shirt, your mouth clumsy against his. But Bucky caught you, arms wrapping around you like a shield, and kissed you back.

But then he pulled away — just enough to press his forehead to yours. "Darlin’..." he rasped, "You don’t even know what you do to me."

You whimpered, and tried to pull him back down, tried to kiss that stubborn, sweet mouth again, desperate to feel something that was just yours, not bought or bartered like everything else in your life. But Bucky only chuckled — a little sad, a little fond — and caught your wrists easily with one hand.

"I know what I’m doing," you insisted— or tried to, but it came out more like a plea.

"Don't you lie to me, sweetheart," he tssked "You're a good girl. Raised to be somebody’s lady. You think you're ready to lay down in the dirt with a man like me?"

"I don’t care about that," you whispered.

"But I do," he growled. He shook his head slowly, like he hated every word he was about to say. “You ever even been touched like that before?"

You shook your head, tears pricking hot at your lashes.

"Yeah," he said softly. "That's what I thought."

Bucky leaned in then, pressing his forehead to yours again.

"When I take you, darlin’," he said, voice dropping to a rasp that made you shiver, "ain't gonna be 'cause you’re drunk. Ain't gonna be 'cause you’re angry at your daddy, or scared of going back to a life you don’t want."

He kissed your forehead, your cheeks, the tip of your nose, then softly on your lips.

"When you come to my bed," he whispered, "it's gonna be ‘cause you’re sure you want it."

You whimpered, but nodded.

And Bucky — a man your ma would spit to see you love — held you tighter, like he could shield you from the whole cruel world, and whispered, “Soon, darlin’,” he said, voice breaking on the words like it hurt him to say it. "But for now, you happy just kissin’ me?”

You blinked up at him, throat tight, and nodded. 

That was the start of it. 

That was the beginning of when you became his. 

—

One night, even, when he got a clearer look at the way some of the men in the crowd were eyeing and touching you in the crowd when you said no, he stood up for you. 

You’d been leaning against the fence, when one man wrapped an arm around your waist under the guise of steadying himself, and another was tossing down silver coins and winking at you.

Bucky’s fists clenched. Without a word, he walked over to the men, boots kicking up dust. He leaned in close—and tossed their coins back onto the table. “Keep your hands—and your money—to yourselves,” he said, growling. The men stammered apologies and backed away. Bucky swept a protective arm around you and whispered, “You alright?” 

Though shaken, you nodded. 

Then he led you through the gates to where his friends were. Sam, the bartender with kind eyes, waved you over to a rickety stool by the saloon door. Steve, the smiling bouncer, handed you a glass of lemonade—no whiskey tonight. Bucky clapped a hand on Steve’s shoulder and grinned at you.

“Folks, this is my girl,” he announced, loud enough that half the corral turned to look. Your face was warm when he referred to you as his girl. 

“Sam, Steve—show her around. Take care of her, yeah? But touch her—and you’re dead.”

Sam tipped his hat. “You got it, Buck.”

Steve gave you a friendly wink. “Don’t worry, Miss—you’re in good hands.”

You slipped into the circle of Bucky’s friends, safe in the knowledge that wherever he was—whether perched atop a bucking bull or standing guard by your side—nothing was going to lay a hand on you unless you gave the word.

—

Still, you always preferred being with Bucky alone. 

He was kind, sweet, and he made you laugh until your sides hurt. He made you feel seen. He made you feel alive.

And it got harder and harder to pretend you didn’t ache for him every time he looked at you like you hung the stars.

So one night, after a long day, you broke.

That night, the whole damn town had turned out for the bull ride — the last of the season, and Bucky had drawn the meanest beast in the pen.

You watched, heart in your throat, as he fought and won — a wicked grin splitting his face as he threw his arm in the air, daring the crowd to scream louder.

You were waiting by the fence when he found you afterward.

You didn’t even think. You launched yourself at him — arms flung around his neck, mouth crashing into his.

Bucky caught you, laughing and kissing you back hard enough to make you dizzy before he pulled away.

"What’s goin’ on with you?” he teased, that wicked smirk tugging at his mouth. 

You pouted, thumping your fists lightly against his chest. "Bucky," you whined, dragging out his name. "I waited long enough. I want you."

His smile faltered — just for a second.

"I’m sure," you whispered before he could ask, hands fisting in his damp shirt. "I promise."

You’re sure. The confession echoed in his ears. You weren’t drunk, you weren't complaining about a man you ma wanted you to marry.

He cursed under his breath, and before you could blink, he hauled you toward his quarters, shouldering the door open so hard it banged against the wall.

You barely had time to suck in a breath before he had you pinned against the door, big hands spanning your waist, mouth grazing your ear.

"Naughty girl," he murmured, wrecked against your skin. "Wantin' trouble."

You could feel him, pressed hard against you. He nuzzled your temple, breathing you in deep, like he was still fighting himself, still trying to hang on to some last shred of decency.

"What would your daddy think," he rasped, voice cracking on the words, "his pretty little girl, beggin' to get ruined by a man like me?"

You tilted your head back, found his eyes — wild and desperate and so goddamn careful — and you smiled.

"You could never ruin me," you whispered.

Bucky groaned like you’d shot him. In one motion, he scooped you up, carried you a few steps to the cot, and laid you down softly— but the look in his eyes promised no gentleness once you said the word.

He hovered over you, breathing hard, his hand brushing over your cheek, your throat, your chest.

"This is your chance, darlin'," he said, “Tell me no and I'll walk right outta here."

You answered by threading your fingers into his hair and dragging him down into a kiss that left no room for doubt.

Bucky broke. A choked noise ripped from him as he pressed into you, muttering against your mouth.

"Gonna take my time with you," he promised, hands sliding under your skirts, rough palms mapping every inch of skin he could find. "Make you feel real good, baby."

And he did.

It was all sweet at first — kisses pressed to your throat, your chest, your stomach — whispering things you’d never been called before: pretty girl, good girl, mine, mine, mine.

Until the whole world narrowed to the heat of his mouth, the weight of his body, the sound of your name breaking from his lips like a prayer he didn’t deserve to say.

And when he finally took you— he cursed again, forehead dropping to your shoulder. "God, darlin'," he rasped, voice breaking apart. "You're so good... so good for me..."

You clung to him, and knew you’d never belong anywhere else again but right here, in the arms of the man they said would ruin you.

Because you didn't care about dirt on your dress, or propriety, or your father’s fortune. You only cared about him.

Bucky. Bucky. Bucky.

And later — much later — when you lay tangled up with him, your fancy world forgotten, Bucky nuzzled your hair and whispered, "You're mine now, darlin'."

—

When you woke up, you didn’t know where you were.

You just felt a strong, steady heartbeat under your cheek and smelled leather and sweat and oak.

Oh, right.

Bucky.

You stirred, stretching like a cat, and his arms tightening around you instinctively, pulling you closer, pressing a sleepy kiss into your hair.

"Mornin'," he murmured, voice still rough with sleep.

You tipped your head back to look at him. His hair was a mess, and his eyes were heavy-lidded, so blue it made your heart beat faster.

"You're still here," you whispered, almost in disbelief. You knew he was an early riser. Perhaps you expected him to already be feeding the horses by now. 

He huffed a lazy laugh, brushing the pad of his thumb across your cheekbone. "Ain’t no way I was lettin' you wake up alone after last night, sweetheart."

Your cheeks burned, ducking your head, suddenly shy.

Bucky’s knuckles dragged gently along your jaw, tilting your chin up so he could see you.

"You ain't regrettin' it, are ya?" he asked, a flicker of worry across his face.

You shook your head immediately, pressing your hand to his chest, right over his heart.

"No," you said fiercely. "Never."

His devastating smile bloomed across his face, and he pulled you in for a kiss, his mouth moving over yours like he had nowhere better to be.

You melted into him, sighing happily, tangling your fingers in his hair.

