#bucky barnes fic

[crybabycabin]

touch and go | b.b.

✮ synopsis: he's the Winter Soldier, and you're just you. but when your skin touches his, he becomes bucky barnes again.

(or: the soulmate fic where touch is everything and bucky barnes will fight his way back to you, one broken memory at a time.)

✮ pairing: ca:tws!bucky x soulmate!reader

✮ disclaimers: fem!reader, soulmates, violence/action sequences, graphic descriptions of torture/memory wiping, PTSD, panic attacks, dissociation, past torture, brainwashing, heavy angst, touch deprivation, references to past violence/assassinations, hurt/comfort, fluff, eventual happy ending, bucky is down horrendously bad

✮ warnings: (18+) MDNI, explicit sexual content, unprotected sex, p in v, oral (f receiving), overstimulation, multiple orgasms, soul bond sex (enhanced sensations), touch-starved bucky, possessive behavior, marking/bruising, praise kink, body worship, emotional sex, crying during sex (in a good way), size kink if you squint, bucky has a dirty filthy mouth

✮ word count: 14.3k

✮ a/n: re-uploading all my fics to this blog so i'm posting a ca:tws-era oldie but goodie (the last 4k of this is straight smut, so if that's not your cup of tea feel free to stop at the **)

bonus drabble main masterlist

The library basement feels like a crypt tonight—all dead air and fluorescent buzz that makes your molars ache.

You've been down here so long your bones have started to match the temperature of the concrete, cold seeping through your jeans where you've been sitting cross-legged on the floor, surrounded by a semi-circle of photocopied articles that all essentially say the same nothing in different ways.

3:17 AM according to your phone, which you check compulsively every twenty minutes like maybe time will take pity and skip forward to your deadline. The security guard made his last round two hours ago—Gerald? Gary? Something with a G—his whistling fading up the stairwell along with any pretense that you're not completely alone down here.

Your neck cracks when you roll it, vertebrae protesting the last six hours of hunching over sources that shouldn't be this hard to parse. But your advisor had smiled that sharp little smile when assigning this topic, the one that says let's see if you're really cut out for this, and spite is a hell of a motivator.

Even if your eyes are burning. Even if the coffee tastes like battery acid. Even if your soul bond has been aching since midnight with that peculiar emptiness you've learned to ignore.

The lights flicker—building's older than sin, held together by asbestos and prayer—but the air changes with it. Shifts. Like all the oxygen just remembered it had somewhere else to be.

Your fingers still on the keyboard mid-sentence.

Don't be stupid. It's a basement. In a library. The scariest thing down here is your browser history.

But your body knows things your mind pretends it doesn't. Every hair follicle suddenly awake, skin prickling with the kind of ancient warning that kept humans from being eaten in the dark. Your heartbeat kicks up, stuttering from normal to concerned between one breath and the next.

You turn.

He stands at the edge of the stacks like violence in human form.

Black tactical gear eats the light, makes him look like someone cut a hole in reality and taught it how to hunt. The mask covering the lower half of his face should make him less human, but somehow it's worse—forces you to focus on the eyes that track your movement with the kind of empty precision that makes your hindbrain scream predator predator predator.

"Oh." The sound punches out of you, high and strangled.

He doesn't speak. Doesn't need to. Just moves toward you with the kind of lethal economy that makes you understand, suddenly and completely, why rabbits freeze when hawks circle overhead. No wasted motion. No hesitation. Just purpose distilled into muscle and intent.

Your body tries—God, it tries. Scrambling backward, papers scattering, laptop sliding off your thighs to crack against the floor in what feels like slow motion. Three months of work fracturing into digital garbage as you crab-walk backward, palms slipping on photocopies, knee catching on your backpack hard enough to send you sprawling.

He crosses the space between you like it's nothing.

Like you're nothing.

His hand finds your throat before you've even processed standing, leather and pressure sending you backward into the wall hard enough to knock the air from your lungs. Old brick catches your hair, pulls it, but that barely registers against the feeling of being pinned like an insect, specimen for examination before disposal.

Both your hands fly to his wrist, fingernails catching on tactical fabric that won't give, won't move, won't budge. He's not crushing your windpipe—not yet—but the promise is there in the careful placement of his thumb, the calculated pressure that says I could, if I wanted to.

"Please—" It comes out thin, reedy. Your right hand abandons his wrist to push against his chest, trying to create distance that doesn't exist, will never exist. "I don't know what you—I'm nobody, I'm just—"

His head tilts. Minute. Considering. The eyes stay empty, stay cold, but something flickers there—assessment, maybe. Calculation. How long it will take. How quiet you'll be.

Your left hand keeps clawing at his grip while your right slides up his chest, finds the edge of his tactical vest, pushes uselessly at a shoulder that might as well be carved from stone. But the movement makes you stretch, makes your hand slip higher, past the collar of his gear, past the edge of the mask, until—

Your fingertips brush his jaw.

Skin against skin.

The world breaks apart.

Heat races from that point of contact like lightning seeking ground, if lightning could rewrite your DNA as it traveled. Every nerve ending lights up at once, not with pain but with recognition so profound it feels like drowning in reverse. Like every cell in your body suddenly remembers how to breathe.

His entire body locks. The hand at your throat spasms, loosens, and you hear him make a sound—sharp, bitten off, like someone just slid a knife between his ribs. Those empty eyes blow wide, pupils expanding until there's barely any gray left, and his chest heaves against your palm like he's just broken the surface after being underwater too long.

He rips the mask off with his free hand. Tears it away like it's burning him, revealing a face that makes your chest cavity feel too small. Sharp jaw, soft mouth, stubble that catches the shit fluorescent lighting and turns it into shadow. Beautiful in the way broken things can be beautiful, in the way that makes you want to cut yourself on the edges.

The leather glove at your throat disappears—he tears it off with his teeth, movements gone jerky and desperate where they were smooth before. Then his bare hand is cupping your face, thumb brushing your cheekbone with the kind of reverence reserved for holy things, impossible things, things that might disappear if you breathe wrong.

He pulls you forward, or maybe he falls into you—either way, your foreheads meet in the space between one heartbeat and the next. His breath fans across your face, ragged and hot, and you can feel him shaking. This man who moved like death incarnate thirty seconds ago is shaking.

"Oh," he breathes, and his voice—Christ, his voice is nothing like you imagined during those empty nights when the bond ached worst. Rough like he hasn't used it in years. Soft like he's afraid it'll break something. Accent pulling at the vowels in ways that make your chest hurt. "Oh, no. No, not—not like this."

You can't move. Can't think. Can't process anything beyond the electricity still racing through your veins, the place where his thumb traces your cheekbone like he's trying to memorize the architecture of your face through touch alone. Your hands are caught between you, one still fisted in his tactical vest, the other pressed flat against his chest where you can feel his heart hammering out a rhythm that matches yours.

He pulls back just enough to look at you, and the devastation in his eyes makes your throat close for reasons that have nothing to do with violence. Gray like winter mornings, like grief, like the moment before the sky breaks open.

"I'm sorry," he whispers, wrecked. His thumb catches the tear you didn't realize was sliding down your cheek, and the tenderness of it makes you want to scream. "I'm so fucking sorry, I didn't—I couldn't—"

"Who are you?" Your voice comes out destroyed, barely recognizable. The soul bond hums between you like a live wire, like coming home to a place that's on fire, and you don't know whether to run toward it or away.

His jaw works, muscles tightening and releasing like he's fighting something immense. When he speaks again, it's careful. Measured. Like each word costs him something irreplaceable.

"Someone who's going to disappear." His forehead presses against yours again, harder this time, desperate. Both hands frame your face now, holding you like something precious, something he's about to lose. "Someone who needs you to run. Now. Before—"

A sound echoes down the stairwell. Footsteps. Multiple sets.

The change in him is instant and terrible. The softness vanishes like it was never there, replaced by the same lethal efficiency that brought him here, but now there's something else in his eyes. Something that looks like anguish.

"Forgive me," he says, and before you can ask for what, his thumb finds a spot behind your jaw.

The world tilts. Your legs go liquid. But he catches you—of course he catches you—lowers you to the ground like you're made of spun glass while your vision tunnels to nothing.

The last thing you feel is his mouth pressed to your forehead, words whispered against your skin in a language you don't recognize but somehow understand.

I'll find you again.

I promise.

I'm sorry.

When security finds you four hours later, you have bruises on your throat that look like purple-black fingerprints, a concussion that makes the world swim, and no memory the EMTs will accept of how you ended up unconscious in a locked basement.

But you remember.

You remember the way his hands shook when he held your face. You remember the devastation in winter-gray eyes. You remember the electricity of recognition, the soul bond snapping into place only to be severed, leaving you with a phantom ache that feels like dying in slow motion.

There's a leather glove clutched in your fist that no one can pry from your fingers.

You tell them you don't remember where it came from.

You lie.

The world had always been divided into two types of people: those who'd found their match and those still waiting.

You'd grown up watching the found ones move through life with that particular brand of settled confidence, like they'd discovered some fundamental truth the rest of you were still stumbling toward.

Your mother used to tell the story at dinner parties, after her second glass of wine made her sentimental. How she'd been twenty-three, working at a bank in downtown Brooklyn, when a man came in to dispute an overdraft fee. Their hands touched when she passed back his paperwork. The bond snapped into place like a rubber band that had been stretched across decades, just waiting to contract.

She'd knocked over her coffee. He'd forgotten his own name for thirty seconds. They'd been married six months later.

"You just know," she'd say, fingers intertwined with your father's across the table. "It's like every cell in your body suddenly remembers what it was made for."

You'd wanted to believe her. Spent your eighteenth birthday waiting for that recognition to hit, for your body to suddenly make sense in a way it never had before.

But days turned to weeks turned to months, and all you felt was the same low-grade emptiness everyone without a bond carried—that constant, quiet ache of incompleteness.

By twenty-one, you'd stopped looking for it in every accidental touch.

By twenty-three, you'd convinced yourself you were one of the statistical anomalies. No bond. No match. Just you and your dissertation and a future that looked exactly like your present, only with better coffee and maybe tenure if you played your cards right.

The bruises have faded to sick yellow-green by the time you make it back to campus. Two weeks of medical leave that you spent staring at your apartment ceiling, trying to make sense of something that refuses to be made sensible. The official report sits in your email, cc'd to your advisor and the department head and probably half the university's legal team: Student found unconscious in library basement. Possible assault. No cameras functioning. Investigation ongoing.

You don't correct them. Don't mention the glove hidden in your nightstand drawer. Don't explain that the bruises on your throat match the exact span of fingers that had held your face like you were something holy, something worth breaking for.

Your body remembers even when your mind tries to forget. The soul bond, severed as quickly as it formed, has left you feeling like someone hollowed out your chest cavity with a melon baller. It's worse than before—before was just absence. This is active loss. This is knowing exactly what you're missing.

The dreams start the first night home from the hospital.

Not nightmares—that would be easier. These are soft things that leave you gasping awake at 3 AM with tears on your face and your hand pressed to your cheek where he'd touched you. Dreams where those gray eyes find yours across impossible distances. Where his hands shake as they frame your face. Where he whispers apologies in languages you don't speak but somehow understand.

Sometimes you dream of snow. Of cold so profound it burns. Of a voice saying his name—names?—until there's nothing left but the mission.

Sometimes you dream of falling. Of a train that screams through mountain passes. Of reaching for something—someone—who's always just beyond your fingertips.

But mostly you dream of that moment. The mask coming off. The devastating gentleness of his forehead against yours. The way he breathed you in like his lungs hadn't recognized oxygen until then, like you were the first real thing he'd touched in decades.

You become an expert in lying about the nightmares. "Trauma response," you tell the university-mandated therapist. "Yes, I'm processing. No, I don't remember details. Yes, I feel safe on campus."

Lies. All lies.

You remember everything. The weight of him. The contrast between violence and tenderness that shouldn't have existed in the same person. The way the soul bond had sung between you for those impossible seconds—not the gentle hum your mother described, but something desperate and raw, like two halves of something broken trying to fuse back together.

The research starts three weeks after the incident. You tell yourself it's academic curiosity. Tell yourself you're not the first person to lose a soulmate before really finding them. There are support groups. Statistics. An entire subset of psychology dedicated to severed bonds and what they do to the human psyche.

Increased rates of depression. Anxiety. Insomnia. Some subjects report physical pain at the site of initial contact. Others experience what researchers call "phantom bond syndrome"—the persistent sensation of a connection that no longer exists.

You check every box. Feel him in every room you enter, just a second too late. Wake up with your hand pressed to your face, trying to hold onto the ghost of leather and gunpowder and something metallic you couldn't place then but can't stop tasting now.

The databases give you nothing. Facial recognition software turns up empty. You sketch what you remember of his face—strong jaw, soft mouth, eyes like winter—but it feels like trying to draw music, like something essential gets lost in translation.

"Maybe he was military," Katrina suggests over coffee that tastes like disappointment. She's trying to help, your best friend since undergrad, but she looks at you with the kind of careful concern reserved for people about to break. "Special ops or something. That would explain the tactical gear."

You don't tell her about the way he moved. Don't mention that special ops soldiers don't usually have metal arms—you'd felt it when he caught you, the strange whir of plates adjusting beneath the fabric. Don't explain that whatever he was, military doesn't quite cover it.

December bleeds into January. You submit your dissertation proposal late, blame the incident, receive an extension wrapped in sympathetic looks. The bruises are long gone but you wear scarves anyway, can't stand the feeling of air against your throat where his thumb had pressed.

Your google search history becomes a testament to obsession:

“severed soul bonds recovery time?” “can soul bonds reconnect?” “military tactical gear supplier identification” “metal prosthetic arm advanced” “soul bond physical pain management”

Nothing. Always nothing.

But late at night, when the world sleeps and you're alone with the ache that lives between your ribs, you pull out the glove. Run your fingers over worn leather that's been softened by use and something else—care, maybe. The kind of attention that comes from having nothing else to focus on.

It smells like winter. Like violence. Like the ghost of cologne that might have been nice once, before it mixed with gunpowder and fear and whatever else clings to people who move through the world like weapons.

You press it to your face and breathe deep, eyes closed, trying to summon those impossible seconds when he'd looked at you like you were salvation and damnation all at once. When his voice had broken on an apology for something you didn't understand. When he'd promised to find you again in words you shouldn't have been able to translate but did.

The bond throbs. Phantom pain for a phantom connection.

You fold the glove carefully. Place it back in the drawer. Go to bed knowing you'll dream of gray eyes and the kind of gentleness that only comes from people who've forgotten they deserve it.

Tomorrow you'll get up. Go to class. Pretend your chest doesn't feel like someone excavated it with rusty tools. Pretend you don't scan every face on campus, looking for winter eyes and a jaw that could cut glass.

But tonight, you let yourself remember. Let yourself feel the echo of his forehead against yours, the desperate press of his mouth to your skin, the way he'd held you like you were worth breaking the world for.

I'll find you again.

You touch your throat, the memory of leather and promise.

I'm waiting.

The asset doesn't fight anymore.

Hasn't for years. Learned the hard way that resistance only makes it worse—more voltage, longer sessions, deeper cuts into whatever remains of the person he might have been.

Better to go limp. Better to let them position him like a doll, open his mouth for the rubber guard, wait for the electricity to wash it all away.

The asset craves it sometimes. The blankness. The nothing. Easier than carrying the weight of what his hands have done.

But Bucky Barnes fights.

Screams himself raw before they get the guard between his teeth. Thrashes against the restraints hard enough to bend the metal table, to make the technicians step back with wide eyes because the asset never does this, hasn't done this in fifteen years, not since they perfected the chair's calibration.

"Hold him!" Pierce's voice cuts through the chaos, sharp with irritation. "Get those restraints tightened before—"

Bucky's metal arm tears through the leather strap like tissue paper. Swings wild, catches a handler across the jaw with a crack that sends him spinning into medical equipment. Two more rush forward and he fights them with everything he has, everything he'd forgotten he could be.

Soft hands on his face. Bright eyes wide with recognition. The soul bond singing between them like coming home—

"No!" The word tears out of him, accent thick with desperation. Russian, English, something older—he doesn't know anymore, doesn't care. "Please—please, I can't—"

A needle finds his neck. Sedative, fast-acting, enough to drop an elephant. His knees buckle but he keeps fighting, keeps reaching for—what? The memory's already going slippery, falling through his fingers like water.

Someone. There was someone. Wasn't there?

"Interesting." Pierce circles him as four handlers wrestle him into the chair, voice clinical. "What happened on the mission? You terminated the target, but something affected you. The timeline's off by forty-three minutes."

Bucky's jaw works around the guard they're shoving between his teeth. Can't tell them. Won't tell them. But what is he protecting? The feeling's there—urgent, desperate, worth dying for—but the shape of it keeps shifting.

A face. Soft mouth parted in shock. The way she'd—

The electricity hits before he can finish the thought.

White-hot agony races through every nerve ending, bows his back against the restraints they've doubled, tripled. The scream locks in his throat, comes out as a sound that doesn't belong to anything human. But underneath the pain, worse than the pain, is the feeling of something essential being carved out of him.

Don't take her, some part of him begs. Take everything else, but not her, not this—

But the machine doesn't care about please. Doesn't care that he's crying—when did he start crying? The asset doesn't cry. The asset doesn't feel. But Bucky Barnes is sobbing, choking on the rubber guard as memories start to fracture and fade.

Her hand against his jaw. The world breaking open. Recognition so profound it rewrote thirty years of programming in seconds—

Another pulse. Stronger. Pierce has turned the dial past safety parameters, past sanity, past anything they've done before.

"Sir," one of the technicians ventures, nervous. "The readings—"

"Continue."

Forehead to forehead. Breathing her in. The apology scraping his throat raw because he'd never wanted to meet her like this, never wanted her to know him as a weapon first and a man second—

Gone. It's gone. He reaches for it, desperate, but there's only white noise where her face should be. Only the echo of something precious he'd held for minutes—hours?—seconds?—he doesn't know anymore.

The machine winds down. Silence except for his ragged breathing, the drip of something (blood? tears?) hitting the concrete floor.

"Asset."

He doesn't respond. Can't. There's something wrong with his chest, like someone reached in and scooped out everything that mattered.

"Asset."

Training kicks in where consciousness fails. His head lifts, eyes focusing with effort on the man in the suit. Pierce. Handler. The one who holds the leash.

"Ready to comply." The words come out broken. Mechanical. But correct.

"Mission report."

"Target eliminated. No witnesses." A pause. Something scratches at the back of his mind, urgent, important. But when he reaches for it there's nothing but static. "Extraction successful."

Pierce studies him, pale eyes narrowed. "And the deviation? You were off-schedule."

The asset blinks. Searches the white noise of his mind for an answer that makes sense. "Unexpected resistance. Handled."

"I see." Pierce doesn't look convinced, but he waves to the technicians. "Run a full cognitive recalibration. I want him stable before the next deployment."

They unstrap him eventually. He doesn't fight. Doesn't do anything but stare at his metal hand, trying to understand why it feels wrong. Why everything feels wrong. There's an ache in his chest that wasn't there before—or was it always there? He can't remember. Can't remember anything but the mission, the chair, the readiness to comply.

But that night, locked in cryo-prep, he dreams.

Fragments. Glimpses. A basement that smells like old paper and fear. Someone pressed against a wall, hands pushing at his chest. The feeling of skin against skin and the world exploding into color he didn't know existed.

He wakes with her ghost on his lips—no name, no face, just the shape of an apology in a language he's not supposed to know.

The asset reports for cryo on schedule. Lies still as they prep the chamber, ice already forming in the tubes that will freeze him until the next time he's needed. But as consciousness fades, as the cold takes him under, one thought persists:

Someone. There was someone. And I've lost them.

The machine hisses. Frost spreads across the glass.

The asset sleeps.

Bucky Barnes screams.

The Starbucks on 42nd doesn't have soul bonds on the menu, but they do have overpriced lattes and witnesses, which is why you're here instead of home, staring at your bedroom ceiling and trying to parse nightmares from memories.

Six months.

Six months of the glove under your pillow losing his scent. Six months of your advisor asking pointed questions about your "lack of focus" and your therapist prescribing sleeping pills that don't work because how do you medicate a severed soul bond?

How do you explain that you're mourning someone you knew for less than five minutes?

You're arguing with yourself about the merits of a fourth shot of espresso when the world explodes.

Glass shatters inward, the windows becoming a thousand diamonds catching afternoon light. Your coffee hits the floor—there goes eight dollars you don't have—as your body moves on instinct, dropping behind the counter with five other people who smell like fear and pumpkin spice.

Screaming. So much screaming. Cars screeching outside, the percussion of something that might be gunfire but sounds too wrong, too close, too real for a Tuesday afternoon in Manhattan.

You peek around the espresso machine and your heart forgets how to beat.

He's standing in the middle of the street like death dressed for winter. Same tactical gear, same casual violence, same way of moving that makes everyone else look like they're traveling through molasses. The mask covers the lower half of his face again, but you'd know those eyes anywhere. Have been seeing them every night for six months, after all.

A cop raises his weapon. The soldier—your soulmate, your ghost, your nightly torment—disarms him with an economy of motion that's almost beautiful. The crack of breaking fingers carries even through the shattered windows.

Get up, your brain screams. Run. Move. Do something that isn't standing here like a deer watching headlights come to claim it.

But your body has other plans. Your treacherous, soul-bonded body that recognizes his even across thirty feet of chaos and broken glass. You're moving before conscious thought catches up, stumbling through the destroyed storefront on legs that feel like they belong to someone else.

This is stupid. Monumentally stupid. The kind of stupid that gets psychology PhD candidates killed in broad daylight. But your hand is already reaching, already grasping, because maybe—

Your fingers close around his wrist.

The barest slip of skin where his sleeve has ridden up, your thumb finding his pulse like it was made for nothing else. The connection slams through you—heat and recognition and yes, finally, yes—

The gun clatters to the asphalt.

His whole body goes rigid, that same terrible stillness from before. You watch his pupils dilate, watch six months of careful nothing shatter in his eyes as Bucky Barnes crashes back into existence.

He moves so fast you don't process it. One second you're standing there, thumb on his pulse, the next you're spinning, back slamming into his chest as his metal arm locks across your body. The gun—when did he pick it up?—presses cold against your temple.

You stop breathing.

Around you, cops and civilians alike freeze. Weapons lower incrementally because now there's a hostage situation, now there's a girl who was stupid enough to touch the Winter Soldier and—

"Name." His voice in your ear, so quiet you almost miss it under the sirens. That sound that had haunted your dreams, rougher now, desperate. "Your name. Please."

Your lips barely move, sound threading between heartbeats. You tell him, soft as a whisper.

The gun doesn't waver. To everyone watching, he's perfectly still, a predator considering prey. But his metal thumb moves against your bare arm where your shirt has ridden up. Gentle. Deliberate. Tracing letters maybe, or just feeling, and you wonder if he can—if there are sensors in the metal that let him—

"My name is James Buchanan Barnes." Each word careful, precious, pressed into the space below your ear like a secret. Like a gift. "Bucky. My name is Bucky. I won't remember, so I need you to—you have to remember for me."

James Buchanan Barnes.

It tickles something in your memory. A history class, maybe. Something about World War II, about Captain America, about—

"What have they done to you?" The words slip out, horrified, because the pieces are trying to fit together but the picture they're making can't be right, can't be possible—

"Find me." Urgent now. His realness, his hereness makes your chest ache with completion even as your mind screams danger. "When I—after they—find me. Please. I can't—"

His voice cracks.

The gun leaves your temple.

The crack of the shot makes you flinch, but it's the cop to your left who goes down, clutching his knee, screaming. Bucky shoves you—not hard, but enough to send you stumbling into the crowd as he moves the opposite direction, using the chaos as cover.

You hit the ground hard, knees cracking against asphalt, palms scraped raw. Around you, people scatter like startled birds. Someone's hands on your shoulders, pulling you back, asking if you're hurt, if you need medical attention.

You can't answer. Can't do anything but stare at the place where he'd stood, where he'd held you, where he'd given you his name like it was the only thing he had left to give.

Your arm throbs where his metal thumb had traced patterns. When you look down, you can see the faint red marks—not bruises, just pressure. Just proof.

"Miss? Miss, we need to get you checked out—"

"I'm fine." You're not. You're the opposite of fine. You're shattering in slow motion, held together by adrenaline and the phantom feeling of his chest against your back. "I'm—he didn't hurt me."

The EMT looks skeptical. "He held a gun to your head."

"He didn't hurt me," you repeat, and you're not sure who you're trying to convince.

They take you anyway. St. Luke's emergency room, where you spend four hours being poked and prodded and questioned by people who look at you like you might break or explode. The FBI shows up eventually, two agents in bad suits who ask the same questions fifteen different ways.

"Did he say anything to you?"

My name is James Buchanan Barnes.

"No."

"Are you sure? Even something small could help."

Find me.

"He didn't say anything."

They don't believe you. You can see it in the way they exchange glances, the way their pens hover over notepads. But what are you supposed to tell them? That the most wanted man in America is your soulmate? That he gave you his name like a prayer? That even now, hours later, you can still feel the phantom press of metal against your skin?

They release you near midnight with a card and instructions to call if you remember anything. You take a cab home because the subway feels too exposed, too dangerous, like maybe he'll be there in the shadows between stops.

Your apartment is exactly as you left it. Laptop open on the counter, half a cup of cold coffee growing something ambitious by the sink. Normal. Safe.

Empty.

You sink onto your bed, still fully dressed, and pull out your phone. Your search history is already damning, but what's one more nail in the coffin?

James Buchanan Barnes

The results make your stomach drop.

Born 1917. Best friend of Steve Rogers, Captain America. Sergeant in the 107th Infantry Regiment. Fell from a train in the Alps in 1945. Presumed dead.

Except he's not dead. He's not dead because you touched him today, felt his pulse under your thumb, heard him breathing in your ear as he held you like something breakable and precious all at once.

You dig deeper. Past the official records, past the Wikipedia entries, into the conspiracy forums and leaked documents that only half-load on your shitty wifi.

The Winter Soldier.

HYDRA.

Seventy years of ghost stories.

An assassin who appears and disappears like smoke, leaving bodies in his wake.

Your soulmate is a century-old brainwashed assassin. Your soulmate is Bucky Barnes, who died in 1945. Who didn't die. Who was turned into something else, something violent and beautiful and dangerous.

Who fights back to consciousness every time you touch him only to be dragged under again.

What have they done to you?

You close your laptop. Lie back on your bed, fully clothed, and stare at the water stain on your ceiling that looks like a rabbit if you squint. Your arm still throbs where he touched you. Traced letters, maybe, or just—

You bolt upright.

Grab a pen, try to recreate the pattern from memory on your other arm. It takes three tries before the movements feel right, before the shapes resolve into something recognizable.

Numbers.

He'd traced numbers on your skin. Coordinates.

Find me, he'd said.

Your hands shake as you type them into your phone. A location upstate, middle of nowhere, the kind of place where no one would look twice at an abandoned building or hear the screams from underground.

You should leave it alone. Should forget his name, forget the numbers, forget the feeling of being whole for thirty seconds in the middle of chaos. Should be smart and safe and boring and alive.

Instead, you screenshot the location. Book a rental car for tomorrow. Pack a bag with things that might matter—the glove, pepper spray that won't do shit against a super soldier but makes you feel better, a first aid kit you probably won't get the chance to use.

Find me.

You're going to. God help you, you're going to find James Buchanan Barnes.

Even if it kills you.

(It probably will.)

(You're going anyway.)

The HYDRA facility squats in the pre-dawn darkness like something that crawled out of the Cold War and forgot to die. You're crammed in the back of a tactical van between enough weaponry to level a city block and Captain America's guilt, which somehow takes up more space.

Forty-eight hours. That's all it took from wine-drunk-email-to-vague-Avengers-PR-listing this—body armor that doesn't fit right, your heart hammering against ceramic plates, and the ghost of coordinates still throbbing on your arm where he'd traced them.

"Two minutes to insertion." Natasha's voice crackles through comms you're not supposed to have. But Steve had insisted, jaw set in that way that apparently nobody argues with. Not even Fury.

Steve Rogers had shown up at your door with Natasha Romanoff and Nick Fury, your roommate had screamed in her towel, and you'd told them everything. About the library. About the way Bucky's entire being had shifted when you touched him, like watching someone break the surface after drowning.

About how he'd held you in that Starbucks, whispered his name against your ear like a secret, like salvation, like the only thing he had left that was his.

Steve had gone very, very still. Then: "We're finding him. We're bringing him home."

Now he's sitting across from you, shield balanced against his knee, and you can see why people follow him into impossible situations. It's not the shoulders or the jaw or the way he fills out tactical gear like he was born to it. It's the way he looks at you—not through you, not around you, but at you. Like you matter. Like your connection to his best friend makes you worth protecting.

"Remember," he says quietly, pitched below the engine noise. "The moment we find him, the moment you make contact—"

"I know." Your fingers won't stop moving, tracing and retracing the numbers Bucky left on your skin. "Skin contact. Bring him back." Don't let go."

What you don't say: What if it doesn't work this time? What if they've wiped him too many times? What if whatever's left isn't enough to—

The van stops.

Everything happens too fast after that. Doors flying open, bodies moving with practiced precision, you stumbling to keep up as Steve's hand on your elbow guides you through pre-dawn shadows toward a concrete mouth that looks like it's waiting to swallow you whole.

The facility is worse inside. All industrial fluorescents and that particular kind of silence that sounds like screaming if you listen too hard. Your soul bond, quiet for months, starts to ache with proximity—a deep, bone-level recognition that makes your teeth chatter.

"Northeast corridor clear." Natasha's voice, clinical.

"Southwest clear." Someone else, call sign you didn't catch.

"Movement in the lower levels." Another voice. "Looks like they're mobilizing—"

A sound cuts through the chatter. Not quite human. Not quite animal. Something between a scream and static that makes your hindbrain light up with warnings to run.

Steve's already moving. "That's him."

You follow because what else can you do? Down stairs that smell like rust and terror, through corridors that branch like diseased arteries. The ache in your chest intensifies with each level down, soul bond pulling taut as piano wire.

Then—

The room opens before you like a wound. Medical equipment that belongs in museums next to things that belong in nightmares. And in the center, strapped to a chair that looks more like an electric chair than anything medical—

"Bucky." Steve's voice breaks on it.

He's shirtless, sweat-slick and shaking, with enough electricity running through him to light up half of Brooklyn. His hair hangs limp around his face, and even from here you can see the way his muscles lock and release in waves as current pulses through the chair. Fresh burn marks lattice across his chest where the nodes attach, and there's blood—so much blood—dripping from where he's fought against the restraints.

There are bodies on the floor. Technicians, by their white coats. The blood is fresh enough to still be spreading.

"Stay back." Natasha has her weapon trained on him, all business. "He's still the Winter—"

Bucky's head snaps up.

His eyes find yours across twenty feet of blood and machinery.

Time stops.

Those aren't the empty eyes from the library. Aren't the desperate clarity from the coffee shop. These are something else entirely—feral and frightened and so fucking broken under all that damage. He looks like something that's been torn apart and reassembled wrong, like an animal that's been in a cage so long it's forgotten what sky looks like.

You're moving before conscious thought catches up. Dodging Steve's reaching hand, slipping past Natasha's outstretched arm. Your feet slip in blood—whose blood? His? Theirs?—but you don't stop. Can't stop. The soul bond is screaming, every cell in your body reaching for its other half.

"Don't—" Someone shouts. Might be Steve. Might be God himself. Doesn't matter.

Because Bucky's watching you approach with the kind of stillness that precedes violence. His metal arm—and this close you can see how it's grafted to flesh, red and raw and infected at the edges—flexes against the restraints. The leather creaks. His chest heaves with each breath, and there's a wild look in his eyes like he can't decide if you're real or another torture.

You collapse on the arm of the chair. His breathing is ragged, chest heaving, and this close you can see old scars layered on new ones, a roadmap of decades of damage. Seventy years of this. Seventy years of being unmade and remade into something sharp and wrong.

Your hand reaches up, slow as you'd approach a wounded animal.

He flinches.

Actually flinches, this assassin who's probably felt every kind of pain there is. A sound escapes him—small, wounded, barely human. But when your fingertips brush his cheek—skin to skin, that electric recognition—his whole body convulses.

"Oh," you breathe, and it's inadequate, it's nothing, it's everything. Because the bond slots into place like coming home if home was a person who'd been carved hollow and filled with ghosts.

His eyes clear incrementally. Pupil contraction, focus sharpening, and then—

The noise that tears out of him is inhuman. Seventy years of grief and rage and desperate loneliness condensed into a single sound that makes your bones ache. His metal hand shatters the restraint like tissue paper, then the flesh one, and before you can process the movement he's dragging you up, up, into his lap, crushing you against his chest with desperate strength.

"You," he's saying, over and over, voice wrecked beyond recognition. "You, you, you—real, you're real, you're—"

His hands are everywhere at once. Metal fingers tangling in your hair, flesh hand splayed across your back hard enough to bruise, holding you like you might dissolve if he loosens his grip for even a second. He buries his face in the curve of your neck and the sob that escapes him is pure agony, seventy years of touch starvation hitting him all at once.

You can feel him shaking—no, not shaking, convulsing, like his body doesn't know how to process gentle touch anymore. Doesn't know what to do with softness after decades of nothing but pain.

"I'm here," you whisper against his temple, your own tears falling freely. "I'm real. I found you. I've got you."

His response is to hold you tighter, tight enough that breathing becomes difficult, but you don't care. Can't care when he's falling apart in your arms like this. The metal hand fists in your tactical vest and you hear fabric tear, but he doesn't seem to notice. He's pressing his face harder into your throat, breathing you in like you're air and he's been suffocating for seventy years.

"Thought I dreamed you." The words come out destroyed, muffled against your skin. "They said—they said I made you up. That the pain was making me see things. But you smell real. You feel—" His flesh hand slides up to cup the back of your head, holding you in place. "Please be real. Please, please be real."

"I'm real." You press your lips to his temple, just a brief touch of comfort. "James Buchanan Barnes, you're real and I'm real and I found you."

His breath hitches at his full name, and suddenly he's pulling back just enough to look at you. This close, you can see everything—the burst blood vessels in his eyes, the way his pupils can't quite focus, the decades of accumulated scars. He looks ancient. He looks young. He looks absolutely shattered.

"Don't know who that is anymore." Raw honesty, delivered while his thumbs trace your cheekbones with desperate reverence. "Don't know who I am when I'm not killing. When they're not—" He breaks off, jaw working. "I've been empty for so long. So fucking long. And then you touched me and I remembered what it felt like to be human and they took it away—"

"They can't take it away again." You frame his face with your hands, forcing him to meet your eyes. "We're leaving. Right now. Together."

"You don't understand." He's crying openly now, no shame in it, just pure emotional overflow. "Seventy years. Seventy fucking years of this chair, this room, these walls. They put me in the dark and take me out to kill and put me back and I can't—when they say the words, I disappear. Everything disappears."

"Then we don't let them say the words."

"I've killed so many people." He presses his forehead to yours hard enough to hurt, but the contact seems to calm something in him. "Children. Civilians. Good people. Bad people. So many I lost count. The things they made me do—the things I did—"

"I don't care."

"You should." His metal hand comes up to wrap around your throat, gentle but present. "This hand has strangled innocent people. These fingers have pulled triggers that ended lives. I'm not—I'm not good. I'm not worth—"

"Stop." You turn your head to press your lips to his metal palm, and the sound he makes is pure agony. "You're worth everything. You're my soulmate. You're—"

He makes a broken noise and crushes you against him again, like he's trying to crawl inside your skin. His whole body trembles with the effort of holding you close enough, like no amount of contact will ever be sufficient after seventy years of nothing.

"They're gonna wipe me again." Matter-of-fact. Resigned. "Soon as they realize what happened here. They always do. And I'll forget you again. Forget this. And next time—" His voice breaks. "Next time they'll make sure I can't touch you. They'll find ways to hurt you through me. They'll make me—"

"No." Your hands tighten on his face. "No, they won't. We're leaving. Steve's here. Natasha. We're getting you out."

"Stevie?" For the first time, his eyes flicker past you, landing on his best friend. The confusion there is heartbreaking. "But you're—you're supposed to be—"

"Hey, Buck." Steve's voice is thick with emotion. "It's me. It's really me. We're taking you home."

But Bucky's already looking back at you, like he can't bear to look away for more than seconds. His flesh hand hasn't stopped moving—tracing your face, your neck, tangling in your hair like he's trying to memorize you through touch alone.

"I don't want to forget again." It comes out small, broken. "Please. I can't do it again. Can't lose you again. It'll kill me. It'll—"

"You won't forget." You shift in his lap, wrap your arms around his neck, and he makes a sound like you've given him salvation. "I won't let them take you. I won't let them hurt you anymore. I promise."

"We need to move." Natasha's voice, soft but urgent. "Security response in two minutes."

Steve's at your side instantly, but when he reaches for Bucky, the soldier flinches back violently, metal arm coming up in defense. The only thing that keeps him from lashing out is your hand on his chest, your voice in his ear.

"It's okay. It's Steve. He's safe. He's here to help."

"Can you walk?" Steve asks, careful to keep his distance.

Bucky nods against your shoulder, but when you try to move off his lap, his arms lock around you with desperate strength.

"No." Panicked. "No, please. Need to—need to touch—"

"I'm not going anywhere." You run your fingers through his hair, and he leans into it like a cat. "We're walking out of here together. But you have to let me stand up."

It takes visible effort for him to loosen his grip. When you stand, he follows immediately, swaying slightly. He towers over you even hunched with exhaustion, and when his hand finds yours, it's with the grip of a drowning man finding driftwood.

You start moving as a unit, but Bucky can't stop touching you. His free hand keeps finding your face, your hair, your shoulder, like he needs constant confirmation you're real. At one point he stops entirely, pulls you back against his chest, and just breathes you in for several seconds while Steve and Natasha stand guard.

"Left," he says suddenly as you reach a junction, pulling you down a side corridor. "Service tunnel. I've—I've tried before. Three times. No. Four? They always—" His free hand comes up to his head, pressing against his temple.

"Hey." You squeeze his hand. "Doesn't matter. Which way?"

The service tunnel is narrow and dark. Bucky pulls you through it like muscle memory, but halfway through he stops, pressing you against the wall. His hands frame your face in the darkness.

"What if this isn't real?" Desperate. "What if I'm still in the chair? What if this is just another way they're breaking me?"

You reach up to cradle his face in return, thumbs brushing over his cheekbones. "Does this feel like a dream?"

"No." He breathes the word against your mouth. "No, it feels—it feels like waking up."

The exit spills you out into pre-dawn forest. The quinjet looms out of the darkness, and for the first time in seventy years, Bucky Barnes runs toward freedom instead of away from it.

But even on the jet, even safe, he can't stop holding you. He pulls you into his lap on the bench seats, ignoring the medical team, ignoring everyone, and just holds on. His face stays buried in your neck during takeoff, his arms locked around you like prison bars in reverse—keeping the world out instead of keeping him in.

"You're free," you whisper, over and over, like a prayer. "You're free. You're safe. You're mine."

"Yours," he agrees, and finally, finally, his death grip loosens just enough for you to breathe. "Yours. Always yours. Even when I couldn't remember. Even in the dark. Somehow I was always yours."

The sun breaks the horizon as you fly toward home, and for the first time in seventy years, Bucky Barnes believes he might actually make it there.

The first time Bucky Barnes calls you at 3 AM, your body knows it's him before your mind catches up.

The phone vibrates against your nightstand, and your hand's already reaching, heart already racing—not with fear but with recognition. That soul-deep pull that's been your compass for three months now.

"Bucky?" Your voice comes out sleep-rough, concerned.

Just breathing on the other end. Ragged, like he's been running. Or fighting. The sound makes your chest tight.

"Can't—" His voice cracks like splintered wood. "Can't remember if the blood on my hands is from yesterday or a decade ago."

You're already moving, sheets tangling around your legs as you hunt for clothes in the dark. "Where are you?"

"Steve's. The Tower. I'm—" A shaky exhale that you feel in your own lungs. "I'm safe. Everyone's safe. Just needed—"

"Me." Not a question. The bond thrums with his distress, a phantom ache under your ribs. "I'm coming."

"You don't have to—"

"I'm coming."

Twenty minutes later, Happy's pulling up to the Tower's private entrance. You're wearing the first things your hands found—pajama shorts with snowflakes on them that you stole from your roommate, one of Bucky's hoodies that still smells like him (cedar and gunpowder and something indefinably him).

The elevator ride feels eternal. Your skin prickles with proximity, the bond pulling taut as you rise through the floors. By the time JARVIS deposits you on the residential level, your hands are shaking with the need to touch him, to soothe whatever's tearing him apart.

You find him on the couch, knees drawn up to his chest like he's trying to make himself smaller. His metal hand is clenched so tight you can hear the recalibration whirs, flesh hand buried in his hair. Steve hovers nearby, hands opening and closing like he wants to help but doesn't know how.

"Buck," you breathe.

His head snaps up, and oh—his eyes are winter-wild, pupils blown with panic, caught in some liminal space between then and now. You watch him catalog you in pieces: face, voice, the way you're already moving toward him like gravity's reversed its pull.

You don't speak. Don't need to. Just fold yourself onto the couch beside him, close enough that the line of your body presses against his from shoulder to hip. His flesh hand finds yours immediately, desperate, fingers lacing between yours like maybe if he holds tight enough he won't drift away.

The effect is immediate—a full-body shudder, his breathing starting to sync with yours. The bond hums, warm honey spreading through your veins. Steve makes a sound—relief wrapped in something more complicated—and quietly retreats.

"Sorry," Bucky murmurs after a moment. His thumb finds your pulse point, traces it like he's counting heartbeats. "Shouldn't have woken you."

"Yes, you should have." No reproach, just fact. "That's what this is."

He turns to look at you then, really look, and you watch him surface by degrees. His metal hand comes up without conscious thought, fingertips ghosting along your jaw with impossible gentleness. The cool metal makes you shiver, but you lean into it, letting him map the reality of you.

"There you are," he whispers.

Something fractures inside you. He pulls you in—careful, always so careful with you—until your foreheads touch. His breathing ghosts across your lips, and you stay suspended in that space, sharing air and warmth and the indescribable thing that ties soul to soul.

It becomes your new normal.

The calls come at all hours. Sometimes Steve's the one calling, voice carefully controlled: "Can you come? He's asking for you." Sometimes it's Natasha, brusque but not unkind: "Barnes needs you." Once, memorably, it's Tony: "Your touch-starved assassin is having a moment. Also, he may have broken my espresso machine."

You always go.

The team adapts to your presence like you're a new piece of furniture—necessary, functional, occasionally in the way. You learn to read Bucky's tells from across a room: the way his eyes go distant when memory bleeds through, the micro-flinches when sound becomes too much, the careful way he holds himself when he's fragmenting.

But more than that, you learn the language his body speaks when it's seeking yours.

He's always careful at first, tentative as a feral cat learning to accept kindness. A brush of fingers, testing. The barest press of his palm to yours. But once that first contact is made, something in him unravels.

He touches you like he's mapping a new world.

It starts innocuous enough—fingers tangled together during movie nights, his thumb painting absent patterns on your wrist. His hand finds the small of your back when you walk, not possessive but anchoring, like he needs proof you're real. He pulls you between his knees when he's sitting, arms banding around your waist, chin notching over your shoulder while you chat with Sam about nothing important.

But as weeks become months, the touches grow bolder. Hungrier.

"Does it bother you?" he asks one afternoon.

He's had a brutal therapy session—three hours of guided recall that left him shaking and grey-faced. You'd spent the past hour with his head in your lap, your fingers carding through his hair while he pieced himself back together. His flesh hand has found its way under your shirt, palm spread wide over your ribs, and his metal fingers trace delicate patterns on the inside of your wrist.

"Does what bother me?"

"This." He gestures vaguely at the negative space between you that stopped existing weeks ago. "How much I need—" He stops. Swallows. Tries again. "How I can't stop touching you."

The question deserves honesty, so you give it consideration. Think about how your life has restructured itself around these points of contact. How you've started wearing layers just so there's always fabric to push aside, skin to find. How your body anticipates his touch now, turns toward him without conscious thought.

"No," you say finally. "It doesn't bother me."

He studies your face with those searching eyes, looking for the polite lie. You let him look, keeping your expression open.

"I've been thinking," you continue, adjusting so you can see him better. His hand immediately shifts, fingers splaying wider across your ribs like he needs more contact to make up for the movement. "About touch. About deprivation."

A muscle in his jaw ticks.

"Seventy years," you say softly. "Seventy years where touch meant pain. Programming. Violence. Where hands on you meant—"

"Stop." Rough. His hand presses harder against your ribs, feeling your heartbeat.

"—so is it any wonder you're hungry for something else? Something good?"

His exhale shudders out of him. "The doctors say it's codependence."

"The doctors haven't had their souls systematically unmade and remade." You cover his flesh hand with yours, pressing it more firmly against your skin. "You're not codependent, Bucky. You're human. You're healing. And if touch helps—"

"It's not just that it helps." The words come out jagged, confessional. "I want—" His metal hand comes up, traces the line of your throat with one careful finger. "I want to touch you all the time. Want to know the texture of every inch of your skin. Want to map you like territory, like—" He cuts himself off, jaw clenching.

Heat pools low in your stomach, but you keep your voice steady. "Like what?"

"Like you're mine." Barely audible. His eyes won't meet yours. "Like I have any right to—"

"You do." You turn into him more fully, catch his face between your palms. His eyes flutter closed, and he leans into the touch like a man starved. "You have every right. We're soulmates, Bucky. That means something."

"What if I never get better?" Raw, honest. "What if I always need this? Need you?"

"Then you'll always have me."

His eyes snap open, winter-blue and desperate. "You can't promise that."

"Watch me."

The trial is excruciating. You watch from designated seating as Bucky sits statue-still, hair pulled back severe, wearing a suit that makes him look like someone else entirely. They read names, show photographs, detail missions that exist in his memory like shattered glass—some pieces clear, others reflecting nothing but blood.

The days he testifies, he comes to you after.

Never speaks about it. Just shows up at your door looking hollowed out, and you let him in without questions. He wraps himself around you like you're the only solid thing in a tilting world, face buried in the curve of your neck, breathing you in like oxygen.

These are the times his hands grow bold.

Not inappropriate—never that. But searching. He maps you like a cartographer charting new territory. Palms skimming your sides, memorizing the curve of waist to hip. Fingers tracing the ladder of your ribs through thin fabric. Metal thumb finding the hollow of your throat where your pulse flutters hummingbird-quick.

"I need—" he'll say against your skin, words muffled and desperate.

"I know," you always answer. "Take what you need."

So he does. His flesh hand slips under your shirt, finds the warm plane of your stomach, spreads wide like he's trying to absorb your steadiness through osmosis. His metal fingers trace patterns on whatever skin he can find—the inside of your wrist, the nape of your neck, the sensitive spot behind your ear that makes you shiver.

Sometimes you'll find his hand at your sternum, metal fingers splayed over your heartbeat like he's using it to calibrate his own. Sometimes he'll trace the boundary where clothing meets skin, fingertips ghosting under hems and necklines but never pushing further, just needing to know there's softness underneath, that not everything in the world has sharp edges.

"Is this okay?" he asks every time, even as his touch grows more familiar, more certain.

"Yes," you answer every time, even as your skin heats and your breath catches and you want—

You want.

"So are you two fucking yet?"

You choke on your coffee, hot liquid searing your throat. Across the kitchen, Bucky's shoulders go rigid where he's making eggs with the kind of focus usually reserved for defusing explosives.

"Tony," Steve says, warning clear in his voice.

"What? It's a legitimate question. All that touching, the eye-fucking across every room, the way Barnes goes feral if anyone else so much as—"

"We're not." Your face burns. "That's not—we haven't—"

Tony's eyebrows achieve escape velocity. "You're telling me you've been playing the world's most intense game of grabass for three months and haven't—"

"Stark." Bucky's voice is winter-quiet, dangerous in the way that makes smart people reevaluate their life choices.

But Tony's never been accused of survival instincts. "I'm just saying, that level of sexual tension could power—"

The plate in Bucky's metal hand shatters.

Silence rings out, broken only by the drip of egg yolk hitting tile.

"I'll just." Tony backs toward the door, hands raised. "Workshop. Important things. Very important things."

He's gone before anyone can blink, leaving you, Bucky, and Steve in a kitchen that suddenly feels airless. Bucky stares at the ceramic shards in his hand like they've personally betrayed him.

"Buck—" Steve starts.

"I need air."

He's out the door before you can process the movement, leaving you with cooling eggs and Tony's words hanging in the air like smoke.

Steve sighs, the sound of a man who's aged a century in the last minute. "He's an idiot. Tony, I mean. Though Buck's also—" He stops. Runs a hand through his hair. "This is none of my business."

"But?"

"But." Steve fixes you with those earnest eyes that probably ended wars. "He thinks he's protecting you. From himself. From what he's done. He doesn't think he deserves—" A gesture encompasses you, the kitchen, the entire situation.

"That's not his decision to make."

"No," Steve agrees. "But when has that ever stopped him?"

You find Bucky on the roof because of course that's where he goes. He's sitting on the edge, legs dangling over nothing, and your heart does something complicated in your chest.

"Most people have their existential crises at ground level," you say, settling beside him carefully.

His mouth twitches—not quite a smile, but close. "Most people haven't fallen off a train."

"Fair point."

The city spreads below like a circuit board, all light and movement and life. Without looking, his hand finds yours, fingers interlacing with the ease of long practice. The bond settles, that constant thrum of rightness that comes with skin meeting skin.

"Tony's not wrong," he says eventually.

You wait, let him find the words in his own time.

