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sweeter-innocence-fics · 13 days ago

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Loved the original of this fic and I’m loving this remaster even more ❤️❤️

White Lilies - Six [Remastered]

Mafia!Pietro Maximoff x fem!reader

Summary: You belong to one of New York’s biggest crime families, and your adoptive brother, Bucky Barnes, runs the family business. Hydra, a rival group, has declared war, and your brother insists that you need protection, so he assigns Pietro Maximoff the job of being your bodyguard. Everyone knows you hate each other's guts, but not everyone knows how much history you two truly have.

Word Count: 3.4k

Warnings: sexual tension, angst/angsty inner monologue, explicit smut (p in v sex, cunnilingus, former lovers turned enemies finally fucking for the first time in years)

A/N: Every time I would reread this part, it would irk me that I didn't write out them having sex. I know not everyone thinks it's necessary, but personally, I felt like it was missing, so now here it is. This part also goes differently in other ways, so let me know what you think

MASTERLIST

You had to remind yourself of who you were the next morning and what Pietro’s job was. Something as simple as a touch should not have rattled you. He’s touched you before, after all. Even if this time felt different. Even if the look in his eyes took your breath away, and his statement stirred something deep in you, you couldn’t let it fuck with your head. You refused to let whatever unresolved feelings you had ruin this perfectly good weekend. You refused to let it crumble the dynamic you both built. But it was easier said than done.

The following morning, the entire wedding party gathered at the Palm Court for family breakfast before you’d eventually head to St. Patrick’s Cathedral. And already having Bucky around seemed to tighten both you and Pietro up. Neither of you spoke as freely to each other or threw nearly as many jabs when the Don was around. Frank noticed immediately. He didn’t say anything out loud, but he did make a point to whisper to you when you passed him by on the way to the bathroom. You used the excuse that you were choosing to be amicable among family, but considering how loud the family could be, he didn’t seem too convinced. It was like he knew something you didn’t or refused to acknowledge.

As the morning continued, you both loosened up, even if it was a little. The dinner was what you were looking forward to the most today, but in order to get there, you needed to do the rehearsal itself.

You were all lined up in the corridor, waiting patiently as Elektra gave out instructions. She gave orders on where to line up, who to pair up with, and at what time to go. There was a lot of chaos, a lot of standing around, and a lot of murmuring amongst yourselves.

You were second in line behind Raven and Foggy, paired up with Bucky. Pietro and Yelena were behind you, followed by Frank and Sharon, and then Logan and Jessica.

“So,” Bucky whispered, “got used to your bodyguard yet?”

You snorted. “After a lot of kicking and screaming, yes.”

“To be honest, I’m surprised he’s still alive.”

“Mmmm, what can I say? He puts up a good fight. You picked a real winner.”

“Of course I did,” he said, throwing you a smirk.

You scowled at him in return, earning you a laugh.

“Hey, at least you’re not at each other’s throats anymore,” he uttered lowly. “Can’t have one of my best guys and my sister hating each other’s guts. It doesn’t feel right.”

Your chest tightened. You couldn’t be sure, but it was almost like you could feel Pietro staring into the back of your head, and you resisted the urge to look over your shoulder. Not hating each other would have been fine if you were anyone else, but what if hating each other was the only way to close the door on what you and Pietro used to have? What if when the hating was over, there was no ignoring it? What if there were only two options for you, no in-between? Would Bucky be happy about that?

God, I need to stop spiraling.

You ran through the wedding entry once with organ music and all—walking down the aisle and splitting off to opposite sides of the altar. Elektra stepped back and took in the scene before calling you back to the corridor. She examined you all with her piercing gaze, going down the line of the bridal party before making the spontaneous decision to switch up the pairings. She placed Frank with Jessica and then Logan with Sharon first. When she stopped by you and Bucky, her lips turned down slightly. Her gaze flitted behind you, and a final decision was made.

She grabbed your hand gently and then Yelena’s hand in the other.

“Sorry, Don, but I think it would be better if these two switched.”

You followed her soft pull and let her place you next to Pietro while Yelena took your place. Elektra inspected both pairings before smiling, looking pleased.

“That should do it,” she confirmed with a nod.

“Ready to run it again, sweetheart?” Matt called from the front of the pack.

It was the sweetest tone of impatience, never forceful, but still direct.

“Yes, darling,” she replied.

Elektra grabbed her fake bouquet and took her position in the back of the line. You looked up at Pietro then, your new but unsurprising partner. He raised and dropped his eyebrows in a quick, playful motion and held out his elbow to you. You took it with a sigh as you looked forward.

“Looks like you’re stuck with me again, printessa,” he whispered.

“Unfortunately, it seems to be my fate.”

Bucky looked over his shoulder at you and said, “Hey, try not to kill each other. God is watching.”

It was a joke, but his serious tone broke you. You snorted a laugh but then clapped your hand over your mouth. Pietro watched you in disapproval, shaking his head.

“Didn’t you hear him, Y/N? God is watching. Have some respect.”

“Shut up,” you whispered sharply, smacking him in the arm.

The smile he gave you only made things worse, and suddenly you were fighting a sudden onslaught of giggles. You had to bite your lip to contain yourself as you took your turn in the aisle. Pietro found your eyes from the other side of the altar, smirking softly by Bucky’s side. You kept the eye contact to a minimum to keep your heart from bursting, but that didn’t seem to stop him. He was treading dangerous waters by doing that so openly.

We’re in a church, you wanted to tease. God is watching. Stop looking at me like you want to ruin this.

“One more time,” Elektra said.

This was going to be a long weekend.

The rehearsal dinner was a semi-formal event taking place in one of the smaller venues of the Plaza called the Oak Room. You packed a light blue one-shoulder cocktail dress for the occasion and some nude heels, as you wanted something different from your bridesmaid look. However, as soon as you and Pietro met in the living area, you realized you were both matching. You gaped at him in his navy pin-striped suit and baby blue tie.

“You’re kidding,” you said. “We can’t be matching. Don’t you have a different tie?”

“Hey, you know my favorite color is blue. If anyone has to change, it’s you,” he argued.

“I specifically bought this dress for today. I’m not wearing anything else!”

“Well, neither am I, so I guess we’re at a standstill.”

He shrugged and put his hands in his pockets. You glared at him in a challenge, and he met your attitude with a widening of his eyes, as if daring you to say something else. But you had a place to be and no time to waste. For once, this weekend wasn’t about you.

“You’re unbearable,” you muttered as you headed out the door.

Frank was already waiting outside with a look of exasperation.

“Jesus, you’d think the two of you were the ones getting married with all the bickering you do.”

The two of you immediately became defensive.

“Fuck you, Frank,” you hissed.

He took your insult in stride and motioned for the two of you to get on with it.

Tonight was basically a pregame for the reception tomorrow, and everyone’s inhibitions were already significantly lower than this morning. Aside from the men posted around the perimeter of the venue, everyone else was swimming in the lighthearted energy. There was boisterous laughter and light jazz music playing in the background. One glance around the room and you could see extended family you hadn’t talked to in a long time, and more would come tomorrow. Before sitting down, you made your rounds around the tables and greeted every single person that you hadn’t seen already. As always, some of them asked when you would be tying the knot, which you swiftly averted.

You thought you’d share a table with Bucky, but since he was the host for the evening, he was assigned with Matt, Elektra, Foggy, Raven, and Sam. You, on the other hand, were assigned to the table beside them with Pietro, Frank, Sharon, Yelena, and Logan. The night was a blur of scheduled meals, speeches, and other formalities. The bride and groom spoke first, followed by Bucky and anyone else who wanted the room. You were no good at these things, so you chose to save your thoughts and sip on champagne instead.

You made it a point to not drink too much this time, but you allowed yourself a little indulgence. It helped to alleviate the overwhelm of social interacting as well as any racing thoughts you had with Pietro so dangerously close. There was a lot of conversation, a lot of catching up, and a lot of joking around. It was hard not to have a good time with all of the best people surrounding you. For the first time in weeks, you forgot about Hydra and any danger lurking around.

The lighter you became, the less restrained you were. You found yourself giggling at things Pietro said and exchanging subtle touches without thinking twice. By the end of the night, you were fully facing each other. The rest of the procession faded away, and it was just the two of you lost in whatever energy you were throwing back and forth. A stranger would’ve been none the wiser to your old dynamic, only assuming that the two of you were long-time friends, if not more. But there were no strangers here.

At a certain point in the evening, Matt and Elektra went around the tables with gifts for the members of their bridal party. The groomsmen received a sleek velvet box with a red ribbon, and the bridesmaids got a Tiffany blue box. Inside yours was a delicate necklace made of real gold. It had a golden rose hanging from a thin chain, adorned with red rubies in the center. You stared at it in awe, instantly in love with it.

“What is it?” Pietro asked.

In his hand was a beautifully crafted gold lighter with his initials engraved into the side. You held up the necklace for him to see, and a soft smile graced his lips.

“It’s pretty,” he said.

“Yeah,” you smiled brightly.

Wanting to show off your new gift, you took off the necklace you already had on and started unclasping the new one. Pietro watched you hesitantly before offering help.

“I can put it on for you if you want.”

You looked at him then, somewhat shy, before giving in.

“Sure.”

You handed him the piece of jewelry and turned away in your seat. His hands went over you, wrapping the chain around your throat, and you pulled your hair out of the way, baring your neck to him. Your heart thrummed in your chest, blood pounding as his hands grazed your skin. You were so aware of his proximity, you could feel his warm breath against your neck. Heat of desire pooled from down below you, making its way up your body. It was sudden and unbearable, but even worse was the disappointment when he pulled away.

“There.”

You slowly twisted around, adjusting the chain to the center of your collarbones.

“Thank you,” you said, sharing a grateful look with him.

“Any time.”

The two of you stared at each other, lingering in the other’s space for what could’ve been seconds or many long minutes. There was some unseen energy between you, condensing and tightening as it threatened to break. Suddenly, you didn’t want to be here, in a room full of people with no privacy. It was too suffocating.

“I’m tired,” you said. “I think… I think I wanna head up to the room.”

“Okay,” he replied without question. “We can go right now if you want.”

You nodded vigorously, all at once out of breath.

“I do.”

You shot up abruptly, your chair scraping against the floor, and started bidding your goodbyes. When Bucky asked why you were leaving already, you made the excuse that you had a migraine and wanted to sleep it off before the big day. Everyone was sad to see you leave but were still content with the promise of seeing you the next day. Pietro exchanged some words with Frank, motioning to you and then the exit. Your other bodyguard nodded and didn’t seem at all inclined to follow you.

You kept an even pace through the venue, all the way to the elevator, but once it was just you and Pietro in the steel box, you were burning from the inside.

“Piet?”

“Yeah?”

“What did you mean by what you said last night? About me being wrong?”

There was silence before he finally answered, “You said you didn’t think that romance was made for someone like you, but I think you’re wrong. I think you were meant for that kind of love, Y/N.”

You finally dared to look at him, and of course he was staring back with those lovesick eyes as he leaned against the elevator wall.

“How do you know that?” you choked out.

You wanted him to say it. You wanted to know the truth even if it scared you.

Pietro pushed away from the wall and got just close enough to feel his body heat against your skin.

“Because I feel it, Y/N… and I think you feel it too.”

You inhaled sharply as the bell rang and the doors slid open. Without another word, you dashed out of the steel box and made quick strides to your room. It wasn’t to outrun him, no, not really. When you arrived, you fumbled with the keycard before pushing inside and letting the door fly behind you. Pietro caught it before slamming it shut, close on your heels. The sound of the lock seemed to echo louder than it really was. You stood in the middle of the living room with you back facing him.

“Are you going to deny it and tell me I’m the one who’s wrong now, Y/N?” he demanded over your shoulder.

You let your purse fall to the floor at your feet.

“And what if I did?” you asked daringly.

He huffed. “Considering you can’t even look at me, I’d say you’re a fucking liar.”

“You think you know me so well, don’t you, Maximoff?”

There was no venom in your tone as you asked it.

“I know I do, Y/N,” he replied.

You jumped at the closeness of his voice and spun around to face him. He was standing more than a foot from you now with his hands in his pockets and a serious expression furrowing his brow. You could touch him if you wanted. And you wanted to.

As terrifying as the notion was, you let him win.

“For once, I think you might be right,” you told him.

Pietro looked taken aback by your admission, but as he gazed into your eyes, you watched that shock ignite his very being. He dropped his suit jacket and quickly closed the distance between you both. You practically flung yourself into his arms as he took your face in his hands and captured your lips with his. You sighed into each other’s mouths, both relieved to finally allow yourselves this one hidden desire.

He grabbed your waist and maneuvered you until you were pressed against the wall, pinned between it and him. Your fingers fumbled with the buttons of his dress shirt until you were able to push it away from his shoulders, eager to strip him down and feel his bare skin. He kissed your collarbone and neck, and you curled your fingers into his hair to keep him close.

“You have no idea how much I’ve wanted to touch you like this again, printessa.”

A moan left your lips, the statement affecting you to your core.

He chuckled. “Am I unbearable now?”

You scoffed, “Unbearable is the fact that you’re still talking and not fucking me in this dress.”

As if on command, Pietro moved his way down your body until he was on his knees before you. He locked eyes with you, his pupils blown out, irises dark as he slipped his hands beneath your dress. He hooked his fingers around your panties and slowly pulled them down before very openly storing them in his pocket. You gasped, but not because you didn’t like it. You watched as he threw your leg over his shoulder and started kissing the insides of your thighs and then your core.

Your back arched away from the wall with pleasure.

Pietro groaned against your core. “Fuck.”

“Don’t stop,” you told him.

He kept you pressed against the wall as he started to fuck you with his mouth, licking and sucking while he kneaded your breast with his free hand. You braced yourself, trying and failing to keep down the sounds coming out of you. It had been so long since you felt this good and at the mercy of someone else. You had a dream or two in the last few days about having Pietro like this, ravishing you with his head between your legs. They didn’t compare to the real thing.

“You taste so good,” Pietro murmured.

He inserted his fingers into you and curled them mercilessly as his mouth wrapped around your clit. He built you up, and suddenly you were too far gone. The entire floor and the one below must have surely heard you as you came hard around Pietro’s fingers and mouth.

“Fuck!”

He pumped his fingers through your orgasm before taking them out and kissing your legs. You slumped against the wall, gazing down at him with parted lips. You reached out to run your fingers over his hair and face, and Pietro kissed the inside of your palm. He then straightened up and grabbed you by the waist to kiss you hard. You could taste yourself on his tongue.

The night was young, and whatever was sparked between you had only just started to flame. Both of you made your way to his bedroom, leaving a trail of clothes in your wake. Suddenly you were on the bed, hips moving against each other as you sat in his lap, chest to chest. You clung to each other in a tangle of teeth, tongue, and limbs, the sounds of your skin slapping together filling the space. He stretched you and filled you so well, eager to make you feel as good as possible.

Pietro then tossed you on your back and grabbed you by the hips to slam into you over and over. All words left you. Nothing came out but the sound of you whimpering his name in ecstasy as you took every thrust of him. As you felt yourself reach your next orgasm, he leaned down to kiss you and interlace his fingers with yours. You came harder this time, your body curling into his as you cried out. Pietro thrusted a few times before pulling out and cumming on your stomach, making a mess of you both.

Neither of you moved for a moment, your heavy panting filling the air as you took a breath to recover. As soon as you shared a real look, you both smiled and started giggling. You weren’t sure what it was, but it was good to know you shared the same bewildering feeling. Pietro briefly retreated into the bathroom to retrieve a hand towel and used it to clean you up. You watched him, admiring his beautiful face and body that was slick with sweat.

You swallowed hard.

“You know… I think we still have a little more time before Frank comes back.”

Pietro raised his eyebrows at you, his lips curling with a devious grin. He crawled over you, so you were caged beneath his body.

“You know, I missed this side of you, Y/N.”

Your heart skipped a beat, and suddenly he was capturing your lips in a hungry kiss. Neither of you felt inclined to go back downstairs or separate for the night. Whatever pent-up feelings you both were keeping inside were being worked out now, even if it was purely physical. You wanted him close, and you wanted him to yourself. It felt right that way. He felt right.

Whether or not you regretted it in the morning was tomorrow’s problem.

I DO NOT CONSENT TO ANYONE COPYING, STEALING, REPOSTING, OR FEEDING MY WORK TO AI. I AM A WITCH, THIS POST IS CURSED.

#fic rec #pietro maximoff x reader

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sweeter-innocence-fics · 13 days ago

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🥺 they’re so sweeeeet

White Lilies - Four [Remastered]

Mafia!Pietro Maximoff x fem!reader

Word Count: 3.6k

Warnings: heavy drinking, men being creepy at the club, angsty thoughts, finally some fluff??

A/N: This one was so fun to edit again eeeeee. I'm way more attuned to the reader and her feelings now, which excites me

MASTERLIST

Two weeks had passed since you and Pietro were forced together, and you were officially at your wit’s end. The thought of this going on for months had you contemplating checking yourself into a mental hospital. Even a safe house in Jersey was looking cozy at this point.

The one and only solace was that he wasn’t sleeping in your apartment anymore. Somehow, he managed to rent out the place two doors from you with the family’s money, so you didn’t have to worry about him using your shower. It didn’t stop him from barging in unannounced to bother you or make himself coffee with your machine. Apparently, he made multiple copies of your keys when he had enough of you locking him out, and you let him know full well how psychotic that was.

Every day was the same fucked-up routine. Pietro would knock on your door well before your alarm went off, fully dressed and ready to start the day, just to annoy you. The uncomfortable tension was as unending as the bickering itself. He fucked with you at every opportunity, and you threatened him right back. The only break you had was during work, but when the day was over, you were forced to continue the cycle with him until the next workday.

Speculation ran around your office about who he was. If anyone asked, you’d give them the same explanation you gave Gabe, which was that he was a childhood friend from out of state. The excuse was half-assed at best, because even you knew it wasn’t normal for a “childhood friend” to drop you off and pick you up all of a sudden. As much as it pained you to have them assume he was your boyfriend, it was the most believable option.

After work, you ate lunch, went to the gym, worked on script analysis, and spent time with your cat. And Pietro was there for all of it. If you wanted to watch a movie, he always had to give his two cents by providing unwelcome suggestions. You couldn’t go anywhere on a whim without him questioning you about it or saying that it was too dangerous (funny that he cared about your well-being as if he weren’t actively chipping away at your sanity). And even if you could go out, you canceled plans half the time because the idea of him trailing you there too was too much to bear.

Of course, this was all a game to him. He could effortlessly split his time between doing his job and getting under your skin. Meanwhile, your sleep quality reduced, and you had a migraine nearly every day. Your life was shrunk down to all work and no play, and you have had it.

You’ve been eyeing the fire escape outside your bedroom window for quite some time now. The last time you ever snuck out of a window was when you were a teenager, and that was to avoid your father’s overprotective eye. A lot of those instances were to meet up with Pietro, and the irony of it all didn’t surpass you now. The idea of sneaking out of your own apartment seemed silly, but the need to get out far outweighed that.

You chose to execute your plan on a Friday. Like many evenings, you cooked dinner, watched some TV, and then tucked away to your bedroom to avoid your bodyguard. You waited until you heard him exit the apartment, either to stand watch in the hallway or take a phone call, and then quickly got dressed. You were going out clubbing tonight, and you wanted to look the part. So you styled your hair, making sure it was sleek, and did your makeup much bolder than usual. You then picked out a black mini dress that hugged your curves and some matching red-bottomed heels you’d been aching to try on.

You looked hot, and you damn well knew it.

The last thing you did was grab the small pistol from beneath your pillow—the one you’ve slept with for years now—and slip it into your clutch bag. Then you walked to the window and, with as much care as possible, slid it open. The wooden frame rasped with the movement, and you froze partway, listening in case Pietro heard you. When you were met with silence, you opened it the rest of the way and crouched through the opening onto the fire escape. It was then that you heard the front door open, and with your heart hammering in your chest, you closed the window and quickly made your way down five stories worth of metal stairs. At the bottom, you pushed the ladder with all your might, gritting your teeth as it creaked beneath your strength. When it finally loosened with a metal clang, you somehow managed to scramble down to the pavement below without breaking an ankle.

It was good to know years of practice weren’t lost on you.

“Y/N! What the fuck are you doing!?”

You whipped your gaze up with a gasp to see Pietro staring down at you from above, his eyes aflame. You flipped him off before running as fast as you could in heels and all. Knowing full well how fast he was, you didn’t look back, and once you were far enough, you waved down the nearest taxi and practically jumped into the backseat.

“The Black Canary, please. Hell’s Kitchen.”

The Black Canary was an old speakeasy that was repurposed into a dance club in the 21st century. It still maintained its art deco motif but was more like a modern party at Gatsby’s than a sit-down bar nowadays. It used to be a local haunt when you were younger, but after your brother invested money into it, it gained popularity over the years. It was a bitch to get in, but you’ve gone enough times that the staff knew your face. And much to your brother’s chagrin, they knew better than to rat you out.

The hostess by the bar greeted you with giddy excitement. It had been a while since your last visit, and for a while they swore they’d never see you again. She went so far as to offer you a table in the VIP section and gave you a complimentary cocktail. As much as you liked your new life, there were some luxuries you would never not miss.

You took a moment to sit at the booth, sipping your cocktail as the music washed over you. The bass thrummed deeply, vibrating your ribcage. And despite the mildly overwhelming setting, you were at peace for the first time in weeks.

A tall figure in a dark pin-striped suit took a seat across from you, and your stomach dropped to the floor.

“Did you really think I wouldn’t find you?” Pietro asked, draping his arm over the seat.

You put your drink down slowly as you glared right into his soul, worried you might break the glass.

“A girl can dream,” you replied over the music. “How did you know I’d be here?”

“It’s been years, but you’re still predictable, Y/N. We used to come here all the time. You were the one that introduced me to this place, remember?”

“Unfortunately,” you said. The memory made your heart clench. “If you even try to drag me back home, I will cause a scene. I’ve had enough of being handcuffed to you. I deserve to have some fun.”

You waved down the waitress and asked for a shot of vodka. That earned you an incredulous look from your bodyguard.

“You’re drinking?”

“Obviously. It’s a club,” you scoffed. “When did you get a stick up your ass?”

When the waitress returned with the vodka, you threw the shot back and chased it down with a large sip of your very strong lime margarita. Pietro watched you in disbelief as he witnessed you crack in real-time.

You got up from the table and leaned towards him to say, “Listen, Maximoff, it’s been a long two weeks, so I’m going to get on that dance floor and pretend you don’t exist for a few hours, okay? You can either keep doing your job, or you can take advantage of the moment and have some fun. I won’t tell Bucky if you don’t.”

You motioned to a few people at the table next to you who were eyeing him with lust. You tried not to sound jealous or bitter about it, even if you couldn’t help but linger on the many times you saw him sucking face with strangers at this very club.

Pietro narrowed his eyes at you, but you didn’t stick around to hear anything he had to say. You left the table and pushed through the crowd of bodies until you were at the center of the dance floor. You didn’t bother looking behind you to see if Pietro followed. Maybe he did, maybe he didn’t. Instead, you focused on the music and let it move you like waves on a beach as the alcohol warmed your bloodstream.

A few songs passed before you finally turned to check on Pietro. When you didn’t see him in the VIP area, you frowned, then shrugged to yourself. Maybe he found someone to talk to after all. Maybe he left.

“Looking for someone?”

Or not.

You jumped at the sound of his voice by your ear, and when you spun around to face him, he was much closer than you expected. He was out of his suit jacket, and his sleeves were rolled up, revealing his tattoos.

“What are you doing?” you demanded.

“Doing my job, like you said,” he replied.

You frowned again, your eyes trailing down to his empty hands.

“Where’s my drink?”

“I left it at the table. You probably shouldn’t drink from it anymore.”

He seemed completely unfazed, and for some reason it irked you to your core. You wanted to escape him, and when that failed, you tried to at least spite him, but it didn’t work either. It never worked, and you hated it. You allowed more time to pass and watched as more opportunities presented themselves to him, but all he did was ignore them or wave them off. He was never too far away, always watching you.

