speakingsoftly

[speakingsoftly]

homegoing (we'll pay the price, i guess)

pairing: john walker x reader

summary: Valentina's plot to rehabilitate John's image goes awry. Meanwhile, he tries to protect yours by keeping your relationship secret.

word count: 6.3k

warnings: mentions of an unhappy childhood, but no specific reason is given beyond reader being kind of an outcast. reader imagines getting violent with people but no explicit violence actually happens. mentions of what could be interpreted as underage sex? literally one sentence talks about john and reader getting it on while at senior prom

a/n: intended to read as same reader-insert as heart of the matter but you don't technically need to read that one first? personally, though, i would recommend it. not edited, as per usual. kind of inspired by "slut!" if the title did not already suggest.

You had learned how to wear a mask in public a long time ago. Since the day you first realized you had become something of public interest, you learned how to don a number of them. Though undercover work would never be your strong suit, you could handle the public eye. That being said, Valentina Allegra de Fontaine must have been trying to get you to break.

It was unclear whether she knew why she suddenly had the ability to play you like a fiddle, why you were all of a sudden listening to her every demand without argument. Mel knew, you thought, but you weren’t sure whether she’d revealed the cards to her boss. She probably had. She probably should have, if you were being realistic. But if Valentina knew, she never said a word. Maybe she believed saying it out loud would break the hold. Or maybe she really was clueless, it was impossible to tell.

But you knew. You knew why you were suddenly pliable. You were doing this—all of it—for John, even if now you were beginning to wonder if it was really helping at all.

Valentina had John over a barrel. He, like all of you, was technically on government payroll, but for him that meant more. The government money made sure he could pay child support, which meant he more than anyone else had to grit his teeth and bare it even if he wanted to tell Valentina where to stick it. So, when she’d told him that he would be doing a publicity tour in order to rebuild his reputation, he had no room to argue. You, on the other hand, had been the hold up.

There was a show of asking you. Powerpoint presentations, a willingness to let you make a list of demands, literal bribery. Valentina seemed borderline nervous past her attempt at a facade of confidence when she said that a tour as a pair—Hometown Heroes, they were calling it—polled well with the public. She’d been willing to negotiate with you where she demanded from John. You were sure you’d surprised her when you’d accepted what she offered up front instead of arguing for more or to not do it at all. 

Now, though, you thought it was becoming abundantly clear why you’d agreed without much pushback.

Public relations experts had agreed on one live interview. No more, no less. Just enough to capture attention and funnel people to other, more staged efforts. There was supposed to be a set of pre-approved questions with coached answers. There were supposed to be lines in the sand.

Whether the heavily made-up, fake southern accented interviewer went off script all on her own, or whether Valentina was screwing with you again you had no clue. All you knew was that you were a few minutes away from losing it.

John was floundering next to you. You saw his fingers twitch around the arms of the chair he was sitting in. You wanted nothing more than to reach out and reassure him. You thought that if you moved ever-so-slightly you could brush his knee with yours. You also knew it was a bad idea.

Frankly, it had been a bad idea in the first place to send you both back to Custer’s Grove.

There were too many memories here, both bad and good, both together and apart. You had sworn long ago that you would never go back, and John had made the same vow albeit more recently. Valentina had argued that the whole point of Hometown Heroes was moot if you didn’t return home. (You had tried to argue that Custer’s Grove had not been home in a long, long time. It hadn’t worked.) It was essential, Mel had taken over to explain, that you capitalize off your shared background. What better way to remind the world that you were both human than to send you back where you came from?

Whatever group they had polled to come up with that idea clearly had not come from your hometown. Where you were revered, John was reviled. It was truly remarkable how much of the town had so quickly turned on their golden boy. You had not met the same fate, Custer’s Grove still thought you gilded.

You were seconds away from smashing that particular fantasy to pieces.

The interviewer was looking at John like she hadn’t just dropped a bomb on him. What would Steve Rogers think about your actions as Captain America?

Though you weren’t looking at John’s face, you could imagine what it was. You knew what he looked like when he was lost for words. You knew what he looked like when people took him back where he didn’t want to go.

He tried for diplomacy. “I don’t think I can answer that. I never knew him.”

An escape. She instead used it to parry the question over to you. A mistake. You didn’t answer immediately, locking eyes with Mel across the room. She looked panicked. People were whispering in both her ears. But you were live. There was no saving it. You were fairly certain that had been the entire point. No way out like with a pre-recorded tape. 

What was there to say? Steve had already chosen a successor when the government decided it would be John instead. It always should have been Sam, they knew that, you knew that, and John had finally swallowed it down. But that also wasn’t the question she was asking. She wanted to know what Steve would have thought about John’s darkest day. Honestly? You weren’t certain either.

Part of you thought Steve might have been willing to do worse where Bucky was involved. Another part of you thought that a man willing to go to such lengths would not have left so unceremoniously.  Still, you hardly thought the question relevant when Steve was gone and John was a different man entirely.

When you took too long to answer, she pressed, “What do you think about his actions that day?”

The truth? Un-airable. The truth was that, with you in John’s place and Bucky in Lemar’s, you’d likely have made his actions look like child’s play.

“I think the past is the past,” you said, fists clenched in your lap. “And I trust John to have my back any day. On the job and off.”

No one was satisfied with your answer, least of all you. The course of questioning changed anyway. It was clear there was no pulling any true comment on that from either of you. Back to regularly scheduled programming, softball questions from the pre-approved list. None of it mattered. The rest of the interview was stilted at best, hostile at worst. You were seething underneath a blank expression, wanting nothing more than to rip off the mic hooked to your shirt and stomp off.

Mel was beside you the moment cameras stopped rolling. “We’re going to have it wiped.” You were walking already, trailing far behind John and with Mel far behind you. “We can’t do anything about people that watched it live, but—”

“Stop,” you demanded. “I told you this was a bad idea.”

You didn’t stop walking, there was no point. No amount of arguing with Mel, no amount of pleading or assurances from her end would change things. They couldn’t bury this. Live was live, and the internet was forever. Even Valentina couldn’t stop every idiot with a YouTube account.

⊛

You were right, of course. Three hours later and even if it wasn’t publicly available on the news’ website, your interview had been clipped and posted around social media.

In silence, you had driven two hours outside of town in search of a place to be where no one would stare. Now you were sitting at a table in maybe the shittiest diner Georgia had to offer, scrolling through public commentary. People were not just misinterpreting things you’d said, but they were analyzing your body language and drawing incorrect conclusions.

Oh she haaaaates his ass, one commenter posted, she doesn’t even look at him when he talks.

You didn’t have public-facing social media, which was probably for the best. If you did, you might have started responding. You knew it would get you nowhere, or it might even make things worse. Mostly you didn’t care. All you wanted was for people to stop dissecting your behavior and acting like they knew you. 

“Not gonna get you anywhere,” John said after a stretch of silence. He plucked your phone from your hands, locked it, and tossed it on the booth beside him. “I would know.”

John had learned indifference to the internet, for the most part. You weren’t so well-trained about it, surprisingly. You thought that after so many years, after watching Bucky go through it during his bid for both presidential pardon and congressional seat, you would have been better. Yet it still sickened you to look at it all, even when most of it was not really directed at you. 

“I don’t know how people write that shit,” you responded.

“Easier from behind a screen,” he told you. “In public they mostly just… look.”

You were used to eyes on you, but not in the way John meant. People never looked at you like they were scared you were a hair’s breadth away from snapping. They didn’t look at you like you were some kind of danger. When you noticed people looking at you from afar it was always with great interest or awe. It was invasive, sure, to be stared at, but you had to imagine the other way was worse. At least you didn’t normally feel like a caged wild animal. 

“You just have to learn what opinions matter,” he continued. “Or so I’m told.”

“Sounds like a Bucky-ism.”

He almost smiled. “It might be.”

It also sounded far easier than it was, you knew that. John said all of this now, but you knew the cycle. You’d seen it before. More than once you’d caught him returning to old articles or videos about himself, scrolling disparaging remarks about himself. It happened less and less frequently now, but you were expecting eventually curiosity would get the better of him. He’d tell you this now, take your phone away for your benefit, but you wouldn’t be surprised to wake in the night and see the same screen on his.

You wanted to reach for him. The look in his eyes suggested it would be a mistake.

In the public eye, your relationship did not exist. It was half-secret, and deeply private even within the confines of the tower, all by John’s choice. It grated on you sometimes, but he’d made his reasonings clear. I’m not dragging you down with me, he’d said once. You told him you didn’t care, and he’d just given you a look that said if you weren’t going to care at all, he’d care double. All you worried about was Valentina using it as a bargaining chip, but even that hardly deterred you.

“I should say something,” you decided. “People might not want to hear you talk yourself up, but if it’s me—”

“They’ll only think less of you,” John interrupted. “And you know it.”

Part of you didn’t think so, most of you knew he was probably right. But at the same time, you’d earned the good will of the public in blood, so you thought they owed you some slack. Besides, most of you also didn’t care what the public thought of you. It had done nothing to save you when you refused to sign the Sokovia Accords.

“I don’t care what people think of me,” you said.

He said nothing, but the doubt read easy on his face. You supposed you couldn’t blame him, you had never known the other side of the coin.

Despite all his silent objections, you reached out across the table. It almost looked casual. Almost. If you hadn’t looked like you were hurting for just the barest brush of his skin, it might have been nothing. He gave you another look.

“We should go,” he said finally, and you didn’t argue.

He wasn’t so withdrawn in the car, which hurt just as much as it helped. He didn’t worry about being caught behind tinted windows and drove with one hand on the wheel while the other held yours. The very same way he should have allowed himself to do in public, if you had anything to say about it. You wanted to walk the world with only one hand to use because the other was permanently stuck with his. 

A two-hour silence with him might usually have been companionable and welcome. There were plenty of times that you merely existed together in the same room. This was not that. This was a silence heavy with an argument that was both happening and not happening. Mostly, you knew it would get you nowhere. That was the problem with loving someone equally as stubborn as you were, neither of you was ever willing to fold. Not until it was almost a too-big problem. The pursuit of compromise was practically a Sisyphean task where the two of you were involved.

The entire drive you tried your best to simply relish the time you were allowed for simple touch, but the weight on you hardly allowed it. You really thought he ought to let you at least try to advocate for him. You also knew he’d sooner shed blood. It was an incredibly cyclical problem to have. All you wanted to do was share the side of him you knew, the differences you saw emerging in a man who was trying to better himself day by day.

He’d tamped his temper, though most would not have noticed it. You saw. You knew why. John told you that Lemar had once told him he couldn’t solve problems with his fists anymore. He’d then said he was trying, even if it was mostly too little, too late. You noticed it. Bob, indestructible as he was, might have once upon a time felt the direct impact of John’s anger. Now when you saw it flare at an off-handed comment, you would watch as John just breathed and said not now, Bob. Small, but different.

It would be a hard thing to show people in your line of work, unless he let you do the talking up for him. It would certainly be worth it to you, regardless of the outcome. At least you would have tried. That was all you could ever do. 

At the hotel, he separated from you like an identically charged magnetic pole, forever forced to repel. However briefly it was for—you knew you’d be slipping out of your room and into his—it hurt.

Mel appeared out of thin air the moment you stepped through the doors. She allowed John to pass, but held you back. Your gaze might have been hard enough to cut glass, the way she shuddered at it. It seemed all her time working for Valentina had not made her immune to your ire. She was apologizing again, explaining there was already a team behind the scenes doing the work to repair the damage the interview had done to the plans. You told her flatly that you were through with the plans. She had Valentina on the phone in the next instant. 

Valentina was sickly-sweet as she told you that under no circumstances would you abandon the plan when you were so nearly through. A momentary setback, she called your borderline-disastrous interview. There are people coming around, she further insisted. Mingling with local politicians will do wonders, she added. What she meant, of course, was that she would be humiliated if you did not stuff yourself into an uncomfortable dress and balance-throwing shoes and show up to the charity event her endless staff had so painstakingly handcrafted as your send-off.

You wanted to tell her to shove it. You also knew she’d send John in alone, and that was worse. She’d come up with some excuse, of course. You’d be reported to be off saving the world or something equally dramatic. She would save face at all costs, and John would have to miserably agree on her arm the entire night. 

“Never again,” you told her flatly. Her relief was so palpable through the phone that one might think she’d talked you off a nuclear option.

Mel smiled at you tensely and you did not respond in kind. She headed off to her room, and you waited a safe twenty minutes before completely ignoring your own suite and heading to John’s.

He was waiting for you, out of casual clothes and into pajamas. Despite the argument you wanted to start, you allowed yourself to melt into him instead. It could wait for another day. It could wait until you were really home.

“What did she want?” he asked, threading fingers through your hair with one hand and tracing your spine with the other.

“Just bullshit,” you responded.

That was what this all was, wasn’t it?

⊛

A team of professional stylists, hairdressers, and make-up artists invaded your space for three hours. You practically boiled over with rage the third time they decided you did not look perfect enough. Mel called them off once you’d started threatening bodily injury. Someone remarked that Valentina would not be pleased, and you’d responded they should be pleased to not be in pieces. No one said much of anything after that. 

After all the poking and prodding was finally over, you were ushered directly into a car that already contained Valentina and John. It seemed as though you were going to have to create a moment alone with him if you so craved it. You shared the briefest of glances and then he was back to absolutely imperturbable.

You were all matching. You, John, Valentina, and you were half expecting Mel to arrive separately but in the same color scheme. It screamed family reunion from hell, but you were sure Valentina was going for novelty. It would sell well, she had probably determined based on polls from who-knows-where and experts who probably had much better things to be doing. 

She had directed you both to tablets loaded with important faces. Why you hadn’t been given them earlier, you weren’t sure. Either she had far too much faith in your ability to digest all kinds of information very quickly, or maybe she was going for authentic introductions over anything else. She’d done it before, given you mere moments to peek at information you’d later only remember with prompting. All those months ago, Mel had explained that it often led to the impression that Valentina had been talking these people up to you, even when she hadn’t. You recalled miserably that people had eaten it up.

It would have made sense, if Custer’s Grove wasn’t the type of place that hired from within, so to speak. You’d known most of the local politicians from childhood, and the ones you hadn’t it was only because they were so much younger than you. (Or had been, for some. Blip mathematics were hell on your brain.)

“Big smiles,” Valentina reminded you as the car came to a stop. “Make it look good.”

John was out first and you saw cameras immediately flash. Publicly disliked or no, it appeared he was still quite the spectacle to capture. Valentina was next, John gentlemanly offered her a hand to help her out of the car. You were sure she was practically giddy over the thought of it in the local paper. She made a time of it, at least giving you a few moments to breathe. You doubted that was on purpose, sure that she just relished all of the attention on herself.

You saw her vanish alone. John was still waiting, dipping his head down to look at you still in the car. You did not will your muscles to move, still deep in your desire to not be doing this. Maybe, if you offered enough money, the driver would just take off.

Whoever’s idea it was to host a charity event in your high school’s gymnasium was officially on your hit list. It all suddenly made a lot of sense, though. Talk about recapturing the past.

You weren’t sure how Valentina’s people had gotten ahold of pictures that only should have existed in old cameras that you’d left behind years ago. You weren’t sure why she insisted on torturing you like this, or if she even knew it was torture at all. But the rest was all so clear now.

A team of professionals took three hours not to make you look perfect, but to perfectly emulate what you had looked like decades ago at senior prom. It was sneaky and slimy and you had half a mind to rip Valentina’s head clean off her shoulders. It all clicked now because you had been here before. It had been a Chevy truck instead of a fancy limo, and you’d certainly been a hell of a lot younger, but you were familiar still with the sight of John in a suit offering you a hand to help you out of a vehicle. 

“I know,” he said. Clearly it had not just dawned on him the same way it had you. “She’s a real peach, isn’t she.”

Yeah, you were going to rip her limb from limb.

You took John’s proffered hand anyway and prepared yourself for the barrage. The air practically vibrated with it. The Georgia heat was certainly stifling, but it was not what made you breathless.

Cameras captured as you exited, but you did not stop for your moment in the spotlight as Valentina had done. Your name was called, photographers and journalists alike begging for your attention. You ignored them all. Valentina would get the bare minimum, if even that. Instead of posing and smiling politely, you marched yourself straight into the building.

John trailed you for only the few brief moments it took for his long strides to close on you. He was muttering more at you than to you, given you were in no space to listen. The school was decorated professionally, classy enough for adults but obvious enough what it called back to. You kicked yourself for being such a fool. Really, you should have seen it coming. This whole thing had been about hometown glory, after all. It didn’t hurt any less.

Whatever Valentina thought, your time in Custer’s Grove had been less than pleasant. The very best of it, the pieces that she was mutilating to fit her own agenda, had been John. Not your parents, who you’d frankly been relieved to see pass several years ago. Not friends, who had been barely present regardless and had certainly vanished when you went off to school. Not even school, as studious as you had been. The town tried to paint itself gold in retrospect, but you knew the truth and so did anyone who’d been around then. It should have spoken for itself, the way you couldn’t get out fast enough.

Prom was not even a particularly great memory, in the grand scheme of things. John had won king, which would have been great if you had been beside him, but you’d not been nearly popular enough for that. He’d been a gentleman about it, plucking the plastic crown from his own head and placing it on Lemar’s, saying someone else needed to do kingly duties so he could dance with who really mattered. Later in the night, he’d ruined it all by telling you he enlisted. Then, in your infinite teenage wisdom, you’d fucked him while crying in his beat-up truck. Frankly, you felt foolish about a great many things that happened that night, but that didn’t mean you wanted Valentina to rewrite any part of it.

“One hour,” John said, grasping you around the waist in a darkened corner. “One hour, a raffle, a dinner, then we’re done.”

It did little to soothe the fire steadily burning in your very bones. You weren’t sure you could smile through your fury for ten minutes, let alone an hour. You weren’t interested in parroting nostalgia while Valentina tried to talk up “her” team and her ideas. What you wanted was violence, really. It would have been hugely satisfying, for a moment, to gouge Valentina’s eyes out. 

John had pulled you away from all the noise. Your back was pressed to his chest, his arm wound fully around your middle. He was trying to keep you grounded just as much as he was trying to hold you back.

“It’s gonna be fine,” he muttered, lips against the top of your head. “It’s okay.”

This time, it was you who pulled from him like you’d been burned. If you were going to suffer through this, you were not going to hear his reassurances first. Not when you knew in the light he would separate from you like touching you was only suffering. 

You ran into Mel who was on the hunt and looking harried. She gasped in relief at the sight of you, and you noticed with great annoyance that she was in fact in a matching shade. “Have you seen Walker?”

You only barely kept the frown off your face. “No.”

Though she did not look at all like she believed you, she still just directed you to the cafeteria. Like you needed direction. Nothing had changed here, which was part of the problem. There had been no remodel or overhaul at Custer’s Grove High. It was still so perfectly same that you’d have been able to navigate the halls with your eyes shut and recall a memory at every pause. 

“Ah,” Valentina exclaimed with great effort the moment you entered the room, “there she is! And I’m sure John is just on his way…”

The group she was talking to locked onto you, but clearly had no care for whether John was coming or not. You recognized faces not from just files, but from history alone. You recalled flashes of what you were informed they were doing now. The now-mayor, who had once just been a classmate’s older brother, stuck his hand out at you and smiled what you supposed was meant to be charmingly. He was gentle about it, you were not.

“You’re all grown up,” he commented, and you weren’t entirely sure what to make of it. “We’re all so proud of what you’ve become.”

Ironic, coming from someone who’d told his little sister to stay away lest your bad influence rub off on her.

Your smile came across more a grimace, and Valentina intervened quite quickly. You still wanted to rip her face off, so you were glad when she made both herself and the mayor scarce. She pulled him away, talking about how you favored children’s charities, leaving you to your own devices with the rest of the group she’d amassed in your absence.

They talked at you, rather than to you. None of them had known you particularly well in the past, nor did it seem they truly wanted to know you now. It was abundantly clear that you were here offered up on a silver platter like some sort of advertisement. You were asked to throw your support behind local projects, begged to stick around and give some talks to the schools, reminded of memories reframed to be fond when they absolutely had not been.

John, who appeared to have nearly been dragged in by Mel, was experiencing the opposite. The last time he had been in this cafeteria he’d been the talk of the town, and now he was getting brief polite handshakes before being brushed off. As far as you could tell, he was taking it in stride, smiling tightly every time Valentina brought someone around for him to meet. Clearly, she thought it would take some prodding for anyone to approach him. 

You were being passed around the room both of your own accord and against your will. Though you didn’t want to talk to anyone at all, talking to everyone was still somehow preferable than being stuck with one individual. And, you had to admit, it was becoming more and more bearable as you downed glasses of champagne, though you were beginning to tire of even that very quickly.

Someone was talking at you about a start-up, and you were not listening. John had since shaken Valentina off almost entirely, occupying himself on the sidelines. In a real role-reversal, he was the only thing you were worried about even while all the attention was yours. Just as he had done all those years ago. 

“Sorry,” you said, though not sorry at all. You had interrupted what was assuredly a very boring monologue about… pesticides, you thought, but couldn’t be sure. “I’m sorry, I just see someone—”

The man you’d not been listening to gave you a tight smile. “Of course, I’m sure everyone is dying to talk to you.”

It was true. Everyone in the room was aching for your very presence except the one person you wanted to be around. You made a beeline for him, but Mel caught you halfway across the room. 

“Sorry,” she apologized, and she seemed to actually mean it. “They want you to pull the first ticket for the raffle. Everyone’s going to be directed to their tables in a minute.”

You huffed a breath through your nose, but followed anyway. The makeshift stage that had been pulled together for the evening was just as rickety as you remembered it being, even if it might not have been the same one at all. With no real auditorium, all band concerts had been held in the always-smelly gym with what essentially amounted to a very large wooden box to perform on. 

Cameras were pointed at you again. They were recording for something, you’d discovered. You hadn’t had the room in your head to even think about it during your so-called mingling. You had half a mind to start SOS-ing in sign language just to fuck with Valentina, but you refrained. At the very least, you still had some tact, and this was for charity. 

There was a microphone in front of you, which you tapped twice to ensure was working. You did not want to do this more than once. Near your left, Valentina had taken a seat strategically selected next to John. On her other side was an empty chair, you assumed it was yours. The rest of the table was filled with men in suits. It, for the moment, looked very tense. 

You practically droned your way through talking points that Mel had given you. No outright pre-prepared speech, since that would come of as inauthentic, or so you were told. Under any other circumstances, you’d have tried more. It was for a good cause, but the whole night so far had left you sick to your stomach and with a pounding headache. 

A particularly enthusiastic local businesswoman won the first raffle—a donated luxury spa treatment, or the closest thing that Custer’s Grove had to offer—and you were thusly allowed to turn things over to Mel for the rest of the night. Valentina had vanished by the time you made your way to the table, and you took her seat without even looking at the one meant for you. 

In the space between draws, people tried to suck you into conversation, but you weaseled your way out every single time. In the space between breaths, John snuck his hand to your knee under the table and you promptly forced it off. After that, he seemed to understand that he’d gotten himself into trouble too. 

To be clear, you didn’t blame him for the events of the night. You blamed him for not wanting to touch you in public. You weren’t asking for egregious. You weren’t asking for something that would send grandmothers into early cardiac arrest. You just wanted to be able to hold his hand without him wondering if someone was taking pictures and writing articles about how far you’d fallen. 

Valentina returned looking less-than-pleased about something, but also said nothing about you taking her seat. Instead, she slid easily into yours and began making conversation again like nothing happened. When the focus was not on her, she uttered out of the side of her mouth that you needed to make more of an effort. You responded lowly she had gotten all that she was going to get out of you for the night.

Dinner was served once all the prizes had been divvied, but few people remained seated. Mostly, they milled about rubbing shoulders with one another. It seemed, since they realized they were getting very little out of you, they had moved onto each other. Mostly you wished it had happened earlier, but you also knew there’d be hell to pay once Valentina was done fluttering around and making excuses for your reclusive behavior. 

John remained seated next to you throughout it all, but neither of you bothered touching the food that had been served. 

“We might be able to sneak out of here,” he remarked, and you couldn’t help but scoff. “Not like we’re doing much, anyway.”

“Aren’t you worried someone might see? Might assume.”

John sighed heavily. “We doing this here?”

Well, it wasn’t like you had anything better to do. “Guess so.”

“You know what I’m worried about,” he started. “I told you, I’m not taking you down with me. I don’t know why you want me to.”

“I don’t want— I just don’t care, John,” you began, but stopped and floundered for words. It was impossible to know what the right thing to say was, or how to adequately speak your truth about all of it.

You didn’t want it to seem like you disregarded his care for you. You knew it wasn’t that John truly wanted to keep you secret, not in some kind of shamed way. He saw it as protecting you from the thing that had hurt him the most. But he wasn’t grasping that you’d fought gods and monsters and everything in between, and that you’d lost so many friends in the process that all you cared about now was what mattered.

What mattered to you was holding on tight to what you had now. The people that you had now. Your fragile team, separate pieces of shattered, jagged glass that somehow fit together just right like a puzzle. Him, of course. Always him.

“I love you,” you told him, not a whisper. You would have yelled it, but also you wouldn’t. It wasn’t attention you were going for. You didn’t need to love him loudly, but you didn’t want to do it silently either. “Damn the consequences.”

It rendered John utterly speechless for several moments. You just looked at him evenly, figuring you could forgive him his shock. It was three little words that you’d had a lifelong mental block for. Something you’d only ever thought and never said aloud. Even Bucky, ever emotionally-constipated, had managed it before you did. John had said it often, freely, like he was making up for lost time. He never pushed, never asked it of you. Never flinched when in response you just uttered, you too. Never took offense that you couldn’t manage it.

He finally began, “How’re you gonna say something like that when I can’t—”

“You can,” you interrupted. “You’re what matters to me. Not what people think.”

He spoke quick and low, “You’re in a room full of people who’ve spent the entire night trying to ignore me because they’d rather be caught dead than on my side. I love you, you know that—”

“I wanna marry you, one day,” you interrupted him again. “And that’s never going to happen if you keep trying to protect me from what people are going to think.”

John floundered again. That was certainly a thing you hadn’t talked about, but you figured cards on the table. You didn’t know if he’d even considered marrying again, or if the whole institution was a write-off to him, but you’d found yourself imagining it as of late. It would by untraditional, you knew. There’d be no moving out of the tower to some suburb, and it would probably be more courthouse than big, white wedding, but you were okay with that. It would be more than enough for you.

“Let’s get out of here,” he finally uttered.

Your shoulders slumped unintentionally. “John—”

“Let’s get out of here,” he repeated. “Because I want to go home. Now. With you. And if you don’t care who sees, I don’t either.”

There was a great soar all within the confines of your body. He was standing, offering you his hand, not even casting a glance over his shoulder to see if there was anyone nearby. When you took it and stood, he released only to wrap his arm around your waist and pull you tight into his side. 

“I love you,” he said. “And I’m sorry.”

You weren’t sneaking off. You were just leaving, together, to go home. Your real home, where all of your friends were probably wreaking havoc and trying to kill each other. Valentina was calling after you, trying to draw you back and following your exit all at once.

She sounded utterly shocked as she said, “Where are you going?”

“We’re going home, Val,” John said over his shoulder. “With or without your permission.”

He waited until you were out of eyesight to press his lips to yours. Not to keep it secret. Not because it was hidden, but because that part was just for you.

[speakingsoftly]

the heart of the matter.

pairing: john walker x reader

summary: Your problems with John Walker reach a boiling point. Bucky Barnes meddles.

word count: 5.8k

warnings: kind of vague suicidal ideation that's not ever acted on. john is a dick. reader is also kind of a dick. bucky meddles. so much swearing in here your toes might curl. i've never done a reader-insert before so i'm bad at this. this is me showing you my metaphorical fanfic dick please respond

a/n: as hinted above, this is my first foray into the reader-insert game. constructive criticism is welcome but if all you have in your heart is haterism please keep the thoughts inside. exes to lovers kind of except the ending is vague. follow up definitely possible. i don't really take requests but you're more than welcome to drop some thoughts/ideas in my inbox and if inspo strikes i will oblige. uhhh that's all i think? john walker girlies rise. stalking the tag is what brought me to this.