"I think about it." His voice is carefully controlled, but you can feel the tremor in his hand. "Touching you. Not just—not just to ground myself. Not for the bond. I think about touching you because I want to. Because you're—"

He stops. His throat works, and when he speaks again, his voice is rougher. "Because you're beautiful. And kind. And you laugh at my terrible jokes even when they're not funny. You come when I call at 3 AM. You let me put my hands on you even though these same hands have—"

"Bucky—"

"I dream about it." The confession comes out raw. "Dream about kissing you. About how you'd taste. How you'd feel. Wake up with your name in my mouth and my hands reaching for you, and it's not about the bond, it's about—" He turns to look at you then, eyes dark with something that makes your breath catch. "It's about how much I want you. How much I want things I have no right to want."

"What if," you say, voice steadier than your pulse, "I want those same things?"

His breathing stutters. "You don't. You can't."

"Don't tell me what I want." You turn toward him fully, free hand coming up to his jaw. He leans into it helplessly, eyes falling closed. "I know exactly what I want. Who I want."

"I'm held together with duct tape and trauma," he says, but his resolve is crumbling. You can see it in the way he presses harder into your palm. "I can't take you on normal dates. Can't promise I won't have panic attacks. Can't even sleep through the night without—"

"I don't want normal." Your thumb traces his cheekbone, feels him shudder. "I want you. Every piece, every edge, every nightmare and bad day. I want the man who hums old songs when he thinks no one's listening. Who makes terrible eggs but keeps trying. Who touches me like I'm something precious and looks at me like I'm a miracle."

"You are," he breathes. "You're—"

You kiss him.

Or maybe he kisses you.

Maybe you meet in the middle, drawn together by forces older than choice.

The first press of lips is tentative, a question asked and answered in the same breath. His flesh hand comes up to cradle your face, and the tenderness of it makes your chest ache. But then you make a sound—small, needy—and something in him breaks.

Or maybe something in him finally fixes itself.

His metal arm bands around your waist, pulls you against him with desperate strength. The kiss deepens, and oh, you understand now why people write symphonies and wage wars. Because Bucky Barnes kisses like he's drowning and you're air, like he's been starving for seventy years and you're sustenance, like maybe the universe knew exactly what it was doing when it tied your souls together.

He kisses you like he's trying to crawl inside your skin.

His tongue traces the seam of your lips and you open for him without thought, and the sound he makes—broken, grateful—sends heat racing down your spine. He tastes like coffee and something indefinably him, and you chase that taste deeper, hands fisting in his shirt.

He doesn't surface for air. Doesn't pause. Just tilts his head to find a better angle and kisses you deeper, harder, like he's trying to memorize the shape of your mouth, the texture of your sighs. His metal hand spans your lower back, pulling you impossibly closer, while his flesh hand maps your face, thumb stroking your cheek even as his mouth devastates you.

You're half in his lap now, twisted awkwardly on the ledge, and you don't care. Can't care about anything beyond the heat of his mouth, the way he groans when you nip at his lower lip, the way his hands shake where they hold you.

"Wanted this," he gasps against your mouth, not pulling back enough to actually stop kissing you. "Wanted you. Before I even knew you. So long, so fucking long—"

You answer by sliding your hands into his hair, nails scraping his scalp, and he shudders against you, kiss going a little sloppy and desperate. He's not cold, not controlled, not careful. He's burning, pressing against you like he wants to fuse at the molecular level, like the soul bond isn't enough and never could be.

When you finally break apart—only because oxygen is apparently necessary—you're both wrecked. His lips are swollen, eyes dark and dazed. You probably look the same. His forehead drops to yours, and you can feel him trembling against you, all that careful control finally, beautifully shattered.

"Okay?" His voice is destroyed, rough like he's been screaming.

"So far past okay," you manage. "Though your timing—we're on a roof, Barnes."

He laughs, the sound surprised out of him, and presses kisses to your cheeks, your jaw, the corner of your mouth like he can't quite stop now that he's started. "Sorry. I'll plan better next time."

"Next time?" You're going for teasing but it comes out breathless, hopeful.

His eyes find yours, and the intensity there steals any words you might have had. "Every time. Any time. All the time, if you'll—if you want—"

You press your mouth to his again, swallowing whatever self-deprecating thing he was about to say. He makes a noise of pure relief and hauls you closer, and you think maybe Tony Stark has exactly one good point in his entire existence.

Not that you'll ever tell him.

** The science had been clinical, sterile words on a page that you'd skimmed in college while nursing a hangover and trying to make sense of your Behavioral Psych reading.

Enhanced neural connectivity. Synchronized endorphin response. Heightened sensory feedback between bonded pairs.

Academic language that utterly failed to capture this—Bucky's mouth hot and slick and desperate against your throat while his hands relearn territory they've been mapping under cotton and denim for months, each touch sending electricity racing down your spine like lightning seeking ground.

"Fucking finally," he growls against your pulse point, and you feel the words more than hear them, vibrating through skin into bone, into the very marrow of you. His metal hand spans your ribs, each individual plate recalibrating against your skin with tiny whirs and clicks, like even the machinery of him is trying to get closer.

"You know what it's been like? Having you close enough to smell, to taste in the air, but not—Christ, the way you tremble each time I touch you, like you're starving for it—"

You try to form words but he's already peeling your shirt away with hands that shake despite their practiced efficiency, and the first full press of his bare chest to yours—scarred skin against soft, furnace heat against cool air—whites out anything resembling higher thought.

The soul bond doesn't just sing—it screams, every nerve ending recognizing its other half and lighting up like a constellation, like a neural map catching fire.

"Oh," you gasp, and it's inadequate, it's nothing, but Bucky goes rigid above you like you've shot electricity straight through his spine.

"Yeah," he agrees, voice absolutely wrecked. His forehead drops to your shoulder, dog tags dragging cold metal across your overheated chest as he pants against your skin, each exhale making you shiver. "Yeah, that's—fuck, is it always gonna feel like this? Like touching a live wire, just—"

"More," you manage, arching into him until there's no space left between your bodies, and you feel his control splinter like ice under pressure.

His mouth finds yours again, hungry and graceless, all that careful restraint from months of chaste touches finally, blessedly gone. His tongue slides against yours and you taste coffee and something metallic—blood maybe, from where he's been biting his lip. When you nip at his bottom lip he makes a sound like something wounded, something primal, hips rolling into yours with zero finesse, just pure need, his cock hard and insistent through too many layers of fabric.

"Sensitive," he warns against your mouth, but it comes out more like a plea, like he's begging you to understand. "Everything's dialed up to eleven, I can—I can hear your blood moving in your veins. Can feel every place you're warm and wet and—fuck—" His whole body shudders when you rake your nails down his back.

Your fingers find the scarred terrain of his back and he actually whimpers, muscles rolling under your touch like water, like something liquid and desperate. That's when the second revelation hits: whatever you're feeling, he's feeling it magnified. Seventy years of sensory deprivation plus enhanced everything plus a soul bond that's been stretched taut for months—

"Gonna lose my mind," he mutters, mouthing at your jaw, your throat, anywhere he can reach, leaving wet trails that cool in the air and make you shiver. His stubble scrapes against sensitive skin and you gasp, hips bucking up involuntarily. "Already lost it. Lost it the second you touched me in that library. Do you know? Do you have any fucking idea what it's like, having someone reach inside your skull and turn all the lights on? Like going from black and white to color, like—Jesus—"

His flesh hand fumbles with your pants, clumsy with urgency, while his metal hand grips your hip hard enough to leave marks—and god, you hope it does, hope you wear his fingerprints for days. The button pops free and he makes a victorious sound that might be funny if you weren't so desperate, if you weren't already so wet you can feel it soaking through your underwear.

His hand slides lower, fingers slipping beneath elastic, and when he finds you soaked and swollen, the noise that punches out of him is pure animal—a growl that starts in his chest and rumbles through both your bodies where they're pressed together.

"Christ." His fingers slip through wetness, exploratory and reverent, and you can feel the tremor in his hand. "This is—this is for me? You get like this just from—" He circles your clit with his thumb and you cry out, hips jerking. "Fuck, you're dripping. Can feel your pulse in your cunt, baby. So swollen, so ready—"

"From you," you gasp, grinding down against his hand as he slides two fingers inside without warning. The stretch makes you moan, makes your walls clench around him immediately. "Always from you. Only from you."

Something fractures in his expression—something raw and possessive and desperately vulnerable all at once. He hooks his fingers, finding that spot that makes your vision white out, and watches your face like he's cataloging miracles, like he's mapping the geography of your pleasure. "Say that again."

"Only you." It comes out breathless, edged with desperation as he finds a rhythm that has your thighs shaking, has wet sounds filling the air between you. "Only ever you, Bucky, please—"

"No." His thumb finds your clit and circles with devastating precision, pressure just the right side of too much. "Not yet. Not when I've been imagining this for—do you know how many times I've jerked off in the shower thinking about this? About how you'd sound when you're desperate? How you'd taste?" He adds a third finger, stretching you wider, and grins dark and feral when you sob. "Bet you thought about it too. Bet you touched yourself thinking about me, didn't you? Tell me."

"Yes," you admit, face burning, and his pupils blow even wider.

He drops to his knees between your thighs suddenly, metal hand holding you open like something precious, like an offering. The first swipe of his tongue has you jackknifing off the bed, but he just pins you down with his metal arm across your hips and does it again, slower, a long drag from entrance to clit that has you seeing stars.

"Fuckin' knew it," he groans against you, and the vibration of his voice makes you clench around nothing. "Knew you'd taste like heaven. Like mine. Knew you'd shake for me just like this." He spreads you wider with his fingers, looking at you with dark eyes. "So pretty. So perfect." He spits on your cunt, watching it mix with your wetness, and the filthy intimacy of it makes you moan. "Gonna ruin you for anyone else. Gonna make it so you can't come without thinking of my mouth, my fingers, my cock."

His words dissolve into action, mouth working you over with single-minded focus. He eats you out like he's starving, like he's dying, all lips and tongue and just the edge of teeth. The soul bond makes it devastating—you don't just feel the physical sensation, you feel his hunger, his satisfaction at finally being allowed to give pleasure instead of pain. His metal fingers dig into your thigh hard enough to bruise and you hope they do, hope you wear his marks for days, hope everyone who sees them knows exactly who put them there.

"Close," you warn, though he probably knows—can probably taste it in the way your cunt's clenching, feel it in the bond that's gone molten between you. Your thighs are shaking, muscles pulled so tight they hurt, and there's a sound filling the room that you distantly realize is you, making noises you've never made before.

He pulls back just enough to speak, lips glossy with your wetness, chin soaked, eyes wild. "Yeah? You gonna come on my tongue? Gonna let me taste it?" He slides three fingers in, curling with devastating intent, and your back arches off the bed. "Come on, sweetheart. Give it up. Let me have it, don't be greedy."

You shatter with a sound that might be his name, might be pure noise. The orgasm rolls through you in waves, each crest higher than the last, and he works you through it mercilessly, not letting up even when you try to squirm away from oversensitivity. Through the bond you feel his echoing pleasure—not physical, not yet, but something bone-deep and satisfied and proud.

"Atta girl," he murmurs against your inner thigh, pressing kisses to sweat-slick skin while his fingers still move lazily inside you, drawing out aftershocks. "So fucking beautiful. Look at you, all fucked out and soft and mine. Could do this for hours. Will do this for hours. Keep you here, coming apart on my hands, my mouth, until you're so sensitive you cry, until you forget there was ever a time we weren't—"

"Bucky." You tug at his hair, need making your voice rough despite the orgasm still sparking through your nerves. "Get up here. Need you inside me. Need—"

He's moving before you finish, shucking his pants with graceless efficiency. The first glimpse of his cock—thick and long and leaking steadily—makes your mouth water and your cunt clench with fresh want. When you reach for him he catches your wrist, gentle but firm.

"Next time," he promises, reading your intent with unnerving accuracy. His voice is strained, like he's hanging on by a thread. "Let you taste me next time. Let you choke on it, fuck that pretty mouth until you're drooling, until—" He cuts himself off with visible effort, chest heaving. "But right now I need—if I don't get inside you in the next ten seconds I'm gonna fucking die—"

"So do it." You spread your legs wider, shameless, showing him how wet and open you are, how ready. "Come on, sergeant. Follow through."

His control snaps audibly. He's on you between one breath and the next, pinning you down with his weight, cock nudging at your entrance. The head catches on your rim and you both groan, but he stops there, trembling with effort, forehead pressed to yours.

"Look at me." It's not a request—it's a command, rough and desperate. You force your eyes open, meet his gaze—winter blue swallowed by black, raw and vulnerable and fierce. "Need to see you when I—need to know you're here, that you're real, that this is—"

"Real," you confirm, wrapping your legs around his waist, heels digging into his ass to urge him forward. "I'm real. You're real. This is—oh fuck—"

He pushes inside in one long, devastating slide, and the world reconstitutes itself around this moment. Around the stretch and burn and perfect fullness of him, around the broken sound he makes against your throat—half sob, half growl—around the soul bond lighting up like a supernova, like every nerve ending suddenly discovering what it was made for.

"Fuck." His metal hand grips the headboard hard enough to crack wood, splinters raining down. "Fuck, you're—tight. So fucking tight. Hot. Perfect. Can feel—God fucking damn, I can feel everything. Can feel how good it is for you, can feel how your cunt's trying to pull me deeper—" He shifts his hips and hits something devastating inside you, makes you clench around him involuntarily. He laughs, breathless. "Yeah, right there. That's it, isn't it, baby? Right fucking there."

He moves experimentally, just a slow roll of hips, and you both moan at the drag of him inside you, at how your bodies fit together like they were made for this, only this. The angle is perfect—he's reading your body's responses in real-time, adjusting until every thrust has you climbing higher, until you're making noises that would embarrass you if you could think.

"Not gonna last," he warns, rhythm already getting ragged, desperate. Sweat drips from his forehead onto your chest, mixing with the sheen already there. "Not this time. Too much, too long waiting, too—the way you feel—" His flesh hand finds your throat, rests there warm and possessive, thumb pressing just enough to make your pulse flutter. "Like velvet. Like coming home. Like I could fuck you forever and it would never be enough—"

"Don't care." You pull his head down, bite at his jaw hard enough to leave marks just to feel him shudder, to watch his control fracture further. "Just want you. Just need—"

"Tell me." His grip on your throat tightens fractionally, not enough to restrict breathing but enough to make you aware, to make you feel it. "Tell me what you need. Want to give you everything. Want to be so good for you, sweetheart. Want to make up for every night you went to bed empty when you should've been—"

"Full of you," you finish, and his hips stutter, lose rhythm entirely for a moment.

"Yeah?" His thumb presses against your pulse, feeling how fast your heart's racing. "That what you need? Need me to fill you up? Keep you full and fucked out and dripping with my come? Make sure everyone knows you're mine, that I'm the only one who gets to—"

"Yes." You're beyond shame, beyond anything but the building pressure where he's driving into you harder now, each thrust shoving you up the bed. The wet sounds of your bodies meeting fill the room, obscene and perfect. "Yes, Bucky, please—"

"Say my name again." He's fucking you harder now, chasing his release with single-minded intensity. The bed frame creaks ominously with each thrust. "Want to hear it when you come. Want to feel it when you—fuck, you're clenching around me, baby. You close? You gonna come on my cock? Gonna be good for me?"

You nod frantically, words lost to the slide of him inside you, the relentless pressure against that perfect spot, the way his pubic bone grinds against your clit with each thrust. His metal fingers find your clit, cold against overheated flesh, and the contrast makes you scream.

"That's it," he growls, working your clit in tight circles while maintaining that punishing rhythm. "Come for me. Come on my cock like a good girl. Let me feel it, let me—fuck, there it is, I can feel it starting, you're getting so tight—"

You come with his name on your lips, back arching off the bed so hard you think you might snap in half. The orgasm slams through you like a freight train, like dying and being reborn, every muscle locking up as pleasure whites out your vision. The bond makes it circular—your pleasure slamming into him and reflecting back, amplified, until you're both shaking with it, until you can't tell where you end and he begins.

"Oh fuck—" His rhythm breaks entirely, becomes something desperate and animal. "Fuck, I'm gonna—gonna fill you up, gonna—"

"Inside." You dig your nails into his shoulders hard enough to draw blood, hold him deep even as oversensitivity makes you want to squirm away. "Want to feel it. Want all of it."

He comes with a sound that's half your name, half prayer, half roar, hips grinding deep as he spills inside you. You feel it all—not just the physical sensation of his cock pulsing, filling you with warmth, but the emotional avalanche through the bond. Relief and want and mine mine mine and something that feels dangerously close to devotion, to worship, to complete and utter belonging.

He fucks you through it, shallow little thrusts like he can't help himself, like his body won't stop even though he's already given you everything. Each movement makes more come leak out around his cock, makes wet sounds that have you hiding your face in his shoulder, embarrassed and aroused in equal measure.

The aftershocks last forever, little sparks of shared pleasure that have you both gasping, twitching, clutching at each other like lifelines. When he finally stills, he doesn't pull out, just shifts enough that his weight isn't crushing you, keeping you plugged full of him.

"Stay," he mumbles into your neck, words slurred like he's drunk. "Just—stay exactly like this. Please. Need to—need to keep you full. Need to know you're here, that this is real, that I get to—"

"Not going anywhere." You card your fingers through his sweat-damp hair, feel him shiver at the gentle touch after all that intensity. "Never going anywhere. You're stuck with me, Barnes."

His arms tighten around you, and you can feel his smile against your skin, feel the way his cock twitches inside you with renewed interest. "Good. Because now that I know what this feels like, what you feel like—" He rocks his hips experimentally, and you both groan as you feel his come shift inside you, feel how wet and open you are. "We're not leaving this bed for a week. Gonna fuck you in every position I've imagined. Gonna map every inch of your body with my mouth. Gonna find out exactly how many times I can make you come before you beg me to stop—"

"What about—"

He kisses you quiet, slow and thorough and filthy, tongue fucking into your mouth in a pale imitation of what his cock just did. When he pulls back, his eyes are dark with promise and his cock is fully hard inside you again, enhanced recovery time making itself known.

"Nothing else matters," he says simply, starting to move again, slow and deep and devastating. You're so sensitive it borders on too much, but the soul bond floods you with his pleasure, his desperate need, and suddenly you're right there with him again. "Just this. Just us. Just how many times I can make you come before sunrise. How full I can keep you. How loud I can make you scream."

You clench around him involuntarily and his eyes flutter closed, hips stuttering.

"Gonna kill me," he mutters, picking up speed, the wet sounds even more obscene now with his come easing the way. "Seventy years of nothing and now—" A particularly deep thrust has you seeing stars. "Now I've got a soulmate who looks at me like I'm worth something, who touches me like I'm not a weapon, who lets me use her however I need—"

"Who loves you," you interrupt, watching his face crumble and rebuild itself, watching him fight back what looks suspiciously like tears.

"Yeah?" Barely a whisper, so vulnerable it makes your chest ache.

"Yeah." You pull him down for another kiss, pouring everything you can't say into the contact, letting him feel it through the bond. "So much. So long. Even before I knew you, I think I loved you. Think I was waiting for you."

He makes a broken sound and starts fucking you in earnest, like a man possessed, like he's trying to climb inside you and never leave. "Say it again."

"I love you."

"Again." Harder now, each thrust shoving you up the bed.

"I love you, Bucky Barnes."

He fucks you like a promise, like a prayer, like maybe if he does it right the universe will let him keep this. You come apart under him again and again, until time becomes meaningless, until the only reality is where you're joined, where the soul bond burns brightest, where his come leaks out of you with each thrust only to be fucked back in, marking you inside and out as his.

When exhaustion finally claims you both, he's still inside you, still hard, wrapped around you like armor and apology all at once. You're going to be sore tomorrow—hell, you're sore now—but you wouldn't move for anything.

The last thing you feel before sleep takes you is his lips against your temple, his voice rough with wonder and satisfaction:

"Love you too, sweetheart. More than I've got words for. More than I probably should. Gonna spend the rest of my life showing you, if you'll let me. Gonna take such good care of you. My girl. My soulmate. Mine."

"Yours," you mumble, already drifting, clenching around him one last time just to feel him shudder.

His arms tighten, and you feel his smile against your skin, feel the way his cock twitches inside you with interest despite everything.

"Forever," he promises.

"Forever."

Outside, Brooklyn wakes to another morning, unaware that two souls have finally, fully, found their way home.

check out the bonus drabble loose threads ♡

[midniqhtt]

james buchanan ‘bucky’ barnes

masterlist • marvel • 07/02/25

˚‧⁺ ･ ˖ · ୨ৎ recs six II one I two I three I four I five

gif credit - @/newavengers

here are some bucky barnes stories i’ve read, loved, and reblogged. all the admiration for the writers who share their talent so generously. please be sure to read the warnings on each fic. and if you enjoy them, let the author know by a comment, reblog, or both! ♡

𑣲 friendly banter I @wwinterwitch

sam asks for your help on a mission. you're reunited with him, Joaquín and Bucky. the last one really likes to banter. you think it's just a friendly exchange. it's actually a bit more than that

𑣲 friendly introductions I @/wwinterwitch

bucky unexpectedly shows up at your apartment, and he's brought a few people with him

𑣲 a place for yelena I @eufezco

after disappearing for weeks, consumed by her own darkness, yelena shows up in your house unexpectedly and decides to reach out to you and bucky, her best friends, just to find out that you're pregnant and you wanted her in your baby's life.

𑣲 in the middle I @ama3003

Being caught in the middle is always hard.

𑣲 everything’s just perfect I @/ama3003

You're Bucky's ex-wife and you always seem to be there whenever he needs you.

𑣲 thunderbolts? I @ang3ltine

An unexpected surprise awaits you when Bucky shows up at your house with a group of strangers

𑣲 alone in this shitty world I @starktonyx

After Yelena’s sudden outburst, the group scatters around the streets of New York. And, as if this wasn’t already the weirdest day of your life, you find yourself reaching to comfort the last person you ever thought you'd feel sorry for, John Walker. And Bucky is as confused as you are.

𑣲 would you still love me if i was a worm? I @/starktonyx

A stupid little question turns into a makeout session. Your teammates hate to see it, except for one.

𑣲 small circles I @aquaticmercy

Bucky Barnes is still getting used to modern dating… and hates that you have to work with your exes.

𑣲 interstate love song I @/aquaticmercy

Bucky tells the team he saw his Hydra days in The Void. You are the only one who knows him well enough to know he is lying.

𑣲 meet me halfway I @/aquaticmercy

Bucky has to recruit the love of his life to save New York from the void. He doesn't know if she wants to ever see him again, though.

𑣲 patron saints of nightmares I @/aquaticmercy

Bucky needs to go on a mission, so he asks the rest of the team to take care of his girl.

𑣲 elevator, baby! I @/aquaticmercy

The team thinks Bucky has a crush on the tower’s interior designer. They don’t know that they’re already married.

𑣲 cycle I @/aquaticmercy

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

𑣲 get around I @/aquaticmercy

After going on a date with Bucky, Sarah realises they're better off as friends. So she does the next best thing: sets him up with you, the Wilsons’ childhood best friend. 

𑣲 milestones I @/aquacticmercy

Bucky feels guilty for missing three months of his baby’s life while on a mission.

𑣲 not exactly a secret I @navybrat817

You and Bucky are really good teammates... and more.

𑣲 don’t look or touch I @/navybrat817

Bucky isn't having a good day and John suffers the consequences.

𑣲 hit to the head I @/navybrat817

Bucky doesn't think he needs medical attention after a hit to the head, but he's glad he met you.

𑣲 for better or for worse I @helaintoloki

You want a divorce, but Bucky needs your help for one last mission. Luckily, marriage is all about compromise

𑣲 grumpy!bucky I @lovebugism

the one where bucky wants to kiss you but the rest of the thunderbolts won't seem to let him

𑣲 in the suit?! I @delicatebarness

𑣲 you or nothing I @feathersandferns

when the Thunderbolts enter the void, Bucky goes missing. You take it upon yourself to find him, venturing into his deepest pockets of his shame.

𑣲 midnight confessions I @jobean12-blog

A late night gives you the opportunity to flirt with Bucky and the next night he comes right back for more.

𑣲 drawing the line I @fireinmoonshot

Bucky Barnes has messed up big time ... he just doesn't know it until he sees you and realises he really should've checked his texts.

𑣲 super soldier domesticated I @writingcroissant

Domestic scenes with Bucky Barnes, because Bucky Barnes deserves to be happy.

𑣲 the one that got away pt2 I @writing-for-marvel

When Bucky enters the void, he expects his memories as The Winter Soldier to haunt him, or perhaps even death itself, instead, he finds himself face to face with you the night you broke up.

𑣲 congressman!bucky I @bruisedboys

𑣲 dye me a lie I @byhuenii

You’re just a girl. an Avenger with a mind-reading gift, hair that changes when the heart breaks too loudly, and feelings for Bucky Barnes that you’ve done everything to bury. But the silence between you is loud. Misread glances, inside jokes that don’t feel like yours, and insane jealousy. He doesn't know how to love you. You’re not sure how to stop.

𑣲 a kiss to change everything I @marvelwitchergilmore

When Bucky becomes the Winter Soldier again, he follows you around. Only you. Funny thing is, you and Bucky aren't exactly friends. So why is the Winter Soldier protecting you?

𑣲 winters child I @/marvelwitchergilmore

You and your daughter live across the hall from Bucky. However, one night when your daughter won't settle, you turn to him for help.

𑣲 a thousand times before I @marvelstoriesepic

Bucky travels to an alternate universe for the sake of a mission. But he doesn’t expect to come face to face with a version of you that loves him, completely and openly. Back in his own world, he is left with a truth he can’t keep to himself anymore.

𑣲 a soldiers solace pt2 I @daystarpoet

Bucky has kept his marriage secret for three years now. He always intended to keep it that way. That was until a mission went sideways, and he found himself having to resort to the one person he swore to protect.

𑣲 i thought we were already dating I @danysdaughter

you thought you were spiraling over a situationship—meanwhile, bucky barnes had been acting like your very committed, very oblivious boyfriend the entire time. one public meltdown, a congressional office full of witnesses, and a very intense kiss later… you're officially his girl (and he never doubted it).

𑣲 wanna be yours I @daddyjackfrost

Bucky’s been in love with you for longer than he’ll admit. But when a moment of clarity after a misunderstanding on his part cracks the tension between you wide open, he finally gets to show you just how much.

𑣲 if we talked I @pellucid-constellations

After overhearing some choice words between Bucky and his best friend, you make the difficult decision to avoid him. For a week. Bucky loses his mind in the process.

[pleasantlycrazyworld]

Nothing Between Us

Summary: Bucky losing his mind when you stop him and take the condom off mid-sex

Warning: Unprotected sex (intentional), condom removal mid-sex, creampie, emotional smut, possessive!Bucky, degradation + praise kink, overstimulation, soft aftermath implied.

♥︎♥︎♥︎♥︎♥︎♥︎

Bucky was trying-really trying-to hold it together.

You were already moaning beneath him, legs wrapped tight around his waist, your body slick with sweat and your cunt squeezing him like a fist with every thrust. He’d been taking his time, keeping it controlled, steady, even though he was right on the edge. Even though every part of him wanted to ruin you.

He was close. So close.

And then your hand slid down between your bodies.

At first, he thought you were going to touch yourself, chase your orgasm with him still deep inside you--and fuck, the idea made his hips jerk.

But then he felt it. The shift. The drag of your fingers at the base of his cock.

And suddenly--

Your hand pushed his hips to still and the condom was gone.

Bucky’s eyes snapped open, he ripped away from the crook of your neck, where he planted himself to stay grounded, his rhythm faltering, heart slamming into his ribs as you tossed it aside like it didn’t matter. He stared down at you, stunned, panting. “What the hell are you doing babydoll?”

Your voice was soft, breathless, a little ruined. “I want you.”

“I’m already inside you,” his brows pinched as he growls, but it came out shaky, unsure.

You pulled your legs up higher around his hips and looked him in the eyes. “I want all of you,” you whispered. “I want you to come inside me.”

That was it. That was the moment he fucking lost it.

He didn’t hesitate. Didn’t give himself time to think. He slammed back into you--bare, raw, thick and hot--and the sound he let out wasn’t human.

“Christ, baby, fucking--I--” he groaned, the stretch hotter now, slicker, real. “You feel--God, you-- you--this has to be heaven.”

Your mouth fell open in a moan, hands digging into his back, pulling him down until he's practically laying on you. Your cunt clamped down around him like your body was begging to be filled, and Bucky fucking snapped.

His head was spinning, ears ringing as he started moving again, but there was no control left. No rhythm. Just need. “You want this?” he growled, breath hot against your jaw. “Want me to fuck you like this? Fill you up ‘til it’s leaking out of you?”

You couldn’t even form words. Just nodded, already trembling underneath him. “You’re mine,” he snarled. “My good girl, taking it raw. You don’t wanna stop me, do you? Don’t wanna go back?”

You whimpered, “Never.”

That's what did it.

His thrusts turned frantic--deep, punishing, desperate. You were crying out, clinging to him like your life depended on it, and Bucky was unraveling above you. Every time you clenched around him, it pulled him deeper, wrecked him harder. He was ready to start sobbing at the sensation "Baby fuck you're milking this cock I---" his head falls forward resting against your forehead.

You whine and whisper against him, "You're gonna make me cum Jamie"

His eyes glossed over completely, “Cum for me princess, cover my cock with your cum before You make me cum” he panted. “You want that? You want my come inside you?”

Your legs tighten around his waist as you moan louder from his words your breathing gets caught in your chest as your tremble against him, “Yes, Bucky--I James...James please.”

He slammed in one last time and came hard, buried to the hilt, cock twitching as he spilled inside you--thick, hot, so much you could already feel it dripping out around him.

He stayed there, chest heaving, forehead pressed to yours, both of you shaking with the aftershocks.

Neither of you spoke for a long moment.

Then your fingers brushed his cheek. “You okay?” He blinked. Let out a breathless, wrecked little laugh. “You just broke me,” he whispered. “Fuck completely broke me baby.”

And when you kissed him-soft, slow, full of everything you couldn’t say-he realized you’d meant to.

You wanted him wrecked. And you’d get that side of him. Every. Night after this.

♥︎♥︎♥︎♥︎♥︎♥︎

If you like my work please let me know! Reblogging, commenting and liking are huge and easy ways to let me know you're enjoying my work and it keeps me motivated to post way more!!! Request are open <3

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[magical-reid]

The Soldier and His Mission

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x Avenger!Reader

Word Count: 1K

Summary: When a trigger sends Bucky back into the grip of the Winter Soldier, he shadows you with an unyielding protectiveness that leaves the team on edge, though he doesn't harm anyone. After days of tension and careful steps, Bucky finally breaks through the icy barrier, returning to himself in a quiet, tender moment, finding solace in your presence.

You should’ve known something was wrong the moment Bucky went still.

One second, the mission was wrapping up—just another Hydra facility wiped off the map, just another set of goons taken down. The next, something triggered him. A phrase muttered in Russian over a radio, the faintest crackle of a long-dead handler’s voice. You saw the shift in his posture before he even turned around, the telltale tightening of his jaw, the blankness overtaking those usually warm blue eyes.

Bucky Barnes was gone.

The Winter Soldier stood in his place.

And yet—he didn’t hurt you.

Not when he turned to face the team, his body language bristling with danger. Not when Steve hesitated before stepping forward, his hands raised in a placating gesture. And certainly not when you cautiously called his name, your voice softer than the others.

Instead, the Soldier moved between you and everyone else.

A shield.

─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ───

Back at the Tower, you thought the episode would pass. That maybe, after a few hours, after enough familiar sights and sounds, Bucky would shake it off like he always did.

But the Soldier wasn’t leaving. And he had decided you were his mission.

Not to eliminate.

To protect.

At first, it was just hovering. You moved—he followed. You sat—he stood at your back, ever watchful. The others gave him space, exchanging worried glances when they thought you weren’t looking. Steve was tense, obviously trying to figure out how to break through, while Tony was less patient about it.

“This is a problem,” Stark declared after the first few hours, arms crossed as he leaned against the counter. “I mean, I hate to be the one to say it, but we have a fully armed, brainwashed assassin in the Tower again, and we all know how that went last time.”

“He’s not attacking anyone,” Natasha pointed out.

“Yet,” Tony shot back.

You ignored the argument as best you could, focusing instead on cooking something for Bucky—something normal, something familiar, something that might ground him. His eyes tracked you the entire time.

Then you miscalculated the heat on the stove.

The oil in the pan hissed and spat, and a second later, you hissed too as a sharp sting bloomed across your palm. You barely had time to react before there was a sudden blur of motion.

Bucky was on you instantly.

His flesh hand gripped your wrist, his metal one hovering protectively over the stove, as if it had personally attacked you. His face was unreadable, but his grip was firm, his hold gentle as he examined the burn.

“I’m okay,” you assured him, but he wasn’t listening.

Instead, he took the cold pack you hadn’t even reached for yet and pressed it carefully to your palm, his jaw tight, his brows furrowed in focus. You exchanged a look with Steve over Bucky’s shoulder, and the Captain exhaled, something like relief flashing in his eyes.

He was still in there.

─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ───

The Soldier continued shadowing you for the next two days, much to Tony’s frustration. But as Natasha had pointed out—he wasn’t hurting anyone.

Unless they posed a threat to you.

That was something Steve learned firsthand during a sparring session. You had barely landed a hit before Bucky, watching from the sidelines, had moved. The next thing you knew, Steve was on his ass, blinking up at the ceiling, while Bucky stood between you like a human wall, eyes cold and calculating.

“For the record,” Steve grunted as he sat up, rubbing his ribs, “I was letting her win.”

Bucky wasn’t convinced.

─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ───

It wasn’t until you needed a medical checkup that things really came to a head.

“Barnes, I have to actually examine her,” Dr. Cho said patiently, eyeing where Bucky stood between you and the med bay’s equipment.

“No,” he replied flatly.

“Bucky—” you tried.

“The room is secure.”

“That’s not the—”

“She does not require assistance.”

“I do require assistance,” you corrected. “Because I burned my hand and twisted my shoulder thanks to a certain super soldier overreacting in the gym.”

Bucky didn’t move.

You exhaled slowly.

“Okay,” you said, shifting tactics. “Then stay.”

That got his attention.

“If you want to make sure nothing happens to me,” you reasoned, “then you can stay here. But you have to let the doctor check me out.”

His expression was unreadable for a long moment. Then, after what felt like an eternity—

“…Understood.”

Progress.

─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ───

When it finally broke, it wasn’t dramatic.

There was no grand trigger, no huge revelation.

Just a moment of quiet.

You had fallen asleep on the couch, exhaustion finally winning after two days of Bucky’s overprotective hovering. When you woke up, it was to warm hands gently brushing over your wrist—both flesh and metal, but softer this time, as if relearning the feeling of touching you.

And then you heard it—his breath hitching.

A tiny, barely-there sound, but one filled with something raw.

You blinked sleepily, looking up.

Bucky was staring at you. Not the Soldier. Bucky.

His face was pale, his jaw tight, his eyes wide—his real eyes.

“…Doll?” His voice cracked over the word, like it had been caught in his throat.

You smiled sleepily, shifting so your fingers curled around his. “Hey, Buck.”

His exhale was shaky. His shoulders sagged. And when you tugged him down to you, he didn’t resist.

He just buried his face in your neck and held on.

─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ───

“You scared the hell out of me, you know,” you murmured later, your fingers absentmindedly running through his hair as he rested against you.

“I know,” he admitted, voice rough.

“You threw Steve like a ragdoll.”

“…Yeah.”

“…Kind of hot, not gonna lie.”

A laugh. Quiet, but real.

And just like that, Bucky Barnes was back.

[mandoalorian]

lessons in love

──── ୨୧ ────

lesson four: tasting

pairing: congressman!bucky barnes x f!reader

synopsis: finally, you're ready to learn the next lesson. this time, it's about your mouth—how to use it, what it means to give, and what it feels like when someone actually cares about what you need. but every flick of your tongue and every soft moan makes it harder to pretend it’s only practice.

rating/warnings: 18+ explicit content ahead, minors do not interact! ⚠️ f recieving oral, m recieving oral, fingering, handjob, cum eating, praise kink, dirty talk, bucky talks you through it, body worship, sexual harrassment in the workplace (bucky to the rescue), blake is slimy as per usual, reader feels used, bucky not feeling good enough, unspoken feelings, high tensions for the penultimate chapter.

word count: 8.3k

ෆ series masterlist | previous part | next part (coming soon)

It had been a day and a half since you’d touched him. Since you’d touched each other.

And still—no text.

You checked your phone again, for the tenth time that hour. Nothing. You typed out three different versions of a message to Bucky, all of which you promptly deleted. One was casual: 

you: had fun the other night 

Another more honest: 

you: i can’t stop thinking about you

The last one was raw: 

you: i don’t want to do this with blake anymore. i want you.

But none of them made it past the blinking cursor. Your thumbs hovered, then dropped. You dropped the phone with them.

The apartment was too quiet. Even your annoying upstairs neighbours were unusually silent today—though the absence of their nightly headboard banging gave you space to think. Unfortunately.

Every time you closed your eyes, you remembered the way Bucky had looked at you. The weight of his gaze. The press of his palm. The way his lips had parted when you wrapped your hand around him, how he’d spilled across your fingers and moaned your name like it meant something.

And maybe that was the part you couldn’t figure out—did it mean something?

You pressed the heels of your palms into your eyes and exhaled hard.

Down the block, at Capitol Hill, Bucky was having a similar crisis.

He was sitting in his office, head in his hands, ignoring two hours of emails and three missed calls from Valentina. His phone sat silent beside him, your name at the top of his pinned messages thread. Still no reply to his text from last night. Still no response to his call earlier in the day. He’d wanted to catch up with you for lunch, but he had no such luck when he called. So instead, he ate alone, some microwavable ramen that tasted like curried cardboard. 

He wanted to give you space. He knew you needed space. But God, he missed you. Not just the way you touched him, though that was seared into his skin—but the way you looked at him. Like he mattered. Like he was more than just some washed-up weapon trying to be useful again. Like he was more than just his past, or some Congressman trying to make amends.

He thought about the way your hands had trembled when you first touched him. About how soft your lips had looked when you whispered that you wanted to kiss him. And now he couldn’t stop remembering the sound of your voice when you came. He’d replayed it in his mind like a prayer.

He shifted in his chair and tried to focus on the report in front of him, but the words blurred. All he saw was you.

Meanwhile, you sat in your kitchen, a half-eaten piece of toast growing stale beside your elbow. You knew you should be getting ready. Blake was picking you up in a few hours. Dinner reservations. What happens on third dates was something you’d heard about in the movies, and you were well aware of the assumption. It was the kind of date you’d once been desperate for.

But now, you couldn’t even bring yourself to try on outfits.

Because the only person you wanted to look pretty for was avoiding you just as hard as you were avoiding him.

You wondered what would happen if you kissed Bucky again. If you asked him for more.

You wondered if he’d say yes.

You hoped he would.

──── ୨୧ ────

Bucky hadn’t meant to see it.

He was only down on the 12th floor because Valentina had requested a report from Legal, and since her assistant was nowhere to be found, the errand had fallen to him. He’d been grumbling the whole way—until he saw him.

Blake.

Leaning over a receptionist’s desk, grinning too wide.

Bucky paused in the hallway.

The man’s hand was on the desk, fingers curled possessively close to the young woman’s wrist. She laughed nervously, pulling her hand back toward her lap. Her posture tightened. She swiveled away slightly in her chair, but Blake leaned in closer.

“You know I could get you transferred upstairs if you wanted,” Blake said, low, slick. “Better office. Better view. Maybe I’d even give you my seat.” He patted at his thigh and Bucky felt himself recoil as he watched from a far.

The woman’s lips curled in a polite smile, but it didn’t reach her eyes. “That’s not necessary, sir.”

“Oh, come on. Don’t be shy now. I’ve seen you looking.”

“I haven’t been—”

Before she could finish, Bucky stepped forward in one big stride, voice like steel.

“Problem here?”

Both their heads snapped toward him. Blake’s mouth froze in a smug, half-open smile. The woman—Marianne, Bucky remembered—immediately sat straighter in her chair. Her relief was palpable.

Blake straightened like nothing was wrong, and brushed his suit down. “No problem at all. Just offering some professional advice, isn’t that right, sweetheart?”

Marianne gave a tight, uncomfortable smile.

Bucky didn’t even blink. “Why don’t you go take your lunch, Marianne?”

She hesitated, glancing between the two men. “But I—”

“I’ll let HR know you’re stepping out. Take your time.”

Marianne stood, gave Bucky a grateful look, and slipped out down the hall without saying another word.

Blake’s smile faltered. “Barnes. Something I can help you with?”

“You bothering her?” Bucky asked, calm and quiet.

Blake blinked. “Excuse me?”

He nodded toward Marianne’s retreating figure. “The intern. You bothering her?”

Blake let out a laugh, like it was all a joke. “She’s fine, man. Just a little friendly banter.”

“She didn’t look fine.”

Blake’s posture stiffened. “You’re taking this way too seriously.”

“No,” Bucky said, stepping in closer. “You’re not taking it seriously enough.”

For a moment, the office hallway fell silent. Phones rang behind closed doors. Footsteps passed. But here, in this space, the temperature dropped.

“You think that kind of behaviour flies just because you’re wearing a suit and a smile?” Bucky continued, his tone still calm, still measured. “You think she’s lucky to have your hands on her?”

“Alright, ease up,” Blake said, putting up both palms. “I didn’t do anything.”

“You were trying to touch her,” Bucky said, unmoved. “I saw it.”

Blake laughed, but it was more uncomfortable now. “You really gonna get all righteous on me, soldier?”

Bucky’s eyes darkened. “Don’t call me that.”

“Oh come on,” Blake scoffed. “Is this about her?”

Bucky didn’t respond.

Blake smirked. “Thought so. You’re protective, I’ll give you that. But let’s be honest—she’s with me. Not you. You’re just the backup plan she keeps around for emotional support.”

Bucky took one step closer. No threats. No dramatics. Just that look. The one he used to wear before snapping a man’s wrist clean through.

“She ever tells me she wants to be with you?” he said, voice quiet and graveled. “Then fine. That’s her choice. But if I see you lay a hand on another woman like that again, I won’t be as nice.”

Blake’s eyes narrowed. “You threatening me?”

Bucky smiled—but it wasn’t kind.

“No. If I were threatening you, you wouldn’t still be standing.”

A pause.

Blake shifted in place, the false bravado starting to fray. “Jesus. At the end of the day, Bucky, you’re just another terrorist who got let off. You should be rotting in prison for the things you did. Hell, if it were up to me, you’d already be six feet under. You only got off because you were Captain America’s boyfriend. He was your leverage.”

That made Bucky laugh—sharp, humourless.

“You want to talk about leverage?” Bucky scoffed incredulously, metal fingers curling into a fist. “Yeah. Maybe I got off lucky, but at least I’m working on myself. I’ve paid my dues, trust me. But don’t act like your record is clean, too, Blake. Tax evasion, money laundering, sexual harassment, you’re a fucking villain and everyone here in Congress knows it. You just aren’t used to people standing up to you, but I promise, Blake, I am not afraid of men like you.”

Blake’s mouth snapped shut.

“I’m not the Winter Soldier anymore,” Bucky added. “But if you think I’m scared of someone who hides behind veneer smiles and weak handshakes, you’re even dumber than I thought.”

He leaned in, voice barely above a whisper.

“Because the thing is, Blake, she’s not yours. She never was. And when she figures out what kind of man you really are?” A beat. “She won’t look back.”

Then Bucky turned on his heel and walked away, fists clenched, chest burning, your name like a war drum in his head.

The fury still simmered in his chest as Bucky stepped out of the elevator and into the building’s courtyard. The city buzzed beyond the iron gates, but in here, it was all manicured hedges and grey stone benches—polished, pristine, and sterile. He spotted Marianne sitting alone near the fountain, lunch tray untouched on her lap, fingers picking absently at the edge of her sandwich.

She looked up when he approached. Her shoulders tensed for a beat, then softened.

“Hey,” she said, voice small but steady.

Bucky offered a quiet nod, then sat down beside her—not close enough to crowd, but close enough to be there.

“You okay?” he asked gently.

Marianne hesitated. “Yeah. I mean… I will be.”

He didn’t speak. Just gave her space.

“I didn’t want to make a scene,” she added. “He’s just… persistent. And I didn’t want to be that intern, you know?”

Bucky’s jaw tensed. “You’re not that intern. You’re a person. And you get to feel safe at work.”

She glanced at him, surprised by the sincerity in his voice.

“I saw what he did,” Bucky continued. “That wasn’t friendly. That wasn’t harmless.”

Her eyes dropped to her tray. “It’s not the first time. I just thought I was imagining it before.”

“You weren’t.”

A long pause stretched between them. Bucky let it sit.

“If you want to report it,” he said eventually, “I’ll back you up. Whatever you need. Witness statement, going to HR with you. All of it.”

She blinked. “You’d really do that?”

“Of course,” he said, like it was the simplest thing in the world. “No one should have to deal with that alone.”

Marianne smiled, soft and tentative. “Thanks, Congressman Barnes.”

He huffed a quiet laugh. “Bucky’s fine.”

Her smile widened slightly. “Thanks, Bucky.”

He stood after a moment, brushing off his hands.

“I meant what I said,” he told her. “If he does anything else—if you ever feel uncomfortable—you come find me. I’m not going anywhere.”

Marianne nodded, gratitude written across her face.

As Bucky walked back toward the building, he didn’t feel any better. The ache was still there, tight and low in his gut. Because all he could think about was you—laughing at Blake’s jokes, smiling politely while he ordered for you, unaware of the kind of man he really was.

And the worst part? Bucky wasn’t sure how to tell you.

But he had to.

Before you got hurt.

──── ୨୧ ────

Your bedroom was a mess.

Shoes scattered across the floor, dresses laid out like corpses across your bed. You stood in the center of the chaos, towel wrapped around your body, hair still damp and clinging to your shoulders. The steam from your shower still lingered in the air, curling around the perfume bottles and half-drunk glass of wine on your nightstand.

You’d tried on three different dresses already. Too bold. Too plain. Too tight. Nothing felt right.

And maybe that was because your mind wasn’t where it was supposed to be.

You reached for a fourth option—the little black slip dress you’d worn to Bucky’s birthday a few months ago. It was sleek, silky, and fell over your body like a whisper. You hadn’t thought much of it then, until you caught Bucky looking at you like you’d invented gravity.

He didn’t say anything that night. Just looked. But you remembered the way his throat bobbed when he saw you, how he reached for his glass just a little too fast, how he held the door open like he was afraid to touch you.

And now, somehow, this was the dress you pulled off the hanger.

You slipped it over your head, the fabric cool against your skin. Smoothed it over your hips, adjusted the neckline. Stared at your reflection.

God, what were you doing?

This was a date with Blake. You were supposed to be thinking about Blake.

But your thoughts kept drifting—back to Bucky’s hands on your waist, his breath hot against your ear, the sound of his voice when he told you how perfect you were doing.

Your eyes flicked toward your phone, half-buried beneath a pile of laundry.

4 missed calls. 2 new messages. bucky: Hey, can we talk? bucky: It’s important.

You stared at the screen, thumb hovering.

Then you turned it over, face-down.

Not now.

The knock at the door came exactly on time.

Blake stood in the hallway, pressed white shirt and slacks crisp, cologne strong enough to reach you before he did. His smile was all charm, all polish.

“Wow,” he said, eyeing you from head to toe. “You really went all out for me tonight, huh?”

You offered a polite smile, stepping outside and locking the door behind you. His hand found the small of your back, then slid lower, fingers brushing a little too close to places he hadn’t earned access to.

You didn’t say anything. You just told yourself it was fine. It was normal. It was what people did on third dates.

So why, as you walked toward the elevator, did you feel like you’d just made a mistake?

Why did the back of your neck still burn with the memory of Bucky’s lips against your skin?

And why did the dress suddenly feel heavier, like it was stitched with guilt?

──── ୨୧ ────

The restaurant should’ve been romantic.

Soft candlelight danced across the cream coloured tablecloths. Jazz murmured from unseen speakers. The gentle clink of cutlery and hushed laughter filled the space, like it was curated for connection. It should’ve been perfect. But all you could think about was how wrong it felt to be here with him.

Blake sat across from you, wearing his most charming smile—the one he used at press events and campaign fundraisers. The one that seemed polished from too much use. He leaned back in the booth like he owned it, scrolling through something on his phone while you looked over the menu. You were starving. But when you said so, he didn’t look up.

“I’ll order for us,” he said, dismissive and distracted.

You blinked, lowering your menu. “Okay… but I am really hungry. So maybe the pasta—?”

“Mm,” he hummed noncommittally. “Salad will be lighter. And sexier,” he added with a wink that felt more performative than playful. “You don’t want to be full for what I have planned later.”

You swallowed down a grimace and managed a polite smile, one you’d perfected over the course of your time together. “Right. Sexy salad. Got it.”

He looked up at the waiter and gestured casually. “We’ll start with a bottle of that merlot. She’ll have the house salad, and I’ll take the steak, medium rare.”

You stared at him. He didn’t look back.

The waiter hesitated, glancing at you to confirm. You gave a small nod, biting the inside of your cheek. It wasn’t worth the scene. You were tired. You were already losing interest in pretending.

Blake finally set his phone aside and leaned in with his elbows on the table, hands clasped like he was about to give a press statement.

“So,” you started gently, “how was your day?”

He groaned dramatically, tossing his head back like the question physically pained him. “Fucking nightmare, honestly. Barnes is still being a goddamn nuisance.”

Your stomach tightened at the sound of Bucky’s name.

You blinked. “What happened?”

Blake waved a hand. “Nothing. He’s just—y’know, Bucky. Always acting like he’s some kind of superhero. Thinks he can question me. Challenge me. He doesn’t get how politics works.”

You blinked again, a little slower this time.

“Right,” you said quietly. “Sounds rough.”

“Exactly,” he nodded, totally missing your flat tone. “I’ve got enough to deal with without Barnes trying to play vigilante in the middle of a congressional office.”