He kissed you again and again, slow little pecks, laughing into your mouth when you wriggled closer and whined for more.

"Greedy thing," he teased, nipping at your bottom lip. "Didn't get enough last night?"

You shrugged, shameless.

Bucky groaned softly, rolling you onto your back so he could hover over you, bracing himself on his forearms. His nose bumped against yours, and you giggled, threading your hands up under his worn old shirt to feel the planes of his back.

"You’re somethin’ else, you know that?" he said, voice full of wonder. "Could’ve had any rich boy you wanted, and here you are...with me."

You smiled up at him. "I don't want them," you said simply. "I want you."

Bucky ducked his head like he was trying to hide the way his ears turned pink, but you caught it anyway and kissed his temple, smiling into his hair.

He held you there for a long time, just breathing you in as his hands gently skimmed up and down your sides.

Outside, the rodeo grounds were coming alive — you could hear the murmur of voices, the clatter of hooves, the far-off ring of a bell — but inside this little room, time stretched out just for you. 

"Stay," Bucky whispered against your throat, voice so raw you thought you might cry. "Stay a little longer. Stay as long as you want."

But reality was already creeping back in around the edges.

"I can't," you whispered, barely loud enough for him to hear. You reached up, brushing your fingers through his hair. "My ma’s gonna start wonderin’ why I haven’t come outta my room yet," you said, a sad smile tugging at your lips. "And... I need to get back before she finds out I wasn’t even in it last night."

He snorted, then groaned and dropped his face into the crook of your neck, muttering something that sounded suspiciously like “that’s what’cha get when you go lookin’ for trouble.”

You sighed again. “I really gotta go.”

“I know,” he said, nudging his nose against yours.

Sliding off the bed, you walked across the worn wooden floor to where your dress was crumpled on the back of his armchair — the very same one Bucky had tossed it onto with a smug grin last night. You held it up—  The pale yellow fabric was hopelessly wrinkled.

“This was freshly ironed,” you grumbled.

Bucky was lying on his stomach now, chin propped on his arms, admiring the view. “It looked better on my floor.”

You stepped into your undergarments, doing a little hop to get them over your hips. “This is not graceful,”

Bucky smirked. “You’re tellin’ me. I’ve seen smoother rodeo dismounts.”

“Oh, hush.” You threw your corset at him, which he caught mid-air with one hand like a damn show-off.

“Keepin’ this,” he declared, tucking it under his pillow.

You gaped at him. “You are not—Bucky!”

He just winked.

You rolled your eyes but let him, now stepping into the dress. “You gonna help me with this zipper or just watch me wiggle around like a fish on a hook?”

He was already up and behind you before you finished the sentence, hands gathering your hair and brushing it over one shoulder. His fingers skimmed down your spine as he slowly tugged the zipper up, goosebumps blooming in his wake.

“There,” he said against your ear. “Proper lady again.”

“Barely,” You turned and poked his chest. “I look like I’ve just been dragged through a haystack.”

“You look like you had a real good night,” Bucky corrected, wrapping his arms around your waist. “Which, you did.”

You leaned into him for a moment, sighing. “Yeah, but now I gotta face my ma looking like a mess and pretend I spent the night doin’... I dunno, Bible study.”

Bucky buried his face in your neck, shoulders shaking with laughter. “You? Quotin’ scripture? I’d pay good money to see that.”

You turned in his arms, booping him on the nose. “I’m very pious, thank you.”

“Sure you are, sweetheart.” He kissed you once before his voice became a little more reluctant. “C’mon. I’ll walk you out.”

You grabbed your boots, hopping on one foot, then the other to get them on. Bucky handed you your cardigan, helping you with the sleeves.

As you reached the gates, he leaned against the frame, squinting into the sunlight. “See you tonight?”

You looked back at him and gave him a sweet smile that made his heart kick in his chest. “Count on it.”

—

The next couple of months blurred into sweet and secret escapades.

You and Bucky couldn't seem to stay away from each other — and Lord, you didn't even try. You met behind barns, slipped into quiet corners at rodeos, and kissed under the wide open stars like a couple of kids with too much heart and not enough sense.

And sometimes, when you couldn’t sneak away, you snuck him into the big house your family built high on a hill nearly thirty years ago, into your gilded little bedroom where no man like Bucky Barnes was ever supposed to step foot.

He'd crawl in through your window after midnight, smelling like leather and hay.

You'd yank him inside and crash into each other, laughing breathlessly, shushing each other even as your kisses grew messy and heated.

One night, after you'd tumbled onto your plush bed in a tangle of limbs and giggles, he finally took the time to slow down.

Bucky laid back against your ridiculous mountain of pillows, looking around your room with a low whistle — taking in all the silk curtains and fancy oil paintings and furniture polished so clean it practically gleamed.

"You really ain't like me," he said, but it wasn’t bitter — he was just amazed, like he couldn’t believe you wanted him anyway. You curled up next to him, chin resting on his chest, tracing the edge of his chin with your fingertip.

"Doesn't matter," you said quietly. "I love you."

Oh.

You felt the way he stiffened, the way his heart hammered under your cheek.

Then, after a heartbeat, he tipped your chin up, blue eyes burning into yours.

"I love you too, darlin'," he said, voice rough like gravel and sweet like honey all at once. "Been tryin' not to say it 'cause it scares the hell outta me. But I do. I love you so damn much."

You kissed him then, like you had all the time in the world to say it a thousand different ways.

When you finally broke apart, Bucky sat up a little, looking around again, and that was when he mentioned something he’d been wondering about for a while. 

"You got a stable out there," he said, nodding toward your window. "How come you ain't ridin'?"

"My pa..." you said, voice tight. "He said riding’s for men. That a lady’s place is in the house, hosting teas and cookin’ food, not getting dirt on her skirts."

You felt Bucky tense up in your arms.

He cupped your face in his hands, thumbing away the little frown you hadn't even realized you were making.

"That's bullshit," he said simply.

You smiled, and shrugged.

"Always wanted to ride," you said, looking out the window into the dark. "Just never been allowed."

Bucky’s mouth curved into that wicked smile you loved so much.

He sat up a bit more. "Well," he drawled, "you could always ride a buckin' bull tonight." He patted his lap, raising an eyebrow in challenge.

It took you a second to catch up — and when you did, you giggled. Your face went hot, but you loved it — you loved him — this wonderful man who made you feel brave and wild and wanted.

"You’re awful," you scolded, pretending to swat at him. But he just grabbed your wrist and pulled you onto his lap.

"Nah, sugar," he murmured against your ear, rocking his hips up into yours, making you gasp. "I'm the best damn ride you'll ever have."

And oh, how right he was.

You rode him that night, surrounded by all the pretty things that were supposed to keep you proper and untouched.

You rode him with your skirt pushed up around your hips, Bucky's big hands guiding you, his mouth on your throat, praising you in that filthy voice that made your knees go weak.

You rode him until you were both gasping and clinging to each other, until you collapsed together in a heap of sweat and kisses and whispered promises.

And afterward, when you were curled up in his arms, Bucky kissed your forehead and said,

"Next time, we're gettin' you on a real horse, darlin'."

—

It happened a few nights later, when the moon was high and full and the town had finally gone quiet.

You slipped out of your window — boots in one hand, heart hammering — and Bucky was waiting for you, perched on the fence of the rodeo grounds. 

He had two horses saddled and ready: Clementine for you, and his own rough old gelding for himself.

"Ready for your first real ride, darlin’?" he asked. 

You nodded, breathless, excitement fizzing in your veins.

Bucky led you into the ring, a steady hand on Clementine’s reins, murmuring to her like he was speaking to an old friend. The golden mare huffed, flicking her ears back toward him, then toward you, like she was sizing you up.

“She’s in a good mood today,” Bucky said.

“Me too,” you beamed, reaching out slowly, palm open. Clementine sniffed your hand, then nudged her velvet-soft nose into your fingers like she’d been waiting for you all along.