(also, not edited because i can't be bothered since this is all in good fun)

You had never thought that life would lead you back to John Walker. Or perhaps, that life had led the both of you back to each other. After all, this had been your world first.

You’d been an unfortunate accident long before anyone thought there would be a need for a successor to Steve Rogers. It wasn’t really worth recounting, given it happened as so many things did, something in a lab went wrong, and it broke you. Okay. Maybe broke wasn’t the word. It had changed you into something simultaneously greater and far worse. Whatever. It hardly mattered at this point. What mattered was that it was odd someone from your small, bullshit town had become an Avenger, odder still that it had been you. You hadn’t thought there was anymore odd to go around.

(You were deeply, deeply misguided.)

It had never truly been decided amongst you, Bucky, and Sam whether John had been picked partly because of you (John himself would insist it had nothing to do with it). Bucky was one-hundred percent convinced it had been done on purpose. It’s easier to swallow, he’d said, because people know how close you were with Steve, and since you and Walker have… a past.

Calling it a past was generous. You’d dated in high school, when you were a little dumber and he a little less obnoxious, then he’d enlisted and you’d gone off to college. It was an almost entirely expected and underwhelming end to what had been a classic high school relationship. It was hardly a past, it had really just been growing pains. With Steve, however, it was an on-again off-again situationship that felt far too juvenile at your big age, but had gone unexpectedly public.

So now you were the woman who had dated not one, but two Captain Americas, even if you were quick to insist that John had been little more than captain of the football team at the time. The general public had eaten it up when John was given the shield and still now, while Valentina was parading around her so-called New Avengers. A grave misnomer, you thought, considering this wasn’t exactly your rookie year. It was a hard pill to swallow.

Yelena insisted that you all as a team owned Valentina. You thought it felt a little bit like the other way around. At the same time, you knew it would take all of five seconds for you to tear the entire charade apart. As withdrawn as you were from, well, everything since Thanos, you knew you still held enough public interest that you could get on a stage and rip Valentina to shreds and end it all. But you couldn’t. There was just something about the strange little group that tugged on your remaining heartstrings.

It had been a fight, at first. Sam had been furious, but it had weighed far more heavily on Bucky than you. At the very least, you could look Sam in the eye and remind him that you had been around before the Avengers were even really a team. You’d been part of Nick Fury’s cobbled-together collection of misfits that could hardly be called a group, let alone a team. Sam might have been Captain America, but you were essentially the only original left. Tony and Natasha were dead, Steve was old, Clint and Bruce had families, and Thor was somewhere of in space doing… well, whatever the hell he wanted to, you supposed. You remained, heavy with loss and silently happy to see another group of misfits learning to stitch themselves together. Even if this time it was much, much messier.

Still, you resented the government control, and that John was involved.

You took it upon yourself to constantly remind him that he was only still around because you tolerated it, which he hated. It wasn’t that he was your ex, though you loathed to call him even that. It was that he’d take Steve’s legacy, tried to turn it to dust, and was still clinging to it. He insisted he was doing what he could with what he had, you insisted he could do better, and so the carousel turned.

The only argument he ever won, not that you’d ever admit it out loud, was when he reminded not just you, but everyone that he’d had you first. There was no argument against the truth. Even if you could insist that you were more serious with Steve (you weren’t), or that you’d loved Steve more (you weren’t even sure you’d been in love with Steve at all), it all circled back around to an undisputed fact: John Walker bested Steve in approximately one race and it was having you.

He had brought it up again, and you knew it was because he was feeling sensitive about something. You were fed up, and had snapped back a scathing remark you’d only ever thought before. You know, you keep bringing that shit up and someone might start to think you’re in love with me. You hadn’t said it because you thought there was any truth, but because you knew it would piss him off, because you were taking the one thing he could hold over your head and turning it back around on him. Bucky had openly laughed, which certainly hadn’t helped things, but John didn’t give into the fight you were expecting.

It gnawed at you all night and then began to worry you in the morning. You’d only ever known him to snap and give into baser instincts. Even in high school when he could have been called more mellow he’d always been ready to throw a punch or two. No response you’d ever seen from him consisted of steely silence or any kind of restraint. Though you wanted to take it as a sign of personal growth, you were more inclined to think it was something much worse. You imagined a brewing rage eating away at him like acid, and you had to wonder when it was going to boil over.

It wasn’t until Bob, sweet and generally unconcerned with John, mentioned it that you decided it was time to do something about it. Haven’t seen Walker all day, he’d remarked about the second most loud and imposing member of the team. Ava remarked that she was pleased with the development, but even Yelena looked disturbed. Alexei could not have cared any less as he shoveled Wheaties into this mouth, but Bucky… Bucky had leveled you with a look that suggested he thought something needed to be done too. That was the straw, you supposed. You might have been able to fight your own instincts about it, if Bucky had not looked at you like that, like he thought this might really become a problem sometime soon. 

You sighed heavily and lifted yourself off the couch with a dramatized effort. Bucky indicated downstairs in the direction of the gym rather than above to the quarters where you all had your personal spaces. You briefly wondered if you could convince Bucky to have a man-to-man conversation with him rather than leaving you to make nice with your most irksome teammate. Ultimately, you realized that Bucky likely would rather put himself in the ground. Annoying, emotionally-constipated super soldiers were really fucking your life up.

(Pot, kettle, Bucky would probably insist, even if you were more super and less soldier.)

Inside the gym, you found yourself realizing that other than you, John and Steve had something else in common. They both liked to treat punching bags like they’d been done great personal offense by every one of them. Even in his occupation, you knew he noticed you. Or, at the very least, he’d noticed that someone had joined him.

“Your absence is troubling Bob,” you stated simply.

He didn’t pause his assault on the bag, but he did choose to switch sides to look at you. “I doubt it.”

“He said he hadn’t seen you all day. Mentioned, therefore noticed, therefore…”

“Therefore you drew straws and you’re the unluckiest of the bunch?”

You wished you’d drawn straws. “If only that had been part of the equation. No. Believe it or not, I figured this is mostly my problem.” You left out the fact that Bucky had too. John didn’t have anything to say about that, but he did pause and begin to unwrap his hands, preparing for what you also imagined was going to be a very tedious conversation. One that, apparently, you were going to have to take the reins of. “I’m more than willing to fight this out, but just know I’ll wipe the floor with you.” He didn’t take the bait. “Seriously, what the hell is going on? You’ve been on my ass since day one about what feels like fifteen million years ago, but I make one comment and you’re— you’re…” You had no clue how to finish that sentence, but you certainly weren’t going to apologize for anything. 

He finally opens his mouth to actually say something, but it’s far from anything you’d have expected. “Does it really bother you that much? Thinking about back then?”

It was a pivot you hadn’t been expecting and it left you floundering for something to say. Did it bother you to think about? No. No, what bothered you was that it was constantly brought up in the context of being a thing to have been had, or a measure by which to pick who could have the shield. What irked you, was that John kept bringing it up like you were some kind of trophy rather than a person. Otherwise, as just something that had happened, as a relationship you had, there were fond memories if you didn’t apply the present-day John Walker of it all.

“It’s not important,” you decided to say, rather than admitting that he was constantly tainting what had previously been a genuinely pleasant example of what a first love could be. “It was forever ago, but you keep bringing it up like it’s another medal on your chest.”

And of course he zeroed in on what affronted him most. “Not important.” He was muttering to himself, mostly, but you heard it. “Just, you know, half of the sum-total of all my relationships in life. Not important.”

And that irked at you, when he’d gone onto have a wife and a kid and a brief white-picket-fence life that you’d probably never get to see because everyone in the world looked at you like some kind of commodity. A weapon to save the world, a face to plaster on tv and advertisements, a figurehead to say hey, look, this group must be good!

“My god, John,” you snapped, “you have a family. What the hell does some bullshit high school girlfriend matter? We were both nobody back then.”

“Because the family thing worked out so well for me,” he retorted.

“That was your own fault and you know it.”

A low-blow and you knew it, but you’d never be able to understand why he wasn’t constantly fighting tooth and nail to get back to them. You knew he missed his son, often caught him looking at photos that he’d gotten from somewhere. You weren’t sure if Olivia was doing a kindness and sending them, or if he was finding them by less-than-legal means, but you knew he looked at them longingly and still did nothing about it.

“Yeah, yeah, I know, always fucking everything up.”

You exhaled frustratedly through your nose. This was not going how you’d planned. It had gotten far more hostile than you’d intended. “I’m not trying to dog on you.” Though it would have been so much easier, if you were being honest. Which, you weren’t being, you knew. Being honest would have meant just telling him that you were tired of being a referred to as a possession, and how every time he brought it up, it felt like a reminder that even your pathetic high school partnership was the closest to serious you’d probably ever be able to get. “But you’re the one who brings it up like it’s a joke, not me.”

His head snapped to you, gaze torn away from the mindless packing of his gym bag. “I’m the one making a joke out of it? You’re the one who wants to act like it never even happened.”

“Because you’re the one ruining it.” You weren’t yelling, not really. But the whole thing was striking a sensitive chord that you’d never intended on even acknowledging. “You’re the one acting like I was a trophy you had and then threw away. So excuse me if I’m not looking back with fondness at being a thing.”

“I don’t even know what that’s supposed to mean.”

If he was being serious or purposefully obtuse, you weren’t sure. Realistically it could have been either. He might have trying to turn the tables on you, to move away from his nearly twenty-four hours of petulance that you were supposed to have been addressing. Or, maybe he really didn’t know that he’d been biting away at decently pleasant memories ever since he decided to try to be Steve. Maybe he was just that ignorant. And maybe you were kidding yourself in thinking he hadn’t been your first love, even if he hadn’t been the great love of your life. Yeah, you would perhaps admit in the deepest recesses of your mind, maybe that was a big part of it all. 

Regardless, it was becoming exceedingly clear that perhaps neither of you were in the proper mindset for this conversation to go anywhere. John’s ego was clearly too bruised from your brief ribbing to think of anything beyond how things affected him, and you were just… well, you supposed you’d been hurting too much about everything for far too long. 

At least you could tell Bucky you’d tried.

⊛

Another team was falling apart before your eyes, which meant you weren’t sleeping. Or, at the very least, sleeping as little as you could without being plagued by memories turned nightmares. So maybe that was why you were particularly sensitive, which was perhaps why you felt like bursting into tears all the time.

It had been a shit week, though, so you were giving yourself some grace. You’d allow yourself tears if they really wanted to come, if you even had any left. 

The tension with John had gotten worse, and now there were sides to it all. Bucky was on yours, unequivocally, always. The rest of the team flip-flopped back and forth depending wholly on mood or which one of you had pissed them off more that day. Bob was the only one who sat entirely neutral, though you were certain that the whole thing was stressing them out. And all of it was, albeit on a much smaller scale, reminding you of years ago which made the whole thing more unpleasant.

In the end, it made you wonder if you were still cut out for this.

Losing another team would break you, you were sure of it. Even if it was a patchwork team filled mostly with people who grated on your nerves like it was a full time job, losing it would break you. So, you were kind of thinking it was time to remove yourself from the situation. Retirement wouldn’t have looked so bad, if you weren’t going to be alone in all of it. 

That all being said, it had not been a good decision to think about it all in Tony’s old tower, looking to space from the spot he’d built to land the suit. Valentina had called it good optics, but you thought it was more bittersweet memory. Things had been good here, then bad, then good again, and then nothing. Now it was… well, you weren’t sure what the hell to call it because everything reminded you of something else. Everything reminded you of them and it damn near tore you to shreds.

Yeah, you were really beginning to think that you weren’t cut out for this anymore.

Bucky appeared from a dark corner as he so often did, and you weren’t sure if he was trying to joke when he asked, “Do I need to be worried about you?”

Either way, you knew it was a lie when you said, “No, just can’t sleep.”

When you looked at him, you knew that he knew you were full of shit. So, it was like that then. He sighed heavily and stretched out on the floor next to you. 

“I’m going to stay here until you talk to me.” You knew he was serious, unfortunately. You’d uttered the same words to him years ago when Steve had you and Sam chasing his tail. “Or until we decide to kill Walker.” You looked at him sideways. “I’m mostly joking. But I did catch him drinking milk out of the carton again, so.” He shrugged as best he could while horizontal.

“This is not John,” you said. At least, not entirely. Sure, the tension still grated on you, but it only really served to point out how much everything started to bother you when a single element went wrong. One piece out of place and all you could think about was everything you’d lost. “It’s— it’s this whole fucking place, Bucky. I don’t think I can be here anymore.”

“This doesn’t work without you,” he says firmly. ���You leave, this whole thing falls apart like a house of cards. I’m sorry, but it’s true.” You couldn’t help but think that was bullshit, and the way you looked at Bucky conveyed as much. “I don’t do this without you. Already told you, where you go, I go.”

The worst part was you knew he would. If you left, he’d follow just like you’d stuck to him like glue after Steve left to chase happiness. Steve might have said until the end of the line, but you and Bucky were the ones holding the rope. But even though you thought the team could pull themselves together without you, you also knew they had no hope of doing the same without him. 

“I can’t lose another team,” you admitted. Even with the admission you held back. Your natural, instinctual follow-up was that it had almost killed you last time, but you knew from your time in Bob’s void that it all still haunted Bucky. He still blamed himself for splitting the Avengers. “This is too good for you— all of you, for me to ruin it with all my bullshit.”

It almost looked like Bucky was considering it, the way his brow knit together and his eyes squinted ever-so-slightly. So, it took you by surprise when the man who’d been flying by the seat of his pants so recently looked you dead in the face and said, “If you’re willing to hear me out, I have a plan.”

⊛

You did not think Bucky’s plan was a good one, nor did anyone else. When he remarked vaguely about switching some things around and off-handedly mentioned bonding, you had not expected to end up here. This was what you got for hearing him out. Goddamn fucking nonsense.

“This is elaborate joke, yes?” Alexei asked.

“I look like I’m joking to you?” Bucky asked, frowning.

“I think we all wish you were,” Ava retorted.

Yelena nodded and added, “This is going to get someone killed.”

If Bucky’s plan was to unite you all against his asinine games, he’d succeeded. Nobody was sure how he’d convinced Valentina to fork out the funds to reserve an entire camp usually used for corporate retreats, but he’d done it. It was a forked tongue of an idea, really. It got you out of the government-funded press tour that was previously scheduled, but it also meant a week with only each other doing trust falls or whatever other crap white-collar idiots did to encourage teamwork.

Despite all complaints and reservations, you all piled into the car and allowed Bucky to cart you off to the middle of nowhere, albeit entirely silently. A butterfly landing could have frayed your last nerve, which was exactly what happened when you saw a file marked cabin arrangements. It had to have been a sick joke. You had half a mind to casually remark, hey, if you wanted me dead you should have just told me, but you didn’t think he’d have taken kindly to that and you weren’t in the mood for an involuntary psychiatric hold. 

Instead you told him, “I think this violates the Geneva conventions.”

“You and Walker have the most issues,” he responded. “And you said you’d hear me out. I really think this is going to work.”

Yelena was right, this was going to get someone killed. It didn’t matter if there was an assembled team of professionals waiting to teach you how to play nice with each other, either you or John would be dead come morning. Everyone else would just have to spend the rest of the week with the corpse. At least then there’d be an even number.

Only out of respect for Bucky did you swallow your pride and stomp off to your assigned cabin with John following close behind. Otherwise, you might have started a fight then and there, but he was right: you’d promised to hear him out, even if this was the last time you’d do it. 

Your so-called cabin reminded you more of a dorm room than a woodsy vacation. It was closer-quarters than you’d been with anyone since being on the run. It was just one room with two beds on either side that you likely could have reached at the same time if you stood in the middle and stretched a little. The only comfort was indoor plumbing. You might have become immediately homicidal if there had been any mention of an outhouse.

“Gonna kill him,” John was muttering as he unpacked.

Part of you wanted to tell him to get in line, but a much bigger part of you wanted another hours-long stretch of silence. This was your life for the week, whether you liked it or not, and you wanted to keep the baseline peace for as long as possible. It was hard to do, though, when the second you’d unpacked your own belongings and decided to relax on the bed, someone was knocking at the door. A voice you didn’t recognize cheerily announced that you were to meet at the fire pit for introductions. You plotted Bucky’s slow and painful death as you forced yourself to follow orders.

Ten minutes later, you were all gathered around the unlit fire-pit looking at not just each other, but four very normal people who looked nervous just to be there. How they were supposed to help you all get chummy when they could barely look you in the eyes, you had no clue. It was the woman who you suspected had also been the one to summon you that clapped her hands together and declared you would get started. Though she seemed to be putting her best foot forward, you saw the light in her eyes dim when Yelena drily marked there was no reason for introductions because you all knew each other already.

“Well, okay,” she said with her forced smile, “how about, a fun fact about each of you!”

You could think of a glorious list of fun facts entirely centered around the torture you had in store for your so-called best friend, but you didn’t say that. Which, of course, was not to suggest that the “fun facts” to go around were not equally horrifying. Little miss sunshine was more unsettled minute by minute, and her own staff looked ready to bolt. You reiterated to only yourself, this was not going to work.

It was not working when they put you in their “state-of-the-art” escape room which lasted all of two minutes before John kicked the door open. It was not working when they had you doing child-level arts and crafts on an assembly line, which ended promptly when Ava put scissors through Alexei’s hand. And it was definitely, most certainly, absolutely not working when you were eating lunch and Bob accidentally started a food fight, not in the fun way. It was a lost cause, and it harrowed the staff.

The cheery instructor was holding on by a thread when she declared that she thought some self-reflection time was due and so sent you all off to your respective housing. You swore you saw Bucky’s eye twitch as he headed off towards his own, blissfully single accommodations. Only a few hours in and the plan was falling apart like a child’s blanket fort.

You showered mashed potatoes out of your hair, beating John to the bathroom by seconds to his great frustration. You were not reinvigorated when you emerged clean, but you at least felt less heavy. As John brushed past you on his way to his own shower, you breathed a sigh of relief at the prospect of a few moments truly alone. Three hours and you were already tearing your hair out. 

For Bucky, you wanted to put your best foot forward. He was serious about leaving with you, if that was the choice you made, but that pained you. He had found something here, something that could be important and do good, and you weren’t sure if it would kill you more to stick around miserable, or to tear him away. Still, you had told him the truth that night, you weren’t sure you could do it anymore.

Miserably and embarrassingly, a dam broke inside and you burst into tears at the exact moment John exited the briefest shower in human history. He looked at you alarmed and you promptly squeezed your eyes as tight as you could. Perhaps if you couldn’t see him, you could pretend it wasn’t happening at all. If he hadn’t been there hovering, waiting for who knows what, you maybe could have, but he did. John stood there statuesque in exactly the same way he had when you were teenagers, always unsure what to do when you cried. 

“Jesus,” he breathed. “The hell did I do now?”

You wanted to scream that not everything was about him, that you’d been miserable long before he ever reentered your life but there was no space in your lungs left to do so. Which meant you just sat there heaving sobs in front of the last person you ever wanted to show a vulnerable bone in your body. If he wanted to see you beaten down by life to feel good about himself, you were certainly giving him the show.

He took you back to high school again, which was both humiliating and a horrifying comfort. He’d never known what to do while you cried, but he’d certainly had a routine for after. You weren’t sure where he got the water bottle that he thrust into your hands ten minutes later, nor did you notice him disappear into the bathroom again for a toilet-paper sub for tissue, but he had. The whole time you shook while you cleaned yourself up and rehydrated so thoroughly you felt like puking, he sat on the floor with his back against your bed, radiating body heat against your leg without touching.

Then he asked you what he always had, and it still sounded like it pained him just like before, “Do you want to talk about it?”

No. You thought you wanted to die, really. You thought that maybe Bucky had needed to worry. And you were thinking that John was still a better man than you gave him credit for, despite all the space and time. Horrifying discover after horrifying discovery. Why you admitted the truth to him you’d probably never know. Why he shared the same would always make you wonder.

“I think I don’t want to be here anymore,” you said, cracking through chesty mucus that had settled in your lungs. The look on his face suggested he knew you didn’t just mean the cabin or trip. Soft eyes, like the very idea of it haunted him even though he shouldn’t have cared any less. It wouldn’t have removed the feather of you from his cap. He still could claim it: I had her. What a shame things went the way they did… It should not have mattered to him. He’d never given you any indication it would.

“I think,” you continued, “that almost everyone I’ve ever loved is dead or gone, and I’m wondering why I didn’t end up there too. So fuck you for thinking it’s you I’m crying over. I was miserable before you. I’ll be miserable after.”

He invoked again through a sigh and rose. “I’m going to go get Bucky.”

Your hand shot out and gripped his wrist as tight as you could. It wouldn’t bruise a super-soldier but he got the point. “You get Bucky and I’ll kill you, John.”

That would be the last straw. Bucky saw you like this and everything would be a goner. He was your best friend, and he’d do anything in the world for you, which made it so damn hard for you to do everything in your power for him. Bucky would never know.

“You’re goddamn demented, you know.” He relented despite what seemed to be protestation. “Fuckin’ crazy. Threatening to put me in the ground for trying to help you.”

“Fuck you,” you repeated, heatless and bland but all you had. “You aren’t helping shit.”

“Yeah, well, I’m trying here, baby.”

If you had anything left to give besides the barest of oxygen in your lungs, you might have cried all over again. You could imagine clawing at him for having the audacity to call you that, accident or not, but your very bones denied it. Something must have leeched the calcium right out of them, the way you might have buckled if you had been standing. All while your blood was turning to sludge in your veins, John Walker muttered the first apology you’d maybe ever heard from him. Force of habit, he added, like the last time he had any right to say something like that wasn’t years ago.

There was a stretch of silence that could have been hours for all you knew. There were knocks on the door that you both ignored for some reason you’d never be able to explain. There was probably a search party underfoot, but it all seemed deeply inconsequential. At some point, you’d drawn your knees up to your chest, and he’d ended up next to you. Just the barest brushing of skin.

“I want this to work,” you admitted against all better judgment. “For Bucky. For me. I miss having people to rely on. I always liked having people in my corner.”

“I’m getting divorced,” he offered, a piece of his hurt for yours. “Liv might let me see my son. She had some real choice words when I called. So, I guess it would be nice to have some people in my corner, too.”

A real pretty picture to paint, to be sure. Far from being possible just because you decided there was really nothing left to lose. Even so, there was nothing left to do but try. 

⊛

So maybe Bucky Barnes was some kind of closet genius.

It was a bit like puzzle pieces clicking when you decided to give it a real go. You still wanted to kill John sometimes. A lot of the time. Maybe even most of the time. But you’d looked straight into each others’ gooey centers, and that would have changed things for anyone.

When you asked where the hell a plan like his had even come from, Bucky admitted it had been far more Sam than it had him. Couple’s counseling, he’d remarked which had explained a number of disappearances he’d previously left up for debate, we’d been going for a while, and when I was telling him he said it was too bad I couldn’t make everyone go. So I found a way. You’d just smiled and said, Fucking weird plan, Buck. You couldn’t deny the results though.

The next time you caught yourself gazing up at the stars recounting what you’d once had, it was John that joined you instead of Bucky. For the first time in a long time, it didn’t leave you with a bone-deep pain to talk about what had been. You grew to understand how Bucky held no resentment to Steve for chasing his own peace, even if it meant leaving forever. It didn’t freeze you to the bone to tell someone, even if it was him, that Yelena was reminding you more and more of Natasha with each passing day. It no longer felt like pulling teeth when you admitted that sometimes when you had a drink at the bar you thought about Tony. Now, when you looked at the sky you wished Thor only the best, rather than cursing him for leaving you for so long. Sometimes, John would tell you about his son and you’d smile for Bruce and Clint. 

Part of you recoiled when he echoed Bucky’s words to you. “I need to be worried about you?”

“Nah,” you said, the truth this time. “I’m… solid. Putting in the work. Therapy, medication, all that jazz.” It being mandatory now was only about half the reason you still visited a professional weekly. “I’m doing good, I think.” John repeated good several times as he nodded mostly to himself. You turned it on him. “I gotta be worried about you?”

At that, he shook his head. He echoed your sentiment about putting in the work at mandatory therapy. He was solid too, good even, practically verging on great. His fingers brushed yours as he explained he was having his first unsupervised visit with his son. Not at the tower, nowhere near the tower if he could help it. Not that it was a trust thing, he made sure to add hastily. He thought that maybe there would be a day he could show his son what “work” was now, just not so soon. You were genuinely glad for him all while ignoring a pesky blooming warmth in your chest at a tentative grasp of hands.

John Walker still had roots in you, that was certain, and you had a feeling you had a home somewhere in his ribcage too. 

“We were best friends once,” he remarked sometime after your pulse had stopped thrumming in your ears. “Think it could happen again?”

A small smile broke through very thin resistance, and you hummed for what seemed to be dramatic affect. “Spot’s taken… think I might have something else in mind for you, if you’re up for the challenge.”

Clasped hands raised, lips meet the inside of your wrist, your pulse flutters again. “Up for anything, baby.”

[speakingsoftly]

Like Old Times

Bucky after TFAWS but before Thunderbolts?? If that makes sense...

Summary: Bucky feels insecure about a few extra pounds he's put on, but in no way you don't let him feel bad about it.

Content warning: Slight body shaming on himself from Bucky, insecure Bucky, mild language, established relationship between reader and Bucky, implied sexy time which leads to smut (no smut in this though), little fluff if you squint.

"Hey, what are you doing?" 

You flopped down on the couch next to your boyfriend Bucky. He was frowning looking at his phone. 

"Did you mess up your settings again? I can fix them, I don't mind." You teased causing Bucky to glare at you. 

"No." He grumped. 

He was scrolling through his phone looking at his photos. He let out a sigh and tossed his phone aside. 

"Are you ok?"

You looked at him closer. 

"I'm fine." 

He was pouting and that was never good. He seemed to be in one of his moods, so you patted his thigh and went to the kitchen to start supper.

Dating Bucky was kind of like being on a rollercoaster. He had more than his fare share of good days and treated you amazingly well, but on his bad days, he could be moody and a little brooding and snappy. You knew enough to let him be and give him space, keeping a watchful eye on him if he started to spiral and would only interfere if you felt he needed help. 

Those days were getting fewer and fewer, but the odd time, they creeped in and caused him to be a little broody and unavailable, like today.

"What is all this?" 

Bucky sat down at the table. 

"Umm, dinner?" 

"Oh." 

"I made all your favourites. I figured you could use some cheering up." 

Bucky looked over the BBQ ribs, mac and cheese, Caesar salad, and garlic bread you had put down in front of him. You helped yourself but noticed he only took a few things on his plate rather than piling on the food like he usually does. 

"Are you feeling, ok?" 

You took a bite of mac and cheese while Bucky poked around at the food on his plate. 

"I'm fine." 

He sighed. 

You eyed him but continued to eat.

After supper, you snuggled on the couch to watch a movie. 

"Do you want any popcorn?" 

"No," came his immediate response. 

"Ok." 

You put on the movie and snuggled into Bucky. He had his arm firmly at your side, holding you close. His moods would go in funny ways. Sometimes if he was lost in thought, he would be distant, and other times, he would be clingy and a little needy. 

This was somewhere in-between, and you'd take what you could get.

Halfway through the movie, you got up to make some popcorn since you felt like it, so you paused the movie. 

"What are you doing?" 

"Making popcorn." 

"I said I don't want any," came his snappy reply.

 "Ok...but I do, so I'm making some." 

That got a huff from Bucky as you made the popcorn. Sometimes if Bucky was a little snappy, you gave it right back to him. 

Usually, he would apologize after for being like that, so you never minded. 

When the popcorn was done, you got a little melted butter out and poured it over the popped kernels and sprinkled some salt on the steaming popcorn, just the way you prefer it.

"There we are." 