You didn’t answer. You just watched the way he smirked when he talked about Bucky. Like he was proud of whatever had happened. Like he thought he’d won.

The wine came. You drank your first glass too quickly.

“God,” Blake sighed, sitting back and letting his fingers trail along the stem of his glass. “I don’t know what it is lately, but it’s like women are crawling out of the woodwork to flirt with me. At the gym, at the office, even the damn dry cleaner.”

You raised an eyebrow. “Oh?”

He chuckled, pleased with himself. “What can I say? It’s the suit. Drives ‘em wild.”

“But you have me,” you said softly, though you already felt yourself detaching.

He reached across the table, took your hand in his. His thumb brushed your knuckles without looking at them. “Exactly. And you’re the one I’m taking home tonight.”

Your stomach turned.

You pulled your hand back gently to take another sip of wine. He didn’t notice.

The salad arrived. It was small. A few greens, some shavings of parmesan, a faint drizzle of vinaigrette. The scent of his steak made your stomach growl, but you said nothing. You just stared at the sad excuse for a meal and tried to swallow your hunger.

The conversation was one-sided—him talking about campaign numbers and networking events and how the press was spinning stories about him. You nodded and smiled when appropriate, but your thoughts drifted more and more with each minute.

You thought about Bucky’s apartment. About how he always asked you what you wanted. How he never presumed to know better. How he listened—not just with his ears, but with his whole damn body. And how, when you touched him, he looked like he was feeling you, not just using you.

Here, with Blake, you felt like wallpaper. Like something nice to have on display.

“I’ve got a speech next week,” Blake said through a bite of steak. “Maybe you can help me go over it. You’ve got a nice voice. Be good practice.”

You blinked again. He still hadn’t asked how your day was. Or noticed that you were barely eating. Or that you kept glancing at your phone every time it lit up.

He didn’t know you hadn’t stopped thinking about Bucky since Wednesday night.

He didn’t see the way you checked your lipstick in the car mirror earlier, not for Blake—but because it was Bucky’s favourite shade.

And as you sat there, your heart heavy with the ache of pretending, you realised something:

This wasn’t a date.

It was a performance. One you weren’t sure you could keep up much longer.

──── ୨୧ ────

Blake's apartment was clean, sterile, and cold—like a showroom. Like no one really lived here.

No photos. No mess. No warmth.

You walked in ahead of him, your heels clicking against the polished floors, and tried to shake the unease from your shoulders. You could still taste the salad on your tongue. Your stomach was half-empty, your head spinning—not from wine, but from the heavy silence between your thoughts.

Blake shut the door behind you and stepped in close. Too close.

His hands found your hips like he had a right to them. Like you were already his.

“You look so fucking good in this dress,” he murmured against your ear, letting his mouth drag along your neck. “Bet you wore it just for me.”

You didn’t answer. You just smiled and let him lead you toward the couch, trying to summon the enthusiasm you’d been so sure of earlier.

He kissed you, just as sloppy as before. His lips moved too fast, like he was skipping steps, teeth clashing into yours. He didn’t cradle your face. Didn’t pause to check your pace. His tongue was already pushing past your lips.

You blinked, heart stuttering. But you let him.

This is fine, you told yourself. Just get through it. Put what Bucky taught you into practice. This is what you wanted, right?

Blake pulled you down onto the couch, already tugging at your dress. “Want this off,” he mumbled against your collarbone, one hand groping at your breast like it was a prop. “Been thinking about you all damn week.”

Your mouth felt dry. You let him undress you. You let your fingers go to his belt, undoing it with practiced movements—Bucky’s movements.

Blake watched, smug and self-satisfied, as you tugged him out of his pants. His cock was already hard, but something about it felt… clinical. He wasn’t trembling under your touch. His breath didn’t catch. He didn’t look like he was about to come undone just from the sight of you.

He leaned back with his arms behind his head. “Fuck, that’s hot,” he grinned. “Go ahead, baby. Show me what you got.”

You froze.

Something in you tensed. The nickname. The detachment. The assumption.

But you wrapped your hand around him anyway. You stroked him, slow at first, then faster. He grunted. Not the soft, desperate groans Bucky made—but flat, self-satisfied sounds. Like he was listening to himself.

He came before you could even think of trying more—quick and messy, all over his stomach and your hand. He groaned again, lazily.

“Goddamn. Knew you’d be good,” he muttered, eyes half-lidded.

You stared down at him. At the mess. At your hand. At how unspecial it all felt.

No build-up. No connection. No heat.

You waited—waited for him to reach for you. To ask if you were okay. If you wanted more.

Instead, he zipped himself up and stretched. “Shit. That hit the spot.”

You blinked. “I—” Your voice caught. “Can I use your bathroom?”

He nodded absently, already reaching for his phone. “Sure. Don’t be long. I’m ready for round two soon.”

Round two. As if you’d been satisfied. As if this had meant something.

You went into the bathroom and locked the door.

You stared at yourself in the mirror.

Your lipstick was smeared. Your eyes looked glassy. The mark on your collarbone was starting to purple. But the worst part? You didn’t feel touched. You felt used. Like a body someone passed through on the way to their next high.

It wasn’t even the bad sex. It was the loneliness of it.

The loneliness of not being seen.

You wiped your hand, washed your face, and left without a word.

──── ୨୧ ────

You didn’t cry on the walk home.

You didn’t cry while you showered, scrubbing his touch off your skin like it was something you could erase.

But when you sat down on your bed in your oversized T-shirt—Bucky’s old one, the grey one with the faded Brooklyn print—you finally let yourself feel it.

The emptiness. The confusion. The ache of disappointment. The sharp, hollow realization that you’d done everything right, and still ended up feeling wrong.

You scrolled through your texts, thumb hovering over his name.

Five missed calls. Two messages.

bucky: Everything okay? I miss you. bucky: Just call me when you get this, alright?

You typed, then backspaced. Then typed again.

And then:

you: can i come over?

His reply came instantly.

bucky: Door’s open.

You didn’t knock.

You let yourself in and stepped into the apartment that always smelled like cedarwood and lemon and something warm.

Bucky looked up from the couch the moment he heard the door close.

His hair was damp from a shower, tied back in a loose knot. He was in a hoodie and sweatpants, barefoot, a blanket draped over his legs and a half-eaten bowl of popcorn in his lap. His expression softened the moment he saw your face.

“Oh,” he said, voice low. “Doll.”

You dropped your bag and crossed the room without a word. He moved the bowl just in time for you to collapse into his chest, curling your arms around his middle like he was home. Like you needed to hold on to something real.

His arms wrapped around you instantly. Not possessive. Not demanding. Just… there.

He held you like he meant it.

You buried your face in his hoodie and breathed him in.

“Bad night?” he murmured, his metal hand rubbing slow circles between your shoulders.

You nodded against his chest. “It was awful.”

He let you sit with it. With him. No pressure. No pushing.

Only when your breathing had evened out did he lean back to look at you.

“You wanna talk about it?”

You hesitated. Then nodded again.

You told him everything—quietly, like you were still trying to make sense of it. The rushed kisses. The way Blake touched you like a prize he’d already won. How fast it ended. How dirty it left you feeling.

You didn’t even mean to tell him so much. But the words tumbled out like you’d been holding them in all night.

“I thought it would feel good,” you whispered, cheeks hot. “I thought… all the things you taught me would make it better. But it was nothing like—”

You stopped yourself.

Bucky didn’t push. He didn’t ask what you were about to say.

Instead, he brushed your hair back from your face with the gentlest touch.

“You didn’t do anything wrong,” he said softly. “You were generous with someone who didn’t deserve it. That’s not on you.”

You blinked fast. “I felt… like a prop.”

His eyes darkened. “I hate that he made you feel that way.”

You nodded, swallowing hard. “I just didn’t know where else to go. I just needed to be with my best friend.”

At that, his gaze softened again. “You’re always safe here.”

He nudged the popcorn back onto your lap. “C’mon. Pick something to watch. You’re not leaving here upset. We’re gonna fix that.”

You sniffled, managing a tiny laugh. “You sure know how to sweep a girl off her feet.”

“I try.”

You curled up beside him under the blanket, knees tucked to your chest, your body slowly relaxing into the cushions. You scrolled through Netflix together, debating over action movies, thrillers, even rom-coms—until you landed on something unexpected.

A dark, artsy erotic drama neither of you had heard of before.

You hesitated. Bucky glanced over at you with a tiny smirk.

“Curious?” he teased.

You shrugged. “Maybe a little.”

The opening credits rolled. The room dimmed.

You didn’t notice when your legs ended up in his lap. Or when his arm slid around your shoulders again. Or how the tension in your chest started to melt—just from being here. Just from him.

About thirty minutes in, during a particularly intense scene on screen, Bucky’s voice broke the quiet.

“…you been thinking about lesson four?”

You turned to look at him. His gaze was steady. Warm. Not teasing.

You bit your lip. “A little.”

He nodded slowly, brushing his thumb along the outside of your knee. “Only if you’re ready. Only if you want to.”

You looked at him for a long beat.

At his face—how calm it always made you feel. At his hand on your leg. At the tension in his jaw every time the man on screen did something rougher than Bucky ever would.

And then you whispered: “Will you show me how to taste you?”

He leaned in, his lips brushing your temple, voice low and reverent.

“Anything for you, sweetheart.”

The room was quiet except for your breathing—yours and Bucky’s, both a little fast, a little shallow.  You’d started with kissing again, and his lips were beginning to feel like home. You were obsessed with the way his fingers traced little circles in your skin or how his tongue swiped across your lower lip, asking for entry, rather than forcing it the way Blake did. It was the little things that made you feel safe. That made you feel loved. 

Eventually, you pulled away, breathless, and sank down to your knees, shuffling between his legs. Bucky handed you a cushion from the sofa to kneel on, always thinking about your comfort first. He sat on the edge of the couch in those soft, gray sweatpants, legs spread, looking up at you like you held his fate in your hands. Your hands slid over his thighs first—solid and warm beneath the fabric. Then you reached up, took hold of the hoodie’s hem, and looked into his eyes.

He let you pull it off slowly, raising his arms without a word. But the moment he was bare, his jaw clenched and his eyes darted away.

Your breath caught.

You hadn’t seen him like this before. Not like this. He was all sculpted muscle, wide shoulders tapering to a trim waist, skin kissed in soft golden tones. But there were scars across his chest and ribs, puckered lines and deeper ridges of old wounds. The place where metal met flesh on his left side—just below the shoulder joint—was angry and red, imperfectly healed. He didn’t try to hide it, but he didn’t flaunt it either.

He sat still, jaw tight, like he was waiting for you to flinch.

But you didn’t.

Instead, you reached out, cupped his jaw in your hand, and leaned in.

“I’ve never wanted to touch anyone like this before,” you whispered, kissing the corner of his mouth. “You’re beautiful, Bucky.”

His eyes snapped back to yours—surprised, a little wrecked.

“I mean it,” you said, kissing along his jaw, down his neck. You licked the spot beneath his ear and felt him shudder.

“I know you see those scars,” he murmured.

“I do.” You kissed a long, thin line that curved beneath his collarbone. “And I love every one of them.”

His breath caught.

You took your time.

You licked slowly across his pecs, tasting the salt of his skin, the warmth of him. Your lips found his nipple, and you sucked gently, teeth grazing the nub, and Bucky’s head dropped back with a groan.

“Oh, fuck…”

You kept going. You lavished attention across his chest, peppering it with soft kisses and warm licks, savouring him. He gave no instruction and just let you do whatever felt right, because to Bucky, all of this was perfect. No notes, no changes. Your hands ran over his stomach, fingers exploring every defined muscle, following the sculpted lines down, down…

You kissed his ribs.

You licked across his abs.

You dipped your tongue into the dip of his navel.

By the time you reached his V-line, Bucky was panting.

“You’re not wearing anything under these, are you?” you asked, voice husky, fingers brushing his waistband.

“No,” he rasped, watching you from under heavy lashes. “Didn’t expect company.”

Your gaze dropped to the thick shape straining beneath his sweatpants. The fabric clung to him, outlining everything—long and heavy, head already wet and darkening the cotton. He twitched beneath your stare.

You pressed your mouth to the waistband and kissed him through the fabric.

His whole body jolted.

“Shit—”

Your hands gripped his thighs again, just above the knees, grounding yourself as your mouth moved—slow, hungry kisses up and down the shape of him. You pressed your tongue against the wet spot and lapped at it through the fabric. His cock throbbed in response.

“Jesus, sweetheart,” he hissed, jaw clenched, hand gripping the back of your neck.

You looked up at him through your lashes, lips curling in a soft smile. “You taste good through your pants. What do you think I’ll do when I really get to taste you?”

His eyes fluttered shut. “You’re gonna kill me.”

You dragged your nails lightly up his thighs, feeling him shudder beneath you.

“Can I take these off?” you asked, voice low and reverent.

He met your eyes. “Only if you’re ready.”

“I’ve been ready since the moment I saw you tonight.”

He let out a shaking breath, wondering how much of this was the truth, and how much of it was the dirty talk you’d learned in lesson two. He didn’t think too long. Bucky lifted his hips slightly. You slipped your fingers into the waistband and dragged the sweatpants down slow—inch by inch.

And there he was.

Hard and flushed, his cock lay against his stomach—thick, curved slightly upward, precum glistening at the head. His balls were full and heavy, skin pulled taut. 

Of course, he looked the same as he did on Wednesday night, but tonight was different. Tonight, you wanted to devour him.

He watched you, chest rising and falling, long brown hair falling in his blue eyes. His metal fingers flexed at his side like he didn’t know what to do with them.

You leaned forward again, kissing his hipbone. Then lower.

Then… even lower.

You licked up the inside of his thigh, tongue dragging along the sensitive skin there. He hissed through his teeth and his cock twitched against his stomach.

“You’re perfect,” you whispered, eyes drinking him in. “Every part of you.”

Your mouth hovered just above the base of his cock, breath ghosting warm across his skin. You felt him twitch, heard the way his breath caught in his throat. He was watching you—always watching you—and something about the way his gaze dragged over your face made your chest tighten.

"You don't have to," he said quietly, voice thick. "You’ve already—"

"I want to." You looked up at him through your lashes, hands curling around his thighs again. “I want to learn everything.”

His jaw clenched. “Jesus…”

You leaned forward and pressed a kiss to the base of his cock—right where it met his body. His head tipped back with a groan.

"Okay," he breathed. "Go slow. Just… feel me."

You didn’t need to be told twice.

You dragged your tongue up the length of him, tasting salt and skin, precum and heat. He was hot, flushed dark at the head, the vein running up the underside throbbing under your mouth.

Bucky choked on a moan. His flesh hand gripped the couch cushion, white-knuckled. “Fuck, sweetheart…”

You pulled back slightly, lips glistening. “Tell me what to do.”

He looked wrecked. Sweaty. Desperate.

"Use your hand," he rasped, voice low and raw. "Start there. Just—yeah. Like that."

You wrapped your fingers around him, stroking slowly, matching the rhythm you remembered from lesson three. His cock throbbed in your grip.

"Now your mouth," he said, eyes fixed on you. “Just the head. Let me feel that tongue.”

You obeyed—parting your lips and wrapping them around the crown of him. He groaned deep, the sound ripped from somewhere in his chest.

“Fuck, yes. Just like that—keep your lips soft. Yeah, baby, that’s it…”

You bobbed slowly, taking him a little deeper, then easing back. Your hand followed where your mouth couldn’t reach, twisting at the base with wet, practiced strokes. You could feel the way his thighs tensed under your touch, how his hips barely resisted the urge to move.

“God, your mouth,” he grunted, watching you like you were something unreal. “Feels so fuckin’ good. You’re doing perfect, angel. You like this?”

You moaned around him and he hissed at the vibration.

You loved the taste of him—loved the way his hips shifted, the way his chest heaved, the way he couldn’t look away. You loved the stutter in his breathing when you took him a little deeper. How his hand—metal now—came to rest gently at the back of your head, guiding but not pushing.

“I’m not gonna last if you keep looking at me like that,” he groaned.

You pulled off with a pop, hand still working him in slow, slick pumps.

You wanted to take more.

You pulled off just long enough to whisper, “Can I go deeper?”

His brows drew together, a flicker of surprise crossing his face—but then pride. Something primal and tender all at once.

“You sure?”

You nodded, cheeks already warm, lips slick and swollen.

His voice dropped a note lower. “Alright. Let me help you. Just breathe for me, okay?”

You nodded again, obedient, and his metal hand came to rest at the back of your head. His touch was light at first—more of a guide than anything else—as you took him in again. Inch by inch, you let him in deeper, pushing past the stretch, the pressure.

“Breathe through your nose,” he murmured, his voice a grounding tether. “Relax your throat, yeah, just like that—fuck.”

Your throat fluttered around him and he groaned deep, his hips jerking forward just slightly.

You choked.

Your eyes welled up immediately, tears burning as you pulled back with a gasp, coughing around the spit that coated your chin. But your hand never stopped moving, and you were already leaning in again before he could speak.

“Hey—wait,” Bucky said, voice tight, his hand catching your jaw. His eyes scanned your face. “You okay?”

You nodded, eyes bright, lips parted. “I want to try again.”

He exhaled slowly, thumb brushing your cheekbone. “You don’t have to prove anything, doll.”

“I want to. Please.”

His jaw flexed. And then, softly, he said, “Alright. I’ll take care of you.”

He guided you back to his cock—slow, steady. This time, his grip was firmer, anchoring you as you opened wide and let him slide in deep. The head of him brushed the back of your throat, and you fought the reflex to pull away, blinking past the tears that filled your eyes.

You felt his hand stroke your hair, gentle, grounding. “That’s it… such a good girl. Taking me so fucking deep.”

You moaned around him, and he nearly buckled.

The deeper you went, the more he trembled. His thighs shook. His free hand dug into the couch, metal fingers twitching where they rested against your skull.

“Just a little more, yeah?” he panted. “You can do it. You’re doing so fucking good.”

You pushed until your nose was pressed to the soft skin of his pelvis. You could smell him—salt, skin, sweat—and you swore you’d never forget the way he sounded when you swallowed around him.

You didn’t slow. Didn’t flinch. You kept stroking and sucking, your hand gliding tight and slick around the base of him while your mouth hollowed over the head, tongue dragging firmly across the most sensitive part.

His hips jerked—once, twice—and you felt it, the sudden tension coiling deep inside his body.

“Shit—baby, I—fuck, I’m coming—”

The words punched out of him as his cock twitched on your tongue, thick and hard and pulsing.

And then he spilled into your mouth.

Hot, salty ropes of cum flooded your throat, and you moaned softly at the weight of it. He came hard—deep, fast spurts—and your hands gripped tighter at his thighs as your cheeks hollowed to take every drop. He was panting, his chest heaving, abs contracting with every wave.

You could feel his entire body trembling. His metal fingers gripped your scalp—not too tight, but firm enough to ground himself as he fell apart in your mouth.

“Fuckfuckfuck— oh, God,” he groaned, the sound guttural and strained, almost pained with how good it felt.

He kept twitching, like he couldn’t stop. You eased off just a little, letting him slip past your lips with a wet pop, and took the last of it in your hand—watching, mesmerised, as a final lazy spurt coated your fingers. His cock throbbed, angry and flushed, as a pearlescent line dribbled from the tip to his stomach, catching on the hair trailing down his abdomen.

Your breath was heavy, lips slick and glistening, saliva and cum painting your chin. You blinked up at him, dazed and hot and hungry.

Bucky looked wrecked.

His head was tipped back, jaw tight, chest flushed. A fine sheen of sweat clung to his skin, highlighting the scars that scattered across his abdomen. His stomach rose and fell in sharp gasps, and his eyes fluttered open just in time to catch you staring.

At the mess. At the way it clung to your hand, sticky and warm and still dripping.

You licked your lips unconsciously.

He swallowed hard. “You okay?”

You looked up at him, eyes low and heavy, lashes clumped with tears. And then you smiled.

Wordless.

And brought your fingers to your mouth.

Bucky’s eyes widened as you licked the slick from your skin—slowly, deliberately—letting the taste settle on your tongue. God, you were addicted to him. He tasted like salt and skin and heat, and the low growl that rumbled from his chest nearly made you moan all over again.

“Jesus Christ,” he breathed. “You’re gonna kill me.”

Your smile widened around your fingers as you sucked the last of it clean, letting your eyes lock with his the entire time.

“You’re my favourite taste.” you whispered.

He reached for you with both hands, flesh and metal, and pulled you straight into his lap—burying his face in your neck, his cock twitching against your thigh even as it softened. “You’re driving me insane, sweetheart.”

You giggled breathlessly, and his hands roamed your back, grounding himself in the curve of your body.

The moment he’d caught his breath—barely—Bucky cradled your jaw in his warm hand, drawing you forward into a deep, open-mouthed kiss. He tasted himself on your tongue and groaned into it, like he wanted to drown in the way you tasted now. His metal arm wrapped around your waist, drawing you close until your thighs were straddling his, your soaked panties brushing against his bare skin.

“You didn’t have to do that,” he whispered against your lips. “But you did. You took it so well. Fuck, sweetheart…”

Your breath hitched.

“I wanted to,” you whispered.

His eyes searched yours, something reverent in the way he held you like you were made of glass. “Now I want to do something for you.”

“Bucky…”

“Let me,” he said, more insistently this time. “Lie back for me. I wanna taste you. It’s all I’ve been thinking about.”

You blinked at him. Your stomach fluttered so hard it almost hurt.

He kissed you again, slow and sweet, before guiding you gently down onto the couch. His hands followed—soft on your ribs, your hips, the curve of your waist—and then he knelt between your thighs like it was instinct. Like it was the only place he wanted to be.

He hooked his thumbs into the waistband of your panties and looked up at you one last time. “Okay?”

You nodded, already breathless.

The underwear came off slowly, and Bucky didn’t take his eyes off you once. He dropped them to the floor without ceremony, then bent low to press his mouth to the inside of your thigh.

“God, you’re soaked,” he muttered, voice low and dark. “That all for me?”

“Yes,” you whispered, eyes fluttering shut.

He kissed higher—your thigh, then your hipbone, then the mound above your core. Feather-light, maddening kisses. You arched into him, desperate.

And then his tongue licked one long, slow stripe through your folds.

Your body jumped.

You gasped his name, your hips rising instinctively, and Bucky groaned like he hadn’t tasted anything that good in years. His hands pressed your thighs open wider, thumbs digging into your skin just enough to anchor you down.

“Fuck,” he hissed, licking again. “You taste so good. Sweet and messy. Like you need this.”

You could only moan in response.

He licked you again, deeper now—his tongue flattening against your clit, then circling it, slow and deliberate, like he was memorising the shape of your pleasure.

“You’ve been so patient,” he murmured, voice muffled by your skin. “So good for me. Gonna make you come with my mouth, baby. Gonna show you what it feels like to be taken care of.”

You whimpered, grabbing at the couch cushions behind you. His tongue dragged through your folds again, and then he sucked your clit gently between his lips. You cried out, the sound shameful and wet and desperate, and Bucky didn’t stop.

Didn’t want to stop.

He moaned against your pussy like he was drunk on you. Like the taste of you was better than any high he’d ever known.

And then his fingers joined the party.

He slipped one inside you, then two, curling them up slowly until he found that devastating spot that made your back arch and your breath shatter.

“Right there,” he said softly, lips still brushing your clit. “That’s the one, isn’t it?”

You sobbed his name again, your thighs clamping around his head, and he loved it—loved the way you clung to him, trembled under his mouth.

His metal hand stroked along your belly, pressing gently to hold you down, while his flesh hand fucked into you perfectly, curling and thrusting in slow, rhythmic pulses. His tongue circled your clit faster, teasing and stroking in time with his fingers.

You were shaking. So close.

And he knew it.

“I want you to come in my mouth,” he whispered hoarsely. “I want to feel it. Want you to fall apart for me, baby. You deserve it. Let go.”

Your body locked up, a sob catching in your throat—and then the wave hit.

You came hard, gushing around his fingers, hips rolling helplessly as Bucky moaned into your pussy and kept licking you through it. You gripped his hair, gasping his name over and over, your vision swimming as your orgasm ripped through you.

He didn’t stop until you begged him to.

When he finally pulled back, his lips were glistening, chin slick with you, and he looked—wrecked. Like he’d loved every second.

He kissed your thigh again. Then your belly. Then made his way slowly, reverently, up your body until he hovered over you on the couch, brushing your hair out of your face.

“You okay?” he asked, voice low and hoarse.

You nodded, utterly wrecked, and whispered, “That was… insane.”

He smiled softly. “Good.”

You blinked up at him. “Where the hell did you learn to do that?”

He smirked, lowering himself beside you, pulling you into his chest. “Guess I’ve had a little practice.”

You laughed, breathless, and curled into him as his arm wrapped around you.

Neither of you spoke for a long time.

You didn’t need to.

Bucky didn’t let go of you.

Even after your breathing slowed and the tremors in your thighs faded to a gentle hum, his arm remained snug around your waist, metal hand curled protectively over your ribs. He kissed the top of your head like it was instinct, like your body belonged nestled into the cradle of his chest.

You didn’t speak.

Neither of you needed to.

The soft flicker of the Netflix menu glowed faintly in the dim apartment light, casting shadows across his face—the sharp cut of his jaw, the rise and fall of his chest, still bare. You traced the faint lines of his scars with your eyes, the soft pink trail over his pec, the metal glint of his shoulder. He caught you looking, but didn’t flinch this time.

“I meant it,” you said softly, fingers brushing over the curve of his collarbone. “You’re beautiful.”

He swallowed, eyes flicking to yours. “Don’t say things like that.”

“Why not?”

His jaw flexed. “Because I don’t deserve—” He stopped and closed his eyes.

You watched the hesitation flicker across his face—the way vulnerability settled into the crease between his brows. He looked younger like this. Softer. Sadder.

You touched his cheek gently. “Maybe, for once, you deserve something that feels good.”

He closed his eyes like he didn’t know how to accept it. But he didn’t pull away either. He leaned into your palm, lashes brushing your wrist.

“Stay,” he said suddenly, so low it almost didn’t reach your ears. “Just for a little while. You don’t have to talk. Just… stay.”

You nodded, throat tight. “Okay.”

He exhaled softly, the sound brushing against your temple. His fingers traced up and down your arm in slow, soothing lines, and you let yourself melt into the warmth of his body—the steady beat of his heart beneath your ear, the safe, heavy weight of his arm around you.

The buzz of the city beyond the windows faded. The silence between you felt full instead of empty. A pause, not a distance.

Your eyes drifted shut before you could stop them.

And then there you were—your legs tangled over his, your cheek pressed to his chest, and Bucky holding you like he didn’t ever want to let you go.

He watched you for a long time.

Watched the little tremble in your lashes as you fell asleep, the faint parting of your lips, the way your hand stayed pressed flat against his skin like you needed the contact to stay grounded.

He didn’t sleep at first. He just lay there, heart thudding painfully slow, wondering how the hell he was going to survive the next lesson. The last one. The one that might break him.

Because pretending it didn’t mean anything?

That it was just practice?

Was starting to feel like the biggest lie either of you had ever told.

──── ୨୧ ────

Sebastian Stan taglist: in comments due to taglist limit

Lessons In Love taglist: (let me know if you want to be added!):

@sebastians-love @sweetserendipity65 @sangsterizada @mrsalexstan @alpinescoowner @buckyslqve @morganfullaaa @moonlight-sonata99 @sflame15-blog @rapturousfrog @parkerslivia @biaswreckedbybuckybarnes @wickedfun9 @daisynotquake @arosewithpower @buckysgirl27 @loki-licious-945ad @dearluuna @riot-sounds @ang0320 @solarperpetua @julesandgems @yes-ilovetowrite @redh00dsbf @alicetesser @loyaltyistoxic @sailorsenshiuranep @yessebastianstanus @poshpinklace @joaquinsgirl @thornsofvelvet @miss-chuchu @xamapolax @avivarougestan @justalittle47 @nutella-hitler @ifilwtmfc @loverofdrewstarkey @cxiiv0 @pivictorious @gummy-dummy @avatarobsessedgirly @buckybarneswife125 @snake-in-a-flower-crown @jadevoir @thisismy-usernamee @loganficsonly @justalittle47 @xamapolax @vroomvroommbtch @peanutbutt3rcup — taglist continued in comments due to limit reach<3

[inkdrinkerworld]

Courting

Synopsis: Bucky is a man from a different time. It shows when you start ‘going steady’ and honestly, you love it. Alternatively; Bucky uses 40’s dating etiquette to woo you, and surprises you with a modern turn of phrase.

cw: it’s set in a vague timeline where it’s just before cabnw but also during fatws so no thunderbolts spoilers! Bucky is a FLIRT, reader is a little shy, anxiety representation, lots of casual getting to know you, going on a date flirting, Bucky’s serious about reader tho!

word count: 4.4k

Bucky Barnes prides himself on being able to court a woman. He really does. He knows all the rules, knows all the things to say, and it doesn’t hurt that he can flirt his way through any conversation.

You and Bucky met at the Smithsonian when Bucky was missing Steve a little too much and popped in just to get a glimpse of his best friend again.

You were by the Isaiah Bradley display, reading through before murmuring under your breath, “Those poor men.”

Bucky hadn’t meant to eavesdrop like that, but there was so much concern in your voice and he had to say something lest you think they all suffered — looking back, maybe he wasn’t the best person to break that news to you.

“We didn’t all suffer so bad.”

You had gasped when you noticed him, hand to your chest. “You’re Bucky Barnes,” you weigh your words before adding, “Steve’s best friend.”

That alone had won him over. You didn’t bring up the Winter Soldier, or that Bucky was as traumatised as super soldiers went. Just that he was Steve’s best friend.

“Yeah,” he nodded, “This your first time at the Smithsonian?”

You shake your head, a little heat flushing up your cheeks. “I come every couple of weeks, to see if they have any new stuff to add to your plaques. It’s kinda messed up what they did to all of you.”

Bucky smiles, shaking his head. It is messed up, he knows that. All the super soldiers besides John Walker know how messed up it was. “We came out alright, made it to the 21st century after all.”

You tilt your head to the side, “I guess that’s true.”

Bucky’s eyes light up. “Made it this far to meet pretty girls too.”

Your cheeks flame and Bucky chuckles, you chat a bit more before he gives you his number.

It takes you two days to text him. You’d been overthinking it, if you should or shouldn’t. In the end, if he ignored you at least you’d have tried.

It turns out Bucky didn’t give you his number just to be polite, because he answered your text immediately.

The first time he had used his courting experience was when he’d made it a point to establish the fact that he wanted to take you out every second Friday of the month.

He had it in his head that the effort had to be shown and then followed through the entire time and after two days, he was determined to show you that he was serious.

‘I’m free every other Friday, if that’s good with you doll.’

You had responded four minutes later after looking at your phone in shock and a little bit of bewilderment, when was the last time a man was so forward but not in a pushy way?

‘It’s perfect as long as work doesn’t bleed into my weekends’

From there Bucky had planned three of the dates meticulously, going over places and ideas in his head until he’d settled on the best three according to himself.

The first date was at a new diner near his apartment, one that Sam said did really good milkshakes and Bucky hadn’t been able to let the idea go.

“It’s nothing too fancy, but Sam said it’s a good spot.”

You’d worn a pretty skirt and blouse, and Bucky had worn a grey henley and jeans.

“You look gorgeous,” Bucky was full of compliments as you’d learn as the afternoon went on. He dished them out easily and most of the time you pretended not to hear him because he had a sort of pleased look on his face every time you stammered to keep the conversation going, and that in itself had in your stomach in knots.

He even brought you a bouquet of red tulips which had sat beside you on the sticky diner table all day.

“Oh they have milkshakes!” You say excitedly when you catch a server walking past.

Bucky’s heart sores. God bless the forties for making that a thing.

“Wanna try one?”

You look up at him, eyes brimming with hopefulness, “Will we do the cheesy sharing from the same cup?”

Bucky leans back in the booth seat, blue eyes boring into you. “And the same straw if you really want to, doll.”

He’s so fucking smooth, because you can’t do anything but nod now that his gaze is fixed on you.

Deciding what milkshake had taken nearly five minutes, back and forth between what was a classic flavor and why strawberry was definitely not good (Bucky was very offended) and then settling on a Shamrock Shake even though St. Patrick’s day had long passed.

Sharing the milkshake sitting across from each other was more intimate than you had expected it to be, (you hadn’t ended up using one straw but just the eye contact was enough to fluster you). Bucky walked you to your car after paying for dinner, very offended that you tried to pay half of the bill, and opened the door for you. When you had gotten in, he leant a little into your space, “Did you have a good time, doll?”

Your heart pounds. You had a great time, Bucky was easy to be around, even with your shyness.

“I did, thank you Bucky. Did you?”

He smiled, “Don’t see how I couldn’t with you as company.” In your sputtering for an answer Bucky’s heart beat a little faster, you were the cutest thing ever.

“Any opposition to a gala for our next date?”

You raise your eyebrows. “I’m not the biggest fan of crowds but I don’t see why it couldn’t be fun. Is it for the new Captain America thing?”

Bucky smiles, “I’ll text you the details. Drive safe, doll.”

The gala was fun even if a little anxiety inducing when you note the number of people there.

Bucky’s good though, he doesn’t give you a moment alone to feel that anxiety or have anyone come up to you to ask you a million questions.

It’s a veteran gala and Bucky didn’t want to go through that alone because he was getting another medal post Thanos; not that he really wanted it.

That night, as you sat beside him at one of the tables, it was hard to ignore the feel of his hand grasping your ankle and stroking it.

His palm is warm against your skin but you can feel the twitch in his fingers.

“We can leave early if you really don’t want to get it, Bucky.”

He turns to you with a smile, his cheeks a little warm when you meet his eyes. “No, I can handle it, doll.”

You tut, shaking your head. “Yeah but you look like you’re gonna pass out waiting for them to call your name.”

He rolls his eyes, “I do not.” He can actually feel the acid churning in his stomach.

In the end, the ‘medal’ is Bucky partially funding a veteran support group in honor of his friend Sam Wilson, who’s the new Captain America, and Steve Rogers. He much prefers that sort of medal.

It was only after Bucky had gotten you home from the gala that you noticed the slip of paper in your clutch.

It had the name of the diner you and Bucky had gone to a week and a half ago, but on the backside of the paper was his semi messy scrawl.

You looked gorgeous tonight. Purple’s definitely your colour, doll. I know it’s only the second date, but you’re all I think about most days. I wanna see you again, but I know tonight was a lot with all those people. Sleep well, doll. Dream of me if you’d like.

Yours,

James.

That had made you smile so hard your cheeks ached. He signed it with his actual name, not the cute nickname he got so many years ago, his real, government name and that was not something that went unnoticed by you.

Immediately you changed his name in your phone to James with a little heart next to it.

You’re not really sure you’re sold on Bucky’s affections towards you, till the third date when Bucky pulls up to your apartment with another bouquet of flowers, peonies this time in pretty pinks and soft yellows.

“Bucky, these are gorgeous!” You had rushed back into your house to add them to the vase with the other flowers he had dropped off for you on your doorstep last week.

You can hear him chuckling in your doorway as you flit about.

“Was there any traffic?” you asked over the sound of your tap filling the vase.

“Not too much, but it is lunchtime on a Saturday.”

You had mentioned to Bucky a little bit ago that there was a perfect spot in the park near your house for a picnic now that New York had finally warmed up, and the next text you had received was Bucky asking if you had any nut allergies.

It wasn’t your usual date day, but Bucky had pleaded and begged just a little (although he really hadn’t had to), and had even sent you a photo of the most gorgeous picnic blanket and you were agreeing faster than anything.

“I’m ready to go now.” Seeing Bucky there leaning in the archway of your kitchen makes you feel so many things that you can’t help it when you lean up and kiss just under his jaw before walking towards your door after snagging your picnic basket from on the counter.

“Coming, Bucky?”

He only shakes his head, some of his hair falling into his eyes as he follows behind you. You swear you hear him mutter, “Not a shy thing at all,” but you don’t say anything because your nerve has worn off and you actually can’t believe you really kissed his cheek.

Bucky hadn’t spared an expense on your picnic. He had gotten peaches, plums, two different cheeses, apples, grapes (black ones; your favourite) and even a bottle of sparkling wine.

You had brought sandwiches and salt and vinegar potato chips (those became Bucky’s new favourites), a sketchbook and your camera.

“Were picnics something you did a lot?” you ask Bucky as he makes you a plate - crackers, cheese, some of the fruit and half the sandwich you packets.

Bucky squints at you as he slices a wedge of the plum free from the stone. “If it was, would you be jealous, doll?”

You shake your head, some of the peach juice dribbling down your wrist. Bucky’s quick but gentle as he thumbs it away and presses his thumb to his lips. You’re so grateful that his hands aren’t on you to feel how fast your pulse hammers.

“I’m just curious what the dating customs of the 40’s looked like.” It’s a miracle your voice remains even.

Bucky nods like he doesn’t really believe you. “I think I went on one, but there was never really a good time for more.”

You wince, you had forgotten that he’d gotten drafted.

Your reaction makes Bucky laugh, “I’m glad I get to find out if I really like them now though. There’s a lot more to enjoy about picnics now without all the smog.”

His teeth snap through the wedge of the plum before he continues, “I can see my date better, which feels like an incredible plus.”

Damn Bucky’s flirting.

You spend all evening at the park, and it’s so fun because Bucky poses for some of your pictures and then takes some of you and when you pose for a few together and Bucky stares at you there’s a sort of stillness that overcomes you.

His eyes bore into yours, the blue of them stopping you where your finger is poised over the button to snap the photo.

“Take the photo doll,” he whispers, his lips hovering near yours as he reaches up and presses your finger down just before leaning all the way in, pressing your lips together.

Bucky’s quick to take the camera from your hand after, setting it on the blanket and cupping your cheek to deepen the kiss.

It’s not too long, but it’s more than a peck and when he pulls away you can barely open your eyes.

“Was that okay?” Bucky whispers, the hand still cupping your face warm where it rests.

“Where did you learn to kiss like that?” his laugh rocks you as you press your forehead into his shoulder. “I don’t think you were really frozen in ice all that time, James Barnes.”

Bucky cups the back of your head as his laughs die down. “Whatever you want to believe, honey.”

Bucky gets to your house just after sunset, and you let him walk you to your front door. You don’t really want the date to end, but you’re tired and you have to imagine so is he.

“I had a really nice evening, Bucky.”

He smiles, a hand on your lower back as he stands in front of you. “So did I,” you turn to open the door but he stops you.

“I’ve gotta go out of town for a little bit, so we’re gonna have to rain check next Friday’s date.”

You hold onto the sleeve of his Henley before he can step back, “Is everything alright?”

Bucky nods, “Yeah just some stuff I have to deal with.”

“Winter soldier stuff?” You nearly whisper the words, not wanting to upset Bucky. He only nods with a soft smile. “Be careful okay?”

“You don’t want to be my nurse if I get hurt, doll? That’s harsh.”

You laugh, shaking your head at him. “I just don’t want you to get hurt.”

Bucky’s chest aches at your care for him. It’s been a long while since he’s been given that kind of affection.

“I’ll be careful, doll.”

“Good.”

Bucky leans in and presses a kiss just at the corner of your mouth, “Goodnight doll, lock your doors.” He reminds you like you’re not a woman in New York City, but it still makes you smile and your chest goes a little gooey.

Bucky doesn’t move from your doorstep till he hears your locks click into place.

-

Bucky’s been gone for a week and a half already and you can’t help but miss him.

You’ve been chatting back and forth and you’ve even started sending him songs to listen to. He’s got a very limited list of favourites that you’ve made it your mission to resolve.

You find another note in your handbag when you decided against texting Bucky and cleaned your cupboards instead.

It was in your bag from the picnic date, and you smiled when you noticed his handwriting on another receipt from the grocery where he got the cheese.

I hope you find this when I’m gone and you’re missing me; I know you are, doll, it’s okay.

I miss you too and I haven’t left yet.

When I get back I’ll make it up to you, I swear. Maybe we’ll go somewhere quiet again? Or I saw they’re reopening one of those antique places with all those retro trinkets; I could show what I used to have at home. Show you what I prefer now.

Keep locking your doors, honey. I should send you new flowers, the old ones will be dead soon.

Yours,

James.

Bucky’s very good at these, these little notes that leave you smiling and giddy like a fool.

You pull out your phone, you have to text him now.

I got your note. What was your favourite ‘trinket’?

Bucky answers only three minutes later.

My sister used to have a silver jewellery box that I had the pleasure of filling every month.

You smile at that, he’s always been a provider it seems.

Another chime comes from your phone.

We also had a gramophone that played the clearest music I’ve ever heard.

You roll your eyes.

You’re such an old man.

I’m not offended, doll. A pretty girl I’m seeing told me recently I’m not old at all.

Even miles away he’s got you grinning like an idiot with a racing pulse.

You can’t say anything to that and your thoughts take you to what a perfect gentleman he’s been to you. Bucky opens your doors, drives you home and waits till you get into your house before driving off. You think you might be falling for him, and rapidly.

He’s still gone by Monday and you’re missing him hard, only for the girls you work with to giggle before coming to find you.

“These were dropped for you,” they hand you a huge bouquet of red and white tube roses and a card.

It’s not Bucky’s handwriting but it’s from him,

Sorry I’m still not back, doll. I should just be gone for another day. Don’t miss me too much, yeah? I need a few kisses when I get back to make up for all this time away. I listened to that song you recommended, it was good. How do I make a playlist?

Yours,

James.

The note had you blushing and extremely flustered. Your coworkers noticed it immediately.

“Are you two going steady?”

You regret telling them who you’d been going out with. When they leave, you’re stuck with the realisation of how different Bucky is to the men you’ve dated before.

It’s a small thing, but you hardly think any of them got you flowers as consistently as he does, and you don’t think you’ve ever received such thoughtful bouquets.

You called Bucky when you got home, happy to hear his voice.

“Thank you for the flowers, Bucky.”

“You’re welcome, doll.”

You have the bouquet from today on your bedside table and smile when you spot it after changing into your pajamas.

“You caused quite a scene when they got delivered.”

You can hear the amusement in his words. “Oh yeah?”

“Yeah, the girls I work with brought them to me. They were very impressed by the size of the bouquet, Barnes.”

“I’m just concerned about what you think of me.” Was his answer and after that you couldn’t get a full sentence out of you.

He’s so open with his feelings towards you it’s scary, it makes your heart race but you also know he’s not just saying it. He means it and that makes you fall just a little more for Bucky.

“You’re sweet.” Is all you can manage, your face heated with a blush.

“Sam and I are finishing this up tonight, so I should be able to see you when we get back.”

You don’t know if you’re reading into his words, but Bucky sounds relieved at the prospect of seeing you soon.

“Isn’t it going to be a day’s long flight?”

“And I can see you right after I land, honey. So long as it’s not midnight or while you’re gonna be sleeping.”

Bucky Barnes isn’t good for your heart with the way he just wholly shows you how much he wants to spend time with you.

“Do you still need help with your playlist?”

He huffs, “Sam showed me. He’s not a good teacher though, was snippy the whole time; you’d think he’d remember I was in ice.”

You laugh, “I’ll show you when you get back, babe.”

Bucky doesn’t say anything about the pet name, but for the rest of the phone call he doesn’t respond unless you use it.

It’s two days before he’s back and Bucky drives straight over to see you.

He’s at your door a few hours after you get home from work, and when you open the door to see him, he’s there with a single rose in his hand and a tired smile on his face.

“Is it possible you got prettier while I was gone?” He leans against your doorway.

“You look dead on your feet, Bucky. Come inside.” you lead him to your sofa, watching him move with heavy but careful steps all the way through your living room.

Bucky’s movements are measured, not a single action wasted as he takes off his boots and socks and detaches his metal arm.

“I really missed you,” he sighs as he lays on your sofa, eyes shut as he takes a long breath.

“I really missed you too,” you brush back some hair from his face. “You could’ve gone home to sleep first, you know?”

Bucky opens his eyes and it takes great effort to do so, the whites of his eyes shot through with streaks of intense red.

“I wanted to see you,” he yawns. “But you’ve trapped me into laying on your sofa.”

You laugh, your fingers still knotted in his hair. “You can take a nap Bucky, or you can sleep the night here. I’m not really excited by the idea of you driving back tired.”

“I won’t doll,” he shuts his eyes again, the feel of your fingers on his scalp lulling him into a peacefulness he’s missed. “Tell me what you got up to while I was gone. I know you weren’t just counting down the days till I got back.”

You roll your eyes as you recount the last two weeks of your life, Bucky’s not even awake to hear what you did on the second day of him being gone.

You cover him up with your throw blanket and dim the lights of your living room. You make the playlist for him while he sleeps, putting all the songs you’ve sent him on the memory stick so he can leave with it.

Bucky doesn’t spend the night, but as he’s leaving he holds your cheek, “I didn’t come with an ulterior motive, just to see you. If you want, we can go have dinner tomorrow. I have something I want to ask you, doll.”

“That’s ominous,” you’re a little nervous by that phrase. No one likes being told that someone has ‘something to ask them’ in a day. There’s anxiety crawling up your chest before Bucky kisses your lips.

“It’s a good question baby, don’t overthink it. I’ll pick you up at seven.”

You grab the memory stick off the table before you could forget, “Here, I put all the songs I’ve sent on here.” Bucky kisses you again.

“You’re an angel,” you steal a kiss before he pulls away. “Lock your doors.”

“Sir yes sir.”

You hear him laugh all the way to his car.

Despite Bucky’s well meaning, ‘Don’t overthink it.’ That’s all you did when you woke up and started sifting through dresses to wear.

You’re ready at six and that makes you even more anxious. There’s too much time to do nothing but sit and overthink it.

You’re working yourself up to outright calling Bucky when there’s a knock at your door.

A quick peek at the clock on your stove let’s you know you’ve been overthinking it for forty five minutes.

When you open the door, Bucky’s standing in front of you in a pretty blue shirt that makes his eyes pop, and black dress pants.

He’s not got flowers this time, but he is holding a box of what you think are chocolates.

“Oh my god,” he breathes as he takes you in. You’re in a pretty pale purple dress, white heels and your hair is down in loose curls. You hadn’t gone for heavy makeup but just enough where there’s purple glitter on your eyelids and your lips are a deep red.

“You look handsome.” You say as you fight the blush creeping up your chest at the way Bucky’ stares at you.

“You look,” he trails off like he really can’t find the right words. “Breathtaking.”

You feel as though the blush explodes in your chest and heats your entire face.

Bucky hands you the box of chocolates, “They’re all dark chocolate.” You smile as you take it; that’s another thing Bucky’s remembered you like.

“Do I get to know where we’re going?”

You ask as you slip the chocolates into your purse and shut your door.

Bucky smiles as he watches you lock your door before turning to him. Immediately he links his hand with yours.

“We’re going for dinner somewhere nice,” the entire ride to the car Bucky has you talking. About the last book you read, work, if you think about him every night before bed (the last one was just to make you laugh, but the truth is you do.)

“What about you Bucky? Do you think about me before bed?”

You ask as he parks and he turns to you.

“Oh yeah,” that’s all he says before coming out of the car to open your door. “Think about you more than I think about anything else, doll.”

You manage to hold back your question just before dessert, “Can you please ask me? I’m freaking out and I think my heart might explode from the anxiety.”

There’s a laugh that bubbles from you and Bucky tuts.

“Honey,” you press a hand to your chest. Your anxiety really is at an all time high. You have so many questions rattling around your head that Bucky could want to ask you and you may throw up the lovely pasta you just had if he doesn’t ask you soon.

He leans across the table and holds onto your wrist, feeling the erratic beat of your pulse.

“I’ve been torturing you, haven’t I doll?”

You nod as you try to calm your racing heart.

“I didn’t mean to,” Bucky’s thumb strokes short lines across your wrist. “I had it all set up to come with dessert but I’ll put you out of your misery.”

“Thanks,” you mutter and he smiles.

“I know we’re only going steady,” that gets a smile out of you. He really is an old man, “but I wanted to ask you if I could be yours? Saying boyfriend makes me feel older so I won’t say it.”

You laugh, letting your head fall on his hand where it holds yours.

“Not the other way around?” You ask and Bucky huffs.

“You’re not property, honey.”

You look up with a smile and Bucky’s smile gets a little brighter. “Yeah you can be mine.”

“C’mere,” he tilts your chin a little higher and kisses you; slow and just long enough for it not to be a full make out. “You really missed out on the whole cheesecake with chocolate drizzle writing.”

He says as he pulls away and you laugh.

“Oh, are they not bringing it anymore?”

Bucky shakes his head, mischief in his eyes. “After you just latched onto me in the middle of their establishment? I don’t know, doll.”

“You’re ridiculous.” They still bring the cheesecake and Bucky feeds you the first bite, and like the flirt and menace he is, he gets a little just to the corner of your mouth.

“Let me get it for you,” and steals another kiss, ‘cleaning it off.’

Bucky Barnes really knows how to court a woman.

[navybrat817]

At a Crossroads

Pairing: Mob!Bucky Barnes x Best Friend!Female Reader

Summary: Bucky has lunch with one of his best friends. He wants more than friendship, but is he too late or is there hope?

Word Count: Over 4.7k

Warnings: Friendship, longing, pining, idiots in love (of sorts), tension, bit of angst, thoughts of smut, nicknames, world building, Bucky Barnes (he's a warning, okay?)

A/N: Oh, look. Another new AU, and I'm excited. We're calling this one True Love and Loyal Friends. Thanks to the @starlightcrystalline for letting me scream about this. ❤️ Beta read by the wonderful @societyfolklore and @soelstress, but any and all mistakes are my own. Divided by the talented @saradika-graphics. Please follow @navybrat817-sideblog new fics and notifications. Comments, reblogs, feedback are loved and appreciated!

