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st4rdustblogs · 1 month ago

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A deal is a deal.

🪔 Bucky Barnes x South Asian! Reader fic

𖥸 With your sister’s wedding on the line and everything needing to be perfect, the last thing you needed was Bucky telling the couple about how you gave him an ear-full when you thought he was one of the staffs not doing their job properly. So, you made a deal: you’ll do anything Bucky asked if he kept his mouth shut. Too bad for you, Bucky had a few ideas in mind—and none of them involve making this easy.

8k words

🏷️Romance, Brief Intimacy, Fluff, Humor, Tension, Kissing in the storage room, Lingering touches, Light hearted, Meet cute, Bickering, Bucky is a flirt, Bucky chokes on ladoo, Reader and Bucky dance to Ishq Wala Love, Reader in a saree, Bucky in a Sherwani, Bucky smooth talking all the auntie-jis, Mention of Bucky’s vibranium arm, No use of y/n.

A/N: Omg once I start writing I actually can’t stop. Idk why it took me so long to write another fic since my last one. I just couldn’t think of anything other than a wedding setting and well, here we are. Read this as if you’re watching a bollywood film cus I think that’s the best way to enjoy itt hehe :3 Have fun!

“Oh-ho beti! If you keep worrying like this, you’ll get wrinkles by the end of the wedding!” Your auntie clicked her tongue, physically dragging you away from the kitchen where mountains of biryani and sweets were being prepared.

You huffed, but resistance was futile—Auntie’s grip was ironclad, her tone the same one that had terrorized you since childhood. The wedding had to be perfect… but at this rate, you’d be gray before the first shaadi drumbeat.

Today was your sister’s wedding and you’d sworn nothing would go wrong. Not on your watch.

From the moment the wedding planning began (or from the moment she’d said "yes"), you’d appointed yourself Chief Protector of Perfection.

Every detail from the decorations, to the food, to the guest list, to the wedding cards, to the make up artist to pretty much everything had to be ran by you and of course, the bride and the groom.

After being unceremoniously shooed away by Auntie, you trudged toward the main wedding venue—each step heavy with the dread of impending aunty interrogation. The scent of rose attar and jasmine garlands hung thick in the air, almost masking the distinct aroma of unsolicited life advice wafting from the gossip circles.

Right on cue, a flock of aunties materialized around you like they had a sixth sense for unpaired bridesmaids.

"Oho, look who’s finally here!" Aunty Meena clapped, her bangles jingling like alarm bells. "Tell me, beta, when will we dance at your wedding?"

Before you could even fake a smile, Aunty Priya swooped in, her grip vice-like on your shoulder. "Such beautiful decorations! You must bookmark this florist for your big day!" She winked like this was subtle.

You clenched your teeth so hard your jewelry rattled. "Actually, Aunty, I’ve decided to become a nun," you deadpanned.

The horrified silence lasted exactly two seconds before they burst into peals of laughter, patting your head like you’d told a joke. "So funny! But seriously, beta, your mother and I were just discussing—"

Your eye caught movement by the floral arch—one of the staff members was meddling with the marigold garlands, and now half of them dangled limply completely messing up the look.

"Just a minute auntie-ji— Areh! Be careful!" You hurried over, holding your saree up trying to be as fast as you could without stepping on it and tripping over. The man in the blue-and-white kurta (matching the catering staff’s uniforms exactly) didn’t even turn around.

You tapped his shoulder. "Excuse me bhai sahab—the guests are waiting, and you’re here rearranging decorations?"

He turned, eyebrows raised. "You talking to me?"

"Nehi, I’m talking to the flowers behind you," you deadpanned, gesturing to the drooping flowers. "This was perfect before. Now it looks like a bhera (goat) chewed on it."

He opened his mouth, but you were already snatching a tray of jalebis from a passing waiter and shoving it into his hands. "Accha bas—take these to Table 4. Nani-ji is sitting there.”

The man stared at the tray, then at you, his expression caught between amusement, disbelief and not understanding half of the words you were saying. "Nani…ji…? You’re really mixing me up with someone."

"And you’re really not helping," you countered, already stepping back. "Ab jaldi! (Now quickly!) Those jalebis won’t serve themselves!"

As you spun away, your braid gently hitting him, you missed his quiet chuckle—and the way he shrugged before obediently heading toward Table 4, tray in hand.

The dhol beats of Bole Chudiyan kicked in, and the dance floor erupted. Aunties in glittery saris, uncles with awkward hip shakes, even the groom’s side had joined in, this was your moment.

You grabbed your sister’s hand, pulling her into the center as the lyrics pulsed: "Bole chudiyan, bole kangana…" Hips swayed, bangles clattered, and you spun under the fairy lights like this was your own Bollywood number.

You spun gracefully, stopping and facing the bride and groom’s stage—there he was.

The "staff" from earlier. Except now, he wasn’t holding a tray or fixing flowers. He was leaning against the groom’s chair, whispering something that made your soon-to-be brother-in-law laugh. And when he caught you staring?

A slow, knowing smirk while taking a sip from the drink in his hand.

Your foot missed the next step. Who the hell was this guy?

What was not helping was that you could have sworn you had seen that face somewhere. Like in the newspaper or an online article.

As the final beats of "Bole Chudiyan" faded, you guided your sister back to her throne-like seat, adjusting her lehenga train with practiced ease.

"Need water? Tissue? Makeup touchup? A taser for Jiju’s third round of Kajra Re?" you muttered, earning a giggle from her—until her gaze flicked over your shoulder. "Oh! I totally forgot to introduce you!"

Before you could react, she gestured beside you. "This is James Barnes."

Your head snapped toward the man in the blue-and-white kurta—the staff imposter—now standing alarmingly close. And that name.

Where did you recognise that name from?

"Call me Bucky," he said, extending his hand with a smirk that screamed Got you. "The groom’s best friend. And, y’know… his best man."

Your fingers froze mid-reach.

Best man.

Groom’s best friend.

BUCKY.

Like Captain America’s friend, Bucky.

The guy you’d ordered to serve jalebi like a catering boy. Quite rudely at that, was THE super soldier, James Buchacan Barnes. The man you read about in the museums.

Your soul briefly left your body.

You prayed at one point today he wouldn’t pull out his metal arm and just choke you to death for the disrespect.

You—the self-appointed guardian of perfection, the overbearing architect of this flawless wedding—had just orchestrated your own downfall.

Bucky’s outstretched hand paused mid-air, then deliberately changed course. His fingers enveloped yours, warm and unyielding, before lifting them to his lips with the practiced grace of a man who’d once charmed his way through a different century.

The kiss he pressed to your knuckles was featherlight, mockingly and maddeningly polite, yet his eyes never wavered from yours—dark with amusement and something far more dangerous.

Your stomach dropped.

The grasp of your saree silk crumpling in your grip was the only sound as your body locked in shock. Every cell screamed: You not only cursed out the groom’s best man. You cursed out an Avenger. You handed him a dessert tray. You embarrassed h—

Bucky’s smirk deepened, thumb tracing a single, searing circle over your pulse point before releasing you.

A shiver raced down your spine, and you couldn’t decipher whether it was from the lingering heat of his lips against your skin—or the sheer terror that he’d tell on you.

He was relishing this.

And you were utterly at his mercy.

Bucky had been at the venue for exactly eleven minutes when he decided south asian weddings were a special kind of warfare.

The groom had warned him—"It’s chaos, but in a fun way!"—but nothing could’ve prepared him for the sensory onslaught of drumbeats, shrieking aunties, and no less than three separate girls "accidentally" dropping their dupattas near him. He’d retreated to the only quiet corner he could find, back pressed against a garland-strung pillar, when you caught his eye.

You had your back to him, hands gesturing sharply as you argued with the older woman in a rapid-fire language he didn’t understand—something about "too much ghee" and "the garland colors." The saree fabric draped over your shoulder shimmered like liquid gold under the lights, and the flower braided into your hair glowed against the dark strands.

Bucky memorized you just in case he ran into you later.

Lucky him—he didn’t have to wait long.

After retreating to a quieter corner (or so he thought), Bucky absently tugged at a marigold strand—just to admire it only to trigger a floral avalanche. Petals rained down like confetti, and before he could curse, there she was.

The mystery woman from earlier, now fully in front of him, eyes blazing.

"Excuse me?"

Up close, you were even more striking—gold earrings (jhumkas) swinging with every sharp gesture, the delicate bindi between her brows furrowed in fury. His gaze almost dipped to your blouse again, but he forced it upward, throat tight.

"You talking to me?" Bucky tried.

"Nehi, I’m talking to the flowers behind you," you snapped, then thrust a tray of jalebi into his hands. Bucky wanted to laugh at the misunderstanding but he was enjoying this too much to tell you his identity.

Bucky did look different.

Out of all the Avengers, he was the least popular. Plus like this—no tactical gear, no metal arm on display, no perpetual scowl (maybe a little). The crisp white kurta and navy sherwani made him blend in with the party, though he’d never admit how long it took him to figure out the damn buttons. Though he had to admit, as fancy as the fit was, it was twice as itchy.

Bucky knew he should be paying attention to your actual words. You were saying something about ruining the wedding decorations, but he kept getting distracted by little things.

Like how your hair kept slipping out of whatever fancy braid you had done, those loose strands bouncing every time you gestured angrily at him. Or the way the colours of your saree made your skin look warmer and glow like some sort of magic. Even the way your necklace caught the light when you moved was weirdly fascinating him.

And your voice—that was the worst part. You could’ve been reading a grocery list and he’d still listen just to hear the way you shaped your words, with a little accent.

Focus, Barnes.

Bucky opened his mouth—"You’re really mixing me up with someone"—but you were already storming off after instructing him to take a tray to table number 4.

Leaning against the groom’s chair, he watched you dance with the bride. Your swift movements, hips swaying in time with the dhol’s accelerating beat, saree flaring as you spun, laughter bright as the fairy lights strung overhead.

“So,” Bucky nudged his best friend, eyes never leaving you. “Who’s that?”

“My fiancée’s little sister,” the groom grinned. “Total firecracker. You know, before the wedding she probably asked her sister about a million times if she was sure about this wedding. Why’d you ask?”

Oh, no reason.

Bucky bit his lower lip, the gears turning. Feisty. Protective. And already predisposed to hate him. Perfect.

Then, as if sensing his plotting, you locked eyes with him mid-spin.

He raised his glass in a silent toast, mischief dripping from every inch of his expression.

Your sister’s worried frown hit you like a ladoo to the face. “Everything alright, sis?”

No. Absolutely not. But you’d be damned if you let this ruin her wedding.

“Yeah, of course!” You forced a laugh, brittle as overcooked jalebi. “I—uh—already met him before. Nice to see you again, Bucky-ji.”

Your handshake was a vise grip, nails just shy of drawing blood. A silent scream in your eyes, pleading: Don’t. Open. Your. Mouth.

Bucky’s tongue clicked, the picture of innocence—except for the devilish glint in his gaze. “Oh yeah, we met. Such a warm welcome—how could I forget?”

He matched your grin, thumb brushing your knuckles just long enough to make your eye twitch. Reveling in the way your nostrils flared.

"Hey, Bucky!" You plastered on a smile so sweet it could’ve curdled the lassi on the nearest tray. "Since you’re jiju’s (brother in law’s) best man, I have some uhh wedding stuff to discuss with you. Why don’t we let these lovebirds be?"

Bucky’s eyebrow arched, but he played along, offering an exaggerated bow. "Sure," His voice dripped with faux innocence, that flirty lilt sending warning bells clanging in your skull.

You barely resisted the urge to yank him by his kurta sleeve—until he disarmed you completely. At the stairs, he extended his hand like some storybook prince, palm upturned. "After you."

You gripped his fingers, your other hand clutching your saree pallu like a lifeline as he guided you down—his thumb brushing your wrist, just once, as if to say:

This isn’t over.

Bucky’s gaze kept snagging on the stray strands of hair caught in your jhumka, the way they glimmered under the fairy lights. It shouldn’t have bothered him. It did. His fingers twitched at his side—fix it, touch it, something—but he clenched his fist.

You, meanwhile, were a woman on a mission.