Getting on her back, though, was another story.

Your skirts tangled, and nerves had your hands shaking but Bucky just laughed quietly and stepped in without a word, hands firm at your waist. He lifted you like it was nothing, settling you into the saddle with ease.

"There you go," he said, pride in his voice. "You're a natural already."

You beamed as Bucky mounted up beside you. 

"Alright," he said, voice of all business now, though his eyes were still fond. "First thing’s first. You trust her, she’ll trust you. Keep your back straight, heels down. Real gentle with the reins — don't yank 'em like you're angry. She's smarter than most people I know."

You listened carefully, doing your best to mirror him, biting your lip in concentration.

Every time he smiled at you, or rode a little closer to adjust your hands or posture, you thought you might just fall off from swooning.

You circled the arena together, carefully at first, and every time you did something right, Bucky would beam at you like you’d hung the damn moon.

"That's my girl," he'd say, and your heart would just melt.

Little by little, you got braver — loosening your grip, trusting Clementine to move with you.

The cool night air drifted through your hair, carrying your laughter and Bucky's whoops of encouragement.

After a while, you pulled up, exhilarated beyond words. You looked over at Bucky, and he looked back at you proudly.

"You're a helluva lot better than you think, darlin'," he said, tipping his hat back to get a better look at you. 

You giggled breathlessly. "You make it look easy," you said, nudging Clementine closer so your knees brushed his.

And before you could squeal, he reached out and hauled you off your saddle and right onto his lap, astride his horse with him.

You laughed, clinging to his shoulders, and he just held you there, his chest shaking with laughter.

"You can't just steal me like that!" you scolded playfully, smacking his arm.

Bucky leaned in, nose brushing yours. "Sure I can," he teased. "You're mine, ain't ya?"

You swallowed hard, heart flipping in your chest.

"Yeah," you whispered, letting him nuzzle your neck. "I'm yours."

—

But you had not been careful enough.

It began with the way your mother watched you, always from the corner of her eye, as if she suspected some movement she could not quite catch. One evening, after the dishes had been cleared, she spoke up.

"You've been going up to your room awfully early," she said, her voice deceptively chirpy. "And going out later. It's not proper, you know."

You folded your hands neatly in your lap and gave her your most practiced smile. "I've only been visiting the library, ma. Surely even you would not fault me for wanting an education."

She made a sound — not quite a laugh — and turned her attention back to her embroidery hoop, though the thread trembled slightly in her hands. "Whatever you call it.”

She didn't know the half of it, and she wouldn’t — not with the maid you had seen to, a few crumpled bills exchanged for discretion, dirty skirts hidden at the bottom of the laundry basket like so many other small betrayals. Gold bought loyalty easily enough in this town, where everyone was either scrambling to climb higher or desperate not to fall lower.

It might have ended there, but your mother never could leave well enough alone. As you were rising to leave, she laid her embroidery aside with a sigh.

"We need to speak seriously," she said. "You're not getting any younger, and we can’t keep puttin’ this off."

You said nothing. You had heard this before, and you would hear it again, you were sure.

"I heard word from Senator Abernathy," she continued. "He's serious. He intends to offer for you. His fortune is established — his land claims could support a family for generations." She gave a satisfied nod, as though the matter were already decided, as though your life were a ledger she was balancing.

You stared at her for a moment, then glanced down at the book you still held. "Senator Abernathy is nearly thirty years my senior, Ma," you said.

"And what of it?" she snapped, sharper now. "A younger man may be handsome, but an older man is settled. Reliable. That is what matters."

You closed your book. "Respectable?" you echoed, smiling thinly. "He has one foot in the grave. Do you want a wedding or a funeral, ma?"

Your mother’s mouth tightened until it nearly disappeared altogether.

"You can’t afford to be so choosy," she said, her voice dropping to a hiss. "You have had other proposals and turned them all away. Do you want to die a spinster in this house, living off what your father left you, until the gold runs dry?"

You rose then, smoothing your skirt — clean tonight, but only because you had learned to plan ahead. "I intend," you said calmly, "to marry a man who sees me as more than an asset to be traded."

You walked out and left her sitting by the fire, to prepare to welcome your lover tonight.

—

The hour had just slipped past midnight.

You sat on the windowsill, your bare feet tucked beneath your nightgown, the curtains drawn aside just enough to let the moonlight spill in. The garden beyond the glass was a silvered, secret world. 

Then, finally, you heard a soft scrape against the bricks below.

You leaned out, and there he was: Bucky Barnes, hat in one hand, the other reaching up toward your window, boots soundless on the gravel.

He looked up and caught your eyes. 

You slipped the window open farther. "You’re late," you whispered, voice barely a breath.

"Had to make sure nobody saw me," he said. 

Bucky set his hat between his teeth, gripped the edge of the windowsill, and hoisted himself up with a strength that made your insides knot. You scrambled back, giggling under your breath, as he swung his legs over the sill and dropped into your room.

His dark hair was tousled, shirt open at the throat, strong arms dusted with old scars and new bruises. His eyes raked over you, lingering at the way your nightgown clung to your form, the way the pale linen outlined every forbidden curve.

He was on you in second, hands finding your waist, pulling you flush against him. His head dipped, his nose brushing your temple, his breath hot against your skin.

"I missed you," he confessed. He’d been on the road to Deadwood in the last two weeks— and even though he’d won, two weeks without you was still a price too much to bear.

"I know," you breathed. "Me too."

His mouth found yours then — not a chaste kiss, but hungry. His hands roamed your sides, your back. You clutched at his shirt, dragging him closer, drinking him in like a woman starved.

Bucky walked you toward your bed without breaking the kiss, until the backs of your knees hit the mattress and you sank down with a gasp.

He knelt before you like a man before an altar, his hands trailing reverently up your bare calves, lifting the hem of your nightgown inch by agonizing inch. His mouth pressed to your knee, your thigh, each kiss branding you.

"Tell me to stop," he whispered against your skin. He always made sure every time. Every. Time. "I will. Say the word, darlin'."

You shook your head, tears stinging the corners of your eyes from wanting. "Don't you dare."

He smiled and tilted up to kiss you again, deeper this time, more desperate.

And that's when the door creaked open. Neither of you realized until it was too late.

Not until you heard your mother's shrill and furious voice.

"What in god’s name is this?!" she shrieked.

You froze, horror rooting you in place. Bucky whipped around, putting himself between you and your mother, as if to shield you.

Your mother walked in, her candle dripping wax onto the carpet.

"You whore," she spat at you, her voice shaking. "You filthy little whore! Bringing...bringing that into this house?"

She pointed at Bucky, hand trembling.

You could hardly bear to look at him, standing there shirt half-open, hair messy, cheeks flushed from more than just exertion.

Your mother's voice rose, shouting louder, "You think you can drag some gutter-born into this family? Into this name?"

Bucky flinched visibly at that, fists clenching at his sides.

That's when you heard the pounding of boots up the hall— you father's roar echoing up the stairs.

Your father stormed into the room, all fury and righteous indignation, and when he saw Bucky and put two and two together, he seized him by the collar and dragged him toward the door.

You reached out instinctively, "Pa, please—!" but your mother grabbed you by the wrist, yanking you back.

"You stay," she hissed, shaking you hard enough to rattle your teeth. 

You heard the sounds of the struggle echoing down the grand staircase — the thud of Bucky's boots against wood, the rasp of your father's labored breathing, the slam of the heavy front door thrown open to the night.

You pressed a fist to your mouth to stifle your sobs and crept to the top of the stairs.

Outside, your father shoved Bucky hard into the courtyard gravel. Bucky could defend himself, but he chose not to, for fear of hurting him.

"You'll leave this town before sunrise, boy," your father spat. "Or you'll leave it in a coffin, do you hear me?"

Bucky pushed himself up slowly, blood running from his arm. 