The diner was quiet as Bucky sat in the booth, only lifting his head to occasionally glance at the door. He could’ve selected a song to play on the jukebox to fill the silence, but he liked the quiet. It gave him time to gather his thoughts without the usual demands and chatter that surrounded him. A couple of his closest men insisted on being in the diner, but he ordered that they keep a reasonable distance. They knew better than to interrupt his time with you, his best friend.

His everything.

He smiled to himself as he checked his phone and saw that you were getting closer, so close he could almost smell your sweet perfume and see your bright smile. Ava was close by too, keeping an eye out. It felt wrong having a tracker on you and people watching you, but it was for your safety. That was what he told himself time and time again since being connected to him meant danger. With the tracker and the security, he or one of his people could reach you quickly if something went wrong, if you were in trouble, or if you needed him.

He couldn’t bear the thought of anything happening to you. If anyone ever tried to lay a hand on you, he’d destroy them. And he'd watch with cold eyes as they turned to ash.

The bell above the door dinged, alerting Bucky of your arrival. He didn’t stand right away since he was too in awe of the way the sun rays behind you cast a soft glow around your body. Solnyshko. Seeing you for the first time was like watching the sun rise, warm, beautiful, and full of hope. And whenever you walked away, it was like the sun set, leaving him in a world of darkness and cursing the moon and stars to bring you back to him.

You spotted him easily since he was the only patron in the place and your smile made the place that much brighter. You were dressed down, but so beautiful and he couldn't help but stare as you walked over. “Hey, Jamie.”

Jamie. Not James, not Bucky, not Buck… Just Jamie. It sounded right coming from you, but not anyone else. One of his men said it in passing once after you left and he threatened to cut his tongue out if he did it again. 

“Hey, Solnyshko,” he replied, standing so he could pull you into a hug once you were close enough. You always greeted him with a hug, and he didn’t let many people touch him. He never felt fear when you were in his embrace, only acceptance and care.

As he wrapped his arms around you and breathed you in, his eyes slipped shut and he imagined dragging you to his car and taking you far away, somewhere where no one would interfere in your lives. It was easier to breathe when you were close, but there was still pain in his chest because you were so far away. Every time you had to say goodbye, he worried it was the last time 

“Are you ever going to stop calling me that?” you teased, your lips dangerously close to his skin. He had to suppress a shiver you’d no doubt feel if he didn’t stay in control.

“Never,” he whispered. You’d always be his sun, even if it was an intimate sort of nickname for a friend. Because Bucky didn't love you the way a best friend should. “Been too long since I’ve seen you.”

“You saw me two days ago,” you said. 

“Still too long,” he half teased. If he had his way he wouldn't be apart from you because you’d be sharing a bed… a home. 

“Please, tell me you didn’t rent out the diner just the two of us could have a meal together,” you said, sliding into the booth once he let you go. He hated letting you go.

“What if I told you I bought the place?” he asked, shrugging at the exasperated look on your face. “What? It’s a good investment, the food is fantastic, and I compensated the owner well.”

That wasn’t a lie. It was a good investment, and the owner had been looking to retire anyway. Bucky just sped up the timeline. And now he could come here with you when he needed an escape.

“All so we could have a quiet meal together?” You shook your head and looked over the menu in front of you. “You flatter me so, even if it is ridiculous.”

Bucky smiled to himself and sipped his water. There were clubs and upscale restaurants all around and he took you there, too, but they were all loud and messy. People around always wanted something from him. Quiet meals with you made him feel like he could truly breathe. And while he could be in his element just about anywhere, this felt better because you were there, steady, calm, and not demanding anything from him. You silenced the chaos around him. 

“Anything for my best friend,” he said, a bittersweet feeling washing over him.

You were a friend first, but loving you was one of the easiest things in the world. It felt natural, like breathing. He needed you like the day needed light. No one else could control or sway him the way you could. The terrifying thing was that it didn’t terrify him at all for someone to have that much power over him. Maybe because you weren’t the type of person to take advantage of that kind of power or him. You were too good for the world, for his world.

“I think Steve would argue that he’s your best friend.”

“You're both my best friends,” he said, except he was completely and utterly in love with you. “You excited for your upcoming show?” he asked to pull himself away from his thoughts.

You giggled, a happy twinkling sound. “Yeah, and nervous as hell,” you answered.

Photography was your passion. You wanted to capture the beauty of the world and see things in different ways. You almost always had some sort of camera on you because you didn’t know when inspiration would strike. Whenever you stopped to take a picture with Bucky around, he watched you, even when you took photos of him. He was looking into your soul, not the lens.

“Nervous? You have nothing to be nervous about because there’s no better photographer out there,” he swore. He wasn’t telling you to blow smoke up your ass. Your work was that good. 

“It’s nerve-wracking to put yourself out there,” you said. 

He understood that because he felt nervous at the thought of confessing how he felt. “It’ll be great, and I’m always right,” he added with a smile.

“You are not always right, but keep telling yourself that,” you teased, your gaze so soft that his heart skipped a beat. “Though your support is greatly appreciated.”

“I’ll always support you,” he promised. He wanted all of your dreams to come true. 

In fact, he offered to pull some strings and get you a showing in the top gallery in the city, to which you smacked his arm. You wanted your work to speak for itself, not have it shown because of his connections. He respectfully backed off, and you showed him that you didn’t need his connections at all since you worked hard and got it all on your own.

It shouldn't have surprised him. He thought you could do anything you put your mind to. Not just because you could be stubborn in the best way, but because you put your heart into everything you did. It was admirable and inspiring. 

“And you’ll be there?” you asked hopefully. 

Bucky was the first person you messaged when you got the news and you told him it would mean the world if he went. “As if I’d be anywhere else,” he told you, making you snort when he playfully rolled his eyes. If you needed or wanted him there or anywhere, he’d find a way to make it happen no matter what. 

“You better or I’ll hunt you down,” you threatened with narrowed eyes before you giggled again. 

He chuckled and leaned forward. “Wouldn't that be a sight, someone as sweet as you hunting me down?”

You crossed your arms with a huff. “You don't scare me, Barnes.”

“Don’t call me Barnes. I’m Jamie to you,” he said. He’d be your Jamie forever and always. “And I’m so fucking proud of you for getting that showing, Solnshko.”

He'd have to buy something special to congratulate you, which you deserved and more.

You bit your lip and looked in your lap with a small smile. “Thanks, Jamie,” you whispered, raising your gaze again with a larger smile. He almost wished he snapped a photo so you could see how beautiful you looked at the moment, in every moment. “Hey, do you remember when John Walker bumped into me at your birthday party?”

Bucky growled at the memory. You were getting ready to snap a photo of him and Steve together and John fucking Walker purposely bumped into you and made you drop your camera. Your eyes teared up instantly because you had bought that camera yourself and the fucker had the nerve to laugh. He would’ve seen red from the laughter alone, but your tears made him snap.

“I remember punching him very hard in the face a couple of times, threatening to cut his throat if he didn’t apologize, and I forced him to buy you a new camera,” he said. Some would call it overkill, but he called it protecting and caring for you. And while his reaction would've rightfully scared some, it didn't bother you at all. All you cared about was making sure his hand wasn't hurt from punching John.

“Except he didn’t buy me the camera. You made him give you money and then you bought the camera for me,” you said, resting your arms on the table with a knowing stare. “A much nicer one than the one I had before.”

“Yeah, I did,” he admitted unashamedly. John owed you a new camera. Bucky had taken it upon himself to buy you the camera and everything else you needed to go with it since he had no problem showering you with gifts. 

“You didn’t want me to see John again, or accept anything from him, did you?” 

Not many could read Bucky, but you could. He wondered if you could read his feelings for you or if he hid them well enough. Bucky didn’t want you accepting any sort of gift from John. “He’s a fucking asshole, so I didn’t want him close to you again,” he said honestly. John may have laughed when you dropped the camera, but Bucky saw him check you out more than once. “What made you think of that?”

“Because I used that camera for some of my photos,” you said softly, something warm just beneath the surface before you smiled. 

The beat of Bucky’s pulse doubled in time. Did you use it because he gave it to you? Did you think of him when you used it? “I’ll bet the photos you took with that camera are the best ones.”

“I guess you’ll see,” you smiled and took a quick look around. “I don’t mean to be rude, but are there any servers here?”

Bucky winced a little and shot Sam a quick text message. “That’s my fault. I said I wanted a few minutes alone, so the server is in the back with Sam.” He should’ve messaged him sooner. All you had was the water in front of you. “I think he likes her.”

“Oh, Sam’s probably working on getting her number. He’s shameless,” you fondly said.

“If he’s lucky,” he chuckled and shook his head. “I don’t know how you put up with us.”

Surrounding himself with people he trusted was key in his world. Steve and Sam were good guys. His entire crew was, despite some of the things they had to do.

“Because I love you guys,” you said. 

His expression was caught between longing and sorrow. “We love you, too,” he said. Except Steve and Sam only loved you like a sister. 

The server came out before he could say more. “So sorry about that,” she said, giving you both a smile. “Have you two decided on what you want or can I give you another minute?”

Bucky hid a grin when she glanced over her shoulder. She wanted to go back to Sam. “Nothing to be sorry for,” he assured her and winked at you. “Don't know why you bothered looking at the menu when I know what you're going to get.”

You smiled because it was true. “I know what you're getting, too,” you countered. Both of you knew each other's favorites. 

The server jotted down the order when Bucky gave it to her and looked between you with hearts in her eyes. “You two make a really cute couple.” 

Your mouth fell open and Bucky knew what was coming. You were going to politely correct her and say you were “just friends”, which was bullshit. So he seized the opportunity and took your hand before nodding to the server. “Thank you. I’m very lucky to have her.”

There was a flicker of sadness in your eyes, but you managed a smile for the server before you two were left alone again. His gaze lingered on you and he didn’t look away even as the sadness faded. It had him wondering if he was blind. Did you see the two of you as only friends or was there more? Did you feel it, too?

“Lucky to have me, huh?” you asked, a wistful smile on your face.

“The luckiest,” he replied. He couldn’t imagine his life without you in it “I still have your letters,” he added. He didn't know why he said it, but he had to let you know. 

You waited a beat and asked, “You do?”

He swallowed and nodded, knowing this was going into intimate territory, something stronger than friendship. “Every single one,” he said. 

You said once that you didn’t understand why people didn’t write letters anymore, why everything was done through email and text. Handwritten letters were special because they took time and care. So Bucky wrote you a letter one day and you wrote him back. The letters were one of his most cherished possessions.

He imagined confessing his feelings in a letter, but it wasn't right. It would be a face-to-face conversation when the time came because you deserved to hear the words from his lips. He wanted to sweep you off your feet and then write you something romantic. 

You blinked a few times, likely not wanting to cry in the middle of the diner. “I have yours, too.”

Bucky’s heart beat faster again. He wanted to ask you why you kept them. He wanted to see your eyes when you answered him. Was it for sentimental value or something more? 

But you didn't elaborate and he didn't ask. 

“You busy this Saturday night? Was thinking we could do a movie night,” he said. He already had your favorite snacks stocked up. He never would've thought to put Reese's Pieces or M&Ms in popcorn, but you could get him to try anything. 

You shifted in your seat. “Oh. I don’t think I can,” you said.

Bucky tried not to feel disappointed. Your life didn't revolve around him. “Why not?”

You bit your lip and looked to the side, making him pay more attention. Everyone had tells for when they were lying, nervous, etc. He learned them well in his line of work, and he learned yours since he knew you so well. You sometimes bit your lip when someone complimented you, but your head usually dipped down with a smile like you had done just a bit ago. You only looked to the side when you were avoiding someone’s gaze, like you were in trouble or scared.  You were avoiding his gaze. Why?  

“Why not?” he asked again, willing you to look at him so he could see your pretty eyes and have your attention.

You took a deep breath and faced him. “I have a date.”

The statement washed over him like a bucket of cold water and he felt a pain in his heart like someone stabbed him. He exhaled slowly and had to put his hands in his lap so you wouldn’t see them curl into fists. “You have a date?” he asked, like was speaking with glass in his throat.

You were a beautiful woman, one of the most stunningly effortlessly beautiful women he had ever seen. He wasn’t lying to himself when he told himself you were his sun because you lit up every room you walked into and made people pay attention without trying. Beyond your beauty, you had a heart of gold, giving and open. Men wanted to ruin and keep you, and he knew that because he was one of them.

“Yeah, I do,” you said.

He wasn’t quick enough to hide his scowl and your flinch let him know you spotted it. His heart sank into his stomach. So many feared him and for good reason, but he never wanted to make you flinch for any reason. “A date. You have a date,” he said as evenly as he could.

You dated here and there and so had he, but you never had anything serious. So why the bad feeling in his gut? Why did this feel like you were slipping through his fingers?

“Yeah. A friend set us up,” you said, his jaw clenching when you pulled your hand away to get your phone. He may have to have a chat with that friend. “I have a photo.”

Bucky’s expression darkened when you showed him. He was admittedly handsome, his confidence oozing from the photo. He had to tamper down the rising rage he felt inside of him because he wanted to wreck his face and tell him exactly why people called him the White Wolf- because he hunted and used a variety of tactics to take down his prey. What right did he have to do that though?

You were his in his heart, but not yet in name.

“What’s his name?” he asked curiously.

You told him without hesitation and he hummed, subtly messaging Steve so he could look into the prick. If there was dirt on him, he wanted it.

Your gaze flickered between him and your phone. “You know, he kind of looks like you if you squint.”

Bucky scoffed. He’d be damned if he was going to be usurped by a knock-off version of him. “I’m way better looking.”

You giggled and put your phone away, making him sigh in relief since he didn’t have to keep looking at the photo. “Very humble, Jamie.”

It was petty and he didn't care. “Bet he tries to rent out the restaurant thinking it'll impress you,” he muttered.

“I'm sorry, but didn't you rent out this diner?” 

“I bought the diner. There's a difference. And this isn't a date,” he said too casually. 

You sat up straight and he regretted saying that when you leveled him with a glare. “What about your fiancé? Would you buy a diner for her?”

Bucky had braced himself for the inevitable topic, but he still felt the blow in his gut and had to take a moment to keep his breathing under control. He didn’t like talking about his fiancé. Hell, he didn’t like his fiancé at all. She was a stuck-up spoiled princess, and she couldn’t stand him either. Hate fucking would never be a thing because she had another thing coming if she thought he was ever going to touch her. 

The arranged marriage was supposed to bring their families together and all it did was tear his heart apart. He got into the biggest fight with his dad when he was informed of the engagement and they still hadn’t recovered from it. Even his mom couldn't sway his dad. The poor woman was stuck between her husband and her son, but she defended Bucky when he delayed the wedding. There were only so many times he could postpone it.

“You know I don't like talking about her,” he said in a low voice.

He couldn't stand breathing the same air as her and hated saying her name. The very few times he made an appearance with her, he wanted to bash his head against the wall. He immediately went to see you after each outing to cool down. You took his mind off her, you always did. 

“I know you don't like talking about her, but…” You swallowed hard. “You're going to marry her.”

He flexed his fingers and exhaled. He would've broken the table if this conversation took place with anyone else, but not you. But over his dead fucking body was he marrying her. He was going to find a way out of this mess. He had to.

“I’d prefer if she just married the bodyguard she’s fucking and stayed out of my life,” he said completely devoid of emotion. 

Bucky wasn't an idiot and she hadn't tried to be discreet about the affair. It didn't bother him. She probably thought he was fucking you, but that hadn't happened.

Bucky thought about it. How could he not when he wanted you so badly? He imagined it so vividly— how soft your lips would feel against his, how you'd tremble under his touch, moan when you took every inch of him, cry his name when you came, beg for him to fill you up. He lost track of how many times he got off to the thought of you. It was enough to fill a lifetime of daydreams. 

He could tell you were trying to think of a response, something witty or to cheer him up, but there was pain all over your face. “I didn't mean to bring her up.”

He nodded. You weren't trying to upset him. You weren't cruel. “I know. It’s okay.”

Silence stretched between you after that, but he offered you a small smile and you reached back over to take his hand. He looked at your joined hands and all the previous anger faded away. You were the only one who could calm the beast inside. He didn't want to let you go. 

“I spoke to your dad,” you said.

His head snapped back to you. “You did? When?” he asked. 

And why?

His parents adored you, always had, and they weren't easy to impress. The fact that his dad liked you and you weren't from a powerful family spoke volumes. His mom wept after the fight he had with his dad and she admitted she would've loved to have you as a daughter-in-law. He wanted to make that happen. 

“A couple of days ago when you were in a meeting,” you said, looking at the tabletop. 

His brows pinched as he repeated the day’s events in his mind. “You mean when you were waiting for me?”

You had been at his family mansion when his meeting ended and he thought nothing of the surprise visit since you frequently surprised each other. He assumed you chatted with his mom or one of the staff while you waited, but not his dad. The man wasn't usually one for casual conversation. 

You nodded. “I don’t want you to be mad at me.”

“I don’t think I could ever be mad at you,” he said. You two argued now and then, like a couple would, but he’d never be angry at you. “But why did you talk to my dad? What did you talk about?”

And why didn't his dad or you tell him? 

You took a breath like you were steeling yourself. “I asked if you had to marry her because I didn’t think she was the right choice for you.” You still wouldn’t look him in the eye, so you didn’t see the stunned look on his face. “I also said that if you had to marry her that there was a chance that he’d lose you as a son. Or at least, he’d lose the son he knew and loved.”

Bucky’s jaw dropped. It took a lot to surprise him and your answer would’ve put him on his ass if he hadn’t already been sitting. Not many had the balls to question his dad on anything, but there you were defending him and his choices and future. He loved you, he had for some time, and knowing you walked into the lion’s den for him made him love you all the more.

“Are you mad?” Your voice shook and he saw tears shimmering in your eyes when you lifted your gaze.

“No. Fuck no,” he whispered, going around to the other side of the booth so he could pull you close. “Not mad at you. I could never be mad at you for sticking up for me.” Some of his bravest soldiers wouldn't have had the guts to do what you did. 

“I just know you don’t want to marry her, and I thought I was helping you,” you said, leaning into him and sniffling. “Your happiness means everything to me.”

“So does yours,” he said, rubbing your back. You were trembling. “What did he say to you?”

“He called me brave, and said the only way you could get out of it was if she betrayed the families in some way,” you replied. He was shocked all over again that his dad told you that. “And affairs don’t count. I asked.”

Bucky wouldn’t be surprised if his dad encouraged him to take a mistress since he knew he couldn’t stand his fiancé. The thought made him sick because he didn’t want a mistress- He wanted you. He wanted his ring on your finger and you by his side. 

“I’m not going to marry her,” he declared. He didn’t just say it for himself, he needed you to hear it, too, in case there was any chance he had a place in your heart.

“Okay,” you said.

A single word and Bucky’s heart slowly cracked. There was no anger or sarcasm in your tone, but there was no hope either. “Do you not believe me?” he asked. 

Thought he wouldn't blame you if you didn't. Hadn't he put his dad's wishes ahead of his own for some time? But if you didn’t have faith in him, what was he to do?

“I believe you can do anything, Jamie,” you said, pulling back to look at him. A single tear slid down your cheek. “I always have.”

He wiped the tear away with his thumb, wishing he could kiss you. “Don’t go on that date,” he whispered.

“Jamie-”

“I mean it, Solnyshko. Don’t go on that date,” he said more fiercely this time.

Bucky felt like a fucking asshole. He had no right to ask that of you. He should let you live your life and give this guy a try, but he couldn’t. 

“Why not?” you asked, looking into his eyes and daring him to open his heart. “Why shouldn't I go on that date?”

Bucky raked a hand through his hair. Your parents were probably thrilled about your date if you told them since they didn't want you to be alone. And the words were there and ready, but he couldn’t tell you until he took care of breaking things off. It was the fair thing for both of you. 

“I just need you to trust me. Please,” he begged. 

You couldn’t hide your disappointment when your eyes searched his, but you nodded. “I’ll consider it,” you said.

He closed his eyes and reminded himself that you didn't owe him anything and that included your feelings. If all you wanted was his friendship he had to accept and respect that. But if there was a chance, he had to cling to that hope. 

“I’ll convince you,” he said, urging you to rest your head on his shoulder. “Somehow.”

And if he couldn’t, he’d have no problem crashing your date.

So, what do we think? Is that date happening or not? And who is he? Love and thanks for reading! ❤️

Masterlist ⚓ Bucky Barnes Masterlist ⚓ Ko-Fi

[marvelstoriesepic]

A Thousand Times Before

Pairing: Avenger!Bucky x Avenger!Reader

Summary: Bucky travels to an alternate universe for the sake of a mission. But he doesn’t expect to come face to face with a version of you that loves him, completely and openly. Back in his own world, he is left with a truth he can’t keep to himself anymore.

Word Count: 16.5k

Warnings: alternate universe; multiverse; so much yearning; identity confusion; emotional distress; guilt; self-worth struggles; unintentional non-consensual kiss (non-violent, due to mistaken identity); angst; heartbreak themes; slight mentions of Bucky’s past; self-preservation; self-doubt; Bucky is a man in love

Author’s Note: This ended up being longer than I intended. Anyway, I’d love to hear what you think! Also, I’ve been toying with the idea of writing an alternate version where the roles are flipped. This time the reader travels to another universe where Bucky and your counterpart are already a couple. Let me know if that’s something you’d be interested in reading too! I hope you enjoy ♡

Divider by @cafekitsune ♡

Masterlist

The air smells of memory.

As though someone took the world he knew, put it through a sieve, and rebuilt it with hands that were almost - but not quite - shaking.

Bucky walks slow, even though his boots echo down a corridor that used to be silent. Used to be. In his world, the east wing of the Avenger’s compound is always cold, sterile, mostly unused. Here, the lights are warmer. Someone’s installed those vintage bulbs. They buzz faintly and flicker around.

There is a plant in the hallway. A real one. He steps past it. Looks down. A ceramic pot painted with little sunflowers. A tiny sticker peeling off the side.

This version of the compound is lived-in.

It’s unnerving.

He hates how it makes him breathe more deeply as though he is listening for something it shouldn’t. How everything is just off. The couch in the lounge is turned at a different angle. The vending machine is missing. There is a lavender-scented candle burning on the coffee table.

He doesn’t trust this. He doesn’t trust any of it.

Not the way the ceiling seems too low or how the hallways echo the wrong sound the longer he walks. The floor beneath his boots is almost the same. But almost is what gets people killed. And he’s not in the business of dying again. Not even here. Not even in a world that’s supposed to be some mirror image of his own.

It smells of lemon disinfectant and something faintly floral as though someone sprayed a bottle of room freshener and hoped no one would notice the rot underneath.

He runs his metal fingers along the wall as he walks, lets the vibranium whir quietly against the plaster. Feels the microscopic grooves in the paint.

In his universe, there is a crack near the main stairwell. Sam swears he didn’t do it. Clint insists he did. Here, it’s perfectly smooth. That bothers him more than it should.

He takes in this slightly different world as though maybe this is all some trick of the multiverse, some clever illusion designed to fool the worn-down man with the metal arm and the hundred-year-old ghosts. But the walls are still painted in the same color - off-white, barely warmed by the overheads. The hallway lights flicker golden. As though someone decided the compound shouldn’t feel like a facility. As though someone decided it should feel like home. His breath still fogs faintly in the colder patches of the corridor.

This could still be his universe somehow.

Even though it isn’t.

And even though he doesn’t want it to be.

He never wanted to be part of the mission.

He said no. Loudly. Repeatedly. With many adjectives and lots of glares. It didn’t matter. Fury said he was the only one who could go. That this universe had some piece of tech - some half-mythical Howard Stark prototype that their Stark never got the chance to build.

Something with the potential to rewrite temporal coordinates with precision. To fix anomalies. Maybe even to bring back the ones they lost.

He sat through the debrief like a man sitting on a bomb. Not moving. Not breathing more than he needed to.

And Bucky noticed, the way he always did, that you never ask quite so many questions during debriefing - unless the mission involves him. And this time, it’s only him. So that meant more questions from you. More concern you didn’t even try to mask.

And it made his heart clench.

You asked how they knew this tech even existed in that timeline.

You asked why Tony couldn’t just build it himself to which the man gave you a look.

You asked what would happen if Bucky saw someone he knew. If he saw himself.

You asked what exactly Bucky was going to walk into and what was expected of him.

You asked how much they even knew about this universe.

Steve had exhaled, hands braced against the briefing room table, blue eyes clouded. “We don’t know much,” he admitted. “This universe is close to ours in structure, but details are limited. No major historical deviations. No sign of HYDRA still in power. No active wars. Just small shifts. Choices made differently.”

Bucky had watched your face tighten as if the lack of data itself was a warning.

“SHIELD had a file on it, but nothing concrete,” Steve went on. “Stark’s readings say it’s stable - no time fractures, no reality collapses. Just another version of what we know.”

Bucky had listened, fingers flexing against his metal wrist. Close to theirs, but not the same. And he wonders, not for the first or last time, what choices this other world made for him.

The mission is simple. Locate the prototype. Extract it. Avoid unnecessary contact with variants. And get the hell back before anything breaks - him, the people, the timeline.

Bucky stopped listening entirely after receiving all the information he needed.

He only registered you shifting beside him, and it was the tiniest movement, but he noticed. You always get fidgety when something bothers you. He wanted to say something, reassure you, but he didn’t truly know if he even got this.

He knew you were worried. Knew you were angry. The kind that made your eyes too quiet and your hands too still. The kind that made Bucky feel like he was walking through a house where all the lights had been turned off, but every door was open.

When Dr. Steven Strange opened that portal, you stood in the corner of the room, watching him and giving him that guarded look that said you better come back whole. He couldn’t meet your eyes for too long.

And when the world rippled and bent, and the air shimmered as though it might break, and he stepped forward like a man walking into the sun with his eyes closed, he thought of you.

The stairs groan beneath his boots, familiar but not.

Same wood. Same color. But smoother. As though someone took the time to sand down the scars.

In his universe, the fifth step has a chip where Steve dropped a dumbbell. Everyone tripped on it at least once. Here, it is whole. Perfect. No history at all.

That’s what gets him. The lack of damage. As though this place hasn’t lived the same kind of life.

He reaches the second floor and hesitates.

The hallway is dim. Only the lights overhead are on, flickering just slightly. He hates the buzzing. It’s like something alive and trapped.

He turns left.

Your room is down this hall.

Or - your room in his universe is down this hall. He shouldn’t assume anything. Things are wrong here. Tilted just a few degrees off center. The kind of wrong you don’t see until it’s already unmade you.

But his feet are already moving.

It’s not like he’s planning to go in.

He just wants to look. Maybe see how different this version of you really is. Maybe see how different he is, through your eyes.

He reaches your door at the end of the corridor. It’s cracked open. That’s weird. You usually always have it shut.

Your voice isn’t behind it. You’re not laughing, humming, ranting about something. There is only quiet.

He steps closer.

The doorframe is covered in tiny indentations. Not scratches - these are deliberate. Someone’s been marking height on the trim. Two sets of lines. One lower than the other. Two sets of initials scrawled in black ink. Yours. And his.

He knows it’s yours. Because he knows your height. Like a number carved into his bones.

He’s memorized the space you take up in a room. Not just how tall you are, but the way your presence fills the air.

He knows where your head would rest if you stood beside him. Knows it would reach just beneath his chin. Knows the sound your footsteps make when you enter a room, and how the air shifts when you’re near.

He has painted you in his mind a thousand times before.

Eyes open, eyes closed.

In dreams, in silence.

In the echo of a laugh you left behind on a Tuesday.

He’s mapped you in the kitchen. Measured, in his mind, which cabinets you can stand beneath without hitting your head. Which shelves you can’t reach so he can be there, quietly, to help. So he can hand you that mug you always squint up at, the one you pretend you don’t need.

He knows how your arm swings when you walk.

Knows the rhythm of your stride. Knows your pace.

And sometimes, not often enough to be suspicious, he lets his hand brush yours.

Lets his fingers catch a hint of your warmth.

It’s not an accident.

It never is.

He carries you like a story he hasn’t told yet.

And he is aching, aching, aching to write you down.

Bucky stares at the markings like they might reach out and touch him.

He brushes his fingers against one. The ink smudges slightly under the metal pad of his thumb. Fresh.

He doesn’t understand.

Why would he-?

No. It has to be a coincidence. Just a prank. A weird joke. Someone else with your handwriting, maybe. Another version of him. One who doesn’t carry his past like a loaded gun. Or it’s just some odd inside joke he never got to know about in his own universe.

Bucky moves to step back, but his eyes catch on something else.

To the right of the door, hanging crookedly, is a small, square canvas. Acrylic. Textured.

It’s a painting. He knows it immediately. Your style.

He’s seen you paint a thousand times in silence, your jaw clenched, music too loud in your headphones. You always say you paint when you can’t say something out loud. When the words get stuck in your chest and rot.

This painting is familiar. A half-sky. A steel arm. Fingers open, reaching toward a red string that trails off the edge of the frame.

He knows what it means. He knows you.

But the painting doesn’t belong here. Not like this. It’s intimate. Meant for someone who understands the weight in your throat when you speak through colors.

Someone like him.

His stomach twists.

Maybe it is him.

He doesn’t like that thought. Doesn’t like how it makes his heart trip over itself.

He takes a step into the room because his brain told him to and his body didn’t want to argue. And he stops breathing.

Because you're not there.

But the room is.

The room is here.

And that’s almost worse.

It’s too familiar.

Not identical, not exact, but similar enough to tear him wide open.

The walls are a different color. Now necessarily lights. But just not how he remembers it. The books on the shelf are in new places, different spines, rearranged lives.

But the couch is the same shape, the same worn-out comfort.

The window still drinks in the light the same way - slanted, soft, forgiving.

And there’s a sweater messily folded on your dresser.

A book, face-down on the cushion like someone meant to come back to it.

Like you were just here.

Like maybe, if he stays long enough, you’ll walk back into the frame of this almost-life.

He doesn’t touch anything.

He’s afraid to.

Because this version of the world remembers you.

The shape of your existence lives here - in shadows and coffee rings, in the faint scent of something sweet and floral and you.

He walks the room like an intruder in someone else’s dream, eyes cataloguing the differences, chasing the sameness.

He notices that the cabinet doors hang slightly crooked in the same way.

And for just a moment he swears he hears your voice in the next room.

But it’s only silence, mocking him.

He wants to sit.

He wants to stay.

Wants to believe that if he closes his eyes, you’ll be beside him again.

He knows it isn’t true.

This isn’t his world.

This isn’t his home.

And this isn’t his you.

But the ache doesn’t care about reality.

The ache believes in the melodic sound of your laughter and the empty seat beside him.

There’s a coat draped over the back of a chair.

His coat.

Not one like it.

His.

The leather’s too worn in the same places. The collar stretched where he grips it with his right hand. There’s even the tear near the cuff that you stitched together with dark red thread, muttering that you weren’t a tailor but you’d seen enough war movies to fake it.

He steps inside without meaning to.

The room smells like you.

It’s your scent - soft, unassuming, threaded through with something sweet. Like worn pages and old tea and maybe vanilla.

It’s the same smell that clings to your hoodie when you get closer to each other on cold stakeouts to warm the other. The same one that lingers on your gloves when you pass him something, and he holds them a moment too long just to feel the warmth you left behind.

There’s a mug on the nightstand with faded text that reads I make bad decisions and coffee.

He bought that for you. In his world. As a joke.

You still used it until the handle cracked, and then you glued it back together and kept using it anyway.

He reaches out for it.

Stops.

His hand is shaking.

Bucky turns slowly. And sees the photo.

It’s not framed. Just pinned to a corkboard on the far wall, beneath torn paper scraps and to-do lists written in your handwriting.

It’s the two of you.

He recognizes the background - Coney Island. A bench by the boardwalk. Sunlight in your hair. His arm around your shoulder. His face not looking at the camera, but at you.

You’re laughing. And he looks-

He looks in love.

Like he has everything he ever wanted.

His breath hitches.

He steps back.

Back again.

Like distance might undo the gravity of what he just saw.

His ears are ringing.

None of this makes sense. Not fully.

He is stepping into a space he should not recognize but does.

The walls are a little brighter than in his world. Pale blue. Like the sky on cold days. There’s a candle on the windowsill—burned low and forgotten. Its wax has dripped onto a saucer, hardened into a small, messy sculpture. The bed is half-made. A throw blanket in a tangled heap at the foot of it. He recognizes that blanket. You two fought over it last movie night and then ended up sharing it.

There’s another book lying face-down, this time on the mattress. A knife on the nightstand. A half-written grocery list in your handwriting with his name scrawled at the bottom next to coffee and razor blades and more apples.

He stares at the list too long. At his own name like it sits in the wrong place. Like it’s foreign and familiar all at once.

His heart makes a quiet, traitorous sound in his chest.

He shouldn’t be here.

This isn’t his room. It’s not his place. Not his world. He’s just a shadow slipping through someone else’s life.

The longer he stays, the more it feels like the walls are leaning in.

He has a job.

A mission.

A very, very clear objective and a limited window to complete it in. That’s the only reason he’s here. The only reason he agreed to this whole ridiculous plan.

He doesn’t belong to this life.

He doesn’t belong to you.

Not like this.

Especially not like this.

He steps back. Slow. Controlled. As if the room might lurch and pull him in again, keep him held tight inside the heat of it. The scent of lavender on your pillow. A half-drunk mug of something still faintly warm on the desk. A soft blanket, folded neatly over the back of the couch by the window. Woven wool, pale grey, fraying just at the corners. In his world, that blanket lives in the rec room. He draped it over your slumbering body a few times already after you fell asleep somewhere between the second and third act.

The room creaks as though it knows he’s not supposed to be here.

So he leaves.

Each footfall measured like a soldier retreating from a line of fire. Not because of danger.

Because of what it could mean.

He closes the door behind him. Doesn’t let it latch.

He is leaving your room because he has to.

Because he’s still Bucky Barnes, and he still has something to do with his hands that isn’t letting them hover uselessly over photographs he never shot, or standing in the middle of a space that smells like your skin and wondering how long it would take before he forgot this wasn’t real. Or wasn’t his.

The hallway is still and dim. It breathes around him, too familiar and too wrong all at once. Different lungs, but the same bone structure.

His boots scruff over the same tile. The grooves on the walls are the same, the small imperfections in the paint still visible where someone - Clint, maybe - banged a cart too hard against the corner and then tried to cover it up with exactly the wrong shade of touch-up.

There’s a duffle bag sitting outside the laundry chute with a name tag stitched in crooked red thread: WILSON. Of course. Even this Sam never takes his stuff all the way in.

And there is a vending machine. It stands in the wrong corner, but it too has a post-it note stuck to it - out of order, again, thanks Tony - with a penknife stabbed through it, just like Natasha used to do when the machine ate her protein bar credits.

These things shouldn’t exist here. But they do.

Everything feels so carefully replicated, as though this universe is a reflection cast on rippling water - almost right, except where it wavers.

The picture frames are all straight here. No one’s taped up drawings on the elevator doors. But the dent in the wall by the training room door is still there - Tony left it during a particularly aggressive dodgeball game. And the pillow on the corner of the couch is still upside down. Steve never fixes it.

Someone’s sweatshirt is slung over the railing. Sam’s. Same one he wore for three weeks straight after the Lagos op. It still smells like burned rubber and that weird detergent Sam insists is “eco-friendly but manly.”

The common room has a blanket folded over the arm of the couch.

It’s yours.

You always fold it the same way. Two halves, then thirds, then smoothed flat.

The corners of his mouth twitch. Not a smile. Just muscle memory of one.

He walks slower now. Like he’s afraid he’ll wake something up.

He turns down the south hall, toward the kitchen.

He tells himself it’s for the layout. That he’s retracing steps, building a map in his head, keeping sharp like they trained him to. But really it’s you. It’s always you. He knows you’re here, somewhere, and if he turns the wrong corner too fast he might see you in a way he isn’t ready for. Or worse - see you in a way he’ll never forget.

His hand curls into a fist. Flesh and metal both.

The light changes first.

The kitchen here is bigger. Airier. The windows seem to stretch wider than they should, the frame redone in something softer than steel. Someone left the lights low, warm glimmers buzzing faintly above, full of melancholy chords.

And then he freezes. Everything in him turns to stone.

He stops breathing.

Because there are you.

Standing with your back to him.

You are in fuzzy socks, standing at the counter, shoulders relaxed, a pot simmering on the stove, and a sway in your movements that hit him so hard his throat tightens. You shift your weight slightly, hip against the edge of the counter, your hand rising to tuck your hair behind your ear.

The way the light hits you from behind is exactly the same.

You are moving through a rhythm you don’t know he’s watching.

You’re cooking something - he doesn’t know what, can’t smell it through the barrier of this aching distance - but it all is so heartbreakingly familiar. The tilt of your head as you read the label. The absent little sway in your hips as you stir something in the pan.

It’s domestic.

Effortlessly soft.

The kind of moment he’s never had, but has imagined a thousand times before.

His body goes very still. Maybe if he moves, the moment might shatter.

But it cleaves him open.

Because you move the same.

You move the way you do in his world - as though every room bends slowly toward you. As though you don’t know how much of your soul you leave behind in your trail. As though the air makes space for you because it wants to. Because it has to.

He watches.

Rooted to the floor.

This is doing something brutal to him. Seeing you here like this, in this soft golden kitchen that smells like tomatoes and thyme and something slow-cooked with patience and love, tucked into his shirt as though it doesn’t tear his heart apart.

You’re not just wearing it to steal warmth or tease him, the way you’ve done before in his world - tugging on his hoodie after a long mission, smirking when he raises an eyebrow, pretending it was an accident. You always returned it too quickly. Always laughed too loudly when he was too nonchalant about it. Always looked away too fast.

But here. Here you wear it as though you truly mean to.

Here you stir sauce in his shirt and sway slightly to a song you don’t know you’re humming and taste the spoon as though this is just another Saturday. Here, the shirt is not a stolen thing.

The hem skims your thighs. The collar is stretched slightly. The cotton even moves in your rhythm. His name is ghosted into the shape of you, etched along your silhouette. It’s almost too much. It’s absolutely too much.

Your movements are familiar in the way only time can make a person. And God, you move the same way. The same way. Like the version of you he left behind an hour ago. Fluid. Quiet. Self-contained. You hum under your breath, just barely.

He feels it like a bruise forming under his ribs.

His hand curls at his side. Metal fingers flex.

You don’t see him.

He’s not ready for you to. He knows he shouldn’t let you see him.

Not here. Not like this. Not when you’re standing in a kitchen that looks like the one you always complained was too small, in a shirt that is his - or the other Bucky’s - cooking with your whole body curled in that same subtle tension like you’re thinking about something else entirely.

And for one breathless second, he forgets.

He forgets this isn’t his kitchen.

That this isn’t his world.

That the you standing there isn’t the one who left a hair tie on his wrist last Wednesday.

That you’re not the one who laughed at him for not knowing how to use your espresso machine but then proceeded to teach him with that sweet voice of yours he doesn’t mind drowning in.

But God, he wants to walk across the room. Wants to slide his arms around your waist. Rest his chin on your shoulder. Breathe in your scent and feel your heartbeat under his hands.

Because he’s seen you like this before.

In his own kitchen, in his own universe.

Not often. Just enough to be dangerous.

You, in fuzzy socks. You, humming softly. You, squinting into a pot like it might confess its secrets.
You, looking over your shoulder and catching him staring.

Smirking. Amused. But with a warmth in your eyes.

And now, he just watches.

This version of you doesn’t turn around. Doesn’t feel him standing there, made of want and memory and too much tenderness for a heart that was never meant to carry this much.

He grips the doorframe.

Tries to swallow the pain.

Because this is what he’s always wanted, but it isn’t his.

And it won’t be.

But he can’t stop looking.

He knows he should move. Now.

He’s not supposed to linger.

Not supposed to look.

Not supposed to feel.

He’s a shadow in this world, a breath not meant to be heard. A presence designed to pass unnoticed.

But you-

God.

You are gravity and he is weak against it.

You are the glitch in every rule, the exception in every universe.

And he can’t help it.

He looks.

He stays.

Because there is no version of reality where he walks past you untouched.

You are the only thing in this place that hasn’t changed.

The only thing that feels right.

And that’s the worst part.

Because you feel like home.

And you’re not his.

You might never be.

But he stands there, selfish and still, pretending the silence could make him invisible. Pretending this version of you isn’t real. That your shape, your voice, your hands wouldn’t undo him in ways the war never could.

You reach for the spice rack, standing on your toes just a little, the hem of the oversized shirt lifting slightly. His name is written in the way the fabric hangs off your frame. It’s branded into this whole place.

He watches you like a man watches fire from the other side of glass - warmed, lit, and ruined all at once. You move like morning through him - and he, all dusk and dust, knows he is never meant to touch such light.

You wear that shirt on your shoulders as though it is normal for you. As though you want it to be there.

Bucky watches it stretch across the curves of a body he’s only ever worshiped in dreams.

You still feel like you, he thinks and the thought is so sudden and so violent that he has to step back - just a fraction of an inch, just enough to pretend he didn’t feel it, just enough to pretend it doesn’t mean something.

He doesn’t understand how this version of you still reads like poetry he’s already memorized.

He backs away, so slowly, he wonders if time might forgive him for the moment. For his hesitation to leave.

For the way, he just stands there and watches you as though you are the last good thing in the world.

As though you are the world. His world.

You turn, slow, stirring spoon still in hand. You haven’t seen him yet. You’re focused, brow furrowed just slightly, lower lip caught between your teeth, and he knows he should get the hell away from here.

But he is frozen in place. His muscles aren’t working.

He sees the angle of your cheek, the line of your neck, the quick twitch of your nose as though you’ve caught a scent you know too well.

And then you look up.

You see him.

Bucky’s mind is running on empty cells.

Your whole face changes. Clouds lifting. Sun rising. Your smile is instant. As though seeing him is something your body wants to do.

Everything in you brightens. As though the sun cracked open inside your chest. Your whole body jolts. Just a fraction. In surprise, delight. As though seeing him is something that rearranges the air in your lungs and makes it easier to breathe.

He is not prepared for the way you breathe his name.

“Buck-” your voice is thick with shock and joy and something lighter than either. “You’re back.”

He doesn’t move. Can’t.

The word back rattles in his ears. Echoes. Feels like a lie made of gold. He is not back. He is not yours. Not in this life. Not in this room. Not in the way you somehow seem to think he is.

You don’t give him time to speak. You don’t give him space to even think.

Because you’re already closing the distance between you, fast and sure-footed, and he has just enough sense left in him to realize he should say something, before you launch yourself into his chest, arms flung wide, a soft gasp of excitement still spilling from your mouth.

You collide with him hard and certain and unapologetic, and your arms wind around his neck as though they’ve done this a thousand times. So easy with him. Knowing the shape of him.

He stiffens. Every muscle in his body locks up, heart ricocheting against his ribs. He chokes on his breath.

He’s too overwhelmed with this situation to hug you back. His arms stay frozen at his side. His fingers twitch, trying to reach for you but remembering they shouldn’t.

You’re warm. You’re so warm.

You smell like that candle on your windowsill. Like a version of comfort he hasn’t earned.

“Why didn’t you tell me you were back?” you murmur, voice muffled as you bury yourself into the crook of his neck, full of a joy so honest it makes his entire ribcage squeeze the life out of him. “I thought you were still stuck over there. I was starting to get worried. Were you trying to surprise me? Because you definitely surprised me.”

Bucky can’t speak. He can’t do a single thing and that’s absolutely pathetic. He wants to say something clever or distant or safe, but his mouth is a graveyard and the words are bones. He’s not sure he even remembers how to use them anymore.

Your breath fans across his collarbone, your nose brushing his jaw, and it’s too much.

The feeling of you against him is unbearable. You fit. Of course, you do. His body knows you, even if his brain is screaming that this is wrong, that this is not the life he is living, that this version of you is not his to touch.

But you don’t know that. You don’t hesitate. Your hands slide up his back. One of them tangles in the hair at the nape of his neck. The other rests against the curve of his shoulder. His flesh shoulder.

He feels like glass. Like a single breath could rip him to shreds.

You pull back just enough to look at him.

There is something tender in your eyes. Something known. Something that sees him without flinching. You’re beaming. And he is blinded.

You’re looking at him as though he’s something you loved for years and known down to the marrow.

And then, so quickly, so confidently - you kiss him.

Bucky freezes.

All the air leaves his lungs.

His heart stutters in his chest.

Your lips meet his as though the air between you has gravity, as though you have done this before, soft and sure, knowing how he likes it. You kiss him as though you’ve kissed him a thousand times and a thousand more.

Bucky is a rigid wall, thunderstruck.

But he doesn’t stop you.

He should. He knows he should. The second your hands touched his face, he should have stepped back. Should have told you the truth. Should have warned you that this isn’t him. Not the right one. That the man you think you’re kissing is a ghost wearing someone else’s memories.

But he doesn’t. He lets you. For a heartbreaking moment. Lets his mouth press to yours for the span of a beat and a half. Lets the warmth of you crack the ice he’s been carrying in his chest for too long.

Your lips are warm, soft, sweet, tasting of honey and cinnamon and nostalgia and the imaged version of a dream he’s buried too deep to name, one he’s never dared to reach for but still lingers in his bones. Bucky doesn’t know if he’s breathing or if that became something irrelevant.

He lets you press into him as though the whole world hasn’t changed, as though this you is not a stranger wearing your skin, your voice, your tenderness. And for a second, a small and selfish, shattering second, he melts.

His muscles go slack and his eyes fall closed and the universe falls into place. Your lips on his feel like relief, like the end of war, like something he didn’t earn. He lets himself sink into it, into you.

You kiss him as though you know him. As though you know the hollow places and where they go. As though your body is working off muscle memory forged from love he was never around long enough to deserve.

Your hands are on his face and you’re kissing him as though this means something and he wants to pull away, he does, but not for one split-second. He folds like wax in flames, pliant and helpless under your affection.

His heart stutters - skips, crashes, burns.

Your body is pressing forward as though it’s coming home.

His mouth moves with yours, slow and stunned and melted, like a man learning to breathe in a language he doesn’t speak.

This is what he has imagined. This is what has haunted the spaces behind his eyes when he lets his guard down. He has imagined this. Wondered what your breath would taste like when it caught between your mouths, how your fingers would feel fisted in his hair, how it might feel to be wanted by you - openly, without hesitation, without shame.

But then you whisper against his mouth, soft and breathless and full of joy.

“God, I missed you.”

And everything collapses.

The words strike like ice water down his spine. It’s like being shot. He grows tense again. His eyes snap open. His mind catches up to his heart. The sweetness goes sour in his mouth. The warmth becomes poison under his skin. Because it isn’t real. This isn’t real.

You’re not his.

Not his to kiss. Not his to miss him. Not his to touch him with that bright look in your eyes as though he is part of your story.

You think he’s your Bucky. The one who - as Bucky would imagine - kissed you on every hallway in this place, whenever he could. The one who knows which side of the bed you sleep on. The one who earned your trust, your touch, your history.

And so he breaks the sky.

He pulls away - rips himself out of paradise with shaking hands and a jaw clenched so tight it might snap. The breath that leaves him is ragged, torn.

Every muscle in his body is tight. This is not your kiss. Not yours to give or his to take. Not when you don’t know. Not when you think he’s someone else.

And even though it’s you - your warmth, your voice, your heartbeat fluttering against his chest - it’s not the version of you he’s imagined this with.

And it’s not right.

The guilt punches him all at once, shame and grief and confusion he’s never quite learned to survive. He recoils - not even fully on purpose - but instinct, instinct that tells him he has stolen something you didn’t offer him.

He’s just a stranger behind familiar eyes.

You freeze. Blink at him. Confused. Concerned.

Your smile falters. Disappears.

His chest heaves once, twice, too fast, not able to breathe properly with your taste still caught in his mouth. His hands curl into fists at his side, trying to remember what they are for.

And then he sees it - your worry folding into something smaller, something more ashamed.

And it murders him in slow motion, one heartbeat at a time.

Your hands drop away from his face and flutter against your lips for the smallest second as though maybe you’re the one who crossed a line.

And he watches, helpless, as the light behind your eyes dims.

You take a tiny step back, shoulders inching inwards as though you’re suddenly unsure of yourself.

And then your eyes widen, and the guilt spills out of you now, sharp and immediate.

“Buck, I-” you start, your voice soft and hesitant. “I’m sorry. That was… I shouldn’t have just- I didn’t mean to- God, you probably needed a second to just settle, and I-” you trail off and take another step back as though you think you hurt him.

Your face crumples, not dramatically, not completely. But enough to look a little wounded. Vulnerable in that way you only let him see when no one else is around. Even here. Even in this life that isn’t his.

It’s killing him.

That pain in your eyes. The sheen of doubt and confusion that he put there.

You wrap your arms around yourself, retreating inward, your expression far too close to shame.

His chest caves as though something vital just got torn out, and his body hasn’t caught up yet.

Because even if you are not his - you are you. And hurting you, even by accident, even like this, feels like peeling the skin of his ribs.

He feels it in the hollow beneath his ribs, a wound that won’t stop bleeding.

“No!” he forces out quickly, voice low and rough and all wrong. “Hey- no, no, you didn’t- You weren’t- I’m not-”

But he doesn’t know what to say.

He wants to tell you it’s okay, that you didn’t do anything wrong, that it’s him, it’s all him, it’s always him, it’s never you.

He wants to scream that his bones are made of want, that his blood sings only your name, that he is drowning in everything you don’t know you’ve given him.

But none of this is simple. None of it is clean.

And all he does is stand there.

Breath shaking.

Heart breaking.

Hands curled so tightly to keep from reaching.

Because you didn’t give this kiss to him, not knowing who he was. You gave it to the man you think he is. The man you trust.

And he accepted it anyway. Let it happen. For just a split second, but still, he let himself have it.

He feels sick.

And now you look like you’re folding in on yourself, and all he wants in the world is to pull you close and undo every second of pain.