Why won’t you go away? Why can’t you just leave me alone?

You cracked even more, spiraling from deep within yourself. Strange, you hadn’t felt that way in a long time. But spite was familiar, and that was what you would lean into. If he was going to ruin your night, then you’d ruin it for him too.

With a new mission, you stormed over to the bar to order two more shots of vodka and downed them both in seconds.

“Jesus Christ, slow down,” Pietro said at your side.

“Fuck off,” you snapped, wiping alcohol from your mouth.

You weren’t drunk before, but a few more songs in, and the three shots of vodka and margarita hit you all at once. You weren’t swaying like waves on a beach but being tossed around like a boat on a torrential sea. But you were happy, or at least somewhere near there. Blissful, perhaps. Maybe a little sad. Being drunk was odd that way.

At one point, you felt hands snaking around your waist and someone’s oppressive body heat against your back. You were barely turning around when Pietro suddenly appeared. He wrenched the stranger’s hand from you and twisted it behind his back, making him cry out in pain. When you finally registered what was going on, it didn’t even feel real.

“Keep your hands to yourself,” Pietro growled through his teeth.

“Fuck, alright! Sorry! Let me go!” the guy pleaded.

Pietro shoved him away with a scowl, and the man practically ran from the dance floor. There were a few onlookers, but most of them didn’t even realize anything was going on in their inebriated state. The bouncers didn’t even say anything, because they knew Pietro meant business.

He approached you then, his anger softening now.

“You okay?” he asked.

“Holy shit. You almost broke his arm,” you slurred.

Pietro doubled before your eyes, and you had to blink until he became one again.

“He’ll be fine,” he waved him off.

“I didn’t even see him.” You sounded so abnormally whiny to yourself.

“Yes, because you’re drunk.”

You scoffed, “No, I’m not.”

You tried pushing past him but immediately swayed and stumbled on your own two feet. Luckily, Pietro’s reflexes were quick, and he was able to catch you around the waist before you fell. You latched onto his arms for dear life.

“Holy shit,” you cursed.

“I think it’s time we take you home, Y/N.”

“Noooo,” you protested, trying but failing to pull away from him.

You found yourself staring at your hands for a little too long until you realized they were flush against Pietro’s chest. Your heart jumped to your throat as your gaze followed up his neck to his face. He was watching something you couldn’t see with such intensity. As if feeling you staring, he glanced down at you with eyes that glistened in the flashing lights. You swore his irises grew a little. Or maybe you were just drunk.

Wanting to get away from this closeness, you pushed him away.

“Don’t touch me, I’m fine.”

You wobbled to the VIP area, and when you stumbled, another strange man caught you by the arm and flashed you a smile.

“Woah there, pretty lady.”

You grimaced in response, cringing away just as Pietro got in between you both.

“Hands off,” he hissed.

When you made it back to your table, Pietro put his hand on the small of your back and whispered in your ear.

“We need to get out of here. It’s not safe.”

You furrowed your brow at him. “What do you mean?”

“That guy had a Hydra tattoo. And I think there’s more.”

Your eyes widened, and you suddenly felt sick. “I’m too drunk for this.”

“Come on.”

Without warning, Pietro took you by the waist and threw you over his shoulder. You gasped as the world turned upside down.

“Pietro!” you shouted, smacking him on the back.

Despite your protests, you barely had any fight in you at all and had no choice but to let Pietro haul you out of the club, all the way to the car. He kept looking back every now and then, making sure you weren’t being followed. You couldn’t help but take your own glances to see what he was looking for. When you got to the Benz, he nearly shoved you into the backseat, anxious to get you back to safety. You’d never seen him look so frazzled. He even buckled your own seatbelt for you, seeing as you were seemingly too intoxicated for it.

“Alright, jeez,” you mumbled.

As soon as he got in the driver’s seat, he made an immediate call to Sam. Sam, not Bucky. Because Bucky would have his head for letting you escape in the first place.

“Boss, I’m pretty sure Y/N and I are being followed.”

With a hard swallow, you looked through the back window and saw headlights closing in.

“Shit,” Sam hissed. “Where are you now?”

“We’re just leaving The Black Canary. I spotted a few of Hydra’s men there.”

“What the fuck were you doing at the Canary?”

Pietro glanced over his shoulder at you with a sigh, and you bit your lip remorsefully.

“I was taking care of Y/N,” he replied.

“And what the fuck was Y/N doing there?”

“She escaped, alright? To be honest, I expected it to happen earlier. But I have her now.”

The entire time, Pietro took a winding route to evade being tracked. His speeding, slowing down, and quick turns turned your stomach.

“God fucking damn it, Y/N. Call me back when you’ve lost them. I’ll make sure to get some of our guys over to the Canary,” Sam ordered.

When, because there was no doubt in Pietro’s skills.

“You got it.”

The call ended with a click, leaving the only sound in the car being the revving of the engine and Pietro’s voice.

“Hang on to something.”

“What-”

He took a hard left just as the light was about to turn red and punched the gas to go faster. A few more winding turns and some harsh stops later, he finally slowed down and pulled into an empty parking garage.

Pietro ordered you to wait, but bile was rising up your throat, and if you didn’t get out of the car right now, then the entire back seat would be ruined. You threw open the door and stumbled out of the car, kicking off your heels with abandon.

“Y/N, get back in the car!” Pietro shouted.

But you were already emptying your guts out by a concrete pillar. You vaguely heard Pietro’s door open, and suddenly he was by your side, pulling your hair out of your face in exasperation. When you were done, he handed you a handkerchief and a mysterious bottle of water. You wiped your face and used the latter to rinse out your mouth.

“Drink all of it,” he urged gently.

For some reason you listened to him.

“We need to get you home,” he repeated.

You simply nodded. You were too out of it to say anything at all.

The world was still spinning for you when you looked at your reflection in the elevator doors. Pietro’s jacket was draped over your shoulders—the one with the white lilies inside—and your heels were dangling lazily from his fingers. You leaned into him now, occasionally resting your head on his shoulder when the exhaustion felt too heavy. When you snuck a look at him, he appeared just as tired—if not more—than you.

Alpine ran straight up to you as soon as you arrived at your flat, and you scooped her up gleefully. Pietro’s gentle hand found the small of your back again, ushering you to the bedroom. Your drunk self allowed it.

“You’ve had quite the adventure today, haven’t you, printessa?” he teased.

A giggle bubbled in your throat. “I guess some things never change.”

“Well, night’s over. Let’s get you to bed.”

You snorted. “I’m starting to think you like telling me what to do.”

“Eh, about as much as you don’t like to listen.”

Your offended scoff turned into a laugh.

Pietro placed you on the bed like a child and started going through the drawers of your dresser until he found some pajamas for you to wear. He presented them to you with an eyebrow raised.

“I’m going to assume you don’t need help.”

You scowled. “In your dreams, speed racer.”

Pietro furrowed his brow curiously at the nickname before his lips broke into a smile. It was something you used to call him back in the day when he still raced. It slipped out for the first time in years, but right now you didn’t seem to mind. And neither did he.

He exited the room to allow you privacy to change. And after struggling with the tightness of your dress, you managed to get into your pajamas without falling flat on your ass. Almost. Luckily, Pietro came back in before you could actually hurt yourself.

You don’t know what possessed him, but tonight he chose to take on the role of caretaker rather than bodyguard. He stood by the doorway as you brushed your teeth and sloppily washed off your makeup. When there was still stubborn lipstick and eyeliner left over, Pietro grabbed another makeup wipe and cleaned up the rest. It was such a patient, sweet gesture, you almost didn’t want to ruin it. All you could do was stare at him through the haze of your vision, convinced this was some kind of dream or a glimpse into an alternate life you could’ve had.

Once you were tucked into bed, Pietro uttered a swift “goodnight” before making for the door. Your hand shot out before he could get too far, your fingers wrapping around his warm wrist.

“Wait!” you said, barely lifting your head from the pillow.

He looked down at his hand in yours and then at you.

“What is it?”

“Come here.” You pulled on his arm until he crouched down to your face level.

You stuck out your index finger to his nose and booped it, making you break into a fit of laughter. He rolled his eyes and tried straightening up, but you pulled on his hand again.

“Wait, wait, wait!”

“What?” He elongated the vowel in annoyance.

You looked into his eyes earnestly before taking his chin in your hands. His breath hitched at your touch. The scruff on his jaw was rough against your fingertips. You remembered the days when he couldn’t even grow a beard and hummed with melancholy.

“Why are you so nice to me, Piet?” you asked.

Pietro furrowed his brow. “You mean just now?”

“Yeah.”

He huffed in amusement. “Was I not supposed to be? Was I supposed to let you fend for yourself while you’re unwell?”

“You’re supposed to hate me. You usually do.”

“That isn’t…” Pietro faltered. “‘Hate’ is a strong word, Y/N. I don’t know if it’s the one I would use.”

A lump formed in your throat as something tugged at your heartstrings. Your chest felt suddenly heavy. A sentiment you wouldn’t otherwise share tumbled out.

“I don’t know, Piet. Maybe you should,” you whispered.

Pietro’s frown deepened as he looked between your eyes. You let your hand fall from his face and nuzzled closer into the pillow, oblivious to whatever feelings you may have incited.

“You’re a good guy, Piet. Please don’t change,” you mumbled.

The last thing you heard on the edge of sleep was a soft, “I promise.”

I DO NOT CONSENT TO ANYONE COPYING, STEALING, REPOSTING, OR FEEDING MY WORK TO AI. I AM A WITCH, THIS POST IS CURSED.

#pietro maximoff x reader #fic rec

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sweeter-innocence-fics · 14 days ago

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ALPINE 😍😍😍😍

White Lilies - Two [Remastered]

Mafia!Pietro Maximoff x fem!reader

Word Count: 1.9k

Warnings: enemies being enemies, otherwise nothing else

A/N: If you've read the original, you can probably tell I rearranged the story a bit, and there's a chunk missing. Worry not, it's just being moved. Love love love writing banter gah. PART ONE HERE

“Why do you hate him so much?” Bucky asked.

“He’s an arrogant little shit that fucks anything that walks. He never shuts up, and he’s a smart ass.”

“Well, this smartass is the best we’ve got.”

Well…you didn’t hate Pietro. You simply couldn’t stand being in his presence for longer than a few minutes. It wasn’t personal. Or maybe it was personal. In fact, it was completely and totally personal, but Bucky didn’t need to know the details. He couldn’t know the details, ever. That was the only reason you were willing to withstand being indefinitely, metaphorically shackled to the man that was now your bodyguard.

On the drive back from the Hamptons, you tried distracting yourself by reading through the first script in your bag. You worked away, writing notes in the margins and highlighting quotes for later. You were the script reader for Stark Media, which meant it was your job to take apart a script, analyze it, and provide a report for the producer and director. This one was a drama that wasn’t too bad but had a few worrying plot holes.

In silence, you were excruciatingly aware of Pietro’s presence, but even worse was when he finally opened his mouth.

“What are you working on?” he asked.

Your body froze in the middle of your note-taking at the sound of his voice. Some part of you naively hoped you’d get to at least enjoy the car ride.

“Uh, it’s a script,” you said, continuing your work.

“You’re writing a script?”

“No, I’m breaking down a script that someone else wrote.”

“Why?”

You sighed in exasperation, “So the media company that I work for can see if it’s good enough to produce.”

“So, you’re, like, the middleman?”

“Basically.”

“Wow,” he said, sounding impressed. “Look at you with a serious job.”

There was a teasing undertone to the statement that you did not miss.

You looked up at him with a scowl. “Why do you say it like that?”

“Like what?” he asked defensively. “I’m just saying, you know, I never thought you’d have a serious job. Makes sense it's in the movies. Pretty cool.”

“Well, I do, so… It’s nothing that exciting.” (A lie, because it was exciting to you).

“If it wasn’t that cool, you would’ve come back by now,” Pietro stated, as if reading your mind.

You were so caught off guard, it took you a moment to realize you were scribbling nonsense.

“It’d take a lot more to get me to come back,” you whispered.

“What did you say?”

“How’s Wanda?” you asked casually.

Wanda was Pietro’s twin sister. She wasn’t in the mafia, but you had seen her a few times in the past. She was a kind soul, and Pietro loved her immensely.

“She’s good,” he replied. “I still see her on our birthday, Hanukkah, all of that. We had to move her to a safe house, though.”

You frowned, guilt twisting your insides. “It’s probably for the best.”

“Yeah…” he trailed off before adding, “but not when it comes to you, huh?”

“That’s different. You think I grew up with my dad and Bucky without learning how to shoot a fucking gun? You driving me home instead of stalking me was a compromise.”

Pietro grumbled something under his breath that you couldn’t understand.

“What was that?” you asked lazily.

“Bucky doesn’t know about us, does he?”

Your expression fell, your pulse quickening at the question. His tone was borderline accusatory, and he sounded like he had been holding it in for a while.

“Obviously not, otherwise you wouldn’t be here,” you said.

He found your gaze through the reflection of the mirror, blue eyes incredulous.

“Y/N, it’s been years. Your father never told him?”

“No. I thought you knew that.”

“No, not until Bucky asked me to watch over you. I assumed he just chose not to bring it up since you’ve been gone for years and it didn't matter,” he explained. “You know, part of me wanted to say something so I wouldn’t have to go through with this, but you know...”

He trailed off, but the insinuation sank in. His job meant more. You narrowed your eyes at him, suddenly hot with anger.

“You say that as if you’re not the one who agreed to take this job. I wanted Yelena or Nat, or even Frank, not you. You’re a big boy, Maximoff. You can say no for once.”

That set him off like nothing else.

“Hey, don’t fucking talk to me like that. I can speak up for myself just fine! Just because you can come and go as you please doesn’t mean it works the same for the rest of us. I respect your brother, and he trusts me to do this. You mean a great deal to him, and to deny your protection would be a slap in his face.”

You rolled your eyes with a groan, “Ugh, yeah, yeah, whatever.”

“‘Whatever,’” he repeated in a mocking tone.

You put your script aside and looked out the window in silence. A headache started to pound in your skull, and there was no way you’d get work done under these conditions. This was only a sliver, a fraction of how you predicted this would go, and it was only the first fucking car ride home.

Midtown Manhattan—Y/N’s apartment

You approached the apartment door with keys in hand, with Pietro practically breathing down your neck. As soon as you opened the door, you swiftly stepped inside, turned on the light, and swung the door in his face. Pietro caught the edge and stopped it mid-momentum, meeting your glare with raised eyebrows. You whirled around and threw your stuff down, refusing to look at him as he entered the apartment and shut the door.

Every fiber of your being screamed with rage over the fact that Pietro was in your home. He was the last person you ever wanted to be in such a safe space, and now he was here against your will. Everything about this was rage-inducing, whether it was having to stay at a safe house or being watched like a hawk by some man you swore to never care about again. Freedom and control were the reasons you left the mafia in the first place, and now both of those things were mercilessly wrenched out of your hands. Hydra was to blame, but they weren’t here right now to receive any of it.

Pietro took his time coming around, taking long strides as he took in every inch of your apartment. You took out a glass and a bottle of wine from one of the cabinets and poured yourself a heaping glass of red. A short-haired white cat jumped onto the counter and greeted you with a purr—Alpine. You ran your hands over his fur as you took a long sip of wine, watching Pietro over the glass. When he reached for the bedroom door handle, you bristled.

“No. Out. Bedroom’s off-limits.”

Pietro clicked his tongue in annoyance. “I’m not gonna touch anything. I’m just inspecting the place. It’s a precaution.”

“I think I can do a better job at inspecting my bedroom than you. I don’t want you snooping in there.”

With a deadpan stare and his eyes glued to yours, he turned the knob and pushed. You slammed the glass down and scurried over to pull the door shut. Mischief curled Pietro’s lips, which always spelled trouble. Just to spite you, he opened the door again. You placed your hand over his and kept a tight hold should he try again.

“No!”

“What are you hiding in there, a dead body?” he teased.

“Not yet,” you replied venomously.

You stared each other down—Pietro full of mirth and you full of fury. All the while you tried hard to not think about the fact that you were touching him right now. His chest rumbled with a chuckle that turned into a laugh.

“This is going to be fun, printessa,” he whispered.

“Don’t call me that,” you snapped.

He finally let go of the doorknob and turned away towards the living room. Your shoulders relaxed in relief only to immediately tense up as soon as he plopped down on the couch.

“What are you doing?” you demanded.

“I’m getting comfortable. What does it look like I’m doing?”

“Aren’t you supposed to stand guard outside my door? What good are you sitting in my living room?”

“Jesus Christ, Y/N. How long has it been since you had someone over? You should be a little more hospitable to your guests,” he said with a smirk.

You opened your mouth to snap back at him but froze when he started to unbutton his grey suit jacket. He slipped it off his broad shoulders and neatly laid it against the back of the couch before undoing his cuffs and rolling up his sleeves. Swirling tattoos inked his forearms, and veins arced across his skin. Your heart fluttered, and it wasn’t until he caught you staring that you even realized you were doing it. His surprise was brief and quickly overshadowed by mirth.

“See something you like, Barnes?”

“No. I’m just stunned by your audacity,” you said flatly.

You grabbed your bag from the counter and chugged the remainder of your wine before making a beeline to the bedroom, gaze forward. As you passed by Pietro’s pin-striped jacket, the interior lining caught your attention, and you slowed down to a halt. Without thinking twice, you carefully picked it up and ran your fingers over the satin that was patterned with white lilies.

It was a symbol of high ranking in the Brooklyn mafia and much more than a simple pattern to you. Bucky once had it sewn into his jackets when he worked closely under your father, but it was switched out for lotuses when he inherited the role of Don. Sam, the second in command, had irises, and those third in command, like Yelena, Sharon, Frank, and now Pietro, had white lilies. Matt Murdock, who was also the family lawyer, had violets, and once upon a time, you used to have red roses. Everyone else beneath that donned chrysanthemums.

The last time you saw Pietro, he still had chrysanthemums, which meant he was promoted recently. Not even Bucky bothered to tell you that, and for some reason it felt like a needle in your heart. You didn’t know if Pietro being assigned to you made more or less sense knowing that.

“You have the lilies now,” you whispered.

It was the softest tone you had spoken to him in all day.

“Oh, yeah. Bucky promoted me months ago,” he said.

You traced the white lilies with a certain sadness you couldn’t quite place. The closer to the Don, the closer he was to danger, and the farther he was from—

“You good?” Pietro’s firm voice pulled you out of your thoughts, making you shake your head.

“Yeah,” you said coolly, putting the jacket back down where it was. “I just forgot how pretty they were.”

Even when you turned around, you could feel his eyes on you.

“Don’t bother me; I have work to do. And try not to mess with my stuff, Maximoff,” you called over your shoulder.

“Good night, Y/N,” he drawled.

You barely uttered your response back before closing yourself into your room and leaning against the door with a heavy sigh.

I DO NOT CONSENT TO ANYONE COPYING, STEALING, REPOSTING, OR FEEDING MY WORK TO AI. I AM A WITCH, THIS POST IS CURSED.

#Pietro Maximoff x reader #fic rec

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sweeter-innocence-fics · 15 days ago

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As a big girl, this series is delightful

Whispered Sighs

Part three of the curvy girl Hips and Thighs trilogy.

Bucky Barnes x curvyF!reader

Warnings: Bucky talks you through it. I mean it, he's very chatty in this one. Unprotected p in v, Reader is midsize/curvy & a little insecure about it.

Word Count: 800

1000 Ficlet Challenge Masterlist

Main Masterlist

He hadn’t planned for this.

Hadn’t planned to corner you like some horny teenager, hadn’t planned to drop to his knees, hadn’t planned to taste you like he was starving.

Now, walking you back to his room, your hand trembling in his, he could feel your shock, he could see it in the way your shoulders curled in on themselves.

You were so used to hiding, to second-guessing.

God. You had no idea.

The second the door clicked shut behind you, he turned, hands flexing at his sides. You looked so unsure, so vulnerable, and it made something in him snap.

He stepped forward.

"That look," he rasped. "Don’t give me that look like you’re in trouble. Like you’re not the most beautiful fucking thing I’ve ever seen."

Your lips parted in shock. He nearly dropped to his knees again right there.

He reached for you, thumb brushing over your cheekbone. He wanted to bury himself in you, lose himself completely.

"I’m sorry," he whispered, voice rough. "Sorry I didn’t say it sooner. Sorry I didn’t tell you every damn day how fucking perfect you are."

You shivered under his touch, blinking up at him like you couldn’t quite believe him. Like no one had ever told you these things and meant them.

"Every day, every night… all I can think about is you. The way you laugh, the way you move… sweetheart, you've no idea the things I've dreamed of doing to you."

He felt your fingers twist into his shirt, felt your trembling, and he softened.

"You gotta tell me now if you want me to stop, because I’m this close to losing every bit of control I’ve got left."

You didn’t say stop, or pull away.

You pulled him down instead.

The softest sound slipped from your lips when he kissed you - a shy, sweet little sigh that shattered him completely.

His hands slid down to your hips, fingers curling into the softness there like he was anchoring himself. He kissed you slowly.

“They used to make sculptures of women like you, baby,” he muttered against your mouth as you pressed your hips forward.

He pulled back just far enough to look at you, his thumb stroking your bottom lip.

"Look at you," he breathed. "So fucking perfect. Made for me. God, you'd stop a fuckin’ war. Or start one."

He wanted to take you apart piece by piece, hear every sound you made, learn every inch of your skin by heart. But this time, he wanted to show you what it meant to be loved.

What it meant to be seen.

"Don’t stop,” you whispered as he traced the column of your throat with his tongue.

"Never," he swore, pressing a kiss to your neck. "Never gonna stop. You’re mine now."

He guided you to the bed, peeling off your clothes and his own. You flushed at the sight of him, but he pulled you close.

Your full breasts curved heavy in his hand, “god, you look so fuckin' good like this, all flushed and needy, those pretty thighs shaking. I'm never gonna get enough of you.”

“Bucky -” you gasped.

“Come here,” he rasped, hauling you to straddle his lap, his hands steady on your hips, and then, squeezing, spreading you open so you could feel just how hard he was beneath you.

“Take your time,” he murmured, his kiss brushing your jaw. “Wanna feel every fuckin’ inch of you.”

You sank down slowly, inch by inch.

“Jesus Christ -” his fingers dug into your hips, fighting to keep still as your walls fluttered around him. “You’re so tight, so warm - made for me.”

You whimpered, rolling your hips experimentally, watching his jaw clench.

“That’s it,” he groaned, eyes locked on where you were joined. “Fuck yourself on me, sweetheart. Show me how pretty you look when you take it.”

You rocked forward, bracing on his chest, your nipples brushing his lips.

He seized one in his mouth, sucking greedily, tongue lashing at the sensitive peak while you rode him, your breath hitching with every bounce.

You cried out, your rhythm faltering as your release built sharp and hot.

“That’s it, pretty girl,” he coaxed, licking over your nipple before kissing up your throat. “Give it to me. Wanna feel you come all over my cock.”

Your thighs clenched, and with a shattered sob, you fell apart, clenching around him.

“Fuck - you’re perfect,” he gasped, fucking up into you, chasing his own end. “So fuckin’ good for me - mine -”

You could only cling to him as he spilled into you with a strangled groan, holding you tight to his chest like he’d never let go.

When the tremors finally subsided, he cradled your face in both hands, brushing your hair back.

“Gonna worship you every day,” he whispered hoarsely, pressing his forehead to yours. “You hear me? Every single fuckin’ day.”