With a grip that could rival his vibranium arm, you hauled him through the wedding chaos, face carefully neutral for the guests. Bucky stumbled once, just to see if you’d notice (you didn’t), before letting himself be dragged into the shadows beyond the venue.

The second you stopped, the mask cracked.

"Okay, listen—" you began, then froze.

Because now, alone, with Bucky’s full attention on you—those storm-cloud eyes, that infuriating half-smile—your speech that you were mentally preparing evaporated. Your fingers twisted the bangles on your wrist, the clink-clink loud in the quiet.

Bucky crossed his arms, leaning back against a tree.

"What's this about? Wanted some private time with me, or...?" Bucky tilted his head, arms crossed, that infuriating smirk carving dimples into his cheeks.

"Kiya? —NO!" You took a sharp step back, nearly tripping over your own saree. The worst part wasn't his arrogance—it was the traitorous heat crawling up your neck.

Since when did you get flustered by a smooth talking blue-eyed gora with a jawline that belonged on a damn coin?

"I'm...sorry," you muttered through clenched teeth.

Bucky leaned in, close enough that his cologne, something woodsy and expensive, wrapped around you. "What's that? Couldn't hear you—"

"I SAID SORRY—" You caught yourself, lowering your voice to a hiss. "...Sorry. Okay?"

Bucky’s grin widened. "About what, exactly?"

You fantasized about knocking that perfect front tooth loose. "For mistaking you for a staff. And. Being. Rude." Each word tasted like bitter karela.

Bucky’s smirk didn’t waver. He was savoring this. The way your jaw clenched, the frustrated flush on your cheeks.

Bucky hummed, tapping his chin. "Hmm. See, I think I deserve a real apology. Maybe over dinner—"

"OVER MY DEAD BODY—"

Bucky held back from laughing out loud. "You were quite rude. ‘Sorry’ isn’t enough." He tapped his chin, feigning deep thought.

You saw red. This motherfu—

"Listen." Your voice dropped, deadly serious. "Today cannot go wrong. I fucked up, fine. But it’s my sister’s wedding. Stay mad at me, scream at me, I don’t care—just please don’t tell my sister or jiju."

The desperation in your tone startled him. Bucky had been aiming for flirty, but the raw plea in your eyes was… unexpected.

Then, an idea struck.

"I’ll keep my mouth shut," he said slowly, "on one condition."

Your spine straightened. "Fine. Anything."

"Anything?" His grin turned wolfish.

You braced yourself—personal servant for the day? Human shield against overeager aunties?—

"You do everything I say," he purred, "until the last guest leaves."

You searched his face for hints. Was this a trick? A trap? but his expression gave nothing away. Just that infuriating half-smile and eyes like polished steel.

Whatever. The wedding came first.

“Deal.” You thrust out your hand, businesslike.

Bucky stared at it for a beat, then clasped it, his grip warm and deliberate. His thumb brushed your knuckles—once—a silent promise.

“Pleasure doing business, Jaan.”

The moment the word "Jaan" left Bucky’s lips, your serious face crumbled, bursting out laughing so hard you nearly toppled over, gripping his hand for balance.

“Who taught you that?” you wheezed, holding your stomach.

Bucky, who’d been smug and in control just seconds ago, blinked, thrown off guard. “What? Did I pronounce it wrong? What’s so funny?”

“No, no, you said it right,” you managed, clutching your stomach. “It’s just—that’s something you say adoringly. Like ‘Meri Jaan—’ ”

Your voice softened mockingly, elongating the word with dramatic sweetness and Bucky’s brain short-circuited.

The way it rolled off your tongue, languid and honeyed, like a secret. It did something to Bucky.

Bucky cleared his throat, suddenly hyper-aware of his own heartbeat. “I heard your sister and, uh, relatives use it. Thought it was your nickname or something…” His hand rubbed the back of his neck, the tips of his ears turning pink.

“People do call me that,” you grinned, leaning into his space now. “But coming from you? With that face?”

Bucky scowled. “What’s wrong with my face?”

“It’s a murder face, not a ‘mera jaan’ face.”

“I can be adorable,” he muttered, so earnestly offended you almost felt bad.

"You and I need to be in a very different relationship for you to call me Jaan~," you cooed, sashaying past him with a smirk, noticing the way his ears darkened to the shade of laal mirch.

Bucky had never scrambled to recover from anything faster. He caught up in two strides, voice low and gruff: "First task. Be my translator."

"Fine, Jaanu~~" you sing-songed, rolling your eyes without noticing how his jaw clenched every time you weaponized that word.

Somebody help him.

"And stop—" He caught your wrist, then immediately released it like you’d burned him. "Just. Stop saying it like that."

You blinked up at him, all faux innocence. "Like what, Jaanu?"

A muscle in his cheek twitched. This was going to be the longest damn day of his life. He almost pondered whether this deal was a bad decision for him. You wondered the same.

The wedding was a riot of color and chaos, just like you’d planned. But Bucky’s stupid deal had you stuck playing babysitter instead of enjoying it.

"Your Auntie Pammy’s got stamina," Bucky mused, nodding to where the woman was still dancing like the dhol would stop beating if she did. "Think she’d share her secret? I could use that kind of energy."

"Pfft lame super soldier,” You muttered to yourself. “Plus I don’t do small talk," you said, arms crossed.

"Yeah?" He leaned in, "What do you do, then?"

"Definitely not entertain goras who blackmail me at weddings."

Bucky’s grin was all teeth. "Liar. You’re gonna love it."

The music shifted then—Ishq Wala Love—and the dance floor transformed into a sea of swaying couples. Your sister laughed as her husband spun her, her lehenga flaring like a sunrise. You didn’t realize you were smiling ear to ear to yourself while longingly looking at all the couples being all lovey-dovey until Bucky’s voice cut through your thoughts.

"Dance with me."

"What?"

"You heard me." He held out his hand, all false innocence. "Deal’s a deal."

"That’s for couples," you hissed, face burning.

"So pretend I’m your jiju’s really hot cousin." His fingers brushed yours, sending a jolt up your arm. "Or pretend I am your boyfriend. I’m flexible."

You glared, but let him pull you close—too close.

Bucky’s metal hand settled at the small of your back, his fingers brushing the bare skin where your saree’s blouse dipped low. The contact sent a jolt through you—warm, even through his gloves—as he guided you into a slow sway.

"Relax," he murmured, his breath stirring the loose hairs at your temple. "I don’t step on toes."

You scoffed, fingers tightening on his shoulder. "Just on nerves, apparently."

He spun you suddenly, your back now pressed to his chest, his arms loose around your waist. His chin hovered just above your shoulder, close enough that you once again caught the scent of his cologne—that woodsy and expensive scent.

"You’re still stiff," he teased, his thumb tracing idle circles over your hip where the saree’s pleats had shifted. "Scared I’ll drop you?"

"No, but I am scared you’ll talk me to death," you shot back, but your traitorous body leaned into his touch anyway.

Facing him again, Bucky caught your hand and twirled you under his arm—slow, deliberate—before reeling you in closer than before. Your pallu slipped, the silk pooling at your elbow as his fingers found the stray hair tangled in your jhumka.

"This was driving me crazy," he admitted, tucking it behind your ear with a gentleness that didn’t match his smirk.

Your cheeks burned. "Focus on your feet, Barnes."

"Oh, I’m focused." His gaze dropped to your lips. Just for a second.

His palm slid down your arm, fingers threading through yours as he lifted your joined hands. The move forced you to step closer, your saree brushing against his legs.

"Admit it," he said, voice low and playful. "You’re having fun."

You glared. "I’d rather get food poisoning from the buffet."

He laughed, rich and warm, and damn him, it made your stomach flip.

The song swelled, and Bucky dipped you low, one arm secure around your waist. His face hovered inches above yours, eyes crinkled at the corners.

"Say it," he goaded.

"Never."

He hauled you upright, his nose brushing yours as you collided against his chest. "We’ll see."

The music faded, but Bucky’s hands lingered at your waist a beat too long, his grip just firm enough to make your breath hitch. You stepped back quickly, smoothing your crumpled pallu with shaky fingers.

"Wow," Bucky deadpanned, rolling his shoulders like he was the one who’d just survived a trial. "For someone who didn’t want to dance, you’re surprisingly—"

"Don’t." You pointed a warning finger at him. "Finish that sentence and I’ll rip your kurta’s sleeves off."

He grinned, opening his mouth to say something dumb like ‘Bet you’d like to see that view’ —then paused, frowning at his cuff. A bright orange smudge stained on the crisp white fabric.

"The hell…?"

You grabbed his wrist, inspecting the mess. "Oh. Probably happened from Ayana’s mehndi,” You snorted. "Kid’s got good aim."

Bucky’s eyes narrowed. "You dragged me past the kids’ area when you were yelling at me outside."

"And?"

"And now you’re fixing it. That’s your next task." He shoved his sleeve toward you, all false innocence. "Deal’s a deal.”

"Oh come on, you can just wipe it off yourself!" you groaned, throwing your hands up. The jhumka in your hair swung violently with the motion.

Bucky nodded solemnly. "You're right."

Your eyes lit up. Finally—

"But I also wonder where your jiju went..." He craned his neck, pretending to scan the crowd. "Should we go ask him about—"

You inhaled so sharply you could’ve inhaled some of the flower petals in the air. Control. Control. CONTROL—

"FINE!" You snatched his wrist hard enough to make him stumble, dragging him toward the nearest place to get some napkins from. "Chup! Not a single word about jiju."

Bucky let himself be manhandled, grinning like he’d won the lottery. "Knew you’d see it my way."

Deal’s a deal. Just a few more hours. You repeated it like a prayer, nails digging into his sleeve.

You dragged him into the nearest bathroom, slamming the door shut with your hip. The sudden privacy made Bucky’s eyebrows shoot up.

“Bit early to get this intimate, don’t you think?” He leaned against the sink, that infuriating smirk playing on his lips. “Unless you’ve got other plans—”

“Shut up,” you hissed, snatching his wrist.

Bucky opened his mouth to retort—but the words died when you stepped closer, tucking a loose strand of hair behind your ear. The gesture was casual, domestic, and it knocked the air right out of him.

He didn’t even realize he was staring until your fingers brushed his pulse point, your touch feather-light as you dabbed at the stain with a damp cloth.

“Usually,” he murmured, voice rough, “after a dance like that, women aren’t this… pissed at me.”

You didn’t look up. “Usually, men don’t blackmail me at my sister’s wedding.”

Bucky reached up, gently gathering the loose strands of your hair to keep them from falling forward as you worked. His touch was unexpectedly careful—no teasing, just quiet assistance.

You let him.

The mehndi stain was stubborn, but you wiped at it meticulously, your fingers brushing against the intricate embroidery of his sherwani sleeve. "Vibranium arm, huh?" you remarked casually, glancing up just long enough to catch him already looking at you.

"Comes with a century's worth of baggage," he replied, his usual smirk absent. "We'd be here past the, what you guys call, the bidaai, if I got into it."

Something about the way he said it—the quiet resignation—made your fingers still for a moment. "I know the highlights," you admitted before you could stop yourself.

Bucky's eyebrows lifted. "You've read up on me?"

"Don't get excited," you deflected, focusing extra hard on a particularly stubborn spot of dye. "I know all the Avengers' files. Even the... less publicized ones."

The corner of his mouth twitched. "And here I thought I was special."

"You're something," you muttered, but there was no bite to it.

His expression sobered. "Does any of it... bother you?" The question was quieter than you expected from him.

You finally met his gaze squarely. "Should it?"

For a long moment, the sounds of the wedding outside—the music, the laughter—faded to nothing. Then the door handle jiggled violently, making you both jump.

"Occupied!" Bucky said just loud enough for the twisting of the door handle to stop.

Most of the stubborn mehndi stain was already gone. There was no reason to be alone together anymore.

The bathroom had gone too quiet, the sounds of the wedding muffled behind the door.

It was obvious that something in the air had shifted. It had shifted since the dance ended but now, being confined in a small space together made it hard to ignore.

Bucky's fingers were still tangled gently in your hair as you worked on getting the stain off even though there wasn’t much else to take off, his other hand now braced against the sink beside you. Close. Too close.