As your father continued to rant, a sudden, pained sound echoes the night. It was a desperate, broken whinny from the stables.

"Sir," Bucky cut your father off, ignoring the blood running down his arm, "your mare — she's in trouble."

Your father blinked at him, disoriented.

They heard another frantic whinny.

Without waiting for permission, Bucky walked across the courtyard toward the stables, your father followed, cursing under his breath.

You hesitated only a moment before slipping down the stairs and out the door, staying hidden in the shadows.

You found a crack in the stable door and pressed your eye to it.

Inside, by the flickering light of a single lantern, you saw Bucky moving, soothing your father's prized mare, who danced and stumbled, favoring her left foreleg.

"Easy, girl," Bucky said, stroking her neck.

He knelt by her side, one hand on her trembling flank, the other inspecting the hoof.

"There’s a shard stuck deep," he said grimly.

Your father hovered, useless, wringing his hands.

Bucky unsheathed a knife he always had in his boot and, with care, began to work the metal free. The mare shivered but stood, trusting him.

You were there for a good half an hour before he made any progress.

And then — with a final, gritted curse — Bucky freed the twisted piece of iron and tossed it aside. The mare snorted, limping but no longer panicked.

Bucky leaned his forehead against her for a moment, breathing hard.

Your father stared at him as though seeing him for the first time.

Finally, your father asked, "What's your name, boy?"

Bucky straightened slowly, eyes glittering in the lamplight. "Bucky," he said, his voice loud and clear.

Your father’s jaw dropped. "Bucky Barnes," he repeated. "The bull rider?"

"Yessir."

A strange silence stretched between them.

Your father — the same man who had heard of his employees wagering half a month's earnings on Bucky at the Fourth of July rodeo out of state, who had read about him in the papers — now looked at him not as a trespasser, but as… a talent.

This — this changed everything.

When Bucky had finished in the stables, your father had pat him gruffly on the shoulder, and said, in a tone half-grudging, half-impressed, "You’ll stay the night. Guest room off the east hall."

Inside, your mother had sputtered, had gone red in the face like a steam kettle about to blow, but for once, your father had not wavered.

"You'd rather the boy bleed out in the road after savin' that horse?" he'd barked at her.

She'd pressed her lips into a thin line and stalked off without a word.

—

The house had gone quiet again, save for the occasional creak of settling timbers and the distant hush of wind through the trees. You waited until the hall clock struck two before slipping out from under your quilts, still in your nightgown.

You tiptoed through the dark, heart racing as you made your way toward the east wing, where the guest rooms you rarely saw were. You knew which door it would be — the last on the right. Bucky was just behind it, bruised and bandaged, probably lying awake in a stranger’s bed, waiting for morning. 

Or maybe… waiting for you.

But you’d barely made it halfway when a figure stepped out from a dark alcove.

Your father stood there, arms crossed over his chest, unmistakably stern.

"I figured you’d try," he said quietly. Not unkindly, just... tired. "You might get your looks from your mother, but this? This is all me."

You looked down, throat tight. "I just wanted to check on him."

"I know." He sighed, rubbing a hand over his chin. "He treat you right?"

Your head snapped up. "What?"

"I'm asking," he said. "That boy — he treat you like you deserve?"

You blinked, barely able to process the question. “Yes,” you nodded, “Always."

“He’s a good man,” Your father grunted, nodding slowly. "He didn’t swing back, even when I near broke his nose." He let out a deep breath. "And I… saw the way you looked at him.”

You swallowed hard, trying to get rid of the lump in your throat.

For a long moment, he didn’t say anything.

"You got a good heart, girl,” he finally said, almost begrudgingly, “And a stubborn streak a mile wide."

You smiled faintly, tears threatening to spill at the edges of your eyes.

"But listen close," he added, straightening. "You don’t go see him tonight."

You flinched. "Pa—"

He held up a hand. "No. You don’t. That boy's exhausted. And you—" he looked you up and down, eyes resting on the bare feet, the wild hair — "you need to cool off and think straight. You're not sneakin' into no boy’s room at two in the mornin', not under this roof. I gave him a bed, not a ticket to your sheets."

You flushed hot.

"You’ll see him in the morning," he said, a bit more gently. "In the daylight. Like decent folk."

Before you could argue, he gestured down the hall. "Go on. Back to your room."

You hesitated, then turned and started walking. Just before you reached the corner, his voice drifted after you. "I’ll be keeping the shotgun close tonight. Just in case either of you forget. You hear me, girl?"

You paused and smiled, sensing the empty threat. "Yes, sir."

—

When morning came, you smelled coffee, fried bacon, and buttermilk biscuits across the house.

You walked in the dining room. Bucky was already there, hair damp from a wash, a faint scrape along his skin. He looked up when he saw you and smiled.

Without thinking, you went straight to the seat beside him.

Your mother, perched at the head of the table like a crow on a throne, narrowed her eyes. “Absolutely not,” she said coldly. Then she stood, reached across the table, and seized your arm, yanking you upright so fast the chair legs scraped the floor with a screech.

“You will not sit next to him,” she snapped. “You’ve already disgraced yourself once this week—”

“Enough.” Your father stood at the other end of the table, his coffee cup held midway to his lips. He hadn’t raised his voice — he didn’t have to. “She’ll sit where she damn well pleases.”

Your mother turned to him, scandalized. “You cannot be serious.”

“She’s a grown woman,” your father said evenly. “And I reckon she’s got the right to choose who she eats her breakfast beside.”

You sat back down as your mother sat again, her lips a thin, bitter line. Her eyes didn’t so much as glance at you — they were fixed solely on Bucky.

“Why is he still here ,anyway?” she repeated, louder now. “After what he did.”

You opened your mouth, heart pounding, but your father got there before you. “He saved the mare,” he said simply.

Your mother whirled on him. “That’s not the point!”

He didn’t look at her, didn’t even lift his head. He simply took a sip of his coffee. “He’s not just some drifter,” he said.

“Oh, please,” your mother snapped. “He’s a roughneck. A man who earns his bread getting thrown from animals. For heaven’s sake, he climbed through our daughter’s window like a common thief!”

Beside you, Bucky sat still as stone, his hands folded on his lap, unsure what to do. Your father set his cup down.

“You won Deadwood, son?” The question came so suddenly it startled the entire room.

Bucky blinked. “Yessir.”

“Heard tell of you.” Your father leaned back slowly, sizing him up with a squint like he was weighing cattle. “Reckless, sure. Wild as a pissed off hornet, they said. But the best rider the circuit’s seen in years.”

Bucky hesitated, then gave a small, tight nod. “Yessir.”

Your mother gave a choked gasp, one hand flying to her chest like the mere confirmation had physically wounded her.

But you saw it — the way Bucky shifted, as if the praise was heavier than it sounded. He didn’t know what to do with it.  His eyes flicked toward you.

Your father saw it too.

He tilted his head, thoughtful now. “Is there somethin’ you’re wantin’ to say, boy?”

Bucky took a deep breath — not nervous, not unsure. As if this was the moment he’d come here for. As if all the bruises, the blood on his shirt, the shame, the fight, the godawful quiet of the stables… all of it had led him here.

He rose to his feet, and stood before your father with his shoulders squared.

“Sir,” he said honestly, “I want permission to court your daughter. Properly.”

Your mother’s spoon slipped from her hand and struck the floor with a flat, lifeless clatter.

What? Your breath caught somewhere in your ribs.

Bucky looked like a man ready to be hung for saying it. He looked at your father,  ready to be told he didn’t deserve it, but he was asking anyway. 

Your father stared at him. Slowly, he crossed his arms over his chest.

“Properly,” he repeated.

“Yessir.”

“That meanin’ no more sneakin’ through windows like no damn outlaw?”

Bucky flushed, but he didn’t look away. “Yes, sir. No more sneakin’.”