#fic rec #bucky barnes x reader

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sweeter-innocence-fics · 19 days ago

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JOE KEERY as STEVE HARRINGTON STRANGER THINGS | SEASON 5

#need him carnally #steve harrington

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sweeter-innocence-fics · 20 days ago

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I fell on my wrist weird earlier and got scraped up, I need a fictional cutie to kiss it better

#personal

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sweeter-innocence-fics · 20 days ago

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Omg this is so exciting, I love this fic ❤️

White Lilies [Remastered] - MASTERLIST

Mafia!Pietro Maximoff x fem!reader

A/N: No, no, you are not seeing things, and yes, it is I, back from the dead. This story is still one of the best things I've ever written, and I always knew that I wanted to return to it down the line to give it the proper edit it deserves. This is completely self-indulgent and idek if you guys will be here to read it, but I intend to get it done!! If you liked the original, I highly recommend reading the "remastered" version because there will be major differences. ENJOY!

PART ONE

PART TWO

PART THREE

#fic rec #pietro maximoff x reader

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sweeter-innocence-fics · 24 days ago

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Captain America: The Winter Soldier 2014 | dir. Joe Russo, Anthony Russo

#god he’s fucking pretty #Bucky Barnes #his mouth >.<

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sweeter-innocence-fics · 26 days ago

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Surviving New York - Chapter Twelve

Pairing: Pietro Maximoff x Reader

Work Summary:

Sequel to Surviving Sokovia. You survived the destruction of your home country of Sokovia, but the Avengers compound presents its own set of challenges.

Series Masterlist

Rating: Explicit

Word Count: 4062

Read on AO3.

Masterlists.

Taglist: @mcximffs @noz4a2 @rottenstyx @starmansirius @xlucyintheskywithdiamondsx @lanemarvels @marrigold-2002 @kathrinchek @alternativeprincess @annocaprosmaloka @thrutheburnout @idkman5335 @mrs-kai-anderson @ang3l1te @missryerye

Taglist info

Previous Chapter

Notes:

sorry this one's late but it's the ~~~ Grand Finale ~~~

Who knows, maybe I'll come back and write another installment of this series at some point, but I'm done with this universe for the time being. Hope you all enjoy.

---

After the events of Olek’s birthday, you had checked in with Wanda about the whole situation. After all, Bucky hadn’t remembered meeting Pietro until they were face-to-face. The last thing any of you wanted was to discover more hidden traumas.

But thankfully, Wanda corroborated that she had never met the Winter Soldier. She had given Pietro a long, tight hug after he’d finished explaining his story, murmuring comforting words to him that were too quiet for you to hear. Then she’d offered to babysit Olek again while the two of you met with Bucky, which you’d gladly accepted.

This time, you had arranged to meet with Steve and Bucky in a more cosy, comfortable setting. It was a small dining room in the Avengers Compound that was rarely ever used. Sam had offered to sit in to mediate once you and Steve had explained the whole situation. You were thankful for his presence. He always seemed to know what to say.

Sam was already waiting when you and Pietro arrived, which was a relief. The three of you sat around the dining table and Sam sent off a text to Steve to let him know you were here.

Pietro sat in his chair very stiffly. Clearly, he would’ve preferred to stand, but he was doing his best to relax. You took his hand between two of yours and squeezed it.

When Steve walked in, Bucky was trailing behind him. Bucky’s eyes found you, and then quickly darted to Pietro, and you felt your husband tense beside you.

“Thank you for coming,” said Steve, pulling out a chair on the opposite side of the table to you. You smiled half-heartedly back at him.

“Thank you for coming,” you said. “This is important. For all of us, I think.” You looked at Pietro, who was staring down at his lap.

Bucky sat down in the seat opposite Pietro’s. Pietro’s spine was rigid. Again, you squeezed his hand to try to get him to relax. Silence settled over the table. You could feel Steve’s eyes on you, but you were looking at Bucky.

Bucky cleared his throat, awkwardly. “Pietro,” he said, and your husband’s head snapped up to look at him. The two made eye contact. You thought that one of them would look away, but they held each other’s gaze.

“I wanted to apologise,” Bucky continued. “My actions while I was the Winter Soldier were not under my control, but that doesn’t change the fact that I hurt you.” His words were mechanical and rehearsed. “But I promise you, I have no intention of ever hurting you or your family again.”

His eyes stayed fixed on Pietro as he finished speaking. Pietro stared back at him, his expression unreadable.

The silence stretched out between the five of you. You looked at Sam. He noticed, and leant forward in his chair.

“Pietro?” he said quietly. “Is there anything you want to say?”

Pietro blinked slowly. His eyes were dry and itchy. He wanted this to be over more than anything, but if there was one thing therapy had taught him, it was that burying his head in the sand wouldn’t keep his loved ones safe.

“I understand that it’s not your fault,” he said quietly. “Hydra stripped away everything from you and made you do terrible things. Hydra took things from me too.” He looked at you, and you smiled encouragingly. Your hands were warm and grounding. “I was so afraid that… that…” He looked down at his lap again. “That if I didn’t get her pregnant, they would take her away and I would never see her again. That they’d give her to you and you would hurt her. Maybe even kill her. It hung over my head for months while we tried to do everything to resist them.”

“Pietro…” Your voice was soft. He could hear the sadness in your tone, and he knew why. He had never told you any of this before. You were the one who insisted that Hydra couldn’t force you to breed. You’d had no idea how much danger you were putting yourself in by defying them. But Pietro had agreed with you because he never would’ve been able to bring himself to force himself upon you, even if it was to protect you.

“I’m sorry, my love.” He still couldn’t look you in the eyes. “I should’ve told you everything. I thought I could keep you safe, but I was in way over my head.”

Your chair scraped against the floor as you shuffled closer, and one hand cupped his cheek, lifting his face to look at you. Your forehead pressed against his.

“{It wouldn’t have changed anything},” you murmured. Now your words were just for him. Gentle, lilting Sokovian words that carried the weight of everything you’d been through together. “{You know me. I’m stubborn. They would’ve thrown me in there with the Winter Soldier and I would’ve tried to choke him to death with vines}.”

In spite of himself, Pietro huffed out a laugh. He glanced over at Bucky, and saw a smile twitching at the corner of his lips. He had understood your words, then.

“Hear that, soldier?” asked Pietro, turning so that he was half facing the table and half facing you. “My wife once killed six men who tried to put their hands on her without even lifting a finger. You would’ve been no match for her.”

“I’m sure,” said Bucky, still smiling.

You all knew it wasn’t true. The only reason that you’d been able to kill those men was because they had forgone the necessary restraints to dampen your powers, and you were sure Hydra wouldn’t make that same mistake twice. Besides, those men had been normal, unenhanced humans, not supersoldiers.

Still. You could protect yourself, when push came to shove. That mattered.

Silence fell over the group. Pietro’s arm slung his arm over the back of your chair, one hand coming to rest on your shoulder. You laced your fingers with his, squeezing.

“I think…” Pietro began after a long moment. “That it must’ve been different for you.” He looked at Bucky. “We had each other. We had Wanda. Hydra used that against us, but it made us stronger too. We had something to fight for.”

Bucky’s lips quirked downwards into a frown. “I only ever fought for Hydra. They took away everything else. And you know something? That day, when Strucker brought you in to see me? I was glad that I had no one. I saw how vulnerable love had made you. How easy it was for them to hurt you when they had everyone you loved locked up and at their mercy.”

Pietro stared back at him. He licked his lips. His throat felt dry.

“I’m sorry,” he said, and Bucky’s eyebrows shot up.

“Why are you sorry?”

“It must’ve been hell. That place was a nightmare for me, but at least I was still myself. At least I had someone to live for. They took everything from you.”

Bucky swallowed, and for the first time, his gaze dipped, looking down at the table in front of him.

“I’m trying to… rebuild… Trying to remind myself that I’m a person. That I’m more than what they made me. More than just a weapon. But there’s still much I don’t remember. So much white noise and pain. I want to fix what I’ve broken but I barely know where to start.”

Pietro felt you shift beside him. “I think you start with people who care about you,” you said. “With friends. You can’t make amends without support. You can’t rebuild yourself alone.”

“Friends.” Bucky nodded, glancing at Steve, and then at Sam. “You’re right. Friends help.”

“I think…” Pietro hesitated. “It will take some time, but maybe… we could try to be friends? Eventually?”

That small smile returned to Bucky’s lips. “I’d like that.”

It became a regular thing. You, Pietro, Steve, Sam and Bucky would have dinner together, and just talk. Sometimes the conversations were heavy and painful, but usually they weren’t. Bucky talked about his life before Hydra with a tinge of melancholy. You talked about the family that you had built in spite of Hydra, as well as the life you were living now.

You were back to studying to be a medic, but now you had an Avengers training regime. The next time you went into the field, you would be ready for whatever the world had to throw at you. Pietro had never looked prouder than the first time you flipped him over your shoulder and pinned him to the mat. Proud. And horny. Thank god for Auntie Wanda being willing to babysit at the drop of a hat.

Pietro had warmed up to Bucky even faster than you’d thought. You knew that there was a part of him that still feared the Winter Soldier, but he, like you, was able to separate that man from Bucky in his mind.

The first time Bucky met Olek, you and Pietro had been meeting up with him weekly for three months. Steve was usually there too, and Sam came more often than not, but you, Pietro and Bucky were the three constants.

Enough time had passed that you figured it would make sense to introduce Bucky to Wanda, and without your regular babysitter, you had to bring Olek along too.

Steve and Bucky were already sitting down when you arrived, a stack of pizzas on the table in front of them. They turned to look at you, and Bucky’s eyes widened at the sight of Olek.

“Sorry, we’re late, Olek threw up on my shirt so I had to change,” said Pietro, pulling out a chair for you. “Bucky, this is my sister, Wanda. Wanda, this is Bucky.”

You were only half-listening as polite introductions were made. You were staring at the pizzas, feeling ravenous.

“Hi Olek,” said Steve, fondly. He began rearranging the pizza boxes so that they were spread out, open, on the table.

“Say hello, baby. Who’s that?” you whispered to Olek, angling him so that he was facing Steve.

“Seeb,” said Olek, sagely. Steve laughed. Then he looked at you, a flash of worry on his face. “Is he able to eat pizza? We could get him something else-”

“He’s never had pizza before,” you said. “But he seems interested.”

Olek was staring at the pizza too. Pietro took a slice and tore off the end so that it was a bitesize chunk, and carefully fed it to him. Olek’s little face lit up.

“{You like that?}” asked Pietro, huffing out a laugh.

Olek nodded enthusiastically. “{Good},” he said, his mouth still full of pizza. He still could only say a few words, but you were always impressed with how seamlessly he switched between Sokovian and English, and that he knew who spoke which language. He would never try to speak Sokovian to Steve, or Tony, or Sam, but he switched between the two languages with you and Pietro and Wanda.

You were always pretty determined to speak to him in Sokovian, unless you had company. You wanted him to be fluent in your mother tongue.

“{Don’t speak with your mouth full, baby},” you said, wiping his chubby cheeks with a napkin. And then, switching to English, you said, “We have a new friend we want you to meet, baby. Come and say hello to Bucky.”

You switched seats so that you were next to Bucky. Bucky cleared his throat.

“Hi Olek,” he said. There was a lightness in his tone that surprised you.

“Hi,” said Olek, in his sweet little baby voice, and you watched Bucky’s eyes soften.

“My name is Bucky. I’m friends with Steve.”

“Seeb,” Olek agreed, glancing over at him.

Bucky chuckled. “That’s right. Steve.”

Olek looked over at the pizza. “{More?}” he asked, looking at you with puppy dog eyes. You laughed.

You reached towards the pizza box but Pietro got there first, tearing off another tiny slice and placing it on a napkin for him. With this one, you let him feed it to himself, even though that ended up with sauce smeared all over his face. That was fine. He seemed pleased with himself.

As you fed him a third tiny slice, your stomach rumbled.

“You should get some for yourself,” said Bucky.

“I didn’t have time for lunch, my classes overran,” you said. Pietro said your name in a concerned tone, and you winced. “I know, I know. Can you take him while I eat?”

Pietro was by your side in half a second, taking Olek from you. Your son let out a little burp, and Pietro rubbed his back. You switched back to your original seat so that you could dig into the pizza, while Pietro sat down next to Bucky.

Bucky hadn’t taken his eyes off of Olek. You couldn’t blame him. Olek was adorable, with soft dark curls and big eyes and round cheeks. He looked like a cherub.

“Do you want to hold him?” Pietro asked, and Bucky jumped, his eyes snapping up to Pietro’s face.

That surprised you. It had taken months before he was okay with letting other members of the team hold Olek. Bucky’s mouth fell open.

“Are you sure?” he asked.

“Very sure.”

Pietro held Olek out towards Bucky, and Olek stretched his arms out too, ready to be held. Bucky took him carefully, like he was made of glass, but as soon as he was in his arms, he shifted him into a more comfortable, natural position.

“You’re good at that,” you said, before taking a bite of pizza. As ravenous as you were, you were pretty sure you had never tasted anything better.

“I have three younger sisters. Had.” You watched a cloud pass over Bucky’s eyes for a moment, but then it was gone. He looked down at Olek, who was staring up at him.

Wordlessly, Olek reached out and touched his left arm. He was wearing his gloves and a long-sleeved jacket to hide the metal arm, but Olek seemed curious about it anyway. Carefully, Bucky removed a glove to let Olek see his hand.

The baby stared at it in wonder, tiny hands grasping at metal fingers.

“How did he know about my arm?” Bucky asked softly.

“He seems to just know things,” said Pietro. “He’s very astute.”

“He knew that Jake was trouble before I did,” you said. “Maybe he is just very intuitive. But I think he… sees people… He understands them. Maybe it’s a power, or maybe it isn’t. He can’t put words to it yet, so it’s hard for us to understand. But he trusts you, and I trust him.”

Bucky’s mouth was half-open as Olek wriggled slightly, shifting himself so his head was on Bucky’s chest. His cheek was resting right over Bucky’s heart. He could probably hear it beating. Bucky stroked Olek’s back with his right hand.

“Thank you,” he murmured, and then in Sokovian, “{Thank you}.”

Everyone seemed surprised about how much Bucky’s entire demeanour changed around Olek. He went from stoic, stiff and emotionally repressed to making funny faces and baby-talking to your son. The first time you referred to him as “Uncle Bucky”, you could see his heart melt.

Eventually, Bucky’s healing journey took him to Wakanda. Your little family missed him, but you knew it was what he needed at the time. Olek kept asking for his uncle Buck, which broke your heart a little bit, but with Shuri’s help, Bucky managed to figure out FaceTime, which certainly helped.

Olek was eighteen months old when you first got a sense of what his powers could really do. You were laying on the couch, your feet propped up on the arm, with your son asleep on your chest.

Your muscles were aching. You’d spent all morning in classes, and then all afternoon in your garden. It was a little patch of green space that had been set up for you at the edge of the compound. There, you tended to your plants, and grew various herbs and fruits. It was beautiful and it was yours, but it took a lot out of you. Pietro and Wanda were both away on a mission, so you’d been lugging Olek around with you all day.

Now, he was all tuckered out, and you were ready to crawl into bed. You shifted, trying not to wake your son as you stood up, when Olek’s small hands suddenly grabbed at the fabric of your shirt.

He let out a wail, pushing on your chest, as if he was trying to get away from you.

“{Shh, shh, it’s okay, baby. What’s wrong?}” you murmured, petting his hair gently. He shook his head and continued to cry. Through hitching sobs, you thought you caught the word ‘papa’. “{Papa’s gone away for a few days, but he’ll be home before you know it, Olek},” you said, trying to soothe him. “{It’s okay. He’ll be back soon. Please don’t cry}.”

“PAPA!” he screamed, trying to wriggle out of your grip again. Odeta stood beside you, pawing at the ground anxiously.

For the next thirty minutes, you tried to soothe and calm your baby boy with gentle words, toys and snacks, but nothing seemed to work. He was inconsolable. And Olek wasn’t a child who cried often. There was only one time you could ever remember him reacting like this, where he wouldn’t be soothed by anything, and that was the day that he had been taken.

Pietro’s mission was supposed to be simple. SHIELD was clearing out old Hydra bases, looking for intel and technology and possibly prisoners. Those places were supposed to be deserted. But what if this one wasn’t? What if it was a trap?

There was a creeping, sinking feeling in your chest. You stood up, cradling Olek against your chest, and headed right out the door.

You didn’t care that you were already in your pyjamas. You didn’t care that Odeta was trotting along beside you like a worried aunt. You made your way down to the command centre with your son hitched on your hip.

He was still crying, but not as hard. His tiny fingers were clinging to you.

You heard the sound of someone jogging up behind you, and then, “Is everything alright?”

It was Steve.

“No,” you said. “I think we need to get into contact with Pietro. Something is wrong.”

Multiple SHIELD agents looked up in surprise as you walked into the command centre with a baby, a dog, and Captain America in tow.

“What is the status of the mission?” you asked one of them. He stared back at you, mouth agape, and then glanced at Steve.

“Answer her question,” said Steve.

“The jet is about fifteen minutes from landing.”

“Tell the pilot to turn around,” you said.

The agent just stared at you.

Steve sighed. “You heard her. We need to put this mission on hold until we figure out what is going on here.”

“Yes, sir. And ma’am,” he stammered. While he relayed the message to the jet’s pilot, you found an empty table and sat Olek down on it.

He was no longer crying, but his face was splotchy, his lip still trembling.

“{Olek, my love},” you said, gently cupping his face. “{What is wrong?}”

“{Papa. Hurt papa},” he said, and then his face screwed up with tears again. You scooped him back up into your arms and cradled him.

“{It’s okay, baby},” you murmured. “{We’re gonna bring papa home before he gets hurt}.”

By now, Sam and Tony had both also appeared. You relayed the information Olek had given you to the assembled Avengers, who looked very concerned.

“Can I speak to him?” asked Sam.

“Go ahead.” You tilted Olek towards him. “{Uncle Sam wants to speak to you, okay, Olek?}” Your son nodded.

“Olek,” said Sam gently. “How do you know someone is trying to hurt your dad?”

Olek let out a string of mostly incomprehensible rambling. Sam looked at you for help.

“I think he’s saying that he saw it,” you said.

Sam turned back to him. “What did you see?”

“Papa bleeding. Bad men hurt papa.”

You kissed Olek’s temple. He turned towards you and buried his face in your neck. You rocked him gently.

“I don’t think you’re going to get much else out of him,” you said softly.

“That’s okay. We have enough.”

He turned and went to start speaking with some of the other SHIELD agents. You continued to rock your son, until you felt his breathing slow down. You let out a sigh of relief when you realised he had fallen asleep again.

Steve led you to a quiet side room with a couple of big sofas. You sat down heavily, but Olek didn’t stir.

“You think that there’s something to this? That Olek had a premonition?” he asked you.

“I don’t know. But what I know is that the last time I didn’t trust Olek’s instincts, he got captured. So I’m not willing to take that risk again.”

Steve nodded. “Me neither.”

The room was warm. At some point, you must’ve dozed off too, because you awoke to find a blanket draped over you. Olek was still curled up in your arms, and Odeta was lying on the floor beside the sofa. Carefully, you shifted Olek so that he was lying on the sofa instead of on you, and tried to tuck him in with the blanket, but his eyes snapped open suddenly.

“Mama,” he said, his eyes pleading.

“{It’s okay, baby},” you said, “{Mama’s got you}.” You wrapped your arms around him and held him in your arms for a few moments. He melted into your embrace, and you couldn’t stop yourself from kissing his forehead. Distantly, you could hear voices. You hitched Olek onto your hip and headed back out to the command centre, Odeta in tow.

To your enormous relief, there was a group of Avengers standing in a circle in the middle of the room, and Wanda and Pietro were among them.

All of the SHIELD agents appeared to have been dismissed. Pietro hadn’t seen you yet – he had his back to you – so you took the opportunity to slide in beside him.

“{My love},” he said, sounding startled. He wrapped an arm around your shoulders and kissed your temple. “{I thought you were sleeping}.”

“{I was}.” You put your free arm around his waist and squeezed. He brushed his fingers through Olek’s curls and dropped a kiss on the top of his head.

“So as it turns out, our little baby precog was right,” said Tony. “This was an ambush.”

“Hydra would’ve shot down our plane if we hadn’t had advanced warning,” said Natasha. “We all owe Olek our lives.”

All eyes turned to your son. He let out a big yawn, his eyelashes fluttering.

“Already a superhero, and you’re not even potty trained yet,” you said fondly. He just blinked up at you sleepily.

“Mama,” he murmured, and snuggled into your arms.

“Well, I think we’ve got a definitive answer as to who the cutest Avenger is now,” said Tony. “Sorry Cap.”

As Steve sputtered, Pietro’s arms came to wrap around both of you. He pressed his nose against your cheek, breathing you in.

“Alright, I think we’ve debriefed enough for one day. Let’s reconvene tomorrow,” said Nat. You shot her a grateful look.

As the Avengers dispersed, Pietro pulled back from the hug for long enough for Wanda to sidle in and give Olek a few kisses of her own.

“{Are you alright, my love?}” asked Pietro. “{You look… troubled}.”

“{I guess I’m just worried}.” You let out a deep sigh. “{Being a parent seems to mean being anxious most of the time}.”

“{That’s probably doubly true if you’re raising a baby superhero},” said Wanda, finally releasing Olek and looking up at you instead.

“{I don’t know what any of this means for him},” you said. “{This is a lot of pressure for a baby. What if people start relying on him to tell the future? What if he blames himself when things go wrong? What if the visions scare him?}”

Pietro frowned. “{Whatever happens, we’ll figure it out together},” he said.

“{Together},” you agreed. “{Always together}.”

#pietro maximoff x reader #pietro maximoff x you #pietro maximoff fanfiction

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sweeter-innocence-fics · 28 days ago

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You were even younger. It’s okay. Come here.

#devastating #black widow

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sweeter-innocence-fics · 1 month ago

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pressure points | b.b.

✮ synopsis: bucky's gotten good at keeping his distance from his harmless, sunshine-y neighbor. but when you get taken because of him—because someone figured out you're his weak spot—he realizes how spectacularly that plan backfired. turns out the winter soldier's soft spot is a lot more dangerous than he thought.

✮ pairing: post-thunderbolts!bucky x fem!reader

✮ disclaimers: violence, kidnapping, blood and injury, torture (not graphic), angst with a happy ending, emotional hurt/comfort, established feelings but complicated relationship, second person POV, fem!reader, miscommunication, intense yearning, emotionally constipated!bucky, past trauma, mild language, fighting sequences

✮ word count: 10.6k

✮ a/n: first fic on this blog and it's basically just 10k words of soft bucky yearning xoxo

The first time Bucky Barnes sees you, you're trying to shove a couch through a doorway that's at least six inches too narrow, and losing spectacularly.

He's coming home from another pointless congressional hearing—the kind where everyone talks in circles about defense budgets while carefully not mentioning the alien invasion from three months ago—when he spots you in the hallway. You're wedged between the arm of what looks like a vintage velvet monstrosity and the doorframe of 4B, hair escaping from whatever you'd tried to contain it with, muttering a stream of increasingly creative profanity.

"Fucking—come on—you absolute bastard of a—"

The couch shifts. You yelp. Bucky's halfway down the hall before he realizes he's moving.

"Need a hand?"

You twist around, and something in his chest does this stupid, inconvenient flip. Your face is flushed, one cheek smudged with what might be dust or maybe yesterday's mascara, and you're looking at him like—well. Like he's not Bucky Barnes. Like he's just some guy in the hallway who might know how geometry works.

"Oh thank god," you breathe, and the relief in it makes his mouth twitch. "I've been battling this thing for twenty minutes. I think it's winning."

He assesses the situation with the same tactical precision he'd use for a Bulgarian arms deal, if arms deals came upholstered in emerald green and smelled faintly of vanilla perfume mixed with fresh sweat. The angle's all wrong. You've been trying to force it through horizontally when it needs to go vertical, then rotate.

"Here." He steps closer, and you shift to make room, your shoulder brushing his chest in a way that absolutely doesn't make his pulse stutter. "If we flip it—"

"Oh, you're strong," you say, like an observation about the weather, as he essentially deadlifts one end of your couch. The metal arm whirs faintly. You don't flinch. "That's convenient."