"You missed a spot," he murmured, voice low. His thumb brushed over your knuckle where you gripped the damp cloth, guiding your hand to a last stubborn fleck of henna. The movement made you look up—and suddenly his face was right there, just inches away, his breath warm against your lips.

You froze. So did he.

For one impossible second, the world narrowed to the space between you. His eyes—usually so sharp and teasing—had gone soft, uncertain. Your fingers curled instinctively into the fabric of his sherwani, whether to push away or pull closer, you weren't sure.

The faucet dripped. Someone outside laughed. The moment stretched, fragile as spun sugar.

Then your phone buzzed violently in your pocket, making you both jerk back.

"Shit—" You fumbled for it, your pulse hammering. The screen showed five missed calls from your Ma. "Ma needs me."

Bucky released your hair like he’d been burned, clearing his throat, just a flustered nod, his fingers flexing at his sides like he wasn’t sure what to do with them.

You didn’t dare check your reflection before stepping out. If your saree was crumpled or your lips were bitten red, you didn’t want to know.

The hallway blurred as you hurried toward where your Ma waited, but your body hadn’t forgotten the dizzying realization that you’d wanted him to close that last inch. The contrast of his vibranium fingers cool where they’d brushed your wrist versus the heat of his other hand, rough with calluses.

"And this one is for your jiju, and this— Beti, are you even listening?"

Your Ma’s slap to your arm snapped your attention back—mostly. "Hah? Yes, yes, the ugly vase goes to Auntie Priti—"

"That’s the antique from your nani!" Ma hissed, shoving a glittery gift box into your hands. "Focus! These will break!"

You nodded absently, eyes drifting again to where your cousin Leena stood waaaay too close to Bucky, laughing at something he’d said. His metal arm glinted under the lights as he leaned against the dessert table, that half-smirk on his face.

Not that you cared.

"Hold this string while I— HAYE!" Your Ma gasped as the twine snapped between your white-knuckled grip. "Why did you rip it? This was for the gift boxes!"

"Sorry, sorry!" You snatched the nearest gift boxes, nearly upending a tower of mithai tins in your haste. "I'll wrap them. You go... rest."

Ma eyed you suspiciously but left, muttering about "modern kids and their short tempers."

Not that you were actually angry. Not at all.

Not even when your cousin—that traitor—leaned so close to Bucky her tikli nearly brushed his cheek as she whispered something that made his eyebrows shoot up.

You watched her touch his vibranium arm and gasp, “So cold!”

Relax. It’s just Bucky being Bucky. That’s what you told yourself, anyway. He was known for being a smooth talker and have ways to make any woman swoon.

You stole another glance—just in time to see him laugh at something your cousin said, his fingers carefully working to untangle her dupatta from his watch. All effortless charm and focused attention, made your stomach twist.

Why did it bother you?

You didn’t know. And that pissed you off more.

Grabbing three gift boxes at random, you stalked off before you did something stupid like throwing a box at her and ruin the wedding.

You walked into the storage room, humming "Tere Naina" under your breath as you wrestled your pallu into a hasty tuck. The boxes weren’t going to wrap themselves, and frankly, you needed the distraction—

"HAAHH—!"

A hand clamped onto your shoulder, and you nearly launched a tin of sweets at the intruder’s head.

"It’s just me. Calm down." Bucky’s fingers pressed lightly against your lips to stifle your yelp, his other hand steadying the wobbling gift tower.

That was the problem.

You swatted him away, turning your back to stack boxes with unnecessary force. "Why are you here? Shouldn’t you be with jiju ?" A beat. "Or getting busy with my cousin?"

Bucky froze. Then slowly a grin crept across his face.

"Ah, yes, your cousin," he mused, circling you like a shark. "She’s quite… nice. You should introduce us properly."

Your fingers dented the ribbon you were tying, muttering to yourself, "I’d rather introduce you to a flying chappal."

“What was that?”

You bit the inside of your bottom lip, nostrils flaring at his audacity. Thank God he couldn’t see your face. But the way your shoulders tensed—knuckles whitening around the ribbon you were strangling—betrayed you.

"Oh, is that my next task?" you snapped, voice dripping with faux sweetness. "Be your personal Shaadi.com and introduce you to my cousins? Wow. Lucky me." You yanked another box toward you with unnecessary force. "Plenty of aunties out there who’d love to play matchmaker for Captain America’s bestfriend. No deal required."

Bucky’s grin didn’t falter. If anything, it widened—like he’d just won a prize.

"Huh." He stepped closer, his vibranium hand snagging the ribbon you’d just murdered. "Funny. You didn’t seem this pissed when I was fixing flowers earlier."

Your breath hitched. Bastard.

"I wasn’t pissed," you lied.

"Could’ve fooled me." His thumb brushed yours as he pried the ribbon from your grip, “Let me help.”

You snatched your hands away from him, jaw clenched. Silence.

Bucky didn’t take the hint.

He kept working beside you, stacking boxes, adjusting ribbons, like your irritation was just background noise.

The worst part wasn’t his presence. It was the creeping realization that you liked bickering with him. That without his teasing, the air felt too still.

So you waited. Watched. Every flick of his wrist, every shift of his weight—just one misstep, and you’d pounce.

Bucky noticed. Of course he did.

The way your eyes kept darting to him, the way your breath hitched when his arm brushed yours—it was all terribly obvious. And he would be lying to himself if he said he didn’t find it adorable.

Bucky couldn't resist turning the knife.

"You're really bad at avoiding me," he murmured, stepping closer under the pretense of reaching for the shelf behind you. His body caged you against towers of mithai boxes, the heady scent of ghee and sugar clinging to the air between you.

You refused to let him win.

"And you're really bad at taking hints." The retort would've landed better if your voice hadn't cracked when his knee brushed between yours, the heat of him searing through your saree.

With infuriating calm, Bucky plucked a ladoo from its box and took a deliberate bite. "Want some?"

"Those weren't meant for—"

"So sweet," he interrupted, rolling the dessert on his tongue. "Almost as sweet as you—"

"I will vomit." You shoved at his chest, the embroidery on his kurta scratching your palms. "That's the worst line I've ever heard."

Bucky laughed around a mouthful of ladoo, crumbs dusting his stupidly perfect lips.

Even his failures were charming, which just pissed you off more.

His mouth-full laugh—half-choked, half-delighted—sent an unexpected giggle bursting from your lips. You watched, torn between concern and amusement, as he struggled to swallow the ladoo without inhaling it.

"My God—are you okay?" You reached out instinctively, patting his back with more force than necessary, your grin mirroring his despite your best efforts.

So much for Bucky's smooth-talking moment. Instead of swoon-worthy charm, he'd nearly been taken out by a sweet ball.

"Wow," you teased, hand lingering between his shoulder blades. "Did I just save an Avenger?"

Bucky coughed out a laugh, wiping crumbs from his lips with the back of his hand. "My saviour," he rasped, voice still rough from near-death-by-dessert.

The shared laughter faded into a quiet, comfortable silence—the kind that felt rare at a bustling wedding. For a moment, it was just the two of you, surrounded by towers of boxes, the air still sweet with sugar and something softer.

A terrifying thought crept in—what if the man you swore you couldn't stand was becoming someone you... liked?

Bucky's hand rested on the shelf behind you, caging you in without touching. Your palm still lingered on his chest, the steady thud of his heartbeat betraying his calm exterior.

"You don't have to help me here," you said softly—no bite, no sarcasm, just warmth. "You should be enjoying the wedding. It's not often you get to experience a desi wedding like this."

Bucky's smile softened, his eyes holding yours. "True." A pause. Then, voice dropping, he leaned in slightly, "But do you want me to go?"

Damn him.

You couldn't answer.

It was impossible to look away—from his storm- blue and gray eyes, from the scent of sandalwood and something uniquely Bucky, from the way his sherwani stretched across his shoulders.

And his lips that you'd only allowed yourself one glance. Any more felt dangerous.

Say yes. He should leave. Let your cousin drag him to the dance floor. Let him charm someone who hadn't spent the entire day pretending not to care.

But your traitorous fingers curled into his sherwani, holding on.

Your silence told him everything.

A low chuckle escaped Bucky’s lips as he watched you struggle—your brows furrowed, your breath uneven, your fingers still fisted in his kurta like you hadn’t decided whether to shove him away or pull him closer.

As if he hadn’t had you wrapped around his finger since the moment you’d yelled at him for "ruining" the floral arrangements.

But Bucky was no better.

From that first glimpse of you—your saree gliding behind you like liquid gold, your voice sharp enough to cut glass—to the way you’d moved on the dance floor, hips swaying to a rhythm only you knew, to the way you shone under the fairy lights like the wedding was just a backdrop for you…

“Mesmerized” didn’t cover it.

Bucky’s vibranium arm slid around your lower back, tugging you flush against him. Your gasp was muffled by the sudden proximity, your palms flattening against his chest like you could steady yourself and your racing heart.

"I—I still have some tasks left," you whispered, the words barely audible.

Bucky’s thumb traced idle circles over the delicate embroidery at your waist. "Lucky for you,"he murmured, "so do I."

The air grew thin, Bucky’s mint-laced breath fanning over your lips.

“Bucky—”

“This can be part of our deal,” he murmured, sealing the words with a kiss.

The taste of ladoo—cardamom and ghee—lingered on his tongue as your lips moved in perfect sync. His vibranium arm banded around your waist, hauling you flush against him until the edge of the table bit into your lower back, the only anchor keeping you upright.

You fisted his kurta, silk crumpling under your grip, then slid your hands up to tangle in the hair at his nape, pulling him deeper. The storage room filled with the sound of ragged breaths and the clink of mithai boxes shifting dangerously.

Bucky broke away first, his voice rough. “Took every ounce of self-control not to do that the second you started yelling at me.” His lips were stained with your smudged lipstick, a light brown streak that made your stomach flip.

“I hate you so much,” you lied—because of course the one thing that could derail your focus tonight was a face like his.

Bucky chuckled, his fingers tracing the edge of your pallu with deliberate slowness. “Y’know, this thing’s been bothering me all night.”

“Pagal.” You swatted his hand away.

You dragged him back into the kiss, fingers threading through his hair—now gloriously disheveled, thanks to you. Bucky groaned into your mouth, his hands sliding down to grip your hips, but he was painfully careful with your own hair, despite how badly he wanted to ruin the intricate braids.

Later, he promised himself. Somewhere with fewer aunties and more privacy.

KNOCK KNOCK KNOCK.

"Beti? You in there?"

You jerked back like you’d been burned, your pallu slipping off one shoulder.

Bucky’s lips were swollen, his pupils blown wide, and the look he shot you—pure frustration—almost made you laugh.

"I— We—" You floundered, panic rising. How to explain being locked in a closet with your brother-in-law’s unfairly attractive best friend?

Bucky pressed a finger to your lips. "Don’t. Say. Anything," he whispered, then kissed you again—deep and desperate—to silence your protests.

The doorknob rattled.

Bucky groaned against your lips, the sound vibrating through you. Second time tonight a damn doorknob had ruined the moment. You couldn’t help but smile into the kiss, feeling his annoyance in the way his fingers dug into your hips—like he was tempted to say screw it and keep going.

The rattling finally stopped.

“We should go,” you murmured, arms still looped around his neck, making zero effort to move. “Before someone notices we’ve both gone missing at the same time. Don’t want aunties coming up crazy rumours.”

“We should. I want to hear what they’re saying about us,”Bucky agreed, thumb swiping at the smudged lipstick on the corner of your mouth—his actions directly contradicting his words.

Then, with a slow, wicked grin:

“Next time, we pick a hiding spot where we won't get interrupted by a doorknob." His thumb lingered on your jaw. "I'll break it beforehand if I have to."

"Pagal," you scoffed, pressing a hand to his chest to push him back—but the way your fingers curled into his sherwani betrayed you.

You slipped out first, smoothing your crumpled saree with shaky hands. The hallway was mercifully empty, though the distant sounds of dhol and laughter served as a reminder: The wedding wasn't over yet.

Neither was this.

"Where were yo— Areh ye kiya? Why’s your hair a mess?" Ma blocked your path, arms crossed, eyes narrowed like she could smell the scandal on you.