“Meanin’ calls made in the parlor. Under my roof, with my eye on you.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Meanin’ this ain’t just flirtin’. You sure intend to offer her your hand — and everything that goes with it — if she’ll have you?”

Bucky’s voice was raw, stripped down to the nerve. “Yes, sir. I’ll marry her. I want to build a life with her,” he glanced at you, “If she wants me.”

The words hit you like a gust of wind. 

You reached for the edge of the table, needing something to hold. Across the table, your mother made a broken, strangled noise. “Y–you cannot allow this.”

Your father turned to her.

“He’s askin’ like a man ought to ask,” he said. “I won’t turn him away just because he don’t come wrapped in the paper you’d pick out.”

Your mother stared at him like she didn’t recognize the man beside her, but he didn’t look at her again.

Instead, your father looked at you.

So did Bucky.

And in that moment — as if the entire world had stepped back, given you space to breathe — all you could see was him.

“I would be honored,” you said certainly, “to be courted by Mr. Barnes.”

Bucky let out a deep breath like he didn’t realize he’d been holding it until now.

Your mother looked like she might faint.

But your father just smiled and gave a satisfied smile. “Well then,” he said. “That’s settled.”

—

Courting, as it turned out, suited Bucky Barnes.

He was careful and determined — not the kind of man to leap unless he knew where he'd land. 

The first time he came to call, it was a Sunday.

He arrived at the front door — the front door, not the trellis outside your window — wearing his cleanest shirt (borrowed from Steve, no doubt) and a nervous smile, with a wildflower bouquet in hand. 

Your father let him in without fuss, led him to the parlor, then took up station on the porch with a paper and a cup of chicory, within earshot — just in case.

Inside, you sat on the settee, your best dress smoothed over your knees, while Bucky perched on the edge of a stiff-backed chair like a schoolboy on trial.

"So," you said, tucking a curl behind your ear, "this is what courting looks like?"

He chuckled low, so your father didn't hear. "Darlin', I've faced bulls that looked less dangerous than your mama."

You bit your lip to hide a laugh and smacked him on the arm.

From there, it built slowly — Bucky would come by twice a week, always calling ahead. Sometimes with flowers, sometimes with a little carving he’d whittled — once, a golden tiny mare no bigger than your thumb— meant to resemble Clementine, no doubt. 

See, Bucky meant it when he said there’d be no more sneaking, no more windows, no more midnight nonsense under this roof. He’d come proper and stay proper under his roof. 

And Bucky Barnes did not break his promises.

Still, a few weeks later, you found yourself creeping barefoot down the stairs again.

You stole out the back door with your skirts hitched high and made your way to the rodeo grounds.

Bucky was there, riding in the twilight — practicing against a mean bastard of a bull named Tombstone, the kind of beast that could end a man’s season with one bad landing. You watched from the shadows as Bucky held fast, muscles taut, one hand high in the air, riding like the damn devil was watching.

He lasted eight seconds. Ten, even. Long enough to earn whistles and claps from the stable hands. 

You stood half-hidden behind the fencing near the back of the rodeo grounds, boots in the dust, arms crossed tight against the breeze. You weren’t supposed to be there — not in your mother’s eyes, not in the eyes of any proper lady who’d just had her engagement announced in the county paper. But here, you felt more like yourself than you ever did at your parent’s fine dining room table.

When the buzzer sounded, the crowd went wild and Bucky jumped clear with a grace that shouldn’t belong to a man who wrestled beasts for a living. 

“Hey now, girl,” You recognised Sam’s voice calling you from the bar tent. He leaned on the counter, polishing a glass, “Ain’t that boy supposed to be courtin’ you like proper rich folk now?”

You slid up to the bar, smiling at the man you’re proud to call a friend. “He is courting me proper,” you said.

Sam raised a brow.

“But here,” you added, “I’m not proper rich folk.”

Sam laughed. “No, you sure ain’t.”

And thank god for it.

Because a few minutes later, when Bucky had finished cooling down the bull, you found your way behind the stables — the same old spot he’d taken you to months ago.

You kissed him the second you were close enough — hands grabbing at his still-damp skin, his mouth already rough on yours like he’d been waiting days. He pressed you back against the stable wall, one hand sliding up under your dress to find skin he already knew by heart.

“I promised not to sneak into your bed,” he breathed against your neck.

“I made no such promises,” you gasped, tugging him closer, “especially not under my pa’s roof.”

You made love there in the straw and dust. It was the kind of love that doesn’t care about lace or titles or a last name carved into a deed.

When it was over, your knees bruised and your lips bitten red, he held you against his bare chest and whispered, “The wedding can’t come soon enough, darlin’.”

—

By midsummer, your father had stopped pretending to read his paper while Bucky called. Sometimes he sat nearby and chimed in, asking Bucky’s opinion on feed prices or fencing knots. Once, you saw them fixing a hinge together in a companionable silence. 

Then came the harvest dance.

You weren’t sure Bucky would go. He wasn’t the type for town gatherings, But he showed up at your gate in a dark vest, freshly shaved, a bun cleaning up his now-longer hair. He offered his arm.

“May I escort you, Miss?” he said with a wink, and you swore your knees nearly buckled.

He didn’t step on your toes once that night. He danced like he was born for it — letting you lead when the reel turned fast and swinging you slow when the music allowed.

And when he walked you home, fingers just barely brushing yours, he stopped at the porch instead of your window. 

"Next week," he said, "if it's alright with your folks… I'd like to bring some plans for a business. Something real I can show ‘em."

Your breath caught. “Bucky…” You touched his cheek, thumb brushing a scar there. “Of course it’s more than alright.”

—

So next week, he didn't show up at your door with blueprints for a farm like your mother had hoped.

He arrived with papers — a contract.

“I ain’t buildin’ a house just yet,” he told your father in that same parlor where he'd courted you. “I’m buying the rodeo grounds.”

Your father raised an eyebrow. “You?”

Bucky nodded. “Barnes Rodeo Company. I’ve been talking to the owner. He's getting old, no sons, and I’ve got the winnings and the grit. I’m not just riding bulls now — I’m runnin’ the damn show.”

Your father looked at the paperwork. “This ain’t some pipe dream.”

“No, sir,” Bucky said. “It’s how I support her. Build a future. Not just win prize money and pray it lasts. I’ll run the books, hire crews, train the riders, expand the stables. I’ll make it a real business.”

Your mother, listening from the corner, folded her arms. “All of this for our daughter?”

“Not just for her, ma’am,” Bucky said, “For us. For the life we want.”

Finally, your mother sniffed and muttered, “Well. At least he’s not stupid.”

You swore you saw her smile in approval, just a little.

“Maybe you don’t need to build a house,” Your father gave Bucky a long look, then said slowly, “‘Cause you can wrangle bulls and taxes, boy… you might just be fit to run this place, too.”

Bucky blinked. “Sir?”

“You heard me.” Your father leaned forward. “I built this estate, and was planning to give it to my nephew. But you — if you’re sticking, — you and her will run it together. The land, the house, the name. I’ll teach you what you need to know.”

What? 

You couldn’t breathe.

Bucky’s throat worked like he couldn’t speak, and when he finally did, his voice was hoarse. “I’ll earn it. Every bit of it.”

Your father nodded. “See that you do.”

—

That night, Bucky took you out to the pasture, where Clementine grazed beneath the stars. Without a word, he handed you the reins.

“She’s yours,” he said softly. “Part of my gift to you. For marrying me.”

You ran your hand along her flank, stunned. “Bucky—”

“She’s yours,” he repeated. “I already told her. She said she approves.”

You laughed, and Clementine snorted and nuzzled your shoulder like she agreed.

—

The wedding came in late spring.

The garden bloomed like it had waited just for you, the trees overhead filled white blossoms that drifted down like snow whenever the wind stirred. 