Convenient. Right. He maneuvers the couch through the doorway in three efficient moves, trying not to notice how you smell like coffee and something floral, how you hover just inside his peripheral vision like you're trying not to crowd him but can't quite stay away.

"There." He sets it down in what's clearly the only spot it could go in your tiny living room. The space is chaos—boxes everywhere, art leaning against walls, books stacked in precarious towers. "You just moving in?"

"Yeah, from—" You wave a hand vaguely eastward. "Nicer neighborhood. Turns out freelance graphic design doesn't pay for Manhattan rent. Who knew?" The self-deprecation comes with a grin that transforms your whole face, and Bucky has to look away, focus on the box labeled 'KITCHEN SHIT' in aggressive Sharpie. "I'm—well, you probably don't care what my name is."

He does, actually. Cares in a way that makes his teeth ache.

"Bucky," he offers, even though you clearly already know. "4C."

"The grumpy congressman." Your grin goes wider, teasing. "I've seen you on C-SPAN. You look like you're being held at gunpoint during those hearings."

"Feel like it too," he mutters, and the laugh you give him hits like a shot of whiskey—warm and slightly dizzying.

"Well, Congressman Barnes of apartment 4C, you've just saved my Saturday. Can I pay you in beer? I've got—" You dig through a box, emerge triumphant with two bottles. "Hipster IPA or hipster IPA?"

He should say no. Should maintain boundaries. Should remember what happened the last time he let someone get close—the scar on his ribs from Belgrade still aches when it rains.

Instead, he finds himself accepting a bottle, listening to you chatter about the neighbor who warned you about the rats (definitely real) and the ghost (probably not real but who knows), watching how you gesture with your whole body when you talk, like you're too much for your own skin.

It's dangerous, how easy you are to be around. How you look at him like he's just Bucky, not the former Asset, not the killer, not the congressman who can't pass a single fucking bill. Just a guy who helped with your couch.

He stays too long. Drinks two beers. Helps you unpack exactly three boxes before some long-dormant self-preservation instinct kicks in and he makes excuses about constituent emails.

"Thanks again," you say at the door, and there's something in your eyes—curiosity, maybe. Interest. "For the couch. And the company."

"No problem."

He's halfway to his own door when you call out: "Hey, Barnes?"

He turns. You're leaning against your doorframe, backlit by the disaster zone of your apartment, smiling that smile that makes his chest tight.

"I make really good coffee. You know. If congressional hearings ever drive you to caffeine dependency."

It's an offer. An opening. Everything in him screams to close it, lock it down, maintain operational security. Instead, his traitorous mouth says, "I'll keep that in mind."

He's so fucked.

---

The thing is, Bucky's gotten good at keeping people at arm's length. Seventy years of being a weapon teaches him that distance equals safety—for them, not him.

When you're already dead, what's a little more damage?

So he shouldn't notice when you start leaving your apartment at 7:23 every morning, shouldering a bag that's always slipping off your shoulder. Shouldn't time his own exits to avoid those encounters, then feel like an asshole when he succeeds. Definitely shouldn't lie awake listening through the thin walls as you sing along to whatever pop music you play while cooking, off-key and enthusiastic.

But here's the other thing: you make it really fucking hard to maintain distance.

You leave cookies outside his door with notes that say things like "for emergency constituent-induced rage" and "survival fuel for C-SPAN." You knock when you know he's home, ask to borrow sugar or vodka or a screwdriver, then stay to chat like his apartment isn't just bare walls and a couch Sam made him buy. You touch—casual, constant. A hand on his arm when you laugh, fingers brushing when you hand him things, like physical contact isn't something that makes his brain static out.

"You're a really good listener," you tell him one evening, three weeks into whatever this is. You're sitting on his floor, back against his couch, because you'd knocked asking for wine and then somehow ended up staying. Your knee presses against his thigh. He's catastrophically aware of every point of contact. "Like, actually good. Not just waiting for your turn to talk."

"Not much of a talker," he says, which is true and also easier than explaining that he's memorizing everything—how you twist your rings when you're nervous, the way your voice drops when you're saying something real, how you look in his space like you belong there.

"Bullshit." You bump his shoulder. He doesn't flinch anymore, which is either progress or a sign he's completely fucked. "You're just selective. Quality over quantity."

You say things like that—observations that feel like being seen, really seen, not just looked at. It's terrifying. It's addictive. It's going to get you killed.

Because here's the thing Bucky knows down to his bones: everything he touches turns to ash. Everyone he cares about becomes a target. And you—with your sunshine laugh and your disaster apartment and your way of looking at him like he's worth something—you're exactly the kind of light that attracts the worst kind of dark.

He should stay away.

He doesn't.

---

"So," Sam says, watching Bucky check his phone for the third time during their coffee meeting. "Who is she?"

"What?" Bucky pockets the phone. You'd texted asking if he knew how to fix a leaky faucet. He knows seventeen ways to kill a man with a faucet. Fixing one can't be that different. "Nobody. Work thing."

"Uh-huh." Sam's doing that face, the one that means he's about to be insufferably perceptive. "That's why you just smiled at your phone. Over a work thing. You. Smiled."

"I smile."

"No, you do this thing with your mouth that's like a smile's evil twin. This was an actual smile. So. Who is she?"

Bucky takes a long drink of coffee, considering how much lying is worth the effort. "Neighbor."

"Neighbor." Sam leans back, grinning. "Cute neighbor?"

The memory of you last night, paint in your hair and gesturing wildly about your latest client, flashes unbidden. His silence is apparently answer enough.

"Buck. Man. This is good. You need—"

"I need to not get people killed," Bucky cuts him off. "I need to remember that anyone who gets close to me ends up hurt. I need—"

"You need a life," Sam interrupts right back. "You need to stop punishing yourself for shit that wasn't your fault. You need to let yourself have something good."

Bucky's jaw works. The phone buzzes again. He doesn't check it.

"She doesn't know what she's getting into," he says finally. "She's—" Bright. Warm. Good. "She's not part of this world."

"So keep her out of it." Sam makes it sound simple. Like there's a way to compartmentalize, to have you without putting you at risk. "Be her neighbor. Be normal. Be happy, for once in your goddamn life."

Normal. Right. Because nothing says normal like a centenarian ex-assassin with more kills than most armies and a metal arm that could crush a skull like an egg.

But then he thinks about your smile when he fixed your garbage disposal last week. How you'd said "my hero" in this teasing, fond way that made him want impossible things. How you treat him like he's just Bucky, not a weapon someone else aimed.

"I don't know how," he admits, quieter than he meant to.

Sam's expression softens. "Nobody does, man. You just try anyway."

---

The faucet thing turns into a whole production.

You answer the door in tiny pajama shorts and an oversized t-shirt that says "FEMINIST KILLJOY" in glitter letters, and Bucky's brain shorts out for a solid three seconds. Your hair's piled on top of your head in what might generously be called a bun, and there's toothpaste at the corner of your mouth, and he wants to—

"Oh good, you're here," you say, grabbing his arm and pulling him inside. Your fingers are warm through his henley. "It's making this noise like a dying whale. I tried YouTube tutorials but I think I made it worse."

The kitchen is a disaster. Tools scattered everywhere, water pooling on the floor, YouTube still playing on your laptop ("—sure to turn off the water main first—"). You've clearly been at this for a while.

"Did you turn off the water?" he asks, already knowing the answer from the growing puddle.

"I turned off a valve," you say defensively. "Several valves. None of them seemed to be the right valve."

He finds himself fighting a smile as he locates the actual shut-off. You hover behind him as he works, close enough that he can feel your breath on his neck, keeping up a running commentary that's part apology, part stand-up routine.

"—and then the wrench slipped and I maybe screamed a little bit, and Mrs. Nguyen next door started banging on the wall, and I had to yell that I wasn't being murdered, just defeating by plumbing—"

"Hand me the—" He turns to ask for the wrench at the same moment you lean forward to see what he's doing. Your faces end up inches apart. Time does that thing where it forgets how to work properly.

Your eyes are very wide. There's a water droplet on your cheek. Bucky's hand twitches with the urge to wipe it away.

"Wrench," he manages, voice rougher than intended.

"Right. Wrench. That's a—" You scramble backward, nearly slip on the wet floor. He catches your elbow automatically, steadying you, and your skin is so warm under his fingers it feels like a brand. "Thanks. I'm not usually this much of a disaster. Actually, that's a lie. I'm exactly this much of a disaster, you've just caught me on a particularly disastrous day."

He fixes the faucet in under ten minutes. You insist on making coffee as payment, which turns into leftover pizza, which turns into three hours on your couch watching some reality show about people making elaborate cakes. You provide running commentary that's funnier than the show itself, and Bucky finds himself actually laughing—not the dry chuckle he's perfected for public appearances, but real laughter that comes from somewhere deep in his chest.

"See?" you say during a commercial break, grinning at him. "I told you this show was addictive. Next week they're making a life-size dragon cake that actually breathes fire."

"Next week?" The words slip out before he can stop them, too revealing.

Your grin softens into something else, something that makes his chest tight. "Well, yeah. You can't miss fire-breathing dragon cake. That's un-American."

It becomes a thing. Thursday nights, your couch, increasingly ridiculous cooking shows. You always have too much dinner ("I'm terrible at portions, shut up"), he always fixes something that's broken ("it's not broken, it's just temperamental"), and somewhere between cake disasters and your laughter, Bucky forgets to maintain distance.

---

"Your boyfriend's here," Mrs. Nguyen announces loudly when Bucky knocks on your door a month later, because apparently the entire floor has decided they're invested in whatever this is.

"He's not my—" Your voice cuts off as you open the door. You're wearing a dress, which is new. Red, which is newer. Lipstick, which is going to kill him. "Hi."

"Hi." His brain's stuck on the curve of your shoulder, the way the fabric clings. "Going out?"

"Wedding. Old college friend." You're fidgeting with your earring, a sure tell that you're nervous. "I hate weddings. All that optimism and overpriced chicken."

"So don't go."

"Can't. I already RSVP'd, and I'm a good friend even if I'm a wedding-hating gremlin." You pause, still fiddling with the earring. "Unless..."

He knows what's coming by the way you're biting your lip. "No."

"You don't even know what I was going to ask!"

"You were going to ask me to go with you."

"...okay, so you did know." You lean against the doorframe, giving him a look that's probably supposed to be convincing but mostly just highlights how your eyes catch the hallway light. "Come on. You're a congressman. You must love overpriced chicken and small talk."

"I really don't."

"There's an open bar."

"Still no."

"I'll owe you one. One big favor. Anything."

That makes him pause, but not for the reason you think. The idea of you owing him anything makes his skin itch. You already give too much—your time, your laughter, your casual touches that rewire his brain. But the idea of watching you navigate a wedding alone, of other people getting to see you in that dress...

"Fine," he hears himself say. "But I'm not dancing."

The smile you give him could power Brooklyn for a week.

---

He's absolutely, catastrophically unprepared for how you look in candlelight.

The wedding venue is one of those rustic-chic places that thinks exposed beams equal personality. You're at table eight, which puts you safely in "college friends but not close enough for the wedding party" territory. You've been providing whispered commentary all through the ceremony ("five bucks says she wrote her vows the night before"), your shoulder pressed against his in a way that makes paying attention to anything else physically impossible.

"See that bridesmaid?" You nod toward a blonde who's definitely already three champagnes deep. "That's Amber. We were roommates sophomore year. She once tried to seduce our RA by leaving Post-it poetry on his door."

"Did it work?"

"Depends on your definition of 'work.' She did get his attention. Also a conduct violation." You're playing with the stem of your wine glass, fingers tracing patterns. "Thanks for this, by the way. I know wearing a suit and making small talk isn't exactly your idea of fun."

He could tell you that wearing a suit is nothing compared to tac gear, that small talk is easier than Senate hearings. Could mention that the way you keep unconsciously leaning into him makes any discomfort worth it. Instead: "It's fine."

"Such enthusiasm." But you're smiling, soft and maybe a little fond. "Dance with me?"

"I said no dancing."

"You said that before you had champagne. And before they played—" You tilt your head, listening. "Oh my god, is this Bon Jovi? We have to dance to Bon Jovi. It's the law."

"That's not a law."

"It's a law of wedding physics. Come on, Barnes. One dance. I promise not to step on your feet much."

The thing is, he can't say no to you. It's becoming a problem. You want him to fix your sink? Done. Need someone to hold your laptop while you Skype your mother? He's there. Want him to dance to "Livin' on a Prayer" at some stranger's wedding? Apparently, that's happening too.

You're a terrible dancer. Genuinely awful. You have no sense of rhythm, keep trying to lead, and you're laughing too hard to even pretend otherwise. It's perfect. He spins you out just to watch your dress flare, pulls you back too close, and for a moment—your hand in his, your face tilted up, surrounded by fairy lights and other people's happiness—he forgets why this is a bad idea.

"See?" you say, slightly breathless. "Dancing's not so bad."

His hand is on your waist. He can feel your pulse through the thin fabric. "No. Not so bad."

Someone bumps into you from behind, pushing you fully against his chest. Your hands come up to steady yourself, one landing over his heart, and he knows you can feel how it stumbles. Your smile falters, shifts into something else. Something that looks dangerously like realization.

"Bucky—"

"They're cutting the cake," he says, stepping back. The loss of contact feels like losing a limb. "Should probably watch. For your show."

You blink, then recover. "Right. Yeah. Cake."

But you're quiet for the rest of the reception, and he catches you looking at him with this expression he can't decode. Like you're working through a complex equation and not liking the answer.

He drives home. You spend the ride fiddling with your phone, uncharacteristically silent. When he pulls up to the building, you don't immediately get out.

"I'm sorry if I—" you start.

"Don't." It comes out harsher than intended. He tries again, softer: "You didn't do anything wrong."

"Feels like I did." You're still not looking at him. "I forget sometimes, that you're—that we're—"

"Friends," he supplies, even though the word tastes like ash. "We're friends."

"Right." You finally meet his eyes, and there's something careful in your expression now. Guarded. "Friends."

You're out of the car before he can figure out what to say to fix this. He watches you disappear into the building first, red dress like a wound in the grey evening, and knows he's fucked everything up without quite understanding how.

---

You pull back after that.

It's subtle—you still smile when you see him in the hall, still text him memes at inappropriate hours. But you stop knocking on his door for impromptu dinners. Stop touching him casually. When he offers to fix your eternally-dripping showerhead, you say you'll call the super instead.

"You're moping," Sam tells him two weeks later, during one of their mandatory "make sure Bucky's not spiraling" brunch dates.

"I don't mope."

"You're the Black Widow of moping. The Michael Jordan of emotional constipation." Sam pauses. "That neighbor you mentioned?"

Bucky's silence is damning.

"What'd you do?"

"Why do you assume I did something?"

"Because you always do something. You get close to someone, panic, and pull some self-sabotaging bullshit." Sam's voice gentles. "Talk to me, man."

Bucky stares at his coffee like it holds answers. "She wanted to dance."

"...okay?"

"At a wedding. And I—we danced. And it was..." He doesn't have words for what it was. How you felt in his arms, how the world narrowed down to just the two of you, how for a moment he forgot he was dangerous. "And then I shut it down."

"Why?"

"Because." He sets the mug down too hard, coffee sloshing. "Because she's sunshine, Sam. She's late-night cooking shows and glitter pens and leaving snacks for the delivery guy. She has no idea what I've done, what I'm capable of—"

"Did you ever think maybe she does know and doesn't care?"

"Then she's naïve."

"Or maybe she just sees you better than you see yourself." Sam leans forward. "Buck, you can't protect people by pushing them away. That's not how it works."

"It's worked so far."

"Has it? Because from where I'm sitting, you're miserable, she's probably confused as hell, and nobody's actually safer."

Bucky wants to argue, but then his phone buzzes. Your name pops up: my smoke alarm is having an existential crisis. is it supposed to beep in morse code?

He's already standing before he realizes it.

"Go," Sam says, shaking his head but smiling. "Fix her smoke alarm. Talk to her like a human being. Maybe try not to fuck it up this time."

---

Your door is already cracked when he gets there, smoke rolling out in lazy waves.

"I'm not on fire!" you call before he can knock. "Well, the oven mitt was, but I handled it."

He finds you on a chair, ineffectively fanning the smoke detector with a dish towel. You're wearing those little pajama shorts again and his brain still isn't prepared for the sight.

"How does an oven mitt catch fire?" He reaches up, disables the alarm with practiced ease.

"Well, when you forget it's on your hand and rest it on the stove burner..." You shrink a little at his look. "I was distracted."

"By what?"

You don't answer, just hop down from the chair. This close, he can see the flour in your hair, the way you're worrying your bottom lip. "Thanks. Sorry for texting, I know it's late—"

"Why are you apologizing?"

"Because—" You make a frustrated gesture. "Because I'm trying to give you space. Because you clearly regretted the wedding thing and I'm trying not to be that neighbor who develops inconvenient feelings—"

"Feelings?" His brain snags on the word like cloth on a nail.

You go very still. "Shit. I mean. Not feelings. Just. You know. Neighbor...ly concern. Very platonic. Super appropriate."

"You're a terrible liar."

"Yeah, well, you're terrible at—" You stop, visibly collecting yourself. When you speak again, your voice is carefully level: "I like you, okay? More than I should. And I know that's not what you want, and I'm trying really hard to be okay with that, but you standing in my kitchen looking all concerned while I'm having a feelings crisis is really not helping."

The words hit him like a physical blow. You like him. More than you should.

"You don't know me," he says, defaulting to the easiest argument.

"Bullshit." There's heat in your voice now. "I know you reorganize my bookshelf when you think I'm not looking because the chaos bothers you. I know you bring me coffee on Tuesdays because you noticed I have early meetings. I know you have nightmares—yeah, the walls are thin—and I know you pace afterwards like you're trying to walk off whatever you dreamed about."

Each observation feels like being flayed open.

"I know you're careful," you continue, softer now. "I know you think you're dangerous. And I know you've probably got reasons for that. But Bucky? I also know you'd never hurt me. Ever."

"You can't know that."

"Why? Because you're what, too damaged? Too dangerous?" You step closer and he should step back but he's frozen. "You carry my groceries. You fixed my faucet. You danced with me at a wedding even though you hate dancing. Really dangerous stuff there, Barnes."

"You don't understand—"

"Then explain it to me." Your chin juts out, stubborn. "Give me one good reason why we can't—"

He kisses you.

It's the wrong thing to do. Selfish. Stupid. But you're standing there in your flour-dusted pajamas, looking at him like he's worth fighting for, and his self-control just...snaps.

The sound you make—soft, surprised, maybe relieved—shorts out every rational thought in his head. Your hands come up to frame his face, fingertips cool against his burning skin, and then you're kissing him back like you've been waiting for this, like you've been drowning too.

You taste like smoke and whatever you were baking, sweet with an edge of burn, and he's dizzy with it. His hands find your waist, fingers spreading wide against the soft cotton of your shirt, and he pulls you in until there's no space between you, until he can feel your heartbeat hammering against his chest. You're so warm, so alive, radiating heat like a small sun, and he wants to map every degree of it with his mouth, his hands, his—

Reality crashes back like ice water.

He jerks away, but his hands won't let go of your waist, like his body's in revolt against his better judgment. You're both breathing like you've run miles—harsh, ragged pulls of air that fill the space between you. Your lips are swollen, kiss-bruised, and he did that, he marked you, and the savage satisfaction of it wars with the knowledge that he's just made everything infinitely worse.

Your eyes are huge, pupils blown wide, and you're looking at him like he's just rearranged your entire understanding of the universe. One hand is still on his face, thumb pressed to the corner of his mouth like you're trying to hold the kiss there, keep it from escaping.

"That's why," he says roughly. "Because I want—because you make me want things I can't have."

"Says who?" Your eyes are very bright. "Who decided what you can have?"

He doesn't have an answer for that. Doesn't know how to explain the mathematics of survival, how everyone he's ever cared about becomes a liability, a target, a grave.

"I should go," he manages.

"Or," you say, "you could stay."

The offer hangs between you like a lit fuse. He can see the future unspool in both directions: leave now, go back to safe distances and polite nods in the hallway, watch you eventually move on with someone who doesn't come with a body count. Or stay, and risk you realizing what a mistake you're making. Stay, and selfishly take whatever you're willing to give for however long you're willing to give it.

You're still looking at him, patient and terrified and hopeful all at once.

He leaves.

---

The word echoes in his head all the way back to his apartment. Coward. Coward. Coward. But it's the right thing to do. The safe thing. You'll hurt for a while, maybe hate him a little, but you'll be alive to do it.

He doesn't sleep. Just sits on his couch, staring at the wall that separates your apartments, listening to the muffled sounds of you cleaning up. The shower runs at 2 AM. He knows you cry in the shower when you think no one can hear—learned that three weeks into being neighbors, when your freelance client stiffed you on a big project. He'd wanted to break the fucker's legs then.

Now he wants to break his own.

---

You're a better person than he'll ever be, which is why you still smile at him in the hallway.

It's careful now, contained. The kind of smile you'd give any neighbor, not the one that used to light up your whole face when you saw him. You don't knock anymore. Don't text about your smoke alarm or your leaky faucet or the rat you're convinced lives in the walls. You just...exist, parallel to him, in a way that makes his chest feel like it's full of broken glass.

"Fixed it myself," you say one morning when he catches you wrestling with a new deadbolt installation. Your drill slips, gouging the doorframe. "YouTube University, you know?"

He could fix it in under a minute. Could show you how to align the strike plate properly, how to test the throw. Instead: "Good for you."

Your smile flickers. "Yeah. Good for me."

Mrs. Nguyen gives him dirty looks now. The whole floor does, really. Like they know he's the reason you don't laugh as loud anymore, why your music's quieter, why you started getting grocery delivery instead of making three trips up the stairs, arms overloaded, dropping things and cursing cheerfully.

It's fine. It's working. You're safe.

He tells himself that every night when he hears you through the walls, moving around your apartment like a ghost of the person who used to dance while cooking.

---

Three weeks post-kiss, Valentina calls them in for a mission that's barely legal on a good day.

"Weapons shipment," she says, sliding photos across the conference table with her usual theatrical flair. "Enhanced tech, off-market, very much not supposed to exist. The kind of toys that make governments nervous."

"So we're stealing them," Walker states, not asks.

"Recovering," Val corrects with a smile sharp enough to cut. "For the safety of the American people, of course."

Yelena snorts. Alexei's already studying the compound layout like there'll be a test. Bob's doing that thing where he shrinks into himself, trying to become invisible. Bucky catalogs exits, counts guards in the surveillance photos, and tries not to think about how you looked last night, hauling groceries with your hair falling in your eyes.

The mission goes sideways in minute three.

"Intel was wrong," Ava's voice crackles through comms, too calm for the situation. "Triple the guards. And—"

The explosion cuts her off. Then another. The "barely defended warehouse" is a fucking fortress, crawling with military-grade security who definitely got the "shoot to kill" memo.

"Fall back," Bucky orders, but Alexei's already charged ahead, yelling something about Soviet glory. Walker's trying to flank, Bob's panicking, and somewhere in the chaos, Yelena starts laughing like this is the best thing that's happened all week.

It takes two hours to fight their way out. By the end, Bucky's left arm is sparking, his ears are ringing, and he's pretty sure at least three ribs are cracked. Yelena's favoring her right leg, Walker's bleeding from somewhere he won't admit, and Bob—Bob's dissociating so hard Bucky has to physically guide him to the extraction point.

"Well," Val says over comms, observing from her safe distance, "that was bracing."

Bucky doesn't trust himself to respond.

They limp back to New York in sullen silence. No debrief—Val's already spinning the disaster into something palatable for the brass. Bucky goes straight home, ignoring Sam's calls, ignoring everything except the need to get somewhere quiet before he starts breaking things.

His hands are still shaking when he reaches his floor. Adrenaline crash, probably. Or the delayed realization that they'd all nearly died for some bureaucrat's idea of asset recovery. Or—

Your door is open.