“I just got excited,” you say timidly, even softer now, eyes dropping to the kitchen counter. “I missed you and I didn’t- I thought you’d- Never mind. I’m sorry.”

You’re already turning away, trying to tuck the moment back into yourself, trying to pretend it didn’t just break the air between you. As though you haven’t just handed him a piece of your heart and watched him flinch from it.

And Bucky feels like the worst kind of monster.

Because it’s not your fault. This version of you, who somehow but clearly loves him, who thought she was greeting the man who has kissed her a thousand times and more. Who thought this was welcome. Who probably counted down the days until he walked through that door.

He knows because he does the same thing although his you and him aren’t even a thing.

Because in his world, you’re his friend. Just that. A friend with soft eyes and sharper wit, someone who argues about popcorn toppings and sings loudly in the kitchen when you know he needs some cheering up. You’ve patched him up after missions. You’ve watched old movies with him in silence, both of you staring too long at the screen and not long enough at each other. You’ve fallen asleep on his shoulder. You’ve tucked his hair behind his ear when it stuck to his cheek after a nightmare. You’ve told him - more than once - that you’re here for him.

But you’ve never kissed him.

You’ve never touched him as though you owned the moment.

You’ve never stood in his clothes and cooked dinner for the version of him who let himself be yours.

And god, he wants to hate this version of himself. This man who found the courage to step forward when he only hovered on the edge. Who earned the right to be held by his dream girl like a homecoming.

And now you are ashamed. Now you are hurt.

Because he couldn’t be the right Bucky.

He steps forward, frantic, needing, desperate to fix it, to say something, anything that would wipe that hurt look off your face.

“No- no, hey,” he rasps, voice frayed. His hands are hovering. He wants to touch you. He wants to hold your face in his palms and make this better. “It’s not your fault. It’s not you. I just… I mean, I didn’t think-” He knows he’s not making this better at all right now.

He sighs, mouth open but language failing him, and he scrubs a hand over his jaw as though he can erase the hesitation you saw there.

You search his face, your eyes too deep.

A trembling nod.

“Okay,” you say. “I just thought- I don’t know what I thought. I was just really happy to see you. But I should’ve given you a moment.”

And there it is.

The softness.

The part of you he has always tried to guard. The one he’d go back to Hydra to protect. The one that makes his chest ache and his hands shake at his sides.

He wants to tell you everything. The truth. The mission. That he’s not the man you think he is.

He almost does.

But his throat is choked up.

“I’m sorry,” you whisper, and that only breaks him in a new way.

Because you think you did something wrong.

“No,” he starts again, firmer this time, softer too. “You don’t need to apologize, sweetheart. I-” he hesitates, and you see it. “I missed you, too.”

He screwed up. Completely.

You bite your lip, unsure. Your eyes flick down to your shirt. His shirt. Not really his shirt. But Bucky’s shirt. You tug at the hem as though it suddenly doesn’t belong to you anymore.

And Bucky knows that this moment will haunt him long after he leaves this world. Long after he goes back to the version of you who wears his hoodies just to tease, who touches him only in passing, who is his friend despite him wishing for you to greet him the same way this you greets her Bucky. For the rest of his life.

You look at him as though he’s a wound.

As though he’s something tender and broken and half-open, and not in the way that frightens you but in the way that makes you reach for the first aid kit. As though you’ve seen the blood already, and you are not afraid to get your hands dirty to make him whole again.

Your voice turns softer now. Maybe trying not to shake the walls around him. Like you’ve already seen him flinch once and you’re afraid of making it happen again. He can hear the thread of caution in your throat, stretched thin with concern.

“Buck,” you say, slow, quiet. “Are you okay?” you ask and it’s not just a question. It’s a doorway. A key turned in a lock he hasn’t let anyone touch. You’re peering through the walls he built up as though you have done it before. Maybe you know all his hiding places. Maybe you’ve kissed every scar on his soul and memorized the way his silences mean different things.

But not this version of him.

Not here. Not now.

And it does something sharp to him.

Because he’s not okay. He is a thousand feet below the surface, lungs full of water and salt and regret. He is standing in a version of his life that is too soft for the callouses on his hands, and you are looking at him as if he means something to you, as if he still matters even after he’s flinched from your kiss, after he’s stood there in a borrowed skin, giving nothing in return.

He wants to say yes. Wants to lie because it would be kinder. Because maybe it would make your forehead smooth out and your mouth curl back up and your shoulders drop from where they’ve crept up near your ears. But the words catch in his throat. He can’t swallow them. He can’t spit them out.

You step closer, slowly now, more careful than before, and the guilt rises more than ever.

“Do you need anything?” you ask, as though you’ve asked him this a thousand times before. “Water? Food? A shower? A-” you falter, “- a second to breathe?”

Your eyes are so gentle he could cry. You’re hurting and you’re still soft with him, still reaching across this invisible crack in the earth, still offering care with both hands like it won’t burn you if he doesn’t take it.

He doesn’t deserve this.

He doesn’t deserve you.

Not when he’s not the man who earned the right to walk through that door and be met with your affection like sunlight. Not when you looked at him like a miracle and he gave you nothing back but a statue.

His hands remain in fists. His chest is too tight. Too small. His own skin is too loud.

“I’m fine,” he answers. Too fast. Too clipped. He regrets it instantly.

Your face drops a little, enough for him to feel it all over again. Another weight, another reminder that he is ruining something delicate, something not meant for him.

“Oh,” you murmur, nodding too quickly, stepping back as though your warmth was a mistake. “Okay.”

And there it is.

That thing he can’t stand.

That thing you do - both of you, all versions of you - when you feel shut out. That pull inward, that retreat behind your own ribs, as though maybe you’d overstepped, and now you need to fold yourself small enough not to take up space.

It crushes him.

Because he made you feel that way.

He made you feel as though you’re making it worse by caring.

He swallows hard, sorrow burning down his throat.

He doesn’t deserve your tenderness. He doesn’t deserve your care. He doesn’t deserve the way you’re moving again, back to the counter, shoulders tense. You’re trying to give him space and comfort in the same breath and it hurts to watch.

You stir something in the pan. Wipe your hands off a towel that looks as though it’s been used too many times. Domestic. Familiar. This life is familiar, too much so, and he is standing in the middle of it like a trespasser.

“I’m almost done here,” you note sweetly, glancing back at him with that look - gentle and worried and wounded. “If you do want something.”

You say it as though you’ve fed him before. As though he likes your cooking. As though this is something you fall into easily, the kitchen your common ground, your voice echoing off the same cabinets.

Bucky can feel his heart cave in.

You’re still looking at him like that. As though he’s someone you’d give your last spoonful of soup to. As though he isn’t just standing there like a coward with your kiss still on his mouth and your concern sitting in the hollow of his chest.

Even when he pulled away, even when he didn’t say a damn word, you didn’t get angry. You didn’t accuse him of anything. You just worried. And you’re still here. Still cooking. Still offering pieces of yourself like they’re nothing when they mean everything.

It makes him feel like a thief.

Because he’s not your Bucky. And he doesn’t know what yours did to earn you, but he can’t possibly live up to it.

His guilt is a creature now - gnawing and breathing heavy in his chest, pacing in circles behind his ribs. He feels it crawling through him, scraping at the back of his throat, making it hard to speak, hard to swallow. You are being careful with him, and all he can think about is how he should have stopped the kiss the second you leaned in.

You wouldn’t have kissed him if you knew who he really was.

And still, he wants to say yes.

Wants to sit at the kitchen table as though he belongs. Wants to take the plate you’d hand him and eat every last bite and listen to your stories and pretend just for a moment that this is his.

But it’s not.

It’s yours.

And it’s his job to leave it untouched.

“I’m good,” he lies, voice a gravel-dragged croak.

You pause, spoon in hand, frowning softly.

He hates that look.

That little line between your brows. The tilt of your head. Maybe you know he’s not telling the truth but don’t want to press. Maybe you’d rather hold the silence in your hands than make him bleed more words than he has.

“Okay,” you say again, quiet but still open, still gentle. “Just let me know if that changes.”

And you turn back to your pan, shoulders remaining to stay curled in. Like a window closing just enough to keep the cold out.

And Bucky just stands there.

Mouth dry. Hands shaking. Jaw tight. Chest full of something that feels like grief and guilt and anguish all tangled up in barbed wire.

And you’re cooking for a man who doesn’t exist in your world.

And the worst part - the part that scrapes down the back of his throat - is that he wishes he could deserve you.

He wishes this was real.

He wishes it were him.

He wishes it more than he’s wished for anything in his life since he lost it.

Since he became something else, since he forgot his own name, since his hands were turned against the world, against himself. Since all he’s done is survive.

He watches you like a man starving for sunlight. Terrified it might disappear if he blinks too long.

The way your shoulders move as you stir. The curl of your fingers around the wooden spoon. The tuck of hair behind your ear. The shift of your weight from one foot to the other.

He watches you move like he’s memorizing. As though this is the last time he’ll see you in motion. Like your movements are things he can bottle and carry with him, tucked deep into some pocket where the world can’t steal it. Where time can’t take it. Where even regret has no reach.

Your fingers fuss over something inconsequential now. Adjusting the position of a mug that didn’t need to be moved, opening a drawer, and then closing it again. You’re pretending not to look at him but he sees the way your eyes keep falling over, the way you keep folding and unfolding yourself. You’re waiting. Giving him the space he didn’t ask for and that he doesn’t actually want but knows he should take. Giving him something kinder than he’s ever learned to give himself.

And you are so familiar. You’re the same here. Even in this place that’s slightly sideways and tinted in colors, he doesn’t recognize. You move the same. You speak the same. You care the same way.

Even if your kindness isn’t meant for him.

Even if your kiss was meant for a version of him he doesn’t even understand.

Because this Bucky - the one you seem to love here - he must have done something right. He must have looked at you one day and not looked away. He must have let himself have you. He must have been brave enough to reach for you with both hands and hold on.

Bucky doesn’t know how to be that man.

He wants to be.

But he doesn’t know how.

Not in his own world. Not where he loves you from afar and pretends that’s protection. Where he swallows the way you laugh like it’s medicine and doesn’t let it show on his face. Where he listens to your questions in briefings - always you, always asking the most, as though you know people better than they know themselves - and he lets the sound of your voice guide him through the fog in his head like a rope he can follow back home.

But he never says anything. Never answers unless he has to. Never tells you how often he thinks about you, about your hands and your hair and your smell and the way your eyes find his in a crowd like a lighthouse built just for him.

Because what would he even say?

Hey, I can’t sleep unless I replay the way you laughed when Sam dropped popcorn all over the floor last month. I still have the napkin you folded into a crane at that terrible diner. I know the shape of your handwriting better than my own.

And what would you say to that?

Would you smile?

Would you run?

He doesn’t know. He’ll never know. Because he never asked. Because he never tried.

But this Bucky did.

And now this is the price.

Standing in the compound’s kitchen that smells of roasted garlic and too many things he’s never had. Watching you move around as though this is all so very familiar to you.

He wonders if you’d greet him like this every day if he were yours. If you were his.

If you’d light up like that every time like he was coming come and not just showing up, arms open, voice warm, like there was no place he could be safer than here with you.

If you’d wear his shirts as though they are yours because of what he means to you, not because they are soft or convenient or too clean not to steal.

He aches with the idea of it.

He wants this.

He wants you.

And not just in the sharp pain that lives under his ribs. Not just in the sleepless nights and the imagined conversations. Not just in the way he stares too long when you’re laughing or how he makes excuses to sit beside you on the couch.

He wants this.

You, warm and open and lit up from the inside. You, the way you could be if you saw him like this. If you let yourself. If he ever earned the right for you to let yourself.

But he hasn’t. He knows that.

He’s just your friend. The one you trust with your coffee order and your spare key and the heavy things you don’t want to talk about until 2 am. The one you steal clothes from, but always give them back because they don’t actually belong to you. The one you fall asleep beside during late movies without worrying about what it means because it doesn’t mean anything. Not to you.

Not like it means to him.

And still, he always watches. From doorways. From shadowed corners of rooms that dim the moment you leave them. Not to possess you - but because to look away would be a small death he cannot bear.

You laugh, and he holds the sound like contraband. You glance past him, and he lets it wound him sweetly. He’ll love you like that forever - at a distance, in silence, in awe. A man carved hollow by devotion, wearing his yearning like a prayer no god will answer.

And this version of you belongs to someone.

Even if it’s just a different version of him, it’s not him. Not this one. Not the one still lost in the burden of everything he’s done. The one who still wonders if the blood on his hands will ever wash off. The one who doesn’t know how to be soft.

He doesn’t know what the other Bucky did to deserve this version of you. Doesn’t know how he got so lucky. Doesn’t know what he offered you, what words he spoke when you were doubting yourself, afraid of being too much.

He’s not sure if he even knows this Bucky. It sounds weird as fuck. But maybe he doesn’t. Because it seems impossible to Bucky that this guy actually managed to get his girl. To get you.

Though he sure as hell would start a fight if the other him ever took this for granted. If he ever walked through this kitchen distracted or tired or in a bad mood and missed the way you smile when you think he’s not looking. If he ever left you waiting too long.

Bucky thinks he’d kill to have what that punk has.

And he hates himself for that.

But he can’t help but watch you, and it feels like the axis of something turning. Like time folding in on itself to offer him one brief, borrowed breath of what could have been.

It feels like being kissed by a future he lost, and forgiven by a present he never dared to ask for.

Because he knows that if you knew his thoughts, if you knew what he is feeling right now, you’d feel betrayed. You’d feel wronged. Because this wasn’t yours to give and it wasn’t his to want and now you’re both tangled in something made of shadows and parallel paths that should never have crossed.

But you’re here. And he’s here. And the moment still smells of cinnamon and citrus and something sweet, like safety, like you.

And he can’t stop wanting.

He wants it so badly he feels like a child in his chest. Like a boy in Brooklyn again, heart too big, hands too empty. Wanting something too beautiful for his fingers. Afraid to touch it in case he ruins it.

He wants this kitchen, this quiet, this life. He wants to be the Bucky who you wrap your arms around without thinking. Without hesitation. The one you miss. The one you think about. The one you care about so deeply. The one you kiss without asking because of course he wants you to.

He wants to be the one you light up for.

He wants it so bad it hurts.

But you are too soft for the ruin of his hands. Too bright for the rooms he lives in. You drink from fountains he was never invited to approach, speak in tones that his rusted soul cannot mimic.

And this is gutting him. To know the shape of your intimate kindness, the tilt of your adoring smile, the poetry of your presence - yet remain nothing more than a silent apostle to your orbit.

And maybe that’s why he finally moves. Why he tears himself away, footfalls too loud in the silence, heart thudding wildly in his chest.

He can’t stay here, not with you standing in the soft yellow light looking like everything he’s ever tried not to need.

He clears his throat, tries to make his voice sound normal, even though nothing about him feels human right now.

Your eyes lift to his. Wary. Still warm. Still worried. Still too much.

“I should, uh,” he mutters, nodding toward the hallway. “I’ve gotta take a shower.”

He bites his lip in frustration at himself.

Your lip twitches. Tugs down ever so slightly. It splits him open.

“Okay,” you say, quiet. There is disappointment in your tone, you weren’t able to overshadow. “You’ll tell me if you need anything?”

He nods too fast. Too tight. “Yeah.”

And then he leaves.

Because if he doesn’t, he’s going to do something worse than kiss you back.

He’s going to beg.

And he knows he has already taken too much.

And he needs to turn away.

Because he has something to do.

Because this world isn’t his. And he wasn’t sent here to collect the storyline he’s too afraid to build on his own.

He’s here for a mission.

He wasn’t sent here to linger in your doorway and let his bones dissolve into longing.

He walks away with you still behind him. He feels your gaze on his skin and with every step, it’s like he’s leaving something behind he’ll never quite be able to touch again.

He almost turns around.

Almost says your name.

Almost asks what this Bucky did - how he said it first, how he reached for you, what it took.

But he doesn’t.

Because he doesn’t get to ask.

So he keeps walking, heart in his throat, your taste still on his lips, and the echo of your smile carved into his spine like something sacred he was never meant to keep.

****

“Did you run into anyone while you were there?”

Steve’s question comes as casually as a bomb dropped from the sky.

Voices rise and fall in the conference room - wooden chairs squeaking under shifting weight, pens clicking, someone’s fingers drumming absently on the table.

The room is too bright. The lights overhead white and clinical, burning a little too harshly through his eyes and down into the back of his skull.

The air smells like ozone and burnt coffee. The kind that’s been sitting in the pot too long, scorched at the edges.

Bucky sits at the far end. Back against the chair but not relaxed, never relaxed, spine too straight, jaw too tight, metal fingers tapping once against the glass of his water before he clenches his hand and stills it.

And he knew this was coming.

Knew from the moment Strange opened that cursed slit in the fabric of the universe and Bucky stepped through like he was boarding a train to nowhere. Knew the second he saw your face - your face, but not yours - that this would catch up with him. That this would unravel under fluorescent lights and scrutiny.

Every muscle in his body coiled tighter. A reflex. A learned thing. His mouth is already dry.

The table is crowded with Avengers, coffee cups clinking, files half-open and untouched because no one is really looking at the paper.

The prototype sits in the center of the table, carefully sealed inside one of Tony’s vacuum-shielded cases. A long-forgotten Howard Stark fever dream, something meant to bend energy fields into weaponized gravity. Or something. It doesn’t matter.

They have it. He got it.

But that’s not what anyone is talking about right now.

Not when Sam is already side-eyeing him. Not when Doctor Strange is seated in his dark robes like the warning label on a grenade, fingertips tented, waiting. Not when you’re sitting two chairs down - his version of you - and you’re watching him with that same knitted expression you always wear when something doesn’t sit right.

“Bucky,” Strange says, voice low and still too loud. “I need to know. Did you encounter anyone significant while you were there? Interacting with alternate selves is risky. Prolonged exposure can ripple. If you spoke to someone who knows you-”

“I know the damn rules,” Bucky mutters, sharper than he meant to, and instantly hates the way your brows lift at the sound of it.

He rubs a hand across the back of his neck. Tries to breathe. His body is still holding something that didn’t belong to him. Your smile. Your voice. The feel of your lips, pressed to his like they had every right to be there. Like you knew him.

He can’t stop thinking about you.

He doesn’t want to talk about it.

He dreads talking about it.

“There was someone,” he says, and the room quiets.

You sit a little straighter. Sam leans forward. Even Clint lowers his cup.

He can feel you watching him.

You, his version of you, sitting across the table with your arms crossed and your head tilted just enough to catch the shadows under his eyes. The real you. The only important you. And it’s so difficult to just look at you because he swears there’s a phantom echo still lingering in his chest. Of another you. Of another kitchen full of light.

“Who?” Strange asks.

Bucky exhales slowly, eyes fixed on the table. The grain of it. The scratch just under his knuckle. He imagines digging his fingers into it, splinters biting through skin, anything to ground himself.

“You,” He meets your eyes when he finally says it, and it feels like swallowing gravel. “I saw her.”

You blink.

“You ran into Y/n?” Sam asks, something like a smirk in his voice.

Bucky nods once. It feels like rust grinding his neck.

He can’t look up anymore. Can’t look at you.

He doesn’t need to look to know your breath has caught. He can feel it in the air. The absence of it. Like the moment before thunder.

He pushes through.

“She was there. She saw me.” His jaw clenches, his fists curl under the table.

Bruce exhales, pushing up his glasses. “That’s not ideal.”

Tony makes a sharp noise in his throat.

“Did you talk to her?” Strange inquiries, voice tighter now, more urgent. And Bucky has to refrain himself from wincing.

He sees you shifting in your seat in his peripheral vision.

“Yeah,” he sighs, quieter now. “We, uh- we talked.”

Silence.

Strange’s eyes are boring through him. “How close did you get?”

Sam leans forward. Bucky doesn’t look at him.

You’re staring at him now. Open. Quiet. You haven’t said a word. Your silence feels worse than anything else.

“I don’t think that matters-” Bucky starts, but Strange interrupts.

“It matters exactly. If she saw you, if you talked, if you touched, if anything that could destabilize your emotional tether occurred-”

Bucky laughs, but it’s hollow, breathless. Rotten. “What the hell is an emotional tether?”

“It’s you,” Strange answers simply. “And her. On a metaphysical level. The same person in different timelines can act as anchors. Or explosives.”

“Jesus,” Bucky mumbles, dragging a hand down his face.

His palms won’t stop sweating.

He hasn’t felt this kind of sick since HYDRA used to strap wires to his temples and ask him how many fingers they’d need to break before he forgot his own name.

The conference room is too still. Too sharp. His chair feels wrong under him, too stiff, too narrow. The soft, predictable sound of conversation from earlier has dropped into something tighter. Focused. Hunting.

He doesn’t want to lie. Not about you. Not when you touched him like that. Not when you said his name like that. Not when it almost felt like it could be true.

So he swallows hard and pushes words through his locked jaw.

“She hugged me.”

A pause.

He doesn’t look at anyone. Just the table. That one dent from Steve’s shield. The scratch Clint made with a fork because he talks with his hands. A small, folded paper crane tucked under your fingers. He doesn’t know where you’ve got that from but your fingers are bending the wings back and forth. He doesn’t think you even realize you’re doing it.

“She hugged you?” Sam repeats, brow raised. “Like… greeted you?”

Bucky nods slowly, heart thudding in his ears. “Something like that.” He can feel your gaze like heat pressed against the side of his face and it almost burns to meet it, so he doesn’t.

“What happened before that?” Steve wants to know, eyes narrowing.

“I-” Bucky starts, and then stops, scrubs a hand over his mouth. “I walked into the kitchen. She was cooking something. Then she saw me. She thought I- he- was back. From something. A mission. I don’t know the details.”

“And she hugged you,” Steve adds.

“Yeah,” Bucky sighs.

He doesn’t mean to look at you, but he does. For a second.

And you’re watching him with something unreadable in your eyes. Something still. As though you are trying to understand.

“And you just let her?” Sam presses, not unkind, but relentless in the way only Sam can be. “You didn’t say anything?”

“What do you think I should have said?”

“Well, I don’t know, man-“

“Did I say anything? Or… she?”

It’s your voice.

And it makes his stomach flip.

His eyes snap to you. But you’re not looking at him directly. You look at the edge of his shoulder. The hinge of his jaw. The tension written across his face.

He shifts in his chair. “You- She asked why I hadn’t told her I was coming back. Thought I was surprising her.” His hands are pressed flat against his thighs as though he can keep himself from shaking if he stays grounded.

“And?” Steve asks, too gently.

“She kissed me,” Bucky manages finally, and the room stiffens around him like a held breath. His voice is almost flat now. Hollowed-out. Maybe he’s trying to bleed the memory dry so it stops spreading in his chest.

There is a momentary lapse of silence that feels like someone dropped something delicate and no one wants to be the first to point it out.

Clint exhales slowly, muttering something under it. Sam leans back in his chair, maybe trying to decide if this is funny or devastating. Steve just blinks.

And you go completely still. Not a twitch of movement. Not even your fingers on the paper crane.

“She kissed you?” Natasha says, brows high.

Bucky exhales. Nods.

“What kind of kiss?” Sam blurts, leaning forward again. “A welcome-home kiss? Or a- like a real kiss?”

Steve sighs exasperated.

“No, I mean- we gotta know. This matters.”

His hand is aching. Flesh thumb pressing hard against the knuckle. “It was- not friendly.”

And the room really freezes. Stunned.

Until Sam lets out this sharp, incredulous sort of whistle, and Clint groans, dragging a hand down his face.

You glance down at your lap, jaw clenched, breath held so still it barely moves your chest. And it twists something in Bucky’s stomach, the way you sit there trying to disappear. He’s not sure who it hurts more - you, hearing this, or him, saying it. There is shame curling behind his ears. Shame and something like grief. And it’s all turned inward.

Sam’s eyes narrow. “So she kissed you thinking you were the other Bucky.”

Bucky doesn’t answer. He’s trying to keep still. Trying not to flinch. Trying not to look left. Trying not to look right. Trying not to look at you.

Because he feels the air around you shift like the press of a coming storm. It’s not anger. He knows that heat, and this isn’t it. It’s just quiet and tight and uncomfortable. A subtle withdrawal as though you’ve stepped behind some invisible wall only he can see.

And he hates it.

Bruce clears his throat carefully. “That implies a romantic connection. At least in her mind. Probably in his, too.”

Tony makes a face. “So we’re saying that Barnes and our girl are a thing in that universe.”

“Looks like it,” Natasha muses, eyes sliding toward you.

“Holy shit,” Clint remarks unhelpfully.

They say it so easily. As though this is nothing. As though this doesn’t wreck something fundamental in Bucky’s ribcage.

And suddenly everyone is quiet. Even the noise of the lights seem muted. It’s hot and awkward and strangely intimate.

Bucky stares down at his hands. They look like someone else’s. He can still feel your touch on them. Still feel the heat of your mouth against his. The softness. The way your lips pressed with such intention.

He says nothing.

He feels terrible.

Because a part of him still wants it.

Still aches with it.

Not the kiss. Not the accident.

The life.

That version of himself who gets to love you out loud. Who gets to be yours in daylight, in kitchens, in the moments that don’t demand heroism but just presence. That version of him that doesn’t have to swallow the way your voice makes something flutter in his chest like a broken-winged butterfly. The one who can kiss you because you already know him. Trust him. Want him. Miss him.

He wants that version to exist so badly.

And it makes him feel like a monster.

You’re sitting just far enough to be untouchable, just close enough that he can feel the space between you aching like a wound.

You are you. You are right there. And you don’t even know that in another universe, you loved him so much you ran into his arms without hesitation.

The light from the high windows drips in thin streaks across the long table, catching on Bucky’s knuckles, the tightness of his body.

There’s a long pause.

Then Tony exhales. “Well, that confirms it. Barnes is getting some in another universe.”

“Tony,” Natasha warns lowly.

Tony holds his hands up in mock innocence, but Strange interrupts them, turning to Bucky with a roll of his eyes. His cloak rustles.

“Did you tell her anything?” His voice is edged. “Did she suspect something?”

Bucky doesn’t answer immediately. He shifts in his seat. His back is too straight, and still, and his hands are bracing for something.

“No,” he relents. His voice is raw and rough like gravel pulled from the bottom of a riverbed. “I didn’t tell her anything.”

Strange’s eyes narrow. “Nothing?”

Bucky shakes his head. “Nothing.”

Strange tilts his head slightly. His expression is unreadable. Calculating. “Her behavior. Did she seem disoriented? Odd? Suspicious? I assume you know Y/n well enough to tell if she’s acting off.”

The lump in his throat settles as though it lives there.

“She was hurt,” he admits, and the words punch out of him. “I froze up. She thought she’d done something wrong. But she didn’t suspect anything.”

Across from him, you shift. A small movement. But he feels it in his bones. He looks up. Meets your eyes.

You’re watching him as though you’re trying to learn something about yourself from inside of him.

He swallows hard.

“I didn’t tell her anything,” he says again, and it’s not for Strange this time. It’s for you. “I didn’t compromise anything. I was careful.”

“You were compromised,” Strange says, not unkindly, but without sympathy. “Emotionally. Whether you said something or not.”

Bucky doesn’t argue.

Because yes. He was. He is. He doesn’t even know how to be anything else anymore. His chest still echoes with the memory of your laugh - not your laugh, but close enough to trick him. His arms still remember the shape of your body, the way you buried yourself into him. As though you’d been there a thousand times before and would be a thousand times again.

He wonders what that other you is doing now. If you are still standing in the kitchen, perhaps waiting for him. Still hurt. Still confused. Still so worried.

He wonders what that Bucky is doing now. If he’s back. If he’s home. If you’re in his arms, asking what took him so long. If he knows what he has. If he’s grateful. If he deserves you.

And he wonders too, if you - the you here, right across from him now, quiet and tense and real - will ever look at him that way.

Your eyes are on his and it seems as though you want to say something, as though maybe you’ve been wanting to say something for a while now.

He doesn’t hear the others anymore.

They’re voices in a room, sounds in space, language and logic pressing against the outside of a window he’s no longer looking through.

Because your eyes are on him and they are too open, too careful.

And, unfortunately for him, this is where the hope begins.

Small. Thin. Stupid.

Because there is a version out there who loved him already. Who ran to him as though he was safety and home and joy all wrapped in one reckless heart and it had been so easy for her. Natural, even. Like a reflex. Like a need.

And he has to think that if she could, then maybe you could too.

Maybe - if he just keeps showing up, if he keeps giving you pieces of himself even when it’s terrifying, even when he thinks he has nothing worth offering - maybe you’ll see something in him that you’ll want to keep.

Maybe he’s not beyond that.

Maybe he’s not on the edge of the world after all.

His heart stumbles inside him, a sharp jolt under his ribs, and he realizes too late that his breathing has gone shallow. His palm is sweating. His chest is aching in a way that is not just pain, but hunger, longing, desperate weightless wonder.

Strange is talking. Something about dimensional instability and neural resonance and all that science talk - but Bucky is no longer a soldier at a briefing.

He’s a man staring across a room at the person who has made his worst days survivable, and he’s remembering how it felt to see you in his shirt in a different kitchen, how you stood there with your back to him waiting for him to wrap his arms around you, how your lips tasted like things he should never know but can’t ever forget.

You shift again. Your knee knocks lightly against the leg of the table as you tuck your foot beneath you. And your hair falls forward, soft and a little tangled from the wind that always sneaks through the compound’s side doors. Your lips part, as though maybe you’re going to say something in front of everyone, and he braces for it, all of him going still like a wolf spotting something too delicate to touch.

But you don’t.

You break eye contact and tuck your hair behind your ear as though you caught yourself doing something you shouldn’t.

But Bucky doesn’t stop hoping.

Because he watched you do exactly that in a very different universe. Such a small gesture but it means so much to him.

Because yes, maybe he is not the Bucky she thought she kissed.

He’s not the Bucky who wakes up with you tangled in his sheets.

He’s not the Bucky who lets himself believe he could be loved without earning it first.

But maybe he could become that man.

Maybe if he tries hard enough, he too can get the girl.

Maybe if he works at this more than anything else that matters, you’ll love him too. Not just in some alternate world, but here.

In this one.

In your voice, when you say his name.

In your laugh, when he says something without meaning too.

In your eyes, when you don’t look away.

And he knows he would do anything to earn that.

He would do anything to be enough for you in the only universe that matters.

His fingers twitch. His shoulders square slowly, almost unconsciously, as though some decision has clicked into place without needing permission.

The room is still full. Voices layered over voices like shadows that haven’t realized the sun moved. Chairs creak beneath shifting bodies, Sam’s laughter breaking loose and grating on Bucky’s nerves.

The idiot is grinning, leaning back in his chair as though this whole situation is the best thing to happen this week. “Alternate-universe you is in a relationship, Barnes. What do we think about that, huh?”

“Sounds like he’s living the dream,” Clint mutters, giving Bucky a jab to the arm. “You finally got the girl, Barnes. Took a whole damn reality shift but you got there.”

Someone chuckles. Tony, maybe. Or even Steve. He can’t tell anymore. He can’t hear much over the buzz in his ears, over the sound of his own heart pounding behind his ribs.

“Hell, maybe all our multiverse selves are having better luck,” Sam remarks, amused.

Clint chuckles. “Ah, Barnes just grew a pair.”

“Well, that’s kind of a big deal, isn’t it?” Natasha, calm as ever, lifts one elegant eyebrow.

“Alternate-universe Barnes has game,” Sam says delighted.

“Lucky bastard,” Clint mutters under his breath.

They mean well. They always mean well. This is how they show they care. With ribbing and teeth-bared grins, with shoulders nudged, and things they don’t say louder than the ones they do. It’s how they keep their own wounds in check. How they keep from bleeding all over the carpet.

But Bucky isn’t laughing. He isn’t smiling. His lip twitches but only with frustration at his teammates.

He notices your stillness. The lines around your mouth have gone soft and tight all at once. Your hands are folded too carefully in your lap and your gaze is pinned to the table.

With every mention - every offhand comment, every teasing jab - he can see it.

The way your shoulders stuck in closer to themselves. The way your breath grows quiet and shallow. The way you can’t seem to look at him anymore.

He swallows around it, the sharpness in his throat, but it doesn’t go down.

Everyone else seems to think this is a strange, mildly awkward, maybe slightly endearing detail in a weird mission story.

But Bucky feels sick.

Because he’s seen it on your face. The way the information about the kiss struck you like a misfired bullet. A shadow in your eyes, the small breath that caught in your throat, the way you shifted your legs like you needed to move, to run, to put distance between yourself and what you heard.

God.

He’s such a fool.

A lovesick idiot.

Because he let that brightness curl in his chest. The hope that even though you have every right to feel nothing at all, even though he’s spent so long training himself not to want this, not to wish for things he can’t have - he truly thought that if there was a version of you that looked at him that way, that reached for him without fear, then maybe this version, this you - maybe there was something possible here too.

But now he is watching it close again. Watching you feeling uncomfortable, retreating into yourself, folding inward like the paper crane you left behind. And he knows the fault lines are his. That even his silence can crack things apart.

When the meeting finally breaks - Strange dismissing everyone with a calm nod and a list of inter-dimensional protocols Bucky doesn’t hear - you stand before anyone else. Quiet. Not hurried. Just deliberate.

As though you’ve made a decision.

You don’t look at him. Not once. Just gather your notes and your coffee and the sweater you left draped over the back of the chair.

And you leave.

No goodbye. No glance back. Not even that half-smile you offer when the day has left you tired and the silence between you feels soft instead of loud.

Bucky is on his feet before he realizes it. He ignores Sam calling after him, something about needing to finish signing off the tech. Doesn’t respond to Steve’s “Buck?” Doesn’t glance at Strange, who’s looking at him as though he already knows where this is headed.

All Bucky sees is the hallway.

You, disappearing around the corner, just a whisper of your hair and the sound of your boots against the polished floor. And all he can think is no.

Not like this.

He walks fast, with his pulse in his mouth and panic blooming in his chest.

You’re so graceful even when you’re upset, even when your body is stiff with tension. You carry yourself with that strength that’s always pulled him in, and he hates that he knows it. Hates that he can read you this well, because it means he knows you’re hurting.

He walks fast enough to catch up, to not give himself time to think about it too much. His hands are cold again. The way they get when he’s unsure. When something matters more than he knows how to handle.

“Hey,” he calls out, and his voice comes out too soft. Almost hoarse. “Wait- can you- can we talk?”

You stop. Slow, reluctant. As if the last thing you want to do is this but some piece of you can’t help it.

You don’t turn around at first. You’re breathing hard. He can see your shoulders rise and fall too quickly, your jaw tight, your arms folded across your chest as though you are trying to keep yourself together.

You turn.

And it’s worse than he thought.

Because your eyes are shiny and your expression is made of glass and restraint and you’re biting the inside of your cheek in that way you do when you want to pretend something didn’t bother you.

He hates this. Hates that he did this to you, even accidentally.

But god, you still are beautiful in a way that feels like gravity. Like the ache in his chest could drag the stars down to meet you.

You watch him as though trying not to give too much away.

“Can we talk?” He repeats, breath catching somewhere between hope and despair.

You shrug, not cold, not angry. Just tired. “If you want.”

He steps closer. Not too close. Careful. Always careful with you.

“I know it probably sounded bad in there,” he says, voice rough. “I didn’t want it to come out like that. Like I was… caught up in something.”

“You don’t have to explain yourself, Bucky,” you say quickly, voice too neutral. “You didn’t know. I get it.”

But he wants to explain. Wants to lay it out, piece by bloody piece. Wants you to understand that for a minute there, he forgot how to breathe because of how you looked at him. That he hasn’t stopped thinking about it since.

“I didn’t tell you- I mean, tell her,” he blurts, breathless. “I didn’t tell her who I was. Or where I came from. I didn’t say anything.”

You blink at him. “Okay.”

“She thought I was him. I- I didn’t say anything because I- I wasn’t supposed to engage and I wasn’t planning to. I swear I wasn’t planning to.”

You say nothing. Just stare at him with that sweetly confused expression.

Bucky steps closer. He’s aching, head to toe, something brittle in his chest like cracked glass.

“You kissed me,” he continues, and you bite your lip, looking away, “but I didn’t- I froze. It felt wrong. And when you said you missed me, I panicked. It felt like I was stealing something. From you. From you both.”

He stops. Swallows.

And there it is again. That dangerous spark. That sharp, flickering thing that’s lived inside him ever since he saw that other version of you, ever since your arms wrapped around his neck and your mouth pressed to his and your voice filled his chest with something whole.

He wishes for a version of that hope here, too.

But not if it means breaking you to find it.

You’re watching him with something unreadable in your eyes. He can’t tell if it’s pain or disappointment or confusion or all of it. He just knows it’s tearing him apart.

“I know it wasn’t me she kissed,” he goes on, quiet, every word dragging out of him as if it doesn’t want to be spoken. “And I know it wasn’t you, either. But it made me think that maybe-” He breaks off, exhales. “I know it’s not fair to say it, but-”

“Then don’t.” Your voice is soft when it comes.

And he flinches as though you touched a nerve.

But your face isn’t cruel. It’s sad. Honest. Tired in the way people get when they’re holding too many emotions all at once.

“I’m not her,” you clarify, but there is something fractured in the way you say it, like the words are paper-thin and barely holding shape. “I’m not whatever version of me you saw, whoever she is to you, that’s not me.”

“I know,” he croaks out. Bucky steps closer, just once. Not touching. Not yet. He doesn’t dare.

“No, I don’t think you do.” Your arms unfold slowly, but not in surrender. You gesture at yourself, the smallest movement, but there is steel in it. “She looks like me,” you go on. Your voice is tight. Bitter. It’s not like you. Not how he knows you - the warmth, the patience, the fire and calm and kindness all mixed together. “She sounds like me. But she’s not. She’s not me, Buck.”

And then you turn as if you’re about to go. As though you can’t stand another second of standing still in front of him.

“No- don’t,” he pleads, and before he can stop himself, he reaches. His hand finds your wrist, not tight, not rough, just enough to stop you. “Please.”

You pause again, with an exhale that is sharp and hurt and too loud in the hallway.

He is closer now. Close enough to see how tight you press your mouth together to keep it from trembling. The twitch of pain in your brow, the soft crease between your eyes he knows only shows up when you’re trying really hard not to cry.

Guilt and desperation roll through him, thorough, like a tide pulling everything warm away. It unspools him from the inside.

“What?” There is no weight behind your words. Your voice is worn. Defeated.

Bucks swallows. His voice feels like rust trying to be rain.

“She hugged me. Said she missed me. She kissed me like she’d done it a thousand times before.” His voice is shaking, even if he’s trying not to let it.

“And I didn’t stop her. Not for a second,” he goes on, quiet. “I should’ve. I should’ve pulled away sooner, but I-”

You pull your arm back, but he doesn’t let go.

“Why are you telling me this?” you question him, voice breaking in the middle. “What am I supposed to do with that, Bucky? Be happy for some other version of me?”

There is so much pain in your eyes, so much confusion and hurt and jealousy and heartbreak and it cuts him right through the heart. He feels it bleeding into his organs.

He closes his eyes, forgets how to breathe for a moment.

“I didn’t stop her,” he says lowly, slowly, “because, for a second, it felt like you.”

The silence between you is thick enough to drown in.

Your lips part, but no sound comes out.

“For a second, it felt like something I’ll never have,” he confesses, barely audible now. “And I was selfish. I let it happen. Because it wasn’t just a kiss to me.”

You don’t speak. You don’t move. Your chin trembles.

You look at him as though you want to say something but can’t trust yourself to do it.

“I’ve been trying to bury it,” he admits, voice strained. “This thing in my chest. This want. It’s been there for a long time. And I kept thinking- if I just waited long enough, maybe it would go away. Maybe you’d never have to know. But I saw what it looked like when I had it. When I had you. Even if it wasn’t really you. And I- I didn’t want to come back here and pretend I didn’t feel it anymore.”

You don’t move. Just stand there. Staring at him as if you don’t know what to do with the version of the world he is handing you.

“I’m not asking for anything,” he adds quickly, voice thick and gravelly. “Not expecting anything. I just- I couldn’t let you walk away thinking it didn’t mean anything. Because it did. But not because of that other you.”

Bucky loosens his hold on your wrist the way someone lays a weapon down.

Slowly. Gently. Like an offering. Giving you a choice. A chance to run. A way out, if that’s what you need.

His fingers brush fabric as he lets go, every inch of skin unthreading from yours just another stitch in the fabric holding him together.

He steps back. Not far, but enough. Giving you the room to run if you want to. Because he would never cage you. Not you. Not the girl he’s tried so hard not to need and failed so spectacularly at not loving.

The cold creeps in like a punishment.

He swallows, breath shallow, heart trying to climb out of his chest. He doesn’t look away.

“It meant something,” he breathes, and the words are low but steady, dragged out of some buried part of him where he’s kept the truth folded up too long. “It meant something because I love you.”

The words hang there. Open. Unarmored. His voice doesn’t shake but he feels the quake underneath it. He is already bracing for the ruin of it, for the way your silence might cut him down. It’s too much. He’s too much. Too much and too late and he’s saying it anyway, because what else can he do now, what else is left to do but burn with it.

“I love you. You. Only you,” he repeats, and this time it’s quieter, as if speaking it softer might hurt less if you break him.

He is bracing for your silence. For the recoil. For the slow turning of your back and the slam of a door, he won’t ever be allowed to knock on again.

But you don’t run.

You just stare at him.

Wide glassy eyes, lips parted, your whole face carved out of disbelief. Your chest rises with shallow, trembling breaths, and for a second, it’s like the hallway has no oxygen at all. Just the two of you standing in a vacuum made of shattered timing and aching things laid bare.

You look like someone trying to decide if the ground beneath you is real. If you are dreaming.

And Bucky is not breathing.

Doesn’t know how he will ever take in a breath again.

Then you move.

Fast. Sharp. Certain.

You close the distance between you with a speed that knocks his soul out of him, and before he can even process the intention behind the storm in your eyes, your hands are in his collar and your mouth is on his.

It’s not gentle.

It’s not careful.

You crash into him as though gravity has finally won. As though your body has been held back for too long and now it’s surging forward with years of restraint snapped at the root.

It hits him like an impact. Like a whole damn earthquake disguised as your mouth on his.

He makes a noise - somewhere between shock and surrender - and for the barest second, he is frozen.

He’s still.

Because this is you.

You.

One breathless, startled second he forgets everything - his name, the room, the hallway, the mission, the multiverse - and then he’s moving.

He melts.

His arms are around you in a heartbeat, tight, desperate, finding your waist, your back, the edge of your jaw, greedy and trembling and too careful all at once. He pulls you in, tighter, tighter, one hand threading into your hair, the other locking around your waist.

And then he is kissing you back with everything he has, with everything he’s been holding back, with every version of himself that ever wanted to belong.

He is kissing you back as though he’ll never get the chance again.

His whole body folds into yours, heart slamming into his ribs, mouth pressing against yours, like a question he’s been dying to ask. He kisses you like an apology, like a promise, like he’s been holding his breath for a century and only just remembered how to exhale.

It’s not a careful kiss.

It’s years of aching packed into the space between your lips. It’s soft lips and a metal palm and your nails digging in his jacket and his thumb shaking against your jaw. It’s a kiss that tastes of every unsaid word, every sleepless night, every time he looked at you and wondered what it would feel like to have you.

The second your tongue touches his lower lip, a low and tortured sound rips from somewhere deep in his chest. He answers you with open-mouthed hunger, tilts his head just enough to draw you in deeper, slants his mouth over yours as though he’s living out every dream in which he’s imagined this before.

He feels the warmth of your lips and the way you lean into him, the way you give yourself over completely, and he pulls you even closer, as though he’s trying to kiss every version of you that exists in every universe just to get back to this one. You. Here. Now.

His tongue brushes yours and everything goes tight inside him - his stomach flips, his spine arches ever so slightly, his body not knowing whether to hold steady or fall apart entirely.

Your lips are sweet and urgent and you make a sound - quiet, somewhere between a sigh and a gasp - and it knocks the air in his lungs every which way.

His mouth moves faster when your fingers curl into him tighter and tug him closer, dragging him under. His metal fingers are splayed over the small of your back, and his flesh fingers are tangling at the nape of your neck, holding you still as his tongue licks into your mouth, gentle but full of everything he’s feeling.

He moans softly into you, doesn’t even realize it’s happening until he feels the sound buzz against your lips. His pulse is pounding in his ears. His knees feel untrustworthy. There is heat spreading through his chest, through his limbs, and he wants to live in this moment forever, suspended in the place where you chose him.

When you finally pull back, your lips are swollen, flushed. He presses his forehead to yours just enough to breathe, but not enough to let you go. Never that.

His hands are on your face. His thumbs brush under your eyes. His breath shudders out against your lips.

When he opens his eyes, slowly, he is met with yours. Glistening and wide and so full of feeling it almost floors him.

He stares at you as though he’s seeing the sun rise for the first time.

“I love you too,” you breathe against him.

Bucky shivers.

It lands like a heartbeat he forgot to hope for.

Pleasure surges through his veins, straight to his heart. His eyes fall shut, lost in it.

And something in him tells him he will hear this at least a thousand times, maybe even more, if he’s lucky.

“I loved her not for the way she danced with my angels, but for the way the sound of her name could silence my demons.”

- Christopher Poindexter

[shortnspidey]

BUSTED

Bucky Barnes X Fem!Stark!reader || WC: 8.7K

SUMMARY: Just as life begins to settle into a new "normal" after the Blip, Bucky barely has time to say goodbye before he’s swept into a last-minute, top-secret mission. Then, in the middle of the night, your phone rings, and what you hear is the last thing you ever expected.

WARNINGS: Established relationship, protective Bucky & protective reader, surprise cameos, John Walker, mention of HYDRA and slight PTSD nightmares, Dr. Raynor, angsty moments, fluff, based on the TFATWS timeline, Sam/Bucky banter

A/N: Based on my Collateral Hearts series but can be read as a standalone! This it purely self-indulgent! Hope y'all enjoy this one! <3

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Six months. That’s how long it had been since you and Bucky began adapting to a new kind of normal after the Blip. After the funerals. After the chaos. After the world had started spinning again, only slower, clumsier. Both of you had lost people, timelines, versions of yourselves. The grief was still there, not as sharp maybe, but persistent, like a dull ache you carried in your chest.

With no real home to return to, nothing left in Brooklyn but ghosts, Bucky moved into your small Manhattan apartment. It was a stark difference from the quiet streets he once knew. The first few nights were the hardest. The city never slept, and neither did he. Sirens, car horns, the distant hum of people living louder than he was used to. He hated the sound at first.

But then there was your laugh in the kitchen, your footsteps padding down the hall, the way your hand found his under the blanket when the noise got too loud, especially the way you always held him when the nightmares were especially rough, and suddenly, the chaos felt manageable. Within days, the two of you found a rhythm. A shared routine. You worked with children, counseling them through trauma, loss, fear.

Whether it was over video calls from your tiny home office or on-site at schools, hospitals, or shelters, you poured your strength into them. And when you weren’t working, you made time to visit Pepper and Morgan upstate, bringing with you that same healing presence. Meanwhile, Bucky busied himself with small tasks, fixing things around the apartment that didn’t really need fixing and reluctantly attending his court mandated therapy sessions.

But mostly, he stayed near you. You were each other’s anchor, your grief tangled together. You never talked about moving on, you talked about moving through it. Side by side. Together. Then came one of those quiet nights. A movie night. Chinese takeout you’d found by accident one night and now it was your spot. The apartment was dim, lit only by the flickering screen where a movie played, forgotten in the background.

You sat cross-legged on the couch, Bucky beside you, hand on your thigh, unusually quiet. Not brooding. Just… tense. You noticed it immediately. The way he kept fidgeting, running his fingers through his hair, tugging at the ends like it was bothering him. You’d seen him struggle with it before, getting it caught in the divots of his prosthetic hand, knots forming no matter how gently you brushed it out for him.

You remembered the way he stood silently in the shower once, while you rinsed the conditioner through his hair, his eyes closed like he was somewhere else. Somewhere far away. So when he asked, quietly, almost awkwardly, if you’d cut it for him, you didn’t hesitate. Your heart clenched at the vulnerability behind the request. It wasn’t just hair. It was everything that came with it. Years spent under HYDRA’s thumb, the soldier they molded him into.

His hair had become a symbol of that time. Of who he was forced to be. And now, now he was finally ready to let some of it go. You smiled, kissed his temple, and told him yes. A dozen kisses followed, on his cheeks, his jaw, his nose, his lips, anywhere you could reach, until his nerves melted into a soft laugh. You pulled a chair into the middle of your living room, grabbed your scissors, and gently ran your fingers through his long hair one last time.

Each snip echoed in the silence between you. Strand by strand, you cut away the weight he’d carried for years. Not just physically, but emotionally. You saw his shoulders relax, the tension in his jaw disappear. You didn’t cry, but your throat burned. When it was done, he looked up at you, eyes glimmering with something like relief. In that moment, something shifted. He looked a little lighter. A little more like the photos you'd seen at the Smithsonian than the Winter Soldier.

And you just held him. Right there on the couch, the movie still playing, your takeout long forgotten. Because he had finally taken a step out of the past. And most importantly, he had done it with you. The haircut helped, but it didn’t fix everything. There were still sleepless nights. The bad ones. It always started the same. You’d fall asleep together, your head on his chest, his arm curled protectively around your waist, his vibranium hand resting gingerly on your hip like he was still afraid he could crush you.

For a few hours, there was peace. Warmth. Safety. And then he’d flinch. Sometimes it was a quiet jolt, his breath catching in his throat as his body stiffened beneath you. Other times, he screamed. Guttural, broken cries that ripped through the room like a siren in the dark. The first time it happened, you woke up in a panic, heart racing as you scrambled upright to find him trembling on the edge of the bed, head in his hands. “I thought I was back there.” He whispered hoarsely, not meeting your eyes.