You sat down and started munching away on the salty buttery goodness. You were grateful you were comfortable around him because whenever you ate popcorn, you ate it like you were a rabid starving raccoon shoving it into your mouth making you have a butter face and salty lips. Bucky resumed the movie. 

"Do you mind?" Bucky grumbled. 

"No, I do not." 

You shoveled more popcorn in your mouth and continued watching the movie. You placed the bowl on the coffee table when you were done with it. 

"I know you said you didn't want any, but there's some left if you change your mind." 

Bucky frowned but didn't reach for the bowl like he normally does if there's leftovers.

After the movie, you got yourself ready for bed. 

"You coming?" 

"Be there in a bit." 

"Ok." 

You got out of the bathroom, changed, and noticed Bucky wasn't there. You snuck down the hall and caught him looking at photos on his camera...again. He seemed annoyed and was grumbling to himself while looking through them. 

What is he looking at? 

He mainly had photos of you and him he was scrolling through, a few selfies here and there. He was zooming in on them with a frown and lots of sighs. Your heart rate picked up.

  Is...is he having second thoughts about dating me? Does he want to break up? You cursed yourself for your mind immediately going there. He'd been a bit distant to you lately, but it's just one of his moods...right? 

You thought about it and noted there wasn't anything crazy happening at his work, your family hadn't visited, Sam was quiet, so you wondered what his deal was while you tiptoed back to your bedroom and headed for bed.

💪🏻

You woke the next morning to a cold side of the bed, in fact, it was completely unmade. 

What the hell? 

Your heart immediately sunk. 

Did he leave? 

Bucky hadn't come to bed, which was very weird and not normal for him. Even when he was in one of his "moods", he always came to bed. You sat up and looked around the room. He still had some of his things there, so you were relieved he didn't pack up and leave sometime through the night. 

Even if he did leave, you never would have heard him since you sleep like a rock. You got up in search of your distant boyfriend, ready to confront him.

"Hey." 

You found Bucky lying on the couch. He had fallen asleep there since you peeked at him before going to bed. He grumbled something and rolled over to face the back of the couch. 

You scowled at the lump of the man who was lying there. 

"Are you ok?" You asked. 

You saw him tense up a little before he shrugged. 

"Bucky...talk to me..." 

You stepped towards him, flopped on the couch, and cuddled up behind him, so he was the little spoon; something he refuses to admit he really enjoys. 

You wrapped your arms around him and held tight in a gripping backwards hug. He was tense and was shrugging you off. 

"Leave me alone." He grumbled. 

Earlier in your relationship, you would have left and given him space, but not now. He had his pity party, and you wanted to know why so you charged full steam ahead, determined to get to the bottom of his little funk fest. 

"Bucky...I know there's something bothering you..." 

You squeezed his mid-section. He yelped and struggled to get up. 

"What? Are you hurt?" 

You looked him up and down, seeing nothing was physically hurting him. 

What the hell? 

He stood next to the couch shuffling his feet with a red face. 

"I can't fix it if you don't tell me what the issue is." 

He opened his mouth to say something silly when you interrupted him, "And don't tell me nothing is wrong. I've given you space to work it out, but I'm done with that. So, what's wrong?" 

You sat up and glared at him.

He looked around the room and rubbed the back of his neck before his arm fell to his side. He mumbled something but you had no idea what he said. 

"What was that?" 

Bucky rolled his eyes like a child. 

"Don't you roll your eyes at me James." 

He huffed. 

"What is it?" 

He sighed and sat next to you. 

"It's...well...it's kind of...embarrassing...for me..." 

You looked down at his fingers that were fidgeting.

 "Oh, like a wiener thing?" 

You didn't really have any experience talking about that subject, but you vowed to help him in any way, mentally thinking about local doctors he could visit or getting him someone to talk to. 

"NO! God no, wh-why would you say that?" Bucky cringed. 

"What? I don't know...you're being weird. You said it's embarrassing...so I assumed it has to do with your wiener. You know, like a guy thing? Down there?" 

"Don't say wiener." 

"Well, that's where my mind went when you said it was embarrassing. From the other night, I thought things were perfectly fine with your wiener thank you very much..." 

"Oh my god!" Bucky huffed out. "It's not that!" 

"Oh. Well, then what is it?" 

He sat back and ran his hand through his hair. 

"I-I...well...look at me." 

He scowled down at himself. 

Your eyes raked over him in appreciation. 

"Yeah? So, what am I looking at? Are you hurt? Are your clothes, ok? I can get you a new t-shirt if you want?" 

You didn't see anything wrong with him, not one bit; he's perfect in your eyes. 

"No...like...LOOK at me. Here..." 

Bucky grabbed his tummy and shook it, jiggling it a little. 

"I'm not really following you." 

You watched as he scoffed, releasing his hand. 

"Ugh...my stomach it's...it's...not as it once was...like old times..." he whispered.

Ever since Bucky returned, finished therapy, helped Sam with the flag smashers, he got an office job with the veteran's department, so he wasn't on missions or training. His life was meetings and paperwork followed by evenings spent with you at home on the couch. Perhaps in his new routine and new life, he had let his training and workouts slip. 

He'd been eating better and often since you loved to cook and bake, and he loved sampling whatever you came up with. You never noticed anything before, preferring to love him regardless. 

His slight tummy on him looked as good if not better than his six pack, because dad bods did something to you just as a 6-pack does.

"Bucky...I don't care how you look. The important thing is, you're healthy and happy. In a better place you know?" 

He huffed and frowned to himself.

"I know...but still. When I look at these old photos of us last year...I was so much better looking. Look here..." 

He showed you a selfie he took of you both on a beach vacation showing him in his shorts and you in your bathing suit. 

"We look damn fine." You blurted out. 

"Yeah, and now, I look like a doughball. You still look amazing." He grumbled. 

You sighed and shook your head in disbelief. You took his phone from his hands and replaced it with yours, squeezing them together. 

"You listen to me good James Buchanan..." He perked up and took notice. You didn't call him James often but when you did, he listened, especially with his middle name thrown in for good measure. 

"I don't care what you looked like before, nor do I care what you look like now. You're as handsome as ever and you still make me want to jump your bones and ride you into the sunset you hear me? I won't have you thinking like that or talking bad about yourself. You're allowed to eat and be whatever you want, you got it?" 

The right corner of his mouth inched up a little. He sighed and squeezed your hands back. 

"I know...but I could be better..." He was grumbling. 

You thought about it. 

"Hmm..." 

"What?"

 "Well, if you want to start working out again, I'll join you." 

"Pfft, you hate gyms." 

"Oh, I do but if this is important to you it's important to me. I'll be right alongside you, walking or lifting weights, being your cheerleader. Whatever you need. We can start by going through the kitchen and pantry to see about getting healthier food in. We'll do this together, you and me. It'll be like we're on our own healthy adventure." 

He inhaled sharply and looked around. His eyes landed on yours and you saw them soften. 

"Yeah?" 

"Absolutely." 

"Ok." He perked up a little. 

"Good. Now, let's start with breakfast. I can do egg white and spinach omelets and some whole grain toast. I've got some fruit that needs to be used, so smoothies it is instead of iced coffees with whipped cream and caramel drizzle."

You went to get off the couch, but you were held down. 

"Thank you, and I'm sorry for how I was acting. I didn't know how to bring it up..." 

"It's ok." 

You hugged him back. He had his face buried in your neck. 

"We've got this. You'll see..." 

You kissed his neck and felt him smile against your skin. 

"You'll have to let me know what kinds of workouts you want, and we can see about joining a gym, or class, or whatever." 

You leaned back and smiled at him. For the first time in a few days, he smirked at you and leaned in and whispered, "I know of a good cardio routine we can do..." 

"Oh really?" You blushed. 

Even after dating him for a few years, he still made you blush like crazy. 

"Mmm mmm." 

His hands now ran along your sides, drifting under your tank top. 

"You'll have to show me then." 

You wrapped your arms around his neck while he peppered kisses on your shoulder and neck. 

"With pleasure..." 

He playfully growled and scooped you up from the couch to take you to the bed. 

You giggled like a madwoman when he stomped down the hall with you in his arms, thankful there was no wiener problem to be had.

💪🏻💪🏻💪🏻💪🏻💪🏻💪🏻💪🏻💪🏻

[speakingsoftly]

Saturdays.

Summary: You and Bucky are best friends who spend all of your Saturday’s together. Bucky came to your place with a goal in mind: making you admit your feelings for him.

Warnings: Alcohol/Drinking games/shots of Sake. You also might need to make an appointment with your dentist because the fluff in this could possibly give you cavities.

The light knock on your door let you know Bucky had finally arrived. It was your typical Saturday evening hangout. Bucky would show up with alcohol of some kind because you frankly knew nothing about liquor, and you would either make or order the two of you food. You would likely watch a shitty movie that you’d pretty much talk over the whole time, and Bucky would look at you completely enamored by your beauty and nod during the important parts.

“Hey, you” his entire face lit up as you opened the door to greet him. His eyes quickly scanned your comfy outfit, loose leggings, a thin sweater detailed with lace, and fuzzy socks he had gotten you for Christmas last year. A light chuckle escaped him as he took you in.

Bucky was holding a giant brown bag full of alcohol, but you still eyed him up and down. He was always in the same variation of outfit: boots, tight jeans, a T-shirt, and a jacket of some sort. Today, he opted for a brown leather jacket that he definitely bought from a local vintage shop.

“Hi chicken!” You greeted him enthusiastically as you stepped aside for him to walk into your place. The smell of your sweet smelling perfume practically sucker punched him in the heightened senses, not that he was complaining.

“That damn nickname” he pretended to hate it, but he didn’t hide it well, the corner of his eyes wrinkling and the slight smirk he wore gave him away every time.

“You refuse to let me call you Buck Buck goose! So I compromised!” You snorted, trying to stand taller to peek inside the bag at what he brought.

“Ah! No! Not yet” he playfully slapped your hand away, lifting the bag higher above you so you couldn’t sneak a peek.

“What’s for dinner little one? It smells good!”

You were shorter than him, and Bucky always made it a habit to point it out. He knew it made you flustered, picking up on the way your heart loudly thumped quicker in your chest, he never told you he could hear it but he felt like somehow you knew.

“I made tacos! I figured you’d want your favorite after your long week! I barely heard from you so I know it was hectic.” You didn’t say it to make him feel guilty but it did, Bucky felt like you physically punched him in the gut. His expression changed as he set the brown paper bag down on your kitchen table.

“Did you miss me or something?” He teased, only slightly hoping you’d admit it for once. Instead, you handed him a plate to serve himself, giving him a playful forced smile and showing all your teeth.

Once the two of you got your dinner plates ready, Bucky brought the brown bag over to the couch. He had a mischievous grin that you were already slightly nervous about as you clicked through streaming services for something to put on as background noise.

“I got some of your usual favorites because I’m not completely insane” he chuckled as you watched him pull familiar things out of the bag and put them on the coffee table in front of you.

“Debatable” you teased nudging him with your elbow as he playfully scowled at you.

“I mean, I am willingly eating your cooking so that’s a fair assessment.” He was quick-witted, something you really admired about him.

“James Buchanan Barnes! Take that back!” You fauxed offense, metaphorically clutching your pearls as he chuckled and took two bottles of sake out of the bag.

“Full government name? Really? You know damn well I’d lick those pans clean in there if you left the room for long enough” he pointed to the kitchen and it made you giggle, your eyes hardly leaving him before you turned your attention back to the sake bottles.

“I’ve heard sake is really good but also really strong” You picked up the bottle to read it but it was in Japanese, so you put it back down.

“Scared huh?” Bucky blushed, knowing just how to push your buttons as you clicked your tongue at him.

“I was thinking we could play a drinking game tonight.”

You narrowed your eyes at him as you took another bite of your taco, “I’m listening?”

Bucky would’ve usually hated seeing anyone talk with their mouth full but you were an exception. “Truth or drink,” he said overly confident which surprised you, You instantly wondered where Bucky had even heard about this game.

“Yelena and Bob taught me about it. Basically if you don’t want to answer you drink instead.” It was as if he read your mind and was answering the question you didn’t ask aloud.

“Oh! It’s probably how Yelena gets Bob to loosen up” You giggled, standing to get you and Bucky a shot glass from your kitchen cabinet.

“You think so?” He avoided your eye contact, hoping you weren’t catching on. “I say we take one to loosen up and then go from there” he said and you nodded before he opened the pink bottle of sake first pouring the two of you a shot.

Bucky took his shot without so much of a grimace but you felt the burn intensify in your throat immediately and coughed once it went down and got yourself a chaser from the fridge, bringing Bucky one too.

“No question is off limits.” He narrowed his eyes at you, it was clear he suggested this for a reason but you were happy to oblige.

“I’ll go first then- why do you want to play this game?” You giggled, maintaining eye contact with him as you leaned back on the couch, sitting with your legs crossed.

A nervous laugh escaped him, as he sat back on the couch Bucky was usually pretty calm and collected around you but the way you were looking through him right now made him forget how to breathe.

“Drink up then Barney boy” You handed him a shot knowing he wouldn’t answer, as he quickly threw it back.

“Why don’t you ever admit that you miss me?” He wasn’t originally going to ask such an upfront question right away but he had a strong feeling you weren’t going to play fair.

You thought about answering for a brief moment before you drank, coughing again after you swallowed.

“So that’s how this is going to go?” He scooted closer to you, watching your eyes get watery.

“This sake is so strong and kind of nasty” you coughed wiping your mouth with your sweater sleeve.

“I guess we should start being honest then” he smiled and you rolled your eyes playfully gearing up for your next question.

“Okay when we first met, what was your first impression of me?”

Bucky looked up at the ceiling, chuckling to himself as he placed the shot glass down. “Honestly? I thought you were really soft and nice and I didn’t expect us to hit it off as well as we did.”

“Why?” You were curious as to why he mentioned the last part, you knew he didn’t think much of himself which hurt you deep down.

“Soft and nice is not how anyone would describe me” he laughed, a genuine laugh that made your couch tremble slightly.

“Maybe? But that’s because they don’t really know you” you nervously bit your cheek wondering if that was a tad too flirty.

Bucky had been your best friend for about a year now and you were terrified of losing him.

“Okay, how would you describe me? Especially to someone who has never met me.” He picked up the sake bottle ready to pour, and only assuming you’d avoid the question.

“No put that down, I’ll answer this one” You stood up from the couch, to face him as he stayed sitting, his blue eyes piercing through you.

“Close your eyes, or just don’t look at me!”

“Close my eyes?” He laughed in disbelief at your dramatics.

“Yeah, they’re just very beautiful and super distracting” you teased and Bucky knew you were a lightweight when it came to drinking but he started to feel guilty for suggesting the game wondering if you were only complimenting him because of the liquor.

“Wait, you think my eyes are beautiful?” He mumbled and you hadn’t heard him over the nerves you felt gripping every bone in your body.

“I’d ideally describe you as close to perfect but I know you’d absolutely hate that.”

You were right, he’d hate that.

“I’d say Bucky is the kind of person who makes every day seem a little less heavy and dull. He’s the guy everyone can always depend on and despite being through the worst hell anyone could ever fucking imagine he is still kind, giving, loving and the greatest person I’ve ever met.” Your lips started to tremble and your eyes were tightly closed as you stood in front of your coffee table swaying back and forth nervously.

“You’d say that about me? To a stranger?” He felt like his heart had grown three sizes in the last minute. He never knew you felt that way about him.

“Of course, I talk about you all the time actually” You didn’t know why you said it but it felt right although your cheeks grew warm with embarrassment.

“Y/N, Why haven’t we dated?” The words crawled out of his mouth like an ache he couldn’t stop.

Your eyes shot open and he was staring at you directly, You noticed his fingers twitching as they sat in his lap.

“It’s my turn to ask a question” you swallowed dryly, your throat felt sandy and hoarse suddenly. Bucky only nodded in response, wondering what you’d ask next.

“So, why haven’t we dated?” You repeated the question back at him, making the room feel more at ease.

“You’re the only person who makes me feel human and I was afraid that if I misread the signs that I’d make things weird between us and I didn’t want to lose you” he stood up, walking over to where you stood.

“You didn’t misread anything, there’s a reason I spend all my Saturdays with you. You’re the best part of my week, my day, my life actually.” You wrapped your arms around his torso, looking up at him with loving, pleading eyes.

“Is this really happening? How drunk are you?” He teased as he held you, but there was a faint seriousness to his tone now that you had opened the floodgates of emotions.

“I’m not drunk! I don’t even think I’m tipsy, I just took the opportunity while I had it.” You admitted which made him chuckle before he easily picked you up and wrapped your legs around him.

“Would it be alright if I kissed you now?”

“You can kiss me forever” you leaned in, wrapping your arms around his neck, rubbing your fingers through the hair on the nape of his neck.

[speakingsoftly]

(i only came to this) party 4 u

Bucky Barnes x fem!reader

Summary: For the first few months you worked with the avengers, they barely knew you. Beyond what you were like during a mission, you were a mystery to them. It was truly marvelous how well you worked with the team and yet there was so little they knew about you. 

You barely went to team bonding and you NEVER went to Tony Stark's parties. Well, not until last night. And you’re never going again. 

Because of James Bucky Barnes.

WC: 11.4k

Tags/warnings: shy reader, fluff, hurt/comfort, intoxication/drinking, emotionally constipated reader 

A/N: this is the longest thing I’ve written, WHOOPS. I couldn’t stop with this one so hope some of y’all enjoy it! Ps: no I don’t know what card game Steve and Bucky are playing, make believe (shrugs) beta read by my friend @whats-yesterday00

It’s official. You’re never leaving your room again. 

Not after what happened last night. 

From this moment forward you are not leaving your room. No matter the reason. No matter how much they beg. 

Actually that’s a lie, you would have to leave your room at some point. 

But you’re going to camp out in your room for as long as possible. 

There’s a chance that if you do leave your room, and risk running into him, you’ll melt into a pile of goo on the floor. Or maybe you’d implode from the mortification.

Either way, you shouldn’t risk it. 

You should just revert to the old version of you. The girl that didn’t ever leave her room. Was too intimidated by the other avengers to spend time with them. The girl who — even though you had been given a warm welcome — didn’t feel like part of the team yet. 

For the first few months you worked with the avengers, they barely knew you. Beyond what you were like during a mission, you were a mystery to them. It was truly marvelous how well you worked with the team and yet there was so little they knew about you. 

Steve would occasionally organize team bonding events. After you joined, Steve planned them more frequently. A subtle way to get you to open up to them. 

Sometimes you would attend. Key word, sometimes. 

Usually, it would take some convincing from a few of them. Like when Sam would crack some jokes about how this week you HAD to be there because they were doing XYZ and so on. At some point you’d feel guilty for missing it and show up only to sit there quietly the whole time. You’d speak when spoken to, but never intentionally join a conversation. 

A majority of the time, you wouldn’t feel up for socializing and gave some excuse as to why you’re not feeling well. Steve never pushed you to show, but his eyes grew soft with concern whenever you told him you couldn’t attend. 

But, at some point, the Avengers noticed a change in you. You stopped turning down bonding events and started actually participating. They would find you hanging out in the lounge more often or sticking around to watch movies. 

After a long and brutal game of Uno during game night, they were all left surprised by how excited and competitive you were. The game ended with a stare down between you and Clint. 

You were still a relatively shy person, just more willing to open up and be yourself around them. None of them knew what caused this sudden change, but few of them had their theories. 

The first time you were tempted to leave your room was about two months after you started living in the compound. 

You were standing on the only chair available in your room which happened to be the swivel desk chair. Was it the safest way to hang up your room decor? Probably not. But you wanted to decorate your walls and this was the only way to do it. 

Your arms were starting to grow tired. One hand was holding up the poster, desperately trying to keep it straight, while the other was trying to rip off a piece of tape. 

Somehow the chair moved just the right way and you lost your balance. You stumbled to the floor and took the chair with you.

“Shit!” You loudly groaned after landing on your side with a thump. 

As you carefully stood back up, you heard a voice from the other side of your door. 

“You okay in there?” 

Your stomach dropped at the realization someone heard you fall. The urge to ignore the voice was strong, but you also knew they were just trying to check on you. 

With a slight limp, you approached the door and opened it. Behind it was a concerned Bucky Barnes. Up until now, you’d never gotten this close of a look at him before. You never noticed how blue his eyes actually were. It was almost hypnotizing the way you were so easily lost in them as he stared back at you. 

“Are you alright? I heard a crash.”

You blinked back to reality. “Yeah I’m fine. I fell trying to put up a poster,” you gestured towards it- now discarded (and thankfully not ripped) on the ground. 

He peeked inside to see the fallen chair and poster. “Want some help?” 

His kind gesture shouldn’t have surprised you. There was no indication Bucky Barnes was a bad guy. He was a great partner to work with in the field and his friends spoke very highly of him. But it did surprise you because outside of that, you never really had the chance to actually interact with him. 

You also heard a notorious amount of grumpy old man jokes from Sam that you didn’t exactly know how to interpret. 

“Yeah sure,” you nodded. 

He followed behind and entered your room. He examined the decorations you managed to put up in the time you’ve been living there. 

There were various music and movie posters of pop culture he mostly didn’t recognize. There were fake plants littered all around the room, scattered on different surfaces. The shelves were also covered with books. Rows and rows of books, that would’ve taken him years to get through. Close to the ceiling were strings of lights that gave the room a soft warm glow.

While he stood in the quiet of your room he noticed the faint music playing in the background. His face grew with curiosity as he looked around for where the sound was coming from. 

“What song is that?” 

You walked to your desk and grabbed the chair off the floor. “I’m not sure. It’s a playlist of old music I found online. Sometimes I like to put on old music from the 30s and 40s to have as background noise.”

You pointed to a YouTube video playing on your computer. 

“You like old music?” He inquired, looking slightly surprised. 

“Yeah, but I don’t know much about it,” you shrugged. “I don’t know what was popular back then or have any favorites.” 

He glanced at the video playing on your computer, “I could give you some recommendations if you want.” 

“Really?” you asked with growing enthusiasm. 

The corners of his mouth threatened to perk up. “Yeah why not? If you wanna get into that type of music. Who better to learn it from?”

“That sounds great,” you said with a shy smile. 

The realization dawned on you that now you were both just standing in the quiet of your room. You grabbed the poster and cleared your throat to grab his attention. 

“Oh right,” he mumbled, looking a bit flustered and ran a hand through his short hair. “Where did you want to hang it?” 

“Up here,” You pointed to the empty space on the wall next to your desk.

He took the poster from you and carefully stepped on the chair as you held it still. He placed it against the wall, following your directions for where to hang it. You handed him a few pieces of tape and he slowly flattened out the poster before sticking it to the wall. When he was finished, he stepped off the chair and took a step back with you to get a proper look at it. The picture hung high above your desk. A starry sky with a collection of different constellations.

“It looks nice. I like what you’ve done with your room,” he complimented. 

“Thanks. And thank you for helping.” 

“It was no problem. Wouldn’t want you breaking a bone from falling off a chair,” he lightly teased. 

You started to blush at the embarrassing reminder. “Please don’t tell anyone about that.” 

Bucky pressed his pointer finger and thumb to his lips and ran them across his mouth, showing you his lips are sealed. 

After he left, you admired the poster on the wall, listening to the music still playing in the background. The image of him still fresh in your mind. 

Bucky was nicer than you expected. Not that you expected him to be an asshole. But he was one of the few Avengers you hesitated to talk to because they were a bit intimidating outside of work. Bucky had a consistent glare or grumpy look on his face that kept you at arm's length. 

The day after the poster situation when you made yourself coffee in the morning, someone stopped near you and waited for their turn to use the coffee machine. 

“Hey, I made that song list I was telling you about.” 

You looked to see Bucky standing next to you and digging something out of his back pocket. He handed you a folded piece of notebook paper. 

“Most of them are from the 30s and early 40s, songs I used to listen to. But I also included some late 40s and 50s songs I was introduced to after the war and … everything.”

When you took the paper from him your stomach swirled with something you haven’t felt in a long time. 

“Thanks,” you replied sweetly, “I’ll give them a listen later.”

He offered you a small smile before filling his mug with coffee.

That was probably the first time you started to see through his tough exterior and he let his real self shine through the cracks. 

_____

After that day you started to pay more attention to Bucky. In the field, in the compound. Just in general. 

While you still didn’t spend much time with the team, in the brief moments that you did, your attention would drift towards him. You were more aware of his presence when he was near.

And you did in fact give the songs he recommended a listen. You listened to them quite often actually. 

You were still listening to those songs weeks later.

You were in the kitchen listening to your new “oldies” playlist. It was late in the night and you needed to focus on something that wasn’t the chaos swarming in your brain. So, you decided to break out the baking supplies and royal icing you bought weeks ago. 

As you flattened out the dough with a rolling pin a figure appeared from the dimly lit hallway. 

“What are you doing?” Bucky asked once he noticed your presence. His voice was laced with sleep.

“Making cookies,” you answered, grabbing the cookie cutters. 

He walked closer to the kitchen island and leaned his forearms on the counter. “Why are you making cookies at one in the morning?”

“Stress baking.” 

There was a pause as he watched you cut flower shapes out of the dough. 

“Can’t sleep?”

You shrugged without looking up, “something like that.” You didn’t feel like elaborating. 

This guy you barely know definitely does not want to be hearing about how you can’t sleep from anxiety. He didn’t need to hear that after the last mission you went on with the team your brain was constantly screaming at you all the things you did wrong and could’ve done better. 

“Do you do this a lot?” he gestured towards your work. "Bake in the middle of the night?”

“I have once or twice. It also helps that no one is coming and going so I get some peace and quiet.” 

Bucky visibly tensed at your explanation, “sorry I ruined it.” 

Your head perked up immediately to prove him wrong. “It’s alright, you didn’t.” 

He looked relieved to hear that. 

“What are you making?” 

“Sugar cookies, but I’m gonna put icing on when they’re done.” You placed the cut out dough on the baking sheet. 

Your stomach coiled with nerves before speaking again. “I could save you some. If you want,” you said in a quieter voice. 

His eyes softened and he smiled at you. “That’d be great.”

As you continued placing cookie dough on the sheet, he walked over the fridge to fetch what he came down to the kitchen for. 

Now that the room was quiet, he could fully process the music that was playing in the background. For a moment, he stared at the inside of the fridge as he listened to the beginning notes of the next song. 

He finally grabbed the bottle of water and closed the fridge door before eyeing you with a quirked brow. 

“Billie Holiday?” 

You looked up from the cookies in confusion. You momentarily registered the song playing in the background was “What a Little Moonlight Can Do” by Billie Holiday. One of the songs from the list he gave you. 

“Oh yeah I finally made my own playlist. Most of the songs are the ones you gave me,” you grabbed the baking sheet and carefully placed it in the oven.

“You liked the songs?” His voice sounded like it had a hint of surprise. 

You nodded as the corners of your mouth perked into a grin. “I do yeah. They’re really good. It’s different from the normal stuff I listen to but it’s really growing on me.” 

Joy inched its way onto his face as he listened to you. “That’s great. I’m glad.” 

You leaned back against the counter and took off the apron you were wearing. “You have good taste in music.” 

The ends of his ears turned red, “Thanks.” 

Silence returned to the kitchen. you both stood there not knowing what to say next. The air between you was thick, like you wanted to say more but couldn’t find the words. 

The song continued playing in the background, almost taunting you. 

You’re in love 

You’re hearts a flutter 

And all day long, 

You only stutter 

How dare Billie Holiday tease you right now with him in the same room. Who gave her the permission to take a peek into your heart and put it on display in front of him. 

The music was disrupted by Bucky clearing his throat, “well, I should go back to my room.” 

You shoved your hands in your pockets, “hope you get some sleep.”

He nodded before making his way out of the kitchen and walking down the hall. 

A few seconds after you were sure he left, you took a long deep breath. You stood there grappling with the fact that you definitely were starting to feel something for him. 

Something strong. 

Something you couldn’t get rid of.