Because I just had Bucky Barnes’ tongue down my throat in a storage closet.

"Uh, some of the boxes fell on me while I was organizing," you lied, patting your braid—now half-undone, thanks to a certain super-soldier’s fingers.

Ma facepalmed so hard her bangles clattered. "What am I going to do with you?" She shook her head, then brightened. "Go talk to the guests. I heard Raj’s mother is here somewhere."

"Ma!" You groaned. "How many times? Raj has a girlfriend."

She waved a hand, dupatta fluttering. "Girlfriend, shirlfriend. Until there’s a shaadi, it’s nothing." Leaning in, she stage-whispered: "He’s an engineer, beti. Worked on the new Avengers base!"

You tuned out the rest—something about grandchildren and his "very nice salary"—and scanned the crowd for an escape. Or, better yet, a certain smug gora who’d gotten you into this mess.

From the corner of your eye, Bucky emerged—your knight in slightly rumpled sherwani. You cut off Ma mid-"beta, just meet him once!" with a desperate wave. "Bucky!"

His head snapped up like you’d yanked an invisible leash.

Within seconds, he was at your side, all dimples and deceptive innocence. Your Ma blinked up at him, momentarily stunned by his height. "Hello-ji. Are you from the groom’s side?"

"Yes," Bucky said, pressing a hand to his chest and bowing slightly—the picture of old-world courtesy. "Nice to meet you, Auntie."

You rolled your eyes. Century-old super-soldier, my ass. The man had charm dialed up to eleven, and your Ma—usually a steel trap for unsuspecting goras—was blushing.

"I actually needed your daughter for something," Bucky added, flashing a smile so sweet it could’ve curdled lassi.

Just like that, Ma forgot Raj, the Avengers base, and her future engineer grandchildren. "Of course, beta! Go, go!" She shooed you away, then whispered loudly: "He’s very tall."

You gaped. Since when did Bucky Barnes outmaneuver a desi mom?

You let Bucky steer you to an empty table, collapsing into a chair with a huff. "You’re unbelievable. I don’t even think my dad ever made my mother blush like that." You propped your chin on your palm, elbow digging into the tablecloth.

Bucky smirked, stretching his arms along the back of the chairs like a king holding court. "I’m a man of many talents," he boasted. "Back in the ’40s, I had to beat women off with a stick just to get a moment’s peace."

"And here you were, begging me for a dance." You grinned, admiring the way the fairy lights caught the stubble along his jaw. "How the tables have turned."

A chuckle rumbled in his chest, but his eyes darkened with intent. "Can’t take jabs at me yet, beautiful," he murmured, leaning in. "I’ve got one more task for you."

Your smile vanished. "You’re seriously not going to stop until the last baraat leaves?"

Bucky’s thumb brushed your knuckle—a silent promise. "Not a chance."

He shook his head, the picture of innocence. "My shoe’s loose. Need your help fixing it."

"Are you serious?"you deadpanned. Since when did the super-soldier’s shoes magically come undone? But the glint in his eyes—and that infuriating smirk—told you everything. Kuch toh gadbad zaroor hai…

With a huff, you knelt to fix the jutti, only for Bucky to lean down and murmur: "Careful. People might think something else is happening here."

Your head snapped up, eyes wide. "You son of a—"

You slammed your stiletto onto his foot—hard—and launched yourself at him. Bucky bolted like a man who’d just declared war, weaving through tables as you chased him past horrified aunties and cackling uncles.

"You looked good like that!" he called over his shoulder, dodging a waiter carrying rasmalai. "It was a compliment!"

"Compliment? Teri ma ki—!" You hurled a gulab jamun at his head.

It missed.

Bucky winked. "Admit it—you’re having fun."

Bucky skidded to a stop as the dead-end hallway loomed before him. The left turn was a mistake.

He turned just in time to see you step into the corridor, blocking his only exit.

The sound of your payal echoed like tiny bells with each deliberate step. Your jhumkas swung with the rhythm of your movement, your bangles clinking like a countdown to his doom.

Your hair had come undone from the chase—strands cascading over your shoulders, the tikka barely clinging to its place, a few stubborn flowers still tangled in the waves. The saree that had once been perfectly draped now looked like it had survived a storm—his storm.

And he believed he deserved a beating because even now all he could think about was how breathtaking you were.

Bucky’s back pressed against the cold brick wall as you closed the distance. For the first time in his long, long life, the Winter Soldier felt something rare:

Pure, unfiltered fear.

And, if he was being honest, something else too. But it was too inappropriate to even think about in this moment.

"Jaan," he tried, voice rough, hands raised in surrender, praying at least this time he used the word correctly. "Let’s talk about this—"

You didn’t stop.

"You’re even prettier when you’re murderous," Bucky blurted, because apparently his survival instincts had taken a vacation.

You seized his sherwani collar, silk crumpling in your fist as you yanked him down to your eye level. "Say. Sorry."

For a heartbeat, Bucky just grinned—all dimples and defiance—until you tightened your grip.

"...Sorry," he rasped, not sounding sorry at all. His gaze dropped to your lips.

"Not good enough," you hissed, fingers twisting deeper into his sherwani collar. "Say it like you mean it."

Bucky tried for a smirk, but it wavered when you didn’t budge. "Or what?" His hand slid toward your waist—

Smack.

You slapped it away so hard his vibranium fingers clinked. "Or I march straight to jiju," you said, leaning in until your noses almost touched, "and tell him his best friend’s been mingling with his sister-in-law."

Bucky’s bravado evaporated. "You’re bluffing."

"Try me." Your free hand mimed a gun at his chest. “No more deals. No more kisses." You let your thumb drop like a hammer. "No more me."

His throat moved. Finally—real fear.

"I’m sorry," Bucky choked out, palms pressed together in mock prayer. "I’ll behave."

You bit your cheek to stop the laugh threatening to ruin your victory. Pathetic. Adorable. Yours.

Bucky watched your grip loosen, your lips twitching—just a fraction—and let out a breath he hadn’t realized he was holding.

"You’re terrifying when you’re winning," he muttered, dragging a hand through his hair for dramatic effect. He even managed a wounded expression, like he was the victim here.

You rolled your eyes so hard your jhumka swung. "Drop the act, super soldier," you said, tapping the invisible gun against his chest. "I’ve read your files. You’ve survived worse than me."

Bucky’s pout vanished, replaced by that signature smirk. "Yeah, but none of them looked this good threatening me."

His smirk was insufferable—right up until it vanished.

One second, you were glaring. The next, Bucky’s hands framed your face, his mouth crashing into yours. The kiss was all heat, no apology—his teeth catching your lip, his fingers tangling in the loose strands of your hair.

You shoved at his chest, but he didn’t budge. Instead, he walked you backward until your hips hit the wall, his vibranium arm banding around your waist to keep you there.

When he finally pulled back, his breath was ragged. "Tell jiju," he dared, voice rough. "Won’t stop me from feeling you."

Your payal jingled as you swayed forward, chasing his lips.

A/N: I finally finished this holyy shit😭. Sorry to anyone who’s been waiting for me to come out with another desi!reader fic. I scrapped so many ideas cus i just didnt like half of the stuff I wrote. Like i randomly just get writer’s block😐 and plus with my habit of procrastinating, i end up taking forever to write😣. Anyways! Thank you soo much for reading! I had so much fun writing this! As always my asks are open for any requests!

SEE YA IN MY NEXT POST MY BEAUTIFUL DESI GIRLS❣️ — তারা/Taara⭐️

If you enjoyed this, check out my previous desi!reader fic <3

Bucky at the baraat🪔

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st4rdustblogs · 2 months ago

Text

Bucky at the Baraat 🪔🪕

TFATWS!Bucky Barnes x South Asian!Reader

While spending some time with Sam’s family, he met you through Sam’s sister and soon you became friends. One day as a joke you suggested that he should come to your cousin’s wedding and just laughed it off but to your surprise he took it as an actual invitation…

🏷️ Fluff, Lighthearted, Slow but no burn, Funny, Friends to Lovers, Bollywood cliches, Confused, Flustered and Jealous Bucky, Bucky in a Kurta, Reader in a saree and Lehnga, Bucky doesn’t know how to text, Sunshine Reader, Marriage minded mothers, First Kiss. Bollywood classics mentioned <3

12k words

Ps: Just a tiny bit of y/n character description, she’s veeery much inspired by Geet from Jab We Met and Anjali from Kabhi Khushi Kabhi Gum. Energetic, constantly giggling and grinning in contrast to Bucky.

Author: hii everyone!! i had this silly idea to write a fic based on Bucky and South Asian reader for like the LONGEST time and i cannot stop thinking about it and came to the conclusion that i wont be able to rest until i write it. This is my first ever fic that I am writing seriously since 11 y/o me wrote on Wattpad so forgive me if my writing has any writing icks😿. Please feel free to leave suggestions and feedbacks!!

I took a tiny bit of inspiration from Ms.Marvel and made y/n’s hometown New Jersey! If I get any location info wrong that’s because I am not from the U.S 🦅 hehe.

I want this fic to be enjoyed by all my south asian girlies so I’ll just be little vague and mix hindi, urdu and bangla (at the end of the day we do share alot in common 😽). AND ENJOYYY.

You took a long swig from your bottle before breaking the silence. "I'm heading to New Jersey tonight." The words hung in the air between you all.

It had become an unspoken ritual - every week without fail, you'd all meet at the dock. No agendas, no missions. Just drinks, stories, and the easy comfort of each other's company.

"What?!" Sarah and Sam blurted out together, both sitting up suddenly. Beside you, Bucky went still, his metal hand pausing mid-reach for his drink as he turned to look at you.

The news hit him like a punch to the gut. He'd come to crave your company more than he'd ever admit, to others or even himself. Half the time he "dropped by" Sarah's place, it was just to see you. If you weren't there, he'd casually ask about your whereabouts, then make some excuse to leave early.

Bucky thought he was being slick. Sam and Sarah, however, were deeply insulted by how bad his acting was. Every glance, every awkward question about your schedule, it was painfully obvious how he felt about you. The only saving grace was your complete obliviousness to it all.

You groaned in frustration. "I told you guys this last week! My cousin's wedding is in seven days - I have to be there early to help with all the ceremonies." Crossing your arms, you added, "And I literally invited both of you, but apparently you're too busy."

The guilty looks returned instantly. Sarah apologized (again) about her kids' school schedule, while Sam rubbed his neck awkwardly - these days, being Captain America meant his calendar was packed months in advance.

Bucky finally set his drink down with a soft clink and turned to face you fully, brow furrowed. “Wait—if the wedding’s not for a week, why leave now?” The confusion in his voice matched his expression, genuine, almost comically serious, like this was a tactical oversight.

You locked eyes with him, biting the inside of your cheek to keep from laughing. Bucky's gaze darted between Sarah and Sam - both poorly hiding their amusement behind their drinks.

"What?" he demanded, shoulders tensing. "Did I say something wrong?" That familiar prickling sensation crept up his neck, the one that screamed he was missing some obvious social cue again.

A slow, knowing smile spread across your face as you took in Bucky's bewildered expression. "You've clearly never been to a South Asian wedding before, have you?" you teased, shaking your head with amused exasperation.

The way his eyes widened slightly - like a soldier realizing he'd just stepped into uncharted territory - told you everything. Poor Barnes. He thought he understood chaos from his years of combat, but nothing could have prepared him for this.

“Why don’t you come and see for yourself?” you challenged, rising to your feet with a playful smirk. “Then you’ll understand.”

Bucky remained frozen in his seat, the gears visibly turning behind those steel-blue eyes. His fingers absently tapped against his knee, once, twice, as if calculating the risks of walking into completely unfamiliar territory.

You crossed to Sarah and pulled her into a warm embrace. "We'll miss you so much," she murmured, her voice thick with emotion as she gave your shoulder that signature Wilson-family squeeze.

Sam caught you next with a smirk that didn't quite hide his fondness. "Don't do anything I wouldn't do," he teased, pulling you in for a quick hug.

Then there was Bucky.

You offered him a small, hesitant wave, fingers curling slightly midair. He remained statue still except for the slightest lift of his metal hand in response, his eyes tracking you until you disappeared from view.