Not open-open. Cracked, like it didn't latch properly. Like someone left in a hurry. Or—

The deadbolt is broken.

The one you installed yourself three weeks ago. The one he'd watched you struggle with, pride keeping you from asking for help.

Bucky goes utterly still.

His body moves before his brain catches up. He's through your doorway, cataloging details with mechanical precision: lamp knocked over, books scattered, coffee table shoved sideways. Signs of a struggle. Signs of—

Blood.

Not much. Just droplets on the hardwood, leading toward the kitchen. But enough. Enough to make his vision tunnel, his chest compress until breathing becomes theoretical.

"Sweetheart?" The pet name slips out, raw. No answer. He clears each room like he's back in Hydra facilities, except his hands won't stop shaking because this is your space, your things, your—

Your phone is on the kitchen floor, screen cracked. There's a handprint on the wall—bloody, smeared. Too small to be anyone's but yours.

Something inside him breaks. Clean, sharp, like a bone snapping. The careful distance he's maintained, the walls he's built, the conviction that keeping you at arm's length would keep you safe—all of it crumbles in the face of your empty apartment and that small, bloody handprint.

He's already moving, phone out, calling in favors he's been hoarding. Because someone took you. Someone came into your home—the home he was supposed to be protecting by staying away—and took you. And they're going to learn exactly why the Winter Soldier's name still makes people flinch.

His phone rings. Unknown number.

"Barnes." He doesn't recognize his own voice.

"Ah, the infamous Winter Soldier." The voice is male, amused, completely at ease. "I was hoping we could talk."

"Where is she?"

"Safe. For now. Though that really depends on you, doesn't it?"

Ice spreads through his veins, familiar as an old friend. This is what he was trying to prevent. This exact scenario. You, hurt because of him. You, taken because someone figured out—

"What do you want?"

"You've been playing house, Barnes. Getting soft. Forgetting what you are." A pause, calculated. "I'm going to remind you. And your little neighbor? She's going to help."

The line goes dead.

Bucky stands in your ruined apartment, surrounded by the evidence of his failure, and feels something fundamental shift. Not break—he's been broken before. This is worse. This is the cold clarity that comes after, when there's nothing left to lose.

Someone made a mistake today. They touched you. They made you bleed.

He's going to paint the city red for it.

---

"Buck, slow down—"

"No." He's already moving, gathering gear with brutal efficiency. The weapons he's not supposed to have. The tech that's definitely illegal. Every favor, every resource, every skill Hydra beat into him over seventy years.

Sam's on speaker, trying to be the voice of reason. "You can't just go in guns blazing—"

"Watch me."

"This is exactly what they want. You, isolated, operating without backup—"

"They have her, Sam." The words come out raw, flayed. "They took her because of me. Because I was stupid enough to think distance would keep her safe."

Silence on the other end. Then: "What do you need?"

That's why Sam Wilson is Captain America. No more arguments, no more trying to talk him down. Just immediate, unwavering support.

"Intel. Cameras in my building, surrounding blocks. Last twelve hours." He straps a knife to his thigh, then another. "And get me backup."

"I can rally your team. Get Walker, Yelena—"

"No." The word comes out sharp. Another knife. Extra magazines. "The Thunderbolts are compromised. That clusterfuck of a mission proved it."

"Buck—"

"They're not ready for this. Half of them can barely work together without Val pulling the strings." He's checking his tactical vest, muscle memory taking over. "This isn't a government op. This is personal."

"So what, you're going in alone?"

Is he? Bucky stops, considers his options. The Thunderbolts are a mess on a good day—Walker's still trying to prove something, Bob's hanging on by a thread, and Alexei treats everything like a performance. They're not who he needs for this.

"They touched her," he says simply.

"I know, man. I know. But—"

"Get me what intel you can. I'll handle the rest."

"Buck, come on. At least let me—"

"They have her, Sam." His voice cracks, just slightly. "Every second we waste talking, they could be—"

"Okay. Okay. Intel coming your way. But Barnes? Don't do anything stupid."

"Too late for that."

---

Bucky stops in your doorway, looks back at your apartment. There's a photo on your bookshelf—you and him at the building's July 4th party. Mrs. Nguyen had insisted on taking it. You're laughing at something, leaning into him, and he's looking at you like—

Like you're everything he never thought he'd get to have.

"I'm coming for you," he tells the empty room. A promise. A threat. A prayer to whoever might be listening.

Then he disappears into the night, and the Winter Soldier goes hunting.

---

The trail goes cold in six hours.

Whoever took you, they're not amateurs playing at being dangerous. They're ghosts—professionals who know exactly how to disappear in a city of eight million people. Every camera angle's been scrubbed. Every witness suddenly develops amnesia. Even the blood in your apartment leads nowhere; cleaned of DNA markers by something that makes Bucky's teeth ache with familiarity.

"Talk to me, Buck." Sam's voice through the earpiece, carefully level. "Where are you?"

Bucky stands on a rooftop in Queens, staring at another dead end. Another empty warehouse that should have had something, anything. "Nowhere."

"That's not an answer."

"It's the only one I've got." His metal hand clenches, servos whining. Below, the city keeps moving, oblivious to the fact that you're somewhere in it, hurt, taken because of him. "They're good, Sam. Too good."

"We'll find her."

We. Like this isn't Bucky's fault. Like his past isn't bleeding into your present, staining everything he tried so hard to keep clean.

He drops from the rooftop, lands hard enough to crack pavement. A passing couple startles, hurries away. Good. He doesn't feel particularly human right now anyway.

---

Hour twelve. Yelena finds him in your apartment, sitting on your couch like a grieving statue.

"This is pathetic," she says, stepping over the crime scene tape he'd ignored. "Even for you."

"Get out."

"No." She perches on your coffee table, uncharacteristically serious. "You think sitting here feeling sorry for yourself will find her? You think guilt helps?"

"I said—"

"I know what guilt looks like, Barnes." Her voice cuts, precise as the knives she carries. "I know what it is, failing someone you—" She pauses, searching for the English word. "Care about. But this?" She gestures at him, at the apartment, at the bloody handprint he can't stop staring at. "This is just... как это... self-pity? No, worse. Useless."

The laugh that tears out of him is ugly. "Thanks for the pep talk."

"Someone needs to knock sense into your thick skull." She leans forward. "Whoever has her, they want you like this. Emotional. Sloppy. Making mistakes."

"I know that."

"Then stop giving them what they want."

Easier said than done when every surface in this apartment carries your ghost. The mug on the counter with your lipstick stain. The book splayed open on the side table, marking your place. The sweater thrown over the chair—his sweater, actually, stolen three weeks ago when you'd claimed your apartment was freezing.

"Keep it," he'd said, trying not to notice how it made something primal in him satisfied, seeing you wrapped in his clothes.

"Just until I fix my radiator," you'd promised, but you'd worn it three more times that week, and he'd never asked for it back.

"Barnes." Yelena snaps her fingers in his face. "Сфокусируйся. Focus."

"I am focused."

"You're spiraling." She pulls out her phone, shows him surveillance footage he's already memorized. "Look again. Really look. Use your brain, not your bleeding heart."

He wants to tell her he's looked at nothing else for twelve hours. Instead, he watches you leave your apartment at 6:47 PM, mail in hand. Watches you come back at 6:53. The timestamp jumps—7:31 to 8:15, forty-four minutes missing. By 8:15, your door's ajar and you're gone.

"Professional crew doesn't need forty-four minutes for grab," Yelena says, her English getting rougher as she thinks. "So why take so long? What were they doing?"

Bucky's phone buzzes. Unknown number.

His blood turns to ice, then flame.

"You're going to want to watch this alone," the familiar voice says. "Though I'm sure your friend is lovely. Hi, Yelena."

She stiffens. Bucky's already moving, putting distance between them, some instinct screaming danger.

"Just me," he says. "Let her go."

"See, that's your problem, Barnes. Still trying to protect everyone. Still thinking you can control who gets hurt." A pause. "Check your messages."

The video file is already there. His hand shakes as he opens it.

You're in a concrete room—could be anywhere, everywhere, the kind of place that exists in every city's bones. Sitting in a metal chair, wrists zip-tied but not apparently hurt beyond the cut on your temple still sluggishly bleeding. You're still wearing his sweater.

"Say hello, sweetheart." The voice comes from behind the camera.

You look up, and the defiance in your eyes makes his chest seize. "Go fuck yourself."

The slap comes fast, snaps your head sideways. Bucky's phone creaks in his grip.

"Language." The camera shifts, focuses on your face. "Try again."

You spit blood, manage a smile that's all teeth. "Hi, Bucky. Nice weather we're having."

Another slap. Harder. Your lip splits.

"I told you he made you weak." The voice continues conversationally as you work your jaw, testing damage. "The Winter Soldier, reduced to playing house with some nobody. It's embarrassing, really."

"You talk a lot for someone hiding behind a camera," you mutter.

This time it's a fist. Your head rocks back, and when you look up again, your nose is bleeding. But you're still glaring, still unbroken, and Bucky loves you so fiercely in that moment it feels like drowning.

"Here's what's going to happen," the voice continues. "Every hour Barnes doesn't come alone to the address we'll send, things get worse for you. And before you get any ideas—" The camera pans to show three other men, armed, professional. "—we've planned for contingencies."

Back to you. Blood drips onto his sweater. You notice the camera returning, look directly into it. "Don't you fucking dare," you say, and despite everything—split lip, bloody nose, zip-tied to a chair—you mean it. "You hear me, Barnes? Don't you—"

The video cuts.

Bucky stands very still in your empty apartment, phone in pieces at his feet.

"That bad?" Yelena asks.

He can't speak. Can barely breathe around the rage threatening to tear him apart from the inside. Somewhere in the city, you're bleeding because of him. Hurt because he was selfish enough to let you close, stupid enough to think distance would be enough.

Another text. An address in Red Hook. Come alone or we start cutting.

"Is trap," Yelena says, dropping articles like she does when she's focused. "Obviously trap."

"I know."

"You can't just walk in there like idiot."

"I know."

"So what's plan?"

He looks at her, and whatever she sees in his face makes her step back. "I give them what they want."

"Barnes—"

"They want the Winter Soldier?" His voice sounds wrong, mechanical, like something dredged up from permafrost. "They've got him."

---

The address leads to a warehouse because of course it does. These people, whoever they are, lack imagination. Bucky counts heat signatures through thermal imaging—six outside, unknown inside. Doable, if he's what he used to be. If he's willing to be what he used to be.

"Don't you fucking dare."

Your voice echoes, but it's drowned out by older programming. By muscle memory that never quite faded, no matter how many therapy sessions or good days or shared dinners with someone who looked at him like he was worth saving.

"In position," Sam's voice, because fuck going alone. Fuck giving them what they want. "West entrance."

"Rooftop," from Yelena.

"Back door," Walker, surprisingly. "For the record, I think this is stupid."

"Noted," Bucky says, and walks through the front door.

The space is exactly what he expected. Concrete floors, exposed beams, the kind of place that swallows sound. They're waiting for him—five men in tactical gear, no identifying marks. Professional contractors, not ideologues. Which makes this personal.

"Dramatic entrance. I respect that." The voice from the phone materializes into a man in his forties, military bearing, forgettable face. He's standing next to a metal table laid out with tools that make Bucky's scars ache. "Though you were supposed to come alone."

"Yeah, well." Bucky spreads his hands, easy target. "I've never been good at following orders. Ask anyone."

"Funny." The man circles him, predator studying prey. "That's not what your files say. 'Perfect compliance.' That was the phrase, wasn't it?"

Old wounds, precisely targeted. These people have done their homework.

"Where is she?"

"Close. Alive. For now." The man stops in front of him. "You know, I studied you. The Winter Soldier. Hydra's perfect weapon. And then you just... stopped. Became this." He gestures dismissively. "James Barnes, failing congressman. Playing superhero. Pretending you're not what we made you."

"We?"

The man smiles. "Not Hydra, if that's what you're thinking. Hydra was sloppy. Cult-like. No vision beyond control." He pulls out a tablet, shows Bucky a logo—a chimera, three-headed. "Cerberus. We're more... refined. We deal in weapons, not world domination. And you, Barnes? You're a weapon pretending to be human."

"Cool speech." Bucky's cataloging angles, distances, how fast he'd have to move. "Must've practiced in the mirror."

The man's smile tightens. "Bring her out."

Two more men emerge from a side room, dragging you between them. You're conscious but barely, feet stumbling, head lolling. They drop you on the concrete, and you don't get up.

Everything in Bucky goes very, very quiet.

"So here's the deal," Cerberus continues. "You're going to work for us. Exclusive contract. Your particular skills in exchange for her life."

"No." Your voice, cracked but clear. You push yourself up on shaking arms, meet Bucky's eyes across the warehouse. "No deals. No trades."

"Sweetheart—"

"Don't you 'sweetheart' me." You manage to get to your knees, swaying. Blood's dried on your face, but your eyes are blazing. "You think I don't know what they're asking? You think I'd let you—" You have to stop, catch your breath. "I'd rather die than be the reason you become that again."

"How touching," Cerberus says. "But not your call." He nods to one of his men, who pulls out a knife. "Barnes? Your answer?"

The knife moves toward you.

The world explodes.

Flash-bangs through windows, smoke grenades, the distinctive whine of repulsor beams. Cerberus shouts orders, but it's too late—the Avengers don't do subtle when one of their own is threatened.

Bucky moves. Not the measured approach of a soldier, but the brutal efficiency of a weapon. The man with the knife goes down first, arm snapping under metal fingers. The second barely has time to scream. He's not thinking, just reacting, just removing threats between him and you.

Someone shoots him. Barely feels it. Someone else tries hand-to-hand, which is adorable. He puts them through a wall.

"Barnes!" Sam's voice, sharp. "Shield up!"

He spins, catches the thrown shield, uses it to deflect a spray of bullets meant for you. You're trying to crawl to cover, leaving bloody handprints on the concrete, and the sight shorts out whatever restraint he had left.

When the smoke clears, Cerberus is the only one left standing. Backed against the wall, gun trained on you because of course it is. These people are predictable to the last.

"Come any closer and—"

Yelena drops from the ceiling, lands on him like gravity given form. The gun goes flying. Cerberus goes down choking on his own blood, Yelena's knife finding the gap in his armor like it was designed for it.

"Predictable," she says, wiping the blade clean. "I told you they were predictable."

But Bucky's already moving, dropping to his knees beside you. You're conscious, breathing, alive. That's all that matters. Everything else—the mission, the cleanup, the questions—fades to white noise.

"Hey," he says, hands hovering over you, afraid to touch. Afraid to hurt. "I've got you."

"Took you long enough," you manage, then promptly pass out in his arms.

He catches you, holds you against his chest, and something in him breaks. Or maybe it finally, finally mends. Either way, he's done pretending distance keeps anyone safe. Done acting like he deserves to make choices about your safety without you.

"Med team's three minutes out," Sam says quietly.

Three minutes. He can hold you for three minutes. Can keep you safe for three minutes.

After that? After that, everything changes.

But for now, in the blood and smoke and aftermath, Bucky Barnes holds the person he was stupid enough to fall in love with and makes a promise:

Never again.

Never fucking again.

---

The medical bay at the Tower is too bright, too sterile, too full of people who keep looking at Bucky like he might snap. Maybe he will. He's been sitting in the same chair for four hours, watching machines monitor your breathing, and every beep feels like an accusation.

"You need to get that looked at," Sam says, nodding at the blood seeping through Bucky's shirt. Gunshot wound, probably. He honestly can't remember.

"I'm fine."

"You're bleeding on their fancy floors."

"I'm fine."

Sam exchanges a look with Yelena, who's been uncharacteristically quiet since they arrived. She's cleaned the blood off her hands but keeps flexing them, like she can still feel it.

"At least change your shirt," she says finally. "You look like extra from horror movie."

He doesn't move. Can't move. Because what if you wake up while he's gone? What if you open your eyes and he's not there, again, like he wasn't there when they took you?

"Barnes." Dr. Cho's voice cuts through his spiral. "She's stable. Three broken ribs, concussion, various contusions, but nothing life-threatening. She's lucky."

Lucky. The word tastes like copper in his mouth. Lucky is winning the lottery, not surviving a kidnapping because you had the misfortune of living next to him.

"When will she wake up?"

"Soon. The sedatives should wear off within the hour." She pauses, studying him with that look medical professionals get when they're about to say something pointed. "You, however, need treatment. You're actively bleeding on my floor."

"Sam already made that joke."

"It wasn't a joke." But she moves on, knowing a lost cause when she sees one. "I'll send a nurse with supplies. Try not to die before she wakes up. The paperwork would be tedious."

She leaves. Sam leaves. Even Yelena eventually wanders off, muttering something about vodka and terrible life choices. And then it's just Bucky and you and the steady beep of machines he'd tear apart if they stopped working.

Your hand is smaller than his. He knows this—has known it since the first time you grabbed his wrist to drag him to see some neighbor's new puppy—but it feels more pronounced now. More fragile. Your knuckles are split from fighting back, and there's still blood under your nails. His blood? Theirs? He doesn't know, and the not knowing makes him want to put his fist through the wall.

"You're spiraling again."

Your voice is hoarse, barely above a whisper, but it might as well be a gunshot for how hard it hits. His head snaps up to find you watching him, eyes half-open but alert.

"You're awake."

"Mmm. Kind of wish I wasn't." You try to sit up, wince, immediately abort that mission. "Fuck. Did anyone get the number of the truck that hit me?"

"Don't—" He's hovering, hands fluttering uselessly, afraid to touch you. "You shouldn't move. Dr. Cho said—"

"Dr. Cho can kiss my ass," you mutter, but you stop trying to sit up. Your eyes track over him, cataloging damage. "You're bleeding."

"It's nothing."

"It's literally dripping on the floor, Barnes."

"It's fine."

You stare at each other. Four hours of practiced speeches evaporate in the face of your actual consciousness, leaving him with nothing but the memory of your blood on concrete and the sound you made when they hit you.

"So," you say finally, voice carefully neutral. "Cerberus. That was fun."

"Don't."

"Don't what? Make jokes about my kidnapping? Process trauma through humor? Acknowledge that you're sitting there bleeding because you decided to Rambo your way through—"

"You could have died." It comes out louder than intended, raw. "You almost died because of me."

Something shifts in your expression. "Bucky—"

"No." He's standing now, needing distance, needing space between him and the way you're looking at him. "You don't get to—to act like this is fine. Like this is some funny story you'll tell at parties. They took you because of me. They hurt you because of me."

"They took me because they're assholes who thought they could use me as leverage." You're struggling to sit up again, ignoring whatever pain it causes. "That's on them, not you."

"You're only leverage because I was selfish enough to—" He stops, runs his hand through his hair. "I knew better. I knew what would happen if I let someone close, and I did it anyway."

"Let me get this straight." Your voice is gaining strength, and with it, heat. "You think you 'let' me get close? Like I didn't have any say in it? Like I didn't practically force-feed you cookies until you acknowledged my existence?"

"That's not—"

"And what, you think keeping me at arm's length would've magically made me safer? News flash, Barnes: I live in that building because it's what I can afford. That makes me a target for regular criminals on a good day. At least with you around, I had someone who actually gave a shit if I made it home."

"Don't." The word cracks. "Don't act like I was protecting you. I'm the reason you were bleeding. I'm the reason they—"

"You're the reason I'm alive!" You swing your legs over the side of the bed, bare feet hitting the floor with determination that makes his chest tight. "You think they took me because they wanted leverage? They took me because they were cleaning house. Because they knew you'd gotten soft, gotten close to someone, and that made you unpredictable."

You stand, sway, catch yourself on the bed rail. He moves forward instinctively, and you hold up a hand.

"No. You don't get to touch me right now. Not when you're about to do something stupid and noble and self-sacrificing." You take a step, then another, closing the distance between you despite your own warning. "They were going to kill me either way, Barnes. Whether you came for me or not. The only difference is that you did come, and now I'm alive to be really fucking pissed at you."

"You don't understand—"

"I understand perfectly." You're close enough now that he can see the bruises forming on your throat, the way you're holding your ribs, the tears you're refusing to shed. "You think you're poison. You think everyone you touch gets hurt. You think the best thing you can do is be alone forever because that's what you deserve."

"Stop."

"No. Because here's the thing, James Buchanan Barnes—you don't get to make that choice for me." Your voice breaks, just a little. "You don't get to decide I'm better off without you. You don't get to kiss me in my kitchen and then run away like a coward. And you sure as hell don't get to sit there bleeding and act like it's some kind of penance."

The medical bay feels too small suddenly, like all the air's been sucked out. You're looking at him with eyes that see too much, that refuse to let him hide behind the careful walls he's rebuilt in the last three weeks.

"They hurt you," he says, quieter now. Lost.

"Yeah. They did." You reach up, slowly, telegraphing the movement. Your hand cups his face, thumb brushing over the bruise on his cheekbone. "And it wasn't your fault."

"How can you say that?"

"Because blaming you for what they did is like blaming a bank for getting robbed." Your other hand comes up, framing his face, forcing him to meet your eyes. "You're not responsible for other people's evil, Bucky. You're only responsible for what you do about it."

"I should have protected you better."

"You literally threw yourself between me and automatic gunfire."

"I should have never let them take you in the first place."

"Oh, so you're psychic now? Can predict the future?" Your laugh is watery. "Add that to the resume. Congressman, ex-assassin, part-time fortune teller."

"This isn't funny."

"It's a little funny." But your smile fades, replaced by something fiercer. "You want to know what's not funny? Spending three weeks watching you shut me out. Sitting in that chair, knowing you were hurting, and not being able to do anything because you decided I was better off without you."

"You are—"

"Finish that sentence and I swear to god, Barnes, concussion or not, I will punch you in your stupid, self-loathing face."

He almost smiles. Almost. "You could barely stand five seconds ago."

"Adrenaline's a hell of a drug." But you're swaying again, and this time when he reaches for you, you don't stop him. His arms come around you carefully, mindful of injuries, and you lean into him like you've been waiting for permission. "I'm so fucking mad at you."

"I know."

"Like, incandescently furious."

"I know."

"You don't get to leave again." It comes out muffled against his chest, but he hears the steel underneath. "I don't care if the entire population of supervillains decides I'm their new favorite target. You don't get to leave."

His arms tighten fractionally. "Sweetheart—"

"No." You pull back enough to glare at him, and even bruised and exhausted, you're the most beautiful thing he's ever seen. "No 'sweetheart.' No soft voice and sad eyes. You're either in this with me or you're out, but you don't get to half-ass it anymore. You don't get to knock on my door at 2 AM because you had a nightmare and then pretend we're just neighbors. You don't get to dance with me at weddings and then act like it meant nothing. You don't get to—"

He kisses you.

There's no grace in it—just collision, pure physics as his mouth finds yours with the same brutal efficiency he'd use to take down a target. Except this isn't violence, it's something worse. It's capitulation. It's three weeks of want compressed into the space between one heartbeat and the next.

The noise that escapes you—half gasp, half sob—unlocks something feral in his chest. Then your teeth catch his lower lip, sharp and unforgiving, and his vision whites out entirely. You kiss like you fight: dirty, determined, taking no prisoners. Your tongue slides against his and his knees actually buckle, what the fuck, he's faced down alien armies without flinching but you're going to be what finally kills him.

His hands fly to your face, metal and flesh cradling your jaw like you're something precious even as he devours your mouth like you're anything but. You're pressed so tight against him he can feel every hitch in your breathing, every shudder that runs through you when he angles his head and deepens the kiss into something filthier, something that has you making these broken little sounds that he wants to bottle and keep.

The medical bed hits the back of your thighs—when did he walk you backward?—and you use the leverage to pull him down, down, until he's curved over you like a question mark, like gravity itself has reorganized around the heat of your mouth.

When you finally break apart, it's only because biology demands it. You're both wrecked—breathing like you've run marathons, lips swollen and spit-slick, staring at each other like you're not quite sure what just happened.