The next morning you stood on the other side of Bucky’s door with a small plastic container in your hands. 

This was starting to feel silly. You’ve stared down countless criminals and kicked the crap out of them. But this was making you nervous. 

With a shaky hand you finally knocked, and hoped that he was actually in his room. 

It took only a brief moment for Bucky to answer. He must have just showered. His hair was a bit messy, slightly damp and he smelled nice. He was wearing one of those black compression shirts that hugged his muscles all the right ways. 

It should be illegal for him to look that good. 

“Hey, what’s up?” He asked, surprised to see you. 

His question paused your ogling and brought your attention back to why you were there in the first place. 

“I saved some cookies for you,” you offered him the tupperware. 

Bucky’s eyes softened as he glanced between you and the dessert. He took the container from you and opened the lid, looking down with a smile at the flower cookies with purple, yellow and pink frosting. 

“Thanks, they look amazing,” he complimented. “Hope you didn’t stay up all night making them.” 

You shrugged, “It’s fine, I ended up getting some sleep. It helped me clear my mind.” 

Only because something else obsessively invaded your thoughts. Someone that cleared away the anxiety from your job. 

_____

As the weeks rolled by, you started to leave the sanctity of your bedroom and brave the common areas. 

Was it because of Bucky? Maybe. 

You found yourself intrigued by the man. And it didn’t hurt that he was easy on the eyes. 

That’s why you slowly but surely started to hang out with them more. You needed an excuse to be around him. 

It was almost embarrassing how much your crush on Bucky was affecting you. You were so worried about talking to the other teammates, yet desperately wanted to talk to him. Even if it was for a fleeting moment. 

The team took notice of your increased presence around the compound. Some were quiet about it, others weren’t, and loved to tease you. 

In a weird way, the teasing made you feel more welcomed. Like you were really part of the team. 

“Well well well,” Sam started with a smirk as he walked into the gym. “Look who’s training while the sun’s still out.”

You froze in the middle of wrapping your hands to look up at him, Bucky, and Steve about to start their workout. 

”I’m not nocturnal Sam,” you joked back.

Usually, you would visit the gym at night before you went to sleep while no one else was there. As of lately, you had a slight change in routine. 

“Could’ve fooled me. I heard that you bake in the middle of the night.” 

Your eyebrows raised at his comment, “How’d you know that?”

“Little birdie told me.” his grin couldn’t get any wider. 

You looked to the only possible suspect. Bucky’s eyes quickly averted from you as his ears turned pink. 

Steve shook his head with a smile at his two friends. He tapped Sam’s shoulder before making his way to the bench, “c’mon quit bothering her.” 

Sam playfully rolled his eyes at Steve before pointing in your direction, “I better see you at game night later.” 

You shrugged, “Maybe I could stop by.” 

“You better stop by. We’re breaking out Uno,” he beamed before following behind Steve.

You smiled to yourself as he left and finished wrapping your hands. Before you could hit the punching bag, you realized Bucky didn’t leave to join Sam and Steve. 

“You want some help?” he offered while pointing towards the bag.

You nodded as nerves turned your stomach. “Yeah sure.” 

He walked closer to the punching bag, held it, and prepared for you to strike. 

You exhaled and prepped your stance while staring at the bag in front of you. Your punches started off weak and hesitant — mostly because of his presence — before you slowly relaxed and drew more of your strength. 

Besides Sam and Steve, another Avenger that always tried to rope you into social functions was Tony. Occasionally he would throw some party for a holiday or even for no special reason, simply because he wanted to. 

The only party of his that you attended was the first one he threw after you joined. Only because he didn’t give you much of a choice. After that, you never attended another Stark party.

Well, until last night.

“I’m going all out for this one. Thor’s coming back to earth and man does that guy like to party,” Tony boasted about his plans for the weekend in the lounge. Or what would soon become last night's party. 

You silently sat in the corner of the couch “reading” a book. Well, you were reading but now you were nosy and listening to the people around you. As part of your attempt to be more social with the team, you bravely chose the lounge instead of your room.

You heard earlier that Thor was returning after being away from earth for a few weeks doing some Asgardian space duties you didn’t know the details of. 

“Don’t set anything on fire this time,” Wanda teased before taking a sip from her mug.

Tony spun on his heel to point at her. “That was not me!” 

A few chuckles could be heard throughout the room, even a quiet one from you. You’d heard the same story from three different people about how Tony swears it wasn’t his fault that his drink spilled and caused a small electrical fire. 

“Regardless, it’s going to be amazing and I better see you all there on Friday,” he then pointed at Bucky playing cards with Steve. “And that means you Barnes. Don’t think I forgot you missed out last time.”

”Looks like I lucked out considering you almost burned the place down,” Bucky quipped back without looking up from his cards. 

Tony pinched the bridge of his nose. “It wasn’t me,” he mumbled under his breath. 

Steve nudged his best friend before placing another card down on the coffee table. “Come on Buck, it’ll be fun.” 

Bucky gave a long stare to Steve. You noticed he tended to do that a lot. Turn a normal glare into a staring contest with Sam or Steve. A few seconds passed before he placed his next card down with a sigh. “Fine.” 

Having sensed that your eyes were on him, Bucky glanced up at you from across the room. Your gaze darted away and back to your book in an instant. 

Tony noticed this and walked closer to the couch, studying you trying to read. He could clearly tell you were listening in and watching. “What about you, wallflower?” 

Your head perked up in confusion. 

You knew he was addressing you because of the nickname. At first Steve was worried about Tony calling you that, but you actually secretly liked it. It was like the teasing, made you feel more included. 

“You wanna step out of your comfort zone? Ready to mingle?” 

You let the question hang in the air for a moment, contemplating your response. After hearing Bucky’s answer, the idea of attending Tony’s party was sounding more and more appealing. 

“I might.” 

You tried to ignore how a few sets of eyes landed on you. Including his. 

“Seriously?” Tony asked, not expecting you to actually accept his invitation.  

”Yes seriously, I’m considering it,” you answered with more confidence. 

Tony excitedly snapped and pointed at you. “That’s a yes! You can’t take that back.” 

You awkwardly smiled in return. 

“Finally! I knew this day would come,” Tony cheered as he left the lounge. 

You attempted to actually read your book now but felt Bucky’s gaze lingering on you. When you met his eyes, they returned to the pile of cards on the coffee table. You then finally went back to your reading. 

_____

You don’t know what feels worse. The pounding headache from last night's drinks, or the anxiety pulling you apart from the inside out. 

While you laid in bed, the lights were kept dim to not aggravate your headache further. You were admiring the poster Bucky helped you hang up. For so long you’d look at it and your thoughts would drift to the man who helped you hang it. Your mood would lift or your heart would flutter making you feel giddy. 

Now, you wanted to rip it off your wall. 

It stared back at you as a reminder of what you did last night. You couldn’t stop thinking about how it only took a little liquid courage and one single brave moment to embarrass yourself. You most likely ruined your chances of becoming real friends with him, or even something more. 

There’s no way Bucky actually wants to be with you. There’s no way Bucky felt the same way, held the same admiration for you that you did for him. He’d probably be nice about it and let you down easily. 

Well, he tried to let you down easily, but your fear interrupted him before he could inevitably ask you to forget about what happened. You couldn’t listen to it. You didn’t want to hear the heartbreaking reality that he didn’t want you beyond a spur of the moment fling. 

You’d rather just let the whole thing blow over. Let Bucky take your silence as a signal to let this pass. Let everyone forget about it and go about their business like normal. Because words always travel fast here. And by now everyone probably fucking knew about you and Bucky. 

As the hours rolled by and the sun was setting, you couldn’t ignore the fact that you ran out of the water and food stashed in your room. 

You have to leave. As much as you don’t want to, you have to. 

It kind of felt weird, spending all day in your room. You’d just started getting used to being around everyone, that now it felt kind of normal. You almost looked forward to the social interactions. Even if you didn’t speak a lot or join in some conversations. Just being around them felt … nice. 

You rolled over in bed and reached for your phone left on the nightstand. After turning off do not disturb, the screen was flooded with notifications. Part of you was surprised that they were checking in on you considering it used to be normal for you to live like a hermit.  

Natasha: Morning sleepyhead, you hungover? Feeling alright?

Clint: I got doughnuts, you better get down here before Thor wakes up and eats them all 

Steve: Hey, you doing okay? 

Let me know if you need anything

And 1 missed call followed by 2 texts from Bucky:

I know you’re hiding in your room 

Can we talk?

You really didn’t want to talk. Because you knew he wanted to talk about last night. You weren’t ready to have that conversation yet. You weren’t ready when Bucky tried knocking on your door hours ago and you still weren’t ready now. 

Maybe later tonight. Depending on your bravery. 

You didn’t answer any of their messages. Just got out of bed and shoved your phone in your pocket. 

You hoped there wasn’t a large crowd or any crowd period in the kitchen. But unfortunately, you weren’t so lucky. As you approached the kitchen you heard voices that only got louder as you got closer.

You stayed behind the doorway while you listened. Not exactly intentional eavesdropping. More like you froze at the realization they were talking about you. 

“What the hell did I do now?” Tony complained, he sounded offended. 

“You told everyone about me and Y/N,” Bucky scolded Tony, his tone sounding bitter and angry.

“Correction, I told two people last night,” Tony countered. “It’s not my fault that the gossip was so juicy it spread like wildfire.” 

“You’re unbelievable,” Bucky grumbled. 

“What’s unbelievable is you and your girl not making out sooner.” 

You heard Bucky sigh and after a pause he quietly mumble, but it was loud enough for you to hear. “She’s not my girl.” 

Those words echoed in your ears as if you heard it up close. She’s not my girl. 

A suffocating ache wound itself around your chest. Your fists clenched so tight, your fingernails made an imprint on your palm. 

His girl. You could only dream of being his girl. 

You almost went back to your room. Almost. But you were already here, and the kitchen wouldn’t be empty for hours. 

During the pause in their conversation, you passed the threshold. The room fell silent. The sound of a pin drop could bounce off the walls. You felt the tension in your bones with every single step you took. 

You didn’t look any of them in the eyes. You couldn’t. Just kept your focus trained on the floor as you moved the counter. 

From the cabinet, you found a large refillable water bottle to stock up and keep in your room. You waited at the fridge for it to fill. 

All their eyes on you made your whole body tense. You couldn’t see it, but you could feel it. Their looks weighed like a heavy blanket and they practically saw right through you. 

Steve was the first to break the silence. “How’ve you been? Are you feeling alright?”

You cleared your throat before speaking. You don’t know the last time you said something, your voice was probably hoarse. “I’m fine. Was a bit hungover this morning, didn’t feel well.” 

The second the water bottle was filled, you tightened the lid and turned back to the counter where you found the box of doughnuts that Clint texted you about. With a nervous hand, you grabbed the last chocolate frosted doughnut. 

You belined for the hallway, eager to leave when Bucky called your name. His voice reached through your chest cavity and squeezed your heart. You didn’t stop walking. You couldn’t speak to him. Not yet. 

____________________________

“And that means you Barnes. Don’t think I forgot you missed out last time.”

Instead of actually acknowledging that he was absent during Stark’s last party, Bucky opted for poking fun at the man. He didn’t even have to look up from their card game to know that Stark was rolling his eyes or pinching his brow in frustration. 

Bucky felt Steve’s elbow nudge his side before he placed another card on the coffee table. “Come on Buck, it’ll be fun,” Steve tried to encourage. 

Bucky stared back at his best friend, trying to silently tell Steve that he would rather Stark actually burn down the building.

Bucky hates parties. 

Actually that's a lie. 

Bucky Barnes used to love parties. Before HYDRA, he used to be the life of the party. He’d be cracking jokes with his pals or going out dancing with dames. The music was loud and the excitement ran through the room and into your bloodstream, carrying you across the dance floor. 

After everything that happened, he didn’t have much party left in him. It left him more reserved, more introverted. His blood ran cold now. 

He always went to those team bonding things Steve organized because, well it was Steve, but they were also smaller, more intimate. He even found himself having fun. Some of the movies the team chose were weird, but some he really liked. During game nights he was more engaged then he expected he would be. 

But the large parties he wished he could avoid. Now, the loud music irritated his ears. The modern music that played wasn’t to his taste and hard to dance to. The very few festivities he did attend, Steve managed to convince Tony to play one or two old songs from the 40s or at least the 50s, but that was it.

Steve stared back at him with an expression he was all too familiar with. It was the same look that Bucky would give scrawny little Stevie back in the day when he tried to convince him to join.

Bucky sighed and placed a card on the table. “Fine,” he grumbled. 

In his peripheral vision, he sensed someone looking in his direction. When he turned away from their card game, he was met with your eyes. But only for a second, before they retreated back into your book. 

Steve's mouth curled into a smile as he put down another card. “Who knows you might like it. And maybe your girl will go,” he whispered. 

“She’s not my girl,” Bucky muttered back. The words tasted bitter in his mouth. He didn’t want a reminder that he didn’t have the luxury of calling you his girl. 

From the moment you met, he knew he needed you in his life. Not just because you were pretty. And God damn it you were so pretty. But because you were enchanting. 

It was like you had some magnetic pull on him he couldn’t avoid. 

He’d worked with you on multiple missions because of course Steve immediately caught whiff of Bucky’s interest in you and paired you guys up. He saw first hand the power you wielded during a fight. The mysterious way you hid in the shadows and snuck up on people rivaled only him and Natasha. He almost got knocked out once because he stood there watching you attack a guard that towered over you like it was nothing. 

Steve wouldn’t shut up about that for a whole week. 

But when you weren’t beating up criminals or sitting in silence during mission briefings, he barely saw you. You almost never showed face at team functions and (more importantly) you never spoke to him. 

He was worried you didn’t like him, or even worse you hated him. Steve and Sam tried to convince him that wasn’t true but it still never left his mind. It was still in his mind when he passed by your room and heard that crash. Bucky remained cautious, scared that you would ignore him or act coldly, but he still felt compelled to make sure you were okay. 

And when he did finally get the small chances to talk to you, to see the parts of you that you often hid, he felt a thousand times lighter. Bucky saw the light in you grow brighter as you became more comfortable with the team. 

In the moments you let your walls down, you shined like a diamond. 

But he never saw you shine like that at Stark’s parties. 

Bucky shook his head as he placed a new card,  “besides, she never shows, you know that.” 

Bucky noticed Stark approaching you to test the waters with an invitation for you to attend. He shouldn’t be eavesdropping, but then again, it isn’t exactly a private conversation. And he had enhanced hearing anyway. 

“You wanna step out of your comfort zone? Ready to mingle?”

“I might.”

His head immediately snapped in your direction. He couldn’t hear what Stark asked you, he was too focused on your response. 

“Yes seriously, I'm considering it.”

As of lately, you had a habit of saying you might go instead of actually saying yes. He noticed this because every single time you said ‘maybe,’ you showed up. It seemed like a way to give yourself an escape. A safety net to land in the roaring sea of anxiety. 

But if you were considering it, that definitely meant you were going. 

He tried to not linger on the fact that his heart rate increased the more he thought about it. 

Stark seemed quite excited at your answer. “That's a yes! You can’t take that back” 

You gave a bright smile in response. Bucky loved your smile. He’d go to hell and back to see you smile. 

He didn’t realize he was still staring until you looked up from your book. He quickly returned his attention back to the cards in his hand. 

Bucky cleared his throat, “is it my turn?” 

“Nope,” Steve tried to hide the humor in his voice as he placed a winning card. 

Bucky sighed while tossing his remaining cards on the table. He wasn’t too bummed about losing the game though. He was still thinking about seeing you Friday night. 

_____

Steve Rogers is a traitor.

Well, at this very second he is a traitor. Because he is on the dance floor, dancing with you. 

Slow dancing with you. 

Bucky was watching from afar. Wait, that sounds creepy when he thinks about it like that. He was observing the party, and naturally his gaze landed on you. How could it not? In every room he entered, he looked for you.

The party had started by the time you showed up. He was in the middle of conversation with Sam when he saw you walk in by yourself, fashionably late. 

He could’ve sworn his heart skipped a beat at the sight of you. The burgundy dress you wore made his head dizzy. 

Bucky had a plan. He originally was going to catch you on the dance floor with a song that was easier to dance to, aka an older song. But you were already dancing with Steve and Wanda when one of those newer Sinatra songs came on. Well, new to him. A while back Natasha gave him a crash course in 20th century music after the war. 

Should he be bitter and maybe just a tad jealous? No, he shouldn’t. He had all night to ask you to dance and yet he stood off to the side. Then Steve swooped in and ruined his plans. 

And now the little punk was dancing with you. 

Of course you wanted to dance with Steve. You were closer with him then you were with Bucky. Steve was the first person you started opening up to. And why shouldn’t you? Steve’s amazing. He’s sweet, courageous, a gentleman, someone to look up to. Hell, Bucky looked up to him. Even when Steve was that scrawny kid in Brooklyn, Bucky admired his bravery and good heart. 

Steve was a good man. Bucky was a broken one. 

“Oh no, who’s victim to your impenetrable stare now?” Natasha asked as she approached him. 

“I’m not staring,” he mumbled, pushing off from where he was leaning on the bar and turned his back to the dance floor.

“Sure, and Tony isn’t drunk.” 

“Got the fire extinguisher on deck?” He downed the rest of his drink and left the glass on the bar. 

She chuckled, “yup.” Natasha walked around behind the counter and grabbed herself a fresh wine glass. “You know, if you ask her to dance, she’ll say yes.” 

Bucky hated it when she saw right through him. For a woman with no enhanced abilities, Natasha sure had a way of reading people. 

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” 

“You’ve been watching her all night, Barnes.”

He cringed, “It sounds creepy when you put it like that.”

Natasha shook her head and smiled as she continued to pour herself a glass of red wine. “Then don’t put so much distance between yourselves. Maybe actually talk to her, ask her to dance.” 

“She’s already dancing with Steve,” he answered, looking down at the counter. 

She raised an eyebrow at him in fake confusion. “That’s not jealousy I hear, is it?” 

“I’m not jealous,” Bucky quickly rebutted. He paused while his jaw clenched. “I just don’t wanna bother her.” 

Natasha sighed as she put the bottle away. “You don’t bother her. Believe me.” 

He crossed his arms, “how would you know that?”

She carefully swirled the red liquid in her glass. “The same way I know that you’ve wanted to dance with her all night.” 

Bucky stared at her with annoyance and disbelief written all over his face. Natasha stared back at him with a slight smirk knowing she was right. 

Their staring contest was abruptly interrupted by Thor stumbling towards the bar. 

“Romanoff! Barnes! How are you enjoying the festivities?” Thor beamed. Bucky couldn’t tell if Thor was just that excited or if he was bordering on intoxicated.

”I’ve been having a wonderful night but“ —Natasha gestured towards Bucky— “I don’t think he’s in a partying mood.”

Thor looked at him with a slight pout. Yeah he was probably a bit intoxicated, Bucky thought.

”That sounds terrible. We need to fix that right away.” Thor rushed to the cabinet to grab a fancy looking bottle and two clean short glasses. He set the bottle on the counter across from Bucky and waved a hand behind it to show it off. 

“I brought this back from my most recent trip to Asgard. It has aged for a thousand years. It’s too strong for mortal men, but you my friend” —he patted Bucky on the shoulder— “are well suited for it.” 

Thor poured some of the drink into each glass and pushed one closer to Bucky. “This should help raise your spirits.”

He stared at the honey colored liquid hesitantly before picking it up. “Thanks pal.” He offered a small smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes. 

Thor raised his drink to the man across from him. Bucky took another look before raising his drink and clinking it with Thors. He took a sip and found it to be sweeter than he expected. 

It was also much stronger than he expected. 

Thanks to the discount super serum he received, he couldn’t get drunk. Bucky hasn’t been drunk since 1945, the last time he went out to a bar with the howling commandos. 

After two and a half of whatever that Norse drink was, he was starting to get that dizzying buz he hasn’t felt in decades. He wasn’t as drunk as Thor or Tony were, but he was feeling more confident than he had been earlier in the night.  

He wouldn’t bother to hide the glances he threw your way. At some point he got rid of his jacket and rolled up his sleeves. If someone asked if he did that because he was warm or because he wanted to show off to you, he wouldn’t have answered. But it was pretty clear when he noticed you looking at him and he would stand up straighter or flex his arms. 

Then of course when you caught his eyes he winked at you and then smiled when he saw how bashful you looked. 

Bucky was definitely having a better night than before. And it just kept getting better the more he interacted with you. 

His favorite —but also least favorite— part of the night was when he accidentally ran into you. 

He was leaving the bathroom at the same time you were. As he turned the corner he stumbled into your side, not expecting you to be there. As Bucky collided with you, you yelped and almost fell down yourself. 

“Shit, I’m so sorry,” he apologized as he tried to regain his balance. 

You grabbed onto his arm and helped him stand straight. “It’s fine, no worries.” 

His chest ached at the feeling of your hands on his bicep. 

A look of confusion crossed your face before you asked, “are you drunk?”

”No.”

You raised an eyebrow at him; your expression screaming that you don’t believe him. 

“Maybe,” he mumbled. 

You scoffed and let go of his arm, cautiously as you made sure he wasn’t going to fall over. “I thought guys like you and Steve couldn’t get drunk.” 

“We can’t. But Thor gave me this funky Asgardian beer.” Bucky's words slurred together as he explained.

“I think it’s mead.”

He looked baffled, “what’s mead?”

You shook your head amused, “not beer.” 

He scoffed and pointed an accusatory finger at you. “Don’t talk like I can't smell the tequila on your breath,” he joked.

You playfully swatted at his arm away using very little force. “Shut up, it’s the first time I’ve let loose in a long time.”

He loved seeing you riled up. You looked so adorable. 

”You should do it more often.”

”Drink?

“No, come to these stupid parties,” he gestured down the hall to where music was coming from. 

“I will if you’ll be there,” you replied in a sweet tone. You sounded more forward than he was used to. He was a bit surprised but decided to lean into it. 

“Is that a promise?” 

“Maybe.”

“Good,” Bucky smiled as he remembered what it meant when you said maybe to plans.

He hoped you would keep showing up. He’d go to every single one of those dumb parties if he knew he’d see you there. 

“I like seeing you like this. More social, having fun. No more hiding in your room.” 

“I didn’t hide,” you protested, even though you knew he was right. 

“You avoided us like the plague,” he countered. “For a while I thought you didn’t like me,” 

Your jaw dropped at his confession. “You thought I didn’t like you?” Your voice sounded both a bit worried and surprised.

“You never spoke to me!” 

“I gave you cookies!”

“But that was like-“ he paused to do the mental math, “three months after we met. Before that I wasn’t sure.” 

You relaxed as you settled with the information. “Okay, but it wasn’t just you. I didn’t talk to anybody,” you answered with a shrug. 

“And look at you now.” He gestured to you with a small smile of admiration. “Going to parties, spending time with us. You looked like you were really having fun.” 

Your eyes lit up with a look of realization as you leaned back against the wall. “Wow, you were watching me?” You teased him. 

Bucky should’ve known that would come and bite him in the ass, again. 

“I wouldn’t say watching.”

You squinted at him, that glimmer still present in your eyes, “hmm sounds like you were.

“I can’t help it, not when you look like that,” he said in a sultry voice. 

You tilted your head, “like what?” 

Bucky licked his lips as he fully took you in. Even as your makeup took the toll of the night, you still looked perfect to him. Your eyeliner was a bit smudged and your lips still shimmered from the left over gloss. He gazed down at your dress, it had a flowy skirt that hid some of your curves but a slit down the side that gave him a view of your leg.

“Like the most beautiful woman at this party.”

You rolled your eyes at him. “Come on,” you playfully dismissed his compliment. 

Bucky took a step closer to you. “I’m serious, I couldn’t take my eyes off you,” he continued as his voice got lower. 

Your cheeks turned pink and your voice raised in pitch, “you’re such a flirt, Barnes.” 

“Maybe,” he returned with a smirk. “Doesn’t change the fact that you are breathtaking.” 

Now your face was crimson. You tried to bite back a giddy smile but he could see right through you. 

“Stop being so sweet, it’s making me want to kiss you.”

Bucky's heart pounded in his ears and he felt his face start to heat up. He desperately hoped you weren’t kidding. 

He quickly glanced at your lips and leaned closer. “Oh yeah? What’s stopping you?” 

Your eyes slightly widened at his question, like you weren’t expecting him to take you so seriously. He watched the contemplation in your features as you stared back at him. 

Hidden behind his confident exterior, Bucky’s stomach was churning as he awaited your response. Even with the alcohol swimming through his bloodstream, he still had a lingering cloud of anxiety telling him you really didn’t want to kiss him. Telling him that you didn’t want him. 

“Right now?” You whispered. You looked up at him with those doe eyes that made him weak in the knees.

Your gaze darted between his and lingered on his lips. “Nothing,” you breathed before capturing his lips in yours. 

Bucky was taken by surprise at your forwardness, his lips froze for a split second before moving in rhythm with yours. You reached up, placing your hands on his neck and face. He sighed against your mouth as you pulled him down closer to you, desperate to taste him. 

Bucky’s hands traveled up and down your hips, starved for more of your touch. His metal hand settled at your waist while his right hand slipped past the slit in your dress and grabbed at your thigh. You leaned into him, your back arching off the wall you were pressed up against and your leg wrapped around his, pulling him closer. He continued to paw at your thigh, his hand sneaking higher and higher, finding its place on your ass. A soft moan escaped you, trapped against Bucky’s lips. The sound tasted like heaven to him. 

Asgardian alcohol was nothing compared to the intoxicating drink that was you. Bucky was lost in the touch, the smell, the feel of you. He breathed you in like it was his first breath of fresh air in years.

It was like the earth stopped spinning just for you two. Time was put on pause and there in that secluded hallway, you and Bucky were the only people in the world. 

Of course, you were in fact not the only people in the world, let alone that party. While your lips were still interlocked and hands grabbing at each other, footsteps inched closer. 

Immediately you pulled away from each other at the startled gasp of, “holy shit!” 

Bucky and you froze in horror at the man across the hall. 

Neither of you noticed Tony approaching around the corner. He stared at you with shock written all over his face, which then transformed into a cheeky grin. 

“Wow, and to think you two almost didn’t show up.” He pointed at both of you, “If you guys get married, I better get credit in your vows.”

“Stark,” Bucky warned in a sharp tone, staring daggers at the man in question. 

Tony raised his hands in surrender. “Don’t mind me. Please, go back to eating each other's faces.” He chuckled before retreating down the hall back to the party. 

Bucky sighed and ran a hand through his hair. Even after he cut it he couldn’t shake the habit. 

He couldn’t look you in the eyes yet, still too flustered. “He’s such an ass,” he joked, shaking his head. 

You fixed your hair and offered a nervous smile. “Yeah, I know,” you mumbled.

The air in the room wasn’t the same after Tony walked in. The realization of what you were doing had caught up to both of you. Bucky had wanted to kiss you long before now, he just never expected it to be a spur of the moment first kiss. 

That doesn’t mean he regretted it. Not one bit. 

“We should probably return to the party.” Bucky cleared his throat, “listen I know it might be a bit awkward when we get back but, I wanted to ask if-“

”I’m sorry, I um,” you interrupted with a slight panic in your voice.  

“I’m gonna go. Have a good rest of your night Bucky,” you excused yourself with a smile that didn’t quite reach your eyes. 

Bucky watched you shuffle away and down the hall, in the opposite direction of the party. His posture deflated as his stare lingered from where you left. He tried to ignore the slight ache in his chest but it stayed, infecting his heart like a poison. 

Finally when he had the chance and nerve to ask you to dance, you ran away. 

_____

From when he returned to the party to the next morning when he woke up, that ache didn’t fully go away. It became quieter, more tolerable to deal with. But still present. 

He tried to dilute it with reasonable answers. You might have still been flustered from being caught in the hallway. You might have been more drunk than he thought and didn’t feel well. 