Bucky didn’t move. He just watched you walk away, eyes tracing the way the sunset painted your hair in gold and amber, the way your ankle length skirt swayed with each step. The soft chime of your anklets kept time with the waves, a rhythm he could’ve listened to forever.

Then you turned the corner, and just like that, the dock felt too quiet. Your laughter still echoed in his ears, that bright sound whenever he’d managed to say something halfway clever. And your smile, that last little wave, it was plastered in his mind.

"Hello? Earth to Sergeant Barnes?" Sam's voice finally shattered whatever trance you'd put him under.

"Christ, man," Sam huffed, crossing his arms. "At this point I'm gonna need a magic disclaimer. What's the deal? Wanda sneak a hex on you or something?" He shot Bucky a knowing look. “Cause you keep zoning out every damn time she's near you.”

Bucky's jaw tensed. “Shut up, Sam. She’s just good company.”

Sam slowly turned to Sarah, eyebrows climbing his forehead in that you-hearing-this-bullshit? look he'd perfected over years of dealing with the stubborn super-soldier.

Sarah just sipped her drink, she was mentally taking notes for future blackmail material.

That night when Bucky went home, he decided to text you.

Bucky: Are you at the airport?

Sent at 1:53

Bucky set his phone down on the nightstand with a little too much force, the click of it against the wood louder than intended. He yanked his shirt over his head, the fabric catching briefly on his dog tags before he tossed it aside.

With every passing minute, the knot in his stomach tightened.

Was that text too much?

He’d only known her for what, a few months? Casual friends didn’t check in like that. They didn’t notice how someone took their coffee or remember offhand stories about their childhood.

The Winter Soldier could calculate a sniper shot in high wind, but this? This had no clear variables.

Seen at 2:00

Ding!

You: Yup just boarded the plane!

Sent at 2:01

Bucky: Have a safe flight.

Sent at 2:01

Seen at 2:01

Ding!

You:Thanks for checking up on me 🩷

You: Going to miss you :)

Sent at 2:01

Bucky’s phone almost fell on his leg.

‘I am going to miss you’

‘🩷’

‘:)’

‘I am going to miss you.’

‘🩷’

Bucky sat frozen on the edge of his bed, pants halfway up, staring at his glowing screen like it might bite him.

Texting was a minefield. Every message he sent came out sounding like a damn mission report, dry, clipped, painfully literal. Hell, he’d once wished Sam a happy birthday with all the enthusiasm of a grocery list: “Happy birthday Sam.” No emoji. No exclamation point. Just stark black text.

Bucky: You’re welcome.

Sent at 2:10

Seen at 2:10

You were freaking out.

Between wedding chaos, your family’s collective volume set to "stadium concert," and that low-grade plane terror (thanks, Air Disasters marathon), your nerves were already fried. And now? You’d sent a heart emoji like some lovesick teenager right before takeoff.

"What the hell was I thinking?" You dragged your hands down your face muttering to yourself. His reply, if you could even call it that, was so painfully Bucky it made you want to yank the emergency exit and bail at 30,000 feet.

He won’t even notice I’m gone.

Bucky: :)

Sent at 2:11

A grin split your face before you could stop it—wide, unstoppable, the kind that made your cheeks ache. God, he was adorable. You tapped his message twice, heart fluttering, then switched your phone to airplane mode and sank back into your seat. But that ridiculous smile? It clung to your lips like it had every intention of staying.

Bucky stared at the tiny heart that had popped up under his painfully deliberated :) an emoji that had required a full sixty-second internal debate.

This was the same man who’d charged Thanos head-on. Who’d survived Hydra, wars, and Sam’s shitty road trip playlists. Yet here he was, sweating over two punctuation marks like some middle schooler passing a note.

Messaging you was his final confirmation of what he had to do now. He switched to Sam and started typing. But then he stopped. ‘Bad idea,’ He thought to himself. Sam was immediately going to start teasing him. Instead he chose to message Sarah.

Bucky: Did Y/N give you the location of where the wedding is going to be?

The Uber hadn’t even fully stopped when your family swarmed it, little cousins bouncing, aunties waving, and your Ma already in happy tears. “My beti is finally here!” she called, as if you’d crossed oceans instead of state lines.

You barely had time to laugh before she crushed you in a hug. “Ma, I live four hours away,” you teased, thumbing her tears away. “Tears of joy, pagli,” she sniffed. Then the rest of the family pulled you into a chaos of embraces, and just like that, the flight’s exhaustion melted away.

By the time Anika, the bride, rescued you, you’d been force-fed a year’s worth of mishti, Rosogolla, Gulab Jamun, Rasmalai, and enough Pani Puri to drown in. “You’re a literal lifesaver,” you gasped, collapsing onto the guest bed. “Five more minutes and I’d have died. Wedding over before it started.”

She snorted, tugging you up into a hug. “Drama queen,” she laughed, but you spun her around, hands clasped. “I can’t believe you’re getting married, kutti!”

After changing into the mekhla Ma had left for you, soft cotton with delicate florals, you flopped onto the bed. And of course, your traitorous brain immediately thought of Bucky.

Must be because he was the last person I texted, you reasoned, thumbing open your messages. The second you saw his reply, that ridiculous grin was back.

What the hell is wrong with me?

You blamed the wedding high—the giddiness bleeding into everything else. Yeah. That had to be it. With a huff, you tossed your phone aside and willed yourself into a nap.

The first day of wedding prep was surprisingly manageable—just selecting flowers and some light shopping. You wore the navy salwar kameez Ma had picked, though you barely had time to admire it between haggling aunties and vendor chaos.

Then your phone buzzed.

Bucky.

Your stomach flipped. You two talked, sure, but calling? Out of nowhere? The ringing filled your ears as you hesitated, fingers hovering until the screen went dark.

"Beti! Come try this lehenga!" Ma's voice cut through your panic. Right. Priorities. You shoved your phone away, future you's problem now.

“Anika, I swear to god—,” You made a desperate grab for your phone, but she danced back effortlessly, holding it just out of reach. Of course your perpetually perfect cousin would have the reflexes of a damn Olympian.

"Relax!" She grinned, already snapping pictures. "Gotta capture your best angles for that mysterious Bucky~" Her eyebrows did a ridiculous wiggle. "You boyfriend calls you out of nowhere? Oh, this is definitely a development."

Your brain caught up a second too late. "Amar Bondhu—!" you hissed, finally wresting your phone back, face burning. "Just a friend, understand? Normal, platonic, zero-romance-having friend!" You jammed it into the depths of your purse like that might erase Anika’s smirk.

"Uh-huh." She flicked your forehead. "And I’m the Prime Minister. I have known you long enough to know that’s bullshit."

You gave her a glare, “Whatever, and also keep it down with the ‘boyfriend’ thing, your chachi will freak out if she catches even a whiff of it.”

You smoothened your now ruined hair from all the back and forth. Anika just looped an arm through yours, dragging you toward the next shop. "Come on, let’s find you a saree pretty enough to make your ‘friend’ forget how to speak."

Her cackle echoed through the entire market.

The entire day became Anika’s personal rom-com audition:

“Think your bondhu will like this color on you?” She held up a saree with exaggerated flair.

“Or maybe—” She snatched a dupatta, fluttering it dramatically. “He’d prefer getting tangled in this with you, srk and kajol style? hmmm?”

You swatted at her as she brandished a laddu. “Will your piyaara dost let you feed him sweets, or—”

“OOOH!” Her gasp echoed through the store. Before you could react, she emerged from a rack, wheezing with laughter, holding up what could only be described as two lace petals and a prayer. “Your friend will die for this!”

“MADAR CHO— ANIKA, YOU—!” You lunged for her, but she danced away, cackling as you fled to the safety of the aunties, your face hotter than the chai stall outside.

By the time the endless shopping spree wrapped up, your feet ached and your patience had been thoroughly tested by the question—“So, when’s your turn?”—from every auntie within a ten-mile radius. But years of practice had honed your evasion skills to near-superhero levels.

After a hasty dinner and obligatory family chatter, you finally escaped to your room. A quick shower later, you face-planted onto the bed, limbs splayed like a starfish. Bliss.

Bucky invaded your thoughts again—unwanted, unbidden, like he had some VIP pass to your brain.

Should I call him back?

But if it was urgent, wouldn’t he have texted? And why you, specifically? The mental gymnastics were exhausting. Back in Louisiana, this wasn’t a problem. Seeing him weekly, sometimes daily, kept whatever this was at bay. But now? Now your traitorous mind kept circling back like a moth to a flame.

No. Nope. Absolutely not.

You did what you did best: shoved the entire mess into a mental lockbox labeled “Later.” Not healthy, but effective.

Bucky touched down in New Jersey at 3 PM with no plan, no hotel, and exactly one reference point: Edison. You’d once described it as “the place where you’ll spot a hundred saree shops before a single Starbucks.”Colorful. Vibrant. The exact opposite of every sterile American strip mall he’d ever seen.

The Uber ride gave him too much time to think. Why was he here again? Right. Friend. Invitation. Totally normal reasons.

He thumbed your contact, stared at it for three full stoplights, then hit call.

Ring… Ring…

Nothing.

“Cool,”* he muttered, shoving his phone away. “Real cool.”

Stepping out into the streets was like walking onto a movie set. Garlands of marigolds draped over shop fronts, the sizzle of samosas in oil, the chaos of a dozen conversations in languages he didn’t know. For a second, he thought it was a festival—until he remembered your stories. “This is just Tuesday for us.”

A cluster of aunties slowed as they passed him, whispers darting like minnows. He caught the words “chhokra” and “haath”—the latter paired with a glance at his metal arm. Your warning echoed in his head: “Aunties gossip like it’s an Olympic sport.” He yanked his sleeve down.

The Airbnb was cheap, its listing photo featuring a bedspread so floral it hurt his eyes. “Cozy stay!” the caption promised.

He booked it.

The wedding’s not till next week. I’ll figure this out tomorrow.

Once he settled in his room he took his phone out and saw one unopened message from you which was sent a few minutes ago while he was checking in to his stay.

You: Sorry! Didn’t mean to miss your call. What’s up?

Bucky didn’t want to tell you just yet that he was here because he quite literally booked the flight to where you were right after you took off. He was worried you would put two and two together and think he’s weirdo for following you here so fast or just simply not telling you that he was accepting your ‘not quite an invite’ invitation. He wanted to play it cool.

Bucky: Nothing important. Just checking up. What have you been up to?

Good. Super casual, he praised himself for how simple the text was but just enough to speak to you for a little bit.

He went to the bathroom to change out of his airport clothes and clean up after the long cramped flight.

Ding!

Y/N has sent you a picture.

[pictures of all the new dresses]

You: Just shopping for the bride.

Sent at 5:00

Ding!

Y/N has sent a picture.

You: What about you?

Sent at 5:03

Steam filled the room as Bucky stepped out of the shower, towel around his waist. He checked his phone—4 missed texts from you. His therapist would laugh; his contact list was drier than week-old bread.

Speaking of, his therapist called right then. "James Buchanan Barnes. We had an agreement."

"Something came up," he lied. Truth was, no one would believe he'd travel for a wedding. Hell, "a raccoon stole my arm in space" sounded more credible.

She sighed. "Just tell me you're not fighting. I know it’s a huge part of your life but,” she paused, “Talking to you outside our sessions is not part of my profession however I truly want you to overcome your past and I believe you can James."

"I'm not in a figjt" He coldly replied. For once, it was true. He was here for you—and that realization unsettled him more than any battle. Suddenly being reminded by her made him remember that feeling that he gets hit with every now and then, the feeling of uncertainty. What did his future hold after years of just being a weapon? Going from one war to another?

Once that call was over, he was left with that bitter feeling again, his eyes once again fell on the texts that came from you. He sighed, trying to go back to that sense of relief that he felt when he thought of you, the only thing that ever managed to distract him from his past, and finally opened the message.

Fuck.

His hand clenched around his phone as his eyes landed on the last picture you sent. If he didn’t unclench his hand fast enough, the phone might just break into pieces in his hand.