Your pupils are blown so wide he can barely see the color of your irises. There's a flush spreading down your throat, disappearing beneath the hospital gown, and he has to physically stop himself from following it with his mouth. His hands are trembling where they frame your face, thumbs pressed to your cheekbones like he's checking you're real.

"That's not an answer," you manage, but your voice is thoroughly fucked, and your hands are still twisted in his vest like you'll shoot him if he tries to move away.

"Yes, it is."

"No, it's really not. It's a deflection. A really nice deflection, but—"

"I'm in." The words feel like jumping off a cliff. Like defusing a bomb. Like coming home. "I'm in. Whatever that means, whatever that looks like. I'm in."

You study him for a long moment, and he tries not to fidget under the scrutiny. Finally: "You're going to therapy."

"I'm already in therapy."

"You're going to actually talk in therapy instead of just staring at the wall and hoping Dr. Raynor gets bored."

"...fine."

"And you're going to let me have a say in my own safety. No more unilateral decisions about what's 'best' for me."

"Okay."

"And you're going to teach me self-defense. Real self-defense, not just how to throw a punch."

"Deal."

"And—" You sway again, this time more dramatically. "Oh. Okay. Maybe sitting down now."

He guides you back to the bed, hands steady even if nothing else is. You let him fuss, let him adjust pillows and pull up blankets, and he tries not to think about how easily you fit into his hands. How right this feels, even with blood on his shirt and bruises on your skin.

"For the record," you say as he settles back into the chair beside your bed, "I'm still mad."

"I know."

"Like, really mad. There's going to be yelling. Possibly throwing things."

"I can take it."

"And groveling. Lots of groveling. I'm talking flowers, chocolates, the works."

"Noted."

You reach for his hand, lace your fingers through his. "And you're going to tell me you love me."

He freezes. You squeeze his hand.

"Because I know you do. I've known since you reorganized my bookshelf by genre and then pretended you didn't. And I love you too, you absolute disaster of a man, but I need to hear you say it. When I'm not concussed and you're not bleeding. When we're both safe and no one's trying to kill us and we can actually have a real conversation about what this means."

His throat feels tight. "I can do that."

"Good." You close your eyes, exhaustion finally winning. "Now get your gunshot wound treated before you bleed out on my watch. I'm not explaining that to Sam."

"It's not that bad."

"Bucky."

"Fine."

But he doesn't move. Not yet. Instead, he sits there holding your hand, memorizing the way your fingers fit between his, the steady rise and fall of your chest, the fact that you're alive and here and somehow, impossibly, still want him around.

The sun's coming up by the time a nurse finally corners him, threatening sedation if he doesn't let her treat the gunshot wound. You're properly asleep by then, fingers still tangled with his, and he lets the nurse work around your grip rather than let go.

"She's tough," the nurse comments, applying what are probably too many bandages.

"Yeah."

"And stubborn."

"Definitely."

"Good." She pats his shoulder, maternal despite being half his age. "You're going to need it."

He doesn't ask what she means. Doesn't need to. Because you're right—he's a disaster. A work in progress on his best days, a barely controlled catastrophe on his worst. But you looked at all that and decided he was worth fighting for anyway.

The least he can do is try to prove you right.

When you wake up again, he's there. When Dr. Cho kicks him out so you can rest, he goes to therapy and actually talks. When Sam asks if you're together now, he says yes without qualifying it.

And when you're finally released, when you're back in your apartment with its new locks and its carefully cleaned floors, when you knock on his door at midnight because the nightmares found you too—he opens it. No hesitation. No distance.

"Hey, neighbor," you say, and the smile you give him is worth every risk, every fear, every moment of doubt.

"Hey yourself."

You step inside, and he closes the door behind you, and for the first time in longer than he can remember, Bucky Barnes stops running from the possibility of happiness.

It's terrifying.

It's everything.

It's enough.

#love this #bucky barnes x reader

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sweeter-innocence-fics · 1 month ago

Text

This fic is so good ❤️

lessons in lovemaking [part five]

marvel au bucky x blackwidow!reader

You and Bucky Barnes go undercover as a married couple, but when a fake kiss gets too real, he unexpectedly finishes in his pants—leaving you both stunned.

Tags: 18+ content minors dni, smut, fingering, kissing, making out, kitchen sex/foreplay???, reader guiding bucky, praise, fem reader, panic attacks, bucky is touch starved, mentions of previous sa, stake-out mission, wow! they're actually doing their jobs this chapter!!, ex black widow reader, very consensual, safe words, bucky barnes needs a hug, angst, bickering, reader is lowkey not doing good, trauma, mentions of past violence and death, no use of y/n, gif does not represent reader's appearance, lmk if i've missed anything

Word Count: 13.9k

A/N: it's finally here! this was... a fucking beast to write. only took a month of agony. this got so, so long, i ended up cutting an entire scene near the start so hopefully it doesn't jump around too much. let me know if you enjoy! on a more personal note, just wanted to give you all an update. i had put a few posts mentioning how i've been very unwell mentally and physically. it's made it really hard for me to write while also studying full time. but um yeah basically i was diagnosed with a?? kinda scary?? chronic disease lol?? which explains why i've spent the last 6 years of my life exhausted and feeling awful, and turns out my depression/anxiety is likely a result of this. but yeah, after all these years of dismissal and misdiagnosis, i know what's wrong so i'm getting medicated for it. i'm hoping it gives me a big energy boost to juggle uni and my hobbies (like writing) more efficiently. anyway, this authors note is so long, if you have any questions or thoughts on this chapter, reblog or send me an ask! thank you all so much. as always, sorry for any typos!

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Bucky didn’t respond at first.

His jaw ticked, throat bobbing as he swallowed hard. From the way he shifted, feet planting wider, shoulders drawing back just enough that you almost suspected he was bracing. Not for a conversation, but for a hit. As if he expected you to launch across the balcony, heels and all, and pummel your fist directly into his face.

As absurd as it was, it almost didn’t surprise you. You’d become strangely used to his defensive reactions, the expectation of raised voices and violence, the way he always prepared his body for pain, like he expected even you to punish him.

And maybe the worst part was that deep down, he thought he deserved it.

Maybe you could’ve hit him. Pounded against his chest or disarmed him with words, if nothing else. You could’ve demanded, snarled questions as to why you were some secret mistake he didn’t dare let anyone see. Why are you ashamed to be around me? Why are you embarrassed?

Do you even care about me?

Do you care about me in the same way I care about you?

The ache in your chest flared thinking about it. Deep down, you knew the answer.

So, you held yourself back. Quiet, still, observing. Not because you weren’t angry, not because you weren’t hurting, but because you had become disturbingly good at packing that raw pain into tidy boxes and sealing them away.

Bucky adjusted the wrist of his leather glove, tugging it tight like it gave his hands something to do other than shake. You lifted your chin.

“Alright.” He spoke finally, voice a little hoarse, and for a split second, you wondered if he had been crying. “Talking… that’s usually where the trouble starts, isn’t it?”

His attempt to be light-hearted, to gauge your reaction, was short-lived. You met him with silence, exhaling slowly from your nose as you looked him up and down. He immediately folded, metaphorical throat bared as he met your gaze with his signature puppy-dog eyes.

For all your guilt, for the sadness and longing you had felt these past weeks, you still had enough self-respect to keep it together. You’d spent too many years of your life making excuses, compromises for those around you. For once, you would stick up for yourself, for once, you’d let someone other than yourself know you were hurting. You weren’t sure if that was a strength or a weakness. You were sick of being the one who met insults with sarcasm, tired of being the one who shouldered every blow and sting for the sake of others' comfort.

For once in your life, you would take the teeth you were born with and learn how to bite.

“You hurt me.”

Bucky’s fidgeting stilled instantly, face taut, his eyes searching yours already wide with creeping dread. “I—”

“Let me finish.” You cut over him, and his mouth clamped shut.

“I know this…whatever it is between us is complicated. There isn’t exactly a rulebook for this stuff. I know it’s messy, I know we never defined anything, and maybe we should’ve talked more…” Your body shuddered as you sighed, hesitant as you decided on your slow wording. “But what I understood, what I thought we both understood, was that there was trust. If there wasn’t anything, there was always trust… and what you said, that broke it.”

You paused, trying to steady your voice. Bucky had gone deathly still across from you. You watched his expression crumble. Guilt bled into every crease on his face, each of your words weighing down on him.

“I know that I lied to you about Nat, and I’m sorry. I know I should’ve said something, but I was scared that you’d react badly. That you’d react in the way that you did. I’ve never pretended to be easy to be close with. I know that I can be guarded, cold, or distant but…” You hesitated, sucking in a sharp breath.

The words burned behind your teeth.

“I always cared. I do care.” Your voice softened momentarily, despite the bile rising in your throat. “I gave you my time, my trust, I took you seriously, Bucky, I told you things I haven’t even really told anyone, not even myself, I—”

You crossed your arms over your chest, fingers digging into your sides. You could feel that stone in your gut, tears pressing just behind your eyes. You wouldn’t cry, not here, not now. You’d say your peace, lay it all out before him and see what he did with it.

“I get that you’re scared. I get that you feel shame, shame that you don’t quite understand. I understand that you have an instinct to protect yourself, to control how others see you because you’re afraid to push it too far, afraid to upset anyone…” The words tasted bitter, but they kept coming like a flood, hot and vile even as Bucky looked across at you like he was seconds away from crumpling to the floor. “But what you said was cruel. It hurt me. I just need you to understand that. I need you to understand that whatever it is we’ve been doing, friendship, lessons, whatever… It was never a joke to me.”

As you met his gaze directly, he flinched, jaw clenching so tightly that a muscle in his cheek twitched.

“You acted like I was beneath you, like you needed to downplay all that has happened for the sake of saving face. I understand you want to keep things private, I respect that, but a desire for privacy is very different to belittling me in front of Steve.”

Bucky’s shoulders slouched, his entire body shrinking in on itself. You half expected him to drop to his knees then and there from the way his eyes locked onto the balcony, too ashamed to meet your eye.

“I can be your secret, I can help you, but we are equals,” you muttered, quieter now. “I won’t chase after you, begging for scraps of decency. I’m not going to accept you pretending I’m invisible, that you’re disgusted by me the second someone important walks in the room.”

You looked away, breathing deeply through your nose as you willed the weight pressing on your chest to leave. “I’m not asking you to be perfect, god knows I am anything but that. I just need you to understand that I’m… I’m sick of making myself smaller just so other people can feel comfortable. I’m sick of the constant judgment, the way people don’t think I realise. I’m sick of all of it.”

When you finally looked up again, he looked like he had been punched in the gut. Not physically, but in that hollow, breathless way that left someone stunned and struggling to stand upright. Like every word you’d laid out between the two of you had knocked the air clean out of him.

His mouth parted, but no sound came. His eyes were glassy, unfocused, staring past you without actually seeing. You could see it written across his face, the guilt, the lingering panic, the way his whole body trembled. It was the slight hitch with each inhale, the way his shoulders rolled tight beneath the strain of his suit jacket like he wanted to crawl out of it, crawl out of his own skin.

He was close. Too close, seconds away from spiralling into the kind of anxiety that devoured everything in its path.

So, you gave him space. Silent and steady, let him work his own way through it.

The breeze stirred around you, catching a few strands of loose hair. They tickled against the nape of your neck. Below you could hear the hustle and bustle of the city nightlife, the chatter, the cars. The muffled sound of the party music just beyond the glass windows separating the balcony from the rest of the tower.

Bucky’s chest rose, then held, then he released it slowly. You watched him, silent, as his eyes flicked around. One smell, two things he could feel, three things in his line of sight. Good. He was grounding himself.

You watched without interfering, letting him work and find his own rhythm. You could practically read his mind now, how the cogs turned, each minuscule mannerism telling you which step he was at. You’d coaxed him through enough of these moments to know the signs. And maybe there was something bittersweet about it, the fact that he was steady enough to guide himself, no longer dependent on the comfort of your voice to guide him through.

“You’re right,” Bucky said at last, the words rasping out like they had been lodged in his throat for hours. “You’re right, I hurt you. And I hate myself for it.”

His hands flexed at his sides, fists curling and releasing as if unsure of what to do with them. A flicker of movement crossed his face, a wince, maybe, and then he lifted his eyes.

“I was a coward.” He continued, voice hoarse. “I’ve been replaying it in my head every day since. Over and over and… thinking about you. About how I made you feel.”

He took a half-step forward, caught in the pull of wanting to close the gap. His foot faltered mid-air, stopping him. He planted it back on the ground, shoulders locked, as if he was worried you’d dash if he closed the distance between you.

“I should’ve apologised that day, the second it left my mouth,” he muttered, words almost lost to the breeze. “I should’ve followed you instead of hiding and hoping it would fix itself.”

He swallowed hard, throat bobbing. “And I know it’s not an excuse… I was just so afraid.. Afraid that I had fucked up so badly that I would lose you. Guess it didn’t matter in the end because I lost you anyway—”

“You didn’t lose me,” you cut in, firm but soft. “I’m right here.”

He blinked hard at that, as if he couldn’t believe what you were saying. His chest trembled as he dragged in a sharp inhale.

“I’m sorry.”

There. That was it, the moment you’d been waiting for, the thing you’d needed from the very beginning. Not grovelling, not guilt, not the sight of him unravelling, just understanding. You hadn’t wanted to watch him spiral or flinch beneath the weight of his own remorse. That was never the point. You only wanted to be seen. For him to see you, the ache you’d swallowed, the silence you’d worn like armour.

You weren’t the kind of person who held pain like a weapon, who dangled forgiveness just out of reach. But you were tired, bone-deep tired, of being stepped over, of shrinking yourself to keep the peace. Tired of wearing humour like a mask, sharp and dry, to cover the bruises he couldn’t see. All you’d wanted was for him to get it. And now… now he did.

All you ever wanted was for someone to listen to you. Truly listen.

“Yeah?” Your voice cracked slightly despite yourself.

“Fuck,” he breathed. “I’m so sorry. I’m not embarrassed by you, if anything, I’m embarrassed about how I acted—”

“Bucky…”

“And don’t you dare say it’s okay,” he interrupted quickly, almost desperate. “Because it isn’t. I should never have said that, never have even thought that. After all you’ve done, after all the kindness and patience you’ve shown me, and I repay you by shaming you—”

“Repayment…” You cut over him, rolling the word slowly over your tongue, head shaking. “You don’t owe me anything, remember? That’s how it works with us, yeah?”

He exhaled hard. “Don’t do that.”

“Do what?”

“Handle all this so gracefully…Have such a pure heart despite everything.”

“If I were to describe my heart,” you said with a dry little huff, “it would not be pure—”

“You’re killin’ me here—” Bucky groaned, dragging a hand down his face in exasperation, and for the first time in days, the edge of your mouth twitched into a smile. Sly, wicked, and entirely involuntary.

His gaze caught it instantly, and his breath stilled.

You took the initiative, closing the distance between you in a handful of steps, until his breath hitched slightly, his eyes locking onto your face.

“I am sorry.” He murmured, voice less desperate now. “Seriously. I don’t expect forgiveness, hell, I don’t want forgiveness unless you really mean it, and you’re not just saying it to spare my feelings—”

“Bucky—”

“No, don’t say it—!”

“Bucky.” You breathed his name. Your hands found the front of his tie, fingers curling around the black silk. You wondered if it was the same tie you had blindfolded him with, if he had subconsciously chosen it to feel closer to you. You nearly smirked at the thought, a warmth in your belly despite the surprised expression flooding his features. You tugged gently, and he didn’t resist. He leaned into the pull, breath catching again as you drew him in close, close enough for your foreheads to nearly touch, for your breath to ghost across his lips. “I forgive you.”

His eyes fluttered shut, like the words had struck him physically. “I don’t know if I deserve you—”

“Bucky.” You hummed, almost scolding. “If I’m honest, I forgave you weeks ago.”

His eyes opened, a spark of confusion flickering.

“I was just… sabotaging myself,” you admitted, voice quieter now. “Because that’s what I do when things get complicated. I cut people off, I burn bridges, I destroy my own life. I convinced myself that you hated me, because I lied to you about Nat.”

He quickly shook his head. “I could never hate you.”

And there it was.

You exhaled, something soft breaking inside you, not the kind that shattered and left shards punctured into your heart and lungs, but the type of crack that let the light in. Your hand slid from his tie to his chest, resting lightly over his heart. Beneath your palm, it thudded unevenly and wildly.

“Stop looking at me like I’m not real,” you muttered.

“I’m not—”

You shook your head with a snicker, fingers tracing across his shirt to the lapels of his suit jacket. You tugged at it, and he stiffened in surprise, but didn’t stop you as you twisted around him, easing the jacket from his shoulders. He shrugged it off wordlessly, leaning into your guidance, and you knew he was secretly relieved to be rid of the thing.

“I know you hate these things,” you murmured, voice teasing. “Can’t move properly, too tight around your shoulder ‘cause Tony never gets them tailored right.”

Bucky blinked at you, lips parting slightly, some of the tension still lingering in his brows.

“You remembered that?”

“Of course,” you smiled faintly, smoothing the sleeve as you folded it over your arm. “You know, at this point I think I remember more about you than I do about myself.”

His lips curved at that. “Tell me something then?”

“Like what?”

“Something I don’t know about you. Something you’ve never told anyone.”

You blinked, caught off guard. For a long moment, you just stared at him, stunned into stillness. No one had ever asked you that before. Not really. Not with that quiet, open curiosity. Not like they actually wanted to hear the answer. People were always eager to talk, to fill the silence with their own stories and needs. But here he was, waiting, willing to listen.

It left you a little breathless.

There were still entire corners of your life shrouded in fog, moments you hadn’t unpacked, parts of yourself you hadn’t dared to explore. You’d spent so long watching others, peeling back their layers, learning what made them tick. It was instinctual how you kept yourself safe. Quietly observant, always listening, always careful. You didn’t mean to be secretive. It wasn’t some deliberate act of mystery. It just… never came up. No one had ever made space for you like that. No one had ever lingered long enough to want something beyond the surface.

Until now.

“I don’t know.” You mumbled, gaze dropping. “I guess… I guess pick at my nails when I’m nervous?”

He let out a soft, almost fond huff of laughter. “Yeah, I picked up on that one months ago.”

“Shit. That obvious?” You glanced down at your hand, suddenly extra aware of the damage. The nailbeds were raw and uneven, the skin around them puffy and inflamed from restless fussing.

Then Bucky did something unexpected. He reached out, slow and careful, the soft creak of his leather gloves barely audible. His gloved fingers brushed against yours first, the cool and smooth material almost foreign in feeling. You watched, breath caught in your throat, as he gently threaded his fingers between yours.

“Maybe a little,” he murmured with a quiet snort, the ghost of a smile tugging at his lips.

Without a word, he began to tug a glove off, leather resisting slightly before giving way. You swallowed and helped him, pinching the fingers and easing them free, and then repeated with the other side.

His bare fingers closed gently around yours again, his palm warm and calloused. Your jaw snapped shut as he traced his thumb over the jagged cuticles in a comforting, rhythmic motion.

You didn’t pull away. Instead, you breathed in, sharp and shallow, and shrugged in a small, embarrassed motion. “Well… I don’t know, then, I’m probably an insomniac who relies too heavily on coffee to get by.”

That earned a proper laugh from him, and warmth pooled in your belly like sunlight breaking through the clouds.

“You and me both,” he said, eyes crinkling at the corners.

You hesitated then, teeth sinking into the inside of your cheek as your faint smile faltered. Your mind turned inward, digging past the surface, searching through the fog for something true, something buried a little deeper. Your brow furrowed as your gaze dropped again, fingers twitching faintly in Bucky’s grasp like they wanted to pull away but didn’t quite make it.

“I’m claustrophobic,” you admitted at last, so quietly you didn’t think he had heard you.

His laughter cut off mid-breath, a soft sound dying on his tongue. The stillness that followed was immediate. His hand stopped mid-motion, thumb frozen against your knuckles

You forced yourself to keep going. “I don’t like small spaces. Feeling… trapped. It’s why I never take the elevator. It’s why I… freaked out on you at training the other week.”

“I’m sorry—” he began, voice already thick with regret.

“It’s okay.” You shook your head quickly, eyes flicking away. “You didn’t know. It just… it just reminds me… reminds me of things I’ve tried to bury.”

His free hand rose then. You didn’t flinch as his fingers brushed your chin, tilting it upward with such deliberate tenderness that it made your breath catch. His touch was featherlight, and when your eyes met his, the air sucked out of your lungs.

“I understand.”

You swallowed hard, your throat suddenly dry. “I’m sorry that I freaked out on you. I should’ve—”

“No.” His tone deepened, firm but gentle. “It’s okay. You don’t apologise to me for that. Ever.”

His voice was low now, so low it vibrated in his chest, a soft rumble that thrummed through the narrow space between your bodies. “You never have to apologise for setting boundaries.”

The words hit you square in the chest, like the impact of something you didn’t see coming. Your knees weakened, just slightly, and you gripped his wrist to steady yourself, though whether it was to anchor you or to keep from moving closer, you weren’t sure.

For a moment, everything else faded, the hum of the distant city life, the soft swish of the breeze, even the bass from the party. All that remained was him, warm, close and achingly sincere.

A part of you wanted to kiss him. Badly. The urge bloomed like heat in your chest, climbed up your throat, burned behind your lips. But then your gaze flicked, just briefly, to the giant pane of glass windows behind him, floor to ceiling, offering a clear view into the party beyond. You were almost certain Steve and Nat were watching from somewhere, probably with popcorn.

So instead, you smiled, small and almost rueful, and didn’t move. Didn’t lean in.

But he did.

His hand, still cupping your chin, shifted just slightly, tilting your face upward with a touch so gentle it barely registered as pressure at all. His eyes searched yours for a heartbeat longer, as though committing you to memory, as though asking are you sure? without even speaking a word.

And then his lips met yours.

Every nerve in your body buzzed, and his lips were warm and plush against yours. You could feel the way he held himself back, like he was afraid of falling too deep into hunger.

His hand hovered at your waist, fingers brushing your side, hesitant to pull you closer unless you gave him a sign. The other remained at your jaw, thumb stroking the hinge of it in a gentle rhythm, anchoring you. His breath mingled with yours, sweet with the faintest trace of spearmint, his chest rising and falling unevenly against the few inches that still lingered between you.

When you finally pulled back, your eyes blinked open as though waking from something half-dreamed. A breath of laughter broke from your lips, soft and stunned, and you shook your head slightly. Still, you didn’t move far, fingers tangled loosely in his tie. “People could be watching, you know—”

You were beginning to think that none of it mattered anyway, not when he looked at you like that.

“Let them.”

You didn’t even flinch as he pressed in again, slow and exploratory, the faintest drag of his lower lip over yours, testing the shape of your mouth with a tenderness that sent a ripple down your spine.

But something in him had shifted, restraint thinned, weeks of built-up tension bleeding into a desperate need.

His mouth moved with more certainty, lips parting yours just slightly, enough to deepen the kiss without taking too much. He coaxed rather than claimed, a subtle tilt of his head aligning you closer, a soft press of his tongue just barely tasting the seam of your mouth.

Your fingers curled tighter back into the front of his tie, tugging him closer as that familiar rush of heat flooded your chest and belly. You responded, parting for him, letting him in, and the reward was a low, pleased hum from deep in his throat, vibrating through his chest and into yours.

When you finally pulled back, breathless and dazed, the slick warmth of his mouth lingering, his gaze was heavy-lidded, pupils dark, lips parted just slightly. A faint smear of your lipstick sat crookedly above his upper lip—evidence, as obvious as a lovebite

You blinked at him, lightheaded, dizzy in the best way, like the floor had dropped out from under you and all that held you upright was him. And then, to your own surprise, you giggled. Actually giggled, breathy and unguarded, a sound you hadn't heard from yourself in far too long.

“They’re going to be insufferable now, you know that?” you said, grinning against the glow that refused to leave your cheeks.

He tilted his head, lips quirking. “Who?”

You gave him a pointed look. “Steve and Nat.”