But his train of thought always returned to anxiety and doubt. The voice in the back of his head that told him you didn’t want to be seen with him. You were embarrassed to be seen kissing him. The voice that screamed he wasn’t good enough and you would never have feelings for him. 

For now he would shove down those left over doubts. Try to ignore them the best he could. 

Unfortunately that wasn’t an option when he was hounded at breakfast. 

When he walked in the kitchen, he felt the tone change. It was subtle, but as Sam, Clint, and Yelena’s conversation died down, he sensed multiple pairs of eyes landing on him. 

“So Bucky, how was your night?” Sam asked before sipping his coffee. 

Bucky walked to the coffee machine and grabbed his own mug from the cabinet. “It was good,” he muttered. 

Yelena spun in her chair to face him, “you had fun?”

“Sure, I guess.”

Sam quirked an eyebrow at him. “You guess?”

“Why do you care so much?” Bucky groaned as he poured a fresh cup of coffee for himself. 

“No reason, just wanted to see what you thought of the party.” 

Bucky shrugged, turning back around to face the group. “It was like every other party.”

“You don’t get drunk at every other party,” Sam countered in a snarky tone. 

“I was not that drunk,” Bucky protested.

“Drunk enough to get freaky in the hallway?” 

Sam’s question had Bucky gripping his mug so hard he almost shattered it. Anger seeped into his bloodstream that made his veins hot.

Bucky squeezed his eyes shut and hung his head. “Stark, that son of a bitch,” he grumbled under his breath. 

Yelena's interest was piqued at Bucky's reaction, confirming her suspicions. “So it’s true? You and Y/N kissed?”

“Oh they did more than kiss,” Sam added. 

“Sam,” Bucky warned with a sharp tone.

“Did you see him peacocking? He kept flexing his arm muscles at her and at one point I think I saw him wink. I guess all that paid off.” Clint finally added his thoughts, amusement creeping its way onto his face. 

Yelena sat with a smile, still processing the information. “Wow, I didn’t think you two would get together for another month or more.”

“We’re not together,” Bucky corrected. The words tasted like a nasty poison on his tongue. 

“You will be soon,” Clint insisted. 

“Don’t bet on it.”

“What are you talking about? Sam asked. “You like this girl. You’ve been crushing on her for months!”

Bucky’s jaw clenched before. His stomach boiled over with the feelings he tried to push down. 

He shook his head and waved them off. “Never mind.”

Yelena leaned forward, eager to understand. ”No wait, Bucky what happened?” She asked calmly, voice filled with concern.

He sighed and stuffed his hands in his pockets. His lips sealed shut while he stared at the floor, contemplating how honest he should be with them. 

“It’s nothing. After Stark walked in on us she didn’t exactly tell me how she felt about the kiss.” Bucky nervously ran a hand through his short hair. “I tried to ask her to dance. She left before I could spit it out.” 

“She’s a shy girl. She was probably overwhelmed and embarrassed.” Clint offered. 

Not embarrassed because of you, Bucky tried to remind himself. 

Sam stepped closer to Bucky, his tone of voice much more serious than before. “Just talk to her about it. I’m sure she feels the same way.”

Bucky looked down in his mug, the hot black coffee staring back at him. “Have any of you seen or talked to her yet? It’s still early. I don't know if she’s awake.”

”No, she hasn’t been down here yet,” Yelena answered. 

Clint grabbed out his phone, “I’ll text her-“

”No, Clint,” Bucky cringed. 

Clint held up a hand to him, still typing away on his screen. “Calm down, I’m telling her about the doughnuts I bought.” 

Bucky’s tense shoulders relaxed at the explanation. 

“Let me know if you find out she’s awake. I’d hate to wake her up just to pester her about this.” He grabbed his coffee and a doughnut for himself from the box on the counter. 

“Leave a chocolate frosted,” he instructed as he walked to the lounge. “She only likes those.” 

____

It’s been three days. 

In the last three days, he’s seen you once. When you tip-toed into the kitchen, barely looking him in the eyes.

He already thought about you every day. He’d leave his room with anticipation, eager for the chance to see you. 

Now that same anticipation had a sour taste. Bucky would go to the gym, lounge, or kitchen with hope that he would see you there. And every time he was crushed at the sight of a room without your presence. 

You had gotten pretty successful at staying hidden. After that brief awkward encounter on Saturday, you made yourself completely undetectable. He should’ve known it would be an easy feat for you considering you were a spy before joining the Avengers. The only indication that you were even still in the compound were the clean dishes on the drying rack and the missing food from the fridge. 

Not only was Bucky missing and craving your presence, but he had to sit with the unknown meaning behind your kiss. He had no idea how you felt about him, and it drove him mad.

The lustful look In your eyes and the desperate touch of your hands on him told him that you might feel the same way. But the way you recoiled and shut yourself out said something else. 

One thing he did know was that all this overthinking was going to be his downfall. 

It was past midnight and instead of staying in bed, struggling to fall asleep, he decided to go to the gym and let out some stress. 

Little did he know he wasn’t the only one with that same idea. 

He wasn’t that surprised to see some of the lights on as he approached the gym. Every so often someone was working out late at night. Who he didn’t expect to see was you, laser focused as you striked at the punching bag.

Bucky stood still for a moment, watching you, debating whether or not he should leave you be or talk to you. 

His legs seemed to be moving on their own as he approached you. 

“Want some help?” 

You jumped, startled out of your focus. “You scared the shit out of me!” You placed a hand over your heart, probably felt it pounding. 

“Sorry,” he mumbled. “You didn’t answer my question though.” 

You looked at him with puzzled, furrowed brows. 

“Do you want some help?” He repeated, gesturing towards the punching bag. 

You paused before answering in a calm tone. “No thanks.”

You shifted your weight and prepped your stance, attention returned to the bag. 

“I thought you didn’t work out this late anymore,” Bucky commented with fake innocence. 

You shrugged before you started punching again. “Guess old habits die hard.” 

“Like hiding in your room?”

You hesitated. He watched your jaw clench before you punched again. 

“I am not hiding.”

“I haven’t seen you in three days.” 

Your punches got stronger while your voice stayed calm. “Didn’t feel well. Needed rest.” 

“I texted you.”

“Sorry,” another punch. “Didn’t see it.” 

Bucky exhaled, “Why are you lying?”

“I’m not-“ 

“Yes you are,” he interrupted, a bit of frustration leaking through his firm voice. 

“We’ve barely seen you. And this isn’t like when you first got here, because I still saw you back then. You’re ignoring us.” 

You’re ignoring me, he wanted to say. 

Your attention broke from the punching bag. Your hand landed limp against it as you turned to him. 

“Why do you care?” You asked with more curiosity than you showed on your face. 

“Because I’m worried about you. And I know something’s wrong.” 

You didn’t reply. Just stared at the floor and picked at the wraps on your hands. 

Bucky didn’t want to pester you about it, but he had to stop you from isolating and keeping everything bottled up. He knew better than anyone what that felt like. The desire to hide away and run.

He could see the walls you built up slowly starting to crack, but you held on so tight to that security. Desperate to not let it fall down. 

He was going to get you to open up, whether it hurt him or not. 

“Is this about the kiss?” 

Your eyes squeezed shut and fists clenched. “Bucky, I really don’t want to talk about that right now.” 

“Well when do you feel like talking about it?” He interrogated, folding his arms. “Tomorrow? A week from now?”

“Fine!” You snapped back at him. “We got drunk, flirted a little and kissed. Can we just put this behind us and forget about it?” 

Forget about it? You really want him to forget about the kiss? The best kiss of his life. The kiss that brought warmth back into his cold veins. Forget the kiss that made all the decades worth of tension fall off his bones and disappear for a few minutes. 

He scoffed, “I’m sorry but I can’t just forget about it.” 

Your cheeks that were previously pink from your work out turned red. 

Bucky kept his gaze trained on you. He watched your eyes repeatedly dart away from him, still trying to hide while you stood right in front of him. 

“Why did you leave after we kissed?” He asked, keeping his voice steady even while his insides were twisting. 

“Bucky,” you groaned, pleading with the man in front of you. 

“I gotta know.” 

You looked down at your hands and resumed picking at the wrappings. 

“Did you mean it?” You inquired, deflecting from his question. “What you said that night.” 

He pursed his lips, trying to mentally sort through all the things he said. “Which part?” 

You paused your fidgeting, hands tense as you spoke. “All those nice things you said about me. When you said I was the most beautiful woman at that party.” You finally looked at Bucky, eyes swimming with uncertainty. 

“Did you mean it, or were you just flirting?”

You were trying to hide behind a guarded expression, but Bucky could see the vulnerability in your eyes and hear it in your voice. 

You felt the same way about him. 

But just like him, you didn’t believe your feelings were reciprocated because of the overwhelming fear. Your vision was clouded by fear and doubt. 

He took a few steps closer. You took a half step back. 

His eyes stayed on you. He never wavered. 

”I meant all of it,” he answered softly. “Every single word.” 

Your eyes widened and lips parted. 

“You’re the most beautiful woman I’ve ever met.”

You gave him a nervous grin and shook your head as you tried removing the wrapping from your hands. ”That’s overselling it a bit,” you lightly joked. You fought the hand wrap with a shaky hand, struggling to take it off. 

Bucky inched closer. Before you could register what he was doing, he reached forward and gently grabbed your hands. He separated them and continued undoing the wrapping for you. His touch was soft as he handled you with the utmost care. 

“I’m being serious,” he started, eyes trained on your hand. “Whether you believe me or not.” 

He finished working on your left hand and moved to your right. You didn’t protest. You didn’t stop him. 

“If you really want to forget about the kiss. Go ahead.” But now he knew you didn’t want to forget about it. He swallowed, preparing to place his own heart in the palm of your hand. “I don’t think I could ever forget it. I haven’t stopped thinking about you since Friday.”

He chuckled as a blush crept its way on his face. “Actually, I haven’t stopped thinking about you since the first time we met.”

He felt your hand freeze against his. “Bucky, that was over 6 months ago,” you reminded him breathlessly. 

He finished unwrapping your hand, looked up at you, and nodded. “Yeah, I know,” he muttered. 

Bucky still held your hand, neither one of you moved away from the other. 

You took a deep breath, the expression on your face looked like you were mentally wrestling with yourself. 

“What were you going to ask me before I left?” You asked cautiously. 

“If you wanted to dance with me.” The corners of his mouth turned up into a smile as his cheeks turned pink. He softly caressed the back of your hand, “I’d been trying to ask you all night but never got the chance. Or the nerve.”

Bucky searched your eyes and found wide pupils in a sea of emotion. He wasn’t sure if they shined from the lighting or if they were glossy. 

You licked your lips, “I would’ve said yes by the way. If you asked.” 

He smirked back, stomach fluttering with butterflies. “You mean if you let me ask?” he asked, tone laced with sarcasm.

You rolled your eyes and sighed, “yeah. I was just being an asshole.“ 

“You’re not an asshole,” he countered, genuinely. 

You squinted and tilted your head. “I was a little bit.” 

He chuckled in defeat, his thumb still tracing your skin. 

You peered down at your hand intertwined with his, swallowing down the nerves caught in your throat. “I uh- I was scared and catastrophizing. I thought of the worst case scenario and let it control me. I shouldn’t have run away, I’m sorry.” You sounded small, defeated. 

With his free metal hand, Bucky gently pulled your chin up to look at him. “You’re not the only one who gets stuck in their own head,” he comforted. Your breath shuttered as his touch traveled to the side of your face before brushing your hair behind your ear. “Just don’t shut the world out okay?”

You nodded, with a bashful smile. “Okay.” 

Bucky’s mouth curled up in a way that matched yours. “I love your smile,” he complimented, his voice dripping with admiration. 

You bit your lip as a blush danced across your face. “Don’t say sweet things about me. It’ll make me want to kiss you,” you warned with a teasing hint in your tone.

Bucky's smile turned to a wicked grin. He leaned closer, his lips ghosting over yours as he caressed your cheek. “What’s so wrong with that?” He whispered with desire. 

He felt your breath against him as you whispered back. 

“Nothing.”

Bucky wasted no time and captured your lips with his. He instinctively reached for your waist and pulled you closer, flush against him. 

This kiss was different from the first one. You still tasted the same on his tongue, your lips left the same imprint on his. But the rhythm was different. No rush of passion. No hunger that needed to be resolved. 

It was slower, more delicate.  Like the two of you were absorbing the others' existence into your bloodstream. 

When you separated from him Bucky chased after your lips. You giggled as he pecked all over your lips and cheeks. Your laugh only spurred him on more as he grabbed on to your face to keep you still and smiled against your skin. 

You made him feel lovesick. He felt like he used to, back in the 40s, before everything went wrong. He felt like Bucky Barnes. 

Bucky chuckled as he finally retreated from his kissing attack on your face. He stared at you lovingly, his hands traveling back down to your hips.

“So, hypothetically, if I were to ask if you wanted to go dancing, like we find somewhere in the city we can go to dance one night, what would you say?”

You looked up at him with a sweet smile. “Is this a hypothetical or are you asking me out?” You pondered with a mischievous tone.

Bucky loved it when you teased him like that. You were going to drive him insane. 

“I’m asking you out.” 

You stood up straighter, your eyes pierced him with confidence. “Then do it.”

Warmth stirred in his chest as he finally asked what he’s been meaning to for so long. 

“Would you like to go dancing with me?” 

You wrapped your arms around his neck and placed a soft, quick kiss against his lips. “I’d love to.” 

_____

The lounge was quiet. Yelena sat on the couch with Wanda as a movie played in the distance. Steve sat on one of the chairs ignoring the movie, his nose deep in a small notebook he liked to sketch in. Natasha sat on the other chair, her back and legs against the arm rests as she focused on a book. 

The elevator dinged when it reached the floor. As it opened, Bucky walked out and passed through the lounge with you in his arms bridal style and barefoot, holding your heels in your hands. 

All of their eyes slowly peered away from what they were doing and towards you and Bucky. 

Natasha was the first to comment on the display, “uh, Barnes, why are you carrying your date?” 

“I complained my feet hurt on the way home and now he won’t put me down,” you announced back to her. 

Bucky abruptly stopped in his tracks. “Do you want to walk back to your room?” He asked, voice deep with a teasing tone.

You sunk further into his chest as a blush crept onto your face. “No,” you mumbled quietly.

He chuckled and continued walking. “That’s what I thought.” 

“Awe, what a gentleman,” Yelena remarked.

“Anything for my girl,” Bucky yelled back as he walked away with you in his arms.

“Finally, I’ve been waiting for them to get together for weeks!” Yelena joked as she turned back to the group. 

“Try months. I knew that when she started leaving her room it was because of him,” Natasha added.

Steve looked up from his notebook, a small glint of amusement in his eyes. “Why do you think I pushed for him to go to that party? I had a feeling she would go if she knew he would be there.” 

“Seems like everyone knew but them,” Yelena remarked.

“I’ve known the whole time.” Wanda chuckled, “For two quiet people, their thoughts are awfully loud.” 

[speakingsoftly]

drunk call

pairing. bucky barnes x fem!reader

summary. when you’re in need of a safe way home from the bar, the first person you think of in your drunken haze is bucky, who comes to get you in an instant

content warnings. sm fluff, unestablished relationships, pining, idiots in love, alcohol consumption, r being super drunk lol, thunderbolts era bucky, softie!bucky (my beloved), slightly affectionate&touchy reader (sfw), pet names (sweetheart), r being called pretty, not proofread

word count. 1905

a/n. thunderbolts era bucky and tfatws bucky are rotting my brain away i love him your honor. not proofread

———

admittedly, you’d maybe had one too many drinks tonight.

when you received a text from an old friend of yours saying she was in the city, claiming she had the night free, of course you were going to make some time to see her. it was a night well spent at the bar, too. the drinks were good, you’d caught up on a lot of life with her, jokes were thrown around that had you both doubled over in laughter in the small booth you were cozied up in. the odd glances thrown your way at your giggles only made things worse for the two of you.

your friend called it a night around 11. the only reason she was in the area was for work, and with her luck, they’d scheduled her with a meeting very early the next day. it was time for her to head out, especially now that her boyfriend had arrived, ready to carefully help her to their hotel.

“do you want me to stay?” your friend slurred, grabbing ahold of her boyfriends arm as he guided her up to her feet. “we can stay. wanna make sure you get home safe.”

“i’m okay,” you told her, a genuine, reassuring smile on your face as your words slurred just as bad as yours. “promise i’ll get home safe, i’ll text you when i do.”

the way you rose to your feet wasn’t the most elegant, though you fit right in with the atmosphere. you wrapped each other up in a large hug, bidding each other a giggly goodbye, promising to keep in touch. her boyfriend gave you a small wave before he helped her out of the bar and away from your sight. that’s when you let yourself slide back into the booth, fumbling with your purse in search of your phone. your promise was true to her, you were going to get home safe. while you only stayed a few blocks away from the bar, you weren’t quite comfortable walking home in the state you were in, not like you’d walked there three hours ago.

your mind slipped straight to the thought of bucky as you pulled up your contacts, searching for his name and number. your thoughts often slipped to the man, it was hard for them not to. in the few months you’d known the man, living in the rebuilt avengers tower, you grew quite fond of him. it was a little unexpected.

you weren’t searching for anything romantic when you’d somehow stumbled upon the new team. you were focused on a list of other things - your mental health, your career (though being a now nearly full-time superhero wasn’t exactly what you’d envisioned), your hobbies -, so it caught you off guard when you noticed your growing feelings towards bucky. you began to seek him out in a way you hadn’t with anyone else. despite being a little tough and uptight at times, not really the most talkative person ever, he was kind. he had a nice sense of humor, too. dry, sarcastic, a little playful. at times, you were convinced that playfulness with you bordered flirtation.

that’s why you had found your way to bucky again in your drunken mind. you always felt oddly safe with him, anyways. it was comforting how protective he could be, a subtle sort of thing that you admired about him. you pressed your phone against your ear rather harshly as you listened to your phone ring a handful of times. the noise had you zoned in to the point you barely noticed he’d picked up, a curious ‘hello’ ringing into your ears. your body straightened up at the sound of his voice, a dopey smile finding your lips.

“hey!” you said cheerfully, hand gripping your phone tight as you began rambling to him in an obvious slur. “i’m so sorry if you were asleep or if you’re busy, but i’m kinda really drunk right now, i’m a few blocks away at a bar. is there any chance you’d, i dunno, come get me and walk me home? so i’m not alone? it’s totally okay if not!”

you realized how desperate you must sound calling him like this. you weren’t sure if he’d caught on to your slightly obvious feelings for him yet, but if he had even an idea that you might like him, this call was incriminating. you were calling him of all people, rather than simply calling a cab or an uber, or even just sticking it out and walking anyways.

“of course,” bucky told you as if it was the most obvious thing in the world. his response was immediate, without a second thought. those two words alone made your heart flutter inside of your chest. you passed along the name of the bar, one he’d remembered from passing so many times. he knew his way around the city well, and promised to be there in 10.

the moment you’d hung up the phone, soft giggles slipped from your mouth, the same wide smile on your face still present. you ordered yourself one last drink while you waited, closing your tab while you were up before you left and forgot. you sat in your booth in silence as you waited, gaze settling on to the drink that you sipped on. your body was beginning to feel a little heavy, the alcohol and your sleepiness starting to settle in now that you weren’t so focused on an ongoing conversation.

you were so zoned in, in fact, that you didn’t realize bucky had finally found his way to the bar, beelining to you in a slow, steady strut. his head tilted to the side when he stopped at your table, biting back a smile. you still hadn’t noticed him yet.

“hey there sweetheart,” bucky spoke smoothly, sliding on the opposite side of the booth. he noticed you still had a drink and decided to give you time to finish. your head shot up to look at him, eyes wide and gleaming the moment you recognized his voice. you gave him the same dopey smile you had when you’d called him. “mind if i take you home?”

you giggled at his words, biting your lower lip as you began to put on a show, thinking a little for a response you already had. you gave him a hum, words slurring still as you respond. “well i suppose so.”

you sipped the rest of you drink away after you spoke, quickly wiping away the drop that slipped from your lips clumsily. whether that clumsiness was because you were drunk or because bucky made you nervous, you weren’t quite sure. regardless, your nose scrunched up a little in embarrassment, trying your best to shake it off. he didn’t seem to mind or even notice. bucky had a small, content smile on his face, his blue eyes shining gently as he gazed at you.

the moment you set the glass down, his fingers found their way to it, taking it into his hand. he pushed himself back up from the worn booth, watching as you fumble to grab your purse and phone. the hand bucky offered up was his left. the metal felt nice against your buzzing warm, buzzing skin as you accepted it, letting him assist you to your feet. despite how hard the metal was, he was gentle with the way he held your hand, guiding you towards the bar again to give the bartender your empty glass.

bucky’s hand left yours, only to grasp ahold of your purse and your phone to carry it for you. he helped you towards his right side, wrapping that arm comfortably around you, hand bracing your waist as respectfully as he could. he began walking the two of you out the bar and onto the streets in a comfortable silence neither of you broke. you began leaning into him, still a little unsteady on your feet as you stumble slightly down the street.

your head eventually found comfort in bucky’s shoulder, the weight becoming nearly too much for you to bear on your own. you missed the way he smiled, small and proud as he continues to guide you through the city. that’s when he started to speak in a low mumble, voice deep, his tone sending shivers down your spine.

“you look pretty tonight,” bucky complimented, his head turning to look down at you fondly. it wasn’t often he got to see you like this, a little skirt he’d helped you pull back down into place just a minute or two previously. the shirt you wore was a little low cut, too, just enough to show some cleavage. that’s not why he gave you the sentiment. he rarely got to see you put together. it was usually sweaty work out clothes or bloodied uniforms he saw you in. this was a nice change.

bucky watched the way you smile wide, nose scrunching up again at his words. you tilted your head up to see him, sincerity laced in every inch of his face. while collecting your thoughts, you pressed your cheek into his arm as you stare up into his eyes, clinging to his body for dear life as you try not to fall. his strong arm kept you upright, though, careful not to let you drop to the ground.

“thank you,” was all you could manage out in a small voice, a hand of yours gently grasping at the sleeve of his leather jacket. it was then that you’d finally made it to the rebuilt tower, bucky swiping the both of you in, before holding the door wide open for you. he watched the way you stumbled into the building with an appreciative smile, before looking back at him expectedly. you had your hand extended outwards for him, searching for his touch

bucky took your hand without a second thought, letting his fingers intertwine with yours, before you guys made your long way towards the living quarters. even when you’d entered the elevator, three empty walls and a long railing for you to grasp ahold of to find your footing, you still held onto him. he was already helping you, anyways, so why would you let go now?

he continued to walk you out of the elevator when it’d reached high inside of the tower, helping you all the way to your bedroom door. bucky positioned you in front of him, letting go of your hand only to reach to your hair, tucking pieces behind your ear and out of your face.

“think you can find the rest of your way?” he asked, his hands smoothing down your hair once, before dropping it to his side. you gave him a lazy nod, eyes beginning to droop with exhaustion.

“yeah, i think should be fine,” you answered, offering a small smile. before you could overthink, you took two steps forward, arms reaching up to wrap around bucky’s shoulders. he blinked a few slow times, arms finding their way around your torso carefully as he embraces you. he tugged you a little closer to him, letting his chin rest gently on top of your shoulder. the hand that wasn’t holding your belongings smoothed up your back, a weak attempt to soothe you.

“thanks for walking me home, buck,” you whispered. “it means a lot. you’re a great guy.”

“anytime, sweetheart. just give me a call and i’ll be there.”

[speakingsoftly]

FaceTime | Joaquin Torres x Reader

Summary: long distance is hard sometimes

Warnings: long distance relationships, fluff, flirting

A/N: just a quick one before bed. I haven’t done one of these in a while. I’m not too happy with the ending, but I want to go to sleep and also keep this short. Enjoy!

You had only just gotten out of the shower when he called. He always tried to call when he got a moment in the evenings. Sometimes it was earlier when you were having your dinner. Other times it was really late and you were already in bed. But he always made the effort. Sometimes the calls were long and sometimes they were short, but you always cherished every second you got to see his face and hear his voice.

“Hey,” he said, the second you picked up.

“Hey,” you said a little breathless from the way you had raced back down the hall from the bathroom to reach your phone in time.

“You okay?” he asked, his brow furrowed as he took in your damp hair and bare shoulders in the frame of the camera.

“Yeah,” you said, sitting on the side of your bed and breathing deeply, still trying to regulate your breaths, “I just got out of the shower. Thought I was gonna miss your call.”

You watched as his eyebrows raised interestedly. “Really now?” he asked with that breathy enthusiasm he had when he was feeling flirty.

“Yes,” you sighed, rolling your eyes. He was so predictable.

“So you’re not wearing anything right now?” he pressed.

“Joaquin!” You whined, unimpressed.

“What!?” he exclaimed honestly and you rolled your eyes again.

“Where are you right now?” You asked him, trying to change the subject. It looked like he was in the back of a car.

“Travelling back to my hotel for the night,” he said, before his hand rubbed at his face. It was clear from the dark circles under his eyes he was tired. His job was pretty exhausting after all, but he always claimed it was because he didn’t sleep as well without you.

“What time is it where you are?” you asked him.

“Late,” he replied before he switched the hand he was holding his phone with to check his watch. “Ah shit,” he sighed, “I still haven’t changed this,” he muttered to himself.

“Why not just check the corner of your phone?” you asked him.

“Now I knew I wasn’t just dating you for your pretty face,” he joked as you saw his eyes glance up to the time on his phone.

“Oh I that’s good to know. I had thought it was solely because I look good on your arm when you get invited to the White House.”

“But you do,” he frowned, before he quickly realised you were joking and a smile broke out on his face.

“Damn fly boy, you really are tired,” you noted and as if on cue he began to yawn. “Don’t yawn, you’ll set me off,” you chastised him, but it was already too late, as you felt one creeping into the corners of your jaw. He let out a little laugh when you succumbed.

“How long til you get to your hotel?” you asked him.

Instead of looking forward towards the drivers satnav, you watched as his eyes moved to look out the window instead. “Not far now,” he said. “Maybe another couple of minutes.”

Your brow furrowed as you thought on that. Clearly he was somewhere he knew well if he could work out how far away he was just by his surroundings.

“Where did you say you were again?” you asked him, suddenly feeling suspicious.

“We just stopped off in Philly for a night,” he said, but the way his mouth twitched slightly like he was rolling his tongue awkwardly behind his teeth, made you feel like he was lying. “How was work today?” he quickly asked, changing the subject.

“It was fine, same old same old,” you said, still thinking over his demeanour as you attempted to talk normally. “The AC broke though so I was a sweaty mess for most of the day.”

“Mmmm tasty,” he said.

“Uhhh that so gross.”

“Says the woman who loves when I come home all sweaty from the gym.”

“That’s different.”

“How so?” he chuckled.

“It’s not like I lick your sweat or anything. I just like the way your skin glistens.” you tried to defend yourself.

“Yeah, yeah,” he joked before you saw his gaze shift back out the window again. When his gaze turned back to you, you could have sworn he was trying to hide a smile.

“What is up with you this evening?” you asked him.

“Nothing,” he tried to defend himself, but he couldn’t help but let out a breathy smug chuckle.

“You’re up to something. You can’t hide shit from me Torres. What are you doing?”

“Nothing,” he grinned. “I’m doing nothing,” he insisted. “I’m just really excited about climbing into bed after a long day.

“Bullshit,” you said as he let out a shit eating grin.

“I am!” he insisted, but when he saw the concerned look on your face he caved. “Fine,” he sighed. “Go to the window.”

“What?” your frowned.

“Go to the window,” he said again.

You rolled your eyes but did as you were told. When you pulled back the curtain you almost dropped your phone in shock. Outside was a black limousine and Joaquin was climbing out of the back of it.

“Shut up!” you exclaimed. You heard him chuckle through the phone. “SHUT UP!” you squealed louder, lifting your phone back up to your face, simultaneously looking from him on the call to him out the window.

“You still in that towel?” he joked as you watched him practically jog across the lawn to your front door, his duffel bag and a bouquet of flowers clenched in his hand.