He never told you the full extent of what he saw. But he didn’t have to and you never pushed. After that, it became routine. Not the nightmares, you never got used to those, but the way you’d hold him afterward. The way you'd run your fingers through his freshly cut hair and whisper that he was safe, over and over, until he started to believe it again. But the world didn’t make healing easy. Therapy, court-ordered and clinical, was a battlefield of its own. Doctor Raynor was assigned to his case by the state.

Her intentions were probably good, maybe even grounded in expertise, but she wielded her sessions like interrogations, not conversations. Her tone, clipped and sterile. Her office, painfully impersonal. And every appointment left Bucky more guarded than the last, his jaw locked tight, fingers twitching like he was restraining the urge to bolt. Bucky absolutely loathed her. “She talks to me like I’m a science experiment,” He told you once, pacing the length of your kitchen, clenching and unclenching his fists. “Like I’m a problem to be fixed, not a person trying to live.”

You knew she was doing her job, and in her own strict, clinical way, probably wanted to help. But you also knew Bucky. You knew how he shut down when he felt cornered. How he recoiled from cold professionalism like it was another kind of cage. “She doesn’t listen,” He scoffed, clenching his jaw so hard it ached. “Not the way you do.” And that’s what made it worse. Because he wanted you to be his therapist. He trusted you.

You were the only person he had ever fully, freely opened up to in this new life. But your hands were tied by both ethics and state regulations. If it were up to him, you would’ve been the one sitting across from him in those sterile rooms. You, who knew the exact cadence of his silences. Who understood the difference between his avoidance and his pain. Who could read the tremble in his hand before he even noticed it. But that option had been ripped from the table the moment the state found out you were together.

Conflict of interest. Legal boundaries. Cold bureaucratic logic. It tore at him. He needed you, and yet, here he was, forced to bare his trauma to a stranger who couldn’t even see past his file. It killed you to see the resignation in his eyes after every session. The way he came home quieter, more withdrawn. Some nights, he’d pace for hours. Others, he’d lie on the floor beside the couch while you worked late into the night logging case notes from your sessions.

You'd reach down, fingers brushing through his hair, gently untangling more than just strands. You were exhausted, too. Your days were long, hours spent immersed in the heartbreak of children who'd lost parents in the Snap, or who’d come back to find their homes gone, families broken, friends aged five years beyond recognition. And every other weekend, you’d leave upstate, arms filled with books for Morgan, heart full of bittersweet warmth as you spent the day with Pepper, the three of you quietly holding space for the man you all still missed.

Bucky didn’t always come with you, but when he did, he was gentle in ways that could break your heart. He’d let Morgan clamber into his lap without hesitation, her tiny hands gripping glitter markers and gel pens, her eyes lighting up as she announced she’d be “designing his new suit.” He never flinched as she scribbled stars and flowers and crooked smiley faces all over his flesh arm. Sometimes, she’d pull out stickers too, ones that sparkled, and he’d wear them on his vibranium arm like medals for the rest of the day.

While you and Pepper sat in the kitchen, warm mugs of coffee nestled between your palms, catching up in soft voices and comfortable pauses, Morgan and Bucky became their own little universe in the living room. You’d hear her giggles float in as he pretended to be a robot in need of repairs, or hear the clack of action figures clashing in an imaginary battle across the floor. It was safe to say that when Bucky did come, Morgan only had eyes for him. She barely spared you a second glance.

And honestly? You didn’t mind one bit. Watching them together always made your heart swell in your chest. There was something so healing in it, watching two of the people you loved most in the world get along so effortlessly. But even with your calendar packed to the brim, your phone buzzing with relentless notifications, and your inbox teetering on the edge of chaos, you made time for Bucky. You chose him, again and again, day after day. Not out of duty or habit, but because you saw him. Really saw him.

Not just the soldier or the ghost of who he used to be, but the man beneath it all, the one who carried his guilt like a second skin, who wore silence like armor, who never asked to be rescued but still offered you the best parts of himself when it mattered most. And in the quiet hours, when the rest of the world seemed impossibly far away, that choice mattered most. Some nights you’d wake to find the bed empty beside you, the imprint of his body still faintly warm on the sheets. You didn’t need to guess where he’d gone.

You’d follow the soft glow spilling from the kitchen down the hall, already knowing what you’d find. There he’d be, shirtless, slouched at the kitchen island, shoulders drawn up like the weight of memories still threatened to collapse them. A chipped mug of tea cradled between his hands, long forgotten. Steam rising slowly, untouched. He wouldn’t look up at first, but the moment he felt you, your quiet footsteps, your steady breath, his features would soften, even if only in the corners.

You didn’t speak. You never needed to. You’d simply step behind him and slide your arms around his waist, pressing the length of your body into his warmth. You’d rest your cheek between his shoulder blades, the ridges of his spine familiar against your skin. Your lips would find the scarred skin of his back, soft, unhurried kisses trailing over the places he once flinched to have touched. And little by little, he’d melt into you. Sometimes he’d sigh, quiet, hoarse, like he’d been holding his breath all night.

Other times, he’d cover your hand with his, metal fingers cool and gentle against your skin, grounding himself in your presence. You never asked what woke him. You didn’t need to. The nightmares were old companions, but so was the comfort you offered. And somehow, in that small kitchen at 3 a.m., the two of you carved out something real. Not perfect, but steady. A kind of domestic bliss that came not from the absence of pain, but from choosing to face it together.

Aside from the time he spent with you, Bucky had carved out a few pieces of his own world, small, quiet pieces that helped keep him afloat. One of them was Yori. He didn’t talk much about how they met. You’d only figured it out after spotting them together once at a small ramen shop in Brooklyn. Yori was sharp, quick with sarcasm, and unafraid to nudge Bucky in the ribs when he thought he was being too broody. Bucky never called him his friend, but you knew better.

He always made time for lunch with Yori. Sometimes they played chess in the park, sitting for hours without speaking. Other times they watched old war movies, black-and-white films that reminded Bucky of a world that was now buried beneath layers of ash and time. But you knew the truth behind that friendship. One night, in Wakanda, he showed you the small red book. It was weathered, the cover soft and bent at the corners from being thumbed open too many times.

You didn’t ask him to, he just handed it to you, unspoken trust heavy in the air between you. Your fingers traced the names. So many. Some crossed out. Some not. You saw the pain flash behind his eyes as you paused on one. Yori’s son. He didn’t say a word, but he didn’t have to. The weight of it was carved into his expression, his shoulders, the way he stood like the guilt was fused into his bones. You only nodded, kissed his knuckles, and gave the book back like it was something sacred.

Doctor Raynor advised him to keep going. To keep making amends. So he tried. Even when it ripped open old wounds. You watched him leave little offerings behind, letters, money, notes slipped into mailboxes under false names. Sometimes it was a conversation, and those were the hardest. When he came home from one of those, he didn’t speak for hours. He just laid on the couch with his head in your lap, staring at the ceiling while you rubbed slow circles into his chest until the storm passed.

Then there were Peter and Kate. They came around more than Bucky would have liked, or so he claimed. Peter usually popped by your apartment in the late afternoons. He'd burst through the door mid-sentence, rambling about the newest LEGO he and Ned built. Sometimes it was about a failed science experiment that nearly set his teacher’s desk on fire, and other times it was the latest dilemma in the never-ending saga of his awkward, adorable crush on MJ.

He was like the little brother you never had but always wanted, a whirlwind of nervous energy, good intentions, and infinite curiosity. And while he clearly adored you, he was absolutely terrified of Bucky. No matter how relaxed Peter tried to seem, slouched posture, high-pitched “Hey, Mr. Barnes, sir”, he couldn’t quite hide the way his voice jumped an octave when Bucky walked into the room. And Bucky, the absolute menace that he was, loved it. He’d lean in just a little too close and stare just a little too long.

It was all in good fun, at least, in Bucky’s mind. You’d scold him every time, elbowing him in the ribs with a firm, “Stop terrorizing the kid.” but it only made his smug grin wider. Kate, on the other hand, was pure chaos. You met her while guest lecturing at NYU, and within ten minutes, you were bonding over shared trauma, and a love for caffeine. She was bold, sarcastic, and completely incapable of knocking like a normal person. And Bucky? Bucky insisted he couldn’t stand either of them.

“Peter talks too much.”

“Kate’s too loud.”

“Why are they always here?”

“Why can’t I enjoy a movie night alone with my girl?”

He grumbled every time they showed up. Crossed his arms. Rolled his eyes. Made a dramatic show of sighing deeply when Peter excitedly explained how a web-shooter might be upgraded using Wakandan tech, or when Kate dared him to a dart contest, promising to “go easy on his retirement-age reflexes.” But you saw it, the twitch of his lips when Peter got animated about physics and called vibranium “the coolest element on the planet,”. Only for Bucky to correct him before launching into a surprisingly detailed explanation.

You caught the way he fought back a laugh when Kate pretended to lose spectacularly in darts just to get a rise out of him, only for Bucky to mutter “you’re insufferable,” through a half-smile that tugged at his mouth. You never called him out on it. Never teased, never said a word. You let him have that tiny shred of denial, the same way you let him pretend he didn’t know exactly when Peter’s birthday was, or coincidentally ordered Hawaiian pizza the nights Kate was coming over.

But one night, after Peter left behind a worn, dog-eared Star Wars comic, scrawled with a sticky note that said “For Bucky. Not you. He’d like this one.” You came out of the bedroom to find your grumpy super-soldier stretched across the couch, reading it under the lamplight. His face was blank, like it always was when he tried to hide what he felt. But his eyes lingered on the panels, his thumb slowly smoothing over a crease in the page. You didn’t say much. You just walked past him, leaned down, and kissed the top of his head.

“Admit it, you love them.” You murmured, amusement soft in your voice. “Do not.” He grumbled instantly, like it was a reflex, but he didn’t put the comic down. Didn’t even look up. You just smiled, because he didn’t need to say it out loud. You already knew. The days blurred together for a while. Your work remained as demanding as ever. You kept coming home exhausted more often than not. But you always looked forward to him. To the comfort of his arms wrapped around you.

But something had shifted in Bucky. It started with the news. You’d been curled up together on the couch, a throw blanket tangled around your legs, your laptop perched on the coffee table while you mindlessly ate leftover takeout. The TV buzzed in the background, just another press conference. Just another attempt by the government to steer the public into believing they still had a grip on post-Blip order. Then the words hit you. "We need a symbol again. Someone to inspire us. America needs a new hero."

And then the image. A man in red, white, and blue. Holding Steve’s shield. Wearing Steve’s star. Grinning like he’d earned it. You froze mid-bite. Bucky went still beside you, like a statue, like someone had carved him from stone and left him unfinished. His jaw clenched so hard you heard the faint grind of his teeth. Then came the name: John Walker. “This can’t be real.” You whispered, your voice nearly drowned out by the crowd cheering on-screen. “They gave him the shield?” Bucky’s voice was hollow. But beneath it, a storm brewed.

You tried to soothe him, reached for his hand, held it in both of yours. But he was already pulling away, standing, pacing. The light from the TV cast jagged shadows across his face, highlighting the devastation in his eyes. He didn’t say a word for several minutes. Just paced. When the interview played later, when Walker claimed that Steve Rogers had inspired him, had felt like a “brother,” Bucky snapped. “He didn’t even know Steve!” He barked. “That shield wasn’t a prop, it was his legacy. It belonged to Sam. It was supposed to—Goddamn it.”

You stepped toward him cautiously. “Buck…” But he wouldn’t look at you. “Sam just gave it away, like it meant nothing. Like he didn’t even want the responsibility.” He just ran both hands through his shorter hair, eyes blazing, his chest rising and falling in ragged breaths. “He probably thought—” Only you didn’t get to finish your sentence. “No, Y/N. Don’t defend him,” Bucky growled, more sharply than you’d heard from him in months. "He should’ve known better. Steve trusted him.”

“He handed him the shield with his own hands and Sam turned around and, this is what we get?” You didn’t argue. You knew he wasn’t mad at you. He was heartbroken. And he didn’t stop thinking about it after that. You started noticing how he’d ignore his phone when it buzzed with Sam’s name. Every missed call made him angrier. Every voicemail left unanswered. Sometimes you’d glance at the call log and see Sam’s name again and again, like a drumbeat that refused to be silenced. Deep down, Bucky was nothing if not loyal to Steve’s memory.

To what the shield represented, and whether he admitted it or not, to Sam too. And the betrayal, felt personal. Then, one morning, you woke to an eerie silence. The bed was cold beside you. You blinked away sleep, rubbed your eyes, and stepped out into the living room expecting to see Bucky fixing the sink again or reading one of the dog-eared novels you’d left lying around. Instead, you found a single piece of paper sitting on the coffee table. Next to it was his cell phone, blank screen, most likely turned off. Your heart dropped.

The note was written in his careful, blocky handwriting, the kind he rarely used unless he was nervous or trying too hard:

I'm sorry, I can't just let this go. I love you. — Bucky

That was it. No explanation. No destination. No goodbye. Just gone. Your knees gave out and you sank onto the couch, the note trembling in your hands. Your heart pounded so loudly it drowned out every thought. Of course he left the phone. He knew you’d track it. He knew you’d try. He’d planned this. Slipped away while you were asleep, quiet as a ghost. And maybe that’s what he felt like again, a ghost trying to walk through walls, desperate to fix something only he could see.

For hours, you sat on the couch, fingers curled around the edge of the note, eyes burning. You weren’t angry. You were scared. Scared of what he might do. Of what he might face. Of the weight he was dragging with him like a chain around his soul. But more than anything, you were scared that he didn’t believe he could lean on you this time. Because he'd carried so much for so long… and now, he was doing it alone. The apartment was too quiet without him. Your heart… empty. And all you could do was wait.

Patience was not your strong suit. Never had been. One of those trademark Stark qualities, an inheritance coded into your DNA, like sharp wit and chronic insomnia. So when Bucky left, silence stretching into days, and then into a week, every part of you itched like it was coming undone. You tried. God, you tried to respect his space. To believe he’d come back, to remind yourself that he wasn’t running from you, but from the past, from something bigger and heavier than he could name.

But that didn’t make it easier. It didn’t help when you curled into bed alone, still wearing his scent on the shirt he left in the laundry hamper, or when you made two mugs of coffee out of sheer habit only to leave one growing cold on the counter. Eventually, you snapped. You pulled out every tech resource you had. Your own customized AI, built from pieces of Tony’s early FRIDAY code and stitched together with your own algorithms, was running surveillance protocols 24/7.

You called in Peter, who fumbled into your apartment still half-asleep asking for his help hacking into Redwing. Between the two of you, you almost cracked it. Almost. But Sam, in typical aggravatingly-responsible fashion, had locked Redwing behind no less than a hundred custom protocols, biometrics, vocal ID, retina confirmation, and what you suspected was a DNA sequence hidden inside a thumbprint. Each time you thought you'd made progress, the system rerouted or shut down entirely.

“He must’ve known I’d try this.” You grumbled. Peter glanced sideways at you. “He… definitely knew you’d try this.” Still, you watched the news religiously. Every damn channel. CNN, local news updates, obscure underground blogs. You scanned every segment for anything suspicious. And when footage began to emerge of the Flag Smashers, a violent anti-nationalist group rallying around the idea of a world without borders, your gut twisted sharply. Their tactics were brutal.

Their message was messy. And somehow, deep in your bones, you knew Bucky and Sam were involved. He was chasing ghosts again. You started losing sleep. Your temper flared with anyone who dared to tell you to "give it time." Pepper tried to gently suggest you unplug, even just for one evening, and you nearly bit her head off. So when your AI beeped, harsh, sharp, insistent, flashing red in the dark at 2:47 AM, your heart nearly launched out from your chest. The screen blinked with a single line:

JAMES BARNES – DETAINED. Location: Baltimore Police Department.

You bolted upright. Breath catching. Mind whirring. What the hell was he doing in Baltimore? You didn’t wait for logic to catch up. You sprang from the bed, yanking open your dresser, grabbing the first thing your fingers touched, his oversized navy-blue Henley, sleeves too long, the collar stretched from his broad shoulders. You yanked on your jeans, barely registering the tremble in your fingers.

The AI was still speaking in your ear, listing the arrest details, violation of court-ordered therapy, likely triggered by Raynor herself. You called Happy mid-sprint. “Get the jet. I don’t care how short notice. Maryland. Now.” Fifty-two minutes later, your boots hit the tarmac in Baltimore. You didn’t wait for the steps to finish lowering. You jumped down mid-descent and immediately called an Uber with shaking fingers, pacing the edge of the runway like your heart might explode.

The car arrived in five minutes flat, but it still felt like a lifetime. You didn’t speak during the drive. Couldn’t. Your knee bounced like a jackhammer the entire ride, and your thumb rubbed raw circles into your palm as you stared out the window, buildings blurring past in the dark. By the time you reached the Baltimore Police Department, you didn’t wait for the Uber to stop before yanking the door open and running inside.

You forced yourself to pause just past the entryway, inhaling sharply, trying to push down the panic, the ache, the rawness sitting just behind your ribs. You smoothed Bucky’s shirt down your torso, God, you could still smell him on it, and stepped toward the front desk, plastering on your best smile. “Hi there,” You coaxed sweetly, despite the vice grip on your lungs. “I’m here for Sergeant James Barnes.” The desk officer didn’t look up. She handed you a clipboard, tapping her nails against the counter without a glance.

“Fill out this form, and we’ll get to you when we can.” Your patience snapped like brittle glass. “I really hate to do this,” You muttered, reaching into your wallet. “But do you know who I am?” You pulled out your ID, one of the original biometric prototypes, still synced to SHIELD and Avengers records. Stark hologram seal, glowing faintly. A brief flare of blue light illuminated your face. The woman finally looked up. Her eyes widened. Her jaw literally dropped. You almost felt guilty.

“I—uh—yes, of course. Miss Stark, I didn’t realize—” She fumbled for a second, standing abruptly. “He’ll be right out.” The moment she disappeared into the hallway, you finally let yourself breathe again. Shallow, choked. You saw him before you heard him. The worn thump of combat boots echoed from somewhere deep in the back corridors of the station, slow and heavy, like each step dragged the weight of the last few weeks behind it.

And then, then, the steel door groaned open with a screech like something ancient, something tired. And there he was. Your heart nearly gave out. He looked… rough. Tired didn’t begin to cover it. His hair was slightly matted, the short strands curling just a bit at the nape of his neck from too many nights of sweat-soaked sleep. His shoulders were drawn tight with exhaustion, his jaw shadowed with stubble. His flesh wrist bore faint, angry marks from the cuffs.

You didn’t move. Not at first, but then he looked up. “Doll…” He breathed, voice hoarse and small, like he didn’t quite believe you were real. Like if he blinked, you might disappear. In two long strides, he was in front of you, and then around you, his arms winding around your waist, pulling you against him. You felt the tremble in his hands. Felt the deep, shaky breath he took when his face buried into your neck, inhaling the scent of your perfume like it was the only oxygen left in the world.

“How—?” You felt the question before he even said it, his voice cracking with confusion and awe. “Long story,” You whispered into his collar, your arms tightening around his waist. You could feel every line of tension in his back, every silent apology pressed into the way he held you. “I’m just glad you’re okay.” His lips brushed your temple as he exhaled your name, like a confession. “Y/N, I—” But you pulled back just enough to shoot him a look. The look.

The one he rarely saw. The one that made him feel like he was a teenager getting scolded by his high school sweetheart. “Save it, Barnes.” Last-name basis. That was never a good sign. Bucky froze, blinking. His grip didn’t loosen, but his expression tightened, remorseful and sheepish in a way only you could summon from him. You jabbed your finger into his chest lightly, right over where his dog tags usually rested when they weren’t around your neck. “I know why you did it,” You scowled, voice low, clipped, every syllable laced with held-back anger.

“But it was the shittiest way to do it.” He opened his mouth, but you cut him off before he could even try. “Now shut up and let me hold you,” You snapped, tugging him closer again. “Because even though I’m seething and want to yell at you so bad… I missed you like crazy.” For once, Bucky didn’t argue. He only let out a quiet, broken chuckle and kissed your temple with so much care it nearly unraveled you. “I missed you like crazy too, sweetheart,” He murmured. “I’m sorry.”

You were just about to ask him what the hell he was doing in Baltimore of all places when the sound of a too-smooth voice cut through the air like a blade: “That’s impossible,” The man scoffed. “Tony Stark’s daughter is like… six years old.” You didn’t even have to turn to know who it was. You’d heard that voice enough over the past few days, plastered across every network, standing behind that shield like it meant something more than a prop.

“Does she look six years old?” The receptionist muttered under her breath, eyebrows arching as she pointed towards you. You felt Bucky stiffen beside you. And then, with the kind of self-satisfied smile that made your skin crawl, John Walker turned, taking you and Bucky in like you were contestants in a game he’d already won. “Miss Stark,” He drawled, stepping forward, arm outstretched. “It’s a pleasure to formally meet you. John Walker. Captain America.” You stared at his hand like it was a joke.

Like the shield he carried wasn’t a goddamn theft of something sacred. It was petty, but you didn’t shake it. Instead, you tilted your head slightly and gave him the kind of smile your father used to wear at board meetings, calm, razor-edged, unimpressed. “I’d say it’s a pleasure,” You replied coolly. “But I’d be lying. Especially since I knew the real Captain America.” Beside you, Bucky bit down a laugh, shoulders twitching as he fought the smirk threatening to take over his face. Walker’s smile faltered, jaw ticking.

Before he could spit out some PR-rehearsed comeback, his partner, Hoskins, probably, you’d seen the name on the reports, stepped forward, murmuring something discreetly in his ear. Walker’s eyes flicked back to you, and for a second, his expression softened, just a flicker. Uncertainty. Inferiority. Maybe even guilt. But he buried it quick, offering one last polite, though stiff, nod. “Another time then, Miss Stark.” You hummed in response, already turning back to Bucky like Walker didn’t even exist anymore.

And as Walker and his shadow disappeared down the hallway, Bucky finally let himself laugh, a real one this time, deep and gravelly and warm against your hair. “God, I missed you.” You didn’t answer with words. You just pulled him closer, arms sliding around his waist, burying your face against his chest. He still smelled like old leather and faint traces of your fabric softener clinging to the Henley he’d left behind. You closed your eyes, just for a second. Just long enough to forget the aching in your chest and the fact that he'd disappeared without warning.

You were safe in this bubble again, breathing him in like it might bring your heart rate down. But the moment shattered with the sound of Sam’s voice, clear, distinct, and unmistakable, echoing across the lobby. You blinked, lifting your head from Bucky’s chest, just in time to see Sam shake hands with an unfamiliar woman. Your brows knit. The woman didn’t look like a cop. Her posture was too clinical, too calculating. The way her eyes scanned the room, the people, the exits, she was clocking everything.

She didn’t even glance at Sam as he stepped back. Her gaze had already landed on you and Bucky. You felt the subtle change in his body, the way his muscles went rigid beneath your fingers, like ice spreading beneath his skin. His breath hitched, just slightly, before he masked it with a shallow exhale. Before you could ask what was wrong, she approached. She walked like someone who owned the ground beneath her shoes, eyes sharp. Her hair was swept back in a tight bun, her lips drawn into a polite, unimpressed line.

“You’re James’ girlfriend, I assume?” Her tone wasn’t friendly. It wasn’t curious. It was dissecting. You straightened slowly, turning to face her head-on. “I’m going to assume you're Doctor Raynor.” You countered, eyebrow lifting. Her name was a curse you’d heard dozens of times, drawled, muttered, spat from Bucky’s mouth on those nights he came home from sessions with clenched fists and haunted eyes. She tilted her head slightly.

“Y/N Stark,” She confirmed, like she was checking off a box. “Head of Stark Industries and a psychologist, no less.” You caught the faint curl of her lip. It wasn’t admiration. It was scrutiny. Calculation. She didn’t need a clipboard, she’d memorized your file. “Child psychologist.” You corrected smoothly. A dry chuckle escaped her, void of humor, full of sharp edge. “Fitting,” She muttered, folding her arms. “Seeing as James here acts like one throughout most of our sessions.” The air snapped around you like a whip.

Your jaw locked so tightly it felt like your molars might splinter. A white-hot flash of anger surged in your chest, anger not just at her words, but at the casual cruelty of them. The dismissiveness. Like everything he carried, everything he struggled with, was an inconvenience rather than a trauma. A nuisance rather than a wound. Beside you, Bucky’s fingers threaded through yours. He squeezed once. Let it go. He should’ve known better. You inhaled slowly, nostrils flaring, letting the silence stretch just long enough to be uncomfortable.

Then, your voice dropped, low, even, lethal in its precision. "Actually,” You began, tone honey-sweet but steel-lined, “I work with children who’ve watched their parents die in front of them. Who’ve lived through the Blip, through war zones, domestic violence, poverty, children who scream in their sleep and flinch when someone touches their shoulder.” Raynor blinked. The faintest hitch in her breath. You stepped forward, fingers still laced with Bucky’s, but your gaze locked on her like a target.

“And you know what none of them need?” You continued. “A professional who talks about them like they’re a burden. Like they’re broken. Like their pain is something to tolerate rather than understand.” Her eyes narrowed, jaw twitching, but she didn’t speak. “I’m not his therapist,” You finished. “But if I were, he’d never come home feeling worse than when he walked in.” Raynor’s silence was louder than her condescension.

Sam’s eyebrows were halfway up his forehead as he glanced between the three of you, clearly trying to figure out if he should intervene, or grab popcorn. Bucky didn’t say a word. He didn’t have to. He was still holding your hand. But now, his thumb brushed softly over your skin, back and forth, a quiet rhythm of reassurance. Raynor didn’t flinch. She didn’t offer so much as a nod of acknowledgment. Just turned, her gaze sliding right past you, fixing solely on Bucky like you weren’t even there.

“James,” She instructed coolly, tone clipped and clinical. “Condition of your release, session now.” Her eyes slid to Sam. “You too, Sam.” And then, with that same irritating detachment, she turned toward you. “Miss Stark, you’re more than welcome to sit in. If you can keep your comments to yourself.” You just nodded, the movement jerky, your fingers tightening around Bucky’s hand in warning and in reassurance.

You walked beside him and Sam as Raynor led you through the station. Each step deeper into the building felt like descending into an emotional pressure chamber, the walls too white, too sterile. Eventually, she ushered you into a narrow interrogation room, cold metal table, scuffed linoleum, one flickering light overhead. Raynor already sat at the table, legs crossed, notebook opened to a blank page as if she couldn’t wait to analyze them both like an equation gone wrong.

You touched both of their arms before you stepped aside, trailing your hand down Bucky’s metal forearm, fingers curling briefly around his as you passed. His eyes flicked up to meet yours for a moment, guilt, embarrassment, and something else rawer lurking beneath the surface. You took your post by the back wall, arms crossed, posture unreadable. But your gaze never left her. “So,” She prompted without looking up, pen poised. “Who would like to start?” Neither moved. Neither blinked.

The tension settled in the room like fog. You knew this wouldn’t work. You knew it. Her whole approach was rigid, formulaic, nothing about it was built for someone like Bucky, whose trauma didn’t follow linear paths or easy language. Still, you bit your tongue so hard it throbbed. “Well,” Sam exhaled, leaning back slightly, fingers tapping against his thigh. “Alright, look, Dr. Raynor. I get it. You want to talk to Freaky Magoo over here—” You dropped your head into your hand. “—but I’m a hundred percent fine.”

Here we go.

Raynor’s brow arched slightly, eyes narrowing at Sam before returning to Bucky, her voice clipped and edged with mock patience. “It is my job to make sure you’re okay. So yes, this may be slightly unprofessional, but it’s the only way I can determine whether you’re getting over whatever’s eating at you.” Her attention zeroed in on Bucky, who hadn’t moved since he sat down. He slumped back in the chair, face unreadable, his vibranium fingers tapping softly against his thigh, restless, twitchy.

"This is ridiculous," Sam muttered under his breath. “Yeah,” Bucky agreed suddenly, his voice rough and flat. “I agree.” Raynor’s eyes lit like she’d struck gold. “See! Making progress already!” She clicked her pen excitedly. “So, who wants to go first?” Silence. A long, painful pause filled with nothing but the creak of the air vent and the low hum of overhead lights. “No volunteers? Wow, how surprising.” She sighed, snapping the notebook closed in dramatic frustration.

“Okay, we’re going to do an exercise. Something I use with couples when they’re trying to figure out what kind of life they want to build together.” You pressed your knuckles against your mouth to stifle the very audible laugh that almost escaped. Couples therapy? Honestly, at this point it tracked. They’d been bickering like they were married since you had met them in Germany. “Ever heard of the miracle question?” In perfect synchronicity, both men scoffed and shook their heads.

“Suppose,” Raynor began with exaggerated patience. You were shocked she hadn't given up yet. “While you’re sleeping, a miracle occurs. When you wake up, what is something you would like to see that would make your life better?” Of course, the silence didn't last after that. “In my miracle,” Bucky replied dryly. “He’d talk less.” Your lips twitched. “That's exactly what I was going to say,” Sam fired back. “Isn’t that just ironic.”

“Alright. You’re leaving me no choice. It’s time for the soul-gazing exercise.” Raynor threw down her pen. “Oh, great, I like this one.” Bucky muttered sarcastically. “You’re gonna love this,” Sam groaned. “Turn around. Face each other.” They scooted around the metal table, knees bumping, awkward and stiff. When they were finally thigh-to-thigh, both of them were grimacing like they'd been sentenced to some kind of emotional gulag. “It’s a little close.” Bucky grimaced.

“It’s very close,” Sam shot back. “But hey, that’s what you wanted, right?” Raynor snapped, pushing her palms flat on the table. “Now look at each other. You need to look at each other in the eyes.” They locked eyes. And didn’t blink. You knew immediately. Those two were having a staring contest. “Oh, are you two serious right now?” Raynor clapped sharply. “Are you having a staring contest?!” Neither flinched. Until she clapped again and Bucky rolled his eyes in surrender.

"Alright, James, why does Sam aggravate you?” You watched as a cocky smirk made it's way onto Bucky's face before Raynor interrupted him just as his mouth opened. “And don’t say something childish.” Bucky’s silence stretched long enough that you almost stepped forward, but then, his face hardened. The emotion was quiet, but sharp enough to slice right through the space between them. “Why did you give up that shield.” The words hung heavy. Thicker than anger. Closer to heartbreak.

You watched Sam blink, the weight of it catching him off guard. “Why are you making such a big deal out of something that has nothing to do with you?” Sam’s tone was more tired than defensive. Bucky didn’t let up. “Steve believed in you. He trusted you. He gave you that shield for a reason. That shield, that’s everything he stood for. That’s his legacy. He gave it to you, and you threw it away like it was nothing.” Sam tried to speak, but Bucky kept going, faster now. Cracks forming in his voice like the weight was finally too much.

“So maybe he was wrong about you. And if he was wrong about you, then he was wrong about me.” His voice broke on that last word. Just a fracture, but enough. You couldn’t stand back and watch anymore. Without a word, you crossed the room in three strides and gently placed your hands on his shoulders, grounding him, one palm over metal, the other on skin, thumbs brushing softly against the tense ridge of his neck. He didn’t move. But his eyes closed. Just for a second.

“You finished?” Sam’s voice was quiet now. Bucky gave a small, almost reluctant nod. Sam’s jaw flexed. His response was calm, but firm. “Maybe this is something you, or Steve, will never understand. But can you accept that I did what I thought was right?” Beneath your fingers, Bucky twitched. Barely. But you felt it. Sam’s eyes softened, just slightly. “You know what, Doc? I don’t have time for this,” He exhaled, pushing back from the table. “We’ve got real shit going on out there. So how about this, I’ll squash it now."

"We go deal with that, and when we’re done, we both take long, separate vacations, and never see each other again.” That was possibly the worst idea you'd ever heard. “I like that,” Bucky gritted out, jaw locked. “Great.” Sam threw his hands up and turned toward Raynor. “Thanks, Doc. For making it weird. I feel so much better now.” He was already heading for the door. “I’ll see you outside.” The door slammed behind him with a loud echo. The air in the room felt heavier after Sam walked out.

Like everything unsaid had been stuffed into the space he left behind. The door clicked shut behind him with the dull finality of a slammed book. The pages of that “session” lay wide open, bleeding. You didn’t move right away. Neither did Bucky. He sat frozen, hunched slightly forward, hands clasped tightly in front of him, metal and flesh trembling ever so slightly where they met. His breathing was shallow, uneven. And in the harsh light of the interrogation room, his face looked more hollow than ever.

The kind of tired that didn’t come from physical exhaustion. The kind that lived in the bones, in the cracks between memory and guilt. Doctor Raynor didn’t say anything either. Not a single word. Not a thank you. Not a final note. Just the scratching of her pen against her notebook. Cold. Clinical. Like she was already halfway detached from what had just happened, as if it hadn’t nearly torn something wide open. You stayed by his side, your fingers still curled over his shoulder.

You let the silence breathe for a second longer before forcing your lips into a tight, polite smile. “That was really great.” You muttered with razor-edged sweetness, your voice laced in practiced civility honed over years of Stark board meetings and press conferences. Raynor didn’t flinch. Just gave a nod that barely counted as acknowledgment. Your patience was a hairline fracture from giving way. Bucky rose slowly. Not all at once, but like gravity still had its hooks in him.

His metal hand pushed off the table with a sharp screech of chair legs. You noticed the quiet stiffness in his movements, the slight limp in his step he always tried to hide when he was upset. The way he didn’t look up. Not at Raynor. Not at you. He just slipped his arm around your waist, the motion automatic, desperate. Like he needed to hold onto something real before the weight of what he’d just said crushed him. You didn’t hesitate. You leaned into him, your hand sliding beneath his jacket to rest against the small of his back.

You could feel the tension in his muscles. His jaw was clenched so hard the tendons in his neck stood out in stark relief. You walked in silence, back through the cold, fluorescent-lit corridors of the station. His boots were heavier now, dragging slightly with each step. You didn’t say anything. You didn’t need to. He just needed you close, steady, present. The moment the outside air hit your face, it felt like surfacing from underwater. Bucky exhaled beside you, the breath shaky and shallow, like he’d been holding it since the moment he sat down in that chair.

You didn’t let go of him, not when you passed the waiting area, not when the front doors closed behind you, not when you spotted Sam leaning against the hood of a black SUV, arms crossed. The tension between them was still there. Sharp, unyielding. But now something had shifted. Sam’s eyes found yours first. No words, just a flicker, something caught in the space between apology and acknowledgment. Maybe it wasn’t regret in his gaze, but there was something gentler there than before.

"Well," He muttered finally, his voice slicing through the silence, "I feel great." You didn’t miss the sarcasm, or the way his arms remained stiff across his chest, tension still humming under his skin. "I feel awful." Bucky murmured beside you, head shaking slowly, tone low and weary. There was no sarcasm there. Just exhaustion. A confession worn into the gravel of his voice. Then came the sudden, piercing ding of a phone notification. Sam fished the phone from his pocket.

The screen lit his face in cool blue light, and whatever he saw made his expression harden, brows knitting, lips pressing into a taut, unreadable line. His grip on the device tightened just slightly before he lifted his gaze toward Bucky. Bucky didn’t even ask. He didn’t need to. He simply turned to you. There it was again, those eyes. Clear, icy blue, but stormy in their depth. His jaw worked soundlessly for a moment, guilt clinging to every breath. He looked torn in half.

“I—” You didn’t let him finish. Your fingers curled into the lapels of his leather jacket, tugging him downward in one smooth, unspoken motion. His breath caught for the briefest second, but he didn’t hesitate. His mouth met yours with a hunger that felt like both apology and promise. His vibranium arm wrapped firmly around your waist, anchoring you to him, while his flesh hand lifted to cradle the side of your neck, fingers spread wide like he was trying to memorize the shape of you before he had to let go again.

He kissed you like the world might end again. Like this might be the last moment of peace before the chaos came flooding back. Your lips moved against his in a slow, urgent rhythm, familiar, grounding, fierce in its gentleness. You tasted the remnants of coffee and something sweeter, hope. For a few suspended seconds, nothing else existed. Not the cold wind biting at your exposed skin. Not the police station behind you. Not even Sam's annoyed hovering nearby, though you knew he was pretending not to watch.

Eventually, necessity pulled you apart, breathless and flushed, but you didn’t go far. You stayed close, your foreheads resting together, breaths mingling in the narrow space between your lips. Your hands still fisted in the lapels of his jacket, refusing to release him just yet. “Go,” You whispered, voice hoarse from the emotions clotted in your throat. Your eyes searched his face, memorizing every detail, the faint bruise near his temple, the tension in his brow, the tenderness only you ever got to see.

“Just be careful. And come back to me.” You reached into his jacket, slipping the phone back into the inner pocket. “Always.” His voice was low, steady. Absolute. He leaned in again, brushing a feather-light kiss to your lips, softer this time. A whisper of devotion. One final touch, like sealing a promise into your skin. He lingered a heartbeat longer, then turned and walked toward Sam, who was already making his way to the SUV. The doors creaked open, boots crunching against pavement. The sound felt too final.

But just before they were out of earshot, you cupped your hands around your mouth and called out. “You better make sure he makes it back to me in one piece, Sam! If not, I’m coming after you!” Sam turned his head slightly, shooting you a thumbs-up. “I’ll keep him pretty for you, Stark!” He called over his shoulder, grin spreading as he disappeared into the car. You stood still as the SUV pulled away, the exhaust curling into the Baltimore night air.

Your arms folded across your chest, not out of cold, but to keep your heart from spilling out of your ribcage as your anxiety resurfaced tenfold. The only thing grounding you in that moment was the warmth of Bucky’s kiss still tingled on your lips, his scent clinging to your jacket like a ghost. Whatever this was, it was far from over. But you would wait. Because you knew, no matter what storm he walked into, he would always fight to make it back to you.

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[buckyseternaldoll]

kinky side quest

Pairing: Avenger!Bucky Barnes x Avenger!Fem!Reader

Summary: Valentina warned you both: no kinky side quests. You hadn’t planned on it—until her words lit the fuse. The mission went perfectly. The real side quest? Very much in progress.

Disclaimer: 18+ (mdni!), explicit smut content, blowjob in car, clothed grinding, denied fingering, face riding, cunnilingus (f receiving), fingering (f receiving), metal fingers use, vaginal sex, rough sex, bathroom sex, shower sex, wall sex, riding, multiple orgasms, creampie, breeding kink talk, dirty talk, begging, praise kink, soft dominance, aftercare, established relationship, post Thunderbolts settings

Word Count: 9k~ish

Note: This was something I've written in parts before I took the time for myself and vanished. Any mistakes would all be mine. Hope you'll enjoy whatever this was 💜

You were deployed to clear a simple task with Bucky, your boyfriend—though sometimes it still felt unbelievable that you’d scored him at all. Valentina had given you both that flat stare before you left the Watchtower briefing room, like she could see straight through you.

“No kinky side quests,” she’d said, pinning you both with her glare.

You and Bucky had both nodded like good little agents. Really, you hadn’t planned anything. It hadn’t even been on your mind… until she reminded you. Until she said it out loud, and your entire body remembered you were ovulating. Remembered you hadn’t fucked him in days. Remembered how hungry you’d been for him last night when you’d come to bed late and he’d just curled around you to sleep, murmuring he was too tired to start anything.

You’d promised yourself you’d wait. Get through the mission. Earn your prize. You’d ask for him to rail you stupid after you both got home safe. That had been the plan.

But Val’s warning had lodged itself in your skull like a dare.

You’d kept your head in the game right up until you were actually in the car. Just a normal sedan—sleek and fast but nondescript enough for local traffic. Bucky had insisted on driving, fingers loose on the wheel, eyes sweeping the road in practiced arcs. He was so good at this part, so focused it made you ache.

It should only be forty-five minutes to the drop point. Easy. But you were in the passenger seat fidgeting your fingers in your lap like a kid. Trying not to look at him too much. Trying not to think about his thighs in those dark tac pants.

Because while your mind was set on the assignment, your traitor of a heart had latched onto Val’s rule like it was a forbidden fruit. It wouldn’t stop playing the what-if game.

What if he let you?

What if he wanted it too?

Bucky cleared his throat at the wheel. His gaze didn’t even flick to you, but you knew him—he’d been watching you out of the corner of his eye for the last ten minutes.

“Baby,” he drawled, voice low and gentle. “What’s on your mind?”

You swallowed, eyes snapping to the side mirror instead of him.

“Mm. Nothing.” You shifted your hips in the seat, realizing too late you’d been leaning toward him like gravity had given up on pretending.

He huffed a faint, knowing sound, thumb tapping the wheel.

“Something wrong?” he pressed, voice rich with genuine concern. Not annoyed. Not suspicious. Just… worried about you.

You hesitated.

Your brain screamed don’t say it. Don’t ruin the mission. You’d promised yourself. You were going to wait until the op was over.

But you’d been so wound up. So deprived. So embarrassingly wet for him for days now that your mouth betrayed you.

You twisted in your seat to face him fully, fingers clenching in your lap. Your voice cracked with nerves.

“Can I… suck your cock before we get there?”

It dropped into the quiet like a grenade.

Bucky actually flinched. You saw it—a tiny twitch of his jaw tightening, a hard swallow.

For one harrowing second you thought you’d fucked everything up.

But then he let out a short laugh—just air, really, a puff of relief, as his shoulders eased.

“Oh, sweetheart,” he murmured, and this time he finally glanced at you properly, eyes soft, mouth curved in that tired but patient little grin he reserved for you alone. “That was what was bothering you?”

You squirmed in your seat, cheeks on fire. Couldn’t look at him for a second.

You nodded anyway. Shame was there, hot in your belly, but so was something else—so was the defiance of I want you.

Technically, you hadn’t arrived at the drop yet. This was just transit. Not the mission. Not really.

Bucky’s brow furrowed for a split second like he was actually considering the ethics of it. But then he huffed again, softer this time. Like he’d decided.

“C’mere,” he said.

He took his right hand off the wheel—his warm flesh hand—and reached across to your restless fingers, prying them gently apart. He squeezed your hand once, firmly. Grounding.

Then, without breaking eye contact, he guided your palm down.

Down to his lap.

Pressed it flush over the front of his pants.

You felt the heat there immediately. Even soft, he was thick. Heavy. But under your hand he shifted and you felt it twitch—just a little at first, then again, firmer. Filling.

You bit back a whimper, heat roaring through you.

He didn’t say anything for a moment. Just let you feel it. Let you watch the way his eyelids went half-mast as his cock stirred and hardened under your palm.

It was wordless permission.

But he still gave you the grace of saying it.

“My cock’s all yours, baby,” he said quietly. His voice was impossibly tender. “If that’s what you need, take it.”

That undid you.

Your hesitation shattered, replaced by raw, urgent want.

You fumbled at his fly, unzipping him with shaking fingers. He lifted his hips just enough—obedient, helpful, letting you work without rush—to free him from the confines of his tactical pants.

And there he was.

Big. Thick. Gloriously hardening in the dark of the night.

Ready for you.

—

You didn’t rush.

You made yourself pause. Forced yourself to just look at him.

Your breath caught when you took in the sight of his cock, freed from his tactical pants—thick, veined, standing proud and heavy. Even in the near-dark of the car, you could see it: the occasional slash of passing streetlights cast pale ribbons across his lap, glinting off the slick wetness gathered at the tip. It curved ever so slightly toward you, shameless in its want.

Your mouth actually watered.

God. It was big. So fucking big. It always struck you just how massive he was, the kind of size you could never forget once you’d taken him. Exposed like this, twitching for you, he looked almost vulnerable. Needy.

You wondered—not for the first time—if the serum had anything to do with it. If it had made every part of him harder, stronger, bigger. Or if he’d always been this blessed.

Either way, you were the luckiest woman on Earth.

You owned this cock. Like a queen. Like it was a gift he’d given you to worship and keep.

You flicked your eyes up.

Bucky kept his gaze on the road, hyper-aware of their route even now. But you saw the tension in his jaw, the way the streetlights striped over the hard line of his throat when he swallowed.

His shifted his flesh hand on your back.

He was holding you there, palm warm and firm between your shoulder blades, thumb stroking slow, calming circles over your spine like you were the one who needed reassuring. It made you shiver.

The car’s interior was shadowed and private except for those brief sweeps of city glow through the windshield. You felt hidden and exposed all at once.

“Easy, doll,” he rumbled, voice low and husky but so soft. “Take your time.”

You let out a breathless, shaky laugh, your lips hovering inches from his cock.

“Don’t tell me that unless you mean it,” you warned, your voice cracking with how badly you wanted him.

His hand squeezed your back, fingers flexing a little like he was fighting to stay gentle.

“I mean it,” he promised, voice firm but warm. “I want you to enjoy it.”

That ruined you.

You bent closer, deliberately slow, letting your lips ghost over the tip in the barest, most teasing kiss. The salty smear of his pre-cum met your tongue when you finally flicked it out to taste him.

Bucky sucked in a sharp breath through his teeth, grip tightening reflexively on your back.

“Fuck,” he whimpered.

That sound went straight to your core. You fucking lived for those rare cracks in his control.

You licked him again, circling the head, savoring the heat and weight of him, feeling the slight tremor that ran through his thighs. He pulsed in your hold, swelling even harder.

His hand pressed you just a little closer, not forcing but anchoring you to him. His thumb traced slow circles over your spine, soothing in direct contrast to the filthy act you were committing in the front seat of a moving car.

“Good girl,” he murmured so low you barely heard it over the hum of the tires on asphalt.

It burned through you like fire.

You moaned softly against the head of his cock, the vibration making him twitch, before finally opening your mouth wide and taking him in.

He was so fucking thick your lips stretched around him, your jaw ached immediately in that delicious, obscene way you craved.

Bucky let out a strangled groan above you, deep and broken, his fingers digging lightly into your back.

You bobbed your head slowly at first, letting him feel the searing heat of your mouth, your tongue pressing flat along the underside of his shaft as you sucked him in. The wet, sloppy sounds filled the darkened car, mixing with the low, even roar of the engine.

His hips shifted once, restrained—like every part of him screamed to fuck up into your mouth but he wouldn’t let himself.

“Jesus, baby,” he rasped, voice rough as gravel. “Just like that. So fucking perfect.”

You moaned around him, eyes fluttering shut at the praise, your own hips squirming in the seat as slick gathered hot and heavy in your panties.

You let your right hand slide down, wrapping tight around the thick base of his cock, your fingers barely meeting. You stroked him in perfect rhythm with your mouth while your left hand pressed hard into the muscle of his thigh, feeling it tense under your touch.

He was so hot. So alive. So yours.

You needed air. You pulled back with a wet pop, strings of spit stretching between your swollen lips and his glistening cock.

You let your tongue swirl around the tip, gathering more of his salty pre-cum and spreading it with relish.

“God,” you groaned, voice breaking on a whimper. You leaned in to press wet, open-mouthed kisses along his shaft between words. “I missed your thick, fat cock… too fucking much.”

Bucky’s chest rose in a ragged inhale. You saw the way his nostrils flared, eyes tight as he forced himself to keep them on the road.

“Fuck,” he muttered, voice cracking. “You’re gonna kill me, doll.”

You moaned at that, licking deliberately slow down his length, tracing every pulsing vein, every ridge, until your mouth reached the base. Your breath was hot and greedy, your mouth glistening as you finally pulled back just enough to see his ruined expression reflected in the side mirror.

“My cock,” you sighed, nearly sobbing with want, before swallowing him whole again in one greedy slide.

Bucky groaned. A low, wrecked sound.

You worked him harder now, your head bobbing faster and wetter, your tongue pressing and flicking under the crown with every stroke. Your hand twisted at the base in perfect rhythm, squeezing tight, milking him.

You felt it when he lost the battle for control. The way his hand on your back shook before squeezing you tighter, pressing you close in silent desperation.

“Baby, fuck,” he gasped, voice going hoarse with strain. “That feels so good. So fucking good.”

You popped off just long enough to pant out a feral little laugh, lips slick and spit-drenched.

“I know,” you breathed, eyes glittering as you licked him from base to tip again, before plunging your mouth back down.

Your pace turned relentless.

Wet, obscene slurps filled the car, the only soundtrack to your sin. His ragged breathing cracked and broke, mixing with the constant rumble of the road beneath you. Your own cunt clenched around nothing, neglected, soaked through, but you didn’t care. You’d make him fall apart for you.

You felt him start to pulse, harder, thicker on your tongue.

His voice hitched, went ragged.

“I’m gonna fuck you so hard once we’re back,” he groaned, the threat edged with promise, with desperate need.

You moaned around him, the vibration making him jerk in your mouth.

Your hand at the base squeezed tighter, stroking faster, matching your mouth’s relentless pace.

“Let go for me, baby,” you slurred around his cock, words muffled but clear. You pulled back just enough to meet his blown pupils in the mirror, your lips swollen and wet, your breath coming hard.

“Come for me, Bucky.”

And then you swallowed him whole again, eager and hungry, determined to take everything he gave you.

—

You felt it the moment he lost the last scrap of control.

Bucky shuddered hard, the tremor rolling through his thighs, his hand clenching against your back in a bruising grip as he choked out a guttural moan.

You didn’t slow. Didn’t stop.

His cock twitched once—twice—and then he was coming in your mouth, thick and hot, salty and utterly his.

You swallowed automatically, greedy, taking as much as you could. But there was so much of him, and you’d pushed yourself so deep that some of it leaked from the corners of your mouth, sliding down to your hand still pumping him at the base.

He cursed—low, strangled, wrecked.

“Fuuuck—baby—”

You finally let yourself pull back, gasping a breath as you tried to swallow the last of it, licking your lips shamelessly. You felt it smear on your chin and thumbed at it, giggling a little breathlessly despite how hard your own cunt clenched at the taste.

God. He always tasted good to you. Like an appetizer crafted just for you.

Your eyes flicked up to his face, taking in the sight of your normally stoic, disciplined supersoldier boyfriend looking… ruined.