You stood under the big oak at the edge of the pasture, where Clementine grazed nearby with a garland of fresh daisies looped around her neck, the mare blinking lazily like she understood the importance of the day. After all, you have talked to her a lot in the days leading up to this.

Sam and Steve stood at Bucky’s side in their best coats. Sam had slipped you a flask during the rehearsal dinner and whispered, “If he runs, I’ll chase him down myself,” and Steve had just grinned and said, “He won’t.” Neither had left Bucky’s side since sunrise.

Your cousins trailed behind you in soft sage dresses, the youngest clutching your train with both hands. You’d made the veil yourself — stitched tiny forget-me-nots into the lace. 

And Bucky—

God. Bucky.

He looked like sin and salvation in a black suit, hair swept back, staring at you like you’d stepped out of a dream he didn’t think he deserved. When he took your hands, his palms were warm, calloused, shaking just a little.

Your father gave you away. “Don’t break her heart,” he warned Bucky.

He just shook his head.

Your mother dabbed at her eyes with a handkerchief and claimed it was just the pollen.

But later — after the vows, after Bucky kissed you like no one was watching and the whole damn town clapped — you caught her pulling him into a hug across the room.

“Take care of her,” your mother said.

“Yes, ma’am,” Bucky murmured.

She looked up at him “And don’t call me 'ma’am' like I’m a schoolteacher. You’re my son now.” She cleared her throat. “So act like it.”

Bucky blinked. “...Yes, ma—...Yes.”

He grinned and found your eyes. After she left, he mouthed to you excitedly, She called me ‘son.’

You nearly dropped your drink.

That night, the last of the guests wandered off, Bucky—your husband—kissed your forehead.

You told him, at this estate that was now yours and his, “Welcome home, James.”

—

Present day…

After dinner, when the dishes were washed and Becca had been told twice to stop playing with her dessert, you slipped your boots back on and headed out into the dark, lantern in hand.

The stables were quiet, save for the rustle of hay and Clementine’s slow breaths. She was still lying down, too tired now to stand, her legs folded neatly beneath her, head resting on the straw. You sat beside her and ran your fingers through the coarse white of her mane.

Not five minutes later, you heard the telltale creak of the barn door and small feet trying their best not to make a sound.

“Becca,” you said knowingly, without turning.

“I just wanted to see her,” said the tiny voice behind you.

And then, a little louder you heard your husband say— “Rebecca Barnes!”

Bucky’s boots crunched to a stop just inside the stable. “It’s past your bedtime, sweetheart.”

Becca pouted, clutching the old quilt she’d dragged from her bed. “But Clementine…”

Bucky sighed, leaning against the doorway. “Say goodnight, Becca. Let her rest.”

Becca’s lip wobbled, tiny tears pricking down the sides. “I don’t want her to be alone.”

“She won’t be,” Bucky said, his voice gentle but firm. “Mama’s here. She’s got her, ‘kay?”

Becca was quiet for a long time. Then she stepped closer, knelt beside you, and laid the quilt across Clementine’s back like she was tucking her in.

“Sweet dreams, Clementine,” she whispered, brushing her fingers down the mare’s nose.

Clementine blinked like she’d heard and understood, and Bucky cleared his throat behind you— choked up, even if he wouldn’t say it.

Later, Bucky tugged Becca in with fresh quilts and kissed her forehead. He left the door cracked just enough to let the lamplight spill in.

When he made his way back to the stables, you were still there— crouched beside Clementine, stroking her neck in careful passes like you didn’t want her to startle, though she hadn’t moved much all evening.

He sank down beside you, and leaned your shoulder into his. 

“I used to tell her all my secrets,” you confessed your voice barely above the hush of wind outside.

Bucky glanced sideways at you. “Yeah?”

You nodded. “Told her I hated that my ma didn’t like you at first. Told her I was nervous for the wedding.”

He huffed a quiet laugh. “You were nervous?”

“I was terrified,” you said with a grin. “She was the only one I could admit it to.”

Bucky looked at Clementine’s faded eyes. “Go on, darlin’,” he kissed your temple, “Tell her another one.”

You turned your head, brushing your lips against her ear, and whispered, just loud enough for Bucky to hear, “Clementine… I’m pregnant again.”

Bucky froze. He looked at you with a stunned, overjoyed look, eyes wide and glassy. “Are you serious?”

You nodded, and before he could say anything else, Clementine — bless her — let out the loudest, most contented whinny she’d made in days. It echoed gently in the quiet stable, startling a few sparrows into flight in the rafters.

You both stared at her in disbelief.

“She knew,” Bucky whispered.

And not ten minutes later, as the lantern burned low and you both kept watch, Clementine gave one last breath… and slipped away with you and Bucky on either side of her, tears running into the dust. She went easy, like a sigh.

She went out knowing everything was alright — that you and Bucky had settled into a good life, that her family was still growing, and that she was still loved.

That you, like her, would live the rest of your life knowing what freedom felt like, just because you happened to cross paths with a certain charming bull rider.

-end.

General Bucky taglist:

@hotlinepanda @snflwr-vol6 @ruexj283 @2honeybees @read-just-cant

 @shanksstrawhat @mystictf @globetrotter28 @thebuckybarnesvault@average-vibe

@winchestert101 @mystictf @globetrotter28 @shanksstrawhat @scariusaquarius

@reckless007 @hextech-bros @daydreamgoddess14 @96jnie @pono-pura-vida

@buckyslove1917 @notsostrangerthing @flow33didontsmoke @qvynrand @blackbirdwitch22

@torntaltos @seventeen-x @ren-ni @iilsenewman @slayerofthevampire

@hiphip-horray @jbbucketlist @melotyy @ethereal-witch24 @samfunko

@lilteef @hi172826 @pklol @average-vibe @shanksstrawhat

@shower-me-with-roses @athenabarnes @scarwidow @thriving-n-jiving @dilfsaresohot

@helloxgoodbi @undf-stuff @sapphirebarnes @hzdhrtss @softhornymess

@samfunko @wh1sp @anonymousreader4d7 @mathcat345 @escapefromrealitylol

@imjusthere1161 @sleepysongbirdsings @fuckybarnes @yn-stories-are-my-life

@cjand10 @nerdreader @am-3-thyst

@goldengubs @maryevm @helen-2003 @maryssong23

@yesshewrites1 @thewiselionessss @sangsterizada @jaderabbitt

@hopeofwinter @nevereclipse @tellybearryyyy @buckybarneswife125

[no-not-without-you-blog]

So so so so good! Can’t wait till Friday!

24: THE SPACE BETWEEN US

Previous chapter < MASTERLIST > Next chapter (pending)

Summary: Bucky struggles with regret, trying desperately to communicate with you, but every attempt is met with silence— until you leave him a message of your own. As your friendships remain strained and trust shattered, Bucky takes a step toward making amends. Meanwhile, an unexpected visitor reminds you that even in grief, you don’t have to be alone.

Warnings: Angst, emotional distress, strained friendships, themes of betrayal, mentions of past deception.

Word Count: 3518

It had been a long two weeks for Bucky. He tried repeatedly to talk to you in any way possible, short of forcing himself through your door. He knocked every day, sent you text after text until he noticed that you weren’t even reading them anymore.

Finally he decided to write it all down. He sat at his kitchen table, an untouched bottle of beer sweating next to him. It was almost two in the morning and the sound of traffic outside his window had finally died down. His hand hovered over a piece of paper, the pen in his hand tapping against the page in a nervous manner. His fingers on his vibranium hand twitched softly as he resisted the urge to crumple it up and throw it in the trash.

There was already a pile of balled up pages on the floor where he had started over four times. Every time, the words felt wrong, or impersonal. Like it was too little and too late.

But if this was his last chance, he would be damned before he let it slip away.

He took in a deep breath and then exhaled sharply, forcing himself to hold the pen and write. He had never been good with words, not like Sam was now or Steve had been. His specialty in the past has been charm, but that wasn’t what you were looking for now, it was about finding the perfect thing to say— it was about telling you the truth.