“Because their little scheme worked?” He snorted. “Shit, you’re probably right.”

“I’m already bracing myself,” you muttered, mock-exasperated. “Nat gets this tone in her voice when she’s feeling particularly smug. It’s the worst, she doesn’t even try to hide it. Drives me crazy, I swear—”

“Sam knows too,” Bucky said, a little too casually, but his voice dipped just enough to betray him, quiet like he almost hoped you wouldn’t catch it.

Your smile faltered. “Oh?”

He scratched the back of his neck, eyes flicking briefly away. “Yeah… after the little, uh… slip-up in training, he knows everything now.”

“Everything?”

Bucky winced, shoulders hunching slightly. “Yeah. I may have told him and Steve the whole story.”

You gaped at him a moment, speechless, before you found the sense to speak up. “The full story… as in, lessons and everything?”

“Maybe…” He gave you a look so sheepish it bordered on boyish. “Do you wanna know what Sam said when he found out?”

You groaned, almost too afraid to ask. “What?”

“‘That sounds like an HR nightmare.’”

You broke into laughter, a real, bubbling laugh that rose out of you before you could stop it. “Shit. We’re in deep now.”

He watched you, fondness etched into every line of his face. His expression had softened again, that rare, open version of him shining through. You pulled back enough to look up at him properly. His eyes were gentle, amused, but earnest—so goddamn earnest it made your chest ache.

“I feel… good about this,” he said, and the quiet conviction in his voice struck you deep. It rasped low, his tone threaded with a sort of rough certainty that made your stomach flutter. “For the first time in… I don’t know. I feel good.”

You blinked up at him, eyes wide and a little dazed. Warmth bloomed steadily in your chest, curling beneath your ribs and climbing up your throat. It spread like honey through your limbs, soft and molten, loosening something inside you that had been wound tight for far too long.

“Careful, Bucky.”

“I’m tellin’ the truth, doll.” His hand brushed your arm, knuckles grazing like static, his eyes trailing down your body as if you were committing you to memory, curve by curve, inch by inch.

“Keep talking like that,” you murmured, “and I might kiss you again.”

His smile curled slowly, crooked and dangerous. “Oh yeah? Just kissing?”

You tilted your head, letting your gaze drop to his mouth. “Maybe more… if you’re lucky.”

He laughed, a low, husky sound that vibrated through you. Then he took a single step closer. You leaned in and pressed a kiss to his cheek, once, then again, just to see the way his expression shifted. Bucky let out a sound somewhere between a growl and a groan, one hand snaking around your waist as he pulled you in again for just one more kiss.

—

After the disaster that had been the training session—where you and Bucky had gone so hard it probably qualified as attempted murder in at least three jurisdictions—Steve, Natasha, and Sam had clearly smashed their heads together and prayed they could cook up a plan to get you two talking again. The infamous balcony had been plan B, and to their endless delight (and your mutual dismay), it had actually worked. But that small victory left them scrambling, because now they had to try to cancel the other contingency plans they’d set in motion, like overexcited matchmakers who’d gone past their pay grade.

God only knew how many schemes they’d cooked up. From your current predicament, it seemed they’d well and truly scraped the bottom of the barrel. Because here you were, wedged into the backseat of a car far too small for three muscled idiots, on what was technically a stakeout, but what felt more like slow torture. You were hours into waiting for some crypto-genuis kid, Karpin’s pet money launderer, to finally come home. And the whole reason you and Bucky were here at all? Steve and Sam had begged Fury to approve your presence on this op, convinced this was plan C, the masterstroke that would fix things between you two if the balcony gambit failed.

But the balcony hadn’t failed. The balcony had worked spectacularly, and now Steve and Sam were left trying to undo their apparent meddling, scrambling to pull you off the mission. Too late, Fury had signed off, likely with one of his signature scowls and a clever quip. Everything was greenlit. No take-backs.

You’d managed to pry this information out of Steve within the first three hours, much to the absolute dismay of Sam. Now both of them were currently avoiding your gaze like their lives depended on it, and you were simmering, imagining at least five creative ways to end them before the kid even showed up.

“So this was your brilliant plan C, huh?” you hissed, exasperation curling through every word as you craned your neck forward, arms braced on the back of Steve’s seat, peering between him and Sam in the front. The centre console dug uncomfortably into your ribs, but you hardly noticed over the heat pricking across your skin. “Cram us into this metal coffin and hope the awkward tension does the trick?”

Steve still kept his eyes stubbornly fixed on the street ahead, knuckles white on the steering wheel like he might snap it in two if he had to endure one more minute. The muscle in his jaw ticked, but he said nothing. Sam, slouched in the passenger seat, had perfected the art of looking like he wasn’t there at all, staring out the window, face blank, like maybe if he wished hard enough, he could astral project somewhere far away from this cramped nightmare.

Beside you, Bucky had sunk so low in his seat you half expected him to disappear into the upholstery. His arms were crossed tightly, his long legs awkwardly angled to avoid pressing too much against yours. Though your thigh and shoulder still touched, the contact was warm and sticky. Secretly, you didn’t mind it that much.

“Are you gonna bring it up and whine about it every 5 minutes or—” Sam finally drawled, and you leant over to smack the back of his seat in warning. You could’ve sworn the jolt made his eyes roll harder.

“It wasn’t my first choice—” Steve spoke at last, voice strained, and you scoffed, flopping back into your seat. You shot a glare up at the rear-view mirror, where Steve steadfastly refused to meet your eye. You resisted the urge to kick the back of his seat. Sam’s lip twitched, and you weren’t sure if he was fighting a smirk or a grimace.

“Yeah, yours was the training session, wasn’t it?” you muttered, shifting in your cramped seat, your thigh brushing Bucky’s. “The one where we nearly killed each other?”

“That wasn’t my fault,” Steve protested.

“You paired us against each other—!”

“I thought it would help work out the tension—!”

“Oh, genius move, Cap. Almost as subtle as the balcony stunt. Remind me…” You said, glancing between the two of them with an exaggerated patience. “How much money did you lose to Nat over us making out within twenty minutes?”

Bucky choked on air beside you.

“Nope,” Sam cut back, smirking, eyes on the windshield but clearly enjoying himself. “She made me promise not to spill what she put down.”

“She cleaned up, didn’t she?” you said, grinning despite yourself.

“Let’s just say I owe her a drink…or five,” Sam muttered.

“And you two just went along with it. And when that actually worked,” you went on, voice rising as you gestured vaguely at the cramped space around you, “you didn’t think to, I don’t know, maybe… cancel this mission?”

Steve gave a long-suffering sigh, “I already said we tried—”

You blinked, turning to Bucky, who was doing his best impression of a statue. His ears were pink. God help him, he was blushing. “Are you hearing this?”

“Loud and clear,” he muttered, rubbing a hand over his jaw, eyes fixed on the upholstery like it was the most fascinating thing in the car. “I’m starting to think we’re the mission, not the kid.”

Sam barked a quiet laugh at that, then immediately tried to hide it behind a cough.

You smirked, leaning back just enough to make your knee knock into Bucky’s. “At least someone finds this funny.”

“Oh, I do,” Sam didn’t even try to hide his grin now, eyes glinting in the rearview mirror. “You know, Buck folded like a lawn chair after that training room mess. Didn’t even need to interrogate him, he just started confessing.”

You blinked, glancing sideways at Bucky, and sure enough, his shoulders tensed, jaw tight, face flushed red. Yeah. You’d heard about that. After you and Bucky had practically torn each other apart during that disaster of a sparring session, it hadn’t taken long before Bucky caved. All it took was one pointed look from Steve, and he’d apparently spilt everything. The lessons. The gala mission. The whole messy, complicated truth. He hadn’t wanted to hide it anymore, and they hadn’t judged him. If anything, they’d been supportive, but god, had it given Sam and Steve endless material to work with.

“I didn’t fold,” Bucky muttered, dragging a hand down his face, trying to hide the red creeping up his neck.

Sam’s grin widened. “Oh no, you practically snapped in half. ‘It’s not what it looked like! I swear!’”

Steve, who had been studiously pretending to focus on the rows of beach houses, finally let out a quiet snort.

Sam continued his onslaught. “He was trying so hard to be chill. Said something about ‘It’s not like she was giving me sex lessons or anything!’ Swear to god, I thought you were about to write us both a formal apology letter.”

Your brow shot up, heat blooming warm and easy in your chest. Bucky groaned, dragging a hand down his face.

“Jesus, can we not—”

“So…” Sam began, tone too casual to be innocent. He swivelled half around in his seat, arm slung over the headrest. “What exactly do these lessons involve?”

Bucky shot him a glare that could have melted steel. “Not talking to you about this.”

“Right. Right, of course.” Sam nodded solemnly, lips twitching. “Just curious. Is there, like… a syllabus? A final exam?”

Sam looked over to you, and you rewarded him with a blank, unbothered expression. All of his attempts to get under your skin so far had fallen flat.

“I swear to God, Sam—” Bucky huffed.

“Okay, okay!” Sam laughed, hands raised in surrender. “Damn, Barnes. Touchy!”

Bucky grumbled, scrubbing a hand over his face as if to physically wipe away the heat creeping across. He exhaled through his nose, visibly trying to collect himself, jaw working like he was biting back another groan.

The moment stretched, the car settling into a beat of silence.

Then Bucky leaned back, voice dry as bone, as if he was looking for punishment, “I still haven’t forgiven you for not packing snacks, by the way.”

It earned a sharp bark of laughter from you before Sam twisted around, indignation written all over his face. “You were supposed to pack snacks!”

“You’re the reason we’re here in the first place!” Bucky shot back, arching a brow, the edge of a smirk threatening his mouth.

Sam groaned, tipping his head against the headrest like a man resigned to his fate. “God, please. Can you just shut up—?”

“You’re the one who has been talking this entire time—”

“Eyes up.” Steve’s voice cut through the bickering, sharp enough to snap the tension like a taut wire. His grip tightened on the steering wheel as his gaze fixed out the windshield.

You straightened instinctively, pulse kicking up, the lingering humour of the quarrel evaporating as your attention followed his line of sight.

A sleek, silver car, a little too flashy for the neighbourhood, rolled up the driveway of the house you’d been watching for hours. The low purr of its engine smothered the quiet hum of distant gulls in the air. The driver door swung open, and out stepped a kid who looked like he belonged more at some overpriced frat party than tangled up in Karpin’s operation. Early twenties, hair artfully messy, sunglasses pushed back onto his head like he thought he was some kind of tech mogul already. His clothes screamed new money, designer labels, logo-heavy, just subtle enough to look casual if you weren’t paying attention.

From the back of the car, the trunk popped, and a scruffy golden retriever leapt out with a thump, tail wagging like mad as it bounded up to the kid, nearly bowling him over. The kid laughed, ruffling the dog’s ears, before slinging a backpack over one shoulder and heading toward the front door.

“Target’s home,” Steve muttered, already shifting into command mode. His voice went flat, but with that edge of anticipation that always crept in when the waiting was over.

Sam sat up straighter, his earlier grin gone, eyes sharp. “Finally.”

Bucky leaned forward, his knee brushing yours, the tension humming back into his frame like a coiled spring. “What’s the play?”

Steve didn’t take his eyes off the house. “We move in quietly. Sam, you cover the back in case he spooks. Buck, I’ll need you two with me at the door. No heroics. We’re here to talk, not smash up his house.”

You gave a tight nod, hand already sliding to the door handle. “Copy that.”

“Let’s move,” Steve said, and the car doors clicked open almost in unison, the stale warmth of the vehicle giving way to the salty breeze as you slipped out into the early afternoon air.

— The dog’s tongue lolled out of its mouth as it bounded after the tennis ball you lobbed down the yard for what had to be the fiftieth time. The poor thing was all enthusiasm and no aim, skidding through flowerbeds and trampling what was clearly someone’s expensive landscaping project. You didn’t have the heart to stop him. The quiet thunk of the ball hitting the fence made you sigh, shading your eyes with one hand as the retriever scrabbled to chase it down.

The house loomed behind you, modern, sleek, soulless, and through the open patio doors, you could hear muffled voices. Mostly Steve’s, low and steady. Occasionally, Sam’s sharper edge cut through, exasperation bleeding into his tone. You couldn’t make out the words, but you didn’t need to. This was dragging. Of course, it was dragging.

You glanced at the sky. How long had it been? Too long. Definitely too long.

The dog trotted back, panting, ball slimy with slobber, and you took it with a grimace, wiping your palm on your thigh before tossing it again.

The screen door creaked, and you turned just in time to see Bucky step out, rubbing the back of his neck. His jacket was off, henley sleeves rolled to his elbows, expression carved from tired frustration.

“Well?” you asked, arching a brow, catching the ball one-handed as the dog dropped it at your feet.

Bucky exhaled, dropping onto the steps beside you. “It’s not going well. Kid’s a wreck. Just keeps freaking out, throwing out half-baked lies, hoping we’ll get bored and leave him alone.”

You smirked, tossing the ball lazily. “He doesn’t know those two very well then, does he?”

Bucky’s lips quirked, but it didn’t quite reach his eyes. “They’re trying for a good cop, bad cop thing… don’t think it’s going too well.”

You dusted off your hands, straightening. If this dragged on any longer, it would be nightfall, you were entirely sure there was a better and faster way to get the kid to spill. “It’s my turn to play cop, don’t you think?”

Bucky looked up at you, wary. “You sure? He’s on the verge of passing out.”

“All the more reason to cut the bullshit.”

The living room was too clean, not lived-in, just staged, like everything else in this house. The kid sat on the edge of the pristine white couch, hunched over, elbows on his knees, wringing his hands so tightly his knuckles had gone white. His chest hitched, breathing fast and shallow. Steve was standing nearby, voice soft, like he was talking him down from a bridge. Sam loomed near the window, arms crossed, scowl in place.

You didn’t bother asking. You just dragged a chair across the floor, the legs screeching deliberately against the polished hardwood as you flipped it around and straddled it, resting your arms along the back. The kid’s red-rimmed eyes snapped up at the sound, wide with panic, sweat beading at his temple.

“Okay, everyone, let’s take a breath.”

Steve shot you a sceptical look, brows knitting together like he wasn’t sure if you were serious. Sam, arms still folded tight across his chest, arched a brow, glancing at you like, really? The kid—Brandon, that was his name, you remembered now—just looked outright bewildered, as if the suggestion was the most alien thing he’d heard all afternoon.

“One deep breath. All of you.” You spoke pointedly, daring a glare over at good cop and bad cop respectively. You dragged in a slow inhale through your nose, filling your chest until your ribs ached, then let it out in a long, audible exhale. You exaggerated it, not for theatrics, but to show there was nothing complicated about it. Just air. Just calm.

Steve, bless him, always the good soldier, mirrored you next, drawing in a slow breath like he was trying to set an example. Sam followed reluctantly, like he hated admitting that maybe you had a point. His chest rose and fell, but he kept side-eyeing Brandon the whole time.

Brandon hesitated, his gaze flickering between you all like he was waiting for someone to yell gotcha! His knee bounced erratically, fingers twitching. You half expected the kid to bolt—not that he’d make it far, you were sure either of the three men would take absolute delight in tackling him to his shiny, expensive floors.

“C’mon, Brandon,” you coaxed, leaning forward just slightly, head tilting. “You’ll feel a whole lot better. Just one breath. Try it.”

For a beat, you thought he might refuse, too locked in his panic to even try. But then his shoulders sagged a fraction, and he sucked in a shaky breath, a wet, uneven sound that hitched halfway through. He let it out in a rush, but it was something.

“There we go,” you murmured. “Better, huh?”

Shit, maybe you were good cop.

He stared at you, wide-eyed, chest still shuddering from the uneven breath he’d managed. Like he couldn’t quite believe the panic hadn’t immediately swallowed him whole.

You didn’t rush him. Instead, you took another slow, deliberate breath, and with just the faintest glance to the side, you caught Steve doing the same. Bucky too, silent and steady at the doorway, setting the rhythm without a word. Even Sam, though he tried to look like he wasn’t following your lead, let his shoulders loosen as he exhaled through his nose.

“Good,” you murmured after another long beat. “Let’s just stay right here for a second. Was getting far too tense in here, wasn’t it?”

Brandon sucked in another breath, still ragged, but at least it wasn’t the frantic gasping from before. His hands were still trembling on his knees, but they weren’t clenched into fists anymore.

“Okay. Let’s rationalise this, yeah? One step at a time.” Your voice dropped low and warm, the kind of tone you’d use with a skittish animal. The type of tone you used with Bucky when he was spiralling.

“Do you know who he is?” You tilted your head toward Steve.

Brandon hesitated, but his eyes flicked to Steve, and he gave the smallest nod.

“Say it out loud for me,” you urged gently, fingers drumming softly on the back of the chair.

“H-he’s Captain America,” Brandon whispered, voice weak, almost like he wasn’t sure if saying it would make it more real.

“That’s right,” you said, offering a small smile. “Good. That’s good, Brandon. You’re thinking straight.” You pointed with a lazy flick of your finger at Steve. “And do you really think Captain America of all people is going to hurt you?”

“No.”

“Good. But those other two—” you jerked your thumb toward Sam and Bucky, your voice dipping into dry humour, “—those ones you wanna watch out for. Absolute wildcards.”

It earned you a quiet snort from Sam, and Bucky’s mouth twitched, but Brandon let out a breath that was almost a laugh. His face was pale, but some of the sheer panic had started to ease at the edges.

But the hyperventilating wasn’t gone. His chest was rising too fast again, his eyes darting around the room like he couldn’t help it.

“Hey, hey. Just breathe.” Your voice stayed patient, casual but focused, like you had all the time in the world. “I just need to ask you a few questions. Can you handle that?”

Brandon’s throat bobbed with a hard swallow. His wide eyes glistened beneath the overhead light, flicking between you and the silent figures of Steve, Sam, and Bucky like a cornered animal. Though, it wasn’t the wild panic of a man about to bolt. It was something else. Defeat, maybe. The heavy, sinking weight of realising he was out of moves.

His mouth opened, shaky. Closed. Opened again. He wet his lips, voice barely a whisper.

“They’re gonna kill me if I snitch—”

“Who’s gonna kill you?” Steve’s voice cut in, instinctively taking a step forward.

You lifted a hand, a silent hold up, and Steve froze mid-stride, eyeing you warily but ultimately submitted to your lead.

You exhaled slowly, studying Brandon, the trembling hands on his knees, the sheen of sweat at his temple, the way his leg bounced like he might still have been weighing the odds of making a run for it. Your head tilted, voice dropping just a hair softer.

“How about this,” you hummed thoughtfully. “I tell you what we know… and you help me fill in the gaps, hm?”

Brandon blinked, uncertain, but you saw the subtle slump of his shoulders. “O-okay…” he croaked.

“You’re from a middle-class family. Did well in school. Kept your head down. Got all A’s in college, IT, tech stuff, right?”

His eyes widened. He glanced at Sam like maybe he’d confessed those details without realising. Sam just arched a brow, impressed despite himself.

“You got into cryptocurrency to make a little money on the side…” You continued, your tone easy, conversational. “And that’s when Karpin found you. Asked you to help him move his money until it was basically untrackable. Paid you more than you’d ever seen in your life to keep quiet and work with his buyers.”

Brandon’s mouth parted, but nothing came out.

“You probably don’t even know what he’s really selling,” you added, shrugging lightly. “Just that it’s illegal. Because you’re smart, you could see it a mile off. But you didn’t ask. Why would you? You’re making more money than you ever dreamed of.” Your gaze swept the room, the expensive furniture, the sleek floors, and the view of the ocean just beyond the windows. “Beachfront property? At your age? You’re making more than most people see in a lifetime.”

Brandon gave the faintest, almost imperceptible nod.

“But now you don’t want to talk. Not to us. Not to anyone. Because Karpin’s dangerous, right?” You softened the words further. “Because he told you as much, because you know you’re in deep…Because he threatened you. Maybe even people you care about, said if you ever ratted him out, it wouldn’t end with just you?”

That hadn’t been in the brief, but you’d spent enough time in Karpin’s club, in his VIP rooms, hanging off his arm like his latest pet to know his game.

You didn’t even need to hear the confirmation from Brandon, just one look in his glassy eyes told you the truth. You were right. Your eyes flickered over to Sam and Steve, watching as they exchanged a look.

Bucky hadn’t moved, leaned quietly against the doorway, face carefully neutral. But his eyes—oh, his eyes tracked every word, every shift of your body. And though his mouth was set in a firm line, there was something under it. A shameless flicker of pride. That soft, secret warmth, like he was quietly glad to see you work your magic.

Brandon’s breath rattled, his fingers fisting the fabric of his shorts. His wide eyes darted from you to Steve, then to Sam, as if one of them might swoop in and end this interrogation—or maybe mercifully his life. His voice cracked as the words tumbled out in a rush.

“I didn’t know, I swear! I mean, I knew—I knew it had to be something illegal, but not this illegal! I thought it was just drugs or something!” His chest heaved, breath coming fast again, panic starting to claw its way back up his throat.

“Hey.” Your voice cut through the rising spiral of his fear, leaving no room for argument. “We’re not here to decide if you’re guilty or not. That’s not why we’re here. We want to talk to you about one of the buyers, the one Karpin does the majority of his sales to. Do you know who I’m talking about? The Russian?”

Brandon hesitated, throat working as he swallowed. “Yes…”

“Good.” You hummed, slow and encouraging. “I need you to tell me anything you know about him. A name, a bank number, an address. Anything you can give us.”

Brandon’s shoulders hunched, his head shaking, wild-eyed. “I can’t—”

“Why?” you pressed.

“Because… because they’ll kill me!” He burst out, breath hitching again. “If it’s this bad, if it’s really this bad, I know they’ll hunt me down if I say anything—”

“They’re not going to be able to reach you, Brandon.”

His head snapped up, desperation shining in his eyes. “How can you guarantee that?!”

You sat a little straighter, drawing in a slow breath yourself. You knew the feeling currently roaring through Brandon’s veins, you recognised it like an old enemy. The panic, the sick weight of fear coiled tight beneath your ribs. The terror of the unknown. It was like wading blind through pitch-dark water, searching for a foothold, for anything solid to cling to, with no promise of light ahead. You’d felt it too many times before, felt it in your bones, felt it define you. And like every time before, your mind scrambled to make sense of it, to wrestle the chaos into something you could control. But how could you, when you didn’t even know the shape of the fight you were facing? How could you rationalise the storm without knowing where it might end, or if it ever would?

If only, you thought bitterly, if only you’d had the foresight back then. The knowledge. The map that would’ve let you navigate those shadows instead of stumbling through them, bruised and broken.

You knew exactly what the kid needed to hear.

“Do you want me to explain what’s going to happen to you after this conversation?”

Brandon nodded wordlessly.

“The police are going to come.” You reassured, recognising the instant dread in the kid’s wide eyes. “They’re going to arrest you, not hurt you. They’re going to keep you in custody while Karpin and his buyers are investigated, tracked down, and arrested. You’ll be safe. No one can get to you inside.”

“You’ll hire a lawyer,” you continued, voice even, matter-of-fact. “And that lawyer is going to tell you to take a plea deal. That means you’ll testify against Karpin. The deal might mean you walk free under witness protection, or maybe you serve a few years, but nowhere near as much trouble as if you stonewall us now.”

You smiled softly, leaning forward, lowering your voice to a comforting hum. “Brandon, all you need to do is cooperate with us.”

He blinked hard, tears threatening now, though he fought them, swallowing against the lump in his throat. “I’ll be protected? Will my family be protected? You’re sure?”

“If you help us?” You shrugged, glancing at Steve and Sam. “You’ll be protected. So will your family. By the people we work for. There’s no shame in having made a mistake, Brandon. You think we’re innocent?”

Your grin tilted, dry and a little wry as you thumbed toward the guys. “These three destroy half of New York every other week, and you think people are just fine with it?”

Sam gave a short huff of laughter, shaking his head. Steve smirked faintly, arms crossed over his chest, watching the way you worked with no small amount of admiration.