His cheeks were flushed, eyes half-lidded and glassy from release. A faint sheen of sweat caught the occasional streetlight slashing through the windshield. But to your infinite jealousy, he wasn’t panting or out of breath. His chest rose and fell evenly. Enhanced stamina, you thought with a petty, hungry little growl in your head.

He was already recovering.

You wiped at your mouth with the back of your hand, only smearing a little more of his cum over your thumb before popping it into your mouth, sucking it clean deliberately, knowing he was watching.

Bucky’s jaw flexed hard.

“Fuck, baby,” he finally managed, voice raw and ragged. “That was so good. But…”

He swallowed, voice going lower, darker, more dangerous.

“I need more.”

Your heart skittered at that tone.

You let out a breathless laugh, reaching over him for the small pack of tissues you kept in the door pocket. You flicked one free and carefully wiped the remaining mess off his flushed cock, cleaning him up with an absurdly tender touch. He lifted his hips obediently, giving you access, hissing as the tissue dragged over oversensitized skin.

“Easy,” he breathed.

“Don’t ‘easy’ me,” you teased, voice husky. “You came so much I almost choked.”

That earned a strained chuckle from him, one that ended in a low groan as you tucked him back into his tac pants, carefully zipping him up.

You tossed the used tissue aside and smirked, settling back into your seat, your eyes bright and wicked in the glow of the passing streetlights.

“I know you need more,” you purred. “So let’s get this shit done ASAP.”

You leaned in closer, until your mouth brushed the shell of his ear. Your voice dropped to a filthy whisper, warm and mean and so needy you almost trembled saying it.

“Then you can fuck my wet cunt so hard you break me apart.”

He let out a noise halfway between a laugh and a growl, teeth bared in a grin that was feral and fond all at once.

“Oh, sweetheart.”

He didn’t even hesitate.

His right hand—his warm, calloused flesh hand—slid right back to you. You grabbed it, guiding it ruthlessly between your legs, pressing it tight over the seam of your tactical suit.

He could feel the heat. The damp. Even through the heavy-duty fabric, there was no hiding it.

Bucky sucked in a breath, thumb twitching experimentally over you.

“Jesus Christ,” he muttered, voice cracking with lust. His eyes flicked to you briefly before darting back to the road, like he couldn’t afford the distraction.

But you didn’t miss the way his pupils blew wide.

“See what you do to me?” you teased, grinding just once against his palm before pulling back, breath shaking.

His fingers curled reflexively, wanting to follow, to press harder.

“Oh, I feel it,” he rasped. His tone was low, dark, but the smile tugging at his lips was all Bucky. Soft. Devoted. “I’m going to fuck you relentlessly.”

You shivered at the promise.

He punctuated it with a single, deliberate kiss to your left cheek—a press of warm, slightly chapped lips that felt less like affection and more like sealing a contract.

You felt your heart kick against your ribs, your whole body thrumming with anticipation.

Sex for hours. That was the deal now.

And you’d be damned if you didn’t earn it.

You settled back in your seat, trying to calm your breathing, a determined glint in your eyes.

Your brain was already plotting the mission, calculating shortcuts, prioritizing targets.

For the good of the assignment.

And for the goddamn sex, you thought, biting back a delirious grin.

—

You and Bucky handled the assignment a little too quickly, if you were being honest.

Like the perfect, ruthless duo Valentina trained you to be.

Intels extracted. Servers wiped. Physical evidence torched. The drop point reduced to smoking debris in the darkness after Bucky triggered the silent detonator, both of you already on the move before the muted whump even finished echoing.

No one saw a thing. No cameras left to prove you’d even been there.

You tapped the comm in your ear, eyes scanning the dark street as you headed back to the car.

“Mission complete. Back to HQ,” you reported, voice low and steady.

Valentina’s cool voice crackled back a moment later.

“Copy. Don’t make me regret pairing you two alone.”

You smirked as you shut the comm off with another tap, cutting the line.

Beside you, Bucky did the same, pulling out his own in-ear and tucking it in his pocket. You saw the way his mouth quirked despite himself, even as he scanned the perimeter one last time.

Professional to the end.

But when you finally got back in the car, the doors shutting with dull thuds in the night, it was like all that icy discipline melted in an instant.

You tugged your tactical gloves off and dropped them on the dash with a clatter. The car reeked faintly of gun oil, burnt electronics… and sex.

You didn’t even try to be subtle about inhaling.

You glanced at Bucky as he started the engine, headlights cutting through the dark. Streetlights flicked past in rhythmic sweeps, carving his face into alternating slices of shadow and gold.

His lips were still a little swollen. You felt your own throb in sympathy.

He caught you staring. Didn’t say a word. Just smirked—slow, knowing.

That smirk widened when he reached across the center console and took your left hand in his, squeezing your fingers.

But he didn’t keep it there.

Instead, he let go and dragged his big, calloused palm right to your lap, pressing between your thighs.

You whimpered.

His fingers grazed the seam of your tac pants, right over your cunt, even through the thick material sending a sharp jolt of heat straight up your spine.

You gasped, pressing back against the seat, hand grabbing his wrist to either stop him or guide him—you couldn’t tell which.

“Still damp,” he said, voice low, cracked with hunger.

You swallowed hard.

“From sweat,” you tried to lie, your tone cracking in embarrassment, knowing full well he could practically smell you.

He huffed out a disbelieving laugh, deep and rough.

“Nah,” he said, voice going even lower, his grin turning feral as streetlights washed his face in amber. “Smelled too fucking sweet for sweat.”

You shuddered at that, your thighs instinctively pressing together around his hand.

Bucky’s fingers moved. He pressed more firmly, dragging slow, heavy lines along the seam of your tac pants, forcing a muffled moan from you.

You squirmed in your seat. The thick, tight fabric was torture. Too much and not enough.

You let out a frustrated sound and reached for the fly of your pants with shaking fingers, unzipping them with a harsh zzzzp.

Bucky’s eyes cut to you once, quickly, heat banked in his stare, before flicking back to the road.

“Good girl,” he murmured, voice almost lost under the hum of tires on asphalt.

You wiggled your hips in the seat, shoving the tac pants down just enough to free your cunt—still covered by the thinnest pair of dark stretch shorts you wore underneath.

They were drenched.

The proof was in the way the fabric clung wetly to you, your slick staining it in a dark patch that even the dim streetlights couldn’t hide.

Bucky let out a harsh breath at the sight, his hand immediately dropping to press right against it.

He grunted, fingers flexing hard.

“Jesus,” he rasped. “So fucking wet for me?”

Your moan was half-words, half-desperation.

“Always,” you managed, your voice wrecked.

You didn’t even try to be coy. Your own fingers closed around his wrist, dragging his hand tighter to you. You ground shamelessly against his palm, feeling the heat of him even through the thin damp shorts.

You hissed at the friction, head falling back against the seat, eyes fluttering closed.

He didn’t move away. Didn’t tease. He let you use him, fingers pressing in harder, tracing the soaked line of your folds through the fabric with slow, deliberate pressure.

“Look at you,” he murmured, voice going even rougher, ruined with affection and lust all at once. “So needy you’re fucking yourself on my hand in the front seat.”

You let out a strangled sound that might have been his name.

His thumb found your clit through the damp cloth and pressed just firmly enough to make your hips jerk.

You bit your lip to stifle the whine that threatened to escape.

He chuckled darkly, that sound so deep it rattled you.

“Better hope no one’s watching,” he teased, glancing at you sidelong, eyes glittering with heat and mischief as the streetlights cut over his features.

Your breath hitched, heart hammering.

You smirked through the haze of lust, voice shaking but defiant.

“Drive faster, Sarge,” you managed. “Or I’ll make myself come before you even get me home.”

Bucky’s grin turned savage at that.

“Oh sweetheart,” he crooned, voice so low it felt like velvet dragging over your skin. He pressed even harder, thumb circling your clit, slow and merciless. “You’re not coming without me. That’s a promise.”

Your answering moan was wanton and helpless, your fingers still gripping his wrist as you rutted against his hand.

And Bucky just smiled, turning back to the road, driving into the night with one hand on the wheel—while the other stayed buried between your legs, making sure you remembered exactly who you belonged to.

—

Bucky didn’t finger you.

No matter how badly you whined. No matter how your voice cracked, wrecked and breathless, your hips rolling up shamelessly into his touch.

He just kept his fingers right there over your soaked shorts, teasing the seam of your folds through the wet fabric but never pushing inside.

“Please, baby,” you panted, your voice a broken plea. You grabbed his wrist tighter, forcing his fingers to press harder until you felt them sink into the dip of your folds—even through the thin, soaked barrier of your shorts. Your clit throbbed at the friction. “Fuck—please, finger me.”

He huffed out a breath that was half a laugh, half a strained groan.

“No,” he said, voice so low it felt like it vibrated straight through you.

You let out a desperate little whine.

He glanced at you sidelong, jaw tight, eyes flashing as another passing streetlight cut across his face.

“Not here,” he growled. The words were soft, but they snapped like a command. “I’m not giving you that in the damn car.”

Your nails bit into his wrist.

“Bucky—”

He exhaled sharply, his hand flexing against you just once before he dragged his palm away.

“I said no,” he repeated, this time softer, more patient, the dominant control edged with fondness. “I’m gonna fuck you so hard once we’re home. That’s it. That’s the deal.”

You grunted in frustration, biting back a curse as your hips bucked one last time. You could feel the slick mess you’d made in your shorts, heat and wetness smearing against his palm before he pulled away completely.

You shivered, angry at the loss.

But you didn’t want to risk making him change his mind.

With a ragged groan, you finally reached down, yanking your tactical pants back up. You wriggled your hips in the seat to get them over your ass, cursing quietly as the wet fabric clung to your folds in the worst way. You fumbled with the zipper, finally sealing yourself back up—like it made any difference now.

Your pussy ached.

Bucky didn’t help, either. He just gave you this smug little sideways look, his lips curling at the edges in a knowing grin.

But his eyes were dark.

Hungry.

You swallowed and shifted again in your seat, trying to get comfortable even as you stayed pressed close enough to grip his hand. You clung to it, even after zipping up. Even after you’d shoved down the raw want just enough to stop begging.

He squeezed your fingers.

Hard.

Reassuring. Possessive.

The rest of the drive back to the Watchtower was torture.

Because you didn’t stop.

Neither of you did.

You whispered every filthy promise you could think of, voice ragged with need. You told him exactly what you wanted—what you needed from him the moment you got through that door.

How you wanted him to shove you against the wall.

How you wanted his cock so deep you could barely breathe.

How you needed to taste yourself on him as he fucked your mouth raw.

How you’d been thinking about him all week, even on missions, touching yourself in the shower and whining his name.

Bucky listened. He didn’t shut you up.

He just smiled.

That little wolfish grin breaking out whenever your words got especially dirty. His jaw flexed tight when you moaned out your filthiest demands.

And all he did was grunt, voice rough, promising you over and over:

“Yeah?”

“You want all that?”

“You’re gonna get everything, sweetheart.”

He leaned heavy on everything, each time making your stomach swoop, your pussy clench.

“Everything you want. Once we’re home.”

You could barely sit still. The seatbelt felt like a restraint you wanted to tear off.

Your fingers stayed knotted together, his thumb dragging slow circles over your knuckles, deceptively gentle.

—

By the time you pulled into the Watchtower’s garage, you were shaking.

Bucky parked in the same precise, methodical way he did everything, even though you could see the tension in his arms, the white-knuckled grip on the wheel.

When you finally stepped out, your legs felt like jelly.

But you forced yourself to walk normally beside him through the darkened hallways, past the security doors.

The elevator ride up was somehow worse.

Your body screamed to press against him. To climb into his lap and grind down until you soaked his pants.

You wanted to maul him. Bite his bottom lip. Kiss him sloppy and breathless.

But you didn’t.

You couldn’t.

Valentina had cameras in all the common areas.

You felt her ghost in the walls even now. Watching. Judging.

So you stood there beside Bucky, trying to look normal. Professional.

Except your thighs kept pressing together in helpless, instinctive pulses. Your breath was too fast. Your face too hot.

Bucky noticed. Of course he did.

He let out a single, low chuckle that rumbled in his chest.

He gripped your hand tighter, fingers interlacing with yours so firmly you couldn’t pull away.

“Behave,” he murmured, voice so soft no one else could hear.

You shivered.

But you didn’t dare meet his eyes.

If you did, you’d lose it.

You didn’t know he was struggling too.

That behind that cool, battle-hardened expression, he was undone.

That all he wanted was to drag you back into that car, crawl over the center console, and fuck you right there until you couldn’t walk.

But he didn’t.

Because you both knew the rules.

For now.

But the moment that elevator door opened?

All bets were off.

—

As soon as the door banged shut behind you, Bucky didn’t waste a second.

He spun you around and pinned you hard against the door, his metal arm braced beside your head to cage you in. His right hand flicked the light switch on in one smooth motion, flooding the room with warm brightness before it immediately dropped to curl tight around your waist, holding you in place.

You didn’t even have a second to register the room before his mouth crashed into yours.

It was sloppy, messy, starved—all teeth and tongue and wet, hungry sounds. Your lips smashed together so hard it hurt, but you moaned anyway, clawing at the thick fabric of his jacket to pull him even closer.

He sucked your bottom lip into his mouth and bit it, just hard enough to make you gasp.

But then—just when you thought you’d drown in the filth of it—he gentled.

His lips softened against yours, his tongue slowing, licking lazily into your mouth like he was savoring you. Like he couldn’t get enough.

Your whole body trembled.

You felt his crotch grow against you—no other word for it. His cock hardened rapidly in his pants, thick and pressing into your stomach through both your suits. You couldn’t help it—you rolled your hips against him, needing anything, groaning at the friction even though the layers between you made it frustratingly dull.

“Fuck,” you panted, breaking the kiss for air, your head thudding back against the door.

Bucky pulled back just enough to look at you.

His pupils were blown wide, nearly eclipsing those blue eyes. His mouth was wet and red from your kisses, stubble scratching deliciously along your jaw.

He licked his lips once.

“You asked for this, baby,” he growled, voice low, gravelly, dangerous but so fucking tender underneath. His lips curled into a knowing, vicious little smile. “No backing out. I’m gonna fuck you so hard you forget your own name.”

Your breath hitched.

“Please,” you whispered, completely wrecked already.

That did it.

He grabbed you under your thighs and lifted you like you weighed nothing.

You immediately hooked your legs around his waist, ankles locking behind him, grinding your soaked pussy shamelessly against the hard ridge in his pants. He groaned, fingers digging into the meat of your ass to hold you up as he turned and carried you toward the bathroom.

You didn’t stop kissing.

You attacked his mouth over and over, teeth clacking, tongues tangling, panting breath filling the narrow hallway. Every time you rolled your hips into him, you felt him jerk slightly, his cock pressing harder into you.

“Fuck—so needy,” he growled, breathless this time.

“Yours,” you gasped. “I’m yours, Bucky. Always.”

That made him snarl low in his throat, and he crushed you harder to his chest as he kicked open the bathroom door.

He set you down only long enough to rip at your clothes.

Your fingers were shaking so hard you fumbled the zipper on your tactical suit. Bucky didn’t wait. He grabbed it, yanking it down so fast the teeth nearly split.

“Off,” he ordered, voice so low you felt it in your cunt.

You obeyed, peeling it away, your soaked shorts practically peeling off your sticky folds with a wet noise that made you whimper in embarrassment. The cold bathroom air hit your soaked pussy and you hissed, thighs instinctively pressing together.

But Bucky was already shrugging out of his jacket, tossing it aside. You helped him with the rest, fingers frantic as you unbuckled his belt, shoved his pants down.

His cock sprang free, fat and flushed and so fucking hard it slapped against his lower belly. You both paused for half a heartbeat just to look.

It twitched.

You moaned, biting your lip, fingers already reaching for it before he caught your wrists.

“Shower,” he ordered.

You whimpered.

He didn’t let you protest.

He hoisted you up again, your legs wrapping automatically around him, and reached behind you to flick the shower on.

Warm water blasted from above immediately, steaming the room. It hit your back first, making you gasp, then sluiced over Bucky’s broad shoulders and the hard planes of his chest. His hair slicked back against his head, water streaming down his stubbled jaw.

He pressed you against the tile, shifting you slightly higher on the wall, your slick folds lining up perfectly with his length.

You couldn’t help it—you shifted your hips, dragging your soaked, desperate pussy along his thick shaft, smearing your slick all over him even as the shower rained down.

You both moaned, loud, unfiltered.

“Fuck—baby—” he panted, voice going wrecked.

You felt him adjust, one hand bracing you under your ass, the other reaching between you to grip his cock, lining it up.

You barely had time to suck in a breath.

He shoved in.

You screamed.

Your head thunked back against the tile, eyes rolling as his fat cock split you open, inch after inch pressing impossibly deep until he bottomed out.

“Fuuuuck,” you sobbed, nails raking his shoulders.

“Yeah?” he growled, breath ragged against your ear. “That what you wanted?”

“Y-Yes—fuck—Bucky—”

He pulled back and slammed in again, the wet, filthy slap of your bodies colliding echoing off the tile walls.

He fucked you relentlessly.

He set a brutal pace, hips snapping forward with hard, wet slaps, your breasts bouncing wildly between you. Water splashed off both your bodies, steam billowing around you.

Your nipples grazed his chest, slick and swollen. Once, they smacked against his face as you jolted in his hold, and he groaned—open-mouthed and hungry—before burying his face between them.

He sucked a nipple into his mouth hard enough to make you wail, his teeth scraping, his tongue swirling messily.

Your moans turned into raw, broken sobs of his name.

“Bucky—Bucky please—fuck—so deep—”

He snarled, mouth muffled against your tits.

“Mine,” he growled, words wet, hot breath burning your skin. “All fucking mine.”

Your cunt spasmed around him, milking him as you clenched so hard you almost forced him out.

He held you pinned to the wall with sheer strength, thrusting deeper, harder, until your vision went white.

You screamed for him, voice cracking, nails digging so hard you drew blood from his shoulders.

He let out a strangled groan against your chest, his thrusts turning erratic.

Then he froze.

Burying himself as deep as he could, cock pulsing hard as he came inside you, heat flooding your core.

You felt every twitch, every thick spurt filling you, even as the shower water washed over you both.

You moaned for it. Wanted it. Loved it.

You clung to him, legs still locked tight, until you both finally sagged.

He held you there, breathing hard against your collarbone, his cock still buried inside you, softening slowly as your walls milked out every last drop.

When your legs finally gave out completely, he eased you down gently, arms wrapped around you to keep you steady.

You both wobbled under the spray.

He tucked a wet strand of hair behind your ear with shaking fingers, pressing his forehead to yours.

“You okay?” he rasped.

You nodded weakly, still shivering with aftershocks.

“Fuck—yeah,” you whispered. “More than okay.”

He smiled. Soft. Gentle.

“Good.”

He helped you finish showering after that, washing you carefully, checking you for any bruises he’d left. You washed him too, fingers tender as they traced over the strong lines of his chest, the scars you both knew by heart.

Finally you both stepped out, skin pink and steaming, drying off just enough to wrap yourselves in thick, fluffy bathrobes.

You were both still flushed, still breathing too hard, still so far from finished.

But that was for the bedroom.

And as he toweled off his hair, watching you with those blown, heated eyes, you both knew you were about to ruin the bed next.

—

You didn’t bother pretending anymore.

He dropped the towel, letting it fall to the floor in a heavy, wet heap. Bucky’s gaze tracked every inch of you, unapologetic, hungry.

Your bathrobe followed with a flick of your wrist, sliding off your shoulders like it offended you. His fell away too, careless, pooling at his feet.

And you both lunged at each other.

Mouths smashed together in another sloppy, wet kiss—needy, uncoordinated, breathless. His hands roamed your body without hesitation, palms hot, fingers digging in to leave bruises.

Your own hands scraped through his damp hair, tugging him closer until your teeth clicked.

He growled low against your mouth, nipping at your lip before sucking it into his own, tongue tracing the sting he left behind.

Your bare, slick bodies pressed together, chest to chest, skin sliding wetly. His cock, still soft from the aftershower, twitched between you, thickening almost instantly from the friction of your bellies rubbing together.

You moaned at the sensation of it hardening right there, growing against your stomach, the heat of him unmistakable.

You fumbled backwards, lips parting just enough to pant for breath before you fell back onto the bed with a bounce.

You lay there, hair splayed on the sheets, chest heaving, legs instinctively parting wide in invitation.

Your eyes locked on him.

He stopped, looming at the foot of the bed, gaze dropping to your glistening cunt.

His pupils were blown wide, nostrils flaring as he sucked in a deep breath.

“Fuck, doll…” he rasped.

His right hand, flesh and warm, wrapped around his own cock. He stroked it slowly, deliberately. The head already leaking, pre-cum beading before smearing over his thumb.

You watched, moaning at the sight, your own walls clenching in empty need.

“Bucky,” you whimpered.

That got his attention.

He climbed onto the bed, bracing himself over you, his cock dragging against your belly as he lowered his mouth to yours again.

You kissed hungrily, teeth clacking, breath mingling.

Your hand snaked between you, fingers wrapping around his slick length, feeling the heat, the pulse. You stroked him slowly, thumb smearing the wetness over the head.

He groaned into your mouth, hips twitching.

“Fuck—baby—”

You broke the kiss with a gasp.

“Please… finger me,” you begged, voice cracking with desperation. “I need it so bad.”

He stilled for just a second, eyes searching yours, face tightening with lust and affection all at once.

“Yeah,” he breathed. “I got you.”

He shifted, bracing himself better. He knelt between your parted thighs, feet anchored into the mattress for leverage. His flesh hand cupped your breast, thumb brushing over the taut peak while he supported himself on his elbow.

The metal hand slid down your belly, cool and hard and precise, making your muscles twitch.

You whimpered, hips rolling up to meet him.

He paused, watching you squirm.

“Spread,” he ordered softly.

You obeyed instantly, thighs falling wider apart.

He hummed his approval and pressed one cold vibranium finger to your slick folds, sliding it through the mess you’d already made.

You moaned, head falling back, eyes rolling.

He traced your entrance before pressing in slowly, one thick finger stretching you open, the temperature contrast making you gasp.

You clenched around it reflexively.

“That’s it,” he crooned. “Open up for me.”

You keened as he started pumping slowly, his metal thumb rubbing teasing circles around your clit.

“More,” you whimpered. “Please, more.”

He rewarded you immediately, sliding in another finger.

You cried out, walls fluttering around the intrusion, slick dripping onto his hand.

Bucky bit his lip watching you, the cords of his neck standing out with restraint.

“You look so fucking good like this,” he muttered.

You could barely answer, only managing a desperate moan.

He kept going, pumping those two thick metal fingers in and out, dragging them along your walls, feeling you squeeze down on him. His flesh hand squeezed your breast firmly, thumb and forefinger pinching your nipple hard enough to make you jerk.

“Bucky—fuck!”

“Such a good girl,” he praised, voice cracked with hunger. “Taking my fingers so well.”

You could hear the wet, obscene sounds of your cunt being fucked on his fingers.

You grabbed at his ass, nails digging in, pulling him closer.

He chuckled, low and mean.

“You want more?”

“Please,” you sobbed.

He rewarded you with a third finger.

You wailed, back arching off the bed as he stretched you wide.

“Fuck, fuck—baby—it’s so full—”

He curled his fingers deliberately, finding that spot inside you that made your vision shatter.

Your body locked up, breath stuttering.

He didn’t let up.

He kept thrusting, harder, faster, the cold metal unrelenting.

Your moans turned to screams, nails dragging red lines down his ass.

He dropped his head and took your other nipple into his mouth, sucking hard, teeth grazing before soothing it with his tongue.

Your entire body convulsed, muscles seizing as pleasure detonated.

He felt it, the way you clenched and spasmed around his fingers, and curled them even harder.

“Come on, baby,” he growled against your breast. “Come for me.”

You did.

You came so hard you saw stars, your pussy squirting wetly around his fingers, slick splashing onto the sheets in messy, humiliating waves.

He kept working you through it, thumb circling your clit, mouth latched onto your breast like he couldn’t get enough.

Your cries broke into choked sobs of his name.

“Bucky—baby—please—”

He finally slowed his thrusts, your cunt still spasming weakly around his fingers, making obscene wet sounds that filled the room.

You felt your walls clench one last time before going slack.

He drew his metal fingers out of you deliberately, slowly, letting you feel every ridge and bump as they dragged from your soaked, oversensitive entrance.

They left with a wet, filthy squelch that made your face burn with embarrassment. Strings of slick clung between his fingers and your pussy, stretching and breaking, leaving messy strands smeared across your inner thighs.

You shuddered helplessly.

Bucky's eyes never left yours.

He lifted his metal hand, studying the mess you’d made of him with hungry, approving eyes. Then he brought those slick-coated fingers to his mouth.

He licked them clean slowly, tongue dragging over the metal with practiced precision, making sure you saw every movement.

You whimpered at the sight, body twitching weakly on the sheets.

He smiled around his fingers, pulling them free with a soft pop.

“Still with me, sweetheart?” he rasped, voice thick and ruined with pride and lust.

You swallowed hard, tears pricking at the corners of your eyes from how overwhelming it all felt.

You nodded shakily.

“Yeah,” you breathed out, voice cracking.

That earned you a low, satisfied rumble from his chest.

He shifted his weight on the bed, knees sinking deeper into the mattress between your spread thighs as he leaned over you. His warm, flesh hand braced beside your head, metal arm planting firmly next to your hip to cage you in.

Then he bent down and kissed you.

It was slow. Tender. A total contrast to how he’d just wrecked you.

His lips moved gently over yours, patient and grounding, letting you taste yourself on his tongue.

You whimpered again, your hands fluttering up weakly to clutch at his damp hair, nails scraping lightly along his scalp.

He hummed against your mouth, nuzzling you with the tip of his nose, pressing sweet little kisses to your lips, your cheeks, your jaw.

But even as he comforted you, you felt it.

His cock.

Hard as granite. Pressed hot and heavy against your thigh. Twitching every time you squirmed, smearing his pre-cum onto your skin.

He wasn’t even pretending to hide it.

And you both knew—

He wasn’t even close to done with you yet.

—

You were still shaking.

Your whole body felt boneless, oversensitive. But the ache between your thighs wouldn’t quit. Even as the aftershocks made your cunt twitch and flutter, you felt yourself need again.

Bucky noticed immediately.

His thumb brushed your lip, swollen from his kisses, and you sucked it automatically.

Your hips squirmed, legs twitching open.

He watched your expression melt into need.

“Oh, you’re not done,” he rumbled softly, smiling darkly.

Your answer was a half-sobbed whine.

“I need more.”

He chuckled, deep and knowing.

“I’ll wreck you, baby.”

You let out a broken laugh, grabbing at his shoulders for leverage.

With all the strength you had left, you shifted, shoving him back against the bed. He let you, grinning, his big frame relaxing against the pillows with his arms spread wide in invitation.

You climbed over him on trembling thighs, straddling his chest for a moment. He grabbed your hips immediately, fingers digging in to hold you steady.

You kept going, shifting your weight until your dripping pussy hovered directly over his face.

He groaned the second you lined yourself up.

“Fuck,” he whispered, eyes blown wide as he stared up at your glistening folds. “Look at you.”

You didn’t wait. You sank down onto his mouth.

Bucky growled so deeply it vibrated right through your cunt.

You gasped, hands flying to the headboard for support as he immediately got to work.

His tongue was expert, sliding through your folds, flicking your swollen clit with practiced precision. The hot, wet strokes made your thighs clamp around his head.

He loved that, humming deep in his chest so the vibration traveled straight into you.

He slurped noisily, unbothered by the mess, his mouth smearing your slick everywhere. He devoured you like a man starved, dragging his tongue through the spill from your last orgasm, licking you clean only to make you messier.

You moaned, half-choked, rolling your hips desperately over his face.

“Baby—fuck—Bucky—”

He pulled you down harder, metal hand bracing one thigh while his flesh hand gripped the other, keeping you wide open for him.

Then he changed tactics—his tongue pushed inside you.

You nearly screamed.

He tongue-fucked you hard, messy, deep, alternating with dragging licks up to your clit before plunging back inside. Your hands scrabbled at the headboard, trying to get away and get closer all at once.

He didn’t let you move.

He moaned into your pussy, filthy and approving, eyes fluttering shut as if savoring you.

“Fuck—please—I’m gonna—Bucky—”

You couldn’t finish.

You broke apart on his tongue, cumming with a raw wail, grinding desperately against his mouth as your juices spilled.

He didn’t stop.

He licked you through it, swallowing everything you gave him, the obscene wet sounds echoing in the room until you were practically sobbing above him.

When you finally slumped forward, twitching and wrecked, he only gave you a second.

His arms tightened, lifting you like you weighed nothing.

You whimpered as he dragged you lower, lining you up with his cock, so hard it slapped wetly against your thigh.

He didn’t tease.

He shoved in.

You both moaned—his a guttural, broken sound, yours a strangled cry.

You barely had time to adjust before he was fucking up into you from below.

Your body jolted with every savage thrust. You tried to ride, but your thighs trembled uselessly.

Bucky noticed, smiling through gritted teeth.

“Too fucked out to move, baby?”

You mewled, half-sobbing.

He slowed, stopped.

But only to shift.

He sat up, his hands bracing under your ass, lifting you until only the tip remained inside.

“Hold on,” he ordered.

You barely had time to obey before he slammed you back down onto his cock.

You screamed, walls clenching violently around him.

He lifted you again, set the pace himself. Up. Down. Faster. Harder. Using his strength to fuck you on his cock.

Your breasts bounced, slapping his chest and face. He buried his face between them, biting and sucking, leaving raw marks that made you keen.

“Mine,” he growled, voice muffled. “All fucking mine.”

You nodded frantically, tears leaking from the corners of your eyes.

“Yes—Bucky—yours—fuck—”

He panted, hips slamming up to meet you, cock driving so deep you swore you could feel it in your throat.

Your own movements grew sloppy. You tried to ride him back, changing the rhythm—slamming down, grinding in circles that made you both curse, then bouncing again.

Your cunt squelched wetly, obscene, soaking his cock and thighs.

You felt him twitch inside you, cock pulsing.

He stopped again only to reposition.

He lifted you, arms flexing hard, standing up from the bed in one smooth motion.

You clung to him, arms around his neck, legs around his waist.

He walked you to the nearest wall and slammed you against it.

You gasped, head falling back.

“Bucky—please—”

He didn’t answer with words.

He fucked up into you, pinning you to the wall with raw, bruising thrusts.

Your back scraped the wall lightly with every slam. His cock pistoned in and out with wet slaps that filled the room.

You were crying out openly now, voice wrecked.

“Bucky—Jesus fuck—please—fuck—so deep—”

“Yeah?” he growled, teeth bared in a savage grin. “That’s what you want? You want me to breed you? Fill you up?”

You sobbed.

“Yes—please—fill me—want it—want you to come in me—”

That broke him.

He rammed in hard, deep, so deep you saw stars.

Your orgasm ripped through you violently, making you scream his name over and over.

He groaned, voice cracking as he spilled inside you, cock jerking, flooding you with thick, hot spurts of cum.

He held you pinned there, buried to the hilt, making sure you took every last drop.

You shook in his arms, twitching, boneless.

He stayed like that, breathing hard against your neck, his cock still sheathed inside your spasming cunt.

He kissed your temple, breath shaky.

“Good girl,” he rasped. “My good fucking girl. Took all of it.”

You whimpered, pressing your forehead to his.

His hands caressed you slowly, thumb stroking your thigh where it was wrapped around him.

He didn’t rush to pull out.

He just stayed buried in you, letting you both come down, letting your cunt milk him for every last bit of heat he’d given you.

And when he finally carried you back to bed, lowering you onto the sheets, his cum still leaking from you, he kissed you tenderly.

Like you were the only thing in the world.

—

Your body was limp, boneless. You felt the wet smear of him between your thighs, hot and sticky on the sheets, but you couldn’t even bring yourself to care.

Your lids felt impossibly heavy. You tried to fight it, blinking slow and sluggish.

“Mmh… Bucky, I’m—s’fucked up,” you mumbled, voice thick and slurred, the words tumbling clumsy and broken from your slack lips.

Your eyes only opened halfway before fluttering shut again.

Bucky let out a soft, breathless chuckle.

“Yeah, baby,” he rasped, voice hoarse but warm with amusement. “You are. Did say I was gonna fuck you so hard.”

You made a small, helpless noise of protest, shifting weakly on the sheets but barely moving.

He pressed one last kiss to your temple before pulling away carefully.

“Hold on,” he murmured.

You heard him pad to the bathroom, the water running briefly. He wet a face cloth just enough to make it damp and warm, squeezing it once before turning off the tap.

He came back to you immediately, dropping to one knee at the edge of the bed, eyes soft but focused.

“Easy, sweetheart,” he soothed.

He parted your thighs gently with one big hand, the other carefully wiping you clean.

You whimpered faintly at the contact, twitching once from oversensitivity, but you didn’t fight him.

“Shh,” he hushed you. “I know. Just cleaning you up.”

He was thorough but gentle, wiping away the messy streaks of his cum still dripping from your swollen, used cunt. He made sure you were as comfortable as he could make you, murmuring little reassurances under his breath.

Your breathing evened out, eyelids fluttering but too heavy to keep open.

“Mmh… i—sleep… you…” you tried again, the words falling apart, unintelligible.

But Bucky understood.

“Yeah,” he murmured. “I know, baby. Sleep.”

He tossed the dirty cloth aside onto the floor without caring, then crawled fully onto the bed beside you.

He settled on his back first, then turned onto his side to face you. His metal arm slid carefully under your neck like a pillow, the cool vibranium pressed against your flushed, overheated skin. His flesh arm curled around your waist, dragging you gently but firmly into his chest.

You melted instantly.

Your head rested on his shoulder, nose pressed to his throat, inhaling the raw, spent scent of sweat, sex, and his skin.

He pressed a lingering kiss to your hairline, nose buried in your damp hair.

His fingers found your hair at the back of your head and began to play with it slowly, combing through the strands to soothe you.

Your breathing slowed even more, going soft and steady.

He felt you go heavy in his arms.

“Good girl,” he whispered so quietly it was almost for himself.

Your lips parted, a final sleepy huff of breath warming his skin, and you went fully limp, finally out.

Bucky smiled.

He let his eyes drift shut, fingers still tangled in your hair, body wrapped around yours like a shield.

He could feel the faint wetness still smearing between your thighs, his cum still inside you.

The thought made something possessive and hungry coil in his gut, even through the exhaustion.

He sighed, pressing another kiss to your forehead.

Tomorrow.

There would be tomorrow.

Rounds. Plural.

He fell asleep knowing full well he was going to fuck you stupid all over again come morning.

[womanwhowritesformany]

cutest thing ever 😭 him making playlists is soooo real !! once he learns idk if bucky can ever stop, like i can imagine him making playlists for all his friends but also one to get pumped up before missions 😂

𝚃𝚎𝚊𝚌𝚑𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝙷𝚒𝚖 𝚝𝚘 𝚄𝚜𝚎 𝙼𝚘𝚍𝚎𝚛𝚗 𝚃𝚎𝚌𝚑 📱

✮ Pairing: Bucky Barnes x Reader

✮ Summary: Teaching Bucky how to use a smartphone was supposed to be a casual afternoon task… but no one told you he’d be this cute about it.

✮ Genre: Fluff | Established Relationship | Clingy Bucky | Light Humor

✮ Word Count: ~1.1k

✮ Warnings: Extremely fluffy content ahead! Protective!Bucky, clingy!Bucky, gentle teasing, mentions of technology confusion (lol), and Bucky being dangerously adorable.

craving clingy bucky or emotional destruction? — masterlist is right here baby

───────── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: .☽ . :☆ﾟ. ─────────

“I swear this thing is plotting against me.”

You looked up from your coffee with a small smile, watching Bucky glare at his brand-new iPhone like it had personally offended him.

“It’s literally the home screen,” you said, laughing softly.

“It changed again!” he insisted, holding up the phone like a crime scene exhibit. “There were these square things and now they’re gone. What the hell is an ‘app switcher,’ doll?”

You scooted closer to him on the couch, grabbing the phone gently from his hand. “Okay, first of all—deep breath. We’re gonna tackle this together.”

Bucky huffed but leaned into your shoulder, clearly happy to let you take over. “This is why I miss the ’40s. You wanted to talk to someone? You showed up at their door. No ‘FaceTime,’ no ghosting, no—what’s it called when someone leaves you on ‘seen’?”

You bit back a grin. “That’s being left on read.”

“Right, well. That’s just rude.”

You giggled as he pouted. “Bucky Barnes, defending the lost art of eye contact since 1917.”

“Damn right,” he muttered.

You walked him through the basics — how to unlock the phone, open apps, and use emojis. (He was highly suspicious of the eggplant.)

“But why would anyone text that to someone?” he asked, squinting at the emoji.

You coughed, suddenly flustered. “Uh. Ask Steve.”

“I will,” he said, determined.

You shoved his shoulder playfully. “Please don’t.”

You weren’t expecting how naturally clingy he got during tech lessons.

Each time you leaned over to show him something on the screen, he’d tilt his head and rest his cheek on your shoulder, or casually wrap an arm around your waist like he needed you physically tethered to him to survive the tech jungle.

At one point, you were trying to teach him how to send a photo and he asked, completely serious:

“Okay, but how do I send one of you to myself? For…emergencies.”

You blinked. “Emergencies?”

“Like when I miss you,” he said simply, not even teasing.

Your heart did not handle that well.

It got even worse when you introduced him to voice notes.

You demonstrated how to hold the little microphone button and record.

“So now,” you said, “you can just say something, and I’ll hear your voice when I listen to it.”

He took the phone, stared at it, then at you. “Like this?”

He held down the button. “Hi, sweetheart. I’m probably sitting next to you while you play this, but if I’m not… I miss you. Come home.”

You stared at the screen. “That’s illegal. You can’t just—be adorable like that without warning.”

He smirked. “So I’m getting better at this, huh?”

You snatched the phone from him and buried your face in your hands. “You’re a menace.”

“A menace who figured out how to make playlists,” he said smugly, waving the phone. “Wanna hear the one I made you?”

Your face peeked out from your hands. “You made me a playlist?!”

He kissed your cheek. “Title: ‘Songs That Remind Me of Her (Even When She’s in the Same Room)’

You were gone.

✦✦✦

Later that night, you caught him under the covers, squinting at the screen with his reading glasses perched on the bridge of his nose.

“What are you doing?” you asked, brushing his hair back gently.

“Trying to figure out how to set a contact photo for you.”

You crawled into bed beside him. “You’re obsessed.”

“I’m in love,” he corrected, pulling you close. “Big difference.”

“Let me help,” you whispered, taking the phone.

He let you — mostly because your head rested on his chest while you did it, and he could feel your smile every time you laughed softly at his confusion.

You set his lock screen to a picture of you both at Coney Island, sun-drunk and windblown and laughing.

“There,” you said, placing it back in his hands. “Now I’m always with you.”

He didn’t say anything for a moment — just looked at the screen, then at you.

“I’ve had a lot of things taken from me,” he said softly. “But not this. Not you.”

You kissed him, long and slow and certain.

“I’m not going anywhere, Bucky.”

He nodded, burying his face in your neck. “You better not. I just figured out how to pin you in my texts.”

You laughed.

And maybe modern tech was confusing…

But teaching him had never felt more like home.

~ end

───────── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: .☽ . :☆ﾟ. ─────────

💌Author’s Note: okay listen… this might be my personal favourite fic i’ve ever written 😭💗

i was legit BLUSHING the entire time because bucky is just so adorable in this 😭🥺 it seriously touched my heart in the softest, fluffiest way.

this isn’t just a fic — it’s a serotonin boost, a comfort blanket, a little moment of peace 🕊️

if you smile while reading it even once, my job here is done 💌

───────── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: .☽ . :☆ﾟ. ─────────

[orellazalonia]

Hi! I wanted to make a request for a story. I love your writing. I’ve never made a request before, so here goes.

Reader and Bucky are in a relationship. Lately, things have been rocky between the two of them. Readers’s birthday is coming up and Bucky is called away to an emergency mission. Reader is sure he won’t forget her special day.

The day of her birthday arrives, and there is nothing from Bucky. No gift, no flowers, not even a text. Reader is devastated. To try to get her mind off of it, she goes to a little bookstore to buy a birthday gift for herself. She runs into an old boyfriend who does happen to remember that it’s her birthday. He invites her to dinner to celebrate. Reader wrestles with if she should go or not. Will she tell Bucky that she went? Could she be seen by someone else having dinner with an old boyfriend? I’ll leave the ending up to you.

Thanks!

Greetings, my dear! I’m honored to be one of the first people you send a request too, you did swell! Such perfect and nuanced angst material, I adore this so much. Thank you for the details too! It was so much fun incorporating them into the story you’ve created. And hey! Creative liberty with the ending, love that. Thank you for this request and I hope you enjoy! Happy reading!!!

The Day He Forgot

Summary: Your relationship with Bucky has been strained and when he’s called away on a mission the day before your birthday, you’re sure he won’t forget until the day passes with no message, no call, nothing at all. Wanting to escape the loneliness, you run into your ex who does remember your special day. (Bucky Barnes x reader)

Word Count: 3.6k+

Main Masterlist

You used to count how many times he smiled in a day.

Now, you count how many times he doesn’t.

Your relationship with Bucky Barnes isn’t what it used to be. Once, it was all whispered jokes in the early hours, late-night coffee runs, quiet touches that said everything without words. Now it’s silence over dinner and half-hearted "goodnights" that echo louder than arguments ever could. You don’t fight, but that might have be easier. Fighting means caring enough to get mad.

Lately, you’ve just been… coexisting.

Bucky’s always been complicated, and you knew that going in. The past he carries is heavier than most, stitched into his bones. You never expected perfection, but you did expect honesty, effort, and presence.

And somewhere along the way, those things started slipping through his fingers.

At first, it was the small things. Canceling plans with vague excuses. Leaving texts on read. Staying late at work without checking in. But lately, it’s been more than that. His kisses are distracted. His eyes always somewhere else. There are nights he comes home and barely speaks to you. You’ve tried talking about it gently, not accusing, but he brushes it off every time.

“Just work stuff,” He says. “I’m tired, that’s all.”

But you’re tired too.

Tired of feeling like you’re the only one who notices the distance. The weight of it presses on you every morning when you wake up and see his back turned toward you, like he’s already halfway gone.

Still, you hold on. Because there’s history, because you love him, and because your birthday’s coming up. Which means maybe, just maybe, that’ll be the thing that pulls you both back into focus.

He hasn’t said anything about it yet, but you tell yourself that doesn’t mean he’s forgotten. He’s probably planning something quiet and thoughtful. That’s who he is after all… or was.

You hold onto that version of him nonetheless.

The one who remembered your favorite tv show. The one who brought you daisies from the farmer’s market because “they looked like you.” The one who called you “doll” without irony and meant it like a promise.

Maybe he’s still in there, somewhere. Maybe all you need is one good day to find your way back to each other. You tell yourself your birthday will be that day.

And you believe it until the night before, when everything begins to unravel.

The night before your birthday, you catch him zipping up a duffel bag on the bed. There’s no warning or heads-up. Just the soft sound of a zipper and the tension that instantly coils in your chest.

You lean in the doorway, arms crossed loosely. “You’re leaving?”

He doesn’t meet your eyes. “Got a call from Steve. Emergency mission.”

Your heart sinks, but you try not to show it. “Tomorrow?”

“Yeah. Early.” He throws in a second shirt, then rubs a hand over the back of his neck. “Didn’t see it coming.”

Of course he didn’t. That’s how these things go. But still, you wait. Give him the chance to say something. Anything.

He doesn’t.

“You know tomorrow’s–”

“Yeah,” He interrupts quickly, glancing up. “I know. I’m sorry.”

Just that. No reassurance, no promise to make it up to you. No quiet little smile like he used to give when he had something planned but didn’t want to ruin the surprise. Just an apology that feels automatic.

You nod, trying to keep your voice steady. “You’ll be back soon?”

“I’ll try. Steve thinks it’s in and out.” His eyes finally find yours, tired but not unkind. “I didn’t forget, alright? I just… might be a little late.”

You want to believe him. You do believe him.

Because Bucky Barnes might be distant. He might be tired, guarded, or hard to read. But he’s never once forgotten your birthday.

So you let him go with a quiet kiss, a lingering hug, and the tiniest flicker of hope that when the day comes, he’ll surprise you. That this time tomorrow, you’ll be sitting on the couch in pajamas, flowers in your lap and his arms around you, laughing at how worried you were.

That he’ll prove you wrong.

But then the morning sun filters into your bedroom with soft and golden light and you find yourself waking up alone. No message. No call. No flower delivery. The apartment hums with silence.

You give it time.

You shower slowly, dress in your favorite sweater, pour yourself a cup of tea. You sit by the window with your phone in your lap, pretending you’re not waiting. At noon, you tell yourself he must be mid-mission. At two, maybe he lost service. At five, maybe something went wrong. Not wrong wrong. Just delayed. That’s all.

But when the sun slips behind the horizon and your birthday quietly tips toward evening, you stop making excuses.

He forgot.

No matter how it happened. No matter how much you want to believe otherwise.

He forgot.

You sit there a long time in the quiet, hands wrapped around your phone like it might ring and ease the ache in your chest. And when you finally move, it’s not to cry or scream. It’s to grab your bag and keys, and leave.

You don’t want to be home when this day ends. You don’t want to be here when there’s nothing left to celebrate.

So you walk. And somehow, without even thinking about it, you end up at a little bookstore a few blocks from home.

The bookstore is quiet in the way that feels intentional like it’s protecting something. A sanctuary of dust and pages with soft classical music humming just beneath the buzz of the overhead lights. You’ve never actually been inside, only passed it on your way to somewhere else. But now, tonight, it feels like the right kind of place to disappear.

You drift between shelves, fingertips grazing the spines like they might speak to you. There’s something comforting about being surrounded by stories. Endings you can control. Characters who don’t forget the people they love.

Eventually, you find yourself in the fiction section, flipping aimlessly through the first pages of a novel you know you’ll pretend to read tonight.

“You always did go straight for the drama.”

The voice makes you freeze.

You turn slowly, already knowing who it is before you see him.

Mark.

He’s standing just a few feet away, holding a book in his hand and looking exactly as you remember. Tousled hair, amused half-smile, and casual confidence. A little older, sure, and softer around the edges. But unmistakably him.

You blink, caught between disbelief and the absurdity of the moment. “Mark?”

“I thought that was you,” He says, stepping closer, eyes crinkling at the corners. “Still tilting your head when you read the first page like you’re sizing it up for a fight.”

You laugh unexpectedly, soft and surprised, a little raw. “Some habits die hard.”

His smile fades just enough to show something more real underneath. “It’s your birthday, isn’t it?”

Your breath catches. “Yeah. How’d you remember that?”

“You kidding?” He chuckles. “You treated birthdays like sacred holidays. You made me a whole scavenger hunt one year, remember?”

You do. You remember the way he lit up with every clue, the way he kissed you outside the museum after the last one. You hadn’t thought about that day in years.

“I’m impressed,” You say, managing a small smile. “You’ve got a good memory.”

“Only for the important things.”

He says it lightly, but it lands heavier than he probably realizes.

You don’t answer right away, and he seems to read something in your silence. “Are you… not doing anything tonight?”

You shake your head. “Change of plans.”

“Ah.” He doesn’t ask more. Doesn’t press. Just lets the words hang there between you. Then– “Well. That won’t do.”

You glance up.

He shrugs, half-playful. “You shouldn’t spend your birthday wandering a bookstore alone, no matter how good your taste is.”

You narrow your eyes. “What?”

“How about dinner?”

You hesitate. The question rises in your mind, sharp and immediate, Wouldn’t that be wrong?

He lifts a hand, preempting the worry on your face. “No pressure. No strings. Just food. I remember you liked Italian.”

You look down at the book in your hands. The weight of the day sits heavy in your chest, dragging against your ribs. Bucky’s absence is a bruise you’ve been pressing on all day, and this moment, it’s the first thing that hasn’t hurt.

“I’ll think about it,” You say, quietly.

He nods, like he expected that. “I’ll be at the place on 7th and Willow. Eight o’clock. If you show up, I’ll order your favorite.”

He says it like it’s no big deal. Like the memories you shared still mean something, even after all this time.

And then he leaves, letting the door chime behind him.

You stand there for a long moment, the book still in your hand, the evening stretching ahead like a question you’re not ready to answer.

Do you go? Should you? And if you do… Will you tell Bucky?

You linger in the bookstore long after Mark leaves.

The quiet is thicker now. Not comforting anymore, more like a hush before a storm. You reread the same sentence on the back of a novel six times before placing it back on the shelf. You leave without buying anything. Whatever you were looking for, it wasn’t in the pages.

Outside, the air is cooler than before, soft wind tugging at your sleeves like it’s trying to guide you somewhere. You check the time.

7:18.

You walk. Slowly, not quite toward home, not quite toward the restaurant. Just moving because standing still feels unbearable. The streetlights flicker on one by one as the city settles into the late evening.

You check your phone, still nothing from Bucky.

You bite the inside of your cheek, guilt and anger flaring up at once. It shouldn’t be this complicated. It’s your birthday. You shouldn’t have to wonder if having dinner with someone who remembered it makes you a villain.

It’s not like Mark is a stranger. You shared parts of your life with him once. Laughter, Sunday mornings, favorite takeout orders. It ended clean. Kind, even. He wasn’t the one who made you question your worth.

But he isn’t the one you love now, either.

At 7:53, you’re standing across the street from the restaurant.

Through the window, you see him. Mark. He’s already seated, a candle flickering between the salt and pepper shakers. His posture is relaxed, his jacket slung over the back of his chair. Two menus on the table.

He looks up every time the door opens.

You don’t realize you’re holding your breath until your lungs start to burn.

At 7:58, your phone finally buzzes.

You fumble to pull it out of your pocket.