With every word, every sentence, his chest tightened, making the events that had transpired feel more real. The way he had hurt you, the way you had looked at him, like a stranger instead of a friend, instead of a partner.

He pressed harder against the page as he signed his name, creating a blot of ink next to the ‘Y’. He knew he had no right to ask you anything, let alone read this letter. But he owed you an explanation.

He stared at the finished product, not daring to read the words back for fear of getting cold feet. But he could see how uneven his writing had become from how his hand shook while he wrote. Slowly, he folded the paper, his thumb and forefinger running over the crease, lingering at the edge for a moment before he stood up.

His throat felt tight, as he stood in the hallway outside your apartment door. There was silence in the building except for Alpine purring around his feet. He bent down and scooped the cat into his chest.

“What do you think, girl?”

He let the feline sniff the letter before she gave him a look of disgust.

“Yeah, girl, I know. But I don’t have any other choice.”

Alpine climbed onto his shoulder and he bent down and pushed the letter under your door before he had the chance to second-guess himself. He returned to his apartment and settled down on the floor in front of the television.

Would you read the letter? Would you tear it up? Would you ever forgive him?

He sighed. This wasn’t about him anymore.

The same two weeks were as agonizing for you as they were for Bucky. Your phone screen time had gone up dramatically as you spent hours staring at the tiny device. It wasn’t only the bright light that was affecting your sleep, it was the maelstrom of negative emotions that waged a war for dominance of your attention.

It was 11 AM on a Saturday morning, and normally you’d have already been to the gym and showered to start your day, but today you could barely bring yourself to get out of bed to use the toilet. You stared down at your phone, thumb hovering over the keyboard as you typed out message after message in the Power of Three group chat, only to delete them before hitting send.

Finally, you forced yourself to press send.

11:11 AM - You: Can we talk? Please.

11:11 AM - You: I know you guys are mad, and I don’t blame you. But I miss you both.

11:12 AM - You: I didn’t know, you guys. I swear I didn’t know. I would never have brought him if I did.

11:12 AM - You: I’m so sorry.

The messages were marked as read almost instantly, but no one replied. Aditi, the one person in your group who always had an opinion, stayed eerily silent. And Hanna, the peacekeeper, didn’t rush to smooth over your transgressions.

11:15 AM - You: I love you.

You texted before putting your phone down, a tear slipping down your cheek. Crawling out of bed, you decided to take a shower and try to work on some commission designs. But as soon as you sat down with your tablet, you couldn’t concentrate. Your mind drifting back to the way Aditi looked at you, like you were just as bad as Bucky. And the disappointment in Hanna’s eyes. It made your heart ache.

Hours passed by with nothing. And just when you were ready to give up hope altogether, your phone vibrated. You snatched up your phone to find a message from Hanna.

3:57 PM - Hanna: I’m not mad at you. Just… disappointed. I don’t understand why you thought you had to pretend. I thought we told each other everything.

3:57 PM - You: I know. And I hate that I hurt you. Please can we just talk?

Hanna didn’t reply right away, but her answer gave you some hope.

4:14 PM - Hanna: I’ll let you know when I’m ready.

Aditi, on the other hand, hadn’t said a word.

Bucky didn’t know what else to do. It was coming up to a month since you’d last spoken to him. You showed no signs of wanting to speak to him. He had stopped knocking on your door. His text messages went unanswered. Calls sent to voicemail. And on the off chance you met in the corridor, you went out of your way to take the stairs to avoid him. You showed no signs of having read the letter he had left.

In short, he was running out of options to reach you.

So he decided to go back to basics.

The little whiteboard on your door was still there— the one the two of you had shared notes and jokes on when you’d started out in this doomed venture. The last thing you’d scrawled on it was “Don’t stay up too late, grumpy pants” was still there, albeit a little smudged.

Now, it felt like the only form of communication he had left.

So, he rubbed off your writing and uncapped the marker, writing the only thing that would fit.

I’M SORRY.

It didn’t even begin to scratch the surface of how he felt… but it was all he had. He stood there in the hallway, gripping the marker so tight, his knuckles were turning white. He let out a shaky sigh as he replaced the marker and turned back to his door.

The next morning, Bucky opened his door.  There was a crunch under his feet. When he looked down… there it was. Snapped in half.

He crouched down, picking up the pieces, he ran his fingers over the jagged edges of the broken plastic.

He turned it over and saw the smudged angry writing.

One piece had the letters

TED YOU

He frowned and turned over the second half.

I TRUS

He put the pieces together with shaking hands.

I TRUSTED YOU.

The marker had bled over some of the letters where you’d pressed too hard. He could feel your rage, your hurt.

You hadn’t just broken the whiteboard. You had broken him.

He let out a shuddering sigh, holding the pieces of your shattered connection. For a second, he thought about throwing them away.

But he didn’t. He turned back into his apartment and shut the door behind him.

Bucky stood outside the gates of the Sharma Estate, fists clenched and shoved in his pockets. The tall metal gates made him feel like he was standing outside a guarded fortress. The residence looked different now, in the cold light of day, without the decorative flourishes. It felt as though the weight of everything that had transpired still lingered in the air despite three weeks having passed. He had pressed the buzzer but there wasn’t an answer yet. He wasn’t sure if they would even let him inside after what happened. Not that he would blame them. He half expected them to slam the door in his face. But none of that mattered, he couldn’t let that deter him. He owed them an explanation, he owed it to you.

What was it Sam had said to him a year ago? You go to these people and say "sorry" because you think it'll make you feel better, right? But you gotta make them feel better. You gotta go to them and be of service.

Seconds stretched to minutes as he waited, his collar popped up around his neck, shoulders tense. It was something he should be used to by now— being a man who stood outside begging for any scrap of forgiveness for the crimes he hadn’t meant to commit. But today he didn’t plan on leaving until he had said what needed to be said. 

Finally, the door swung open, and Hanna stood at the entrance, her arms crossed and expression tempestuous. The warmth that he had seen reflected in her eyes was gone, replaced with an icy fury,

Her voice was cold and commanding, almost cutting through Bucky’s resolve. “What do you want, Barnes?”

Bucky met her hard glare. “To explain.”

Hanna scoffed. “Explain? Now you want to talk? After the fact?”

Before he had the chance to say anything further, Aditi appeared behind her wife.

The feeling of guilt in Bucky’s chest deepened as she emerged from the shadows. She looked… exhausted. Not just tired, but worn down, like the fire inside her had been smothered, leaving the ashes of sorrow and disillusionment behind. It looked like she had lost the will to fight, overwhelmed by the feeling of sadness and betrayal.

Aditi pulled the oversized cardigan around her slim frame, tightly folding her arms over her chest, as if it would shield her from any further heartbreak. “Why are you here?” she asked, her voice flat and lips pressed into a thin line.

Bucky hadn’t expected to meet such little resistance, he had thought they would have raged at him. He only hesitated for a second, not wanting to lose his opportunity. “I owe you both an apology.”

A sharp, bitter laugh left Aditi’s lips, making goosebumps rise on Bucky’s arms. “An apology?” she said hysterically. “For what, exactly? For getting my father arrested? For breaking up my family? Ruining my wedding? Oh, how about lying to my best friend and making her believe you actually cared about her?”

Her last question made him flinch. He had cared… still cared. But he knew that there was probably nothing he could say that would convince them otherwise at the moment. But he would do his best. He swallowed the lump in his throat.

“For everything,” he admitted, sadly. “I had no intention of ruining your big day. I didn’t think they would try to hurt your father. And I sure as hell never wanted to hurt… Y/N.”

Hanna cut in, her expression dark with anger. “But you did.”

“I know,” Bucky’s voice was quiet and filled with sadness. “And I’m sorry.”