The photo hit him like a punch: you with a hibiscus tucked behind your ear, soft gloss on your lips, kajal darkening your gaze. He snapped his phone shut, pressing his right palm to his burning face. It was useless.

Hitching up his towel, he stalked to the bathroom to grab his drying metal arm, pressing the cool vibranium to his cheeks. No luck.

He had plans to go out on a walk and explore the area but after this, what he could only describe as a heart attack, he had to just cool off and catch some rest. Plus he wasn’t that comfortable yet to be recognised or have his metal arm pointed out.

He went on his phone one more time.

✓⃝ Photo saved to your gallery.

Sending a picture of yourself and then asking how he was only to be left on seen. Crashing out was an understatement to describe how you were feeling.

Getting a good sleep that night was important because the next day was Mehendi. But unlucky you, you’ll loose more sleep than a marriage minded mama who’s worried about her daughter possibly becoming a spinster the moment she reaches her 20s.

It was the morning of the Mehendi ceremony. You woke to the sun beaming through your curtains thanks to your lovely Aunt Moni, your Ma’s closest friend since she moved to the US, who came to wake you up. Well that was part of the reason.

Since you had arrived she had tried to have a moment with you but you kept on getting dragged away by either your Ma or one of your MANY cousins.

“Good morning Aunt-ji,” You lazily stretched out your arms before immediately falling back on your bed. “Beti come on it’s Mehendi Day! Speaking of which, did you ever endup learning how to do it? You always moaned about being bad at it when all of your other cousins would be able to do it since they were kids,” She reminded you.

Ah yes, first thing in the morning being reminded how you were bad at something. “I was too busy with work. Didn’t have the time,” You shrugged, stretching your arm out over to the bed side able, searching for your phone. Finally getting a hold of it you received a message from Sarah.

A simple “ ;) ” nothing else.

Your aunt was rambling about something, all you could hear was, “My son this. My son that.”

“Huh?” You abruptly cut off your aunt with your reaction to Sarah’s text.

“Areh! My son! Saad! You guys used to inseparable-” Once again you cut her off, “Oh no auntie-ji I wasn’t replying to you- I- I actually have to use the bathroom!” With that you jumped off the bed and ran inside the bathroom.

You opened Sarah’s message and replied.

You: ????

Seen at 10:45

Minutes ticked by. Seen. No reply.

You shoved your phone aside—no time to dwell. The ceremony would start soon, and between your own preparations and the two-hour makeup marathon for your aunts and little cousins, every second counted.

The theme: pink and orange, a sunset brought to life. Peering through the window, your breath caught. The garden had transformed, marigolds in fiery hues, drapes like liquid silk in orange, yellow, and blush pink. Kids darted between chairs while harried teens played reluctant shepherds, keeping them from storming the bridal stage.

For once, your family was harmonious, no grudges dredged up from a decade ago. The air buzzed with joy so palpable it made your chest ache.

Your own outfit was understated elegance: an orange cropped blouse with gold-threaded sleeves, paired with a flowing skirt that caught the light with every step. Beautiful, but designed to fade into the background, where all attention should be: on the radiant bride.

Bucky checked Sarah’s directions one last time, 43 minutes away. He’d opted for his usual all-black ensemble, but swapped the leather jacket for a tailored suit. It’s a wedding, he reasoned, adjusting his cuffs. Even if the main event wasn’t until next week, your family would be there. He never cared for first impressions but this was your family, for the first time impressions mattered to him.

The mirror reflected a version of himself he rarely saw: sharp lines, polished shoes, no visible weapons. For once, he wasn’t dressed for an undercover mission—it was just for you. And the wedding of course.

Bucky scrutinized his reflection for the tenth time—jaw freshly shaved, hair ruthlessly tamed. Not a single strand out of place. Nothing could go wrong.

This was new: putting real effort into an event that wasn’t a mission. He’d even rehearsed conversation starters from therapy, muttering to his mirror like a madman until even he cringed at the performance.

With one last adjustment of his suit jacket, he slid into the Uber. The car pulled away, carrying him toward the wedding venue, ready to see you and look forward to what you meant by south asian weddings being different.

Bucky’s heart hammered against his ribs as he approached the venue. His hands felt alien at his sides, too stiff for casual swinging, too awkward to pocket. Those rehearsed conversation starters now seemed like something he could use. He was acting so different than his usual self he was starting to wonder if this was a bad idea.

The moment the building came into view, a riot of colors against his monochrome suit, he nearly turned on his heel. He was dressed like he was about attend a amidst this celebration.

He knocked with his right hand. A boy in vibrant traditional attire answered. He finally felt confident again knowing other than being really good at fighting, he was really good with talking to kids thanks to Sam’s nephews. He crouched down to say hello but the moment the kid took one look at him, he bolted like Bucky had growled in Wakandan.

Then they came: first one auntie, then three, then a dozen, a wall of curious faces.

“Hello, officer,” a man finally said, peering past him as if expecting backup. “Noise complaint?”

Bucky’s metal fingers twitched around the sweet box that he had bought as a souvenir. “What?” So much for first impressions.

“DIDI!! Y/N DIDI!! SOMEONE IS AT THE DOOR!! THE POLICE IS AT THE DOOR!!” Chotu came running to your room in the middle of you doing one of your little cousin’s make-up.

You nearly ruined your eyeliner jerking upright. “Police?!” What could they possibly want? A noise complaint? Fireworks? Your mind raced as you abandoned your makeup, snatching up your dupatta and draping it hastily over your shoulders.

You bolted downstairs, dodging low-hanging marigold garlands and sidestepping the banister wrapped in orange silk. As the second oldest, chaos like this was your responsibility, which meant weaving through the crowd of aunties now clustered at the door.

“Move, move—” You wriggled past, praying your hair wouldn’t snag on someone’s bangles or the embroidered shawl draped over the coat rack.

“Uncle-ji could you please give me some space.”

“Y/n-beti please speak to him.”

“Yes I will, just a little space. Auntie-ji let me just go through here.”

“Beti why is that man here? Did something happen?”

“I don’t know auntie I need to speak to him first. Let me just move right past you-”

“Didi he has a weird hand!”

“Uhhh what?”

After what should’ve taken you less than a few seconds to reach the door ended up taking you way longer due to being bombarded with questions that you obviously did not have the answer to yet. You finally made it to the front, standing behind your Chachu who was covering practically the entire door.

“Chachu let me speak to him just move.”

“Areh Y/N beti dekho na, what does he want from us?”

You patted your uncle’s shoulder, nudging him aside with a calm “Officer, we don’t want any trouble—.”

Then your brain short-circuited.

Bucky.

Here.

ln a suit.

At your cousin’s wedding.

“BUCKY?!” The name burst out of you, half shriek, half laugh, as you nearly launched your poor uncle into the hedges with how fast you surged forward.

Bucky exhaled sharply, the tension in his shoulders finally easing as his eyes landed on you, the one person he’d crossed state lines to see. After all the uncertainty, the second-guessing of whether he should come or not… there you were. It was all worth it.

The second Bucky saw you framed in the doorway, in traditional South Asian attire, his brain short-circuited.

It felt like time had actually stopped. Just like in those absurd, cheesy bollywood romances you’d subjected him to. A perfectly timed gust of wind caught your hair, sending it cascading in slow motion. Flower petals swirled around you (or maybe that was just decor blown loose, but he’d swear it was magic).

The sunlight caught every detail: the shimmer of your skirt, the delicate dupatta draped over your chest, the golden glow of your skin. The familiar chime of your anklets harmonized with the new melody of your golden bangles.

And then there was the waist.

Fuck. He should look away. He definitely shouldn’t be staring. But Bucky Barnes, supersoldier, former assassin, professional brooder, was utterly, stupidly spellbound.

If he wasn’t told who’s wedding he was about to attend, he would assume you were the bride.

You came running toward him, unable to hide your joy. The moment your arms wrapped around his neck, his free non metal hand, settled at your waist, pulling you flush against him.

It was your first real hug, and the intensity of it left you both breathless. He ducked his head into the curve of your shoulder, breathing in the floral scent of your perfume mixed with the faint sweetness of mehendi from the ceremony. His thumb brushed the bare skin just above your lehenga’s waistband, a quiet, possessive stroke that sent shivers down your spine.

“Nice to see you again too, Y/N.” His chuckle vibrated against you.

Three seconds. That’s how long the hug lasted, three seconds that stretched like a lifetime before your brain screeched to a halt.

You. Hugging a man. In broad daylight. With your entire family watching.

Bucky’s gaze flicked over your shoulder, and you felt him go rigid. The blood drained from his face like he’d just spotted Thanos in the buffet line. Every auntie, uncle, and cousin stood frozen in a scene of pure horror, eyes wide, mouths agape, some even clutching their pearls. And oh god, was that your grandmother reaching for her slipper?

You sprang apart like you’d been electrocuted. “W-what are you doing here?” you stammered, voice two octaves too high. “I mean—when did you—why—” The questions tumbled out, but your almost ear to ear grin ruined any attempt at playing it cool.

Bucky opened his mouth, then closed it. The Winter Soldier, veteran of a hundred battles, had been felled by the most terrifying force in the universe: desi aunty judgment.

"I'll explain everything," Bucky muttered, throwing another nervous glance past you, "but your family's staring holes through my skull, and I've survived less terrifying war zones." His chuckle was half-genuine, half-panic.

"Oh shit—right. Okay. Follow me." You steered him inside, already mentally drafting excuses for why you, a respectable single woman, were caught in such an intimate embrace with a gora stranger they'd mistaken for cops.

“Everybody! Shanti shanti! SHANTI PLEASE!”You clapped your hands, fighting the grin threatening to split your face. “This is James Barnes. My friend. From Louisiana. You remember Sarah Wilson? Tall? Came to Ashfaq's wedding?”

A ripple of "Ooooh!" moved through the crowd, though half the aunties were still too busy dissecting the hug to care about your backstory. You could already see the gossip tsunami forming in their eyes. Tonight's interrogation would be brutal.

Auntie Moni, also known among you and family, the self-appointed family news anchor, leaned in with a smirk. “Is he your friend or…?” Her tone dripped with implication, voicing the question plastered across every face in the room.

“He is my friend, Auntie-ji,” you said through gritted teeth, smile so sweet it could rot teeth. “Anika said I could invite people, and he was free. So—,” You leveled a glare at the crowd, silently murdering their who-is-this-foreigner? stares. “—Everyone play nice! Bucky’s never been to a mehendi or a shaadi before.”

You snatched the sweet boxes from his grip, the crinkle of the paper drowning out the whispers already spreading like wildfire.

“Don't let them intimidate you,” you whispered as the crowd parted. “They're friendly. Sometimes... too friendly.”

Bucky barely had time to process your warning before the uncles descended.

“Ao ao, James beta!” One by one, they pulled him into bear hugs instead of handshakes, thumping his back like he was a long-lost cousin. “Y/N's friends are our friends!”

You bit your lip to hide a grin as he disappeared under a wave of enthusiastic uncles, his metal arm safely tucked in his pocket. Thank god your family's Marvel knowledge began and ended with Mr. Iron Stark Sir-ji and the big green one. As long as the teens didn't spot it, he might survive Day One without the Winter Soldier interrogation.

Bucky had not been properly warned.

He’d imagined a quiet evening with you, maybe some polite small talk with relatives. Instead, he’d been passed around like a party platter, first to the uncles, who grilled him on everything from his hometown ("Brooklyn? Oh, like Tony Stark!") to his career ("I, uh... work in security?"), his answers growing increasingly strained as they debated political conflicts he’d literally fought in.

Then the aunties claimed him.

“So, James,” one purred, patting the seat beside her. “Our Y/N is such a good girl, no? Very talented, very kind...”

Bucky’s eyes darted to you across the room, silently pleading for rescue as another auntie leaned in: z”Tell us, beta, what are your intentions?”

You just smirked into your drink.

“How come you did not come with your wife beta?”

“He’s quite tall and handsome, isn’t he bhabi? Perfect for my Nikki.”

“Beta did you come here with your wife?”

“Where do you work?”

“How close are you with our y/n?”

“Why don’t you meet my daughter?”

“Very strong biceps, what’s your work out?”

“You have strong grip, you have to visit my garage. You’ll get Mr Roshan certified discount!”