“Yes,” you said, a shit eating grin on your face.

“Not for long you won’t be,” he said before he hung up the call.

A second later you heard his key in the door and you raced down the stairs and straight into his arms. That was the best FaceTime call ever.

[speakingsoftly]

Sebastian Stan filmography

[speakingsoftly]

The Void

pairing: ava starr x fem!reader

summary: ava doesn’t know what to expect when she walks into the void, but it definitely wasnt to be reminded of something precious she lost request

warnings: minor thunderbolts spoilers! angst BUT with a happy ending, and i think that’s it?

word count: 2.4k

author’s note: bold italics are flashbacks! otherwise nothing from me. happy reading!

“I’m going after her.” Ava says, leaving no room for argument as she walks away, only to be stopped by Bucky’s cold metal hand on her shoulder.

“And then what?” He asks, raising an eyebrow, his frown tight with stress.

“If she did that, she did it for a reason.”

“What if she’s dead?”

“And what if she isn’t?”

Bucky knew Ava was going to follow through whether he agreed with her or not, so with a clenched jaw, he gave a soft nod and turned his attention back toward Walker and Alexei.

Instead of running from the black shadows like they once had, they stepped forward, embracing the darkness that overtook them. Ava didn’t know what to expect, but she wasn’t just going to give up on Yelena or Bob.

It began with her childhood.

She wasn’t sure where she was until she heard her mother’s desperate shouts to run, and then she saw the younger version of herself sprinting back toward the room where her father was. Ava tried to intercept her younger self, by reaching out, but her body phased through her and metal bars came flying, caging her to the other side.

She was forced to relive the moment her life flipped upside down.

She had to watch her parents die all over again. She had to feel the moment she started dying herself—the moment the pain began to consume her and betray her body.

The memory played over and over like a cruel joke.

Once the metal bars finally released her, she found a gap in the walls and ran through it, only to stumble into another memory. One of herself, hooked up to machines, crying in agony.

She passed through two more rooms before breaking into one that felt familiar… comforting.

And that’s when she saw you.

You stood in the home you once shared, fiddling with a ring on your finger, your lip trembling, shoulders shaking with quiet sobs. She didn’t remember seeing this. Shehad never seen you this broken.

You jump when the front door opens suddenly, revealing your fiancée stepping inside and fidgeting awkwardly at the threshold. Grabbing a tissue from the counter, you quickly wipe your face, erasing any trace of your tears before she can see.

“Hey, darling.” Ava mumbles, walking past you without a glance.

Usually, you’d let it slide. At least you got a pet name. But now, sitting in your dress with mascara smudged and your eyes red, you couldn’t take it anymore.

“You forgot.” You whisper, just loud enough for her to hear.

Ava freezes mid-stride before slowly turning her head to look at you. There you stand in that plunging black dress—the one she loves so much, the one that hugs your figure and shows just enough to make her stare every time.

She closes her eyes, exhaling in disappointment. That nagging feeling she’d had all day. It wasn’t paranoia. It was something real.

“Fuck. I completely forgot.”

“This wouldn’t be the first time.” You say, gripping the edge of the counter.

Ava scoffs, tilting her head back. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Ava, do you even know why we had a date planned tonight?” You ask, voice quiet but pleading. Hoping—just hoping—she’ll remember.

“I— Date night?”

You close your eyes slowly as a single tear trails down your cheek. Maybe you’ve been holding onto false hope. Maybe you thought this time she’d get it right. That you would finally come first.

After a beat of silence, you sniffle softly and take a deep breath.

“It’s our three-year anniversary.”

Ava watches intently, unable to tear her eyes away. She sees how clueless, how cold, her past self looks, and how heartbreak clings to you like a second skin.

And you, god, you looked like you were crumbling.

She slowly walks forward in the memory, standing beside you at the counter. That’s when she notices it—the way you’re quietly fiddling with your ring beneath the marble surface. If her past self had really been paying attention, she might’ve seen what was coming.

“I said I’m sorry.” Ava huffs, rubbing her forehead with a gloved hand.

You let out a hollow laugh, eyes still downcast. “No, you didn’t. You never do.”

Ava’s jaw tightens. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“It means you barely act like I exist, let alone look in my direction. I’m just someone who keeps the other side of your bed warm.”

“I have a job.” Ava snaps. “An important duty outside of this relationship. I’m sorry if my focus isn’t always on you.”

Her tone is sharp. Dismissive. Defensive.

Ava flinches, her lip trembling. “Don’t say that to her.” She whispers to the memory of herself, voice soft, aching.

She shakes her head. She can’t believe how cruel she’d been to you. Beautiful, patient, loving you.

You warned her the day Valentina walked into your apartment, offering work that felt wrong. You told her it didn’t feel right. But she brushed off your concern, too eager to throw herself back into the field.

Now, with clarity only hindsight gives, Ava sees the truth.

Valentina never cared about her. She only wanted Ghost to do her dirty work, and when the job was done, she’d make Ava disappear.

And while Ava was off becoming someone else’s weapon, she left you behind. Left you thinking you didn’t matter. That you weren’t worth fighting for.

“It’s never been about me.” You say, quietly but firmly, and Ava stiffens.

That’s when you slide the engagement ring off your finger. Your hand stays curled around it for a moment—hidden, private, sacred.

“I’m so tired.” You murmur, voice cracking.

“Then go to bed, for all I care.” Ava snaps, throwing her hands in the air, turning away.

“I mean I’m tired of us.”

A metallic clink echoes as you set the ring on the counter.

Ava turns back, startled by the sound, eyes dropping to the small band sitting in the empty space between you.

“Wha—?”

You don’t bother hiding the way your face twists with heartbreak. With a shaky inhale, you finally speak what’s been eating at you for weeks.

“I’m leaving.”

It was so hard for Ava to walk away from this memory. Some part of her thought she deserved to have to rewatch what she broke until the void was satisfied, but she wasn’t here to pity herself. Not now anyways.

Once they had saved Bob and defeated the void, they suddenly reappeared in the catastrophic ruins of the city, glancing around as everyone who had been panicking moments earlier came back into focus.

As they scanned their surroundings, they saw Valentina yelling at someone on the phone, quickly drawing everyone’s attention toward the woman who had orchestrated so much chaos. None of them hesitated. They started walking toward her, united in their silent resolve—ready to face the person who had done so much, and tried to do worse.

“Hey, guys. We can talk about this.” Valentina stammered, shrinking back as she stumbled through the tarp behind her.

They followed.

That’s when they were all blinded by flashes erupting around them like lightning. Dozens of cameras. Microphones extended. Valentina’s voice echoing.

Ava steps forward, the memory still dissolving behind her like smoke. The sound of your voice—tired, heartbroken—still echoes in her mind.

But that wasn’t the end, was it?

The void may have forced her to relive the pain, but now, back in reality, Ava feels something else clawing its way up through the numbness.

Regret.

Her boots hit solid ground. The sky above is cracked with streaks of orange and violet, a strange but beautiful afterglow from the chaos of their battle. Around her, the remaining Thunderbolts gather, bruised and dirty but standing tall, hailed as heroes. The world doesn’t know how close it came to breaking, and maybe that’s for the best.

Crowds line the edges of the field, held back by barriers and S.H.I.E.L.D. agents. People cheering. Applauding. Cameras flashing.

And then she sees you.

You’re standing near the front, just off to the side, your expression unreadable. The wind catches your coat, your hands folded tightly in front of you. You’re not clapping. You’re not smiling.

You’re just watching.

Time slows.

Ava’s heart slams against her ribs. The noise around her fades to a low hum. It’s not the first time she’s seen your face in the crowd. She’s imagined it a hundred times, hallucinated it more than once.

But this time…you’re real.

She starts walking. Then jogging.

Walker calls her name, but she doesn’t stop.

You don’t move as she gets closer. Don’t flinch. You just wait—arms crossed, guarded, but curious. Maybe unsure if she’s here to say something or just make peace with a ghost.

Ava stops a few feet in front of you, breathing heavily, not from the run, but from everything pressing on her chest.

She doesn’t know how to start.

So she just says the one thing that’s been burning in her throat since she left that memory room.

“I’m sorry.”

You blink. Slowly. Not cold, not cruel. Just careful.

“I didn’t see it then.” She continues, her voice soft and rough. “I thought I was doing the right thing. I thought if I kept pushing forward, if I just survived long enough, it would all be worth it. That I could make it back to you and explain everything and somehow that would be enough.”

You don’t say anything, but you don’t look away either.

“I broke us.” Ava admits. “Not Valentina. Not the job. Me. I chose something else when I should’ve chosen you. Every time.”

There’s a pause. Long and heavy.

And then, finally, you speak.

“You said that last time too.”

Ava swallows hard. “Yeah. But this time…I mean it. And I know that might not be enough. I know I can’t ask for a second chance.”

You look down, your fingers fidgeting. She notices. No ring. No necklace. Nothing tying you to her anymore except this moment.

“I don’t want to undo the past.” Ava whispers, stepping just a little closer. “I just want to say that I see it now. Everything you carried. Everything I ignored. And if I don’t tell you that, I’ll never be able to move forward.”

Your jaw flexes slightly, but your eyes soften just a little.

“Why now?” You ask. “Why after all this time?”

Ava exhales slowly. “Because I had to watch you walk away again. And this time…I finally understood why you did.”

Silence again.

Then your voice, barely above the wind. “That was never easy for me.”

“I know.” She nods her head. “It shouldn’t have come to that.”

“I saw everything again too, you know?” You admit, looking down at her shoes as you sway in the spot.

“What? How?”

“The black mist stuff took over the whole city. You can’t exactly run away from it.” You huff out a laugh, allowing Ava to finally let out a smile.

You both stand in front of one another, taking in each other’s appearances like you thought the other was gone forever. Small smiles etch on both of your lips as you both finally take in the moment.

“I am truly sorry.” Ava whispers again.

You reach out, gripping her gloved hand. “I know.”

“Do you think after all of this we can try again?”

Her voice is almost too timid, afraid she’s taken her chances too far but little does she know you were thinking the same thing. You give her hand a soft squeeze, directing her momentarily attention from the ground back to you.

“We can try again, but it’s going to take time. We can’t just pick up where we left off again.” You say softly but unwavering.

“That’ll be perfect, darling.” Ava rasps, grinning at the soft shiver that spikes up your body from the long awaited pet name.

Biting your lip, you look around at all of the press and cameras before looking at her with a shy smile. “I wouldn’t be opposed to a little kiss.”

The taller girl’s eyes widen slightly, not expecting to already be welcome this far. She quickly nods her head while her hands find your waist, pulling you in lightly.

Your hands wrap around her neck, pulling her down and closing the tiny gap she left in case you wanted to pull back. Both of you expect just a small timed kiss, but once you get the feeling of each other’s lips again, neither of you can let go.

Not caring about the cameras surrounding you two or the wolf whistles from Alexei, you both deepen the kiss, grasping for something you thought you lost long ago and craved ever since.

Ava doesn’t even flinch at the sound of Alexei’s whistle echoing through the chaos.

In another life, she might’ve tensed. Pulled back. Kept her guard up. But not this time.

This time, she lets herself feel.

When you finally break the kiss, the crowd around you has gone nearly silent. Not out of disapproval, but awe—the kind reserved for stories that feel earned. Ones that took blood, pain, and impossible choices to reach their ending…or maybe, their new beginning.

Your forehead rests against hers, your breaths syncing in a quiet rhythm only the two of you can hear.

“I missed you.” You whisper, voice soft like a prayer. “Even when I didn’t like you…I still missed you.”

Ava exhales shakily, closing her eyes. “I never stopped thinking about you. Not once. Even when I tried to forget.”

You both stand there, surrounded by noise, by the world watching, but in this moment, it’s just the two of you. Like the rest of it doesn’t matter.

Finally, Ava steps back just enough to really look at you. “So where do we go from here?”

You smile softly, tucking a strand of hair behind your ear. “One step at a time.”

“Then that’s what we’ll do.” She nods, almost to herself.

And as the Thunderbolts begin to regroup behind her. Valentina restrained, agents swarming the area, press still flashing cameras—you and Ava remain exactly where you are.

In the middle of chaos, you found each other again.

And for the first time in a long time, Ava feels like maybe, just maybe, she’s finally come home.

[speakingsoftly]

no lube, no protection, all night, all day, from the kitchen floor to the toilet seat, from the dining table to the bedroom, from the bathroom sink to the shower, from the front porch to the balcony, vertically, horizontally, quadratic, exponential, logarithmic, while i gasp for air, scream and see the light, missionary, cowgirl, reverse cow girl, doggy, backwards, forwards, sideways, upside down, on the floor, in the bed, on the couch, on a chair, against the wall, outside, in a train, on a plane, in the car, on a motorcycle, the bed of a truck, on a trampoline, in a bounce house, in the pool, bent over, in the basement, against the window, have the most toe curling, back arching, leg shaking, dick throbbing, fist clenching, ear ringing, mouth drooling, ass clenching, nose sniffling, eye watering, eye rolling, hip thrusting, earthquaking, sheet gripping, knuckles cracking, jaw dropping, hair pulling. teeth jittering, mind boggling, soul snatching, overstimulating, vile, sloppy, moan inducing, heart wrenching, spine tingling, back breaking, atrocious, gushy, creamy, beastly, lip bitting, gravity defying, nail biting, sweaty, feet kicking, mind blowing, body shivering, orgasmic, bone breaking, world ending, black hole creating, universe destroying, devious, scrumptious, amazing, delightful, delectable, unbelievable, body numbing, bark worthy, can't walk, head nodding, soul evaporating, volcano erupting, sweat rolling, voice cracking, trembling, sheets soaked, hair drenched, flabbergasting, lip locking, skin peeling, eyelash removing, eye widening, pussy popping, nail scratching, back cuts, spectacular, brain cell desolving, hair ripping, show stopping, magnificent, unique, extraordinary, splendid, phenomenal, mouth foaming, heavenly, awakening, devils tangos-

[speakingsoftly]

i've got sunshine

𝐩𝐚𝐢𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐠ˏˋ°•*⁀➷  thunderbolts x fem!reader

𝐬𝐮𝐦𝐦𝐚𝐫𝐲ˏˋ°•*⁀➷  a sunshiney reader brings warmth and healing to the hearts of the Thunderbolts—John Walker, Yelena Belova, Bob Reynolds, Ava Starr, and Bucky Barnes—each responding to their light in different, deeply personal ways. through detailed bullet points and intimate mini fics, the post explores how these broken, complex characters slowly learn to love and be loved.

𝐰𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬ˏˋ°•*⁀➷ none besides bad words

John Walker has no damn idea what to do with you because you are going to kill him one day…

You call him “sweetheart” first—and he almost short circuits. He mutters “don’t call me that” the first few times, but never really means it. Eventually, he gets real quiet every time you do, like it hurts and heals at the same time. He literally would worry if you stopped saying it. In fact one day you don’t say it and he is like “what happened to sweetheart.” And you are all in. 

He gets protective to a fault. You smile at a barista and he’s already squinting like, who the hell is this guy and why is he breathing near you? It’s not jealousy—it’s fear. Fear that someone like you will get hurt because of someone like him. He literally has to go everywhere with you even if it interferes with his life because if anyone hurts you he needs to be right there. 

He doesn't know how to accept gentleness. The first time you brush your fingers through his hair after a nightmare, he flinches. The second time, he leans into your palm like it’s the only time he has ever felt someone love on him. He loves the way you take your time touching him in any circumstance so slowly and with ease. 

You talk during breakfast; he listens. He never interrupts, just sips his coffee with his elbows on the counter, looking at you like your voice is sunlight filtered through dust motes. He never thought mornings could feel safe again. You love to tell him about your weird dreams and at first he is like “what the fuck.” But eventually he just laughs along and asks little questions. 

He gets weird about his scars. You kiss the one just under his ribs and he jerks away like he’s been burned. Later that night, he kisses your shoulder and whispers, “You make me feel so damn weird.” 

He doesn’t do pet names until he does. It slips out one day—“baby”—when he’s scared you’re going to leave. It’s hoarse, desperate, like the word’s been sitting on his tongue for months. He barely breathes after saying it. And immediately the world melts around you and even though you maybe don’t forgive him you can’t help but just hug him. 

He tries to “warn” you off. Tells you he’s too far gone, too angry, too violent. You just look at him with that soft, infuriating smile and say, “Then it’s a good thing I’m not scared of the dark.”

He loves your laugh like it’s sacred. Every time he hears it, something inside him unclenches. It’s like proof that the world can still be good, that he didn’t ruin everything. He will go out of his way to make you laugh when he really can’t listen to the world anymore. 

He doesn’t believe he deserves you. Not deep down. Every time you tell him you love him, he swallows it like a blade. But he clings to it like armor—your love becomes the thing that keeps him from spiraling.

He’d burn the world down to keep you safe. And the terrifying part is—he could. But he doesn’t. Because you remind him that staying is the bravest thing he’s ever done.

🥀 good morning soldier 

Your bare feet pad across the cold kitchen floor, humming some half-remembered melody from a playlist he’d never admit he listens to. The sun hasn’t fully risen yet—just enough light to spill gold across the countertop. John’s already there, mug in hand, back leaning against the sink like he’s been up for hours.

You grin, rubbing your eyes. “Hey, sweetheart.”

He looks at you like the word physically hits him. His jaw tics and his eyes target you, “You shouldn’t call me that.” He sets his drink down and just like every other morning he spins around to face the sink and turn on the water. 

Walking all the way over to him you stand as close as you can to him and pour yourself some coffee. “Then stop blushing when I do.” 

“I don’t blush.” He jumps back a bit from the water steaming the sink that he just had his hands under not paying attention to what he had done. 

You laugh, and it’s unfair how easily it cuts through his defenses. He looks away. The silence sits thick for a beat. But then you notice the half lidded eyes, the still in pajamas outfit, and the fact that your coffee was cold, “You have another nightmare?” you ask softly.

He doesn’t answer. Just keeps his eyes on the window, watching the empty sky. You slide into his space, standing between him and the sink putting your hands on his chest, “You know you don’t have to stand alone every time something hurts, right?”

He swallows hard.

“You shouldn’t say that either,” he says, voice barely above a whisper. “You’re starting to make me dumb. I forget who I was when you act like this.” He doesn’t move he just stares at you with what little opening his eyes are giving him. 

You move your hands up his chest a little more—right over that old, angry heartbeat that still hasn’t learned how to trust. “You’re not who you were.”

His breath stutters, and you can feel his heart kick up a bit. “You don’t know that.”

You step up onto your tipt toes, brushing your lips just barely across his. “I do.”

He kisses you just as gently as you chose to approach him. And when he pulls back, he rests his forehead against yours, “I don’t deserve you.”

You smile, soft and maddening. “Good thing I’m not asking you to.”

Yelena Belove thinks you might be an Alien or worse real…

She pretends not to like you at first. All sarcastic quips and fake eye-rolls like, “Why are you smiling? Did I miss something?” But she notices everything—your laugh, your warmth, the way you care. The way you hear she likes music and makes her playlists, the way you give her different eyeliner colors to try, and the way you make sure she eats, drinks, and sleeps. 

You bring her little things. A weird trinket from a thrift store. A hot sauce bottle shaped like a cat. A donut with a smiley face. A pot that you sat and decorated because you had nothing else to do. She acts unimpressed—until you catch her hoarding them in a drawer like treasure, you kindly offer to take your trash and throw it away, and she simply says “Are you crazy? No.” 

She calls you annoying instead of saying “I love you.” “Ugh, you are so annoying,” she mutters when you kiss her forehead or help her fix her hair. But her hand doesn’t leave yours and she is always smiling at you when you aren’t looking at her. 

She becomes very defensive of you. The moment anyone makes a snide comment or flirts with you too aggressively, Yelena’s voice gets dangerously calm. “Say that again. Slowly. So I can break the right fingers.” And she makes you stand behind her and hold her hand, not because you can’t fight for yourself but you shouldn’t have to. You also do not match so she needs to make sure everyone knows who you are with. 

You sneak softness into her life. She goes from “I do not need flowers” to “I kill anyone who touches this pressed daisy in my journal” real fast. Especially if you gave it to her. She also loves when you make her things special, like inside she gets all giddy.

She gets flustered when you compliment her. “You’re so pretty it makes my chest hurt,” you sigh. She immediately chokes on her drink and shoves a pillow in your face like “NO.” 

You make her laugh when she doesn't want to. After missions. After nightmares. After she punches a wall. You’re just there with a dumb joke or an armful of snacks and a movie queued up. And she hates how much it helps.

She learns what safety feels like—with you. She never used to sleep through the night. Now, with your hand resting on her stomach and your breath in her hair, she sometimes forgets the world exists.

She lets you fix her up. Cuts, bruises, bullet wounds—she lets you clean them, grumbling like a wounded animal but never pulling away. Sometimes she kisses you when you're concentrated, just to feel your love in real time.

She falls in love before she realizes it. One day, she looks over at you singing to your plants in a hoodie that’s way too big, and it just hits her. “Oh no,” she whispers. “I would actually kill for her.”

🥀 you talk too much and i like it 

“You talk too much,” Yelena mutters, leaning back on your couch while you animatedly explain the plot of Criminal Minds. Though she is finding it amusingly disturbing she can’t help but comment. 

You pause mid-rant. “Excuse me?” You plop down on the couch practically sitting on her lap as you do so. 

She raises an eyebrow. “You do. You talk too much. About everything. Movies. Animals. Crime. It is like listening to a podcast that smiles at you. Yelena puts her hand on your leg absentmindedly as she scrolls on her phone. 

You cross your arms, pretending to pout. “Fine. I’ll shut up.” You are now staring right at the TV not saying a word anymore. You completely ignore her hand and you don’t say anything about her makeup. 

Silence falls for a beat. Then her voice softens. “Don’t.” You look over. She’s not watching the TV or her phone  anymore—she’s watching you. Like the world’s already on fire and you’re the only thing not burning.

“I like your voice,” she says. Barely above a whisper. She clicked the TV down a few volume ticks and throws her phone onto the floor. 

You blink.

“I like the way you talk when you think no one’s really listening. I like the way you ramble. I like…” She swallows, jaw tight. “I like you.” You throw your arms down and then move her hand throwing it back at her as you climb onto her lap. 

You put your thighs outside of hers and put your hands around the back of her neck. “Even when I sing to myself?”

She groans, tossing her head backwards. “Ugh, especially then. You are so weird.” Her hands find their way around your waist pulling you close.  But she looks up and you look down slowly you bring your face closer to hers until you are barely kissing. Because sunshine like you? It’s the first real warmth she’s ever known.

Bob Reynolds feels like it is rain hitting gold…

He doesn’t understand you at first. You bring him coffee with a little heart drawn in the foam. You bring a second mug just in case he doesn’t like the first one. You say things like “Have you eaten today?” with that sunny curiosity that makes it feel like a love letter, not a chore. He stares at you for a solid thirty seconds before answering—because no one’s asked that in years. Everything you ask him about himself is so strange to him because you really care about his day, how he feels, if he feels like he can take care of himself, if he has taken care of himself, and what he wants to do. All of that matters to you. 

He thinks you’re too good for him. He watches you dance in the kitchen to the radio as you help him clean up, barefoot and glowing in the golden light of afternoon, and all he can think is don’t touch it, you’ll ruin it. He stands in doorways and doesn’t step forward. He watches more than he speaks. Not because he doesn’t want to—but because he doesn’t believe the light will let him stay. 

 You catch him crying over small things. You offer him your scarf when he forgets his coat. You make a point to fold his sweaters so they don’t lose their shape. You hum when you brush your teeth. It’s these things. The tiny soft normalities that gut him open. That whisper, you’re allowed to do those things with her. 

He touches you like you’re a miracle. At first it’s hesitant—just a hand grazing yours, his shoulder leaning into your side on the couch. But when you kiss him, really kiss him, his hands shake. He cups the back of your head like he’s afraid you’ll vanish. He pulls you into his lap like he needs the weight of you to stay grounded. You get so excited and you are so happy to touch him and feel how warm he is. 

 He watches you sleep to remind himself this is real. Sometimes he doesn’t sleep at all. He just lies beside you with his hand gently curled over your hip, counting your breaths like prayers. You drool a little. Snore softly. And he still thinks it’s the most beautiful thing he’s ever seen. 

You make him laugh like a boy again - You tell the worst jokes imaginable and wait for his reaction with this eager little smile that kills him. The first time he laughs, you don’t even register how monumental it is. But he does. He excuses himself to the bathroom and stares at himself in the mirror for ten minutes, hand over his mouth like holy shit.

He tells you about the Void in fragments. It starts with a bad night. He says, “There’s something inside me.” Then: “It’s not always under control.” Then: “It wants to hurt everything I love.” When you hold his hand through it, he cries like a man unworthy of forgiveness. But you don’t let go.

You learn how to pull him out of the dark. It’s not with screaming or logic. It’s with little things. You name five things in the room. You tell him where you are. You sit with your knees touching and say, “You’re here, Bob. Right now. With me. Not there.” And it works, sometimes. Not always—but enough. When it doesn’t work that way you go on runs with him, you take him on drives, and you stay up all night with him. 

He tries to leave you. He writes a letter. He packs a bag. He almost disappears. But you find him—always. Sitting in a motel off some highway, pacing in a parking lot, crouched in an alley like he’s back in a war he can’t name. You find him, and you don’t say why did you run. You say, “Are you ready to come home now?”

He’s terrified of being loved fully. Because love means vulnerability. Means closeness. Means you see him. And if you see him, then you’ll see the rot. But when he panics, when he spirals, when he screams that he’s not safe to be around—you cup his face, brush back his hair, and whisper, “I don’t need perfect. I just need you.”

 You teach him softness. You show him that being held isn’t the same as being restrained. That being needed isn’t a burden. That crying in front of someone doesn’t mean weakness—it means trust. And one day, without even realizing it, he smiles first.

🥀 sanctuary

The walls are shaking. Not physically—but inside his skull, he can feel the vibrations and it hurts. Inside the Void, where the air is thick and wrong, where the voices hiss about destruction and obliteration and how dare you let this happen—

He is sitting in the freezing cold outside on the concrete stairs on the library, he is not tired, he is not even feeling human at this point. He can no longer hear the buzzing of the streetlights or the sound of the cars fighting for one side of the road where the road work is not. But then there’s a light. Your voice. Soft and steady.

“Bob.”

He can’t answer. His throat is locked. His hands twitch. You kneel in front of him, legs folded beneath you, your hands reaching for his like it’s the most natural thing in the world. He is freezing, his hands do not even feel like they have skin they are so solid. “Come back. Come here. Come home.”

“I can’t,” he chokes on his own spit, he forgot to swallow, he can barely hear you.  “I—I’m not—I’m not safe. I could hurt you. I could—”

“You won’t,” you say. No fear. No flinching. Just absolute conviction. You feel so bad, he usually does not suffer like this, in fact he had been good for months. But like he was addicted to drugs his brain is addicted to this and he has no control. “Not with me.”

He lets out a sob and tries to pull away—but you follow. You always follow. Your forehead touches his, and your thumbs swipe the tears from his cheeks letting his shaky hands sit wherever he lets them lay as you whisper:

“You’re not the monster in the dark, baby. You’re the boy who came back to the light.”

And that breaks him. He curls into your shoulder hugging you, even his clothes feel like ice. He clings like a man drowning. Bob starts to realize that he can barely feel his own body, but he can think and he is truly so happy you are there with him. He keeps his face in your  should as you rub his back and push your head against his, whispering, “You’re safe. You’re safe. You’re mine.”

And for the first time in years, the Void goes quiet.

Ava Starr believes you have changed her whole orbit…

At first, she doesn't trust the sunshine. You smile too easily. You're gentle in a way that makes her skin itch with confusion. People like you—happy people, softpeople—usually get swallowed by the world she lives in. So she assumes it's fake. It has to be. But it’s not. You just... are.