[1 New Message — Bucky Barnes]

Happy birthday. I’m so sorry. We got hit harder than expected. I lost my phone. Been trying all day to get a message through. I didn’t forget. I swear I didn’t forget. I love you.

It hits like a punch. Not the words, those are soft, regretful, aching; but the timing. So close. So late.

You stare at the message for a long time. Your thumb hovers over the keyboard, but you don’t type anything. Not yet.

You look back through the restaurant window. Mark’s glancing toward the door again, less hopeful this time.

And then you look at your reflection in the glass. Not your face, exactly but the version of yourself that’s spent all day feeling forgotten, diminished, and small.

One dinner won’t fix that. But maybe neither will going home.

So you cross the street.

You don’t know what you’re doing until your hand is already on the door, the soft chime echoing above you as you step inside the restaurant. Mark looks up, surprise flashing across his face that’s quickly replaced by that easy, familiar smile.

“You came,” He says, standing slightly as you walk toward the table.

“I’m not staying long,” You say quickly, before he can say anything else. “I just… wanted to say thank you. For remembering.”

He studies your face for a beat, then nods and gestures for you to sit. “Just a minute. That’s all I ask.”

You slide into the chair across from him.

It’s warm here. The candlelight softens everything. A little dangerous, in that easy kind of way, the kind that could trick you into relaxing but your mind is spinning.

Mark doesn’t push conversation. He doesn’t ask about Bucky, or what happened, or why you came. He just waves the waiter off when they approach and offers a quiet, “Water for both, thanks.” Then, he leans back and gives you space to breathe.

“This is nice,” He says eventually, voice low. “Not us, I mean. Just seeing you. You look good.”

You don’t say anything right away. You’re still watching the door. Still thinking about that message burning in your pocket.

“I got a text,” You say, finally. “From him.”

Mark nods once, understanding. “Then you should go.”

You meet his eyes, surprised by the ease in his tone.

“I mean it,” He says. “I just didn’t want you spending your birthday thinking no one remembered.”

You swallow the lump in your throat and push back from the table.

“Thank you,” You say again, softer now. “For being kind.”

He smiles, sincere. “Always.”

You turn, heading for the door.

You were there for just a brief moment in total, no more than ten minutes. But outside, across the street and half-hidden by a parked car, someone was watching.

Not a stranger, but Sam Wilson.

He’d just finished a debrief at HQ when he spotted you on the way to pick up some food. At first, he hesitated, thinking maybe it was a coincidence, that it couldn’t really be you. But it was. He recognized the familiar curve of your shoulders, the way you nervously tug the sleeve of your sweater when you’re unsure of yourself.

And he recognized the guy sitting across from you.

Not Bucky.

Sam’s not the kind of guy to jump to conclusions. But he is the kind of guy who looks out for his team. For his friends. And right now, Bucky is halfway across the country, bruised and bleeding, blaming himself for missing your birthday.

Sam watched just long enough to see your smile flicker across the table. Faint, sad, not romantic, but not nothing either.

He snapped a photo, not to gossip, not to accuse, just… to ask. To make sure Bucky knows what’s going on. If things are over, if he missed the window. Sam would rather Bucky hear it from a friend than find out some other way.

So he sent the photo.

[To: Bucky]

Saw her tonight. Thought you should know. Maybe talk to her when you get home.

The image is simple. You, seated at a small table, bathed in candlelight. Mark leaning forward, saying something just out of frame. Your expression unreadable.

The message is simple too. No judgment, just concern.

But when Bucky opens it, slumped in a transport vehicle with a busted lip and a fractured rib, his heart drops into his stomach.

Because the picture might be innocent. But the timing isn’t. And he already failed you once today.

Now, he doesn’t know if he gets the chance to make it right.

As you walk home slowly, the air has cooled since earlier, the city shifting into nighttime with the gentle hush of distant traffic and a few flickering porch lights. You pass familiar buildings, a dog barking from someone’s balcony, the smell of someone’s late dinner through an open window. The world goes on.

You’re not sure what tonight meant. You didn’t stay. You didn’t let it become something it wasn’t. But you also didn’t rush home the second your phone lit up.

There’s guilt in that. And a kind of quiet sorrow. Because Bucky forgot but you still love him.

And maybe that hurts most of all.

When you reach your building, the light in the hallway outside your apartment is on. You pause, hand on the railing, your pulse ticking faster. You didn’t leave it on. And then you see it. His duffel bag sitting neatly outside your door.

You freeze.

Every thought crashes at once. He’s back, he came straight here, he remembered. But the joy is short-lived, strangled by nerves. You step quietly toward the door. There’s no sound from the other side.

Your hand hovers over the knob before you hear it. The sound of shuffling. Slow, heavy footsteps pacing once, then stopping. Then again.

He’s inside.

You unlock the door and step in gently.

He’s standing near the window, hands on his hips, the light of the city behind him throwing his shadow long across the floor. His jacket’s discarded on the chair and you can see his arm is bandaged. There’s dried blood on his temple as well. He looks like hell.

And he’s staring at your reflection in the glass.

You say his name softly.

He turns.

The look on his face nearly undoes you.

Not angry. Not cold. Just devastated. Eyes rimmed red, jaw clenched like he’s holding back something that could wreck the room.

“I’m sorry,” He says, hoarse. “I should’ve called, found a way. I should’ve–God, I tried. I didn’t forget.”

You swallow, your throat tight. “I know.”

His eyes flicker over your face like he’s memorizing it. Like he’s scared it might be the last time he sees it.

“Sam sent me a photo,” He says, quiet.

Your breath catches. “What?”

He nods, slowly. “You were at a restaurant… with someone.”

The words sting worse than they should. Not because he saw, but because he saw it wrong.

You step forward. “It wasn’t what it looked like.”

He doesn’t move. Just watches you silently, letting you explain.

“I went to a bookstore. I ran into someone I used to know. He remembered it was my birthday.” You pause, heart thudding. “That’s all. I sat down for five minutes and told him I was going home.”

His shoulders fell like someone pulled a string loose.

“I didn’t stay,” You say again.

He nods slowly but his voice is cracked when he finally speaks. “You shouldn’t have had to go anywhere.”

You shake your head, eyes burning. “You didn’t forget, but you weren’t here. And… I spent all day thinking maybe I didn’t matter enough to be remembered.”

He’s across the room before you can say anything else. Closing the space and cupping your face with both hands. “Don’t say that. Don’t ever say that.”

You blink fast, your vision blurring. “Then don’t give me reasons to think it.”

He pulls you in, forehead pressed to yours, and for a long, long time, neither of you says anything.

The silence is different now. Heavier and honest. And maybe not healed yet, but not broken either.

The two of you agreed to talk about it in the morning and get some rest for the night. And for the first time in weeks, you fall asleep with your head on his chest.

It isn’t pretty. It isn’t poetic. It’s two people who nearly missed each other entirely, finding their way back through exhaustion, silence, and everything unsaid.

And when you wake up, morning light is spilling across the sheets. Bucky’s arm is draped around your waist, his grip gentle, like he’s afraid you’ll vanish if he holds too tight.

He stirs when you shift, calling out softly. “Hey.”

“Hey,” You murmur, voice still rough with sleep.

For a moment, neither of you moves. It feels too fragile, the calm, like the wrong words might break it all over again.

But then he speaks, low and raw. “I wasn’t thinking before. I was just… focused on the mission. And when I couldn’t reach you, I panicked. I thought you’d think I didn’t care.”

“I did think that,” You admit, voice quiet.

He flinches but nods. “I deserved that.”

You roll onto your back and look at him, really look at him. The bruise along his jaw. The way his fingers twitch like he’s not used to staying still. The regret that lingers in his eyes even now.

“I don’t need flowers or surprises,” You say softly. “I just want you to show up. Be present. See me.”

“I see you,” He says immediately. “I swear to God, I do. I just… I mess up.”

“You have to stop treating me like I’ll always be here,” You reply, not unkindly. “Because I won’t stay where I feel forgotten.”

The words hang there, sharp and true.

But Bucky leans in, resting his forehead to yours. “Then I won’t give you a reason to feel that way again.”

You close your eyes. You don’t ask for a promise, he’s not a man of easy ones. But something in his voice, something in the way his hand threads through yours like it belongs there, tells you he means it.

Eventually, you both get up. Make coffee. Sit on the couch in the clothes from that night.

There’s a small paper bag near the door you just noticed in the morning light. Something he picked up before the mission, hoping he’d get back in time. He hands it to you without a word.

Inside is a book. One you’d mentioned wanting in passing months ago and never brought up again.

You look up, startled.

“I was listening,” He says. “Even when I didn’t show it.”

You don’t cry. You just tuck the book against your chest and lean into him.

Because maybe he wasn’t there and maybe he forgot, but maybe he also remembered when it mattered. Maybe he was making an effort to be there and finally see you.

And even though it wasn’t perfect, it was a place to start again.

[lolobeey]

CRASH AND BURN MASTERLIST

Pairing: Detective!Bucky x Partner!Reader

Series Summary: You just made detective. Your first case? A cold one — missing woman, dead cop, and a cover-up that smells worse than precinct coffee. Your new partner is James Buchanan Barnes: metal arm, resting murder face, zero interest in teamwork. You talk too much, he broods too hard, and together you’re one bad day from a workplace incident report. But the case isn’t as cold as it looks. And if you don’t start trusting each other soon, you won’t live long enough to solve it.

Warnings: 18+ only. Buddy Cop Romance. Angst. Comfort. Fluff. Slow Burn. Eventual Smut. Grumpy x Sunshine

Status: Ongoing

CHAPTER ONE (Partnered)

[mandoalorian]

lessons in love

──── ୨୧ ────

lesson three: touching

pairing: congressman!bucky barnes x f!reader

synopsis: lesson three is about touch—his, and yours. one problem: you’ve never wrapped your hand around a man before, let alone made him come. but your best friend is still willing to help. no strings, no feelings, just practice. except when his hands find your skin—and his mouth murmurs what he wants—it stops feeling like a lesson. and starts feeling like something you might never want to stop.

rating/warnings: 18+ explicit content ahead, minors do not interact! ⚠️ handjob, ball play, fingering, cum eating, female masturbation, praise kink, you watch porn, unspoken feelings, pining, a smidge of angst, virgin!reader, experienced!bucky, reader drinks alcohol, mentions of politics, reader is dating a jerk starting to know it.

word count: 7.4k

ෆ series masterlist | previous part | next part

The city pulsed around you both as you slipped into the tiny table tucked into the corner of your favourite deli—your “usual” place, where the guy at the counter always remembered your name and Bucky’s sandwich order before he even said a word. He only ever came here with you.

You were already seated by the time he arrived, sipping iced tea and picking apart a napkin. You looked up and smiled when you saw him, and it hit Bucky in the gut just how pretty you looked—no makeup, hoodie pulled over your head, that shy, secret little grin you always saved for him. God, he was in so much trouble.

“You beat me,” he said as he slid into the booth across from you.

You gave a dramatic sigh. “Ten minutes late, Barnes. I could’ve wasted away.”

Bucky smirked and shrugged off his coat. “In my defence, Congress is chaos. And so is traffic. But mostly Congress.”

Your drink was already sweating on the table in front of you—and you watched the slice of lemon sink to the bottom of the glass. You took a sip, and then handed Bucky his sandwich before he could even ask. Bucky’s turkey on rye, no mustard, lots of pickles. You’d memorised it after the third time he forgot to specify.

“So?” you said, unwrapping your food. “How’s the revolution going?”

Bucky groaned, dragging a hand down his face. “I swear, if I hear Valentina say the phrase ‘strategic optics’ one more time, I’m gonna jump out the window.”

“That bad?”

He took a bite before replying. “Worse. I’m trying to draft articles to get her impeached. Or at least suspended. She’s pushing for full security reform, trying to strip New York districts of their independent jurisdiction—wants to funnel everything through a new department she controls. It’s a power grab.”

You frowned. “Is anyone backing you?”

“Well, I have Captain America on my side. That’s a pretty big deal. As well as Congressman Gary, Davis, Brown, Carter, Elkins… But I lost Blake.”

You blinked. “Wait—Blake was on your side? And he’s not anymore?”

“I’m not sure he’s ever been on my side,” Bucky’s jaw tightened. “Today he made a statement siding with Valentina’s resolution. Said we ‘can’t afford rogue protocols in a world that’s still reeling from the Avengers.’”

“It’s pretty standard for Blake.” Bucky muttered before taking a bite of his sandwich.

You leaned in, brows pinched. “You think Valentina’s got something on him?”

“I think he’s an opportunist,” Bucky said, voice low. “He knows which ladder to climb.”

There was a beat of silence, broken only by the soft clatter of cutlery behind the counter. That reminded you of what Blake had told you on your first date. That he was only in politics for power and fortune. You sighed and leaned back.

“Honestly, sometimes, I don’t know what I see in him.”

That surprised him.

You caught his look and laughed. “Don’t act so smug.”

“I’m not smug,” he said, lips twitching. “Just… vindicated.”

You smiled at your iced tea, then rolled your eyes. “It’s just—he can be charming. In a cocky, ‘I’ve never been told no before’ kind of way.”

Bucky arched a brow. “And that’s your type now?”

You gave him a pointed look. “I guess so.”

He smirked, but it didn’t quite reach his eyes. “You deserve better.”

You shrugged one shoulder, but didn’t meet his gaze. “I don’t know. I mean, it is nice, being seen. I’ve spent so long invisible. Blake actually makes me feel…” You searched for the word. “Wanted.”

That did something to Bucky’s chest. Something tight and protective and a little dangerous.

“You’re not invisible,” he said softly. “Not to me.”

You looked up, startled by the honesty in his voice. The air stretched between you—warm and quiet and heavy with the weight of things unsaid.

You broke the silence first, clearing your throat and glancing away. “Anyway, I’ve been thinking about Lesson Three.”

The shift in topic hit Bucky like a cold plunge. He straightened. “Yeah?”

You nodded, playing with the condensation on your glass. “I think I want to learn how to… y’know… touch someone. A guy. Like, with my hands.”

Bucky blinked. His mouth opened, then closed again.

“As opposed to your feet?” He asked eventually, deflecting from how your words made him feel. You wanted to touch him. No, you wanted to touch Blake. Bucky’s heart ached with bewilderment. 

You smiled. “I hear some guys are into that,” you shrugged nonchalantly, taking a sip of your iced tea and feeling a warmth creep onto your cheeks. 

“You know, I bet Blake is,” Bucky laughed, and you cringed.

“Unfortunately, you’re probably right,” You agreed, finishing your iced tea. “But, I mean, you know I’ve never done it before. Hell, I only had my first kiss days ago,” you rushed out. “And I feel like if I’m going to go back to Blake’s on Friday night… that means something, doesn’t it? I should know what I’m doing. Right?”

He swallowed. “You’re still talking about… hand stuff?”

You cringed and buried your face in your hands. “God, don’t say it like that.”

He laughed softly. “You said it first.”

You peeked at him through your fingers. “I’m serious, Buck. I need to learn.”

He grew quiet. Then: “And you’re sure you want to learn with me?”

You nodded, slowly. “If that’s okay.”

“You’re really not making it easy for me to be noble here,” he muttered, rubbing the back of his neck. “But yeah, doll. If you’re sure, I’ll help.”

Your eyes lit up. “Tonight?”

“Tonight.” Bucky agreed with finality.

“Should I bring wine?”

“You always do.”

“I think it makes this whole thing a little easier,” you admitted sheepishly.

He laughed again, and it made your heart squeeze. There was something so easy about this—about him. You felt more yourself with Bucky than anyone else. Even Blake.

Especially Blake.

As the two of you finished your sandwiches the nerves in your belly began to twist. Tonight wasn’t just a lesson.

Tonight was the night you crossed another line.

And God help you, you couldn’t wait.

The walk back to Bucky’s office was easy—sunlight bouncing off glass buildings, the buzz of traffic in the background, your laughter spilling between bites of the cookie you split. He was telling you about the old man who lived in 14a, who had once tried to arrest their mailman for “suspicious delivery activity.”

“I had to bribe him with prune juice just to get the package back,” Bucky said, shaking his head.

You giggled. “You attract chaos.”

“I attracted you, didn’t I?”

You gave him a playful shove, cheeks warm, and he caught your wrist for a second before letting go. You didn’t say anything about the way your heart jumped. You couldn’t.

As you approached the Capitol steps, Bucky swiped his keycard and held the glass door open for you. “You sure you wanna come in?”

“Just to say hi,” you said. “And maybe to use your air conditioning.”

He rolled his eyes but let you through, the two of you walking down the marble hallways that echoed with every step. You passed polished offices and name plaques, assistants tapping away at keyboards, the smell of fresh coffee lingering in the air.

“So,” Bucky said, glancing at you sideways. “Did your new neighbour’s boyfriend keep you up again?”

You groaned. “God, yes. You’d think he was auditioning for The Bachelor. All I heard was moaning and headboard banging for like—three hours straight.”

Bucky chuckled. “Maybe he’s just really enthusiastic.”

“Enthusiastic?” you blinked at him. “It sounded like she was being possessed.”

He snorted. “Demonic dick.”

You bumped shoulders with him, laughter still hanging in the air as you reached his office. He reached for his keycard again, but the door was already cracked open.

The moment you stepped inside, you saw him.

Blake.

Leaning casually against Bucky’s desk, crisp navy suit jacket open, white shirt rolled at the sleeves. He looked like he belonged on a billboard. Or in a campaign ad for America’s Most Eligible Douchebag.

His eyes lit up when he saw you.

“There’s my girl,” he beamed, crossing the room in a few long strides. He leaned in to kiss your cheek, but missed and hit the corner of your mouth. “Didn’t know you’d be visiting today.”

“I was just saying hi,” you said, voice soft, surprised by the greeting. “Bucky and I were getting lunch.”

Blake’s arm slipped around your waist like it belonged there. He pulled you into his side, holding you too tightly against him. “She’s been such a good influence on you, Barnes,” he said with a smile. “I like to think I’ve been rubbing off on her, too.”

Bucky’s face was unreadable.

Blake turned to the small group of aides loitering near the door. “Fellas, this is the girl I’ve been talking about,” he announced. “Isn’t she a smokeshow?”

Your stomach twisted. You laughed nervously, brushing a strand of hair behind your ear. “Blake…”

“What?” he grinned. “Can’t I brag a little?”

Bucky was silent.

His hands were in his pockets, fists clenched so tightly the veins in his forearms stood out.

You looked up at Blake and tried to smile through the awkwardness, but then you felt his hand trail lower. His fingers skimmed down your back—then boldly squeezed your ass.

You jolted.

Before you could say a word, Bucky stepped in.

He got close—too close—and his voice dropped so low you barely heard it.

“If you touch her like that again,” Bucky said, his tone like a knife under velvet, “I’ll break your fingers. No headlines. No questions. Just bones.”

Blake blinked, the smile flickering just a little.

But then you turned, noticing the sudden tension. “Everything okay?”

Bucky straightened immediately. “All good,” he said with a tight smile. “Just chatting.”

Blake turned on the charm like a switch. “We were just talking about Friday, babe,” he said, looping an arm around your shoulders again. “Still good for dinner? My place after?”

You hesitated. “Yeah, sure.”

He leaned in and kissed your cheek again. “Can’t wait.”

You smiled back and pulled away gently. “Okay. I should let you get back to work.”

Blake gave your waist one last squeeze before letting go.

You turned to Bucky. He was still watching, jaw tense.

You hesitated—then opened your arms. “Hug?”

His shoulders relaxed just a little. “Always.”

His arms wrapped around you tightly for a second, grounding. Safe. He smelled like cedarwood and the city. And then it was over. You smiled between them, offered a final wave, and headed down the hall.

You didn’t notice the way Blake’s smug grin returned the second your back was turned.

You didn’t hear what he muttered to Bucky once you were out of earshot.

“Must kill you, huh?” Blake said, smirking. “Knowing I’ll be the first.”

Bucky didn’t rise to it. Not yet.

But the sound of his teeth grinding was enough to silence the room.

──── ୨୧ ────

The door slammed harder than it needed to when Bucky walked back into his office. He yanked off his jacket, threw it across the back of the chair, and sat down like the floor might give out under him.

His fingers hovered over his phone for a second before he finally tapped the screen and hit “Call.”

It rang twice.

“Please tell me this is a booty call,” Sam said by way of greeting. “I need something to make my Wednesday more interesting.”

“It’s not,” Bucky muttered, pinching the bridge of his nose.

“Then I’m hanging up.”

“Sam.”

A sigh. “Okay, okay. What happened now?”

Bucky leaned back in his chair, jaw clenched. “Blake.”

“Oh, here we go.”

“I had lunch with her,” he said, rubbing a hand down his face. “Walked her back to my office. Blake was already there.”

Sam hummed. “Lemme guess—shirt unbuttoned, feet on your desk, probably sniffing your mug?”

“He put his hands on her.”

There was silence on the other end.

“Like… friendly hands?” Sam tried.

Bucky’s voice was tight. “He squeezed her, Sam. Like she was some kind of fucking trophy.”

Sam let out a low whistle. “Well. Did you kill him?”

“Almost.”

“You should’ve.”

“I told him if he did it again, I’d break his fingers.” He paused. “Whispered it. Real polite.”

Sam snorted. “So polite, you sounded like the Winter Soldier.”

“He said…” Bucky trailed off, staring blankly at the far wall. “He said, ‘Must kill you, huh? Knowing I’ll be the first.’”

A sharp exhale from Sam. “Jesus.”

“He thinks this is a game,” Bucky said quietly. “Like I’m in competition for her.”

Sam’s voice softened. “Aren’t you?”

Bucky blinked.

“I mean,” Sam continued, “you’re in love with the girl, Buck. And she’s… what, asking you to teach her how to kiss? How to dirty talk? What’s next? It doesn’t even matter. You’re standing three feet away while this sleazeball tries to mark his territory like a fucking dog.”

Bucky didn’t answer.

“Look,” Sam said gently, “I know you’re trying to play the long game. Respect her choices, protect the friendship. But how long are you gonna sit there, letting some blow-dried senator-in-training take what you want?”

“I can’t tell her,” Bucky said, voice hoarse. “Not now. Not when she trusts me to help her. I’m the one she runs to when she’s scared. When she wants to learn. I can’t ruin that just because I’m—” He cut himself off.

Sam finished it for him. “—jealous?”

Bucky sighed. “Falling.”

“Damn,” Sam muttered. “Well, that’s worse.”

They sat in silence for a beat.

Then Sam cleared his throat. “So what’s the next lesson?”

“Tonight,” Bucky said. “Touching. She wants to try hand stuff.”

Sam made a strangled sound. “What.”

“She was all serious about it. Said if it’s crossing a line, I can say no. Told me she trusts me.”

“Oh, she trusts you all right.”

Bucky ran a hand through his hair. “I’m losing it, man.”

“Well,” Sam said dryly, “at least you’ll go down in history as the first man to ever white-knuckle his way through a handjob lesson.”

Bucky groaned. “Thanks for the support.”

“Anytime. Try not to fall in love with her tonight.”

“I think it might be too late for that.”

──── ୨୧ ────

You stared at the search bar like it had personally wronged you.

“How to give a good handjob.”

The words blinked back at you from your laptop screen like a threat. You took a sip of wine, already halfway through your first glass, and let out a groan so loud your upstairs neighbour probably paused his nightly moaning session for it.

“God,” you muttered. “This is mortifying.”

You were sitting cross-legged on your bed, hoodie on, makeup half-done, the flat iron still heating up in the corner. You’d pulled up Pornhub purely for research, but now that the thumbnails were playing silent clips of squelching sounds and over-exaggerated gasps, your bravery was rapidly draining.

You clicked on a random video. A woman was jerking a guy off like she was churning butter. Another video showed a girl with nails so long they looked like they could perforate an organ.

You winced. “Okay. Nope.”

Another sip of wine. A deep breath. You clicked on another one. This time, the guy was groaning out praise, telling her she was doing so good, and for a second, you tried to concentrate—really, you did.

But you couldn’t stop thinking about Bucky.

Not the porn guy. Not the faceless girls. Just Bucky.

His low, teasing voice. That little smile he gave you when you were flustered. The way his eyes darkened when you touched his thigh. The gentle way he said your name. The way he looked at you when he thought you weren’t paying attention.

You shut your laptop with a groan.

This was so dumb. So deeply stupid. You’d known him your entire adult life. He bought you cold meds and fixed your broken cabinet and listened to your dramatic rants about Blake with the patience of a monk. And now… he was going to let you touch him.

And you were not going to embarrass yourself.

You set the laptop aside, heart pounding, and reached over to your bedside drawer. Pulled out your favorite vibrator and paused, staring down at it like it might judge you.

“You’re not him,” you whispered to it, solemnly.

And then, because the wine had made you a little bold and a lot desperate, you slid under the blankets and let your thoughts spiral—right to Bucky.

You imagined his voice in your ear, low and dark and wicked, telling you what to do.

You imagined the weight of him in your hand.

His soft little gasps, the tension in his thighs, the way he might groan your name when he came. The way his body might shudder from your touch.

You bit your lip and let the vibrator buzz to life. One hand gripping the sheets, the other slowly dipping beneath your panties.

It wasn’t long before you were breathless.

And all you could see—was him.

──── ୨୧ ────

Bucky opened the door already smiling—one of those easy, lazy smiles that made you want to do something foolish.

“Hey,” he greeted, stepping aside so you could enter. “You came prepared.”

You raised the two bottles in your hands like a trophy. “One for lesson three, and one for… moral support.”

“Gonna need both,” he muttered, gently taking them from you. His fingers brushed yours and your stomach fluttered, traitorous and stupid.

You kicked off your shoes as he disappeared into the kitchen, calling, “So how was work? Do I even wanna know?”

“Let’s see,” he called back. “I sat in four meetings about nothing. Got five more calls about Blake defending Valentina. And then I got home and I watched our new neighbour get screamed at by her boyfriend because he didn’t like her curtains.”

You padded toward the kitchen and leaned on the doorway, arms crossed. “Again? That guy has issues.”

“Oh, massive issues. And volume control problems. It’s like a Nicholas Sparks novel up there if everyone hated each other and screamed about takeout.”

You laughed, and it felt so normal, so you and him. Until it didn’t.

Until you remembered what tonight was.

Until you noticed the wine glasses clinking together in his hands, his big palms dwarfing the stems. Until he looked over his shoulder at you, and you saw the tension behind his grin.

You shifted your weight, suddenly sheepish. “Blake really defended Valentina?”

“Like a pro. He called her ‘brilliant and misunderstood.’ I called him a dumbass.”

Your eyes widened. “You didn’t.”

“I did,” Bucky said, popping the cork with one smooth pull. “I’m over it, though. Totally zen now.”

You snorted. “That’s what zen looks like?”

“Nope.” He poured a generous glass for each of you, then handed you one. “This is.”

You raised your glass and clinked his gently. “To bad decisions.”

“To questionable friendship boundaries,” he countered, smiling into his sip.

You both sat on the couch, a little too close. The kind of too close that meant your knees brushed when you turned toward him, the kind that sent sparks dancing down your thighs even though neither of you said a word about it.

“I was nervous,” you confessed. “Still am.”

He tilted his head. “Why?”

“Because… this is a thing. We’re doing a thing. It’s not just talking anymore. It’s touching. I mean, actual—”

“Hand stuff,” Bucky deadpanned, nodding solemnly. “A sacred art.”

You let out a laugh, covering your face. “Oh my god.”

He reached over and gently tugged your hand away. “Hey, I’m teasing. But I get it. I’m nervous too.”

You looked up at him, surprised. “You are?”

“Of course,” he said, voice softer. “It’s you.”

Your heart did something traitorous in your chest.

“You don’t have to do anything you’re not ready for,” he said, his hand still on yours. “You wanna stop, you stop. Say the word and I’ll drop it.”

You nodded, biting your lip. “I trust you.”

His thumb brushed over your knuckles once, then let go. He leaned back, sipping his wine, trying to look unaffected—but you saw the tightness in his jaw, the way his knee bounced.

You sipped yours, fingers fiddling with the stem. “So, uh… should we… start?”

Bucky raised a brow. “Lesson Three: Touching?”

You nodded.

He looked at your wine glass. “Finish that first.”

You downed the rest in one long gulp, cheeks flushed.

Bucky did the same.

Then he leaned forward, eyes impossibly gentle, impossibly warm.

“Okay, sweetheart,” he murmured. “Let me show you how this works.”

You settled onto Bucky’s couch, the wine bottles pushed to the side as if you were preparing for a serious, focused mission — which, honestly, this kind of was. Your heart hammered like a drum, nerves buzzing under your skin, but there was something comforting about the way Bucky sat next to you, relaxed but alert, waiting.

“So,” he said, shifting a little so his arm rested along the back of the couch behind you. “Touching. Where do you wanna start?”

You bit your lip, eyes flicking over him, trying to ignore the heat creeping up your neck. “I guess... just… how do I even touch you? Like, what’s... good? What should I look for?”

Bucky smiled, that slow, soft smile that made your stomach flutter every time. “Good question. It’s different for everyone, but I’ll guide you. Just listen to what I say — and how I respond.”

You nodded, palms sweating a little as you reached out, your fingers hovering near his forearm.

“Start slow,” he said quietly. “Don’t rush. Feel the muscles under your fingers. See how they react.”

Your hand settled gently on his forearm, fingertips brushing the thick cord of muscle. His skin was warm, even through the thin fabric of his shirt. You traced small circles, feeling the subtle pulse beneath.

“Right there,” he encouraged. “Now, try pressing a little, like you’re trying to feel how hard or soft it is. Not too firm — don’t wanna hurt me.”

You adjusted your grip, pressing more confidently. He let out a low hum that sent a thrill down your spine.

“See? You’re a natural.”

You smiled, heart fluttering. “I’m glad you think so.”

His eyes caught yours, a flicker of something—pride? Desire?—and it made you dizzy.

“Next,” he said, shifting so you could reach his bicep. “That one’s more sensitive. Some guys like a squeeze, some don’t. For me? A firm, confident touch works.”

You cupped his bicep, feeling the muscle bunch and flex under your palm when he tensed slightly.

“Like this,” Bucky said, voice low.

You squeezed gently, then relaxed, watching his reactions closely.

“Perfect.”

Your confidence bloomed. You moved your hand down to his wrist, fingers wrapping lightly around the bone, marveling at how strong and steady his pulse was there.

“You’ve got steady hands,” he murmured. “Good.”

You laughed nervously. “Trying not to mess this up.”

“Can’t mess up when you’re this gentle,” he reassured, thumb brushing your wrist with a featherlight touch.

Heat blossomed in your chest, and your fingers inched higher, tracing the line of his collarbone, feeling the subtle tension in his neck muscles as he shifted closer.

His breath hitched just a little.

“Careful,” he warned softly. “That spot’s... sensitive.”

You stopped, biting your lip, then moved your hand to the other side, tracing the same path with more confidence.

“Better?”

Bucky nodded, eyes hooded. “Much.”

You swallowed hard, the air between you thickening with something you weren’t ready to name yet.

“Okay,” he said, voice rougher now, “when you’re ready... we can take it further.”

You swallowed again. “I’m ready.”

He reached over and took your hand in his, fingers entwining. “Good.”

And just like that, the lesson was no longer about technique. It was about trust. About something quietly electric humming between your skin and his.

There was a beat of silence. Heavy. Charged.

Your fingers were still curled gently around Bucky’s wrist from the last part of the lesson. He was warm everywhere—beneath your hand, along your arm, in the way he looked at you.

“Still okay?” he asked, voice rougher now, a touch deeper.

You nodded, heart thudding against your ribs like it was trying to break out. “Yeah. Just… nervous.”

His lips quirked. “You’re doing great. But you don’t have to do anything you’re not ready for.”

“I want to.” You swallowed. “I want to learn.”

Bucky’s gaze didn’t waver. “Alright. Then let me show you.”

He leaned back slightly, undoing the button of his jeans with one smooth motion, and you tried not to visibly react at the sound of the zipper sliding down. He didn’t take them off, just pushed them low enough to make room, shifting slightly on the couch so his thighs spread wider, giving you space.

The outline of him under his boxers was already clear — thick, heavy, straining a little.

Oh, god.

You tried not to panic. Tried not to stare. But your voice still came out in a dry whisper. “You’re… um. Big.”

He laughed softly. Not in a mocking way, but warm, like the sound wrapped itself around you.

“Yeah,” he murmured, a little amused. “You gonna be okay with that?”

You blinked up at him. “I think so.”

“You can touch me over the boxers first,” he said, voice low and steady. “Get used to how I feel.”

With a breath, you reached out, palm resting lightly over him. He was hard—rock hard—and so hot, even through the fabric. He twitched slightly at the contact, a little hitch in his breath.

You glanced up. “Good?”

“Fuck,” he rasped. “Yeah, sweetheart. That’s real good.”

You pressed more firmly, starting a slow stroke through the fabric. He groaned quietly, hips shifting just a little.

“I like when you go slow,” he murmured. “Nice and steady. Just like that.”

Your confidence flickered to life. You slid your hand up and down, feeling him grow even harder beneath your touch. When your thumb brushed the head through the boxers, you felt the damp spot blooming beneath the cotton.

Bucky cursed under his breath. “You wanna try without these?”

You nodded, pulse skyrocketing.

He lifted his hips and pushed his boxers down just enough to free himself, and then—

Oh. Oh, god.

He was thick. Long. Veins along the shaft, flushed and leaking at the tip. Your mouth went dry.

“Don’t look so scared,” Bucky teased gently. “You’ve got this.”

You reached out again, curling your fingers around the base of him, slowly learning the curve—thick and flushed, heavy with need. He was so hot in your palm, pulsing against your skin like a live wire, leaking precum that slicked your hand.

“Start slow,” he murmured, voice breathy now. “Use your whole hand, just like that. Yeah, good girl…”

You swallowed a shaky breath and moved your hand, awkward at first, until he covered yours with his own, guiding you.

His cock was heavy in your hand, the thick weight of him settling warm against your skin. Bucky was fully hard now, the flushed head of him slick with precum that caught the light each time your hand moved. You watched, fascinated, as it gathered and dripped, a slow, glistening bead you instinctively swiped your thumb across—earning a strangled grunt from him.

“A little tighter,” he instructed softly. “Yeah—good. Now twist your wrist a little at the top. Slow, smooth. Let me feel it.”

You did as he said, thumb brushing over the head, smearing the bead of precum there. Each slow stroke dragged more precum from him, dribbling down his length, sticky and warm as it painted your fingers. Bucky groaned, hips twitching like he couldn’t help it.

“Jesus,” he hissed, head tipping back against the couch. His jaw flexed, tight with restraint. The muscles in his stomach clenched as you did it again, thumb teasing the ridge just below the head. “You’re killin’ me, sweetheart.”

You flushed at the praise, tightening your grip as he taught you how to move your hand, how to stroke him just right. You watched the way his stomach flexed, the muscles twitching as you dragged your palm over the sensitive underside of his cock.

“Play with my balls a little,” he rasped, hips jerking. “Just a light touch, yeah. Don’t squeeze.”

You reached down carefully, cupping him gently, and his moan this time was loud, his hand flying out to brace against the couch.

They were tight, sensitive, and soft against your touch, and you found yourself utterly mesmerised by the textures, by the way Bucky’s breath hitched as you rolled them gently between your fingers.

“Fuck,” he gasped. “You’re a fucking natural.”

He let out a low groan, deeper than before. His eyes fluttered open, half-lidded and hooded with lust, gaze fixed solely on you. “You’re doin’ so good,” he murmured, voice husky. “That grip’s perfect. Fuck.”

Your hand moved with more confidence now—pumping slow, deliberate strokes from base to tip. You liked feeling the slight curve in his cock, upward and to the left, thick and veiny and almost too big to wrap your hand fully around. Your wrist twisted on the upstroke like he’d shown you, and his whole body shuddered in response.

That’s when it hit you—this wasn’t just technical anymore. Your chest was heaving. Your thighs were pressed together. Your heart was racing for reasons that had nothing to do with the lesson.

And before you could stop yourself, you whispered it:

“I really want to kiss you.”

The air changed. Bucky’s brows twitched up, like he hadn’t expected it—but he didn’t look surprised. No, he looked hungry.

He blinked slowly, his voice rough and soft all at once. “Yeah?” His fingers brushed your wrist, urging you to keep moving. “That’s normal. Happens when you’re this close to someone. When it feels this good.”

You bit your lip, stroking him again, deliberately slower this time. “I don’t think it’s just that.”

He let out a shuddering breath. “Then show me what you’ve learned.”

Your hand didn’t stop working his cock as you leaned in, pressing your lips to his with a quiet, desperate need. It was messy and slow and full of heat—his mouth opening for you immediately, tongue sliding against yours with a groan that vibrated through his chest.

You kissed him like you’d been dying to. Like you’d been holding your breath for this moment since the beginning.

And as you stroked him, your lips broke from his just long enough to whisper in his ear, “I’ve never wanted anything more than to make you feel good, Bucky.”

His cock twitched in your palm. His head fell back again with a low moan.

His face—God, his face. His brows pinched, mouth parted, lashes fluttering like he was fighting to stay grounded. And that moan? Wrecked. Low and ragged and ruined, drawn straight from the center of his chest. You could feel him starting to lose control, hips twitching up into your fist, thighs tensing beneath your knees.

And every part of him was yours to study, to learn, to worship.

Your strokes grew firmer, more fluid, guided by every gasp and grunt from Bucky’s mouth. He was losing composure fast, jaw clenched and chest heaving, the cords in his neck tightening as he fought the inevitable. You kissed him again, slow and dirty, dragging your teeth along his bottom lip before letting your mouth fall to his throat. He tasted like salt and skin, like heat and home.

“God, you feel so good,” you whispered against his jaw, lips brushing the scruff on his cheek. “I love how you sound. How hard you get for me.”

He groaned—low and dangerous—his metal hand digging into the couch cushion like he needed something to hold onto or he might fly apart.

“Say that again,” he rasped.

You kissed a line from his throat to his ear and murmured, “You’re so fucking hard for me, Bucky. So big in my hand. So close, aren’t you?”

His hips bucked helplessly, and you stroked him faster, tightening your grip just the way he liked. His breathing was ragged, chest stuttering with each rise and fall.

“I’m gonna—shit—doll, I’m gonna—”

“Do it,” you breathed. “Come for me, Bucky. Come in my hand.”

With a strained growl, his whole body seized. You kept pumping him as the first hot stripe of cum painted up his stomach, followed by another—thicker, messier. It spilled over your knuckles, dripping warm and sticky down his length, catching on his abs and leaving your fingers slick.

His head fell back with a groan of surrender, eyes screwed shut as he rode it out, legs trembling under you. You stared at him, breathless, heart pounding in your ears.

You’d never seen anything so beautiful. Or so intimate.

Your hand slowed as he twitched under your touch, cum cooling across his skin and yours. You could feel it—warm, viscous, heavy—and for a moment, all you could do was stare. It was everywhere. On your palm, between your fingers, sliding down the veins of his cock and pooling where his stomach met his hips.

And then your eyes flicked to his face. He was watching you, dazed and flushed and wrecked, but still so utterly focused on you.

“You okay?” he asked, voice hoarse.

You looked at him, then back down at your hand. “Yeah…” Your voice was soft. Curious. Your mouth parted slightly.

He followed your gaze—to where his come glistened across your fingers—and something flickered behind his eyes.

“Doll…” he said, unsure. Not warning, not encouraging. Just… waiting.

You met his gaze again, and your lips curled into a soft, heavy-lidded smile. You brought your hand to your mouth and dragged your tongue along one finger—slowly, deliberately.

Bucky’s lips parted. “Jesus Christ.”

You sucked your fingers clean, one by one, tasting him for the first time. Salty. Warm. Intimate in a way nothing else had been yet. It was filthy, yes—but it was also a gift. A quiet offering. A choice.

And Bucky looked like you’d just undone him all over again.

“You taste good,” you said softly.

He groaned, dragging a hand down his face. “You’re gonna fuckin’ kill me.”

You laughed lightly, but your body still hummed, warm and shaky and close to trembling. You hadn’t even been touched and yet—your skin buzzed like you had.

Bucky’s thumb brushed your wrist gently, pulling your hand away from your lips.

“Lesson complete?” you asked softly.

Bucky looked at you like you were made of stars. “Sweetheart, you just graduated with honours.”

You laughed, the tension breaking in the best way. He leaned back, still catching his breath, but the softness was there again. That warm glow between you, pulsing like a secret.

You tucked your legs underneath yourself, heart still racing from what you’d just done. Bucky sat beside you, relaxed and warm, still catching his breath, a faint sheen on his chest where your hand had left its mark.

Then his gaze dropped to your thighs. His voice gentled, slowed.

“Can I return the favor?”

Your breath hitched. “You don’t have to.”

“I want to.”

You blinked. “But this whole thing—it’s supposed to be for me. You’ve already done enough, Buck.”

He leaned in, brushing a knuckle under your chin so you’d look at him. “Exactly. This is still part of the lesson, isn’t it?” His eyes softened. “You should learn how it feels when someone touches you right. When someone gives a damn about your pleasure.”

The room went still.

And then, quietly, you nodded.

His smile was barely there—just the ghost of something reverent—as he leaned in and kissed your cheek.

“Lie back for me, sweetheart. Let me make you feel good.”

He eased you back against the couch, moving slowly, as though you might vanish if he rushed. His metal hand came to your shirt hem, and he waited for your nod before sliding it up, exposing inch by inch of your stomach. His flesh hand followed, fingertips trailing behind the fabric like a warm breeze.

“You’re so soft,” he murmured, pressing a kiss to your belly. “So fuckin’ beautiful.”

Your breath hitched as he leaned over you, pulling your shirt higher, and then—when you lifted your arms—off entirely. He tossed it somewhere behind him but didn’t even glance. His attention was all on you.

His eyes darkened when they landed on your chest. “You have no idea what you do to me.”

His hands found your breasts, gentle at first—like he was learning you. Mapping you. His thumbs brushed your nipples through the lace of your bra, watching the way your back arched, the way your breath stuttered.

He made a low sound in his throat and leaned down to press a kiss between them. Then one to the left. The right. His stubble scraped your skin and it made you ache.

“Can I take this off?” he asked, fingers finding your bra clasp.

You nodded again, already breathless. “Yes. Please.”

He removed it with deft hands, like he’d done it a thousand times before, but he didn’t act like it. No. Bucky looked like he was seeing a woman for the first time—you for the first time—and wanted to worship every inch.

He kissed down the valley of your breasts, then took one nipple into his mouth, sucking slowly while his thumb rolled the other. You whimpered, thighs rubbing together beneath him.

“God, Bucky…”

He groaned softly and looked up at you. “That feel good, sweetheart?”

You gave a desperate little nod, voice catching. “Yeah.”

He kissed down your ribs, your stomach, until he reached the waistband of your shorts. Your hips lifted when he tugged them down, your underwear going with them in one fluid motion.

He dropped to his knees between your legs and looked at you.

“Fuck,” he murmured. “You’re already so wet.”

Your cheeks burned, but the way he said it—like it was the most divine thing he’d ever seen—made you melt all over again.

“Is that normal?” you asked, barely above a whisper.

He smirked up at you. “If I’d been jerking me off like that, I’d be soaked too.”

You laughed breathlessly—and then gasped when his fingers brushed through your folds, slow and deliberate. Your hips jolted at the contact.

“Easy, baby,” he whispered. “I got you.”

His fingers worked with an unhurried rhythm, sliding through your slick, teasing you until your thighs trembled. He rubbed slow circles over your clit with the pad of his thumb, watching every reaction, every gasp, every flicker of your lashes.

Then—he eased one thick finger inside you.

You cried out softly, your walls fluttering around him. He shushed you gently, leaning in to kiss your inner thigh as he curled the digit just right.

“You’re doing so well,” he murmured, voice like silk. “Taking me so good, sweetheart.”

You moaned—moaned—and arched against the couch. “Bucky…”

He added a second finger and you nearly came apart. The stretch, the drag, the curl of his knuckles as he stroked your walls—it was too much and not enough. You felt unraveled. You felt alive.

Your hands flew to his hair, and he groaned again, the vibration sending a shock straight through your spine.

“I—I think I’m—”

“Let go,” he whispered, fingers working faster. “Come for me, baby.”

You shattered with a cry, your thighs clamping around his arm as you bucked against his hand. He didn’t stop—kept fingering you through it, drawing it out until you sagged against the cushions, completely undone.

When he finally pulled back, his eyes were glazed, his fingers soaked.

You blinked down at him in disbelief, but Bucky simply smiled and laced his wet fingers with yours. God, that smile was something so rare, it felt like it belonged to you.

He was still looking at you like you were something sacred.

You opened your mouth, but nothing came out.

Bucky leaned in and kissed your forehead.

“That’s how it’s supposed to feel,” he whispered. “Always.”

──── ୨୧ ────

You stood in Bucky’s doorway for a long second, clutching your coat to your chest even though the evening air was warm and heavy.

Neither of you knew how to say goodbye.

Not after that.

You still felt his hands on you. The way he’d looked at you like you were something delicate. Like you mattered.

Your voice cracked the silence first. “Thank you. For tonight.”

His smile was soft and small. “That’s okay.”

You hesitated. “I… I think I learned a lot.”

“Hope so.” He chuckled quietly, eyes dancing despite the softness. “I’d hate to think you went through all that without getting a gold star.”

You smiled, stepping back toward the hallway. “Guess we’re both overachievers, huh?”

But neither of you laughed this time. Not really.

There was too much between you. Too many lines blurred. Too much heat still in your skin.

“I should go,” you whispered.

Bucky nodded once, jaw clenching like he was fighting the urge to say something. Or do something.

You turned—slowly—and began the walk across the hall. But, after just a few steps, you turned back.

“Hey, Buck?”

He looked up.

You smiled gently. “I liked your hands on me.”

His throat bobbed, and for a second, he looked like you’d just knocked the air out of him. But all he did was nod.

“I know, doll. I could tell.”

You left before you could say anything more.

──── ୨୧ ────

Back in your apartment, you shut the door with your back pressed to it, eyes wide, heart racing. The room was dark, and your skin still tingled everywhere he’d touched. Your body was humming—like it had learned something, opened a door it couldn’t close.

You changed into your comfiest pyjamas in a daze and climbed into bed, burying yourself in blankets.

You were supposed to feel… educated.

But all you felt was overwhelmed. And achy. And longing.

It hadn’t just been a lesson.

Not anymore.

You curled onto your side and stared at your phone. Your fingers hovered over Bucky’s name before finally sending a text.

you: thank you again. really.

You locked your phone and let it rest on your chest, squeezing your eyes shut.

And in the dark, your body still aching, you whispered to no one, “I think I’m falling for him.”

──── ୨୧ ────

Bucky lay in his bed with one arm flung over his face.

Still shirtless. Still warm. Still hard again—because thinking about the way you moaned his name had replayed like a goddamn loop in his head since you walked out the door.

He groaned into the crook of his elbow. He was screwed. Absolutely, completely, utterly screwed. It wasn’t just physical. He knew that now. Maybe he’d always known.

He wanted you. Wanted to take you to dinner—not Blake. Wanted to hold your hand in public. Brush your hair behind your ear. Kiss you goodnight just because.

But all of that was off-limits. These were supposed to be lessons.

No strings. No feelings. No mess.

So why did it already feel like he was breaking every rule?

His phone buzzed and your name lit up the screen, and even from bed, he smiled.

bucky: Anytime, doll. bucky: Sweet dreams.

He stared at the message long after he sent it.

Then tossed the phone aside, rolled onto his back, and stared at the ceiling like it held the answer to the only question that mattered.

How the hell was he going to get through Lesson Four?

──── ୨୧ ────

Sebastian Stan taglist: In comments due to the 30 max accounts that can be tagged. <3

Lessons In Love taglist: (let me know if you want to be added!) @sebastians-love @sweetserendipity65 @sangsterizada @mrsalexstan @alpinescoowner @buckyslqve @morganfullaaa @moonlight-sonata99 @sflame15-blog @rapturousfrog @parkerslivia @biaswreckedbybuckybarnes @wickedfun9 @daisynotquake @arosewithpower @buckysgirl27 @loki-licious-945ad @dearluuna @riot-sounds @ang0320 @solarperpetua @julesandgems @yes-ilovetowrite @redh00dsbf @alicetesser @loyaltyistoxic @sailorsenshiuranep @yessebastianstanus @poshpinklace @joaquinsgirl @thornsofvelvet @miss-chuchu @xamapolax @avivarougestan @justalittle47 @ifilwtmfc @loverofdrewstarkey @cxiiv0 @pivictorious @gummy-dummy @avatarobsessedgirly @buckybarneswife125 @nutella-hitler

[emmathefanficgal]

So... um... it seems I caught some Bucky Barnes bug. Don't know how, really. Didn't even watch any of the movies with him in it (well beside Captain America)... Well, here I am and this story is SO. GOOD.

@sotwk

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

main masterlist

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.

feedback is always appreciated! ♡

[fckmebarnes]

thinking of Bucky pounding the absolute daylight out of me whilst im messily making out with Yelena

Or

Yelena eating me out whilst Bucky can’t control himself stroking his fat cock smearing his pre cum over my lips…

Yes ma’am

mm. that second one.

and it’s yelena being so fucking possessive over your cunt that she growls when bucky even suggests taking a lick

so here he is, stroking himself over your face while you’re clenching the sheets and your tongue lulled out just for the pre cum to drip onto the pad of your tongue

“good girl…fuck…” bucky is a talker, naturally. but fuck when he talks like this while yelena is making the most obscene sounds with your pussy?

you’re gushing all over her face

“think they like when you talk like that, buck…” yelena mumbles before she’s pushing two fingers into you with your lips wrapped around your clit

“is that right, baby? you like bein’ talked down to while that pretty pussy is getting ruined?” you nodded as you looked up at bucky with wide and pleading eyes

his cock throbbed hard in his hand while you looked up at him