Aditi sighed heavily. “I thought I’d be more angry at you. But it’s my dad who I’m really mad at. I just can’t believe he’d do this. I feel like my whole life has been a lie. But… I miss him.” Her voice broke and Hanna wrapped her arms around her wife.

Bucky nodded, understanding. “I asked Sam to put in a good word for him. He’ll still have to answer for what he did, but… he won’t be locked up forever.”

Aditi fought back tears, clutching at Hanna for comfort and support, as though her wife was the only thing keeping her together. “That doesn’t fix anything,” she whispered.

“I know,” Bucky said. “But.. it’s the best I can do.”

Hanna shook her head. “That still doesn’t excuse what you did to Y/N.”

Bucky opened his mouth, then closed it again, running his hand through his hair. “I didn’t—” he stopped, trying to catch his breath. “I wasn’t trying to… it wasn’t meant to be… Okay yeah, it started out as a mutual agreement… something fake. But it didn’t stay that way.” He poured his earnestness into his words. “It wasn’t fake to me.”

Hanna clicked her tongue in disbelief.

“It still isn’t,” Bucky insisted.

Hanna’s expression softened for a moment but she was still hesitant in her belief. Aditi, however, remained impassive, her body language closed off, her gaze unreadable. Bucky recognized the signs of depression, he was all too familiar with the signs, it was almost like looking into the mirror.

“I didn’t come here to make excuses for myself. I understand why you are angry at me. But Y/N—” His voice choked around your name. “She didn’t know anything… she wasn’t a part of this.”

Aditi’s lips pressed together, but she didn’t interrupt.

“She brought me to the wedding because she thought it was real. She even told me I didn’t have to come,” Bucky admitted, voice thick with regret. “But I insisted. I wanted to be there.”

He saw a flash of something in Hanna’s face and she looked away from him. He could see the moment of doubt in her resolve, the way her rigidity lessened at his words. He had to keep going.

“She’s hurting,” he went on. “And I know I’m the one who hurt her. But please… don’t take it out on her. If you need someone to be angry at, let it be me. I can take it.”

Aditi let out a tired breath, she snapped repeatedly at a hairband around her wrist. Her anger had already given way to grief. Hanna however hadn’t moved past that stage.

“She trusted you,” Hanna snapped.

Bucky flinched. He knew that. God, he knew that.

“I know,” he said hoarsely. “And I broke that trust. I don’t expect her to forgive me.” His hands curled into fists at his sides before he forced them to relax. “But she deserves better than to lose you two over this. Over something I did.”

Silence stretched out between them.

Finally, Hanna sighed. “You really fucked up, Barnes.”

“Yeah.” He let out a humorless chuckle and mumbled. “I know.” He looked at her wife. “Aditi?”

“We’ll see,” she muttered after a long pause, her eyes downcast, her affect totally flat.

Bucky stepped away, turning to leave. He’d done everything he could.

It wasn’t absolution, but Bucky would take what he could get.

Winnie pushed past you the second you opened the door. She was surprisingly spry for someone her age. She walked in, glancing around your apartment before settling herself at the kitchen table.

“You know, Arthur and I always liked this apartment,” she mused, setting down the box she had brought in with her. “But when we moved in, it was occupied and then once we got settled, we never had the heart to move. You’ve always kept it so cozy, not too cluttered. But… you could use a little more light, dear.” She gestured at the half-drawn curtains.

You managed a small smile, sitting down opposite the older woman. “Haven’t really been in the mood for bright or cheery.”

Winnie studied your face for a moment, humming softly. “That I can see.” She tapped on the round container she’d placed on the table. “Which is why I brought this. It’s one of my pies. Figured you could use a little comfort food.”

“A pie?” you repeated.

“Yes, dear, a pie,” she shook her head dramatically. “You know how much I love pies?”

You nodded.

“Well, it seems that my doctor has decided I can’t have pies anymore.” She folded her arms over her chest and hrmph’ed in disapproval.

“Wait, what?”

“Diabetes,” Winnie explained with a huff. “Mild, but still. They want me to cut back on sugar. No pies, no cookies, no fun, apparently.” She sighed again. “But I made one anyway. Couldn’t help myself. Then I thought— well, I shouldn’t eat it, but maybe someone else needs it.” She gave you a sympathetic look.

“You didn’t have to do that,” you answered, looking down at your hands.

“Oh, I know, my dear,” Winnie said lightly. “But I wanted to. But judging by the way you’ve been looking lately, I figured you needed it more than I do.”

You bit your lower lip lightly, a moment of silence stretched out between you, before you finally spoke. “Thank you,” you said, quietly.

Winnie patted your hand gently. “Of course.” Then, after a pause, she added, “Now, why don’t you tell me how you’re really doing?”

You let out a small laugh, reaching out for the pie container, finding it easier to occupy your hands than answering the question. “I’m fine. Just been… busy.”

Winnie snorted, making you look up at the unexpected noise in surprise. She shook her head and gave you a knowing look. “Is that what you call it these days?” She tilted her head, it was the same look your grandmother used to give you when she was working out how to address the fib you’d just told. “You know, my Arthur just used to say that when he was avoiding something. He had this way of fooling himself into thinking that keeping occupied would be easier than dealing with whatever was eating him up inside.” She tapped a finger on the table and then pointed at you. “You strike me as the same kind of stubborn.”

“I’m not avoiding anything,” you grumbled.

“Mmm-hmm,” Winnie raised a skeptical eyebrow.

“I’m not,” you insisted, avoiding Winnie’s gaze by prying the lid off the pie container.

“Alright, then,” Winnie went on, a little too casually. “If you’re not avoiding anything, I suppose you don’t mind me asking how you’ve been sleeping?”

“Fine,” you answered lightly, but your grip on the lid tightened.

“And eating?”

“Totally fine.”

“Uh-huh.” Winnie folded her arms. “And that big storm cloud hanging over your head— when’s that supposed to clear up?”

“Winnie!” you groaned, massaging your temples.

“Don’t ‘Winnie’ me, dear. I know heartbreak when I see it. And you’ve got that look.”

You shrugged, your throat suddenly feeling tight. “I just…” you let out a shaky sigh. “My best friends won’t talk to me. They might never talk to me again,” you voice cracked and you hated it, hated how hard it still was. “And Bucky—” You stopped, biting down on your lip again, holding back your tears.

Winnie listened and nodded as you spoke. “That’s what I thought.” Winnie leaned forward and took your hand in both of hers. “Y/N, losing people… really losing them… it’s awful. But you haven’t lost them yet.”

A tear slipped down your cheek. “I don’t know how to fix it.”

Winnie squeezed your hand gently. “Well, lucky for you, I’ve been around long enough to know a thing or two about making amends. But first, you have to be willing to hear the whole story.”

Her words made you stiffen, an overwhelming feeling of weariness coming over you. “You agree with what he did?” you asked, quietly.

Winnie leaned back and sighed. “I won’t say I agree with everything… but I understand it.”

“What did he tell you?”

She studied your face for a moment. “He told me how things started between you— that you wanted a date, how it was supposed to be just for show.”

You let out a bitter laugh, shaking her head. “Did he mention that it was his idea? And he wanted me to do the same for him?”

Winnie ignored your acerbic tone. “He also told me that he thought it stopped being just a deal. How somewhere along the way, he started feeling something real. That he was too afraid to tell you how he really felt, and now… now he’s terrified that he’s lost you for good.”

You closed your eyes and sighed heavily, looking away for a moment, trying to hide your pain.

“My dear, I’m not saying you have to forgive him. But you need to figure out why you’re so angry. Is it because of what he did? Or because you think he doesn’t care?”

You clenched your jaw. “I’m angry because he lied.”

“He did…” Winnie agreed. “And he’s sorry for it. But do you really believe he never cared?”

You looked down at your hands, picking at the remains of your manicure.

Winnie stood up, patting your shoulder. “It's time for me to go. Just think about it.”

And with that, she gave you one last knowing look before heading for the door.

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