She keeps waiting for the mask to drop. Ava tracks you, like a threat. Watches your body language for signs of manipulation. Keeps mental notes on every kindness you show her. But weeks pass, and it’s always the same: soft eyes, warm hands, a voice like safety. She realizes one day that you never were wearing a mask. You’re just light. Real light. And that’s somehow scarier.

She tries to push you away with sharp edges. “Don’t get close to me,” she says. “I’m not safe.” You grin. “Neither is the sun, but here we are.” It’s the first time she blushes in years.

She doesn’t know what to do when you fuss over her. You put lotion in her bag because you noticed her hands crack in the cold. You bring her tea and sit with her in silence after missions. You brush her hair away from her eyes during bad days. She stares at you like you’re speaking a foreign language. Like no one has ever cared for her without needing something in return. And you don’t. You just do it. Because you love her.

 You’re the only one who can touch her without flinching. Ava’s afraid of what her phasing will do—afraid of hurting you. But you cup her face gently, pressing your forehead to hers, whispering: "I trust you. I trust your control." And she doesn’t cry—but she does shake. A quiet surrender.

You give her a place to land. When the pain gets too loud, when the ghost-scream of her molecules starts shredding her calm, she finds you. She doesn’t even need to speak—you just open your arms, and she’s home. She can phase through walls but never through you. You ground her like gravity.

She protects you with a terrifying ferocity. Someone raises their voice at you once—and Ava is instantly on them. No words. No warning. Just a look that promises blood and consequences. It’s not a bluff, either. You're the one who has to tug her back and say softly, “It’s okay, baby. I’m okay.” (But you secretly like it.)

 She learns how to soften for you. She’s not good with affection at first—her hands hesitate, her voice comes out clipped. But she learns. Learns to hold your waist when you’re cooking, to rub your back when you’re anxious, to whisper “I missed you” into your collarbone like it costs her something to admit it. But she does. She admits it. Because you’re worth the burn.

You’re the first person she lets see her scars. She shows you the damage. The places her body never fully healed. The marks from machines, from labs, from the life she never asked for. You press kisses to each one. “This one means you survived,” you say. “This one too. All of them.” And for the first time, they feel beautiful.

She plans a future with you—but can’t say it out loud. She thinks about what it would mean to build a life, not just survive one. She pictures a little apartment with books you leave open on the couch, toothbrushes side-by-side, you dancing in her hoodie to awful music while coffee brews. She can’t say it yet—but she wants it. God, she wants it.

You tell her she's not broken—and she almost believes you. You say it like a promise: “You are not your pain, Ava. You are not a weapon. You are a woman who lived through hell and still chose to love.” She closes her eyes and leans into your shoulder. “I don’t know if I believe that yet.” “That’s okay,” you whisper. “I believe it enough for both of us.”

🥀 phase 

You wake to the hum of the quantum static. Ava’s back is arched, breath ragged, hands clenching the edge of the mattress like she’s barely holding herself together. Light pulses under her skin—white-hot and wrong—as she phases in and out of reality.

You don’t scream. Don’t flinch. You sit up slowly, crawl to her side, and whisper: “You’re okay. I’m here.”

She tries to pull away. “No—get out—get away from me—I can’t control—” You wrap your arms around her waist and press your face to her spine.

“I trust you,” you say. She lets out a sob like a wounded animal. Her body shakes. Her phasing slows. The light dims. Your warmth seeps into her chest, and she slumps back against you like it’s all she’s been waiting for.

“I didn’t mean to wake you,” she mumbles brokenly.

“I don’t care,” you whisper. “You’re not alone.”

She clutches your hand, fingers trembling, and for the first time in weeks, her body stays whole.

Bucky Barnes thinks you have the smile he will always chase…

He does not understand why you care about him. Not really. Not yet. Bucky Barnes is used to people fearing him or needing him. Used to being either a weapon or a tragedy. When you show up with that light in your eyes and a handmade lunch in your bag for him, smiling like he’s something good, he can’t compute it. “You always bring me stuff,” he mutters, picking at the corner of your container. “Even when I’m an asshole.” “And you always eat it,” you tease. “Even when you’re trying not to smile.” The corner of his mouth twitches. He doesn’t smile, not really. Not yet. But his hands stop shaking.

He never grew up learning how to deal with gentleness. Bucky knows how to take a punch. Knows how to survive brainwashing, torture, decades of guilt. But he doesn’t know what to do when you crawl into his lap, pepper kisses along his stubbled jaw, and whisper, “Hi, handsome.” He freezes. Every time. You can feel the tension running through him like a high-tension wire. Not fear. Just disbelief. Like he thinks he’ll wake up and you’ll be gone. “Relax, Buck,” you say, pressing your hand to his chest. “I’m here.” He’ll press his forehead against yours like it’s a prayer. And breathe, slow and shaky.

He’s gentle in ways he doesn’t even realize. He stands on the street side when you walk. Sleeps closest to the door in hotels. Keeps his vibranium hand curled behind your back in public, silently shielding you. It’s in the way he opens your car door and then pretends he didn’t. In how he silently memorizes your coffee order after you say it once. In private? He touches you like you're porcelain and he’s still learning how to use his hands again. You make him slow down. Let him feel. Let him choose.

 He’s scared to sleep next to you at first. Not because he doesn’t want to. But because he’s had too many nights waking up in cold sweats, fists clenched, not knowing where—or who—he is. The idea of hurting you, even by accident, keeps him curled on the couch for weeks. But one night, you find him mid-nightmare. He’s on his knees, breathing ragged, eyes wild with Winter Soldier panic. You kneel in front of him, press your hand to his cheek. “You’re here. You’re safe. You’re Bucky. And I love you.” He crumbles. Arms around your waist, face buried in your chest like he’s five seconds from shattering. After that, he sleeps in your bed every night.

 He’s constantly looking at you like you’re not real. In the morning light, when you’re brushing your teeth in his t-shirt. When you fall asleep in his lap while watching reruns. When you kiss his shoulder absentmindedly while reading a book. There’s a look he gets—faraway, reverent. Like he’s staring at something too good for him. Like he’s waiting for the day you realize you deserve better. You catch him one day. “You okay?” He shakes his head slowly, voice a rasp: “I’ve never been this okay.”

 He’s terrified of how much he needs you. You’re light. Ease. A sunrise he never thought he’d live to see again. And that terrifies him. Because he’s lived in shadow so long, it feels like the sun might burn him. When he pulls away sometimes, disappears into his own head, you don’t chase. You wait. You sit close. You remind him: “You’re allowed to need things.” Eventually, he whispers back, “I need you.”

He starts learning softness from you. Slowly. Clumsily. You teach him that he’s allowed to laugh. That he can tease, flirt, tickle. You start to see a version of Bucky who’s silly.Who hides your snacks just to watch you pout. Who writes terrible sticky notes and leaves them on your mirror. Who starts humming in the kitchen when he thinks you’re asleep. He’s awkward with it. But so proud when he makes you laugh. “That wasn’t even that funny,” you giggle one day. Bucky shrugs, smug. “Made you snort, sunshine.”

He lets you touch his vibranium arm—and it undoes him. No one ever touches it. Not like that. Not with tenderness. But you’ll grab his hand with zero hesitation, press your cheek to the cool metal, trace the Wakandan etchings like they’re something beautiful. “Even this part of you deserves love,” you whisper once. He doesn’t respond. Just pulls you into his arms and holds you like you’re the only thing tethering him to the ground.

 He learns to want a future with you. It’s small things at first. Sharing a toothbrush holder. Bringing home flowers. Letting you paint that little spare room whatever ridiculous color you picked. Then it’s bigger. A key to his place. Matching mugs. You in his dog tags. He doesn’t say it out loud. But the way he looks at you when you fall asleep beside him? That is his vow.

You’re the reason he stays. There are still hard nights. Still days when he wonders if he’s worth saving. But you don’t flinch. You never leave. You just pull him close, press your lips to his temple, and remind him again: “You’re not broken. You’re becoming.” And he holds on to you like a lifeline.Because you are.

🥀 the quiet place 

Bucky wakes before the sun finishes rising. The room is bathed in the soft gray haze of morning, curtains drawn halfway, just enough to let the light pool across the floor in long, golden ribbons. The world outside hasn’t woken yet—no cars, no birds, no sound. Just the gentle, rhythmic hum of your breathing beside him.

His body’s still tense when he stirs, like it always is when sleep lets go of him. For one awful second, his brain jolts into the habit of survival. He doesn’t know where he is. Doesn’t know who’s next to him. The phantom buzz of a trigger word rattles behind his eyes. Then you murmur something, half-asleep. A soft, incoherent noise. And you burrow closer.

Your arm, draped over his stomach, flexes just slightly as you pull yourself tighter to him. Your leg’s hooked over his hip like you’ve claimed him. There’s a faint line of drool at the corner of your mouth, and your cheek is pressed to his bare chest. Your hair is a mess. He can feel the heat of your breath fan over the curve of his ribs. It anchors him.

He exhales slowly through his nose, the panic ebbing. His heartbeat evens out. He lets his eyes flick open, just enough to look at you. Really look at you. You’re here. You’re still here. He doesn’t understand it. He doesn’t try to. Not right now.

Instead, Bucky stays still. Motionless. Reverent.

The weight of you on him is everything. A reminder. A heartbeat. Proof. He watches you sleep for minutes that feel like hours. His eyes trace your features—your lashes fluttering, the softness of your mouth, the curve of your jaw. Your hand twitches against his stomach like you’re dreaming something good.

You never look at him like you’re afraid. Even when he flinches in the dark. Even when his nightmares crack him open at 3am and he curls into himself like a wounded dog, shaking from the echo of memories he never asked for. Even when he forgets how to speak without guilt heavy in his throat.

You look at him like he’s home. He swallows around the ache building in his chest. Carefully—so carefully—he raises his vibranium hand, fingers shaking just a little, and brushes a strand of hair out of your face. The tips of his fingers linger at your temple. You don’t wake. But you sigh. Soft, pleased, safe. Bucky’s eyes sting suddenly. He blinks up at the ceiling.

“I don’t know what I did to deserve this,” he whispers.

It’s a prayer. It’s a confession. It’s all he can say. But you stir then, just barely, and mumble sleepily without opening your eyes: “You lived.”

He doesn’t cry. Not really. But something inside him cracks, slow and aching and full of light. He closes his eyes again. Not because he’s tired. Not because he’s slipping into a nightmare. But because, for the first time in a long, long time, Bucky Barnes is allowed to rest. And this time, he does. Wrapped in you. Wrapped in peace.

[speakingsoftly]

Who fell first and who fell harder? [Thunderbolts* Edition] (No Alexei!)

pairings (all separately) : Yelena Belova x Genderneutral!Reader, Bucky Barnes x Genderneutral!Reader, Ava Starr x Genderneutral!Reader, John Walker x Genderneutral!Reader and Bob Reynolds x Genderneutral!reader

genre: fluff, light angst?

warnings: genderneutral!reader, fluff, profanity, some self-loathing characters, everyone here is desperate for praise (same lol).

A/N: john walker has officially been added to characters i write for! also this is low-key ass, but i rlly wanted to do it lol.

A/N # - 2: came back to edit this post a little and OVER 500+ notes?!?!! I LOVE YOU GUYS SM 😭🫶🏻

Yelena Belova ~ You fell first, Yelena fell harder. How could you have not fallen in love with Yelena? You were amazed by how cool she was and you always made it a point to tell her. You couldn't help, but fall in love with her quiet kindness and her genuine care for people. Yelena was weary, no one ever really has good things to say about her. She was a red room assassin for most of her life and basically worked for Valentina the other half. Yelena was jealous of you; Your bright eyes and award winning smile and your openness to give everyone a second chance, even her. Hell, the moment she knew she was done for was when you stayed up all night waiting for her to get back from a mission to make sure she was safe. Yelena knew for sure at that moment, chewing the grilled cheese you made for her, she was fucked.

Bucky Barnes ~ Shockingly, Bucky fell first and harder. Bucky was enamored with your kindness and how you never judged him for his past. You made him feel normal. You made a point to take him out of situations he was uncomfortable in. You listened with so much intention, whenever he spoke. He couldn't help, but feel shy with your undivided attention. He knew the feeling immediately, after feeling anger boil in his gut, after you got hurt on a mission. Was not his best idea to tie the person who hurt you up to the light pole, but does he care? No, not really.

Ava Starr ~ Ava fell first, You fell harder. Ava knew when she met you at the med-bay to get patched up, you were the prettiest person she has ever laid her eyes on. Your soft voice guided her through, so she wouldn't feel pressure. Oh, you hung the moon and the stars to Ava. You also thought she was beautiful, when she came to the med-bay, but she was a New Avenger. Why would they go for a plain medical nurse? God, but your feelings for her just got stronger. Her overprotectiveness and her need for physical touch; she loved pressing your knees together, during movie night. Just her seeking you out, after a mission to talk about your days. Ugh, you were a goner.

John Walker ~ You fell first, John fell harder. Did you expect to fall for a literal asshole? No, you did not. It slowly cultivated the weird feeling that grew in your chest, whenever you looked at John. He was a dick, and yet the quiet things he did are what made you fall for him. John not even blinking twice and sharing food with you after a mission; Him using his shield to protect you from flying rubble, the small, but sarcastic jokes that would make you giggle that made John look as if he was a dog preening at their owner. John always thought you were beautiful, no doubt about it, but falling for you was something he never expected. You were the complete opposite: caring, tender, and had patience with people. Something he didn't have. He considered you to be a nuisance at first, but over time he felt himself audibly looking for your praise and to keep you happy and laughing. Oh, shit. John has fallen in love with you and hard.

Bob Reynolds ~ Bob fell first and harder. Bob was attached at your hip, after you defended him to everyone, after he came out of that box. He felt it would be best to stick by the person who was nice to him. You believed in him, which is something he doesn't get a lot. You gave over one of your guns to keep himself safe, if something happened to you. That had Bob trying to keep the red from flushing his cheeks. After everything that happened with New York, Sentry, Void and the shadows; You still had so much faith, and love in him. He was falling fast and hard. You were everything to him. 

[speakingsoftly]

I'm going to frame this in my house

[speakingsoftly]

manchild.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Beer shoots to the back of your throat.

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

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

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

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

You need distance.

You need to move.

You need to leave.

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

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

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

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

Only one of those things ends up happening.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Why?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You cave with no fight and give it to him.

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

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

A thought pops into your mind.

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

“You have a headache, right?”

“Uh-huh,” your eyes narrow skeptically.

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

Something inside of you stops.

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

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

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

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

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

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

No, really, it’s great.

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

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

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

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

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

The pair of you make up quite the sight.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Remember that Karli situation a few months ago?”

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

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

Unprompted and unwarranted, his words spear your heart.

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

You swallow back the lump in your throat.

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

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

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

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

“I was in a rush!”

“And sitting on a jack-hammer?”

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

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

“What?”

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

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

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

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

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

Are you supposed to feel this relieved?

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

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

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

A series of beeps capture your attention.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Bucky is charming.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You clench your fist shut.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Bucky leaves.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“You can go back to sleep now.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

Then, why should you?

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

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

Brooding, uncalling soldier be damned!

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Oh, they’re nice!”

That does it for you.

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

“You see how she treats me, Vince?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Wait, when exactly did Bucky get home?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

A crumpled bouquet of roses.

Everywhere you turn, there’s tension.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

There’s no point dwelling on the thought.

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

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

Bucky scoffs, arms crossing over his chest.

“More likely he forgot to charge it.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The cackle that escapes you could break the soundbarrier.

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

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

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

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

There it is again in his eyes, the accusation.

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

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

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

Bucky has other plans and grips both your forearms.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Bucky intercepts your attempt to push out of his arms.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Unlike Vince, he has no trouble removing your bra.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Never has a more needless question been asked. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He doesn’t.

He says something much better.

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

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

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

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

A wicked voice takes control of your mouth.

“Lance would have fucked me by now.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Jesus, doll, you okay?” 

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

Even though he rolls his eyes, he complies.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Exactly my point.”

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

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

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

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

“Shut up and fuck me, Barnes.”

“Yes ma’am.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Like any good soldier, he obeys.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“To blame for what?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

A fingertip tickles down the slope of your nose.

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

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

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

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

[speakingsoftly]

hi! 19 from the prompt list for reader x bob reynolds please :) but with reader saying it to bob? 🩷

ask and you shall receive!! hope you enjoy <333

wc: 779

prompt: bob reynolds + "i thought you were dead"

It wasn’t the tactful thing to say, but it was the truth.

“I thought you were dead,” you uttered to him the second you realized the face in front of you truly was Bob Reynolds.

When you thought of him, which was really not that often, you figured he was an unidentified body in a morgue or grave somewhere. After all, the last time you’d seen him he was a flighty drug addict with no family to speak of. Or, at least, no family he wanted to speak of. You weren’t sure which it truly was.

To be clear, you had not known him well by any means. It was spring break in Florida your final year of college, and he had merely orbited your obscenely large group of travelers for your time there. Afterward you had been in long-distance contact for all of two months before he dropped off the face of the planet. Ironically, his last text had simply read talk later, which you had not. You first figured he was high, then you figured worse.

Though you had worried briefly, you had also known there was nothing you could do. The police would have laughed in your face if you called from New York, saying you were worried because your Florida spring break hook-up wasn’t texting you back. In the end, it only bothered you for as long as you could see his text thread until it was drowned out by others.

He looked different now. Healthier. Taller, somehow. But also, shier. He looked at you so seemingly astounded that you began to think he didn’t remember you. (Really, it wouldn’t have been so shocking given how under the influence you had both been when you’d actually spent time together.) After a moment, though, he said your name. 

“Yeah,” you said, though it no longer looked like he needed confirmation. “You look…” You didn’t really know where to begin with that. A number of adjectives came to mind. Better. Healthier. Sober. “Good.”

A twitch of his lips was almost a smile. “You too.”

“It’s good to see you,” you offered then, which was mostly true. It was good to see that he was alive, though it left you with several mostly awkward questions.

He opened his mouth to responded but was interrupted by a barista calling his name. He held up one finger and then turned to collect what looked like a sugar-coma worthy drink from the counter. When he turned back, you half expected a dismissal. Instead, he fumbled into his pocket and withdrew a very brand-new looking phone.

He began cautiously, “I, uh, I stopped paying for my phone.” You nodded, though you had no idea where he was going with it. “Back then, I mean. I wasn’t really working and there was… other stuff I thought was more important.”

It did not take much imagination to figure what the more important stuff was, but you weren’t one to judge. You’d drained your savings and maxed out a credit card on your trip. Nowadays you weren’t so stupid with money, but you’d yet to regret your previous decisions.

“But,” he continued, almost uncertainly. You saw him swipe up on the phone screen and look briefly at it, “I really liked talking to you before, and I never thought I’d be able to again, but now…”

Now he could. Now you could. (And, you couldn’t help but think, maybe it was a little like fate?)

His phone slid into your hand the moment you offered up your palm. You thumbed yourself into his contacts, after which you happened to not-so-accidentally notice there fewer than ten other people in it. It was clean. Efficient. Much neater than your contact list full of a lifetime’s worth of people, most of whom you hardly spoke to anymore. College contacts. Old coworkers. All people you’d never purged but probably should have. And, among them, Bob’s old number floating around somewhere.

The barista called your name as you were about to send yourself a text from his phone. You handed it back to him. If he texted you, then you’d replace his old number. If he didn’t, you’d assume this had all been a fever dream and allow his contact to stay buried in a sea of all the other people you no longer knew.

“Talk later?” you offered. He only had time to nod as you stepped around him to the counter.

You gave him a wave as you passed once more, heading for the exit. He waved back with his phone in hand. 

You were only halfway down the block when your phone pinged. Is it later yet?

want a drabble? hit my inbox with a thunderbolts guy & a prompt from this list.

[speakingsoftly]

I saw the John walker napping together and I'm DYING for another one Like I'm obsessed🎀 I like longish stories not to long but not to short and then it's just MHAH🤌🤌🤌 CHEFS KISS💋

I'm hoping you'd do another part? PLEASEEEE

Authors note: Hello! This was my first request and was so fun to write! I'm sorry for the wait, I was away on holiday and haven't been near my devices. But I hope I delivered with this, it could be read either as an 'after the nap' part 2 or just as a stand alone. But yes this was so fun and thank you so much for your support, I really appreciate it!!! ❤️🫶

Thunderbolts John Walker x Reader

'What the morning holds'

Summary: A lazy morning with John is a rare occurrence, one that he finds himself enjoying more and more as he settles into life with the you around.

Genre: Fluff, Fluff, and, more Fluff!!!

Word count: 1,168

It wasn’t unusual for John to be the first awake. He was a creature of habit, and typically his schedule did not allow for morning rest. Days started at 5 and ended whenever he crashed into bed. However, the formation of the ‘new avengers’ had changed that. Missions were allocated based on availability and ability. John was no longer thrown at whatever issue popped up. He was no longer dragged from sleep, groggy and uncoordinated. He was no longer tugged away from his only solace in a grim sense of duty. No. His solace lay beside him, sprawled out on top of the covers and lit dimly in the light permeating through the curtains. 

He watched you silently for a few minutes, basking in the sound of your heavy breathing, and observing how your closed eyes shifted in response to your dreams. The warm tingle of sleep still clung to his bare skin which was hidden under your soft sheets. He ran hot when he slept, preferring the comfort of loose boxers to any real pyjamas. Walker’s body responded with a clumsy sluggishness as he rolled himself onto his side. He needed to be closer to you. The gentle scent of your soap wafted in the air, intoxicatingly sweet and intensely familiar. It simultaneously set every nerve in his body on fire and yet completely relaxed him. His hand moved on its own accord, up towards your hair so that he could comb his fingers through it. You sighed in your sleep and snuggled towards him, your body automatically leaning into his warmth. Contentment washed over him like a soothing bath, a rare treat in the marathon of his life. He was used to constant stress, and the lack of time to think about anything other than the now. But in moments like these, there was a sense of calm, a chance for new thoughts to creep in, bringing with them a sense of ‘what-if’. And those thoughts only worsened when you opened your eyes, as you turned to him and that big, sleepy smile stretched across your cheeks. 

“Hi.” John’s heart skipped, he’d spend every waking moment trying to see that smile again. The one that said nothing but showed him every feeling you’d ever had about him.  

“Morning,” John’s voice was low and hoarse with the remnants of sleep. You rolled closer into him, tracing your fingers through the sparse hair on his chest. Neither of you spoke, simply enjoying the silence that came with such mornings. They were still rare, and you still cherished them dearly. John rolled backwards with a grunt, pulling you gently over him.  

In response, you swung your leg up over his hips and lowered yourself onto his chest as the two of you lay together. His heartbeat was strong and steady. You could feel the combination of the rhythm and his warmth lulling you back into your slumber. So, you sat up. Well, you tried. Your body groaned in protest, and you heard an offended grunt escape John from behind you. You chuckled as you ignored him, rubbing at your eyes. 

“If I don’t get up now, I’m not going to get up.” 

“So don’t get up?” John grumbled with feigned annoyance, allowing a long arm to snake around your waist and hold you in position. You forgot how tall he was, and that height came with long limbs and too much strength. 

“Noo, I have stuff to do today-” Your whining was interrupted by your body being yanked down. John rolled over onto his stomach, arm still around your waist and upper chest pinning you to the bed. His warm breath fanned over your ear.  

“That stuff can wait.” You could hear the grin creeping into his voice, a low rumble that confirmed he was only messing with you. He’d move if you wanted him to. But did you want him to? “You can tell them I wouldn’t let you leave,” you feigned resistance, half-heartedly pushing on his bicep as he chuckled quietly at you. 

“But then they’ll be mad at you.” 

“I can be the bad guy if it means I get to keep you for a little longer.” He smiled at you, one eye open and studying your face from the pillow. You sighed, sinking back into the bed. But a small sense of relief flooded through your body. The small silence between you allowed for the other sounds of the morning to cut through, birds tweeting, the sounds of the city, and finally, rain. Oh, that was a good sign, and so was the pinging of your phone. You threw your arm out towards the bedside table, feeling about for the cold surface of your phone. Wincing, you studied the bright screen. 

“Looks like you won’t have to be Mr.EvilGuy after all. Plans were cancelled because of the rain.” A small, happy noise rumbled through Walker’s chest, and he tugged you in closer.  His nose pressed up against your collarbone as he pressed small butterfly kisses up your neck, beard tickling at the sensitive skin underneath. Eventually he slowed, groaning contentedly into the skin at the side of your neck, and his weight on your body increased. You traced your fingers down his arm, feeling yourself slowly start to sink back into slumber. 

He wasn’t going to get back to sleep, John had known that even before he had asked you to stay. But that wasn’t the point. He snuggled into you, enjoying the slow thrum of your pulse against his nose as he rested against you. He could hear the others from down the hall, a collective batch of laughter and shrieking in the kitchen. No doubt the result of Alexei’s terrible cooking skills. No. He wouldn’t deal with it yet; he’d enjoy this time with you. The others were an issue for later in the day. 

It was nearly midmorning by the time you awoke again, this time you were alone in the bed. As you gazed around the room in a fog, you could see John’s towel strewn across the chair by his desk, still damp from use. As you listened for movement, the door slid open, revealing a dressed and showered John holding two steaming mugs. 

“I was just coming to wake you up,” he grinned at you. The aroma of coffee swirled in the air as he handed you a mug, the mattress shifting under his weight as he sat beside you. As you wrapped your hands around the cup, you watched him through the steam. John was flicking through his phone absentmindedly, either unaware of your gaze or simply accepting it. Warmth tingled through you as you took in the sight of him, usually so structured and rigid, but now gentle and quiet. Pride pricked at you, happiness that you were his quiet place in all of the mess that was life. And in the calm of this morning, it was as true as ever. You were his solace. 

[speakingsoftly]

what home feels like 𐙚 b.b

pairing: new avenger!bucky barnes x fem!reader (5 + 1 trope)

warnings: loads, like mountains of fluff, soft!bucky, some angst, bucky in an apron, team shenanigans

summary: the 5 times bucky thinks of proposing to you and the 1 time he does

word count: 6.1k (i couldn't help myself 🥹)

author's note: hi loves! i am in the middle of my vacation and i had this written during my layover, and i just couldn't wait to let you guys read it, so here it is! i hope you'll love it as much as i do! love ya and stay safe out there! 💌

The first time Bucky thought of proposing to you, you were asleep on his chest, and the world was still.

The sun filtered softly through gauzy curtains, turning the room to gold, that liminal hush between dawn and morning, when the world had yet to stir. 

The compound was silent. Peaceful. A rare luxury. And in the center of it all was you, curled in the tangle of Bucky’s arms, your face pressed to his chest, your breath warm and even against the fabric of his shirt.

One of your hands was fisted there, right over his heart, like you’d been afraid he might drift away in the night and needed something to anchor you. As if your body, even in sleep, refused to let him go. 

He didn’t mind. He never minded. In fact, if he had it his way, he’d never move from this moment at all. He could stay like this forever. And maybe, for once, he actually believed he deserved to.

Alpine lay nestled between your legs, a puddle of white fur with her chin resting lazily on your calf. She let out a soft mewl, stretching languidly, paws reaching toward the warm patch of sunlight spilling across the bed before curling tighter into the cradle you made for her.

Bucky watched her for a beat, the corners of his mouth twitching, and then looked back down at you, the way your lashes flickered in dreams, the way your lips parted with each slow breath, your features soft and at peace in the golden quiet.

There was a kind of stillness in the air that made everything feel sacred. Like nothing bad could touch the room you shared. Like the outside world, the violence, the ghosts, the endless fight didn’t exist here. 

Just you. Just him. Just this.

And his heart ached a little with the weight of it, of how far he’d come, of how long it had taken to get here. To something this gentle. This good.

Because this life had once seemed impossible.

Germany, 2016.

The first time Bucky saw you, he had been standing at the far end of the airport carpark in Berlin, still learning how to breathe in spaces that weren’t cages.

Still unsure of who he was supposed to be outside the Soldier. Still half-listening, half-drifting.