“We can do what we do because we have the right friends in the right places,” you went on, gaze locked steady on Brandon’s. “If you tell us what we need to know, we’ll make sure you and your loved ones are protected. That’s a promise.”

Brandon let out a shaky breath, the tension bleeding from his frame, if only slightly. He swiped the back of his hand across his damp face, voice rough as he finally nodded.

“O-okay. Okay. I’ll help.”

—

The mission had wrapped up without much fuss once Brandon finally cracked. A little breathing room, a few well-placed reassurances and the kid had spilt more than you’d hoped for. And after a long morning of waiting and watching, the team had been cleared to stand down. The beach house, a backup in case the op had dragged on, was yours for the night. No one had expected things to go so smoothly, but no one was about to complain either.

Now, with the sun bleeding gold over the horizon and the promise of an early flight hanging over your heads, you were determined to steal a few hours of peace.

You lay stretched out on a sunbleached towel at the base of the porch, toes buried in the warm sand. The last of the afternoon rays bathed the world in honey light, glinting off the waves as they lapped the shore. The ocean breeze lifted your hair and carried with it the brine of the sea, the faint tang of salt settling on your skin where the sweat had dried in the heat. You tilted your face up now and then, soaking in what little warmth was left, letting your eyes fall half-shut.

The beach house itself was small and sweet, worn blue paint with white trim, seashells lining the windowsills, wind chimes and catchers swaying and singing softly in the breeze. The kind of place that felt like it belonged to the sea as much as to the people.

On the porch steps, Bucky sat like a man trying to blend into the scenery. His arms rested heavily on his thighs, his boots planted solidly on the wood. There was tension in him, subtle but sure. He watched the waves, mostly. Sometimes he watched you. His gaze would flicker your way when he thought you weren’t looking, then back out to the horizon like it could give him answers. He’d tried the sand once, made it a few steps before muttering something about not wanting it grinding into the plates of his arms. The steps were his compromise, close enough to be near you, far enough to avoid what unsettled him.

Steve and Sam had gone into town, promising a dinner worth eating—something fresh, not from a takeaway joint or gas station, which was the usual menu for missions, especially stakeouts—before you all shipped out at dawn. The house, the beach, the world itself felt hushed in their absence. Just the occasional cry of gulls, the gentle crash of waves, and the music of chimes above.

It was Bucky who broke the quiet first. His voice was almost tentative, as if he’d been sitting with the thought some time before letting it out.

“You were good with that kid today.”

You cracked one eye open, shading it with your hand from the sun. The breeze caught his hair, tugged at the soft cotton of his shirt, ruffled the hem where his sleeves strained over the gold and black glint of vibranium.

“You’re good at talking to people,” he went on, not looking at you now, but at some fixed point beyond the waves. “Understanding them.”

A soft, tired huff escaped you. You let your eyes fall closed again, the sun warm on your cheeks. “What I understand about people is that everyone wants kindness. That’s all. They want to be seen, heard, given a little grace.”

You let your head loll to the side, gaze following the slow roll of the sea. His eyes were on you again, you could feel it, watching, like he was trying to piece you together, to see past the practised ease of your words.

“How did you know all that?” he asked after a beat, quieter now. “About lawyers, plea deals, witness protection?”

Your lips curved, a wry, sad little smile that didn’t quite reach your eyes. “I lied.”

You felt him shift. His boots creaked against the steps, his spine straightening. “You lied?”

You rolled onto your back, brushing the sand from your skin, fingers playing idly at the tie of your bikini. “I told him what I knew he wanted to hear. That’s all. A kid like that, scared, cornered…He responded well to knowledge. It doesn’t matter if I don’t know what they’re gonna offer him, maybe they will offer him a plea deal, but at least he won’t feel like he’s in the dark.”

The breeze tugged at the chimes again, the gentle clatter filling the quiet that followed. Bucky didn’t speak, just watched you, thoughtful, a crease between his brows. His gaze was steady now, no longer flickering away like he was seeing something in you that you didn’t want him to.

“I just…” His voice was gentler now, but insistent. “I just think that version of you, the one who talked that kid down, the version I know... sometimes I think it’s the real you.”

You turned to him properly then, one hand propping you up, the other shading your eyes against the glare. “The real me—Jesus. Are we doing this right now?”

Bucky didn’t flinch, didn’t look away.

“I think they’re still in your head,” he said simply. “The same way… the same way H.Y.D.R.A is still in my head. You just wear the mask better. Pretend better. It took me too long to see it, but now I do, and I can’t unsee it.”

The air left your lungs like you’d been tackled from behind, a cold rush tearing through your veins, leaving you sick and hollow at the centre. H.Y.D.R.A. Bucky almost never said it aloud. That name lived in the shadows. But now he had given voice to it, like he was fucking invoking it.

You stared at him, heart tight, the sincerity in his voice cutting deeper than you expected. He was right. Of course, he was right. There had been far too many occasions where he had seen through you, seen through the walls, the humour, the deflection—and for what? For you to be afraid, to continue to pretend, to deny him entry to the truth you both knew he had already discovered?

“What are you trying to say, Bucky?”

He hesitated, just for a breath, as if he was weighing his following words before he went all in. “Why are you still in this job?”

Your pulse spiked.

“Because it’s what I’m good at?” you snapped back, a little too fast, a little too brittle.

“Bullshit.”

You sat up fully now, towel forgotten beneath you, heat rising to your cheeks. Whether it was anger or shame, you weren’t too sure anymore.

“What do you want me to say?” Your hands lifted, fingers splayed in frustration. “This is all I know, this is what I was trained for. There is no other alternative, and you of all people should understand that.”

There was a pause. A longer one than you expected.

“Do you know what Sam said to me after today?” His eyes met yours, sharp, intent, almost fierce in their focus. It pinned you where you sat. “He said, ‘I think I finally get what the hell those lessons were about’. He saw it. He saw you. The way you connect, the way you see people. I think you’re far more than what you limit yourself to.”

You let out a breath that tasted of defeat, bitter at the back of your throat. Or maybe it was a laugh. You couldn’t tell anymore. “I do this job because I want to make a difference, Bucky. Maybe I want to make a difference because no one ever tried to help me, or Nat or Yelena. We had to help ourselves.”

“And you think the only way to do that is by tearing yourself apart in the process?”

You snorted, shaking your head, though the motion felt heavy. “Tough words coming from you.”

He huffed his own small laugh, but there was no humour in it.

“I just…” His voice was lower now, the edge of frustration softening into something that sounded almost like pleading. “You really plan on doing those missions forever? The ones where you use your body to get information? I see how it weighs on you. How it tears you down piece by piece.”

You dug your fingers into the towel beneath you, staring at a seashell half-buried in the sand—anything to avoid the look in his eyes.

“What am I supposed to do instead, huh?” Your voice was tight, controlled, though you could feel the cracks forming, the storm just below the surface. “I’m good at what I do. That’s why I do it. I know how to get what the team needs. I know how to play the part, no one expects me to be anything else. So I stay in that box, because it works. End of story.”

Bucky was shaking his head before you had even finished your stubborn spiel.

“I think you have more potential. I think you get people. Really get them, in ways none of us do. You always say the right thing, know how to calm a room, and make people feel seen. I think you’re wasting that, wasting you, because you’re too afraid to ask for more.”

You forced a laugh. “Bucky, just because I’m nice to you doesn’t mean I’m good with people—”

“Steve told me what you said that day,” Bucky cut over you, quiet but unyielding. “What you said when he walked in on us. He told me how genuine you were. How much you cared. Said he never expected it, not from you.”

For a moment, your throat closed up tight as your mind skidded, fishtailing toward anything that might sound coherent.

“This all just sounds like you’re the one who’s got a problem with my line of work,” you said finally, trying for lightness, humour, anything to take the weight out of his words. “What, you jealous or something?”

But the joke fell flat between you. Bucky’s gaze didn’t waver. His voice carried an assured edge like he was giving up hiding behind anything. “No. I think you have a problem with it.”

Your breath snagged, ribs pressing in tight like you’d sucker punched.

“I think you’re destroying yourself,” Bucky went on, tone stripped bare, nothing left but truth. “I think, deep down, you’re punishing yourself. And I don’t know why. Or what for, but I know the signs, doll. Because I do the same damn thing.”

You stared at him, heart hammering. The wind stirred between you, the gulls cawing above and the hush of the surf. The world felt too still, too intimate, like the air itself was holding its breath.

“Where is this coming from?” you managed, voice smaller than you intended.

He let out a slow breath, rubbing the back of his neck.

“I don’t know,” he admitted. “Maybe because watching you today, watching you work, impressed me. I know it impressed Steve and Sam. Maybe it just got me thinking about how things could be. How things should be.”

“I don’t want things to change,” you said, too fast, too sharp. “I like it how it is now.”

“Oh yeah?” His gaze still unflinching. “And what about all this makes you so happy?”

You opened your mouth, then closed it. Swallowed hard.

“You,” you said quietly, bitter as the ocean air. “You make me happy. I like helping you and talking things out with you. I like lessons, or when we just hang out.”

Your voice softened, as if that could make it truer. “I’m comfortable. I’m happy.” But even as the words left your lips, they curdled. They felt wrong. Hollow, like smoke in your mouth, like ash on your tongue. And you knew—God, you knew—he could see it. He could see right through it, through you.

Deflect. Deny. Subvert. The old playbook. Your armour, your sanctuary. The instinct that came too easily, a reflex honed by years of keeping the world at bay. You reached for it like a lifeline, tried to wrap it around yourself before he could press further, before he could dig up what you’d buried so deep even you barely dared look at it. Anything was easier than letting him see the soft, frightened parts. Anything was easier than letting him reach them.

You sat still for a heartbeat longer, the weight of his gaze heavy as a hand at the base of your throat. And then you moved. You pushed up from your towel, brushing sand from your palms as you crossed the short distance to where Bucky sat, stiff and watchful on the porch steps, his eyes lifted to yours, wide and unsure, as if he wasn’t sure if you’d strike him down or pull him in.

You lowered yourself, just enough to meet him, just enough to cage his face between your sand-dusted hands. You knew the grit would drive him a little mad, would catch in his stubble, smudge across his cheekbones, probably lodge itself somewhere in the joints of his vibranium arm. But you did it anyway. You did it because it was the only way you knew how to say what wouldn’t form on your tongue.

“I’m going to kiss you now,” you murmured, voice low, breath hitching in your chest. The wind tugged at your hair, lifting it from the damp heat of your neck. Your thumbs traced his cheekbones, light as the breeze. “Is that okay?”

His lips parted, maybe in a silent plea. “Yes.”

It wasn’t neat or gentle. It was messy, hungry, your mouth slanting over his, tongue sliding past his lips as he groaned low in his throat. His hands came up, tentative at first, like he didn’t know where to touch you. Then the dam broke, and his fingers threaded through your hair, pulling you closer, his other hand bracing your hip. The taste of him was salt and heat, the faint bitterness of coffee from earlier lingering on his tongue. Your breath mingled, quick and uneven, as you poured everything into it, the frustration, the fear, the need.

When you finally broke apart, both of you were breathless, lips swollen, cheeks flushed. The windchimes clattered softly, like they’d been eavesdropping on the whole thing.

You gave him a look—part promise, part challenge—and turned, heading inside. You knew it was wrong. Christ, maybe he knew it too. Knew that this was what you did when the truth got too close, when his gaze stripped you bare and the panic rose sharp beneath your skin. You’d reach for what you knew worked. The kiss, the heat, the distraction. Anything but the raw honesty of what was unfolding between you.

Your bare feet padded across the worn wooden floors, the little beach house warm with the last of the sun’s heat. You shook out your towel by the door, brushed sand from your legs and arms as best you could, then made for the tiny kitchen, rinsing your gritty hands under the tap.

You were just reaching for a towel to dry your hands when you felt him behind you, the silent, solid press of his body, the familiar weight of his hands wrapping around your waist. His fingers splayed across your bare skin, like he wasn’t sure how close he was allowed to be but couldn’t stay away. His breath was warm against your ear, his nose brushing along the curve of your neck as he nuzzled there, the stubble of his jaw rough but welcome.

“I’m not trying to upset you,” Bucky murmured, voice low and earnest, the words vibrating against your skin. “I’m not trying to argue. I just care about you.”

“I know.” The words barely made it past your lips as you turned in his arms.

His hands framed your face, his mouth on yours. His thumb brushed your cheek, his other hand slipping down to your waist like he knew the shape of you by heart. The scent of salt air clung to him, to you. The kitchen felt impossibly small, the world shrinking down to just this. Just him, just now.

When he finally pulled back, breath warm against your lips, his forehead rested lightly against yours. “You make me happy too, you know,” he murmured, an honest confession. “More than I think you even realise.”

Your heart gave a traitorous lurch, and you swallowed hard, your hands still resting at his sides, fingers curling into the fabric of his shirt. “Don’t say things like that,” you whispered, but there was no bite to it, no real protest.

“Why not?” His mouth quirked into a soft, crooked smile. “’Cause you might believe me?”

You let out a breath, half laugh, half sigh, leaning into him. “Hmph…”

His mouth found yours again, slow and searching. His thumb kept stroking your cheek, tenderly, while his other hand slipped lower, fingers curling around the curve of your hips as if to steady himself as much as you.

The worn floorboards creaked softly beneath you both as you shifted, as he nudged closer, fitting his body to yours like a puzzle piece. The scent of him—spearmint, sea salt, the faint leather tang of his jacket still clinging to him—filled your senses, dizzying in its familiarity.

Your hands slid up his chest, fingers splaying over the hard lines of muscle beneath the soft cotton. His heartbeat thudded steadily and sure beneath your palm.

Without thinking, without planning, you found your back hitting the edge of the counter. His hands followed the movement instinctively, guiding, steadying, as you hitched yourself up onto the worn wood.

Bucky stepped in, between your parted legs, his hands finding your thighs, thumbs tracing slow, absent circles over your skin. His lips sought yours again, deeper now, as if he couldn’t get close enough. And you let him, you gave yourself over to it, to him. Your fingers threaded through his hair, pulling him closer, greedy for his touch, his taste.

The kiss deepened, your breath mingling, your pulse thundering in your ears. Your hand skimmed lower, a slow, teasing path along his stomach, until your fingers brushed under the edge of his waistband, intent on taking control the way you always did, the way that felt safe and predictable. A soft sound escaped you, half a plea, half a groan.

He stopped you, catching your wrist gently just as your palm began to slip beneath the fabric. When you looked up, his blue eyes met yours, dark with heat, yes, but steady. Sure.

“No,” Bucky said, voice low, roughened by want, thumb brushing your wrist. “I want to make you feel good.”

You stilled.

Pure, unfiltered, raw panic slammed through your gut like a punch you didn’t see coming. It rose fast, too fast, thick and all-consuming, choking the breath in your throat. The edges of the kitchen blurred, vision tunnelling to just him. The closeness of his body, the heat of him, the solid press of the cabinet at your back—

You dragged in a breath, but it scraped through your chest ragged and raw. Metallic fear coated your tongue, your pulse roaring too loudly in your ears to even think.

Your free hand twitched, half-formed in the start of that signal—the three taps. You could feel the ghost of it against his arm already, your fingertips itching to retreat into that small mercy, that lifeline you’d always given each other without question.

But you didn’t. God, you didn’t.

Because if you did, this would change. He would see. He would know. And then the questions would come, the soft ones, the careful ones, the ones that peeled you open in ways that scared you more than anything. And what then? What would become of you?

No. No, you couldn’t let that happen. The thought made your heart pound harder, made your throat burn. You needed to do this. Needed to show him, show yourself, that you were fine. That you weren’t broken. This was different. He was different. That you could be the person he saw when he looked at you, brave, whole, unflinching.

Even if inside you felt like you were unravelling at the seams.

Your breath shuddered as you forced it deeper, trying to steady the wild beat of your heart. You blinked hard, trying to clear the haze creeping at the edges of your vision, trying to quiet the voice in your head screaming. And you clung to him, to Bucky—

Your Bucky.

He could never hurt you.

You swallowed hard, trying to drown the panic, trying to push it down where he couldn’t see. You could do this. You would do this. You trusted him. More than anyone.

“Can I make you feel good, doll?” His voice was soft, low, threaded with something that almost sounded like hope. His palm glided slowly up your forearm, warm and steady, the rasp of his calloused skin grounding. He didn’t see the storm behind your eyes, didn’t feel the stone lodged deep in your gut.

“Is that what you want?” You whispered, your voice hoarse.

“Yes.” The word came out on a breath, “more than anything.”

And for a moment—just a moment—fear loosened its grip.

Your mind spun back, unbidden, to all the nights you’d lain awake wanting this, wanting him. The ache of it. The sleepless hours where your hand found your own skin, your own heat, and you pretended, just for a heartbeat, that it was his touch. You thought of the months you and Bucky hadn’t spoken, how that want had burned hotter because of it, how his absence had left you hollow and restless.

And now here he was. His body so close, his hands gentle where they held you. And you remembered every time he had touched you. His hesitance, his tenderness, his devotion hidden in the brush of knuckles, the graze of fingertips.

It stirred a molten heat in your gut, one more welcome than panic.

“Yes.” The word tore from you roughly, your forehead tipping to his, your eyes fluttering shut as frustration and need coiled tight inside you.

You felt his breath hitch, felt the tremor, the hesitation in his hands even as they touched you, almost shy as they smoothed along your exposed thighs. His breath was warm against your cheek, his lips hovering just near your jaw, like he wasn’t sure he had permission to go further, like he didn’t trust himself to do this right.

“Bucky…” you whispered, threading your fingers through his hair, coaxing him to look at you. His gaze flicked up, blue eyes wide, the vulnerability in them making your heart squeeze. His palms were broad and heated where they held you, but they trembled ever so slightly, like the weight of wanting was almost too much to bear. “Are you sure?”

“I—” His throat bobbed as he swallowed, his thumb tracing slow circles just above your waistband. “I just don’t want to mess this up.”

The honesty in his voice, the way it cracked around the edges, nearly undid you. You cupped his face, feeling the prickle of stubble under your palms and the tension coiled in his jaw.

“You won’t,” you murmured, stroking softly beneath his eyes. “You can’t. Just… touch me. However you want. I’m right here.”

Something within him eased, you felt it against your mouth as you leaned in, trying to pour every bit of reassurance into the slide of your lips. His hands roamed more boldly, exploring the dip of your waist, the curve of your thigh. It felt like worship the way he took his time, mapping your skin, committing it to memory.

The heat built between you, slow and consuming, and the edge of panic drowned out. You arched into him as his mouth followed, kisses pressing into the sensitive hollow beneath your ear, down the line of your neck. The small kitchen disappeared, the world narrowing again until it was just him, just this. His hands moved as if guided by instinct now, though there was still that delicious edge of hesitance that made every touch precious. His hand skimmed lower, calloused pads slipping beneath the thin band of your swimsuit bottom. You gasped, fingers fisting in his shirt.

And for the first time in far too long, maybe in your entire life, fear didn’t spike. You didn’t choke, you melted—

His breath stuttered, and he froze just over your mound. His forehead rested against your shoulder, his voice uncertain. “Tell me what to do, doll. I want to—I just… I don’t want to hurt you.”

You smiled, the kind of soft, private smile only he ever got to see. Your fingers found his wrist gently, guiding his hand down, slipping it fully beneath the fabric, where you were already warm and wet for him. “You’re not gonna hurt me. You’re perfect. Just… slow. Start slow.”

You saw his lips part, saw his pupils blow wide, felt the tremor in his fingers as they touched you where you wanted him most. His gaze flicked to yours, awed, wrecked.

“That’s good,” you breathed, the words tumbling out on a shaky exhale as your heart thundered against your ribs. Your hips moved instinctively, chasing his touch, tilting into him, desperate for more. “That’s so good, Bucky…”

His fingers trembled, tentative but eager as he explored. He traced the slick heat of you, learning every reaction, every way your body responded to his touch. Your hand slid over his, guiding him gently.

“Here,” you whispered, voice thick with want. His breath stuttered as his fingertips grazed your clit. “Feel that? That’s where I want you.”

A shaky breath left him, and he followed, so careful it made your heart ache. Your own nervousness forgotten, you arched a little, legs falling open wider, encouraging him. “You’re not gonna hurt me. I promise. I want this. I want you.”

That seemed to steady him. His fingers slid through your slick heat, finding your clit again. You shivered. But still, he hesitated, waiting, watching your face.

“Circle it,” you murmured, voice low and pleading, your hand tangling in his hair, fingers threading through the soft strands as you gently urged him on. “Gently. Like this…” You rocked your hips, showing him the rhythm, slow and steady, letting him feel how you moved beneath him. And God, he followed, so tentative at first, testing, learning, then growing surer as he felt your breath hitch, your body tense, your pulse race beneath his hands.

“That’s it,” you gasped, pleasure building, slow and deep, coiling low in your belly. “Good. Fuck, that’s good Bucky.”

The praise tumbled from your lips, and it only seemed to fuel him. His fingers moved with more purpose now, every breath, every sigh from you making him more confident. His thumb found a rhythm, steady and sure, as two fingers slid inside you, filling you, and the low groan that broke from him when he felt you clench around him made the heat bloom hotter, deeper.

He buried his face against your neck, nose brushing your skin, breath warm and ragged in your ear. You kept guiding him, your voice cracking as a pleasured sob bubbled in your chest. “That’s good—Please just…You’re doing so well, Bucky. So well.”

And for the first time in what felt like forever, you let yourself just feel. Let him take control, knowing he would never misuse it.

Every time you gasped or sighed his name, you felt him react, his body pressed closer, his kisses growing hungrier, his fingers more confident. His vibranium hand anchored at your waist, holding you steady as he worked you. His mouth brushed your ear.

“You’re… so beautiful like this,” he managed, voice rough, as if the sight of you unravelled him.

Your head fell back, eyes fluttering shut, the world outside the two of you blurring to nothing. The kitchen, the sea breeze, the clatter of seashell chimes, all of it faded, lost beneath the crash of pleasure building inside you. His thumb kept that perfect rhythm, his fingers filling you, stroking you. Your hips rolled, chasing him as you found yourself already trembling on edge.

You tried to keep guiding him, tried to tell him how perfect it was, how right, but the words blurred as the pleasure built, as he guided you through every tremble, every sharp breath, every subtle roll of your hips.

“You feel so good,” he muttered, voice wrecked, lips brushing your jaw, your ear. “So fuckin’ good like this…”

And then you couldn’t speak, couldn’t do anything but hold on as he pushed you over the edge, his name falling from your lips in a broken moan, toes curling, back arching, body trembling apart under his hand. Your breathing was ragged as Bucky’s fingers kept moving, slow and sure, guided by every gasp, every shiver he coaxed from you. His forehead pressed to yours, fingers gentle now, soothing you through the aftershocks. His focus was absolute, blue eyes darkened, intent, watching you like you were the only thing in the world worth seeing. And you were. To him, you always had been.

“I think I get it now,” he murmured, voice rough-edged, low like a secret.

Your lashes fluttered, your mind hazy with the pleasure he so patiently built inside you. “Hm?” you managed, head tipping forward. You opened your eyes to find him watching you, like you were the most incredible thing he’d ever seen.

Then, softly, with that mix of wonder and affection that always, always undid you, he spoke.

“Why you like watching me finish.” His voice was a rasp, reverent and wrecked all at once. And before you could reply—before you could even think—you watched as he brought his fingers to his mouth, slow and purposeful, tasting you, sucking his fingers clean with a soft, satisfied hum.

It was obscene.

Your body nearly gave out. You gripped the edge of the counter for support, chest rising and falling, heart pounding so hard it drowned out the sound of the sea and the chimes.

“Jesus Christ,” you whispered, dragging a shaky hand through your salt-tangled hair, trying to catch your breath. The strands clung to your damp skin. Your bikini bottoms were twisted at your hips, darkened with wetness, your thighs still trembling from the slow burn of his touch. “You’re gonna be the death of me.”

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#bucky barnes x reader #fic rec

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