“Are you married?”

“Try this gulab jamun.

“Pani-puri!”

“Laddu!”

Bucky hadn't caught a single break since arriving. That brief moment hugging you had been his only respite before being thrown into what felt like an endless interrogation.

Yet somewhere between the third uncle's political rant and the fifth aunty's marriage pitch, the tension in his shoulders eased.

It was overwhelming. Loud. Nothing like his quiet Brooklyn apartment or even the Avengers compound. But the way they included him - no hesitation, no suspicion - made the chaos feel... warm. Even if he'd barely gotten two uninterrupted minutes with you.

Also, he wasn’t sure why everyone were calling him ‘Beta’ when you clearly introduced him as ‘James.’

From your spot in the kitchen, arranging sweets for the arriving guests, you had a perfect view of Bucky’s suffering. The man who’d faced down alien armies was now pleading with a circle of aunties, palms raised in surrender. “I can’t really—I’m full—”

Your eyes met across the room. His expression was pure desperation, eyebrows hiking toward his hairline, mouthing help me with the same panic you’d worn yesterday to Anika.

You tapped your chin, lips quirking. Should I? ...Nah.

But when Auntie Meena started listing her third eligible niece, you took pity. Swiping two gulab jamuns off the tray, you sauntered over, his knight in shining lehenga.

“Bucky, come with me,” you announced, cutting through the crowd. “Let me show you to your room. You waved off the aunties' protests. “Gosh, let the gora pakora breathe! You're treating him like he's the bride, has anyone even complimented Anika yet?!”

With some strategic shooing, you finally pried him free. The uncles dispersed, grumbling about kids these days, while Bucky clutched his stomach like a man mortally wounded.

“I'm so full I might die,” he groaned, suppressing burps.

“100 desi aunties vs. one super soldier?” You grinned, leading him down the hall. “The aunties always win.”Bucky's face fell when you warned him this was just Day One. “You can't be serious,” he said, voice pitching slightly.

You stopped at a guest room, dangled the key, and flashed your most devious smile. “Dead serious. And this is your new home for the week.”

Bucky peered inside, baffled by the mansion-sized proportions. “But I booked an Airbnb—”

“If my relatives catch on to the fact that I let one of their now most beloved guests live in an Airbnb, I will be kicked out of this family. They do not play about hospitality Bucky. Plus if they figure out you’re the Bucky who’s friends with Captain America, I’m as good as dead to them for letting you stay anywhere but here,” You crossed your arms over your chest, stepping inside the room, “Plus,” you smiled at him, “My room is right down this hall, so I’ll only be a few steps away to save you.”

“Just down the hall,” He plucked the keys from your fingers, his grin all mischief. “Guess I’m taking this room, then.”

“Just down the hall,” you echoed, matching his tone.

The exchange sent a stupid flutter through your chest. You’d heard stories about pre-serum Bucky, the Brooklyn charmer who could sweet-talk anyone, but this? This was the first glimpse of that man peeking through.

Not that you had time to dwell. Between a bride waiting for mehendi and Bucky’s I’m-attending-a-funeral suit situation, your crisis-management skills were needed elsewhere.

Thankfully, Anika was trapped in mehendi-artist purgatory, too swarmed by professionals to notice Bucky’s arrival or torment you. Small mercies.

“Don’t move,” you ordered Bucky, already power-walking out, your dupatta abandoned on his floor without a second thought.

You returned clutching a garment box, which you dumped on the bed with a thump. “Okay, let’s address the elephant in the room,” you said, gesturing at his all-black ensemble. “You look like you’re here to arrest the bride. This?” You flicked his tie. “Is a crime.”

Bucky’s offended “Hey—“ He was cut short as you unveiled the kurta: saffron-orange with ruby-red embroidery.

"I can’t wear that," he protested, eyeing the fabric, recognising the design from when he was being swarmed by all the men of the house and seeing them wear this. “It’s not— I don’t—”

“Too bad!” You shoved it into his chest. “You’ll look good, trust me.”

It took him very little convincing to say yes to wearing it. He struggled to say no to you. He was trying his hardest not to turn into a total softie when he finally agreed to wear it, seeing you excitedly clapping your hands.

“I also have to also mention… you look different,” Bucky said, voice oddly strained.

The entire time you’d been talking, his gaze kept snagging on the way your lehenga caught the light, the exposed waist, your dupatta-less top making his brain go in the gutter. He wanted to say something, needed to, but his brain had short-circuited the moment you’d walked in.

“Different like… in a good way?” You did a slow twirl, giving him a full view.

Bucky’s throat clicked. “Y-yes,” he managed, the word rough like he’d choked on it.

You bit your cheek to hide the grin threatening to split your face. “Thanks, Bucky. I’ll leave you to change. Let me know when you’re done.”

Escaping was self-preservation. The air between you had turned thick, charged, a time bomb ticking toward something neither of you dared name.

Outside his door, you fidgeted with your bangles, imagining how the kurta would look on him: vibrant against his skin, a shock of color after years of blacks and blues. The darkest you’d ever seen him was that blood-red shirt in the Siberia footage, fingers around Stark’s neck.

You shook the memory away. That Bucky felt like a stranger now.

“Beti? Anika’s looking for you!” Uncle Roshan appeared, shooing you down the hall.

“But my friend—“

“Nehi nehi beti, now! You cannot keep the bride waiting!”

You shot one last glance at Bucky’s door. What’s taking him so long?

Anika’s excitement was contagious. “Kamini where have you been! I have been looking for you everywhere,” she let out out a sigh of relief finally seeing you. “Dekho dekho! I even told them hide his initials in the designs,” she pointed out the hidden message. You watched her as she showed you all the details.

You were happy for Anika, truly. But as you watched her excitement, a quiet ache bloomed in your chest. She’d found her person. Someone who’d cherish every part of her, inside and out.

You’d always shrugged off marriage talk, but now? Now you wondered.

Who’d search for you in a crowded room?

Who’d make your heart skip just by smiling?

Who’d be yours to love, and yours to miss?

The questions lingered, feeling bittersweet.

You placed a soft kiss on her cheek, trying not tear to up from the joy you felt for her, “He’s the luckiest man alive.”

While you were sharing this sweet moment, you felt a tap on your shoulder. The two of you turned around and it was none other than Bucky.

Both you and Anika gaped. You clapped a hand over your mouth; Anika didn’t even need an introduction. Your stunned silence and flushed cheeks were answer enough, plus, she’d devoured enough Avengers tabloids to recognize Bucky Barnes.

She elbowed you forward, that same I-know-something-you-don’t smirk from yesterday’s shopping spree plastered across her face.

“Hey,” Bucky mumbled, fiddling with his kurta’s collar. “Did I wear this right? And- uh— you must be the bride. Bucky Barnes.” He extended his hand like a diplomat at a summit.

You were too busy short-circuiting to speak.

“Oh-hooo!” Anika crowed, practically vibrating with glee as her eyes darted between you two. “So you’re the famous Bucky!” She pushed you with her hip like a thumka making you bump into him with lethal precision. “Bride duties call! Have fun!”

Bucky blinked after her, then down at you who was now standing flush against his side. “Is she always like that?”

“Don’t mind her,” you lied, voice pitching higher. “She’s probably high on henna fumes.”

His outfit, though? Damn. The orange and red made his eyes bluer, the fabric skimming his shoulders just right. “You look… great,”you managed. “Thank goodness it fit. That was my last backup plan if you’d refused the kurta.”

Bucky rubbed the back of his neck with his left metal hand, the kurta’s fabric rustling softly under the motion. “Thanks. It’s actually... comfortable. Way better than leather. I can breathe in this.” Then he produced your dupatta with his right hand, like a magician revealing a trick. “You forgot this.”

“Oh—“ You hadn’t even noticed it was gone. As you reached for it, his hand retreated, unfolding the fabric with surprising precision. “Here,” he murmured, “let me.”

His left hand brushed your shoulders, the cool vibranium a contrast against your sun-warmed skin, as he draped one end over your right shoulder. Then he stepped closer, so near you could see the way his metal arm tensed slightly with careful restraint, and settled the other side with deliberate care.

When your eyes met, you quickly looked away, cheeks burning. The shift from your usual boldness to this flustered silence made his lips quirk.

He couldn’t resist. As his right hand trailed down your arm, he relished the shiver it drew from you.

Then he noticed it: your hair tangled in your jhumka. Gently, he tucked the strand behind your ear with his flesh hand, his thumb lingering just a second too long. The image flashed in his mind, you in that photo yesterday, a hibiscus where his fingers now grazed.

For a heartbeat, the wedding chaos faded. There was just this: his breath on your cheek, your pulse fluttering under his touch, and the unspoken something thickening the air, his metal arm hovering near your waist, close enough to feel its hum but not quite daring to pull you in.

You finally looked up at him, and your breath caught.

That smirk wasn’t his usual I’m-teasing-you grin. This was something darker. Smoother. The kind of look that made your pulse thrum in your throat.

Pre-serum Bucky. The one who’d charmed half of Brooklyn without breaking a sweat.

He leaned in, his lips brushing the shell of your ear as he whispered, “I think you look better without the scarf.” His breath was warm, his voice low enough to curl your toes. Then he pulled back, leaving you standing there in a daze as he walked away like he hadn’t just ruined you by saying those words with very obvious meaning behind it.

Your chest rose and fell rapidly, your skin still buzzing where his breath had touched.

What the hell was that?

This wasn’t just flirting. This was precision. He knew exactly what he was doing, and worse, he knew exactly what it did to you.

The wedding festivities were winding down, but your mind was still stuck in that moment with Bucky, the way his metal fingers had traced your skin, the heat of his whisper against your ear.

What made it worse? How he’d somehow, in just hours, become the star of the event. Somehow going from “suspicious gora” to “honorary beta.” The uncles clapped him on the back, the aunties fed him extra gulab jamuns, and now he had your older cousin hanging on his every word.

Yet despite the crowd around him, his eyes kept finding you.

You sat with the other girls, trying to focus on the mehendi artist painting your palms, but every few minutes, your gaze would flick up. And there he was, already watching you over the rim of his chai cup. His kurta sleeves rolled up, and carelessly unbuttoned at the collar, exposing that damn dip in his throat you couldn’t stop staring at.

If you’d known he’d look like this in traditional wear, you’d have burned the kurta and saved yourself the torture or just keep the view for your eyes only.

Then the cushion beside you dipped.

“They still make you sit through mehendi even though you hate it?”

Auntie Moni’s son, your childhood friend, her perfect candidate, smiled at you. You hadn’t seen him in years.

Across the room, Bucky’s cup hit the table with a clink. His smile had vanished.

“Long time no see y/n,” he sounded exhausted, like he was clearly forced to come here. “Did auntie-“ “Yup yup Ma sent me here,” he finished off your sentence. “I need to get her off my back so pretend like we are having a good chat, plus we do have some catching up to do anyways,” he got comfortable next to you.

Bucky had been savoring it. The way your gaze kept darting to him, how you’d blush every time he caught you staring. But the moment that guy sat beside you, that little game ended.

The guy wasn’t just another relative. The way your shoulder pressed against his, how you laughed into his ear, too close. Bucky forced himself to nod at whatever your cousin was saying, but his attention was laser-locked on your hand resting on that stranger’s arm.

Then you stopped looking at him.

You were too busy smacking the guy’s shoulder, gasping between giggles, letting him fix your hair like he had any right—

The ceramic cup in Bucky’s hand split clean down the middle. He wasn’t possessive. Not usually. But seeing someone else get that close to you? Watching them share the playful, effortless intimacy he’d been craving all day?

His jaw clenched.

Too much touching.

The day had finally wound down. After twenty minutes of farewells at the doorstep and endless “aap bhi aana!" and cheek kisses, you could finally breathe. The mehendi on your hands was still drying, rendering you useless for cleanup (not that you minded).

Anika had been glued to her phone with her fiancé for the last hour. If you didn’t vanish now, she’d corner you to gush about their “baby, you’re my jaan” nonsense and then pivot straight to grilling you about Bucky.

Speaking of… Where was Bucky? You hadn’t seen or properly spoke to him since the mehendi artist started on your palms.