Steve had brought you in, voice warm, saying you’d be helping with strategy and tech coordination for the joint ops.

There had been a familiarity in how he spoke to you, like you were someone he already trusted. That alone had caught Bucky’s attention. 

And then… then you walked in beside him.

Wearing jeans and a simple button-down shirt rolled at the sleeves, your hair pulled back in some easy style like you hadn’t even put much thought into it.

You had a notebook in one hand, and your eyes were wide, bright. Like you hadn’t yet learned to keep your guard up in this line of work. Like the job hadn’t bled the softness out of you.

And Bucky… Bucky had stared.

Not out of rudeness—not really. But because you’d laughed. Full-bodied and unfiltered.

Scott had said something dumb—some half-witted quip about old men and bluetooth—and you had tipped your head back, laughing like it was the best thing you’d heard all week.

The sound of it went straight through him.

It didn’t just catch his attention. It wrecked him, a little. That laugh landed somewhere behind his ribs, somewhere he hadn’t even realised was still raw. And for the first time in a long time, something in him stirred. Something slow and silent and stupidly hopeful.

Then you turned to him. Your gaze met his.

You smiled.

Held out your hand.

“Hi, I’m (Y/N),” you’d said, your voice warm, effortless and kind. The kind of voice that made people feel safe. The kind of voice that felt like a hand resting lightly on a wound.

“You must be Bucky.”

He hadn’t said a word at first. Couldn’t. His brain had short-circuited under the weight of your gaze and the gentle curl of your mouth. His pulse roared in his ears like it did in combat zones—sharp, hot, all-consuming.

But then, somehow, he managed a smile. A real one. Small. Tentative. But genuine. And when he took your hand in his, shaking it carefully, cautiously, something in his chest locked into place.

He remembered how soft your skin had felt against his calloused fingers. How you hadn’t flinched at the sight of the metal. How your touch had lingered just long enough.

You didn’t seem put off by his silence. You’d just nodded, eyes full of something unspoken, and walked off with Wanda, the two of you giggling about something he couldn’t hear. Just like that, you were gone. But the space you left behind stayed.

That’s when Sam had sidled up beside him, elbowing him just hard enough to knock him out of his daze.

“You know if you keep staring, it’s gonna get reak creepy,” he said, smirking.

Bucky had scowled at him. Sam had just grinned wider, all smug and knowing, before turning back.

But even then—Bucky knew.

Knew he was already in trouble.

Because something had shifted. A compass needle inside him, snapping north.

And from that moment on, he’d been tilting toward you.

Now, as he looked down at you all these years later—your lashes fluttering in dreams, your nose scrunching as Alpine adjusted herself—the same flutter stirred in his chest. The same ache, the same quiet kind of awe.

The kind of wonder a man feels when he realises he’s been given the one thing he never dared to ask for.

You shifted in your sleep, barely a breath of movement, but your hand remained curled tight in his shirt, right over his heart.

A reflex, even now. And Bucky let his vibranium fingers trace along your spine, the weight of them light, slow, gentle. Careful not to wake you. He wanted to hold onto this moment just a little longer.

That’s when he thought about the ring.

The one you’d pretended not to look at in the window of that little shop in town last week, red velvet box, delicate curve of diamonds catching the light.

You’d been with Yelena and Bob, arms full of coffee cups and teasing each other about something John had said.

But as you passed the display, you slowed.

He’d noticed it. The way your gaze had lingered. The way your fingers shifted slightly on the cup, like you were reaching for something you wouldn’t admit to wanting. The way your smile curved at the corners, quiet and wistful, like a secret you didn’t plan on sharing.

He saw it and tucked it away.

And now, with you asleep in his arms, your heartbeat matching his, the sun painting gold into your skin, Alpine’s fur warming your legs and that familiar weight of your hand pressed into his chest—he made the decision he’d been dancing around for weeks.

He was going to buy it.

Because this—this lazy Sunday morning with your body draped over his, your love stitched into the silence—this was it.

This was forever.

The second time Bucky thought of proposing, the kitchen had smelled like toast and sunlight.

It was late morning when he found you in the kitchen, barefoot on cool tile, hips swaying to the distant echo of Taylor Swift playing from a speaker;

The track was barely audible—warbled through the walls, a little staticky at the edges, but you didn’t seem to care.

You moved with it anyway, letting the music carry you from one counter to the next like it had been written for this exact moment—lazy, sun-warmed, still wrapped in the quiet of sleep.

You were wearing his shirt—that old red henley he loved and you’d stolen without apology—sleeves pushed up to your elbows, the hem brushing mid-thigh and clinging in places where the steam from the kettle had warmed the air. 

Your hair was still mussed from sleep, strands curling at your temples, and one sock was scrunched halfway down your ankle like you’d forgotten to pull it all the way on.

You held a wooden spoon in one hand like a microphone, lips parted, eyes closed, your voice rising with the chorus as you spun in a loose, lazy circle in front of the stove.

You were completely at ease. Utterly unbothered. Just lost in the song and the morning and the rhythm of your own joy.

Sunlight streamed in through the half-open blinds, casting golden stripes across the floor and lighting you up like something out of a dream.

You looked like every warm Sunday morning he’d ever wanted, the kind of morning he didn’t believe he’d ever actually get.

Bucky leaned against the doorframe, watching the way your feet padded across the tile, how your hips swayed, how you bobbed your head to the beat like no one was watching—because you didn’t think anyone was.

And maybe he should’ve said something—greeted you, teased you, but the words stayed lodged in his throat, caught somewhere behind the knot that had formed in his chest. Because there was something about you like this that undid him.

Completely.

You were radiant in a way he didn’t think you realised. The kind of radiant that came from joy—unfiltered, unguarded. The kind that wasn’t curated or calculated or polished for the world.

The kind of beauty that only existed in the in-between spaces—in the stretch of a yawn, in a wooden spoon masquerading as a microphone, in the way your laugh cracked when you hit the high notes wrong.

And god, he thought, watching the sway of your hips, the grin playing at your lips, this is home.

You.

You were home.

He thought about the way you’d slowly, gently introduced him to pop culture like it was your personal mission to drag him into the 21st century. 

The curated playlists you made, some with real titles and others labeled “Bucky’s Soft Bitch Era” just to get a rise out of him. The back-to-back movie nights where you made him swear, hand over heart, that he wouldn’t fall asleep during The Notebook.

He remembered the first time he said TokTok by accident and you’d nearly fallen off the couch laughing, giggling so hard you landed half in his lap. 

He’d rolled his eyes and muttered something about the whole app being made by “brain rot,” a term you taught him. but you’d refused to correct him, smirking every time he repeated it wrong.

You’d made it all so effortless. The joy.

He hadn’t known it was happening—not at first. Not until it was already too late to stop. Until you were part of everything. His mornings, his evenings, the space between missions, the quiet between nightmares. The laughter between breaths.

You hadn’t forced him to change.

You’d just given him something worth changing for.

He smiled to himself, one hand curling loosely around the coffee mug, now half-cold in his grip.

You were singing now, his shirt shifted with every movement, slipping just slightly off one shoulder. The sight of it—your bare skin against his worn cotton, the easy claim of it—made his stomach twist.

And maybe it was stupid.

Maybe it was too soon.

But the thought still rooted deep in his chest and bloomed like something inevitable.

I want to come home to this for the rest of my life.

He could see it, so vividly it ached. This kitchen, your voice, that damn wooden spoon. The rest of your lives written in sunlight and bad karaoke, laughter and bare feet on tile. He wanted to memorise this, frame it. Carve it into stone so it would never change, never fade.

Because at that moment, it wasn’t just love.

It belonged.

But he didn’t say anything.

Didn’t move.

Because the moment felt too perfect, too suspended in its own little pocket of magic, like one wrong word might startle it, might shatter the stillness and send it fleeing out the window with the breeze.

So he let it be.

Let it unfold in golden quiet, you twirling in his shirt, bathed in sunlight, the world narrowed down to the music and the soft clatter of silverware in the drying rack, the steam rising from your forgotten tea on the counter.

And Bucky stood there, still and quiet and entirely undone, holding a lukewarm cup of coffee and the sharp, aching certainty that one day, maybe soon, maybe not, he was going to ask you.

The third time Bucky thought about proposing to you, you were laughing in the golden light, beer in hand, surrounded by people who loved you almost as much as he did.

The sky had started to turn.

That soft stretch between afternoon and evening where the sun melted into everything it touched, bathing the world in a low, amber haze. The backyard was warm with the glow of it—fairy lights strung lazily along the rails of the compound’s rooftop. 

Smoke curled up from the grill, rich and familiar, while laughter rippled across the patio like music. Somewhere in the corner, Bob’s speaker hummed with old rock music and the occasional burst of static.

It didn’t matter. Nobody seemed to mind.

You were laughing again.

That soft, breathless kind of laughter that tugged at the corners of Bucky’s mouth every damn time he heard it. Like some part of him lit up in response—quiet and instinctive, like your joy flipped a switch inside him that nothing else could.

He stood just outside the patio doors, a paper plate in hand—barely touched—but his eyes were on you. 

Only you.

You were perched on the arm of John’s chair, elbow resting on his shoulder like it was second nature, beer bottle tilted carelessly in your hand. John was mid-sentence, half-defending himself from whatever teasing you were throwing at him, and you were clearly winning. 

Your smile was crooked, mischievous. Familiar. The same one you always wore when you knew you were about to land a joke that would ruin someone’s ego for the rest of the week.

“You’re just mad because I’m funnier than you,” you said, clinking your bottle against his in mock sympathy, your tone soaked in smug satisfaction.

John groaned dramatically. “Please. I’m hilarious.”

Yelena snorted from the grill without even looking up. “You are a tragedy.”

Bob raised his hand like he was in a courtroom. “She’s not wrong.”

“You people have no taste,” John muttered, but there was no real bite behind it.

“You overcooked the burgers,” Bob added casually.

“Exactly,” Yelena chimed in, jabbing a fork in his direction with finality. “He’s lost all credibility.”

Over by the cooler, Alexei was deep in what could only be described as a passionate retelling of something that definitely hadn’t happened—this time about his red guardian days and a hand-to-paw brawl with some Siberian bear. 

He waved his arms dramatically, chest puffed out, his voice rising with each sentence like a man delivering a one-man play. 

Ava had tuned him out completely, scrolling through her phone with surgical focus and only humming in vague acknowledgment whenever he shouted the word “bear” a little too loud.

It was chaotic, the kind of mess Bucky never would’ve imagined himself a part of—let alone something he could belong to.

But he wasn’t listening to any of it.

His eyes were on you.

The way you leaned into the warmth of the moment, head tilted back in laughter, eyes crinkling at the edges like sun lines. The way you had this unspoken ease with the people around you—even the ones who hadn’t always been easy to love. 

You fit into the team not like glue, but gravity—like you kept everyone tethered without even meaning to.

He shifted, let his free hand drift toward the pocket of his jeans. His fingers brushed the small velvet box tucked there.

He remembered the aftermath of what happened in New York, it had been brutal.

For everyone. But especially for John.

No one really knew what to say to him. No one quite knew how to reach him, not after it came out that Olivia had left. That the wife and baby he said was waiting back home had already left months before.

He was splintered.

You hadn’t flinched. You hadn’t hesitated.

You’d found John on the compound steps the night he returned, still bloodied and shaking, the seams of his restraint barely holding—and sat beside him.

No grand entrance. No fuss. Just a quiet presence. You didn’t offer him pity or force conversation. You didn’t tell him it would be okay, you didn’t lie.

You had reached over and took his hand.

Held it, steady and solid—while the others kept their distance. It was simply, completely unremarkable on the surface.

But it worked. Somehow. Quietly. Without demand.

And Bucky had watched it unfold, breath lodged somewhere behind his ribs. Because that was the thing about you. You never tried to fix anyone, but somehow, you still managed to help them heal.

You were everyone’s lighthouse in the dark, even the ones who pretended they didn’t need one.

Especially them.

It was only a week later when the compound had gone still when Bucky had found himself at the dining table, elbows braced, shoulders tight, knuckles white around the edge of a ceramic mug he wasn’t drinking from. 

He sat there for a long time, unmoving, eyes fixed on nothing, haunted by something he couldn’t name. The image of what he saw in the void still crawled under his skin—loud in the quiet, vivid behind his eyes.

He hadn’t noticed you until you spoke.

You padded in barefoot, still warm from sleep, wrapped in his shirt that hung off one shoulder. Your hair was tangled, voice soft and low like you hadn’t used it yet that day.

You didn’t ask what was wrong. You didn’t need to.

You just pulled out the chair beside him, sat down, and reached for his hand. No preamble. No questions. Just your fingers curling gently around his.

“I’m here, James,” you whispered, voice so quiet he barely caught it. “You’re not alone. Not anymore.”

And that—that was all it took.

He hadn’t said anything. Just nodded once, jaw tight as the tears came fast and quiet and unexpected.

Your grip never loosened.

And then Bucky blinked, too, like waking from a dream.

The memory dissolved around the edges, softening into the golden blur of now. 

You were still laughing with John, chin resting on your hand, your bottle now empty and forgotten.

The sky behind you had turned a dusky pink, streaked with orange and fading blue. The fairy lights blinked overhead like slow, lazy fireflies.

Bucky swallowed hard, throat thick, heart heavy with something he didn’t quite know how to hold. Something fragile and infinite.

The ring burned in his pocket.

Yelena sidled up beside him, two plates balanced in one hand, her eyes trailing the line of his gaze before she leaned in just enough to bump her shoulder against his.

“She’s good for you,” she said simply, like it was fact, like it had always been obvious.

He blinked, pulled his eyes from you long enough to glance at her. She was right.

“I know,” he said softly, mostly to himself, his fingers brushing the velvet box again, like the shape of it grounded him.

Soon.

But not tonight.

Tonight, he just stood there in the glow of fairy lights and fading sunlight, and let himself love you in silence.

The fourth time Bucky thought of proposing to you was during that one particular movie night.

The rec room buzzed, the lights were dimmed, shadows stretched across the walls in flickering shapes, and someone had dragged in extra bean bags and pillows from the training room—turning the entire floor into a makeshift nest of mismatched blankets and old couch cushions. 

The screen glowed in the dark, casting soft blues and golds onto lazy limbs and half-finished bowls of popcorn.

You were curled beside Bucky on the couch, shoulder pressed into his side, legs tangled loosely beneath a shared blanket.

One of your socks had slipped off sometime during the first act. He didn’t even know when. He just knew your toes were cold when they nudged against his shin—and he hadn’t moved away.

He didn’t think he ever could.

The room smelled like buttered popcorn and worn fabric, like sleep and safety and leftover takeout from the kitchen. 

Ava was stretched out across two bean bags with Alpine curled on her stomach. Bob had his head tipped back, already snoring softly, while Yelena and Alexei were still arguing in hushed voices about who cried harder during The Lion King.

It was quiet in a way that only felt possible when you were all together. The kind of quiet that wasn’t empty—just easy.

You shifted slightly, your fingers brushing over Bucky’s hand beneath the blanket. And then, without thinking, you began to trace the ridges of his knuckles. Absentminded. Familiar. Like muscle memory. 

Like you’d done it a hundred times before—because you had.

It was your comfort habit. Your way of grounding yourself when the day had been too long or your eyes were growing heavy. 

You didn’t say anything. Didn’t even look up.

Your breathing slowed and your head dropped against his chest.

Bucky watched you as your eyelids fluttered, your face softening in sleep, lips parting slightly with each slow breath. Your lashes twitched like you were dreaming already—and god, you looked peaceful. Completely undone by comfort and warmth.

You drooled a little. Right there on his chest.

And he chuckled quietly to himself, shaking his head like it didn’t knock the breath out of him. Like it didn’t make his heart twist with something so fierce and tender he couldn’t look away.

Because this—this stupid little moment, your drool soaking into his shirt and your body heavy against his side—this was it.

This was love.

This was the kind of night that carved itself into your bones without even asking.

The movie ended in the background—soft fade-to-black and swelling music—but Bucky didn’t move. People started shifting. Groaning. Standing. 

Bob staggered to his feet, mumbling something about a sugar crash. Alexei wandered off in search of leftovers.

Even Yelena, who usually never missed a chance to call Bucky a “domestic menace,” didn’t say anything this time. She just shot him a look, eyes soft for once, and tugged Bob toward the hallway by the sleeve.

Eventually, the room emptied.

But he stayed right where he was.

Blanket pooled over both your legs. Your body curled into his. One of your hands still loosely wrapped around his.

And Bucky leaned his head back against the couch, eyes fixed on the ceiling, the ghost of a smile tugging at his mouth.

“I want every night like this,” he murmured, barely above a whisper.

It wasn’t even a thought—just something that slipped out, something too true to hold in.

He looked down at you again, the words still blooming on his tongue, soft and certain.

He nearly asked.

Right then.

Nearly reached into his pocket for the ring that had never left his side since he’d bought it. Nearly tilted your chin up, brushed your hair out of your face, and told you he never wanted to do this life without you.

But then—

You snored.

Not loud. Not obnoxious.

Just enough to break the spell.

And Bucky laughed under his breath, the kind of laugh that cracked his chest open a little. He dipped his head, pressed a slow kiss to your forehead, and breathed in the soft scent of your shampoo, your skin, the safety of you asleep against him.

“Soon, baby,” he whispered, lips against your temple. “I’ll ask you soon.”

And in that quiet, golden stillness, as the credits rolled and your breathing evened out again, Bucky knew he could wait.

Just a little longer.

The fifth time Bucky thought of proposing to you, it was in a hospital ward.

Sokovia had been burning.

The sky was thick with smoke and dust, buildings gutted by fire and shrapnel, streets vibrating beneath their feet as another explosion rocked the earth in the distance.

The air was chaos—civilians screaming, radios crackling, the stench of blood sharp against the tang of ash and diesel.

And through it all, Bucky could still hear your voice in his ear—calm, clear, steady, a tether in the madness as you moved beside him.

“There’s two trapped in the north alley,” you’d said, breathless from the sprint, dirt streaked across your cheek. “I’ve got them Buck, go cover the evac point.”

He should’ve listened.

God, he should’ve listened.

But you were always the brave one. The reckless one when it counted. The one who would throw yourself into the fire if it meant pulling someone else out. And before he could stop you, before he could argue, it was already happening.

The shot came out of nowhere—a single, clean crack that split the world in half.

Then motion.

You.

Slamming into him with a force that knocked the air from his lungs — all instinct and desperation. The bullet was meant for him, but it found you instead.

The sound it made when it hit you would haunt him for the rest of his life.

Not a scream. Not even a gasp.

Just a sickening, solid thud, and the look in your eyes, just for a second, before your legs buckled and you collapsed into him like a marionette whose strings had been cut.

Bucky caught you before your knees hit the ground.

He hit his knees with you, arms tightening, hands already pressing hard against your chest, where blood was blooming fast. Too fast.

The warmth of it soaked his fingers, thick and terrifying, spilling between them like time slipping away.

His breath stuttered. His hands wouldn’t stop shaking—both of them slick and red—no line anymore between man and machine, just one desperate body trying to hold another together.

“Nonononono—baby, stay with me,” he begged, voice cracking. “Look at me. Come on, just look at me.”

Your eyes fluttered.

Barely.

You were gasping, breath catching on every inhale, body struggling against gravity and pain—but still, somehow, you found his hand. Still curled your blood-slicked fingers into his like it mattered. Like he mattered.

And then—the whisper.

Barely a breath.

“It’s okay, James.”

You tried to smile. You tried. Even as your chest heaved, even as your face paled. You were still trying to make him feel better. Even then.

And then your eyes slipped closed.

Your hand went slack in his.

“No—” His voice broke. “No, baby, please. Please—stay with me. Stay.”

He screamed for help, hell he shouted it until his throat tore open.

It wasn’t words anymore. It was a sound. Something raw and helpless, a sound he hadn’t made in years—maybe ever. The comms burst to life in his ear, voices overlapping—Alexei calling coordinates, Ava yelling his name, John barking into his comm and Yelena screaming at Bob to send a medic to your position.

But Bucky heard none of it.

Just the ringing. Just the static in his head. Just the crushing silence of your body going still in his arms.

Blood on his hands, blood on his knees, blood on your lips.

And you weren’t moving.

The hallway outside the operating room was too clean. Too bright and way too quiet.

The overhead lights buzzed faintly, and Bucky sat slouched against the wall, the chill of the tile seeping through his suit as he clutched a cup of coffee gone long cold. It had stopped steaming ages ago, untouched, forgotten. He didn’t even remember someone giving it to him.

His front was still damp. His knees stained, his fingers raw from scrubbing your blood off in the sink—not all of it had come out.

Yelena sat nearby, arms folded, her head bowed in a silence she never wore. Bob paced. John stood against the far wall with his arms crossed tight over his chest, unmoving. Nobody had spoken in what felt like hours.

Then the door opened.

And Bucky was on his feet before the surgeon even stepped fully into the hallway.

“She made it.”

Three words.

Three impossible, world-shifting words.

Bucky didn’t remember moving, he didn’t remember dropping the cup or pushing past the doctor or the sound of someone calling after him.

He only remembered one thing:

Your name. In his mouth, in his heart. Like prayer.

You had looked so small in the bed.

The hospital sheets were too white against your skin, the steady beep of the monitors barely loud enough to be real.

Your chest rose and fell beneath the thin blanket, each breath shallow but steady. Your face was pale, lashes resting against your cheeks, an IV threaded into the back of your hand.

But you were breathing. Alive.

Bucky stood at your bedside, his hands hovering before he let himself reach—let his fingers wrap gently around yours, careful not to jostle the wires and tubes. He brought your hand to his lips, pressed a kiss to your knuckles like you were made of glass.

Only then did he let himself breathe.

“I thought I lost you,” he whispered, voice cracked and hoarse. “God, I thought—”

He couldn’t finish the sentence, couldn’t shape the rest of the words around the tremble in his throat. His eyes stung, vision blurring.

He sat down slowly, legs folding under him, and leaned in until his forehead rested against yours.

And there, in the soft hum of hospital machines and the scent of antiseptic and blood and you, he whispered:

“I can’t lose you.”

And in that moment, Bucky knew with more certainty than he’d ever known anything that he didn’t want a life unless it was with you in it. That love wasn’t a question anymore. 

It was you. It had always been you.

The day Bucky proposed to you, it didn’t go as he had hoped.

The plan had been simple.

Well… sort of.

Bucky had spent most of the afternoon in the kitchen with Alpine circling his feet and panic setting in somewhere between how hard can it be? and why is this bread still doughy on the inside?

He had bribed Bob and Yelena with a full month of coffee runs to get you out of the compound—bought himself a few uninterrupted hours. Just enough time to pull together something romantic. 

A quiet night with a dinner he made just for the both of you. Something that felt normal—something that felt like home.

You deserved that.

You deserved wine, and music, and a man who tried.

And god, was he trying.

He’d even worn the apron you got him last Christmas—Kiss the Cook (or Else)—tied it on with absolutely no protest, even though he had grumbled when he found it.

The fabric was too pink, the font was too aggressive. You had giggled when you gave it to him and well, he had never actually worn it.

Until today.

It was stupid. It was stupidly perfect.

And then everything went sideways.

The sauce burned—thick and bitter and clingy, turning the pan black and smoky before he could scrape it off."The bread didn’t rise right—not the first, second, or even the third time. Each loaf slumped in the center like it had given up halfway through baking.

Bucky had followed the recipe twice. Nothing worked. The wine bottle tipped when he reached too fast for a spoon. It spilled across the counter, down the cabinet, pooled under the fruit bowl. Then he dropped a fork into the pan of sauce, tried to fish it out and burned his hand. Swore loudly enough that Alpine hissed and darted under the kitchen table like he had somehow betrayed her on a spiritual level.

The smoke alarm nearly went off.

He hit it with a dish towel and muttered threats at it.

It was a disaster. A complete and utter disaster.

And that was before he heard the front door creak open.

His whole body froze.

He turned slowly, eyes wide, just as your footsteps reached the edge of the hall—too light to be Bob, too quiet to be Yelena. He knew your walk by now. The soft padding of your soles. The way you always slowed down when your hands were full. The way the silence always shifted when you entered a room.

And his stomach sank.

You were home. Too early.

The clock on the oven blinked at him uselessly, and he barely had time to wipe his hands on the apron when you walked into the kitchen.

You stopped short.

Still holding your coat, still glowing faintly from the wind outside and the laughter that hadn’t quite left your face.

And then you saw it.

The smoke, the scorched pan, the puddle of wine dripping a slow trail toward the floor. The half-risen bread like a sad little crater on the counter.

And in the middle of it all—Bucky. In the pink apron. Covered in flour and tomato splatter, clutching a wooden spoon like it might just attack him.

You blinked.

“Was this all for me?”

Bucky looked like a deer caught in a trap.

Or maybe more like a kid with his hand in the cookie jar—big and awkward and helpless, covered in guilt and powdered sugar.

“I—” He swallowed. “I realised I haven’t taken you out on a real date.”

He shifted, the wooden spoon still in his hand like he didn’t know what to do with it anymore.

“I just… I wanted to make tonight special.”

Your lips twitched.

The kitchen smelled like defeat and oregano. The oven was beeping at nothing. Smoke hung faintly in the air like an accusation. And still, your heart cracked wide open.

You stepped toward him—slowly, gently—and rose onto your toes to press a kiss to his cheek.

“It’s okay, Buck,” you murmured, lips brushing the curve of his jaw. “I’ve got leftover cereal.”

Your tone was teasing, warm, affectionate in the way only you could be. Forgiving. Soft. Home.

You turned, half-laughing, reaching for the cupboard above the microwave, the one that always held your comfort stash. Granola and that one sugar cereal you swore was for cheat days and ate every Sunday anyway.

You reached for the handle.

And Bucky’s heart stuttered.

He watched your hand move in slow motion, watched as your fingers curl around the cupboard door, the hinge creaking faintly.

His stomach dropped.

“Baby, wait—no—”

But it was too late.

You opened the door. Your fingers paused.

And there it was.

Tucked behind a half-finished bag of granola and an emergency box of toaster waffles sat a small red velvet box. Not fancy or flashy, but unmistakable. The kind that didn’t belong next to cereal.

The kind that meant something. The kind that meant everything.

You didn’t move.

Just stared.

And across the room, Bucky stood frozen, apron crooked, hair still damp from the steam, sauce on his cheek, and absolutely no words left in his mouth.

“I was gonna ask later,” he muttered, voice low, thick with something heavy. “There was a whole thing. Music. Dessert. A ring not hidden behind cereal.”

He sighed, shoulders sagging.

“I ruined it.”

You didn’t say anything at first.

You just looked at him—really looked at him. At the mess behind him. At the pink apron barely clinging to its dignity. At the way he stood there like he still expected the floor to swallow him whole.

And your eyes welled up.

Your smile tugged softly at the corners of your mouth, cracking you wide open like a sunrise.

“Yes,” you said.

Bucky blinked. “But… you didn’t even open it.”

You closed the cupboard gently and turned to face him. A breath caught somewhere between a sob and a laugh as you stepped forward.

“I don’t have to.”

And that was it.

That was all it took.

Bucky crossed the kitchen in three slow steps, reached for your face with both hands like you were made of something precious—fragile and entirely his.

He kissed you like he was carving the moment into memory. Like nothing else existed but the space between your lips and his heart.

Then, wordlessly, he lifted you onto the counter, settling between your legs, hands braced on your thighs like they were the only anchor he needed.

“God, I love you,” he whispered, forehead pressed to yours, breath shaking. “You have no idea.”

You laughed, watery and real, arms wrapping around his neck as you pulled him closer.

“I do,” you whispered. “Me too.”

The kitchen was still a disaster.

The bread was half-baked. The wine was staining the grout. The sauce had scorched itself into the pan so deeply it might never come out.

But none of it mattered.

Because this—this—was perfect.

And it always would be.

a/n: i hope you enjoyed it!! if you did, please leave a comment or a reblog! thank you my love 💖