You padded upstairs, the halls quiet except for distant murmurs from the garden. Your anklets chimed softly against the hardwood, the only music now that the speakers were off. Outside his door, you knocked gently, just in case he was resting.

No answer.

You tried again, louder.

“Bucky? Are you in there?”

Silence.

“Was he serious about going back to his airbnb?” You fumbled with your phone, the henna making even unlocking it a battle—

A hand seized your wrist, yanking you inside so fast your dupatta caught on the doorknob.

"WHAT THE F—"

Bucky’s palm clamped over your mouth. “Shh, shh—sorry,” he whispered, releasing his palm from you like you’d burned him.

“I thought you weren’t here!”

“I was. I just…” His eyes darted to your hennaed hands, then away.

“Just what? Hiding from my aunt—”

“Nothing.”

The word hung between you, thick with everything he wasn’t saying.

You tilted your head, eyebrow arching. For a split second, your pulse had leapt, it was just Bucky, not some creep, but now his silence was setting off alarms.

“What’s wrong? You’re being weird.”

He didn’t answer. Just stood there, arms crossed like he was barricading himself.

“Did my relatives say something to you?” Your stomach knotted. Had someone recognized him? Mentioned his arm? Dug up the Winter Soldier?

“What? No.” He exhaled sharply, shoulders dropping. “I don’t… I don’t know why I did this. It’s stupid. You can leave.”

Half-truth. The jealousy had been a live wire in his chest since he’d watched you with that stranger with his hands in your hair, helping you to get hair unstuck from your jhumkas like he did, making you laugh. He’d ignored your knocks to avoid this exact moment, but of course, he’d caved.

Your heart sank. After today, after the kurta, the whispered comment, the way he’d looked at you… you thought this was going somewhere.

And now he was telling you to go.

“I don’t want to leave. Something’s obviously wrong, it’s written all over your face, Bucky.” You stood your ground, planting your feet. No way you were leaving without answers.

Bucky gritted his teeth. If he asked about that guy, it’d come out all wrong. “Did you have fun today?” he forced out instead.

“Yes…?” You huffed, exasperated. “Bucky, cut to the chase. What’s this about?” Getting annoyed at him for dodging your question, trying to change the subject.

He took a step forward. Then another. His expression was new, frustration and guilt warring in the set of his jaw, the tension in his shoulders.

You instinctively stepped back until the cool wood of the door pressed into your bare shoulders. Your chest rose and fell rapidly, eyes searching his face for clues. This version of Bucky, raw, unraveling, was one you didn’t recognize.

“Bucky, what are you—.”

“I don’t know what to do,” His voice was a rough whisper, breath unsteady. “This is selfish, but… when I saw you with—“

The air between you turned electric. Not fear but surprise pulsed through you as Bucky closed the last inch of space, his chest nearly brushing yours with each ragged breath. You’d never been this close before. Close enough to count the flecks of gray in his blue eyes, now darkened with something mournful. Close enough to feel his gaze drop to your lips, once, twice, making your stomach swoop.

You reached for him on instinct, but the still drying mehendi stopped you.

“I’m sorry. You should go.” Bucky turned away, already mentally shoving clothes into his duffel. “I didn’t mean to—.”

“Didn’t you hear me?” You squared your shoulders, voice steady. “I said I don’t want to.”

He froze. Swallowed hard. The way you held your ground, chin lifted, eyes defiant, sent a current through him.

You both knew. The tension, the want, the words neither could voice.

And in that suspended moment, the doorframe at your back was the only thing keeping you upright.

Your dupatta clung precariously to your shoulders, your hands hovering awkwardly to avoid smudging the mehendi. The way your hair had come slightly undone, curls escaping their pins, only seemed to pull Bucky closer, his gaze tracing every disheveled inch of you.

He sighed, hands settling on his hips before stepping into your space again. “You look… stunning,” he murmured, his palms sliding around your bare waist.

You shivered at the contrast, the cool smoothness of his vibranium fingers against one side, the rough warmth of his right hand on the other. “Careful,” you warned, grinning up at him. “Don’t let me stain your kurta. It’s the only one I have, and you look too good in it.”

Bucky tilted his head, that damn smirk playing at his lips. “Would it be so bad if I had to take it off?”

You fake-pondered, biting your lip to hide the laugh bubbling up, and failed spectacularly. Your giggles set him off too, his head tipping back with a rare, full-bodied laugh that crinkled the corners of his eyes. The scarf on your neck now barely clinging on to you, your hands slightly lifted up hovering over your sides, trying not to get any of the mehendi on you. The slight messiness of your hair making you even more desirable in his eyes.

“Seriously, we have to get you more kurtas. I’m going out with Saad tomorrow, you should come,” you offered, blinking innocently as Bucky’s fingers stilled mid-air, a strand of your hair caught between his fingertips.

“Sounds good,” he said slowly. “But who’s Saad?”

“Oh, just a childhood friend.” You waved your hennaed hand for emphasis. “The one I was talking to during mehendi?”

Bucky’s jaw clenched so hard you could hear it.

The realization hit you like a firecracker. Your eyes widened, teeth sinking into your bottom lip to trap the grin threatening to split your face. No. Way. He’s jealous.

“Oh-hooo…” You leaned in, delight dripping from your voice. “Sergeant James Bucky-ji, don’t tell me this—”you gestured at his tense shoulders, “—is because of Saad?”

His nostrils flared. You bit your cheek so hard it ached, your smile now a full-blown problem.

“Bucky…ji…?” He repeated slowly, brow furrowed at the unfamiliar honorific. For a split second, he almost smiled, until he caught your way-too-pleased expression and realized you had caught on to the fact of how jealous he was. “Whatever,” he muttered, rolling his eyes with exaggerated indifference.

“Hayee, sooo sassy~~” You fanned yourself dramatically, loving every second of his pouting.

Then you struck. You wanted to see how far you could tease him until he snapped. “You know Saad’s the most eligible bachelor in our community, right? Pretty sure our parents have our wedding playlist ready.” Not entirely a lie, if you weren’t oceans away, the aunties would’ve had you married off by now. Never mind Saad’s secret non traditional girlfriend his mother would literally faint over.

Bucky’s grip on your waist tightened imperceptibly. He was trying to play it cool, but the way his jaw worked as you gushed, lips curled in that infuriating grin of yours betrayed him.

He couldn’t even retaliate. These were your people. So he just… simmered. Silently. Like a kettle left on too long.

The more you rambled, the more Bucky's mind spiraled into vivid nightmares: You in red bridal lehenga. Saad grinning at the mandap. Himself stuck making polite conversation with your aunties while dying inside.

His grip turned vice-like when you chirped:

“I mean, there was a time I thought he was the one, until I found out his celebrity crush was Black Widow. Like yes, obviously she's stunning, but we look nothing al—“

“Shut up.” His palm clamped over your mouth, his exhale warm against your temple. Up close, he could see every fleck of gold in your irises, the way your eyelashes fluttered as you tried, and failed, to suppress your grin beneath his hand. “You're insane,” he murmured, thumb brushing the apple of your cheek.

You nodded enthusiastically, your signature loud energy practically vibrating against him. It was the same relentless sunshine that had first broke his icy exterior months ago.

When he finally dropped his hand, it lingered at your hip, fingers flexing uncertainly. His gaze dropped to your lips again, just for a heartbeat, before he looked away. The move he wanted to make burned on his tongue, but he swallowed it down.

Bucky held you there, suspended in the moment, his thumbs tracing idle circles on your hips. Sam was right, he thought to himself, you had to be some kind of witch. The way his pulse jumped when you smiled, he hadn’t felt that since the ‘40s, back when jazz still played on every Brooklyn corner.

"Bucky-ji?"

“Hm?” His voice came out softly, lost in his thoughts as he admired your features.

“You’re holding me really tight, ji.”

A slow smirk tugged at his lips. “I like it when you call me that.”

“Call you what?” You blinked up at him, all faux innocence, doe eyed.

“Bucky-ji.” The way he said it, low, deliberate, made your stomach flip. “I like it.”

“Accha~” You teased, relishing how his breath hitched.

“Mhmm.” The one word he’d learned to recognize instantly.

“Okay, Bucky-ji~” You drew it out, watching his pupils blow wide.

Yup. Definitely a witch. That nickname was pure sorcery. Your grin was infectious, your laughter like sunlight, and here he was, a century-old super soldier turned to mush over two syllables.

Bucky was utterly, stupidly powerless.

Bucky’s restraint was unraveling by the second, his jaw clenched tight enough to hurt. You’d reduced him to this, a live wire of want, torn between propriety and the ache to claim your lips.

“Gosh Bucky,” you huffed, your hennaed hands hovering uselessly between you, “if my hands weren’t occupied, I’d have dragged you down by that stupid kurta collar and kissed you hours ago.”

Something in him snapped.

One moment, he was staring at the furious pout on your lips, the next, his metal hand cradled the back of your neck, his right thumb brushing the apple of your cheek as he closed the distance. The first press of his mouth against yours was tentative, testing, until your breathy sigh against his lips shattered whatever remained of his control.

He’d dreamed about this too often, the way your body arched into his, the soft noise you made when his tongue traced the seam of your lips. His hands roamed restlessly: one tangling in the hair at your nape, the other sliding down to grip your waist, pulling you flush against him until not even air could separate you.

The kiss deepened, slow and intoxicating. Your shared breaths grew ragged, the slick sound of lips parting and meeting again loud in the quiet room. Bucky’s teeth grazed your lower lip, drawing a whimper from you that went straight to his—

“Wait.” He broke away just enough to growl the word, his pupils blown black. The dupatta had been taunting him all night, all that delicate fabric hiding the dip of your collarbones, the slope of your shoulders (and everything else). He gathered it in one fist and tossed it across the room. “Always in my damn way.”

Your gasp at his boldness morphed into a laugh, understanding exactly what he meant by it. “You’re such a—

His mouth crashed back onto yours before you could finish, swallowing your protest. His vibranium fingers traced the newly exposed skin of your neck, mapping the flutter of your pulse as if memorizing it. Every touch lingered, his thumb stroking your jaw, his palm skimming your ribs, the way his pinky hooked under the hem of your choli, teasing.

When he finally pulled back, your lips were kiss-swollen, his kurta wrinkled from your grasping hands. The room smelled like your perfume and his self-control lay in tatters at your feet.

“Pervert,” you finally managed, voice wrecked, though the way your eyes dropped to his lips betrayed you.

He let out a dry laugh, his breath warm against your skin. “Like I said before,” he murmured, “I like you better without it.” Before you could protest, he closed the distance between you again, stealing another kiss. The gesture was so effortlessly charming that you felt heat rush to your cheeks,like some flustered schoolgirl, utterly disarmed by him.

“I’m so glad you came here, Bucky,” you mumbled against his lips, your words lazy and thick with affection. Your arms wound around his neck, fingers tangling in the hair at his nape. Thankfully, mehendi was dry enough, no longer clinging or in the way.

He pulled back just enough to smirk. “Bucky?” he echoed, feigning offense. “Come on, you know I like it better your way.”

You rolled your eyes but couldn’t suppress a grin. “Gosh, fine. Such a baby.” With an exaggerated sigh, you drew out the name in that sweet, lilting way he adored: “Bucky-jiii~~”

That definitely was a spell. No one could convince Bucky otherwise.

Theeee end….??? Or maybe ✨🪕Intermission🪔✨ OooOooOoooooOoo picture abhi baki hae mere dost (?)

AAAAAAHHH I can’t believe I actually finished writing this. I reread it like a million times so if there’s any mistakes amake maf kore dao bhai💔. Mujhe maf kardo. This is fully a self indulgent piece. I was literally writing and giggling away, picturing every scene play out like a movie. I am COMPLETELY down to write a part 2 for this if anyone is interested😽.

I didn’t know where to add the ‘jewellery getting stuck on the kurta’ bit and idk if u can tell i SUUUCK at writing intimacy scenes🥸 like i have the idea but idk how to perfect it… YET!

Hell idek if anyone is going to read this but if you do then leave a note! Share your thoughts!! I might write more (hopefully with improved writing🤓☝️) — তারা/Taara⭐️

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